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. His right ear also bears a rather delicate silver earcuff.
He's tall but not too tall; thin but not too thin; plain but not ugly, precisely. Nothing about him really stands out except his hair. It's 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. All of his hair, eyebrows and all, is a pure snowy white. 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.
The clothes he's wearing are rather snazzy, or at least, were at one point in their history. A gray-green, clingy t-shirt that has the sheen of artifical material to it; forest green cordorouy overcoat; black slacks and maroon stompy boots. However, they're all somewhat ragged, as if they've been buried and dug up several times, and probably shot at and singed around the edges too.
It's a smoky wee tavern nestled in the black shadows of the redwoods. Reasonable sized crowd tonight; not too packed, but open tables are not a common sight. The lit windows glow in the night, and the twin chimneys pipe out curling woodsmoke. Inside, there's a fiddler and a girl on pennywhistle; the barmaid and bartender are busy. People are genially arguing in the fashion of people who have rehashed every subject under the sun to death and are having another go-round just for fun. There's a poker game going, and though this tavern doesn't keep working girls, there's some discreet groping going on in dark corners. When a tall, white-haired, shabby figure slips in, some people look twice, but most are too busy with their own fun to notice.
"...c'mon, you're not gonna raise? Sure? A'ight, then, I call. Read 'em and weep." At the poker table, Ren tosses a couple markers into the pot, as do one or two of the other players, and casually drops his cards on the table, spread out beside his boots on the table. "Straight flush," he announces cheerfully, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head in what is probably an exceedingly annoying show of nonchalance. The grin doesn't help. Two of the other players remaining throw their cards down with less than complete grace, the last hold out furrowing his brow and looking from Ren's cards to his own as if trying to work something out.
Tristan scans the room, but doesn't stand silhouetted dramatically in the doorway to do it. Nope, he's already well inside, flicking a quick grey gaze over the place. He slips through the crowd like a shark easing through warm waters, heading for the bar. The pennywhistle gives a brief "skreeek!" as the girl playing it exhales in surprise, but she's quick to pick the trail of her tune back up. Tristan tips her a wink.
"...y'know," the contemplating poker player says slowly, "your luck sure picked up, this game. And I coulda sworn the nine of clubs was one of the cards I discarded, this round." He raises a narrow look to Serendipity, accompanied by suspicious glances from the others at the table. Ren shrugs, casual. "Hey, luck's like that. One minute you're down 'n' out, next you're kinga the world, yeah?" His feet find the floor again, though, and he snags the discard pile, rifling through it and pulling out the nine of spades to toss over to the suspicious guy. "See?" he says, and scoops the pot toward him, slipping the winnings into his pocket. "Anyway, if you don't =trust= me, I guess I'm done for the night. Have a good evening, ch... Tristan?" He's halfway toward the bar himself by the time the other players have finished saying "...wha?"
Tristan's head snaps around at the sound of his name in a familiar voice. "...Buenos noches, Senor Jones!" he cries, pronouning the 'j' in the Spanish fashion. "I somehow hadda feeling I'd trip over ya sooner or later." Grinning, he thrusts out his right hand for shaking.
"Senor Tristo'n!" Ren whoops in reply, grinning back, and takes the hand for shaking, though it also ends up being for anchorage to pull in and give the vampire an emphatic if quick and relatively platonic smooch. "...and don't forget the Co- on that. How're you doing? Wanna join me in a drink? I seem to've just come inta a little money..."
Tristan's still not into the whole 'physical affection' thing; although he hugs Ren with some enthusiasm, his long thin body flinches back from the kiss. But he does stand still for it, at least. "Uh don't think th' company would appreciate me drinkin' in front of God n' everybody," he answers with a twitchy grin. "But you go right ahead, knock yerself out." He scoots his skinny butt onto a barstool with a lithe little ripple. "You 'n Martin out here, who woulda thunk it? Whatcha been up to, ya scaliwag?"
Serendipity takes the next one over, and reaches over to ruffle Tristan's hair for no particularly evident reason. "Nice outfit, by the way. Lookin' pretty good," he remarks, before catching the barmaid's attention to make his order. After it's been clearly established -- for now -- that no, she is not on the menu, but mead can be arranged, Ren turns back to the vampire. "Oh, this'n'that," he replies with a vague gesture, "The usual. 's funny, though, I noticed I get thrown outta places a lot more politely when Martin's around than otherwise. 'bout you? Long way from Haven..."
The barmaid, with a certain deliberateness, does not ask Tristan what he wants to drink. Tristan's grin, in response to Ren's question, goes fixed and labored. "Yeah. Long way. Business. That thing. You know. Ain't done with it yet. Funny thing... hard to pin down. But as we like to say in the trade, it's 'in progress. So Martin says he's gonna start up another congregation out here, yeah?"
Serendipity nods, briefly distracted by a passing young lady. "...yeah. Yeah, he's planning to. I think we're gonna be around here a while ourselves. I mean, never know, but I gotta feeling." A slight shrug, and he glances to Tristan again, breaking back into a grin, "You want us to save you a room, when he picks a place?"
Mead arrives, sweet honey mead infused with strawberries from last summer. Tristan picks at a knife scar in the polished wooden bartop. "Don't wanna talk about that now," he says flatly. "Can't stop sleeping in the ground. Talk about something else." His voice goes from flat to sly, raucous and mischevious in the next second as he follows Ren's glance and says, "Martin ain't takin' care of you right or you just got that much love to share?"
"So it'd be the basement and it'd stay unfinished," Ren shrugs, but drops the subject, taking a sip of his mead and an appraising glance around the room, settling on not a few of the other patrons (and the barmaid, again). "I'm practically =made= of love, I got so much to share. Just overflowin' with Coyote's love for humanity. And y'know me, I love makin' new friends..."
"And here I was thinkin' you just friended makin' love," Tristan says deadpan, then cackles. "Sorry, that sounded better in my head. Man, I admit it's been over a hunnerd years, but *I* sure as dark don't remember bein' able to be that interested. Y'need to be High Priest of some village somewheres so's you can be the fertility god. 'Course," he adds thoughtfully, "when drought comes, they're gonna wanna kill you 'n sprinkle your blood over the fields... but you could get outta that, right?"
"Wouldn't be the first time," Ren agrees with a toothy grin, and takes another good drink of his mead. "Mmm. Now I'm thinkin' about all the traditions an' rituals I could get going..." He shifts position a bit on the stool, and looks far too thoughtful about this. "Martin'd never go for it, though," he concludes with a hint of regret.
Tristan giggles, his hair falling over his eyes. "Shit no. All that nutty pagan nature worshippin' stuff... his god don't go in for that. But can't you just see him so politely sayin' no?" Assuming a ridiculously dewy-eyed look, he croons in an exaggeratedly Martinesque voice, "Ren, I don't know if founding our own cult of human sacrifice is a good idea right now..."
Serendipity snirks, and gestures with his mug, eyes wide and innocent, "But there's no time like the present! Look, we'll compromise and just form a fertility cult, how about that? No sacrifices they weren't gonna make eventually anyhow..."
Tristan smothers his snickering in his hands. When he looks up he tosses his hair out of his eyes with a theaterical little gesture, and proclaims, "AAAnyway...how ya like it out here? Big city and all?" He's about to say something else when the barmaid approaches again and sets down a red glass goblet in front of him. The glass is deep, pomegranate red, which does a suspiciously good job of disguising the color of the thick liquid within. "Compliments of an admirer," she says. Tristan, looking impressed yet disturbed, says, "Thanks, sweetheart," and picks up the goblet, casting a glance around the room trying to single out who sent it.
Serendipity arches a brow, looking quite intrigued. The drink delivery trumps the question for now, and he sips at his own as he takes a glance around for signs of likely Tristan-fanciers as well. "...love cities," he answers distractedly after a few moments. "So many people, y'know? Really... alive. I mean, in a different way than places like Haven are, yeah?"
Tristan, failing to find his secret admirer, lifts the goblet slightly in a subtle toast to the room in general, murmurs, "Rebirth in light," and drinks it down in several long swallows. He licks his lips contemplatively afterwards. "Sweeter'n deer, richer'n rabbit. Nice hearty steer, probably--got that testosterone musk. Not bad at all." He slides the goblet back across the bar and slumps facing Ren, looking pleased. "Know whatcha mean. Alive in a kind of...a kind of /people/ way, not in a 'Wyld throbbing in your teeth' way. Been nigh on thirty, forty years since I really prowled a city."
"Been a couple years for me, too," Ren muses. "Haven't been on this side of the landmass for longer'n that, either... lookin' forward to really exploring the place." He lifts a wrist to his nose and sniffs at it consideringly.
"I spent awhile in the Grand Canyon. S'little nooks and caves and stuff in there, never get touched by sunlight. Kinda cool, watchin a sheet of sunlight mosey past an inch from your nose." Tristan scratches a sideburn thoughtfully, then eyes Ren. "What, a lady friend playin dress up with you and daub you with perfume?"
"Checkin' for testosterone musk," Ren replies, grinning again, and polishes off his mead, setting down the vessel. "I remember that place, few years back... I wasn't thinkin' about the light so much, honestly, but it =was= kinda cool. Nice for a while, 'til I got bored."
Tristan snorts, amused. "Kiddo, you /drip/ testosterone." He nods. "Yeah, not much there t'hold your interest, particularly. Someone like me, who's got nothing but time to waste..." He shrugs expansively. "Actually, no offense, but kinda surprised you 'n Martin're still involved. Woulda thought one or the other of you woulda heard a call and get lured off."
[The end. Alas.]