The wood-panel floor of the treehouse is carefully nestled between the twin trunks of a tree, about ten feet off the ground. A panel in the center of the floor opens to allow a rope to drop down and give access to those welcome.
The house itself is fair-sized and sturdily built, mainly of pine panels. One wall is largely open, covered in metal wire mosquito-screen with two large, thick blankets nailed and tacked as drapes and insulation for the cooler times. This makeshift window faces west, toward the lake, and a section has been carefully cut and taped up to allow access to a wooden windowbox attached outside.
Nearly half the floor -- right up to the trapdoor -- is taken up by the bed, a mattress filled with straw, topped with a thin but soft featherbed, all capped by a large nest of blankets, quilts, and pillows. The other side of the room appears to be mainly the kitchen, such as it is -- a small 'pantry' box of food, a few pans and dishes, and a clay pot redolent of woodsmoke and coal. In the corner away from the window on that side is a very simple wooden box with a lid, and atop that is a cobalt blue wine bottle acting as a vase for random wild blooms. Three rows of shelves line the wall above the cooking area, the vast majority of the space on them covered with carefully arranged shiny baubles of various kinds.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt hangs untucked above them, long sleeved and fastened with a row of small, black stone buttons. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
Well, look at this city boy. He's middling-tall, with the sort of skinny-yet-flabby physique that comes of never exercising or eating right; although his limbs are lanky, he's got a bit of an overhang in the belly region. His looks are plain, nothing special to them at all except an interestingly aristocratic nose, long and thin. His complexion is fair--no, it's pale, desperately pale, almost albino, although there is some natural color. Apparently he doesn't get a lot of sun. His eyes are a confused dark gray-blue-hazel, and intently wary, often flicking to the source of a sudden sound or movement. They're often veiled by his hair, which is a mop of Beatles-esque proportions, ugly in a way that went out of style during the Long Night. Also in the way of bad fashion statements, he has jaw-length sideburns which widen at their ends, although he's otherwise clean-shaven. It's a look that hasn't been in vogue for a century or so. His hair, eyebrows, and sideburns are all a uniform shade of absolute black; it does not flatter him.
If it wasn't already painfully obvious that he's fresh from a big city, his clothes cinch the deal. Loose gray corduroy pants, long enough to bunch over the tops of sneakers, a long-sleeved thin blue cotton shirt of the pullover variety, and over that, a battered red-and-black flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Despite the light clothing, the chill of the season doesn't seem to bother him.
Tristan climbs the rope leading up to the treehouse with his usual grace, but not his usual speed. Cautiously, probably expecting Aurelia to pop out and brain him with a frying pan, he raps on the underside of the door.
Serendipity flips open the trapdoor, and looks intensely, if pleasantly, surprised to see the vampire. "Hey! C'mon in," he invites, and holds the hatch open to facilitate this. "Heard you been about."
Tristan wriggles up and in with the fluidity of a snake, slithering up into a crosslegged position. "Yeah," he says, "haven't gone nowhere." He looks unusually healthy, there might even be the faintest rosy tinge to his skin.
Serendipity looks pretty good himself. Well. He looks healthy, anyway. If a little sleepy, and a little... well, he's got several fully or partially visible little bruise. "You're lookin' good."
"Ate good," Tristan says briskly. He eyes Ren's new collection of bruises with interest. "That Aurelia's a fiesty little filly, yeah?"
Serendipity touches his neck, and grins a little. "...yeah, but this'd be not her fault," he replies, and offers a seat, dropping comfortably into the relative softness of the bed. "Martin's a tasty morsel, huh?"
Tristan blinks a little in surprise, then grins wryly. "Kissin' an' telling, huh? That's right, you had a date with him too. I mean, not that I did, but, yannow." He looks thoughtful, a rare expression for him. "Yeah, he is. Too tasty. Way too darkin' tasty. So tasty that it's actually pretty fuckin scary." Uncomfortably, he shifts his weight around a bit. "So anyway, you got him in the sack, yeah?"
"Too, huh?" Ren echoes teasingly, unable to let that entirely go. "...he is, though. An' yeah, I did, no thanks t' =you=." He grins, shaking his head, and leans over to bump shoulders with the vampire. "He was honestly all worried I was into our four-legged friends. I owe you for that." It would sound more ominous if he didn't seem so amused.
Tristan snickers, then breaks down into giggles. "Aw hell, I didn't know he was that gullible. I mean, how do you get to be a trader without people fleecin' ya? No pun intended. Anyway, I'm sure ya talked him out of whatever virginal fears he was harborin'."
Serendipity snickers himself. "Yeah, you shoulda seen his face when I was stringin' him along about it... an' gullible, maybe, virginal, oh darkin' fuck no." He sounds damn near admiring. "...it was a good date."
"Sounds like ya had fun," Tristan says almost cheerfully. "I sure as fuck did. Oh man. Been a long, long time since I wanted to put my fangs in someone that bad." He gets a little drifty, then adds hastily, "No offense, man. He's not even like shifter blood. He's something else. Something... else. Like he was tailor-made for a leech. Which, is pretty fucked up, so, it's not necessarily a good thing, yannow?"
Serendipity nods, leaning in a little. "...none taken. I know I got the least exciting blood in town," he replies a touch wryly, and stretches. "...He's a little shaken up about it, too. Didn't know it was like it is an' all, y'know. But, yeah, that aside... yeah, it was a hell of a lotta fun. Hopin' it's not a one-time thing, but we'll see."
Tristan grunts, rubbing all his hair backwards. "Sure hope he doesn't, yannow, take it too seriously. I warned ya about that, but you seem cool with it. Anyway if yer around to keep him occupied..." He flashes a pointy grin at Ren.
Serendipity laughs. "Guess we'll see what happens. I'll prolly keep an eye on botha you, someone's gotta," he teases. "...an' I warned him what you told me, 'bout some people gettin' addicted an' all. But, y'know, like you said -- I'm good." He grins back; he seems notably happy, just at kind of a base level there.
Tristan nods vaguely, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his arms atop them. "So, uh," he says, in a transparent leap, "I was thinkin about what you said. You know, before."
Serendipity nods a little, watching Tristan sideways. "Oh, yeah?" he asks, interested but studiedly casual. No pressure, y'know.
"About, you know. About the house, and the thing. With the pigs." Tristan squirms his butt in place like a nervous child. "An' I thought about it a lot. It's hard for me to think a lot, yannow that? It didn't used to be... now it is, and I'm all like, think think HEY A TREE, or some shit."
Serendipity nods a little. "I do that too. Start out thinkin' one thing, end up somewhere else entirely without any breadcrumbs." He grins crookedly, and shrugs; what can ya do? "So. What'd you think?"
Tristan scratches his head, his gaze wandering off somewhere on the ceiling. "I dunno. I mean, I thought, and I thought, and...The fact is, man, I dunno." He manages to look back at Ren, now, his mouth pulled tight. "I dunno what to think. Cuz see, I get what you were saying. I get it, I really do. But I can't....I can't deal with making anybody else die because a me."
"Even that one guy? 'cause I gotta say, =I= kinda like the idea of makin' him die for you," Ren replies dryly, and then shifts, sliding an arm about the vampire's shoulders. "We wouldn't go runnin' in blind, y'know. If we're on the offensive, we get t' plan, t' look at, y'know, Plan B and Plan Q and Plan Theta-Omega-Five an' all. I'm definitely against anya us dying, just in general. You know? An' that includes you. Even if you do have practice."
Tristan rests his forehead on his arms, compacting himself into an improbably small space. "Yeah, I know. But see, okay, it's like this. Y'actually reminded me, reminded me of why I've been runnin, and not digging up any old Resistance contacts and bein like, hey guys, help a brotha out? The alpha's an old Resistance battleaxe," he adds, out of nowhere. "Oh right, you were there, weren't you? I wasn't thinkin too sharp right then...Anyway. Asides from the fact that when the fucker catches me, he's gonna make me wish I'd died the first time around, this is why I been running and hiding. Because while what you said is true, for me, that's not the end a it. The end a it is I'm /protectin/ everybody by running. He's not gonna leave my trail s'long as it's there, and that's what I'm doin. Keepin him focused on me, and not on anybody else."
Serendipity nods again. "But," he points out, "if he's =dead=, you accomplish the same thing AND you don't hafta keep runnin' anymore, =plus= you know he's not gonna get bored an' start in on someone else instead while he waits. Yeah?" Eminently logical, see? "If we catch him, he's not gonna catch you. Or anyone else."
"There's gonna be a price of blood to pay to kill him," Tristan says softly. "That's what I'm not willin to pay, Ren. Not anybody else's blood, 'specially nobody warm and living. The fucker doesn't deserve it. He's had so much blood spilled for him that he could swim in it for days. I ain't willing to let him have one more drop. Not one. More. Drop."
"Maybe there wouldn't," Ren replies. "Maybe we'd get it right, an' he'd never lay a hand on any of us. Or anything else. Maybe it's him who gets to pay the price for it. Why should he get t' sit all happy where he is, still bitin' =someone= or he'd be dead, yeah? while you gotta keep runnin' an' all? How's he deserve that, Tristan?"
"Oh, he's still killin'. He can't eat deer like I can. He needs the real thing, fresh live human juice. Course he doesn't HAVE to kill, but I kinda doubt he's showing restraint." Tristan broods, staring at nothing. "But maybe he'll fuck it up. Maybe he'll come someplace like Haven, bite the wrong guy. Maybe that guy's kumi and sept will come down like a fucking bolt. Who knows. I don't know. I only know I gotta keep leadin him on, like a woman who never gives her man what he wants. Gotta keep flashing my skirts at him so he keeps comin on like a dog in heat. Pardon my metaphor."
"Metaphor doesn't bother =me= none," Ren replies, "...but how far's that hold up? I mean, you got a guy wants it badly enough, he'll follow right into an ambush, never know what hit him. And are you sure he hadn't crossed the wrong people already?"
"I dunno," Tristan admits. His unyielding flesh against Ren's, seperated only by his thin shirts, is warmer than it has been. "I don't know nothin, my man, not nothing at all."
Serendipity tilts his head to lean on Tristan's shoulder a moment, and gives him a squeeze. "Don'tcha think it'd be good t' find out? I mean, maybe it's a moot point. Maybe you don't ever hafta run anymore. An' maybe, what he's up to's something that we gotta deal with. Even if there's risk. Y'know?"
Tristan chuckles soundlessly, just a heaving of his ribcage. "Risk. Yeah. Risk." He's very seldom actually returned the little physical affections Ren shows him, but he twists in the Kin's arms suddenly, like a ferret or a snake, and smooths Ren's long dark hair back, and twitches a tiny smile at him. "S'nice to be cared about, Ren. Nicer'n I like to think about, cuz I get all, oh shit, what if people care about me again? Kinda a sucky way to be. But it's how I gotta be till....till whatever. Till something. Till I figure shit out. We figure shit out real slow."
Serendipity smiles back a little, looking quietly pleased by the touch. "Well. You're stuck with me carin' about you, at least, whether you like it or not. So there." He half-grins. "Guess you got time, though. For figurin' shit out."
"That's what I do got," Tristan agrees softly, dropping his hands to Ren's shoulders. "I got time." His eyes travel down Ren's torso, then back up again. "So, uh. I'm not asking, but, just sayin, if you happen to feel like donating..."
Serendipity arches a brow, and grins, leaning in to give the vampire a quick, light kiss. "I figure I got some extra lyin' about I'm not usin' at the moment," he replies easily. "It's not the special gourmet kind I hear they got a lotta in these parts, but it's yours if you want it."
"There's rich blood layin around this town like that story with the king, and the gold," Tristan agrees, gravely if not coherently. "But th'ain't nothing like the blood of a friend."
Serendipity smiles slow and sunny, and tilts his head forward, touching his forehead to Tristan's for a moment, then undoing and slipping out of his shirt, baring the homes of some of those richer veins. "Well, you're welcome to it."
Tristan caresses Ren's bared chest, then runs his hands along his arms. His touch is cool, but not as cold as Ren might be accustomed to. "Thanks," he murmurs, the blood-desire rising in his eyes. "Y're good to me, Ren. Y'really are."