Mercury Rising [Open]

[Marc Dahlmaine]

The thumping music had served as a perfect backdrop for a night of not engaging in heavy thought. The pulsing bass kept the young, nubile bodies on the dance floor in motion, alcohol seeming to occupy every hand not waving in the air in time to the flashing lights.

He had to admit it wasn't his first choice of venue for the evening. But it was a passable entertainment before he retired to a more quiet atmosphere. Sadly, it was a rather dour time going at it stag. Yes, he had been shocked to have a drink appear at his own elbow at the request of a blonde further down the bar. Raising the shotglass in her honor he returned the favor and bought her one as well. The bite of gin coursed down his throat as his eyes screwed shut at the burn. Gin. That was a new one. Not most women even liked the spirit, yet alone would purchase it for someone else. Unless it was some sort of joke. Either way, he returned back to his lager, the large mug he'd been nursing for the better part of an hour. Signalling to the bartender he put in an order for another to come as soon as he finished this one. Which was exactly in seven more seconds, one mug swapped out for a fresh one, the glass still frosty.

His tolerance was much, much too high.

[Deleted]

The ice crashed against his glass as he leaned back against the bar, watching the bodies on the floor. He took the last sip of his whiskey and placed it back behind him on the bar. He didn’t miss the presence of the bartender as he picked it up; soon it would be replaced with a fresh glass, but for now that didn’t bother Alek. He simply relaxed and watched and felt the emotions in the air. It was all he could do to not grin. In his immediate vicinity the sense of arousal was thick and he shut his eyes, almost purring at the sensation of all that energy running along his skin.

Dark eyes watched a couple on the dancefloor, no space between them, mouths hot against one another’s. The man had his fingers entangled in her hair, sweat coated their bodies. The bartender placed another glass of whiskey on the rocks before him. He nimbly picked it up and in the darkened bar took his first sip of this new glass.

The vibrated in his bones and he chuckled to himself as he realized how far the world had come. Women and men once secluded now publicly could engage in what his birth society would have been aghast by. Debauchery. It was wonderful. It was numbing to the incubus and tantalizing. How easy it would be coax one of the bodies here to dance with him, to disappear into the darkened alley just outside. No magic needed, just the night and the aura he always seemed to exude.

A giggle caught his attention and he turned to see a blonde just a few seats down, hiding her face as a man lifted his shot glass to her. He picked up his glass and without a word moved and took a seat just beside the man who had gone back to his drink of choice.

“Gin,” he hummed as he peered at the discarded, empty shot. “Oddly, I do not picture that for you, and if the look on your face is any indication, neither do you.” Another sip of his whiskey. “Your eyes are one who sees nothing but boredom around him, dimmed in apathy.”

He fit right in here, drinking to press away until all became numb.

[Marc Dahlmaine]

"Welcome, good friend. And no. I am not one for Gin. Or lager. But I see it is a rare night I have off that I, myself am not working. So I like to take stock of the local's before I return to my own posts."

Perhaps the older gentleman was already in his cups. Or perhaps he truly did see what Marc saw. But what danced before Marc's eyes was not the beautiful blonde down the length of the bar, or the couples dancing something akin to a fowl's mating ritual. No, he had such lovelies as disillusion and failure before him. Love lost. Years gone by without a sighting. And so, he thrust himself into his work, night after night, day after day. One prime distraction being a woman that cared to approach him. It was a wonderfully engaging game, toying with the opposite sex. They would flit around him like a moth to flame, unable to get his accent, his newness to the city, such novelty from their brains.

They would be able to change him. Fix him. Enrich and teach him the ways that only they knew, his head cradled in their hands.

And yet, it was all folly. His second love would suffice for now. Work, and work was liquor. Gin, Bourbon, whiskey, ale, cider. His favorite of his loves would be the grape. And tonight he was without her, so while it was not the best night off in weeks, it was a different one.

"This is boredom, compared to Europe. Nothing new, nothing unexpected. My own bar has a better choice. But I am not one to turn down a free turn of liquor." Raising his lager to the man in a mild half-toast. "To the nights we do not toll ceaselessly."

[Deleted]

Aleksei lifted his glass of amber beer. He nodded mutely and took a sip. His ears were always open, but his eyes once more crossed over the bar and its attendant and the people around them. His turned his brown gaze back to Marc. “You hail from France. The accent is pronounced. I am originally from Denmark myself and my family is an old one traced back to the Vikings,” he smiled softly. “I am certain I do not agree with you. Boredom does not dwell here. Life, however,” he sighed.

He was not drunk, not even buzzed. It was hard for his kind to succumb to humanly intoxication, though easy for them to inebriate the mortals. He could pick out the beautiful amongst the patrons, well beautiful in the sense of current standards. For Alek, however, all that danced before him was beauty. Love, comfort, the scent of drunkness and loosened inhibitions. There around him was love lost, in his heart was the memory of loves lost either by slipping through his fingers or through the loss of age.

He regarded once more the man at his side. “Perhaps I am only an old soul, but before me I see nothing to be bored of, no bitterness to hold. I see beauty in the ebb and flow of life. Life is like a camera flash. What do you wish for your portrait to show?” Another slow gulp of alcohol.

[Marc Dahlmaine]

A philosopher. He was in good company with fine sights to observe it seemed. Lady luck even on his side as he grinned ruefully at the man beside him. Denmark was a beautiful country. Most of Europe was in truth, if you were able to see the varying shades of intricacy. "And here you are in Gotham, like myself. I do admit there is a draw to the city, one that hearkens back to our own respective homelands. There is a history here that many chose to ignore, or fail utterly to see."

Behind him he raised two fingers and flicked them to bring about a second round for the two of them. There was no harm in being prepared. Unbuttoning his cuffs, he deftly rolled each sleeve to just below his elbow. Pleased with each, he had to rub at his jaw when the question was posed to him. It was something that he would judge those who offered up a quick response to. What would he want his own portrait to show? That he was a shattered, broken man who put forth a facade to the world? That he was as skilled in shilling alcohol as he was lying to nearly everyone save his sister? That he was wholly devoted to himself before any and everything save for one, sole thing in his life?

It was a proper question. One that he would have heard posed in a coffeehouse in France. Or in Copenhagen in another establishment. To find it here in Gotham solidified deeply within him he was in the right place. And he did have a fondness for photography when he had free time.

"Determination. What about yourself, friend?" The added endearment was added with no qualms. This was an educated, worldly man. And Marc wanted to learn from him, just as much as he could learn from a blonde that returned a favor with Gin.

[Deleted]

Oh the photographs his life could have shown. Greed, lust, pride…what cardinal sin wasn’t he guilty of at at least one part of his long life? He recalled when photography was invented and how it had come so far in what was to him such a short time. A blink. What would the most experience photographer see in any portrait of the man who was now called Aleksei Roth? He was a philosopher wasn’t he? How the centuries had softened him from the beast of his distant youth, and how they had lead him here. He gave a soft smile, lips upturning as the man spoke once more with his delicate accent. France was a place of beauty, a land of love and art. A land of beautiful people like the man before him. “And here I am. Here like my forefathers, centuries separated from the Vikings they came from. They came with yours to settle, to spread and lengthen their histories. I’m quite fond of history, myself. I love to explore that of the places I have travelled and I have found myself both far and wide often.”

By this time, he had indeed finished his drink and he was impressed that the man had perceived such so quickly. His mirth shone in his eyes now before they flickered to follow Marc’s fingers. His new drink was set before him and he took a tentative sip as he followed the slide of cloth, the reveal of skin. His eyes only returned to Marc’s as if his observation previously was natural. He waited for his answer, but there no press in his casual expression. He had indeed posed a question that was worth pondering. Once more Alek found himself grateful of the decision to entertain this man. He was not quick to answer such a deep question—he recognized it. Just as the incubus recognized the tang of sadness about his aura. The bitter taste of a man whose picture was not as it was painted.

He could relate to that.

Alek drew his fingers over the lip of his lip and tapped them as his question was posed to him. “I have often wondered such a question. Throughout my life, the answer given changed. I have no doubt in a few years from now my reply change, but for now, I would like my portrait to show perseverance.” He chuckled softly. “Though I called it by another name, I have answered it the same as you: determination. I want my life to show that I persisted against lost, against obstacle, against all the questions have been met with. Am I doing all I should? Am I living as I want? And is what I want truly serving my needs?”

He leaned forward and just a little more into Marc’s space. “I must be boring you. I am sure you did not come to such an establishment for deep conversations. Most come to forget.” His voice dropped into a softness at the statement and his smile became contrite.

[Marc Dahlmaine]

Marc laughed heartily. "Most do not peddle liquor to others day in and day out. To me this is as entertaining as any show on the television, or as any book. Conversation is conversation no matter what the topic. Broach the same question to two people and you rarely get a similar answer." This man was no idiot. Nor had he seen such a predatory smoothness in years. He had a friend, one of their six that had been able to move about crowds both seen and unseen at the exact same time. All eyes would be drawn to the ebony skinned, blue eyed man, and yet Craig had not given anyone the time of day, unless he wanted to.

There were men that commanded a response, and this one that sat beside him was one of those few. There had been women in his life he had came across that were similar, but had a different undertone. They were more dangerous. And mostly bitter. Much like the ales he chose not to drink. But a woman such as a fine wine? Now that was nuance he could appreciate. Watching the other man, he had to laugh. It seemed the historians were always in his company, while he himself was not a huge fan of the topic. Yes, he had studied it in school as it was mandatory, but he was not a huge fan of it. Give him chemical makeups and tastes and flavors and dirt, and he'd be a happy man.

It was rare that someone could pinpoint the metropolitan exterior that had risen from humble beginnings. Marc had been raised barefoot, in the dirt on his grandparent's farm surrounded by family. It was only when he had learned how to nurture the vine had he found a passion he could devote himself. There had been a rather vocal argument with both his mother, and father when they told him he was to attend University. And he had claimed there was no need, he could continue to help run the family business. He had risen and laid his head to rest by the sun for years. Why would he have to go into the city for an education?

...and to look at him now. Fancy bespoke suits, penthouses, and still so far from what he truly loved.