16th November, 1888 — A random street, magical London
Sometimes it was all too easy to forget when last he'd done an honest day's work in his life. It probably had been in his life, actually, as opposed to the existence that had come afterwards; Ishmael probably ought to be ashamed of himself for that. Not that he missed the simple feeling of honest labour, the wretched work of a sailor, stepping into his father's shoes as a teenager and hoisting masts and hauling ropes, thinking himself lucky for getting to see the world like that - from one lone deck, or aloft in the tops. He'd thought himself lucky, and golden, and free: under orders at every hour of the day, constrained to a hammock for sleep and stale biscuits for breakfast. To think, that he had ever imagined that to be the rest of his life!
And nor had he lasted long in it. It had not been the end of trading, as a profession, but the trading had soon become much less... above board, as it were. And all sorts sold to all manner of people, over the years, any kind of thing imaginable: be they magical or muggle, valuable trinkets or common commodities, from mildly dubious to overtly illegal. And - in the matter of honesty - usually stolen.
He'd been doing away with a stolen haul tonight, as it happened, a collection of items the crew had racked up from running a few jobs, some that had been more easily pawned or exchanged or sold on than others. He had fun with this part of the whole affair, more so ever than the thieving, this pretence of giving, offering people what they wanted. There was an extra element of entertainment, too, if they showed an interest, or proved particularly gullible: there were so many stories he could invent. What the things to be traded were, what they were worth, where they had come from - who he was, and just how he knew. Perhaps people were more apprehensive of vampires in general, yes, certainly, but - whether by fear or by awe, they tended to accept his origin stories, as though Ishmael knew Morgana from Merlin, Columbus from Charles I, actually knew anything about the things he was spewed out as and when he willed.
Last of all today, he'd gotten rid of a time-turner - an illicit one, of course, unsanctioned by the Ministry, though he was not sure that that was where this one had originated - which (if it worked as it ought, which itself was... improbable) might potentially too valuable to part with, if only Ishmael had any interest in turning back time. It might come in useful to Monty and others, in another con, but the buyer he'd found (it was the part he was good at, finding people) had been rather keen, and easily persuaded to part with an absurd sum for it. The sucker. It was probably cursed.
Today, he said, because the weather had been grim and he'd been out a little earlier than usual, carefully shaded under a cloak and hat until tendrils of dusk had finally started winding their way through the city streets, and he'd done away with those adornments, now having less need of protection or a disguise. Ishmael was still camouflaged enough, he supposed to himself, though he was not trying now, purely by his aimless loafing. These side-streets weren't yet sparse enough in the night for him to stick out, and the passers-by too hurried about their business to waste a glance on even the likes of him, skin greyed, eyes dark-circled, and mouth betraying the flash of fangs here and there.
He was watching though, observing the sights in mild interest, having planned to fetch Galina some new fabrics and then throwing out that plan as too tiresomely tedious to bear. He wouldn't go so far to say he was looking for trouble... however, if a whiff of it was thrown into his path like a bone to a stray, who was he to turn a blind eye?
Well.
Not getting involved was his usual mantra. But once in a while, boredom trumped any such philosophy, and Ishmael was just intrigued enough in the scene he was witnessing to sidle up and try. He'd spotted the old man first, mostly for the evident disgruntlement on his screwed-up face, watched as he looked around, quickened his pace. Next - by virtue of following the man's focus - his eyes had landed on a younger man, a boy with wavy blond hair; he looked utterly casual at a surface glance, but there was a certain haste and purpose in his movements that belied his cherubic countenance. There was trouble, no doubt.
He didn't know what the boy had or hadn't done. Nor did he especially care. Picking a side, as a spectator, was always a gut instinct, and - well, he had always been one to instinctively root for an underdog. Whilst any threatening altercation might be amusing enough in itself to watch unfold from a safe distance, Ishmael saw an opportunity to re-weight the scales, and simply couldn't resist. He rounded, inconveniently, upon the old man, planting himself purposely in the path between one and the other, and - if he did say so himself - giving the old fellow the shock of his life, with his most intimidating Monstrous Vampire look, a pointed broad smile, a lick of his lips and a (slightly melodramatic) hiss that sent the man veering away, all previous vexations forgotten.
That was one thing that just never got old.
It might have been just distraction enough to see the boy slip away - that had been half the aim - but he caught his eye a minute later, not yet out of sight. Ishmael tossed him the briefest crook of his fingers in a subtle wave; and he might have left it at that, had the street not melted back to its usual blindness, and his curiosity not gotten the better of him. So, as it was, he ambled across to catch up to the boy after all, his eyebrows raised in greeting.
And nor had he lasted long in it. It had not been the end of trading, as a profession, but the trading had soon become much less... above board, as it were. And all sorts sold to all manner of people, over the years, any kind of thing imaginable: be they magical or muggle, valuable trinkets or common commodities, from mildly dubious to overtly illegal. And - in the matter of honesty - usually stolen.
He'd been doing away with a stolen haul tonight, as it happened, a collection of items the crew had racked up from running a few jobs, some that had been more easily pawned or exchanged or sold on than others. He had fun with this part of the whole affair, more so ever than the thieving, this pretence of giving, offering people what they wanted. There was an extra element of entertainment, too, if they showed an interest, or proved particularly gullible: there were so many stories he could invent. What the things to be traded were, what they were worth, where they had come from - who he was, and just how he knew. Perhaps people were more apprehensive of vampires in general, yes, certainly, but - whether by fear or by awe, they tended to accept his origin stories, as though Ishmael knew Morgana from Merlin, Columbus from Charles I, actually knew anything about the things he was spewed out as and when he willed.
Last of all today, he'd gotten rid of a time-turner - an illicit one, of course, unsanctioned by the Ministry, though he was not sure that that was where this one had originated - which (if it worked as it ought, which itself was... improbable) might potentially too valuable to part with, if only Ishmael had any interest in turning back time. It might come in useful to Monty and others, in another con, but the buyer he'd found (it was the part he was good at, finding people) had been rather keen, and easily persuaded to part with an absurd sum for it. The sucker. It was probably cursed.
Today, he said, because the weather had been grim and he'd been out a little earlier than usual, carefully shaded under a cloak and hat until tendrils of dusk had finally started winding their way through the city streets, and he'd done away with those adornments, now having less need of protection or a disguise. Ishmael was still camouflaged enough, he supposed to himself, though he was not trying now, purely by his aimless loafing. These side-streets weren't yet sparse enough in the night for him to stick out, and the passers-by too hurried about their business to waste a glance on even the likes of him, skin greyed, eyes dark-circled, and mouth betraying the flash of fangs here and there.
He was watching though, observing the sights in mild interest, having planned to fetch Galina some new fabrics and then throwing out that plan as too tiresomely tedious to bear. He wouldn't go so far to say he was looking for trouble... however, if a whiff of it was thrown into his path like a bone to a stray, who was he to turn a blind eye?
Well.
Not getting involved was his usual mantra. But once in a while, boredom trumped any such philosophy, and Ishmael was just intrigued enough in the scene he was witnessing to sidle up and try. He'd spotted the old man first, mostly for the evident disgruntlement on his screwed-up face, watched as he looked around, quickened his pace. Next - by virtue of following the man's focus - his eyes had landed on a younger man, a boy with wavy blond hair; he looked utterly casual at a surface glance, but there was a certain haste and purpose in his movements that belied his cherubic countenance. There was trouble, no doubt.
He didn't know what the boy had or hadn't done. Nor did he especially care. Picking a side, as a spectator, was always a gut instinct, and - well, he had always been one to instinctively root for an underdog. Whilst any threatening altercation might be amusing enough in itself to watch unfold from a safe distance, Ishmael saw an opportunity to re-weight the scales, and simply couldn't resist. He rounded, inconveniently, upon the old man, planting himself purposely in the path between one and the other, and - if he did say so himself - giving the old fellow the shock of his life, with his most intimidating Monstrous Vampire look, a pointed broad smile, a lick of his lips and a (slightly melodramatic) hiss that sent the man veering away, all previous vexations forgotten.
That was one thing that just never got old.
It might have been just distraction enough to see the boy slip away - that had been half the aim - but he caught his eye a minute later, not yet out of sight. Ishmael tossed him the briefest crook of his fingers in a subtle wave; and he might have left it at that, had the street not melted back to its usual blindness, and his curiosity not gotten the better of him. So, as it was, he ambled across to catch up to the boy after all, his eyebrows raised in greeting.