The massif of Katahdin to some suggests a great arc, like the curve of an embrace. It is fitting, then, that clutched to the mountain's heart is the jewel that is the Great Basin. After the long climb over the mountain's knees, or the path picked cautiously down its face, the Basin is an oasis of rest and rejuvenation. Thick grass and pine needles are gentle on feet grown used to gripping stone, and the ground which elsewhere presents itself at a variety of uncomfortable angles is here relaxed to the mildest of undulations. Sweet water runs in a handful of streams, and pools in the clear, pebbled depths of Chimney Pond itself. The Basin and the Pond are half a mile high, and the plants that grow here are suited to a more alpine environment -- quite different from the ones that grow further down the mountain, or in the forest or town. Their alienness lends the area a certain fey character; it is a land apart.
Several paths -- many animal, some clearly human-made -- meander through the area. A few of the more permanent-looking ones are marked with discreet wooden signposts, one of which has recently had an old shingle nailed beneath it, upon which someone has scrawled in wax crayon: "!! GROUND WASPS ---> !!"
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 pure white.
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.
At first, there's no sign that there's anything different about the tiny pond and its surroundings. Everything is very still and silent, the ground dusted with snow and hard with ice. It's only after a good hard look can it be determined that one of the rocks is Tristan, crouched down with his arms wound around his knees, staring motionlessly at the thick, brilliant winter stars.
Serendipity's making no real effort to be stealthy, so if Tristan doesn't notice the sound of his footsteps, it's only through intense concentration or wilfull self-distraction. On the other hand, that's all there is to hear, at first -- footsteps, then breathing, and the beat of his heart if one's ears are sensitive enough. The footsteps stop at the crest of one of the paths toward the pond, and silence descends for several seconds. Then, "...a'ight -- now this time =you= count to a hundred, and =I= hide."
"Ain't hidin," Tristan replies, promptly enough that it's plain he knew Ren was there, but with a laconic sadness that slows his speech down. He doesn't otherwise move, staring unblinking up at the night sky. "Avoidin. There's a difference."
Serendipity picks his way through the rocks and snow-bound flotsam and jetsam toward the vampire, casual, no hurry. "Not th' first time someone's been avoidin' me," he replies after a few seconds, "but usually it's meant they were embarrassed 'bout havin' slept with me."
Tristan huffs what could be a tiny soundless laugh. "Well, as I'm pretty damn embarrassed about havin' got you hurt, I guess it's not so different." Same pose, still. He lets Ren come to him, though, no flinching or twitching on the menu tonight, apparently.
"Fft." Ren makes a lightly dismissive gesture, and drops himself down unusually gracefully beside Tristan, shoulder to shoulder. "=You= didn't get me hurt, the leechsicle in the lake did =that=. =You're= the one who was gonna let him drag you off as a take-out meal instead, and helped me find Rowan after, remember?" he replies pointedly, and tilts his head to give the vampire a less sideways look, "...I was kinda worried the boss guy'd sent someone else out t' pick up his tasty Tristan treats."
"Might be better for everyone if he did," Tristan says, very lowly, his voice barely stirring the air.
"I'd rip his fangs out," Ren remarks matter-of-factly, and then blinks, looking startled for a fraction of a second. "...well, we'd make him regret it, anyway," he amends, a touch less fluently than usual, and nudges Tristan with his shoulder. "Don't talk like that, man. Wouldn't be better for anya us. I mean, hey," he switches to teasing, gently, "you wanna waste all my work?"
Tristan finally moves, tilting his head forward until he's staring at the ground, now, his white hair falling over his eyes and into his face, clinging to his sideburns. "I'm endangering you just by being here. I'm endangering the whole damn town. Shit, you heard the leech, it's true what he says. If he or his boss wanted, they could go through this town like a jigsaw through butter."
"So we get 'em first," Ren replies. Simple! Like swatting flies! Big dangerous flies with fangs and magical powers and ridiculous strength and speed. "...not like it's never been done before. Hell, we got henchboy all flash-frozen for quick cooking already, right? Or maybe we can thaw him enough to get info on his boss, or somethin'. If it's you or them, I'm votin' you. Didn't get this far t' quit, yeah?"
Tristan moves again, to press his face into his hands. He rubs his face thoroughly and then just sits there, silent, like a praying Buddha, except skinny. He doesn't respond.
Serendipity shifts to press in sideways again, shoulder more firmly to Tristan's, a silent reply to the lack of response -- or the response, depending on how one looks at it. He stays silent himself, gaze drifting up to take in the stars the vampires was so intent on earlier. Seconds spread into minutes, or feel that way. Eventually he speaks, voice quiet and thoughtful. "A lotta people, y'know, they woulda just said do what y'like with the girl, but leave me alone! an' run off into the sunset."
Tristan snorts into his hands. He lifts his head, finally, at last, turning it to look at Ren. He does not look good, insofar as vampires go; there's a thin quality to his flesh that makes it cling to his bones in a way that makes him more closely resemble the walking cadaver that he is. "Never got into the habit." He folds his arms across his lap and looks very hard at Ren. "Listen, man. You talk all casual like about this stuff. You gotta understand--you can't do this. If you thaw Faro out, he's going to fucking eat you, then me, then whoever else he feels like. You are not a match for that kind of thing." His shoulders hitch in an abbreviated shrug. "I'm not either. Never have been. No shame in it. You just got to take this shit seriously, or you -are- going to die."
Serendipity half-smiles, and shifts position a little, resting the palms of both hands on the ground just behind him, still studying the sky. "...take it more seriously'n you think, I think," he muses, "...my people, see, we believe if the rulesa the game say you're gonna get fucked over, it's time to change the rules. I mean, the other day aside -- I don't usually rush inta that kinda thing head on, 'f I can avoid it." He glances at Tristan from the corner of his eye. "...so I'm not sayin' just run up and try to stake 'em or anything, y'know, but I'm positive there's a way we c'n take 'em on and win. ...I just dunno what it =is=, yet." He presses his lips together a second, moistening them, and adds with a seriousness most of the town wouldn't believe of him, "Just 'cause I talk casual... it doesn't mean I'm necessarily taking it light." A second, and a little grin, rather wry, "...and hey, y'know, I s'pect plentya people'd think me dyin's a risk they're prepared to take."
Tristan looks away again. "Known too many people who talk like you who died cuz they underestimated their enemies," he says quietly. "I just pray for your sake that you know better." His gaze, more flat gray than anything tonight, flicks back to Ren. "Lost too many friends, too many," he says, hoarsely. "Been decades since I -had- a friend. If you died because of these goddamn leeches, that's that much more a' me gone dead, too."
"Well, see, that's why =you= gotta stick around, to tell me where the shit I come up with isn't gonna work," Ren replies reasonably, with just a hint of humour. He sits up again, and wraps an arm around the vampire's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. "Promise," he says solemnly after a moment, "I'll do my absolute damnedest not t' die for as long as humanly possible. Maybe inhumanly possible, if Coyote finds it handy. ...you neither, yeah?" A hesitation, and a little quieter, "...you're a good guy, Tristan."
Tristan ducks his head just a little, enough to rest his forehead on Ren's shoulder. He's cold and smells like snow. "I got yer promise, now," he mutters. Tilting his head enough to look up at Ren, he adds, his mouth twisting, "S'hard to be a good guy vampire. Almost can't blame the poor motherfuckers for takin' over the world..."
Serendipity half-grins, and tilts his head to plant a light kiss on the vampire's forehead. "Almost," he agrees, "...but, y'know, you make it look easy. And yeah... you got my promise. I got yours?"
The very corner of Tristan's mouth twitches upwards. "Yeah. With the exception that if I need to get in somethin big and bad's way, I will."
"Reserve the right to pull you back =outta= the way," Ren murmurs dryly, "...but that'll do." He gives another squeeze, quick and tight, and lapses into silence again, more comfortable now, content to leave things where they are for the night.