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The Language of the Flowers was a popular method to express feelings where words might be improper, but did you know other means of doing so? Some ladies used their parasols, as well as their fans, gloves, and hankies to flirt with a gentleman (or alternatively, tell them to shove it!). — Bree ( Submit your own)
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Brigit Langley for Fletcher Langley.
The Matchmaking Menace
This boy, then. He wasn't new. Wasn't one of the worst people in the common room, those rotten rich boys - like Mr. Jailkeeper - who could not fathom a world beyond their own farts. Was a good working class lad, so he'd heard. Had a bit of a weird looking face, and a bit of a weird thing for preaching. Still.Aubrey Davis in The Under-Sofa
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Post 3+ times in three or more class threads during the course of a school year. Must all be done with the same character, be they a professor, student, or school portrait or ghost!

Show Me Your World
Nov. 15, 1888 - Magical London

Weeks ago Galina and Mari had left on a hunt. The thought stung Galina, realizing it was weeks. When they had parted and Galina had returned Mari had made it sound as if she would be back soon, only a few weeks after Galina returned herself. She couldn’t blame Mari, she understood why the girl chafed at their constant location. She could sense Mari’s desire to move on, she had for the past several years. But Galina felt they could build a home here, she’d tied Mari to the idea and held strongly to it. Perhaps Mari would see it one day. So when they had parted ways Galina had thought it wouldn’t be for long. She still couldn’t bring herself to be truly worried about it, at least that is what she kept telling herself. But somethings became ingrained after a century of sisterhood. Worry for each other was one of those. She told herself Mari would come back, consoled herself with that knowledge that they had parted ways before for a few weeks. But it had never lingered into months. Not that Mari had been gone that long, but Galina had expected her back by now and the worry gnawed at her. Mari had made it clear she didn’t want to stay, but what if… That was the problem the what ifs. Galina should have stayed with Mari. Should have made sure she was okay. The world was still dangerous, even though Mari had been perfectly fine before Galina had found her, but the day that Galina rescued her was still burned firmly into Galina’s mind.

In an attempt to distract herself, and with some small selfish part of her that hoped she might find Mari, Galina decided to travel to London. She had run out of fabric and she had been curious as to the city. Ishmael had once invited her to visit to see how he managed his life and his cravings, and now seemed as good a time as any to make such a venture. February would be able to tell Mari where Galina had gone if Mari came back or Galina didn’t find her during her travels.

It hadn’t taken too many days to travel through the forrests, the speed Galina had developed for such traveling was a boon in such cases. Evening on the outskirts of London in the late evening, a blessing of autumn was the earlier darkness, Galina spent much of the evening navigating the streets of London. She avoided cutpurses and pickpockets with ease, having spent many decades of her life in cities.

Each city thought itself so different from the others, each thought itself individual. But she had found they were all the same. The sites changed, the people and the fashions changed. But the patterns of people, what they did and said, that was all the same. It made navigating the streets of such places easy, walking through them with the hood of her black cape up around her face as if she belonged in such a place, too simple. Galina almost smiled. These people, these nonmagical people believed in her type even less than the magical inhabitants of Hogsmeade. It was refreshing and for a moment Galina could understand Mari’s incessant desire to move on. So much easier to move and navigate the world when they didn’t even believe in your very existence.

It took her very little time to locate the address that Ishmael had indicated and she arrived at the door the sky darkened into the midnight color of night. Standing on the stoop Galina rapped against the door with gentle but with an incessant command, faster than the average human might. Surely Ishamel would realize his nightly visitor was not human. Who else would call at this time of night? Galina almost smiled at the thought, the cat like look curving over her lips, her own private joke.

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an amazing bee work of art
"Galina," Ishmael drawled as he cracked open the door, with a grin from ear to ear. "Well hello. Decided to give civilisation another chance, have we, now?" If the question was rhetorical, his curiosity certainly wasn't: although he had once offered an open invitation, an if you ever fancy a change of scene, to an introduction to nineteenth-century London (magical and otherwise), he hadn't ever expected Galina to take him up on it. She and her little pet - or sister, whatever - had always had their own way of operating, and she, being older than him, was presumably fairly set in her ways.

Lyra Potter's new perspective hadn't rubbed off visibly on the vampire standing in front of him now, of that Ishmael was quite sure. Still, that she had come to the city at all - well, either she was getting lazy or desperate about hunting, or she still felt that old pull of humanity somewhere down in her - was... interesting. Whatever Galina's opinions, of course, she had always been decent enough to get along with: she was a character, yes, but one worth knowing. One he sometimes had trouble reading, but whom he trusted, a little. A little was more than most.

Had trusted enough to give her enough information to find him in London, for one, although he had no desire for her to linger on the doorstep of the abandoned house he and his criminal... friends... had for their garrison any longer than necessary. (Nor did he much want to linger on the concept of trust, because it saw a strange flip in his gut that he would much rather ignore, for reasons entirely unrelated to his present guest.) "Not that you're not very welcome here," he teased - only their kind could find welcomes quite so potent a gesture, but it never did matter how irreverently it was worded - so he stepped back and ushered her through into the hall, though he didn't much want her to stay here any longer than necessary, either. Sociable as he might be - there were no limits to the people he knew - Ishmael had also always liked to orbit in worlds larger than anyone knew, sometimes liked to keep his stars separate, hanging in different corners of the sky.  

The others were out for the moment, fortunately; but there was no telling when they'd come back, and he wasn't sure how well he fancied making introductions all round (though better Galina than some, he supposed). "What do you make of it so far?" He added, inclining his head with another small smirk. How easily would she be convinced by the city and its - well, if not charms, then - quirks, and conveniences? Or was the remoteness of Hogsmeade unmatched to her, everywhere?  

The face that greeted her reminded her of a past long buried. It did each time she saw Ishmael. It reminded her of a night in New York over a century ago. It reminded her of a court she had once known. There were subtle differences of course, small quirks and edges of the bones, but it didn’t quell the lurking memories that pushed at the edges of her thoughts whenever she ran into the younger vampire. Ishmael had never mentioned that he had known her before the forest and Galina had never mentioned it to him, but she wondered… Wondered if he knew. If he had ever guessed or remembered what had happened that night in New York’s Holy Grounds.

Ishmael.” Galina greeted the man before her with a polite tilt of her head and a small smile on her lips. With the mention of civilization Galina couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled over her lips. She’d never given up on civilization, never hated the idea. Indeed, she rather preferred cities and towns to the forests and fields that Mari rather liked. But that was just the thing, Mari had never really known the glamor and thrall of a town the way Galina had. She’d known a small village that had been massacred and then the wilderness of a land not yet discovered. It was for Mari’s sake that Galina called a cavern and forest a home. That she made do with moss beds instead of feather beds and rocks for seats instead of the chaise longues she had once known. But her love for Mari had not embittered her to this fact. She longed for civilization and hoped to sway Mari, to sway those around her to one day to form a civilization of their own. But until that time, yes, she supposed Ishmael was right. “You could say that.” Galina replied with the merry twinkle of amusement in her eye at the private joke.

How long had it been since she and Mari had last settled in a city? Several decades, Galina felt sure of that and never long at once. Mari had always managed to unsettle the people around them - even if they hadn’t known it had been her. They were lucky if they made it through a year before the talk of a killer in the city got too dangerously close. Then Galina would pack their bags and they’d set off again. Sometimes Galina wondered if Mari had done it purposely, to try and drive Galina from their surroundings before she could get too entrenched, too attached. It had been at the back of her mind when they found their current home that Mari would be content with such a compromise, that she might see what Galina saw, and understand the desire to stay and build something. Yet now Mari wasn’t there, the worry gnawed at Galina, the reason clear. It hadn’t been compromise enough. Not this time.

Standing on the doorstep Galina began to wonder if Ishamel might invite her in. He had seemed genuine in his offer only a few years ago, but one never did know. Especially not when it came to their kind. But then he offered her a crooked smile and she chuckled as he gestured her in. “Thank you.” Galina demured as she passed by him into the ramshackle house.

Much like every city.” Galina admitted as she drew the hood from her braided bronze hair, letting it fall to her shoulders as she drew the cloak from around herself, the dark midnight fabric rippling silently into well known folds. How many cities had Galina been in during her long life? Surely too many to count. But an amused smile played at her lips. “The people all seem to think their city different then the rest, but really how different are they? They all have the same patterns, the same bustle of movement. What changes are the languages, the buildings, the faces.” Galina shrugged, as if she didn’t miss cities. “Don’t you find them much the same?” She asked, after all, Ishmael was only a few decades younger than her and she was quite certain he had seen his own fill of cities during his travels. For they were very far from where she had first found him.

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an amazing bee work of art
She seemed in a good mood; relaxed; a gleam of laughter in her face and on her lips. Well, good. That meant the Forest hadn't been burned down by a mob or Hogsmeade massacred in his absence, at least (what he would be able to do about either event, he didn't know, but for the last few years he had always felt a sense of that precariousness circling their chosen home, like - ridiculously - everything would fall apart as soon as he left). This visit might actually be entertaining, then.

Galina was not that much older than him - in looks, perhaps, she was even a touch younger - but Ishmael had always been impressed by her somehow, as if there was some sort of knowing air about her, a natural authoritativeness to her stance, a certain poise and sagacity. He pretended that kind of thing sometimes - that he had once been some important, wealthy aristocrat of some foreign country, a rich young man with the world as his oyster - but however zealously he feigned those stories, Galina had always seemed a little too perceptive. Not that they had spoken too plainly about the past, ever, but Ishmael didn't get the feeling she believed any of the bullshit he spouted sometimes. She didn't call him out on it, sure, but perhaps it was because she had been that sort of person once, raised that way long ago; real enough that she could perceive a pretender.

Much as he respected her, Ishmael wasn't quite so certain he agreed with her assessment of cities, of the world. She took off her cloak, skin luminously pale even in the dim light of the abandoned house, and he grinned at her, leading the way through the first doorway into the sparsely furnished "sitting room", like Monty Morales and his other cronies ever invited in company of their own. He gestured freely at her to make herself welcome, fairly out of habit of hosting company himself, but once he had done so he shrugged at her, not entirely convinced.

"Oh, I don't know," Ishmael returned, never afraid to stir debate. "The skeleton might always be the same, but I don't know that that's what matters." A city was a city was a city, yes - each had its centre, its wealth and its poverty, its markets, its patterns and currents and throngs - but Ishmael had never felt particularly the same in any of them. London now was not Liverpool last century, nor was it wartorn New York, or bloody Paris, Rome or Athens or Porto or Istanbul, a far cry too from Karachi or Bombay or Calcutta. There were similarities to bind them all, but Ishmael's memories, even as an outsider, were all coloured in different shades, collected under different boughs. The skeleton was what classed the human, indeed, and they were all alike beneath: but it was not the skeleton, by anyone's account, that made someone who they were.

"I find nowhere's ever quite the same as the last," Ishmael explained, with a sly smile. "But the difference, see, is in the details. Maybe you've always been too brisk to notice, Galina," he said, not afraid of a little good-natured ribbing, even if she did not agree. "Maybe you've only ever been visiting, and not really living." He let out a laugh - he was not so certain many would call what they did living - but still, there was a glimmer of seriousness under what he was trying to say, something that he well believed: if you trapped yourself too well in the guise of outsider, then you would always be outside, never truly invited in. It was what they were made to be, mysterious figures flitting in and out under cover of darkness - and Ishmael knew in his heart that even his staying, here, in London, could not last forever - but even the pretence of it was something worth striving for. Better to find oneself part of the fabric of the city, if one could.

"It helps when you get to know the faces properly," Ishmael added, with another cheerful grin. That was part of the living here, see, existing in the space in a more rounded way than in picking off strangers on street corners and fleeing the consequences. Anything was made more memorable by being acquainted with the people... And Ishmael? He would go so far as to say he had friends in this city, which was something he suspected not all vampires could say. (That said, he wasn't sure how Galina would take the thought of being chummy with humans. She might think it beneath her.

But perhaps he could convince her of the benefits of it tonight.)

Galina had never really paused to consider what type of home Ishmael had made in the city. While her own visions of city living encompassed rooms with touches of wealth to them (over the years her grandiose visions of city living had become a tad more realistic, after all apartments full of what she had once been use to were hard to come by without an income) they were over all rather simplistic with warm and homey touches. It had been a long time since she had seen gold brocade window coverings, gilded tables, settees of silk, marble fireplaces, or even vases of crystal. No, the apartments she had kept had been respectable and simple in the last few places she and Mari had lived. She’d found carpets, a luxury that was quite unnecessary and sturdy furniture, even found window coverings to keep up appearances, but overall it was quite plain and simple compared to what she had once had. Perhaps she had simply assumed that Ishmael might have made his quarters from the same mindset. After all in his profession she had rather expected him to. Now that she truly thought about it. But she did know his origins. Knew how she had once found him, it didn’t fit the picture she had found in her mind. This, the sitting room before her did. It was sparse and bare and fit in with the rundown nature of the house. Once it would have made Galina crinkle her nose at the sight and wonder who would invite someone so grandly into such a place. Those years had long since slipped from her. Gone after nights on forest floors, days hidden in caves, a life in the wilderness that she had never thought of nor would have wished for. Her face betrayed none of these thoughts as she followed Ishmael into the room and settled gracefully on the nearest seat, a faint hint of dust wafting around her as she did.

Interested in Ishmael’s viewpoint Galina tilted her head to the side, indicating that she was listening. She supposed he was right in a sense, the skeleton was the same in most cities. But she disagreed that that was what was important. The skeleton was what was built upon, it defined and supported the society that lived there. People were more or less the same, their cultures differed, their experiences, clothing, voices, nothing but the same. But at the end of the day they were all the same. There were the same type of people everywhere. She could name each type as surely as she could defend her point. They might be from different walks of lives but they all had their roles. The reachers, the ones who tried to aim too high. The supporters, who tended to vanish when they were no longer needed. The schemers, the thieves. They all existed. And while she knew that each person was individual, she’d met too many people, seen to many and maneuvered around too many to give them much more credit than that.

Brisk. Galina almost chuckled at that, bemused at the thought. She was much more perceptive than she was often given credit for. She always had been, for it had been how she was raised, what she was trained for. But she noticed more than brisk implied. Enjoying beginnings of a debate,Galina allowed him to continue without objections. Comments on her own personality did little to support or deny her own claims. It had been a long time since she also had learned that rule in the hands of an impassioned scholar who had led many an evening conversation in the gilded rooms that Galina pretended she hardly remembered and yet remained lingering on the edges of her mind as if seared there for all of time. The freedom she had thought they would bring, which had tempted her into her current path, now haunted her like the rusted bars of a cage.

The idea that she had only visited the cities almost made Galina laugh again. Oh if only. She had immersed herself in the cities each time she had convinced Mari to live in one. She had found salons to debate in and integrated herself into the fibers of the society around her. Mari even attributed several of the revolutions following 1848 to have happened due to some prodding from Galina’s participation. But immersing oneself in a city never made one from there. She had learned that too. One could tie themselves as deeply as possible into the roots of the city and still not belong. And perhaps in that there was an element of truth in what Ishmael had said. For how could something like them actually live in a city, after all, they were in essence - dead. Never truly capable of living in a city or a town as a human might.

See, I disagree.” Galina began pleasantly. “The skeleton is what supports and defines society and as such each city. The people, or faces, as you put it all are the same.” Galina brushed off idly, waving her hand in the air to dismiss the idea, knowing full well he’d object. “If you look closely, get close enough to the faces, they fall into the same categories, the same patterns. There are always those seeking to gain status, those that want to simple get through life, the ones who thieve or drink to get through their days. Really they all become the same.” Galina shrugged as she explained her thoughts.

Perhaps you are right to think one must live in a city, not simply visit it, to understand the subtle differences. But do you really think we,” She gestured between the two of them, “Could ever actually live in a city. We will never know what it is like to be from a different city, to understand the nuances and gentle differences, as we can never fully integrate ourselves into their society.” There was no bitterness in her tone, only a thoughtfulness. She had missed these debates, enjoyed them with Ishmael came to the caverns. It was then that such thoughts and ideas were indulged and allowed to be flushed out. It didn’t matter that they might not agree at the beginning, nor at the end. It didn’t even matter that they might dance around subjects lightly that were really layers of pain and annoy for them. What mattered is that it allowed Galina to feel more herself than at other times. Her skills had always surrounded people, convincing and toying with them. She knew that these skills were for more than simply luring her pray, which was what Mari often attributed them as best for having never been one for the intellectual pursuits that had once been Galina’s wings to fly.

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Ishmael perched on the arm of the couch, at ease as usual, even with her here. The place was shabbier, even, than his cavern (cavern in name indeed, lacking a select few human furnishings or any particular structure but still a treasure trove of its own, a little Aladdin's grotto), which was almost more of a thieves' den than this literal thieves' den. Shabbier, perhaps, but more important to Ishmael than his place in the forest. More home than there. Than anywhere else in the world.

He trusted Galina well enough to be here, if only because she was a vampire, and, however she had once felt or whoever she had once been, held even fewer ties to these modern humans that they saw. The debate was familiar enough, as well, and almost cosy; Ishmael trusted, too, that Galina would not hold disagreement against him. He felt, sometimes, as though she simply liked to speak - an extended conversation, see, with someone who understood.

Although they understood each other in that, by some measures they did diverge: oh, she was very concerned with classifications, wasn't she? Patterns and tropes and repetition, the bold strokes of humanity, dismissing every thief in one breath! As though she had seen everyone and everything that had or would ever exist.

(Ishmael certainly hoped he hadn't - he wasn't sure what he would do with himself if he fell into such a way of thought. What would be the point?)

"Perhaps one's outlook depends on where one comes from," Ishmael suggested, in that indolent manner he had begun affecting decades ago, as though he too had been born and raised to drape himself about on furniture and philosophise, as though he had a fucking clue what he was talking about. "How different our origins are to - those from the here and now," he granted her, in a thoughtful nod of half-agreement that perhaps they couldn't know what it was like, not really. Galina was more distant from this world than he, obviously: not only was she foreign to the country (and, like he, the times), she was distanced from her own circles and her old life more drastically still. Ishmael didn't know the details, but it didn't take a genius: she had been born high into society, with the world at her feet. A vampire might continue to live that sort of life, on the surface, with wealth and luxury, a grand house in a grand place, but - they could not live a grand life as they had used to. Vampire must be a truly unforgettable fly in the ointment. Those sort of humans would not be much endeared to that.

Not everyone in the world was quite so picky, however, and this was why Ishmael, at least, felt as though he'd eked out life enough to boast about it. "I don't know though, Galina darling -" Ishmael declared with a flippant grin, "can't you smell all the human in here?" None of the gang were here now, but the smell of humans lingered, and even the stealthiest of thieves left some mark. Surely she would be impressed by that, that he could mix among them so freely! Was that not close enough to life?  

On that point Galina agreed. Outlooks were determined by the roots of life, the environment in which they grew from. Galina had long been aware of the origins of Ishmael, knew their background were different, that the air he affected was just that. Yet, they were not so far apart in time as the younger vampire might think. At least not in the minds of a vampire. For talk of decades was the talk of months for the humans. “Perhaps.” She conceded with a small nod of her head.

A cat like smile crossed Ishmael’s face and Galina couldn’t help but chuckle. She could smell the humans the moment she had approached the door. It was an unmistakable scent that filled her nostrils with each breathe. As Ishmael was unconcerned Galina had simply left it at that. Until now. “Does living with them make you understand them, though, Ishmael. As you said we are removed from them through distance and time.” She laid her argument at his feet with a light almost playful smile. As if she knew the answer already. “Does it make you a part of their city?” She pressed, clearly already having formed an answer in her mind.

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"I'll let you draw your own conclusions there," Ishmael allowed, quite certain she had already drawn up her lines and would be sticking to them, no matter what he said or she saw here or around the city tonight. No, he was not a part enough, in her eyes, however much he felt it.

But he was a part of some human lives enough, surely, Ishmael thought to himself, and started slightly when he caught himself thinking of just one, in particular. He had thought himself a little smug about it, integrating himself into his little gang of thieves, to some human's life, but - was it really something to be jubilant about? However much he liked Monty, it... well, it couldn't last. Nothing before it had.

And Galina would not, he predicted, understand that feeling.

"But I fancy we're a bit better at understanding them than they are us, at any rate," Ishmael added sagely, a little late to speak up again but trying to inject a little lightness into himself again, pretend this was just something else to laugh about. The both of them, see, had been human once. It was easy to forget what it had been like, as time went on - but it was still, undoubtedly, a damn sight easier for either of them than it was for a human to imagine what it would be like, this life.

(However close he fooled himself into thinking he was with Monty -

There was always that divide.)

"Do you ever miss it?" Ishmael asked abruptly. "Being human?"

A cat like smile slid over Galina’s lips, taking his rebuttal as acquiescence of her argument. However intwined Ishmael thought he had become here he’d never truly belong. For he belonged of a different time, a different age.

I fancy we are.” She agreed with a nod. They had been humans after all. Once a long time ago. But the humans had not been creatures such as Galina and Ishmael. They could not understand what it was like to watch all you had once known turn to dust and distant memory. To feel the desire to welch a never ending thirst, to know that they could easily take all that was dear to a human and watch it drain from their very body.

The sudden change in conversation caught Galina for a moment and she tilted her head to look at him. “Of course.” The truth slid cooly over her lips. There was a reason she left the memories buried deep within, a reason she held herself from the humans as she did. She could admire the strings woven into the fabric that way without seeing the fineness of a fabric she could never have. “But I am not foolish enough to believe I might have it again.” not now anyway. Her voice was calm as she looked over Ishmael a decision in the past built upon her own desire to be human again haunting her in his very being.

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He didn't know why he'd asked it. Didn't know why he had thought his question worth it, skimming a toe towards unfamiliar sincerity. Ishmael didn't like sincerity. Sincerity was dangerous, and stupid, and damning.

He was surprised, then, when Galina answered in the affirmative, a sentiment that rang true at the same time as it sounded pitiful and sad and small. She missed being human, then. And he did, too, felt that wrenching ache from time to time, as though there were panes of glass stuck between him and the rest of the world; as though the world would revolve along on its axis, but leave him there, alone and standing still.

Well, she would. Her existence now could not be as comfortable for her as her human life had been. She didn't mix with humans as he did; of course she would be lonely. On the other hand, he, if he balanced it all up, forced himself to make a tally of his lives, divided into after and before, well: if he determined to think it through logically, if he knew who'd turned him all those years ago he ought to be thanking them for the favour they'd done.

All one had to do was think logically. Easy enough. Missing things was for suckers.

"All the same, pity for you," Ishmael said, with a sympathetic strain to his casual snort. His own answer was airy and light, but delicately placed. "I damn well don't."

Are you sure of that Ishmael?” Galina asked quietly matching his airy tone, her head tilted to the side as she looked at him. “Why else would you try to live their lives with them?” Her eyes landed on him as if understanding exactly why he wanted such a life, why he had just a few moments before tried to lord it before her.

It was pointless to attempt to deny such a yearning existed, it was, however, altogether another thing to simply act upon it. Galina had made that mistake long again, she did not intend to repeat it.

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It didn't sound as though she believed him. Perhaps she didn't fully understand him, on this matter, being mixing freely with humans, being present through the turn of time and civilisation, wasn't the same as missing it. It was a shame if he couldn't convince her of it. Ishmael only liked to be involved.

"Oh, but I like the view so much much better from this side," Ishmael explained, with a blooming grin. Not losses, but gains. (As a human, he'd had nothing and been nothing. As a vampire, he had lived a hundred more lives in the bosom of humanity than he might have otherwise, and plenty close enough to enjoy it.) "I'd shake the hand of whoever turned me, if I could," he joked.

He'd told himself this before and would tell himself this again. He was pleased to be this way. He was grateful. He was lucky.

Ishmael stretched his arms and legs from where he'd been sitting, catlike, and all of a sudden, his tone had changed, his eyes gleaming. It was dark outside, the darkest and quietest and emptiest the night would be, the witching hour. The devil's. "But what do you say, Galina? It's the dead of night - shall we take a turn outside?"

If only he knew, glibness aside, Galina very much doubted that Ishmael would do as he said if he were to learn such information. Who had given him no choice in the matter, only taken a life from him as had been done. No, indeed, Galina did not believe he wished to know such information. "Perhaps in time you may be able to do just that." She tossed back at him with a slight shake of her head to indicate that she thought this very improbable indeed.

The dead of night. Like his death in the night so very long ago. She wondered just what it was that Ishmael had up his sleeve with such a proposal. She suspected he had a point he was trying to make, there was no harm in letting him make it. Indeed it might while away the tedious minutes that made up the endless blend of her life. She unfolded herself and stood up from the couch. "Of course, I shall be delighted for some fresh air."

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an amazing bee work of art
Having long given up on the wayward thought that perhaps he and the vampire who had turned him would cross paths somewhere in the world, somewhere over the centuries, Ishmael did not waste his breath to bicker with her doubts on this front.

He did not think anything he could show her would much change her mind on anything they had talked of, either, but they could pass the night amiably enough in the corners of London he knew, and if he came across one of his human bloodbanks - acquaintances, friends - to bolster his argument somewhat of being part of the city, so much the better. If they did not, they could at least stroll about as though they owned the world.

Ishmael offered Galina his arm, his grin only lightly mocking. After all, be it city or countryside, caverns or cobbled streets, meandering amongst humans or creatures or nobody and nothing at all, only the wilderness... the night belonged to them.

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