To the festival. (Nel, Murdoch, Samael)

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

19th Spring, 510 A.V.

Samael had taken a bath. He had changed his clothes, though his wardrobe was limited to scraps of homespun and bits of leather. Horse, however, was stabled and for once Samael didn't smell like the young stallion. Leaving early was an intelligent move since it took him a while to find the exact street where the Konti girl had tried to assassinate his equine brother, but find it he did.

He didn't exactly have perfidious designs upon the exotic girl, but he thought cleaning up would improve what chances he might have had to begin with, especially now that he didn't smell of that anathema species anymore. At least until he took Horse out for exercise.

Straightening his shoulders -- he was prone to slouching when not astride a horse -- and turning on his smile, he knocked at the door of Murdoch's residence.

[Murdoch]

There was a pause, and then the door was pulled open a few inches and a baleful dark eye perused his figure.

The door was finally pulled back, and Murdoch raised one arm above his head and leaned it against the doorframe so he could properly slouch against it. There was a world of judgment in those muddy hazel eyes as they took another slow up-and-down of this visitor.

Murdoch himself was only half-dressed, black pants hanging indolently from sharp hips. Each arm was covered in dozens of scars from who-knew-how-many knife fights. In addition to that, a thick, angry scar ran from the middle of his chest up around his collarbone and over his shoulder, as if someone had tried to slit his throat and failed miserably. Black hair was a mess, as if he were the type of person to constantly run his hands through it, and a perpetual stubble shadowed his cheeks.

"So you're the one whose horse tried to eat my little swan," he drawled, something cruel and mocking threading through his voice though he looked the perfect picture of indolent nonchalance, from the heavy-lidded eyes to the unhooked belt. "Managed to score yourself a dinner date there, huh Cheva?" he chuckled.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Surprised, his brown eyes widened. Well, that answered one unknown -- he wouldn't be getting any if she had such an unsavory-looking beau. Hopefully she wouldn't need time to get herself together because this one didn't look like he would bat an eyelash at gutting a poor young horse thief who was only trying to make friends.

"Ah, well, you see... hullo... I'm Sam. We sort of ran into each other and since we were both thinking of going to the festival... I thought food might make up for the fright she got. Horse is a puppy-dog, but I guess when you're as short as she is..."

He blinked, realizing that she would probably take offense if she was within earshot, or that this man might take offense at a slight to his 'little swan'.

"Right," he said, collecting himself. "I'm Sam. Smoke?" The last was a peace offering. He didn't know that this man intended violence, but part of surviving was knowing how to avoid a fight when possible.

[Murdoch]

"Your name's Sam Smoke?" he asked, one brow raising and his tone saying that that had to be one of the dumbest names he'd ever heard of, and that he was contemplating whether it might do the world a service to just stuff his body in a ditch somewhere.

Of course, he didn't bother to mention that Nel had run down to fetch a cup of tea from the shop across the street, and that she'd planned to meet him downstairs. No, if they'd gotten their wires crossed this badly, might as well have a little fun with the lad. Of course, Doc's idea of fun was wholly different from most of the normal, non-criminal population.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"No," he said, too surprised by the man's mistake to mask the are-you-the-village-idiot look on his face. He was digging tobacco and papers out of his belt pouch, trying to be a nice guy, but apparently the little swan liked them bad and stupid.

He started rolling one so that this stranger could learn by visual demonstration as well as verbal explanation.

"I was offering you a smoke, and my name is Sam."

He licked the paper and sealed it into a perfect little burrito of narcotic.

"See?"

[Murdoch]

"I'm not an idiot, boy," he growled, rolling his eyes as the stupid little git began treating him like a retard. Seriously, this was what Nel came up with? Seriously? "Geez, you petching southerners, you've no head for sarcasm, do you? You all just get wide-eyed and helpful, like a damned spaniel fetchin' my shoes. So no, I don't want your smoke, what I want if for you to tell me what exactly you think you're here for?" he said, eyes narrowing suspiciously as if he just knew every lascivious thought in his head and was judging him harshly for it.

Oh, so much fun.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

Sam had to wonder what exactly he had done to become the designated vagik around here. He lit an lucifer of a rough bit of leather on his belt and lit the little bit of vice.

Shrugging, he said, "She said to meet her here at sunset. I'll wait out here, I guess, until she's ready."

[Murdoch]

"Well don't sit on my steps and stink up the place with that crap, kid," he sighed, suddenly bored, finding much less fun in his inability to get a rise out of this fresh-faced little idgit. "Besides, you're supposed to be meeting her downstairs on the street, dumbass."

He started to shut the door, but then paused a chime and pulled it open again to give Sam a sidelong look as if really considering him for the first time. "I come home and find you in my bed, I'll slit you from neck to nuts, you got me?" he said quietly.

Then he just gave a bright grin, as if they were old friends, and slammed the door shut.

[Sama'el Sunsinger]

"Vagik," he said loudly to the door, but he was smirking too. He went down to wait where the master of the house bade him go. So perhaps the little swan wasn't attached. Something to think about.

He took up residence on the street where she lived, leaning against the wall and smoking like a rebel without a cause. Or a horse thief who hadn't yet cased the town entirely.

He waited.

[Nel Sayo]

The little swan in question rolled up curb-side a few minutes later, an earthenware mug of hot tea spilling steam from between her hands in a spiral that wound up and over her shoulder as she walked, like an attending veil.

Nel wore what she always wore, festival or no. Black, encasing. Leather trousers tucked into sturdy, well-worn leather boots and a fitted black chemise, collar spiked to obscure either side of her throat, beneath the fall of loosely-tied, moonshine-pale hair, a-tumble with braids and shells and the occasional glittering glass bead.

She smiled quick when she saw Sam waiting, bopping up beside him.

"Hey," she said amiably. "Sorry, just a sec."

Balancing the mug on her palm, she grabbed the door's handle and gave it a shake, then swung it wide open and leaned up.

"Doc! Tea!" she shouted up the stairs, sparing a roll of her eyes for Sam's benefit. "He's cranky without it. Any idea where you wanna go for dinner?"

Blithe, utterly open. In other words: the opposite of Murdoch.