Logs:Times Have Changed

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Times Have Changed


Characters: Miles, Phoebe and Remi de l'Aguille
Date: 2020-02-14
Summary: Remi is just a completely innocent admirer of architecture... and literally and figuratively radiant Changelings, Phoebe and Miles. Unfortunately, they don't take his interest in them well. But it all works out in the end because who can really dislike a Daeva that just wants to be friends? (Spoiler alert: it's Phoebe and Miles.)
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

As the doors open and a stream of worshippers flow out from the cathedral, a pale woman with a small white hat glides out with them. She looks a bit overwhelmed.

--

It's evening and here's just a man and his dog. Well, it's not his dog. And he probably looks a little strange walking a dog while wearing a three piece suit and leather oxfords, but that's just how Miles does pretty much everything. Honestly, he could fit in with the crowd leaving the cathedral if not for the dog.

--

The man in the charcoal suit stands outside the church, back far enough to avoid the outflow of people from the evening service. His suit would set him apart even if his looks didn't do that already. The attire is a cut above the cut above that most people can get their hands on. It has lines that are so perfectly suited (ha) to his frame that he really couldn't look better if he tried. Did he even try? Probably. He's meticulous in his appearance, hands folded in front of him, as though he's waiting for something. For someone.

Except, Remi's piercing gaze only flits across the faces of the worshippers briefly. His eyes follow the lines of the cathedral, a certain appreciation in his regard for the building, the kind one would normally see reserved for... well, another person, probably. His eyes scan down again and catch on the pale woman in the white hat. There's a distinct pause, the predator within, that thing of suffocating velvet, recognizing what others might look past. Not just in the woman with the white hat, but with the man and his dog. Or not his dog. So casually, he steps away from the place he was keeping vigil and into the path of the pair, however that works out in practicality. "Good evening," is a low, elegant greeting, the words tinged with a certain class.

--

Phoebe turns, eyes wide. "Good evening?" she asks in response, her words tinged with a strangely archaic accent. "That is to say, erm, how do you do?" Her hands are drawn up against her chest, a small purse clutched tightly in them. Her eyes dart to Miles. "Are you two acquainted?"

--

Apparently Miles hadn't even noticed Phoebe, so it's the other man's good evening that he looks up at first, then over at the woman when she echoes the words. The dog, a Frenchie, perhaps not overly concerned with either of them. "Evening," he adds to the pleasantries, before adding, "Not in the slightest. Can we help you?" The 'we' must be he and Phoebe, not he and the dog. He may not know the woman beyond her name, but they're of like kind at least, and the other man is clearly not.

--

The Kindred's head tilts just slightly, looking at the woman in the white hat, a long moment, before he lets his eyes flick on over to the man with the dog, expression growing thoughtful. "I'm not in the market for help just now." His hands find his way to just settling into the pockets of his trousers. "The last time I was here, things were different." For all that the otherworldly senses tell the story of what he is, he looks just as lifelike as any other person on the street.

"I couldn't help but notice the lady." There's a slight dip to his head, a quirk to the corner of his mouth, like a smile wants to come but can't, for some reason. "She's radiant. It's unusual." If he licks his lips, it's probably not commentary. "You seem to know each other even if I'm unknown to the two of you." He offers a hand, friendly-like, but not forcing the connection. He doesn't yet offer a name, perhaps waiting to see how the overture will be taken.

--

Phoebe shivers visibly as the man steps forward. "I'm not going back," she stammers. "I--I've got iron in my purse. Cold iron." She's lying. It's obvious. "I'm not making any bargains with you. No deals. Just... just let me go."

--

Well, lucky Phoebe is here for Miles to call her bluff instead of paying whatever attention to the vampire that he no doubt deserves. "You have iron in your purse?" It's probably the same tone of voice he'd use if she'd told them she has severed thumbs in her purse, honestly. Oh, right, vampire. "Look, I don't think she's interested in whatever you could possibly offer her, okay? Probably best you move along."

--

"Oh, mais, non." The man murmurs the words 'oh, but, no,' in his flawless French, that edge of class still in the words. His hand does pull back, his arms folding across his chest, as though to show his lack of intent to harm. "This is just getting interesting," he tells the pair now engaging in their own conversation - thank you, Miles. Remi doesn't move any nearer, but nor does he move along as suggested, expression watching the pair with interest as though this were a street performance for his benefit. He does add, for Phoebe, with some small amusement, "I believe you mistake me, madame."

--

Phoebe gives Miles a slightly nervous look. "Y-yes," she lies. "In a--a cloth--it's a knife. An iron knife. But I'll take it out! I'll take it out and I'll use it, I swear by the Blessed Virgin--" She snaps her eyes to Remi as he speaks French. "Who are you?" she demands. "How do you see me? Are you one of Mistress' hounds? Or are you a werewolf? A vampire? You aren't one of us."

--

The Winter Fairest gives Phoebe a look that's something between concerned and... well, no. It's all concern, it's just not sure if it's concern for her, or concern of her. At least where he's concerned. Remi is likely on his own there. "Right. Well. I don't think this vampire is going to find your iron knives especially threatening." Miles' attention is on said vampire now. It's not so much that he wants to stay here, but that he doesn't want to leave Phoebe alone with it.

--

Now the cat has left the bag, as it were, not that Remi was the one holding that bag. But when that word leaves Miles' mouth there's enough heartbeats for him to finish speaking before Remi suddenly becomes so much more intriguing, above and beyond the whole, tall, handsome stranger thing he had toing on to start with. It's funny though, his posture hasn't changed, with his arms crossed over his chest, the slightly amused curl at the very edge of his lips. It's just that now, it matters. Doesn't it?

"It's true, ma cherie," he addresses Phoebe with the French term of endearment. "Iron means nothing to my kind, unless it's a frying pan a determined woman wielding it." Isn't he funny? His lips spread in a smile. He thinks so. "But I think we've all gotten off on the wrong foot. What are your names, my friends?" At least he's not doing that annoying 'oh-look-at-me-I'm-French' bit now, even though he's still very much French. Now that he's spoken it, one can see it, right? The style of the suit, if nothing else, has to be Parisian in origin.

--

Phoebe blinks, then starts to drift towards the vampire with a slightly vacant smile on her face. "Êtes-vous un vrai Parisien?" she asks. "Quelle charmante. Votre accent est très mélodieux. Je m'appelle Phoebe Delacroix." She lifts her hand delicately in greeting.

<OOC> Phoebe says, "(you're a real parisian? how lovely. your accent is so melodious. I'm phoebe delacroix)"

--

Miles' dark eyes settle on the vampire, studying the man with a perhaps stranger sort of suspicion mixed with what Remi would otherwise expect. He doesn't look at Phoebe, in part because he doesn't want to look away from the vampire, but he does snort unsubtly at all that French that he doesn't understand in the slightest. "Miles Norwood," is all the Fairest offers up for the moment. Except he adds a moment later, "And Tank." The dog.

--

The suspicion in Miles' gaze doesn't seem to bother the Kindred. If anything, maybe there's a touch of respect in his return look; who better than one who lives the lies of the Masquerade to appreciate a healthy caution when dealing with his kind. Remi flashes a smile at Phoebe for her French, for her questions. "Yes, my dear, but we are leaving your friend, Mr. Norwood, out if we speak in the old style." Something about that hints at what he's noticed, what he'll give away about himself. "So, English, if you please." His is impeccable.

"Mister Norwood, a pleasure. And you, Madame Delacroix. I am Rémi de l'Aguille." Will Miles forgive him for the natural accents to his name? It is, after all just a name. Phoebe will, of course, be able to translate that last name to be 'of the Needle.' It's hardly a common French surname, but perhaps it's not one? Or just a very, very old one no longer in circulation? "I was simply reacquainting myself with the cathedral, the park," he gestures around with one hand, letting the other fall to his side. "As I said, it's changed since I was last here. When did your kind settle here?" It sounds like a casual question on his lips, and yet... But it's not a secret, is it?

--

"Oh, you have been away a long time?" Phoebe asks earnestly, as she comes up close to him. She's staring at him admiringly, as if he is some grand celebrity. "Nobody knows what happened. We've only been here since November. I escaped just as the change happened, which is good for me." She leans in and says conspiratorially, though not very quietly--"I was taken in 1896. It is so hard to adjust!"

She stares at him, obviously hoping for his approval.

--

"Would you mind turning whatever that is off, Mister l'Aguille?" Miles probably butchers the pronunciation, but closer than if he'd only read it, since he just heard it. "I assure you you're quite breathtaking enough without it." Abd since Phoebe answers the question, Miles doesn't bother reiterating with the same.

--

There's a low chuckle from the vampire, his eyes hard while his face lights with humor. "Believe me when I say I would love nothing better, Mister Norwood. I do hope we are beyond such misunderstandings now, Madame Delacroix, but it did seem rather that you had an intent to repel, if not harm," he tilts his head toward Miles, "and that does have a way of making a person take precautions against the unpredictable." Who knows how Phoebe might've reacted to knowledge of the word 'vampire.' Remi is playing the gentleman now, for all that within every Kindred is a Beast at war with the Man.

"I thank you for the very useful information," he gives to Phoebe, dropping his silky voice to a conspiratorial level, though still perfectly audible among their small group, "Times do change, my dear, but we all muddle through it somehow. You'll get there." Isn't that nice to hear? Especially from Remi? "What I can do, Mister Norwood, is withdraw and hope we'll meet again under more positive circumstances." He inclines his head toward both. "I bid you both a good night. Do stay," he adds lest anyone be inclined to try to follow or stop his attempt to go.

He remains entirely eye-catching, as he turns and strolls away. It's some fifteen, twenty, thirty feet before, abruptly the eye slides right over him. Nothing of note. It's hard in that jarring moment of transition, but after that, even when the eye tries to draw to him, he just looks like another face in the nonexistent crowd. Just some guy, brown hair, nice suit. Shortly, he's gone from sight entirely. How strange.

--

Phoebe starts to walk alongside the vampire, smiling widely at his praise and humming a soft song that is... not quite as casually beautiful as she is making it sound. She's pulling out quite a few of the stops--and then he's gone. She blinks, very confused. Her humming stops mid-bar. "I," she starts, raising her hand to her head. Then her eyes widen with fear and rage. "He seduced me!" she snarls.

--

Miles, for his part, does not follow the vampire. As Remi withdraws, he does follow Phoebe, however. And when she comes to, Miles seems more on edge, frustrated even, but he offers, "That might be an exaggeration. Are you okay to get home?" Or does she need an escort? "I have a date to get home to."

--

Phoebe shakes her head. "I'll be fine. I--" She shudders. "Just like the Gentry. Twisting our minds."

--

Miles can't argue with that. "Be safe, Ms Delacroix." And he must think she's capable enough of that, despite all evidence to the contrary, because he continues on his way, with Tank waddling along beside him.