Truth be told, Demaitre wasn't all as exciting as the brochures said, vampiric or otherwise. It was just a city, and he'd seen plenty of those in his time alive. More than plenty in fact. There were times when he wished all the cities would just disappear and leave lush grasses behind. Then the question came to mind: what would he do with a world of green? The answer, most obviously, was nothing. It would be a rather dull existence. There would be no radio, no theatre, no way to watch concerts from halfway around the world in the comfort of your living room. It goes without saying that the times in which he wished for nothing but nature were few and far between. He was a creature of the city, as were most of his brethren. Without it, he'd be just another man.

He chuckled. Of course, he was only half a man, height wise. Maybe, if the cities ever did vanish, they could make an attraction of him. 'Here lies the last of the fairy folk'. He could dress up in ridiculous costumes and everything. Most amusing, it would be.

Standing at a grand height of three foot seven inches, and dressed in a pinstripe suit that was tailored to perfection, Gregor Luboslav Tordorova - as he was called these days - walked down the street in the thriving metopolis that was Demaitre. It was late, and he looked like little more than a shadow in the darkness. Every so often, though, he'd pass a streetlight and would come into view, as if shouting, "Here I am!". In one hand he carried a rolled up newspaper, but it wasn't Demaitre's newspaper. Oh no, how silly to think it would be! He'd just gotten here. What interest did he have with a city that he hadn't even been properly introduced to yet? He had enough contacts to know what was going on in the city without resorting to reading the newspaper.

Strolling through the wooden area, he came to sit on a bench. His feet didn't even dangle over the edge as he flipped open his newspaper. It might've occurred to him that it would look a little odd, siting in a park near two o'clock in the morning, reading a newspaper written in another language - Arabic to be percise - on a near pitch black night, but it didn't. He sat there reading like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be able to read when most people couldn't see their hands in front of their faces. If there was one thing that Gregor Tordorova did not do, it was conform. He stood out enough already - or rather, didn't - so why take the trouble to try and be like everyone else? Que sera, sera, was his opinion, and right now, what he wanted to do was figure out how things were doing in Saudi Arabia.

He'd cut his hair short before coming to Demaitre, though he'd left his moustache and shaved his beard into a goatee. In fact, if one were to look at his face, they'd see him as someone who could rule the world. Funny, that's what he thought when he saw himself in a full lenght mirror, handsome devil that he was. Oh, he wouldn't object if he were given the opportunity to be tall, but he had a much nicer face than some of the tall men he saw. Besides, the women he'd been with - even if it had been quite a long while since he'd been with one - knew him to be just as much a man as any other.

A soft sigh fell from the man’s full lips as he locked the office behind him and stepped into the waiting elevator. Stepping into the car and looking at his warped reflection in the quickly closing doors, he adjusted his tie slightly with one hand as he pressed the number one with the other. It was a series of moments, and a surprisingly elegant interpretation of Mozart’s ninth flowing from the elevator’s speakers and the man had arrived at his destination. The doors slid open as if by will alone and the man stepped out onto the white marble floor with a soft gait, his polished black dress loafers marking out a rhythmic beat as he went.

Once he was around the elevator bank and into the Lobby proper, a voice that was all sweetness and softness, like fresh bread called out to the him and the man paused long enough to see a small woman rise up from behind one of the bulkiest pieces of furniture he had ever seen and come toward him.

“Callin it a night Mister Drago?”

The little African-American woman asked, her security guard’s uniform a soft white that made her oddly pale chocolate skin look richer, but not darker. This was a property of her skin tone, one of the few that other than her eyes and her accent gave her away as Black Irish.

The uniform also came with a blue patch at her shoulder and a gold clip with the name Franny etched into it as it rested over her heart, both proclaimed the woman Security as well, as if the uniform had not been enough.

This thought made Sergei Bjarnarson, turned Sergei Drago smile softly as the woman gazed up at him with the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen, and Sergei nodded tiredly, not truly tired, but putting on the show for the pretty mortal woman.

“Ah yes, dear Franny.” He replied. “I believe these old bones need a shower and a rest. I’ve been up all night.”

Franny nodded, returning his smile. Her teeth were perfect and a brilliant white against the dark richness of her skin and suddenly the woman wrapped her arms around Sergei’s waist giving him a slight hug. The only one she could manage with her at her height and him at his.

The ancient vampire’s first reaction was to pull away, to not let the mortal woman feel how hard his flesh was underneath the mundane Navy Blue suit that he wore, but he knew that like always she would notice nothing, not if he didn’t let the contact linger or happen on bare flesh. Then as if a confirmation of this, Franny whispered, “Poor Mister Seargei…dat…Mister Storr , he does be taken advantage of yer good nature, always sticking ya with the graveyard shift and all the extra paper work and records that he could be doin iself during the day.”

And the woman let go of his waist at last.

That made Sergei’s smile widen. Franny was one of the security officers at his technology company, one of the largest in Canada, and a decent competitor in the rest of the world. Sergei was Assistant CEO in name and total in action. Everything that happened in this building, Sergei knew about it, and since he financed the creation of everything, well he was boss, though he let everyone else save that title for his partner, Jonathan Storr.

Jonathan was a technological genius, he made things that Sergei couldn’t have dreamed, not that as a millennia plus, aged vampire that he had dreamed even a fraction of what existed to today, outside of magic, but he digressed. Jon was a wizard of the modern age and while he didn’t have talent for the running of a business or the marketing of products, he had a gift for the products and so it was that they ran the company with Jonathan focusing on his strengths and Sergei working in his limited light, doing everything else.

It was a beneficial arrangement for them both.

Sergei had not been so well entertained in many many centuries, and though he cared little of making money, he found that he did. Make money that is, Sergei made quite a lot of it and the job helped him work off his sometimes lingering boredom. Also, it gave Sergei some much wanted time to mortal watch, he had a reason to be out of his place of rest, away from the songs he had heard and the books he had read, onto weary oblivion, and it gave the old vampire a new connection with humanity.

It was also nice in the way that it allowed him to meet people, people such as Franny, bless her innocent heart.

Sergei looked Franny in the eye, his body taking him forward as he hunched in seeming exhaustion.

“A good mourning, eve, and night to you sweet Franny, should our paths not cross again.” The man said, wax poetic.

Franny smiled and waved, she really loved catching Mr. Drago on his way out. He was such a sweet, kind man, and she…well she would never tell, but God she loved that man’s eyes and the way he looked in those suits that she knew unlike Mr. Storr, he never wore outside the office.

“The same ta you sir!” The woman returned and then he was gone and Franny turned back to her deck, just in time to see a big man in a security uniform identical to hers placing a cup of coffee down beside her chair.

“Black with sugar, right pretty lady?” He asked.

Franny blushed at him and nodded.

Sergei hit the night, softly and without a sound, he was wandering, taking in the cool and fresh of the night, it was so different from the office he had left behind and the immortal was truly grateful. He drank down great lungfuls of the sweet nectar de nocturne and soon found himself in St. Raine’s Square. It was late or early, depending mostly on your point of view and the place seemed deserted in its near darkness or that was until Sergei noticed the figure, lounging comfortably and reading his paper. The Immortal did not have to ask what he was, but instead approached, being sure to sound off with a few foot falls, the polite thing to do, and then he said in the barest of conversation starters.

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?”

((OOC: Darn. My post looks impossibly small next to yours, and much less well-written. ;-; ))

Gregor was not surprised by the sudden interruption on the silence of the evening. That wasn’t to say that he couldn’t be surprised, just that the mind seems to wander when reading the tedious comings and goings and doings of mortals. Over and over, the same mistakes again and again. It was enough to want to make Gregor shove them all in a room and tell them to sort out all the sordid details of their lives. He wasn’t all that interested in this or that politician’s adulterous scandal, and he was pretty sure that the better part of the world’s population wasn’t either. In fact, he was sure of it. Telepathy did have it’s up sides every once in a while. In exchange for never having a moment’s peace, you learned everyone’s secrets. Fun, no?

But that wasn’t really the matter at hand.

Closing his newspaper and folding it in half, the Bulgarian looked around the square. Snow, snow and more snow. Gee, what was that falling from the sky? Snow! How had he known? It was pretty, he could give it that, but… it was cold. He didn’t get cold anymore, but that was entirely besides the point. Snow ruined shoes. Gregor happened to like his shoes. They were very nice, and black, and made of custom leather. Yes, exquisitely made. A finer pair of shoes could not be found.

But that wasn’t really the matter at hand either.

“If you like snow,” said Gregor sardonically, looking up – and up – at his unexpected companion. The man had to be over six foot. “But perhaps,” he continued, “the view is different up there.”

The man was a Norse man on closer inspection. How did he know? Well, Gregor made a point of observing people. He couldn’t run, or fight, or dance, so he observed, then transferred what he saw into paintings, or stories. This man was a Norse man. He felt like sighing in annoyance. The Norse popped out of the snow like daisies. Of course this man would probably love the snow. Bloody Norse probably wore snow hats back in the day. He couldn’t be sure – he’d never actually visited the Norse, but he’d heard they were rather hearty folk – but he thought this one might look the type to wear a snow hat.

Still, the man did look rather good in his suit – much better than Gregor looked in his own. Idly, Gregor thought that he might’ve turned out more like this man once upon his time – had he not been afflicted with dwarfism. He could’ve been a lean soldier, doing this and that, and lopping people’s heads off and making rude jokes or whatever it was that soldiers actually did in the battlefield. Personally speaking, Gregor had never had any inclination at his current size to go out onto the battlefield (though he probably could’ve hidden in a saddlebag). He did have a tremendous respect for those that could, however, and keep their good humour. There was nothing Gregor loved more than people with good humours.

The thought that his companion might think of his comment as rude suddenly struck him. Well, that would not do. It would not do at all. Best not to be seen as rude. Maybe if he found he didn’t like this man, he could be rude so as to be seen as rude, but… the fellow seemed pleasant enough.

“Forgive a small man’s sarcasm,” he said, scratching an eyebrow. “My tongue has saved my life on numerous occasions, but I fear it’ll be the death of me one day.”

((OOC: :lol: Yeah, right....your post is great as usual.))

Sergei smiled at the small man’s reply, though of course Sergei made it a point not to think of the man as small, petite perhaps, but no not small. Small was a bit rude and Sergei had given up rude long ago, yes, his sire had seen to that. Just that thought brought the strong spirited woman’s image to his mind and Sergei savored it a moment before promptly pushing it away. Yes, sometimes that was the way of memories; they were so painful that it seemed a blade dwell within the heart, a stiletto being turned at leisure, yet at the same time the painful is sometimes that to be treasured most. Ah yes, mortal or immortal, there was always joy and woe.

The big man laughed, a chuckle that started deep in his chest and worked its way lose, flowing over his lips. It was a much more full sound than many modern laughs and just a bit of the man’s former language peeked out behind that sound. With the laugh’s end, the smile came back full force and the man shook his head at the other’s words.

“No, my friend there is no need to apologize…though I suppose it is…you know, the view up here.” The man’s smile widened and he kneeled, scooped up a handful of slush and ice, sloshing in between his fingers.

“You know I do like the snow,” Sergei confided conversationally. “It was all you could see some winter days when I was a boy. And summer well; I would say summer in my homeland was much like the weather is today…”

This last brought another laugh from the man’s lips as he let the slush slosh back onto the ground and stood.

Ambiguous blue eyes made a glance over the man then, eyes that were a blue that was somewhere between the core of a gas flame and the frigid ocean depths. Those eyes took in the man’s suit, his trim well groomed state, the curiosity that were his own eyes, his dark hair, and the paper that was still folded neatly in his hands. He seemed nearly immaculate in his details and for a moment Sergei was driven to tell him so, but just as quickly the Norseman resigned himself to the contrary. Sergei didn’t know how the man might take the compliment, though he would mean on offense in it. That still did not ensure none would be taken.

Drawing his eyes back merely to the other’s gaze, Sergei asked, perhaps a bit foolishly, yet earnestly.

“I’m assuming you don’t like the snow, might I ask why? A foolish question perhaps, but please.”

Ah yes. A very good humour. It wasn’t something he immediately thought of when he thought of Norsemen. First came the pirates with their ships and their pointy swords running about the countryside. Only after that image was firmly etched in his mind did he think of great bearded men sipping ale and laughing. There were tavern wenches too, but that was inconsequential. Tavern wenches were everywhere. In any case, the man before him didn’t look drunk, so the only option that Gregor was left with was that this was a trait that the blonde man came by naturally. Good for him.

The man laughed, and Gregor found he liked that about the man as well. There were those that had good humours but horrible, mousy laughs. No, those laughs were awful to hear. The laughter he was most fond of – after the embarrassed giggles of women – were deep, booming laughs, quite like his own. (For a small man, Gregor had an astonishingly deep voice. It made singing opera very enjoyable for everyone involved.) He thought he could make a legend – or at least a story – out of this man. The giant that laughed and shook the mountains. Probably would’ve been a hit back in the day, but in this modern era, it seemed they all wanted action and guns and explosions. He couldn’t compete with explosions.

He didn’t voice the thought about the story to the Norseman. He’d found over the ages that people were especially sensitive to having stories told about them if they were anything other than the dashing hero who got all the girls and saved the day, and the like. Quite annoying, in his opinion. Mind you, this man could very well have run about saving damsels in his free time. There were some who were among the group who were fat old men. Not the sort of type to pull heroic deeds in their free time.

Adjusting himself on the bench, the small man folded his hands in his lap. “If you were under four feet tall, and had to wade through snow banks, would you like snow?” asked Gregor, raising a questioning eyebrow as a hint of a smile played on his lips. “There are only so many times in life that you have to ask to be carried through snow by some large fellow before it gets tedious and you just start to loath the wretched stuff.”

He snorted. “Indeed, if we are the demons some claim we are, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out hell was a giant freezer. It’d be just my luck. I’d spend eternity up to my nose in snow and frost. Not pleasing.” The thought of snow up his nose made him shudder. Not pleasing at all.

Gregor regarded the man before him with his mismatched eyes. “My name is Gregor Tordorova.” He gave a small incline of his head. “I’m newly arrived to Demaitre. Rest assured, had I known there was going to be snow, I would’ve stayed in Spain. You can sleep through heat, but you fall asleep in winter, you’re dead.” He paused. “Or deader.”

Sergei smiled brightly and couldn’t help a blush, well that is if his body had still been capable of blushing. Blood didn’t come to the surface of his skin so easily these days, a millennia plus had made his body blood thirsty, Sergei had accepted this along with the near marble white skin that it entailed but that did not mean that he avoided mortals as some of the other more ancient of his race did, no instead he most often drew blood and used his body’s thirst for it to open his pores. That combined with certain herbs gave him a rather ruddy complexion. But now, Sergei simply wore make up, yes, a flesh tone base, though it annoyed him to no end.

Meeting the smaller man’s gaze Sergei nodded and laughed again at the man’s statements. Sergei could remember the last time that someone made his laugh this much, and he was inclined to thank him. “It is nice to meet you Gregor Tordorvoa,” Sergei said with a bit of savoring on his part at the words. Sergei enjoyed the company of others, simple companionship touched him often the way that nothing else could and it widened his smile as he held the other man’s eyes.

“I’m Sergei Bjarnarson, though Sergei is just fine and I would say that I’m glad that you didn’t stay in Spain. It is good to meet someone to converse with at this hour.”

Another slight smiled and then he spoke. “Trust me, my friend, I was at one time under four feet tall, even we Norsemen, the giants…I believed some of our foes called us. Even we aren’t born over four feet.” There was a slightly teasing lit to the man’s voice then, but he truly meant no harm. “You must remember that I come from somewhere much colder and shall I say bleak to get my point across? But at any rate I still love the snow and did ever since I was first let out into it in my father’s arms.”

Sergei put a hand to his chest then, over his still heart, and he let his fingers tap on it and the suit cloth in between.

“Besides, what is deader too the undead. I think we’d both be fine, come the next blizzard.”

He’d thought it before only seconds earlier, but he was thinking it again. This Sergei Bjarnarson was indeed a very great subject for an artist such as himself. Oh, Gregor had no qualms with calling himself an artist. As well as being a quite grand and masterful storyteller, he was also one fine painter. He most often painted abstract – all you had to do was turn on some music and paint willy-nilly – and sold them to galleries for profit. They seemed to find them absolutely smashing. Why, Gregor could never understand. Still, looking at the blonde Norseman in front of him, Gregor thought that perhaps – on top of making a legend/story out of this man, he could make pictures to go with it. While that interfered with the imagination’s musings at times, it would certainly be a challenge. Gregor liked challenges.

“It is nice to meet you as well Sergei Bjarnarson, Norseman,” he said with an incline of his head and a bright smile. “And indeed. It is always nice to talk to someone late in the night – or early, depending on how you view time. Mortals have that pesky inclination to sleep at night. It can make things rather drab, can’t it?” Oh yes, he knew all about that. He always held his gallery exhibitions at night. People came – of course they did, his paintings were spiffing – but they always asked why he held them so late. He’d shrug and say that daylight caused the most unseemly pimples to erupt upon his face. He wanted to save them the trouble of seeing more ugliness upon them. Then, giving them a cheeky grin, he’d waddle away, leaving them dumbfounded. That was perhaps the best part.

Scratching his chin, Gregor gave that trademark cheeky smile. It wasn’t mocking, merely teasing. “Oh, is that so? I had heard that Norsemen were snowmen made real; that they just popped out of the snow, full grown and in armor. I’ll have to inform some very silly acquaintances of min that they were indeed wrong.” The tone in his voice made it extremely clear that his acquaintances were, in fact, himself.

“True,” replied Gregor. “Very true. However, I have no inclination to get snow in every little crevice on my body, or to freeze. There are certain appendages that I’d like to keep, thank you.” His smile turned wry. “I’d rather be curled up in the common room, with a good book and a merry old fire burning. Besides, I wouldn’t want to ruin my shoes.” He tapped his leather-clad heels together.

Clearing his throat, he continued, “So, Sergei, what have you found interesting to do in this town?”

Again a laugh, no a series of laughs came to Sergei Bjarnarson and the man was rather pleased that he was forced to smile off many of them. Well perhaps forced was the wrong word considering that Sergei no longer had to breathe, so in theory could have laughed without end, but some habits die hard, even after a millennia plus of life, so it was that Sergei stifled a number of un-cast chuckles with a soft smile that still did not show fang.

“Yes, early bed time does make the night rather drab I suppose.” Sergei said his voice rife with humor. “But then its been that way for…well…I suppose I shouldn’t say how long its been…after all the elderly shouldn’t have to tell how long they’ve walked the earth. It’s common courtesy not to remind me how old I am...”

The Norseman laughed again, this time to sound coming soft, yet without the breath that he had worked into the gesture before with his smile. That realization brought another laugh, it made Sergei remember what he had heard time and again, mostly from fledglings, mostly just urban legend, ghost stories really, but Sergei remembered that they said the first thing to go in all the really old immortals was the pretense of life. Now being an old Immortal himself, Sergei knew this wasn’t true, well he knew it wasn’t true of him at any rate. Not really. But forgetting to breathe as he laughed, well perhaps there was a little truth to that myth, or perhaps it was just that Gregor. The little man was charming to no end and the Norseman knew instantly that he was glad he had made the interesting man’s acquaintance.

Replying to the man’s next statement Sergei shook his head, smiling.

“I hadn’t heard that one!” He said jovially. “Snowmen? My, my, the bards grow bold indeed, what next; will our foot steps shake the heavens like Thor’s chariot? Or perhaps we’ll be beings born of Jotunheim, The Frost Giants themselves?”

Considering Gregor’s question, Sergei thought on his answer, after all there were a great many things he found interesting, the most exciting and perhaps most unseemly he had taken to was dressing in his finest, throwing on jewels and gold, and anything else of value he could think of when his thirst grew too great and walking through the more unseemly areas of town. The beings that the ancient vampire ran into…ah it was a psychologist day dream, men and women from all walks of life, soliciting to him all sorts of things, some of which he found himself rather well and truly ignorant to, and the ever curious man had found he took a liking to such outings, sometimes taking them even when he didn’t need to blood, didn’t need to drink of the muggers that would often try plundering him.

There was of course many other ways to spend an evening in Demaitre as well; theater, movies, bars and clubs, and even the rural expanses that Sergei found himself wandering as much as he did any man made street. Yes, Demaitre was a lovely city, and there was always what came when Sergei felt the need to retreat, a fire, a book, and a blanket. As dull as it might sound, but many days, or nights rather had been spent by the Noreman just as such, and Sergei said as much as he repeated his thoughts aloud to his acquaintance.

It was after this that Sergei said.

“So, what do you care for Gregor? The night or I suppose morning, is young yet or at least not quite in her death bed…I’ve no doubt that you could find lots of trouble before the sunrise.” Bjarnarson smiled his own cheeky smile at the last, his eyes looking to the night about, taking in striking landscape as it began to be transformed before him.

Smoothing out his moustache, Gregor chuckled. “But what is age? After all, you’re not getting any older in anything but mind, and – if you’ve always looked like this – you’re certainly not getting any uglier.” He regarded the man with a casual eye, but there was no attraction in the glance save that of an artist for a subject. Yes, he would definitely make a good subject. Then, a sardonic grin broke out on his face. “So long as I don’t get any shorter, I see no reason to dislike aging. With every year – and century – that passes, I find something new – and usually disturbing – to occupy my time. I once went an entire year painting nothing but women’s feet. It was quite an experience, let me tell you.” There was some artist or another who’d had a fetish for women’s feet. While the name didn’t come to Gregor at the moment, he’d thought he’d try using feet as a subject. It had been less than thrilling.

Oh good. Sergei took his teasing barbs well. That was always a threat. The people that were the most fun to tease were often tall and muscular as well, and so there was always the possibility of bodily harm. They could throw him in a dumpster, and he’d be quite stuck. The sun would come up, and should any unsuspecting mortal open the top, Gregor Luboslav Tordorova, vampire extraordinaire, would become Gregor Luboslav Tordorova flambé. As amusing as that may sound, it was not a fate that Gregor was particularly inclined to desire. He happened to like his existence, even if he was rather small.

Clapping his hands together, the wee vampire beamed. “Well, it seems only natural to assume that Norsemen were derived from snow, as you’re almost always pale.” He shrugged. “When the bards have nothing but their words, they must make due how they can. I’m sure my friend meant no ill will, though, sir. He’s a rather foolish fellow that tends to speak without thinking first, though I daresay he’s rather intelligent, and this same waggling tongue has saved him from a few of the more undesirable futures that have come his way. Once, a rather annoyed fellow with a rather large nose tried to feed my friend – the bard’s – favorite pair of shoes to his goat. That waggling tongue made the fellow with the rather large nose – who wasn’t very bright, you see – forget why he had been angry with the bard in the first place. They shared a pint of ale, although I’m sure the bard had had better.” Gregor waggled his eyebrows.

“As for what they’ll think up next, I can’t rightly say. It’s a mystery. Perhaps there shall be something about half-men ruling the world or some such thing. It would be quite a tale, let me tell you. It would star a dashingly handsome half-man with impeccable taste. Yes, it would be a fine tale indeed.” Different colored eyes flitted up to Sergei’s face. “Of course, this half-man could allow his rather tall, rather sturdy friend to aid him. After all, the handsome half-man would need help to get on his horse.”

The thought of getting into trouble intrigued Gregor, perhaps more than usual because he knew that should there be an angry mob on their tails (unlikely, but it had happened once after he’d mocked everyone and their dog in a certain town – they’d had no sense of his artistic vision, really) that he’d have a companion who could hoist him up and run should he be unable to keep up. It was a comforting thought, and he was suddenly very pleased to have made this rather tall man’s acquaintance. It could prove beneficial should he need help in the future. Yes, yes, quite beneficial indeed.

“I would like to go somewhere with music, perhaps, and fine Italian wine.” He nodded his head in a decisive way. Then, he looked abruptly to the sky, even as a snowflake fell onto his nose. He glared at it cross-eyed. “Bloody snow. Wanting to make me into a popscile, do you? I think not, Lady Winter.” He rubbed the snowflake off with great zest. “Victory for the short one!” he cried, chuckling.

Gregor was really quite silly.

Gregor, silly?

Would Sergei have argued? Well, no, not really.

But that wasn’t to say that Sergei appreciated the smaller man any less. No, in fact Sergei was quite enchanted by the silliness, won over to say the least, for Sergei could indeed take a joke in fact he was the housing for quite a number. He hadn’t told a joke in centuries, but when he was a wolf shirt, he had been a favorite audience of his Berserker brothers.

It was often time that during their long voyages that he would hear any number of jokes, tell a few that he himself knew, he was always the slouch of any group in that regard, but he had been what comics today might call an easy crowd. Sergei laughed and laughed well when he thought something was funny. Gregor wasn’t so far off in his vision of bearded men laughing and joking around in a mead hall, such was often in the spring when the few crops had been harvested and the looting done, or in the dead of winter. Then Norsemen had gone to their even now famous halls and laughed and drank and sang.

Sergei remembered these things instantly, joking about with his newly discovered little friend. And for that, Sergei was more grateful to the man than he had been to anyone in a very long time, after having been a bit of a hermit in his ways for years now ever since it had started getting harder to pass among humanity.

Grinning Sergei raised a questioning eyebrow at Gregor.

“I think that could be arranged in a city as large as this one.” The other said merrily, “however before we take a look, I just thought I should ask…could this tall sturdy friend ask the handsome half-man for his aid in return? After all I’m sure that tall and sturdy isn’t everything!”

With that, said, Sergei pondered Gregor’s request, thinking about any places that he knew of that would fit such a bill and still be open this time of night. That was the thing with living life by the night; you tended to gain a sixth sense when it came to closing times.

It wasn’t the first time Gregor had been asked for a favor, and it hadn’t been the last. In his time, however, he’d learned not to agree to such favors without knowing what they were. He’d gotten into some rather sticky situations in the past. Like that one time he’d had to dress like a woman and attempt to seduce that Earl. He shuddered just to remember it. If there was one thing Gregor could not be, it was a woman. Still, the fellow had plopped a wig on his head, wrapped him in a corset (how women ever wore those was still completely beyond him. Gregor had nearly suffocated, and he didn’t even have to breathe), shoved him in a dress, and off he went. He’d nearly been killed, too. Rather hard evening, that one had been. Gregor rather liked his head.

“Well, I’m sure that tall and sturdy men have other redeemable traits,” agreed Gregor, his moustache twitching. A smile stole across his mouth, and then vanished. “For instance, I once met a tall and sturdy man that could wiggle his ears. This is a feat even I myself am incapable of.” At this point, he made a dramatic show of trying to wiggle his ears. His face contorted and went red, but the ears remained immovable. With a great sigh, Gregor continued, “It’s a disability that has haunted me my many years.”

This wasn’t true. At all. But it was certainly amusing, or so he thought. Still, he saw the glimmer of memories in Sergei’s face and wondered if that had something to do with this mysterious favor. Then he wondered what he could possibly have to do with the memories of a Norseman… Unless he’d accidentally told him at one point that he was ugly and his mother dressed him funny. It had happened before. Damned languages came easily to him, but he was a horrible beginner. Always said extremely silly things that either made no sense, or were extremely insulting. He’d once called a woman a multitude of horrendous names without even realizing he knew those words. He’d meant to ask where she kept her goats. He’d had to run again.

Gregor’s tongue got him in a lot of trouble.

“I am inclined to ask what this favor is before I agree,” he said. “But I assure you, new friend, should it be within my power to do, you will have it done.” He gave the man a sincere smile. “And then, we shall delight in the revels this merry city holds for us, yes?”

Sergei gave a gentle nod and he smiled, though the change in his direction of thought suddenly made this more than a bit difficult. Truth was though, that it was Sergei’s fault. It was his fault that smiling was hard, his fault that he had asked this of Gregor, and also what he received in answer was his fault, no matter the answer. After all, when one asks a question one is essentially committing to the answer, whatever it may be. And so it was that Sergei asked his favor, his question.

“It is more a question than a favor, Gregor.” The Norseman confessed. “It is a question that I have asked many that I’ve met, yet I wish to ask again, in hopes of any information that you might have.”

Sergei those words, then found himself unable to continue for a moment. His face was neutral, collected, confident, and inherently empty. Such a face was a mask, a fine and sculpted thing. A thing sculpted by time and practice, a thing not truly worthy of the title expression.

“What I want to ask Gregor is; have you ever heard of a blind seer or prophetess named Cassandra. I speak not of myth and legend, but a real woman. A drinker of blood as we now are…she is dead now, but I’ve been searching for those who possess knowledge of her. You see, she was my sire, yet…” Sergei’s voice failed him for a moment. “Yet I know little to nothing about her. She is a woman that changed my destiny as a living man, how I think, act, everything and yet all I know is her name and the lessons she taught.”

Sergei had no more tears for her death, no more tears for any of it, yet a part of him. Some small iota wanted to know her, and perhaps through that…well Sergei wasn’t sure what that would lead to. It certainly wasn’t an ingredient to resurrection, but perhaps it was an ingredient to peace of mind. A peace sought to lace memories that stung only slightly less now than they had a thousand years ago. At any rate, Sergei had asked his question and now he waited only for Gregor’s reply.

“A question?” asked Gregor. He shifted slightly in his seat, sitting a tad taller and looking up at the tall Norseman with interest. “I’m very good at questions. Not riddles – not really my specialty – but questions, I can answer very well.” Not that he was trying to be arrogant about his question-answering skill or anything, but what was, was, and it was as simple as that. Despite his amused smile beneath his moustache, he was aware that this was a serious question on the part of Sergei. He could feel the gravity flowing off the man, like beer out of a barrel in an Irish pub. He spread his short arms wide, his expression welcoming. “You are welcome to ask me whatever you wish! I have all manner of information! For instance, I recently learned of some rather interesting exploits between two certain gods… Very unexpected, I assure you! I also know all the different uses for zucchini.”

The question was asked, and his eyebrows shot up. A blind seer! Well, that wasn’t something heard one ask about every day. Indeed, if Gregor had known a woman of such repute, he would’ve snapped her up right quick. Not only would he have been composing ballads about her at every turn of her head (though most of them would have been rather bad, he expected, as there were only so many rhymes he could concoct in such a short amount of time), he would also have relished in her blindness – provided she couldn’t see with her mind. That would have ruined it slightly. Still, if she hadn’t been able to see, she wouldn’t have seen that he was a dwarf. That wasn’t to say that most of the time he was bothered by that fact – it did make it rather easy to escape difficult circumstances – but it would have been interesting to have a woman think him tall, and, hopefully, handsome. Very nice indeed.

He said none of this to Sergei, and made sure that his thoughts were his own. The last thing he wanted was to lose his head to the nice Norseman with a pleasant laugh and humor. It would’ve ruined the song. “… And then he killed the bard for thinking strange thoughts” was not a very good ending to an epic song.

Sergei was obviously moved by the death of his sire though, and Gregor felt his heart go out to the man. Scratching his small goatee, the small man sat silently and thoughtfully. “Well, I remember being in… Oh, I haven’t the foggiest idea where it is anymore. I’ve taken to simply calling it ‘The Place of Strange Hair’, which could be anywhere these days… In any case, I remember hearing a song about a blind seer – a woman – who had run with wolves before being found by one of the Roman Emperors. Which one, I don’t remember. Hadrian, possibly, but they all have extremely long names, and bad hair, and long noses, so I tend to mix them up from one tale to the next. In any case, she was found by one of these Roman Emperors, who fell in love with her (despite the pesky fact that he was already married – shame on him!), though she refused his advances, and foretold his doom if he did… something. Well, he obviously did it, ‘cause he’s not around any longer, is he?”

A slightly embarrassed smile on his lips, he looked up at Sergei. “I apologize, friend, for not having any more information than that. The tale wasn’t very well told, with horrible rhymes and the like, so I took no pains to remember it.” A pause and another thoughtful glance. “I may be able to track it down for you if you’d like though… I’m not promising anything, but I could attempt it. Interested?”

Sergei offered the man a smile.

“Yes, quite interested. After all I’ve come up with quite a bit of legend and folklore during my own search. If the tale you heard was merely this, well it will have fine company indeed.” His smile became a grin again and he gave a nod. Things were fine and well, Sergei hadn’t been sure what to expect when he had asked the question, but he was glad to get a straight and truthful answer from Gregor. This had not been the first time he had asked one of the blood this question, and the man’s truth instantly made Sergei like him even more.

“Thank you, my friend.” He said suddenly.

Then he turned his gaze back to the point it had inhabited earlier and then back to his companion.

“So, you have answered my question, and I have thanked you, for that and any future help with my search, but let me ask one more question now.”

Sergei paused, face forced neutral. Sergei wasn’t an actor, he had never had the flare for it. He had charisma, that much was true, but he had never well and truly got the knack for faking emotion. He couldn’t command threat or tension into himself when he felt none. So it was that he took on his only such mask, the neutral expression that could turn him into a living statue. He held this for only a few moments, clouding his thoughts, but hopefully enough to draw some tension through his newly met friend.

Then Sergei said flatly.

“Are you ready?” He paused to give the other enough time to consider what he might be asking readiness of, and he said. “Ready to see this city? That was what I offered…wasn’t it?”

He grinned then. Perhaps it wasn’t a funny joke, perhaps it was, but it amused him just the same as he gazed at the smaller man a bit off handedly.

Gregor spread his arms wide. “Folklore is indeed my forte. It is the blood that runs through my veins, and the marrow that runs through my bones. Can you expect less from a bard? I think not.” There was a mocking smile on his lips, but it was quite obvious that it was himself he was mocking. “After all, it is my job – nay, my duty – to hold all the old tales I’ve heard within this handsome noggin’ of mine. If I, a humble – yet handsome! – bard, who’s duty it is to remember them, forgets, why then, who will there be to remember?” He shook his head. “I would not let the stories of old fall into obscurity, no matter how foolish they seem in this world of lights and naked women in windows.” The smile turned into a grin, as he wiggled his eyebrows at Sergei, as if hinting that the latter wasn’t all bad. “No, I believe I shall remember them until I die. Again.”

Sliding off the bench into the faint snow on the ground, and brushing off his expensive suit, Gregor flapped a hand at his companion. “Oh posh,” he said by way of answer. “Don’t thank me. Did I not just tell you that it was my duty to remember these things anyways? Besides, ‘thank you’s can get sentimental. As hard as it might be to believe, I do get rather ugly when I cry. I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking. How can such a handsome devil as I be ugly at any time? Oh, let me assure you, it’s quite possible.” Annd, the mocking smile was back.

Eyebrows shooting up, Gregor placed his hands on his hips. “Is it really so big an ordeal as that?” He leveled the Norseman with a suspicious sort of look, looking at him directly out of one eye, the eyebrow of said eye almost touching his hairline. “Have you got something quite unscrupulous up your rather nice suit sleeve, friend? If so, I think you should get it out. I’d like very much to be forewarned, lest I be tangled up in something that I’d rather not know about.” His look turned brooding. “Like that horrible kitten black market. Oh, you have no idea how far those odd middle-aged women will go for prized cats that they can lead around in circles and…” Here, it broke off into unintelligible mutterings. No worries though. You probably didn’t want to know anyways.

A sigh. “But yes, I suppose I am ready.” A grin spread across his face. “It was indeed what you offered, and I am indeed ready. Lead the way, valiant giant! I shall waddle behind you as quickly as I am able. Just don’t make too many sharp corners, or I might get lost.” It was obvious that he was laughing at himself. It was also obvious that he didn’t seem to care at all.

Sergei grinned, completely and totally befuddled. The Norseman had at times so far not known what at all to make of the shorter man, but as he looked at Gregor now, listening to the man’s ranted mutterings and catching rare and privileged glimpses at his sense of humor, well Sergei knew even less of what to make of him. The man was a complete mystery. A mystery such as to tempt him in the use of him mental abilities, but then again he thought that perhaps he didn’t want to know. Instead, he gave a slight nod as he conceded to the man’s will and led the way down the snow crested sidewalks.

He was careful to guard his gait, with lock and key as the old pun went, making sure his steps were ones that Gregor could easily keep pace with. As unbidden as the thought was, still it came. Sergei suddenly wondered if he could keep a run with the smaller man, should they ever go for a run as he had sometimes watched mortals do. It was a funny thought to be sure, but looking back, well…he wondered.

Keeping the same pace, Sergei listened as at the insistent crunch of snow and ice beneath his feet and despite himself, he began thinking of home. A home that hadn’t existed in more than a millennium. That additional thought brought a stab of sorrow, but the Norseman shook it off without a visible cue and instead spoke lightly, his breath leaving only the slightest traces on the night air.

“If you don’t mind my asking Gregor, but where did you come from? I enjoy the company to be sure, but you must excuse me, I’m a rather curious fellow.”

Ironic that. Somehow, in the grand scheme of things, Gregor still managed to be mysterious, while being (almost) completely and totally open about everything where he was concerned. After all, even up to know, having known Sergei less than an hour, he’d held almost nothing back about himself. Perhaps it was a testament to how complex the man really was, even if he didn’t really feel all that complex. A few funnies here, a few giggles there, mocking every night… Not all that complex. Oh, there were a few things really deep down that Gregor didn’t share all the gory details about, but on a whole, he was rather open, and it was not unusual for everyone to know his business, his opinions, his history – anything that came to his mind (or his mouth, whichever thought of it first). In turn, Gregor had a knack for getting knowledge. It was easy when most people secretly thought he was rather mad.

People underestimated Gregor. He was quite the sprinter, if he did say so himself. Small, his legs might be, but mighty was his mind – which helped, as he had a certain skill with telekinesis (which made up for his dreadful skill in telepathy) that enabled him to be as quick as he pleased. Indeed, all he needed to do in order to pass for a leprechaun was dress in green, which was something he wasn’t really inclined to do. Gregor looked dreadful in green. Yes, yes, I know, how shocking! How can such a handsome man look bad in anything? Well, to tell you the truth, he wasn’t exactly certain. He looked fine in yellow even, but there was something about the bright green that was attributed to St. Patrick’s day that simply didn’t agree with him. Made him look like the ugliest flower to ever grace the land.

Raising an eyebrow, Gregor shrugged, “Nothing wrong with being curious. I’m the right sort of curious as well. There are to kinds of curious you know.” He looked a Sergei like he was trying to judge if the taller man really did know, before shrugging and going into detail in any case. “There’s the nice, “I like knowledge, please give me some” that you find among friends, or colleagues, or sometimes even historians. (But be right careful with those historians, I tell you. One nearly throttled me to death when I hinted that I knew where the tomb of Genghis Khan lay.) Then there’s the other sort of curious that requires espionage, and bad paparazzi and the likes. Very annoying, very crude. It’s not like those journalists know how to really tell a story in any case.” He snorted softly, showing what the thought of them.

“Actually,” Gregor said, his tone suddenly lighter, “I’m from Bulgaria – or what is now called Bulgaria. It was called Moesia when I was a lad.” He frowned. “I will never understand people and their infernal urge to change the names of things.” A shrug. “In any case, I am from that area. It was where I was born, where I was made a bard, and where I met the lady that would eventually turn me into the astonishingly good looking creature you see before you.” He grinned that cheeky grin of his.

Could anyone, ever, tell if he was actually as arrogant as he seemed?

No.

Sergei chuckled a bit at the at the man’s lengthy explanation, mostly around the parts about curiosity, it was good to find out another’s opinion on the world. And it was most assuredly a pleasure to hear the thoughts and musings of a being as unique as Gregor. The Norseman had to applaud the other’s sheer confidence and strident nature. It was something that he had run into with others, most his brothers of the wolf shirt, when he was a mortal man. Each and everyone of the warriors of Odin had been confident to a tee, what some might think of as boastful in this more humbled and perhaps more Christ driven age, but Sergei remembered his home and people, and instantly this made him like the smaller man all the more.

He was a born Norseman, even if he might not look it. Or rather he might not have been one of the northern men, but he most assuredly would have fit in.

Sergei thought to say as much, but decided against it, thinking that it might not be the compliment to the man that he might wish. There were after all many out looks on his people, and many, mostly “reports” from supposed “victims”, painted them to be savages. Sergei would have liked to laugh, that was had he not read such things over and over.

The Norse where no angels, that was agreed. They had very little mercy for all that stood in their way, though often times that meant the way of feeding their families. Ah not so savage and not so backward as the modern world would believe of their faith or them as a people and not so blond and fair either.

Raiding parties often took men, and rather than make them slaves, many had become raiders themselves. It didn’t always happen, but it did and had to the point that the Norseman was not always the majority in a raiding party. But then none of that mattered, not now, instead Sergei just gave a nod at Gregor’s statement about renaming. And he smiled at the man’s second long good natured summery of his life.

“Is that all? I suppose my story is boring by comparison. My home didn’t even have a name, and it was on a raid that I met my end. Cassandra had made an agreement with the people near whom she dwelled, they knew her for what she was and left her to her own devices, in exchange she protected them from invaders. Invaders such as myself…”

Sergei didn’t go on. His story was rather obvious, or at least he thought. He was alive to tell it after all.

Gregor had had to learn how to be confident. Yes, yes he had. He’s started out rather shy, but had learned that if you were shy and misshapen, it was harden than if you were just misshapen. Or shy. No matter. As soon as he’d discovered this rather interesting fact, he’d set about making himself more confident, and had thus become a bard. You couldn’t be self-conscious and be a bard. No, he took that bad. You could, but that didn’t make you a very good bard. It made you a terrible bard. Nobody wanted to listen to a terrible bard. There had been one that Gregor had known in his youth (in immortal terms, anyways) that had been so dreadful, and so unable to sing, that people had taken him and thrown him in the moat. Fishes had bitten his toes. It had been a calamity indeed. Poor toes.

Had Gregor known what Sergei was thinking, he would have been very pleased and touched. He probably wouldn’t have let it show, hiding it behind a smile and a joke, but he would’ve felt it, which is what counts. Then again, Gregor had the uncanny ability to make friends with almost anybody. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that not only was he handsome, charming, intelligent, debonair, etc. etc., he also absorbed culture and languages like a sponge. That never hurt. The Norse were no different. Where others saw bloodthirsty savages (who, it was said, killed goats and drank their blood mixed with beer!), he saw an infinite supply of stories and tales. Gregor went where the stories and tales went.

“What a fine tale, to be sure!” said Gregor, his eyebrows raising. “Most I have encountered have the most interesting of tales. Mine isn’t too shabby either, if I dare say so.” He scratched at his chin. “Let’s see… I was a bard when a wonderful Lady from Byzantium – the Byzantine Empire? Do you know it? – came and took a fancy to my singing. I can’t say I blame her, as my singing is rather wonderful, but she called me in to sing to her every night. I didn’t decline. I needed the money – or rather, my family needed the money, and as I couldn’t go win them eternal glory with a sword, I settled on singing their way to food. In any case, she seduced me. Or I seduced her. Or we seduced each other.” He regarded Sergei with more than a little amusement in his face. “I have never quite been able to figure out what happened, but it’s obvious that she couldn’t resist my manly charms, and that I captivated her.” His voice got a little quieter. “I could not resist hers either.” A bright smile. “So here I am, the magnificent being you see before you now, blessed to walk the ages, learning all the tales he could ever hope to know.”

Really, there was a lot more to the story than what he was saying, but as he had just met Sergei, he didn’t feel particularly inclined to give the man his biography, no matter how nice and curious and good-humored he was. Besides that, he wasn’t even sure the man would want to hear it.

Sergei gave his companion an understanding nod. First at his brief, though wonderfully told tale, it was obviously there was more to be heard, but considering his own effort and lack of biographical splendor, well Sergei understood the man’s reluctance, with his own it made a rather nice matching pair. Sergei had been vague in his own story for many reasons, not just because he had just met Gregor, though of course that was probably in there somewhere too, but perhaps the most pressing of reasons was because some of the stories of his people’s viciousness were well founded.

While such things may have been discussed adamantly once upon a time in frost covered mead halls, it was and is not something so easy to told in this day and age, now people tend to forget that warriors are warriors, no matter the age. With war comes death, destruction, famine, and perhaps pestilence. The Christians and their book of Revelations were rather well on the mark in that regard, something that they shared with Sergei’s people. To know of war and its consequences, yet to rage it all the same, definitely something the new and the old have/had in common.

Banishing the sudden harshness of his current thoughts, Sergei instead focused him mind on leading the way. Yes, he was running. He’d run from himself and all those deep thoughts that tended to swarm his mind for centuries now. He’d become educated, thoroughly so, but that was the thing about knowledge, it is a double edged sword, another thing that the Christians hit on the mark. Knowledge by its very nature breeds discontent yet is discontent not a worthy price for all that comes of knowledge.

This was a question that Sergei had asked himself many times, yet still he never had an answer. He thought briefly of asking Gregor’s opinion, but the desire vanished rather quickly, as he noticed they were growing closer still to their destination. It was right around the next block, Sergei was sure of it.