Wind. The inevitable rush of air sweeping the grass, spreading relentlessly against the greenery even as the waves crashed again and again upon the sheer cliffs below. Great, rolling blue and shimmering swathes of green as they coming crashing, crashing down upon the rocks; breaking, shattering and sent spraying into the air as a fine mist. A grey haze that lingers, watching quietly from above as the assault continues.

A smudge of red tinges the horizon, blood spilling across the slash of blue upon grey, where the ocean's breadth meets the depths of skies above; blood spilling through the cracks in the bit of glass as I hold it before my eyes – veins springing forth from the centre, spiderwebbing of cracks in the shards and splinters of colours that remain. I linger a moment there, hand held on hip, hand held before eyes – thoughts in a time and a place far, far away... and yet very present. Very near. There is a voice in the wind: screams, at first, and then the gasping breaths of some creature who's death is doubtless near at hand. My hand wavers. The fingers twitch. The glass sways and with it the colours, blood drying and vanishing, cracks dulling, blackening and then vanishing altogether.

I draw a breath. Make as if to hurl the thing into the depths below, to send spinning with it the last of the thoughts, the last of the memories... the last of the regret... and yet instead I watch with some kind of disgusted fascination, as my hand draws the piece toward my breast, holds it close there as I turn my back upon the waves and leave that place.

She is waiting for me, as I knew she might – perched upon the single living branch of a gnarled old oak; her gaze is upon me, her smile bores into me – her words cut through me, shearing away at the scattered thoughts I have already built up around the memory, paring away and bearing naked the pain of the moment. She laughs, pushes down from her perch and approaches me with cocksure steps.

“You are thinking too much, Nestor... holding too much... do you not remember?”

I bow my head, heave a say and remark in response: “But that is the very trouble, I always remember...” She laughs again. That familiar laugh of hers. That chilling sound, of wood ringing hauntingly against ice, echoing in the hollows of my mind as I brush a hand before my eyes... and wet. The spray of the sea.

The warmth of sweat. The coverlets drenched. Nestor gives a cry, springs in a moment of shock fused with fear, feet planting firmly upon the chill tile and form springing to its full height before he seems to realise where he finds himself. His room. His tiles. The grey of a full moon springing into life from beyond the uncurtained windowpanes; the city beyond lays in a hollow of deathly quiet, and yet for me the disquiet within continues on unabated. I see her eyes through the glinting light, hear the quiet of her laughter from that perch upon the windowsill.

“Ill dreams, sweetest one?” I bear my teeth, one hand clenching with involuntary motion at the leathern pouch dangling from my neck. Sleep is out of the question. Casting about in the dark as best I might, I begin to dress myself. Mechanically. Methodically. Doing my best all the while to avoid so much as glancing in her direction... and yet feeling the eyes all the same, feeling up to the very point that we step together from the room, slip wordlessly through the empty halls and into the streets beyond.

There is little to be heard beyond – the growl of a stirring mongrel. The squeal of some luckless cat. The constant pattering and scratching of rats against the slimed cobbles. But there is something... something strange in the air, and I find my hand resting absently against the hilt of my sword as I pad through the fog, following the whispering tendrils of fate as they see fit to lead me...

Sparkling blue eyes, bright and glinting as a flawlessly cut sapphire turned toward the spectacular full moon overhead, just past the dark roofs of the buildings rising up all around the couple as they walked leisurely along the cobbled byways. That leisurely pace was, by no means, the gentleman’s preferred tempo in the least, though he found himself strangely unable to make the fullness of his displeasure known to his lady companion, entranced as he felt in her presence.

His lady companion who was, in turn, enchanted by the only sunlight she would ever know again – and hence paid as little attention to her escort’s displeasure as she might a small child tugging at her skirts, complaining he was bored and she must come away to play with him this very moment.

Lord Charles Wright took the moment to sigh resignedly, running a hand through his thick, dark hair as if that act alone might clear his head. He would have far rather taken a carriage this night from the drawing room of the Duchess of Manchester, as exhausted as he was by the evening’s dancing, intoxicated with the good wine of Her Grace’s incomparable cellars, and positively inebriated by the mere presence of his companion. But Lady Wilde, with only a few sweet words and a tiny upward tilt of her full, rose petal-soft lips, had melted every objection he tried to conjure, like flame to candle wax.

For her part, Lady Jerusha Wilde simply could not stomach the thought of confinement in some stifling carriage. She had spent the better part of the night in the sweltering heat of the drawing room at Charles’ behest, enduring the press of bodies and conversations that – for no reason she could name – she simply did not care for and could not be bothered to attend this evening. And so, whether he would or no, this night Lord Wright would heed the precocious, sometimes maddening whims of Jerusha that were always part of the price of her company.

And so the sumptuously dressed pair strolled the filthy streets of London, through the eternal cobweb of fog, its tendrils slinking past every building’s corner, every stinking alleyway and byway of this city. She loved this ancient metropolis, her heart’s home on the Thames, and she breathed deeply of the cool, vaguely fetid air, spiced as it was by the musk of its denizens, sweat and spittle and, most delicious of all, the heady, coppery hints of blood. To her heightened senses, it was very much like a hungry man’s appreciation of a scrumptious holiday buffet.

Jerusha did not often partake of the everyday man of London, unless he were fool enough to try to molest her, or visit harm to her person or to anyone who accompanied her. In truth, she tried to partake as little as possible and always so carefully, in private and in her chamber, a carefully crafted tale of a night of drunken and carnal excess to weave into his memories like a favorite and well-tailored shirt.

She had partaken of Charles scrupulously the entirety of this past year, the dear man none the wiser of course, and she would again this night as well. He was a generous man at heart, and kind, and Jerusha did not believe this small fraud hurt him in the least. Lord Wright had all his memories of the much sought after Lady Jerusha Wilde well intact after all, as well as the privilege and the boast that he had the incomparable company of the most desirable courtesan in England.

Fair enough trade, in truth.

But this night, Jerusha’s eyes could not help but travel from the lovely moon up above, clothed provocatively as she was with a gauzy haze of London fog, back to its cobbled streets and…

Lady Wilde stopped still, her eyes traveling about her escort’s body to a dark figure across the thoroughfare. To her eyes, the aura about him seemed strangely… Dazzling, in truth. He was human, yes, but more – and colder, and warmer, than any man she had ever seen. Some small part of her noted the sword at his hip, but her curiosity and sudden concern caused her to pay precious little heed to such a petty concern. He smelled of despair, and drink, and… And perhaps most amazingly of all, the infernal, where Hell was an eternal and endless lake of black ice.

Jerusha paid precious little attention to Charles’ protests that the man was drunk, armed – perhaps even deranged and dangerous - as his lady companion left his side. With one quick flick of her delicate-seeming wrist, she impatiently waved him to stay where he was with a swift wave of her hand – an order he obeyed docilely as a well-trained dog. In unlife, just as in life, Lady Wilde’s [no longer beating] heart lay always with the desperate, the downtrodden and the forgotten – only now, she was a shepherd of a new, strange people where she could.

She gathered the lengths of her pale pink and rose skirts in both hands, delicately stepping over the worst of the slimy London street detritus.

While he, meantime, simply plodded through the worst of it – black leather of his boots dragging furrows through the grime; not that it was he was unaware of it – quite on the contrary, actually! As no sooner had Jerusha begun her approach than he squats gingerly down, bends over the stricken and bloated form of a sodden rat. Whether he is aware of her approach or no, he does not show, so intent does he seem on the task at hand. The rat, by all appearances, is quite dead. Very much dead. Very much unpleasant.

“This one?” I remark softly beneath my breath, allowing the words to die amongst the dregs of the rotting street; the query is not so much a question as a statement. The answer found in a silence punctuated only by the chittering and scuttling of this one's more fortunate comrades in the darkness all about. A flick of my wrist and a silent gleam announces the presence of a thin blade in one hand; I roll the fellow gently over with the tip of the knife – I find myself wondering idly what his last moments might have been like – trace an imaginary line along his belly – the frantic gasping for breath, perhaps, beady eyes rolling, flashing – cut through the already putrefying flesh, wrinkle my nose at the release of fumes – a nasty poison this one, no doubt – not even an exploratory nip to be seen; cut a little deeper, curl my lips... prod with the knife... and then, with a jerk of my fingers extract what I sought.

There is a soft clink – the only audible sound to be heard from the crouching figure's direction, and though it might be anybody's guess as to just what, precisely, has been excavated from the rodent's innards, there is the soft gleam of something silver and metallic. The glint vanishes just as swiftly. The figure stiffens, begins to gently tap the tip of the knife against his boot, each strike in perfect cadence with the quietly approaching vampire.

I twitch my shoulders. Hide away the knife. Slip the object into a pouch against my breast. The air about me throbs and hums as I close my eyes, allow myself to listen; there is a beauty inherent to the sound of even the most dismally ordinary souls – and something in this one rang strangely true. Rang indeed. I winced a little as the ringing in my ears intensified, only vanishing for a time as I finally spoke:

“A splendid night for a stroll, would you not say? Though I... must admit – I might prefer a little more green. A little less stench...” The voice is strange – soft, liquid in a way – as though the speaker were thoroughly enjoying the pronunciation of each syllable. A brief silence enters the space left by his words, only to be filled by the sudden banging of a door not far from where Charles waits; there is the pitter-patter of footsteps – many footsteps, yet all seemingly coming from the same place... almost as if they came from the same being entirely. Something crashes in the far off distance. Cold creeps in along the cobbled streets; seeps up from the rotting filth below; filters down from the wind and pale gleam of the moon above. A mangy dog, left hindleg dragging in the muck with each step, emerges from just beyond the corner – it gives Charles a wary glare, bright blue eyes disturbingly out of place with the sooty grey of its hide.

Nestor straightens to his feet and turns smartly about; he offers a polite bow to the approaching woman, then simply waits – paying neither Charles, nor the stray, nor the dead rat, any further mind – rather, clasping his hands behind his back, he studies her approach. The dog studies Charles. The dead rat's empty eyes study the sky.

Igraine

"A splendid night indeed. I was only ever avoiding a carriage ride this night, if I may be perfectly honest," Jerusha said gently, a warm smile on her lips for the handsome, flaxen-haired man, hands clasped behind his back so casually as he intently regarded her approach. The strange sounds that emanated from the street all around them were not lost on her in the least, and she glanced casually over her shoulder to Charles with a small smile and a reassuring wave of her fingers.

In truth, the reassurance was entirely for her own edification, that she had not left Charles in unanticipated peril. Sapphire eyes narrowed dangerously as she caught sight of the strange, blue-eyed cur before she returned her attentions to this gentleman once more. Jerusha noted the precipitous drop in the temperature as she drew up before him, a chill that might very well have given her goose flesh - were she actually capable of such a thing anymore.

Yes, gentleman indeed he seemed to her, despite his odd mannerisms. "But I ask you, how could I ever countenance an insufferably cramped carriage ride, caged and blind to such a beautiful sight as this?" Jerusha laughed warmly, a balmy counterpoint to the crisp chill all about them as one elegant, silk-gloved hand indicated the skies above them, to the seductively silvered full moon above.

"Then again, I see there might have been something of greater interest here, a little closer to Earth tonight, to capture your attention?" One red-brown eyebrow arched curiously as her gaze fell languidly, yet meaningfully, to the befouled patch of cobblestones that had become a rather mangled rat's last resting place.

"Poor thing," Jerusha said, brow furrowed thoughtfully, without the least hint of condescension or insincerity in her voice as she studied the dead creature a moment longer. "I wonder, do you think a terrier got him, perhaps? Certainly not the half-lame cur eyeballing my escort I imagine. Even so, his wee little soul has been departed for some time it would seem. Not even a chance to enjoy the loveliness of one more night sky such as we have this night."

The vampire's gaze returned to the man before her, her head tilted curiously, the tiniest upward tilt of her shell pink lips hinting at the thoughts roiling like a swollen river current behind that pale ivory face.

"Did you get what you needed?"

Her gloved hand lifted gracefully toward the man, palm down, a time-honored greeting that said he might take her hand if he wished - though honestly some small part of her prayed he had not actually been sticking his fingers inside the dead rat as well. That might be a touch... Repugnant. Oh, Jerusha was far beyond worrying about what diseases could be contracted by handling the decaying bodies of dead animals, but the stench was simply impossible to properly remove from silk.

Ah well, no matter in the end. Fashions might come and go in a single season, praised and then forgotten virtually overnight. No, Jerusha knew well there had been a reason she could not bear the thought of riding closeted in a carriage, but was simply compelled to walk the streets of London tonight.

That reason stood before her, this very moment.

"If I like your answer, I might yet know a far fairer, far greener place to walk this night if you wish. Lady Jerusha Wilde, and it is truly a pleasure to meet you."

Nestor does not respond all at once; rather, he seems to allow himself a few moments to take in the unfolding scene – the dog, and the cautious limping of each step as it hobbles over the cobbles toward Charles, the same bright blue light in its eyes; the wisps of moonlight playing over the oddly displaced silks and lace of Jerusha's attire – then he stirs, extends one hand (clean hands – never dirty the hands, that was the task of the blade – or so I had always told myself) to hover just beneath the proffered glove, lips barely brushing the air above the extended fingers before he straightens again.

“Time will tell whether it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance... but I am honoured all the same, Madam Wilde” Here he pauses, lips opening as though he were on the verge of speaking, but his eyes trace toward the stray dog instead – the creature has by now come within a few scant paces of Charles, and after giving the air around the man a sort of exploratory sniff, it summons up the courage to move a bit closer. To extend a raw and bleeding nose in the direction of the man's finery, perhaps getting rather too close for comfort in an attempt to get a bit of the man's scent. A decrepit, all but furless tail swings slowly to and fro, mangy brow scrunched into a picture of intense concentration as it snuffles.

I purse my lips, caught a while before the urgency of the present draws me back and – clearing my throat marginally, attempting to gloss over the uncertainty of my silence – I finally give her my name:

“I am known to a few as Nestor... Nestor Grimsley; as for the things that I seek?” Here I pause, make a conscious effort not to lick my lips – succeed, but fail to prevent my left hand from reaching toward the little pouch at my breast; I stop the motion halfway, make a show at rubbing at my chin whilst casting another glance in the direction of the rat before going on:

“I always find what I seek; that is never the difficulty – the trouble, rather, rests in avoiding the things I did not know I searched for, but am destined to discover all the same.” I find myself grown quiet again, pondering my own words – one of those moments where I am possessed of an uncertainty as to whether what I've said has any true meaning... and then the soft brush of the nighttime breeze – soft and yet full of the sour odour of the streets, the stale rottenness of so much life crammed into one tiny pinprick on the map... – seems to draw the thought from my mind.

“But I would be a fool to refuse your offer... though I would wonder,” here he pauses, gives a brief nod in the direction of the encroaching stray: “Will your companion, perhaps, be bringing his new friend along as well?” The soft play of something like a smile quirks at the corner's of Nestor's lips; rather like the man who – having all the details of a jest beforehand – still finds some amusement in watching the scene play out with someone less informed.

Jerusha's eyes turned toward the sight that had the caught Master Grimsley's attention, one eyebrow raised in consternation as she regarded the strange, overly-friendly dog. Her eyes traveled upward to meet Charles' still too enthralled with his lady companion's presence to notice the pitiful canine attempting to gain his attention.

"No, Master Grimsley," the vampire said with a small, resigned sigh, "Lord Wright would have not a thing in this world to do with the poor creature. His kennel of fox hounds are quite the envy among his peers, if I understand such things correctly. So no. No, he will be doing no such thing, I fear. Charles is not a bad man. Not in the least truly, but he has no love for sickly, ill-bred curs."

The vampire was not necessarily contented with Nestor's words. She was no fool, and certainly did not suffer them lightly. Nestor Grimsley was certainly no fool, nor even truly a dedicated drunkard - not yet, at least. But he was a man with secrets he certainly did not wish to share. Jerusha was perceptive enough to know exactly how delicately and lightly a man could dance with his secrets when he chose. The corner of her lip twitched upward just a touch as she took some steps forward, bending to crouch at the edges of the road, heedless of the street filth that stained the hem of her skirts.

Jerusha whistled, teeth and tongue expelling a sharp, quick trill that perked the ears of the dog instantly to her face. The soft call of her voice whispered across the short distance without words, a mellifluous stream of calm as she held her gloved hand out to the pathetic beast, below the height of its head in tender reassurance that there would be no cruel hand raised against it.

"No, Charles will not be bringing this new friend with us." The vampire smiled as the lame dog approached, its hind leg still held gingerly. She noted the spot of blood on its nose, the mange, the prominent ribs and she frowned - though certainly not at the hapless, unfortunate canine.

"But I will."

Her back still turned to Nestor as she crouched there, Jerusha let her hands run tenderly over the dog's head, its ears what remained of the short fur on its ruff. This dog had once been beautiful, she knew. A bull dog if she was any judge, the width of its rib cage - covered now with what seemed only the flimsiest veil of flesh - and perhaps even the jowls that hung just a little loose around its wide maw.

Likely injured in a fight, she could only imagine. Turned out of home and hearth, useless and unwanted by the master it once adored. The vampire watched that thin, near hairless tail wag happily at nothing more than touches that brought no pain. Jerusha rose, turning to look over her shoulder to Nestor, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

"So shall we, Master Grimsley? You, my companion and my new canine friend? I imagine we will make quite the spectacle returning to my home, but when have such as us ever stood in good stead with propriety?" she asked with an impish little laugh.

I smiled. I could not help it. I was not quite sure why. I blinked, opened my mouth, then slowly closed it again. With some force of will I managed to avoid looking the fool – outwardly, at least, though inwardly I found the sight at once unexpected and entirely enthralling. I noticed myself thinking back, struggling... struggling somehow to recall...

“Recall what, Nestor?” The voice was startling, cold and sharp – a pattern amongst the constant ring and buzz that assaulted my ears in every waking hour; I responded in turn. In thought.

“You know!”

“No, no we do not know, dearest Nestor!” And then the dog looked at me, turned one rheumy eye in my direction, closed it – winking – as dogs are wont to do. I shuddered inwardly. I could never tell what they meant by such a motion, or whether it even meant anything at all. But there was something so terribly real, so terrifyingly human about the act that I could not help but allow myself a second guess. To wonder whether the dog knew more than it let on... Finally I managed up the words to respond.

“Spoken to someone... someone.... someone not -you-!” Only the dry laughter of sandpaper rasping on steel followed, and then I found myself again in the street, the absurdity of dog and vampiress and lackey all too real and too solid to be yet another dream. I drew a breath, straightened and stepped forward.

“I recongise this one, you know? Nestor remarks as he takes a few steps toward Jerusha, carefully eases down into a squat and runs one of his own hands along the creature's wasted flank; he glances sidelong at the woman, lost for a stretch of time in his thoughts before adding: “He always seems to find me, somehow – don't you, eh?” His last few words directed toward the creature, a cautiously affectionate pat give before he straightens and returns his full attention to the oddly mismatched Vampire. Offering another sort of bow – not so much mocking as simply bemused (and indeed, I would be lying if I said that I could have grasped the moment entirely, or what it might have spelled out for my future – rather here was I, in the midst of the dark streets of an ancient city, the allure of the unknown and unfathomable calling to me.)

I would be telling only the truth if I were to admit that I still to this day do not know what possessed me to follow her into the guttering glow of an ill-lit city night... yet I did. Even (for some reason beyond my comprehension) adding as I turned toward a nearby street, gesturing politely before remarking:

“We shall indeed, and perhaps you may allow me the honour – there is a place near at hand... one I had meant to visit. Perhaps we shall go there together, you and I, before venturing elsewhere”?

"Well if he always seems to find you Master Grimsley, then I suppose he must be yours, not mine." The tiny, upward tilt of her lips as she glanced at the flaxen-haired man said she teased, though the steely glint of her glimmering blue eyes said 'maybe not.'

One gloved hand still ran tenderly over the top of the dog's brow, his neck, the emaciated creature leaning into her hand as her fingers found a particularly delicious spot to scratch behind his ear. "Do you not think after all this time, your whole long acquaintance, that the poor thing might yet deserve a name from you?"

Jerusha was a youngling yet in the Veiled World, still impetuous, less circumspect than her elders perhaps. Still, the long, occasionally brutal experiences of her mortal life did not leave her without a care for danger, or the evil men could do. She considered Nestor's offer, letting the thoughts of the infernal cold and black lake of ice she saw in her mind's eye, could feel emanating from the cobblestone street around them - and the warm, genuine voice of the man she could still hear, overlaid with a melancholy she did not understand. Jerusha was not even sure he understood its depths. The vampire balanced the two sides thoughtfully, carefully in her thoughts though her decision was made in a matter of moments.

"Just you and I, Master Grimsley?" she asked, searching his face for several long moments, a slow patient smile for the man. Her gaze turned toward Charles, still waiting patiently on the other side of the thoroughfare though he watched the strange trio curiously, as a man would who was not entirely unused to Lady Wilde's strange whims.

Jerusha was hungry. Famished in truth, since she fed only when she absolutely must, taking not one drop more than the smallest amount necessary to keep her animated. But it was the sincerity she heard in Master Grimsley's unexpected invitation - a sincerity that struck her as palpable, tipping the scale just so between two very real, deep-seated needs for this vampire.

"Let me find a cab for Charles then, and send dear Lord Wright home safely this evening. Yes, that would probably be for the best." Jerusha's smile turned knowing, and just a little sly. "Mortal men probably ought not walk where you and I can tread, would you not agree? There was a little something you said moments ago as I recall, about not always being able to 'avoid the things we do not know we searched for, but are destined to discover all the same?'"

"I would far rather spare him that, as I am sure you understand, though I doubt dear Nameless here would be of much note." The vampire patted the dog's head affectionately once more. "But once I have dear Lord Wright safely on his way? Then you may certainly have the honor of showing me this place you wished to visit. The night is still so young - I imagine there is time for many a 'venture' to be had before sunrise."

“A cab?” Nestor states – quite plainly, as if voicing the question again aloud to himself. “But yes, of course! Or mayhap we could find for him some far more... interesting... form of conveyance." The Demonspawn imparts a devilish arch to his eyebrows, appraising the aforementioned Lord before glancing to the dog and adding:

“But as for this one...? I shall tell you a story, perhaps – a story of my childhood... yes...” Here he offers a kind of smirk; sidelong, appraising glance – I wondered what her reaction would be? Maybe none. I added anyway: “Yes, things even such as I – even I had a childhood; though it might very well be that you know me too poorly as of yet to find the statement odd. The cab, however – I might have just the thing for that...” He stops speaking here, one hand fumbling about in his jacket before producing a long, cylindrical tube; the end has been perforated several times, neat little rows of holes running a circuit about the perimeter. Its purpose is immediately apparent as Nestor unscrews the cap, slips a few gentle fingers inside the opening and pulls forth what – though doubtless nothing more than an obscure blob to normal eyes under the poor light – would appear to Jerusha as something resembling an overly large moth. Replacing the tube, he extends the creature a little on the palm of his hand – it does not move, seeming quite content to simply lay there, wings outstretched in typically mothy fashion, one antenna waving lazily for a moment, before coming to an abrupt stop as it points directly toward the Vampiress.

“Convolvulus Hawk-Moth; or, Agrius Convolvuli. Not, admittedly, that this one is especially normal – but they seem to have a strange affinity for my butler and I... or perhaps it is the other way around... They serve a quite useful purpose, whatever the case --” With that, he raises his hand slightly – the moth stirs, shifts, and finally lurches awkwardly into the air – it hovers there a few moments, as if in indecision, before darting off down the street and vanishing almost instantly into the night. “One of the fastest known Moths, or so it is said... I don't feel much inclined to doubt it. But surely better than mucking around the streets in search of a stray cab.”

But here my attention returned to the dog, and the lingering story at hand, whereupon I offered a half-apology, hastily adding: “But I never did finish my initial story! The dog... the name... Yes. I, as a child, and it was a dark evening in a darkening wood, of the sort that one does not find so often anymore. Caught up deep in the foreboding heartland of the Black Forest; no one but my own self and my closest, dearest companion at the time – a great hound, of a sort not often seen...” I find myself falling suddenly silent, words conjuring to life memories of a time so far back, so far in the past as to seem only the faintest wisps of errant dreams; I wondered, at such times, how much was true memory and how much was, indeed, merely the effects of dreams and long passage of time. The dog gives a soft whine, air wheezing between his nostrils and dragging me back again into the present.

“It had been a long day, of endless trekking – a single boar, and long since the lesser hounds had given up and wandered home, only the two of us remaining; he, loyal as ever, and I – young and just beginning to taste the first of life's many deadly thrills. I had gone without rest for some time: I found that I was thirsty, and taking a little while to pause near the edge of some clear stream I allowed myself a brief respite from the chase. The hound, however, charged on – and so it happened to be, as I knelt by the softly rippling waters, enchanted for a time by the quiet babbling of water against stone, I heard a long series of snarls, followed by yelps and a few sounds I could not quite make out.

“I darted to my feet at once, of course, and went charging off madly through the woods after him; I can remember still the dizzy blur of twigs and stones and roots and boulders rearing up suddenly in my path, and the patches of treacherous footing that threatened to throw me to the ground, so heedless was my rush.

“But when I finally found him it was by the side of a little pond in a small glen just beyond a sudden rise; a stream – silver-clear – went sluicing through the grass and moss upon either side, pooling at the clearing's centre. And there, crumpled beneath an ancient willow, was my hound – still breathing, and eyes still bright as he gazed upon me with the enduring glance that every dog gives his master. He stirred – perhaps attempting to rise... but could not. Rather whimpered, lay his head upon his paws and was still. The monstrous carcass of the boar lay right beside him, and the blood from both mingled and went running away into streams, clouding the depths of the pool, sending long tendrils of scarlet and black snaking through the darkening waters.”

Here Nestor comes to a long pause – he might be caught, then, gazing absently toward the moon above; his hands he has drawn up, clasped neatly behind his back. His lips pursed. But the sudden clatter of hooves and creak of wheels shatters the moment, the rough skidding of iron against stone as a a jet-black coach lurches into view; the over-large, bundled figure of a coachman stirs in its seat, straightens awkwardly (to a full height of well over two meters, at the very least!) before lumbering down to the street and wordlessly pulling open the door. I glance at my coachman, give a nod in Charles' direction, before turning toward Jerusha and remarking:

“A cyclops... he's a rather silent fellow. But dependable when he needs to be. I'm quite sure he'll get our dear Charles home very safe and sound and not missing any...important... pieces.”

Jerusha was utterly charmed by the strange, extremely large moth - the hawk-moth - who pointed his wee little antennae at her it seemed, though surely she must be imagining such a thing. Moths held an undying fascination for her, and always had. When she was a little girl, Jerusha had imagined them to be the brave knights among the insect world, fearlessly charging into the light no matter the consequences to themselves, dashing themselves against the whole world no matter the cost, simply to be enveloped in that luminous glory...

It was a silly child's notion of course, though it brought a smile to her face nonetheless. Perhaps Nestor and his coachman were actually bright lights then, the both of them, that moths should have such an affinity for their persons? Another silly notion of course, though she may have confided that whimsical thought to Nestor but for the fact he had begun a promised story.

She fell silent as he spoke, reverently quiet as always before a fine storyteller, no matter if his tale were comic or tragic. Jerusha fought the urge mightily, the urge to lay a comforting hand on Nestor's arm or to wrap her own about his shoulders as he spoke of his long-dead and noble hound. Not everyone - "merely" mortal or a denizen of the Veiled World - would care for the touch of a vampire, often [rightly] considering such a move suspect at best.

"It never once occurred to me, Master Grimsley, that you would not have a childhood of your own." Jerusha could not help but wonder at the import of Nestor's story, at the two dead animals she could still see in her mind's eye, their life's blood joining the parted streams of clear silver to mingle forever in a forest pool, but she was content to let the mystery lie a little longer. She would take her careful, measured time then, to sew together the pieces he might share and form the tapestry of this strange man, the pale-haired gentleman whose devilish smirk contrasted so profoundly with a wistful thoughtfulness.

"But perhaps if you would give poor Nameless here, the name of your brave hound? " she whispered instead of the touch she might have first offered. Still, the dulcet timbre of her voice rang as full of promise as the vesper bell. "I have found that naming a thing often brings it forth, if you understand my meaning. You can see he is brave, and bold, even in this pitiful condition."

But before she could properly finish the thought, Jerusha's gaze was pulled swiftly from Nestor, laughing softly at his jest as the carriage for Lord Wright arrived in a most spectacular and noisy fashion - no matter the taciturn demeanor of its driver. "Thank you, Master Grimsely," Jerusha replied sincerely before leaving man and dog behind her for the moment, and retrieving a thoroughly startled young lord from his assigned position across the thoroughfare.

The moment Lady Wilde laid her hand against his arm, smiling so prettily up at him, those sapphire eyes mesmerizing, as endlessly fascinating as any gemstone found in the hands of men, Lord Wright was lost. Jerusha wrapped her arm in his easily, laying her head against his shoulder as they walked to the open carriage door. Oh yes, but of course she understood his disappointment, one she felt every inch as keenly as he. But there was simply no help for it this evening, what with a dear old friend found fallen on hard times? And certainly, she would make all this up to him tomorrow evening - entirely alone in her gardens, the two of them for a late dinner by candlelight, music and wine and the most intoxicating company he had ever known...

She wove a coverlet of magic with her voice, the words that tripped so lightly off her tongue like a warm, comforting blanket of illusion that ensured none of the Veiled World shining so brightly around him now, remained in his conscious thoughts. Nothing but the oddly convenient coach with the incredibly tall driver, and the spectacular radiance of the woman beside him.

But for a precious few, it was not for mortal men to see the spectacular underbelly of their own world. The Veiled World might not long survive the hard, jealous scrutiny of mortal men.

Charles pulled Jerusha close before he stepped into the carriage, embracing her tightly until she groaned so softly, shuddering with the sudden need. Unbidden, her gloved fingers interlaced behind head, running tenderly through his hair as she buried her face in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. The pain of the hunger Charles woke with his spontaneous ardor was like no other the vampiress had ever known in her mortal life, the gnawing in her belly become a living thing screaming its need with razor-edged claws. Her tongue flicked greedily over those growing fangs, parched and begging for relief from this horrible thirst...

If she had a breath, Jerusha might have tried to catch it at that instant, the supreme effort of will she exerted at that moment costing her dearly. The vampiress pushed away from Charles, perhaps a little too quickly, her head hung to the ground for a long moment. She would not lift her gaze again until she was sure she would not greet him with the smile of the predator she truly was.

Only a second or two had passed before she looked up to the young man, a mask of amusement dancing in her eyes that he was helpless to see through. "You would not scandalize me before these people, would you Charles?" she whispered, taking a step backward, offering him a hand to take in farewell. "Tomorrow, sweet man. Tomorrow, where we will have our privacy and our leisure. Go on, off with you then... "

Not until the carriage was well underway, did Jerusha feel strong enough to turn back to Nestor and Nameless. Well, perhaps not Nameless for long she could only hope, and she smiled fondly at the poor dog, and to the far-more-than-mortal man beside him.

The vampiress felt paper thin, merely a veneer of herself as she entwined her arm with Nestor's. "Well then, Master Grimsley, " she said evenly, with a strength and cheer she did not truly feel at the moment. But if she named a thing, perhaps it would yet come to her, and that thought alone bolstered her. "Do tell - this place we are yet to visit together? I admit, I am intrigued!"

“Hmm... interesting. Sometimes I forget myself, you know? That I ever had a childhood, that is; memories can be funny things – always running afoul of one another, getting mixed up and lost somewhere in the strange little back corners and alleys of one's mind...” Nestor pauses here, raises his hand toward the moonlight – clenches his fist, peers at the palm as though inspecting it – not that there is anything strange to see. Just a hand. Giving a surreptitious cough, the Demonspawn seems to stiffen ever so slightly; his attention is distracted by the next question, some moments following before his eventual response:

“Names, Lady Wilde – you do seem so very interested in names; perhaps there is a greater power in the absence of one. A lack of identity. Who might we be, could one choose to live a life bereft of a name entirely? Would it make us... something less than human?” I laugh suddenly here – lightly, catching the irony of the comment: turning to glance toward my new chance companion, I offer a bemused sort of smile before adding: “Imagine namelessness to be a gift! The gift of no expectations, no preconceived notions. To simply exist, and to be to others precisely what we are... it is the whole lie – the whole lie of personality, you know? The absurd idea that any one being – man, woman, natural or supernatural – is infallible in nature. To be 'true to oneself' when 'oneself' is nothing more than a coincidental concoction of experiences which lead to memories which lead to expectations.”

The words halt then – I rein myself back a bit, before I go to far. Not that my words are harsh, or in anyway meant poorly... just spoken as thoughts would chance to take me. I glance again at the dog. The dog stares at me; stares with the same baleful blue of its questioning eyes. Shifting from one foot to the next, I politely do my best to keep my gaze and attention well-averted from the Vampiress and her toy as they part ways. There was something strange, striking – disturbing, almost, in the way she looked as she turned and made her way back to where I stood. It was then that I realised in something akin to a panic that she not only intended to come within a hairsbreadth of me, but to touch me – the sensation was jarring. (Though Nestor shows little of his sudden awkwardness outwardly – perhaps the faintest flinch, quickly hidden.)

My nerves tingled at the intrusion, and it was everything I could do to keep my manners – it was not as if her proximity would kill me. Not even that it truly bothered me... just...

“Just what, Nestor dear? Hmm?” The voice tickled in the back of my head – goading, chiding. Scraping against the back of my spine like an unexpected blade; I did not respond – rather, I offered a smile, put one foot before the other, and began to stroll off into the night – Vampiress at my side – whilst remarking:

“It is a place only a little ways from here – a curious place, and curious people... though perhaps others might find them as dull as I do interesting... tell me, Lady Wilde: do you often pause to ponder the passage of -time-? A strange thing, maybe ( here I paused for a moment... I had to admit, the nature of Vampires at once confused and intrigued me, and for that instant I could not help but wonder if I were about to tread on sacred ground, so to speak – but I blundered on anyway): you were not always in the past who you are now, and even in the past, no doubt, you noted the ever-shifting movement of time. Speeding, speeding – faster and faster as weeks become days and days become hours and hours minutes....” Nestor tilts his head a little to the side, staring more pointedly at the woman before continuing:

“And then so suddenly – like that!(he snaps his fingers)-- it ends; you go hurtling off into the unknown, and wake to find yourself a creature who has managed to take a few steps beyond the whims of time entirely. Or... perhaps... just as much a slave to the concept as ever – worse now, even, since in death the human escapes and death for you – well – it could very well never come unless you choose it. Nestor halts here, pausing before an unassuming door in an equally unremarkable street. The windows beyond are dark; glazing gleams dully in the dim light, empty eyes leading to seeming nothing beyond. The dog gives a soft whine, settles back on its haunches and thumps a miserable tail several times against the dirty cobbles.

“I find this place... refreshing...” The Demonspawn remarks, before pushing open the door and leading Jerusha into the strange expanse of the room beyond. Ticking – the constant ticking and buzzing of winding gears and clacking cogs; the steady rhythm of a few dozen clocks all chanting away the time in harmony – and upon hearing the sound, Nestor might be seen to smile...

As they walked, Jerusha and Nestor, the vampiress smiled up at her escort this night. He need not have worried in the least, Jerusha took no offense at his railing against the names, in concept at the very least. For a brief moment, Jerusha wondered if she had offended him, feeling the slightest of flinches when she took his arm in such a simple, time-honored gesture. Still, Nestor did not pull away, settling in easily enough - or at least pretending to well enough from all she could see.

Laughing softly, she peered down to look to the emaciated, blue-eyed dog, who in turn looked up to her as she spoke. "Have no worries, bold and fearless hound. If Master Grimsley must rail against the injustice of names and the assault they make on the mirage of personality? Well then we must simply let the gentleman have his prerogative in the matter of not giving you a moniker."

"Even so," she continued, winking up at Nestor conspiratorially before she looked back to the dog, "As afflicted as I am with my own Christian name? Lady Wilde will still not let you go without one. I christen you... 'Anonyme.'" The word flowed from her lips with a silken Parisian air. "After all, we cannot disregard his wisdom utterly."

Jerusha bent to pat Anonyme's head affectionately before her attention returned to Nestor, eminently amused by the labyrinthine twists and turns his conversation took, almost as if he spoke in a near endless stream of consciousness. As he promised, the walk was neither terribly long nor arduous, and ended before a rather nondescript door before an equally nondescript building - not, of course, that the vampiress was disappointed in the least. Jerusha had long since discovered the most delightful and terrifying and magnificent things could be found beneath common rough twine and plain brown wrapping.

"Oh Master Grimsley" the vampiress replied gently, patting the arm she had entwined with her own almost reassuringly. "Perhaps I am too young yet as a Child of Cain - barely two decades removed from a mortal life - to feel the weight of time disappear entirely from my thoughts. True enough, this body is dead, but the human woman who lived, and loved - and loves still - and would have died in a matter of days with consumption? She has gone nowhere at all. I am still me, even if it seems a conceit to say such a thing of 'a coincidental concoction of experiences' after all."

Jerusha laughed softly, shaking her head. "But no, we are not here to talk of me. I should very much like to meet your 'curious people.' Please do lead on - and what is that curious ticking, Nestor? All this talk of time... Clockwork? How lovely! Anonyme, come boy!" Jerusha called, slapping the edges of her skirts as Nestor led her past the unassuming door.