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?
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?
