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One vampirate, relaxing in a chair by the fire and working on some bone-carving this evening.

It'll probably end up being made into the handle of a knife; the scene depicts the wreck of the Morning Star, unable to fend off the tentacular horrors from the deep. He'd met a man once in Perrick Nigh who claimed to have been the only survivor of that battle, besides the sea creature of course; this carving is how he'd described the scene.

No one expects much truth from stories of the sea. That's not the point of them. If he'd learned one thing from a youth spent having older men buy him drinks and tell him stories, it's this: people get what they want from stories. If the sea is in their blood, they'll get reassurance that they've chosen the best, the freest life. If it's not, they'll get a vicarious thrill while staying comfortably sure that land is the place to be.

If he'd learned two things from that youth, it's that if you buy people drinks, they're more inclined to believe your stories.

Totally botherable.

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Just the man she's looking for.

Well, one of, anyway. He'll do.

The only reason she's on the arm of his chair and not in his lap right now is the presence of sharp carving implements.

"Hey, sailor. Looking for a good time tonight?"

She doesn't look familiar, but he recognizes her scent--that's a distinctive perfume. He should know; it's all over his stolen robe.

But maybe she doesn't want to be recognized. It's hard to tell, with gods and not-gods.

"Always," he whispers with a smile. "Have we met?"

She leans close--very close, her face hidden against his hair. His hearing's sharp enough that she can whisper, and this is no one else's business.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to take my robe back," she says. "I need a favor. A favor handled very discreetly."

Loki can't ever do something in a straightforward way, can he? Always games, always mystery... still, it passes the time.

"I might be able to help, and I'm certainly willing to listen."

There's only a very brief hesitation. She knows he can do it, but whether he will or not...

"Blood," she says. "Eight pints. Human, fresh, for transfusing, not for drinking. I know your taxation system, I know you've got access--and I can make it worth your while. Very worth your while."

"You can get it at the bar, you know," he says. "It tastes a little strange to me, but other people seem to like it just fine. You can get as much as you want from there--"

"Is it real, though?" she asks. "Some sort of synthetic, or chemical-added, or--look, I know how meat is farmed in my world. I don't exactly trust something presented as food-grade. I need transfusion blood."

He won't ask what she needs it for. People have their reasons.

"You could probably get some at the infirmary," he says. "Medical-quality blood--actually, I don't know whether they'd keep it on hand or just get it as needed. Everyone from all these worlds, with all their potential diseases... mmm. This is why I'm a pirate and not a doctor. Our sciences make more sense."

"I need someone I can trust," she says. "Someone discreet. There's no one in the infirmary I'm on terms like that with--and people here have a hard time keeping their mouths shut. Last thing I need is having to fill out requisition forms in triplicate, and then people I've never even met are all talking about how I've started bathing in the blood of virgins. It's nobody's business what I do, or why. But you--you, I like. And trust enough that even if you say no, you won't go spreading it around."

"I've certainly got access to it, at home--that's not the problem."

Just call a couple extra people up for taxation, that's all. Aqila keeps the tax records, she's the only one who'd notice the extra charges; but he trusts her. They've been together since shortly after his arrival in Armada.

But favors can be a messy business. One can lead to another, and another, and he doesn't want to get himself or his people in over their heads. Not with the current situation.

"Just eight pints, that's all you need?"

"Eight pints, that's all," she says. "And you'd have me deeply in your debt--and that's a position many people would kill to have me in, believe me."

So she's not exactly bargaining from a position of strength at the moment. That doesn't make it any less true.

"I'll make it worth your while in other ways, too--I'll even let you keep my robe." She takes a small packet from down the front of her dress, and slips it into his coat pocket. Not much, but it's what she has on hand.

He glances into his pocket, and chuckles. "How can I say no to an offer like that, my lovely supplier? You certainly know the way to a man's heart."

And a few other places...

"You can't go dressed like that, though. Let's go see what I have that'll fit you."

"Right now?"

Well... Jack's got things under control, hasn't he? If the door synchronization is off and she ends up gone for longer than she expects, he can keep on taking care of Egil and Loki's body on his own. And she has to go to Armada, if she wants to be sure of the quality and freshness of the blood.

She's here, he's here, the moment is here.

"All right, then. But I'm keeping my orchid."

"I'm not normally an orchid man," he says, slipping his carving tools into other pockets of his coat, "but yours... yours, I like."

As tense as he normally gets at the prospect of bringing a stranger from another world into his city, he thinks she'll do just fine. She's an actress. She'll blend in.

"You're a dirty, dirty sailor," she says with a smile. "Come on--I'll show you a thing or two about horticulture."

Sailors.

"Long time no see, lover," greets Ganymede, ending up behind the Brucolac's shoulder and leaning over to see his work. He's holding the finished and wrapped flute behind his back; sure, he usually gives these for particular dates, but given Armada's weather they're not exactly the same in theory or in practicality.

"I've been around," he says with a smile, looking up at him. "Mostly home, I think--but it hasn't been very long for me. I don't know how time works; I just show up."

It's always a holiday somewhere, probably.

Ganymede smiles back and leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek, tangling his fingers in his companion's hair.

"Normally I wait to give things like this for holidays, but your holidays aren't mine, and your weather isn't reliably cyclical. So..." he murmurs, holding out the package to set it on the table. "You don't have to open it right now, though."

"Mmm."

He takes a small rectangular package out of one of his coat pockets--wrapped in suspiciously sugar-skull-patterned paper, actually--and holds it out to him.

"It seems to be a good time of year for it. I hope you like that..."

"I'm sure I will," he says gladly, taking the package. "Well, this is a familiar design, isn't it?"

"It ought to be," he says with a quiet chuckle. "I got myself a new nickname, too--you'll never guess what it is, though it would be interesting to see you try."

The carving's done for the time being; it's mostly just a way to pass the time when there's nothing more interesting going on, and Ganymede's presence is automatically more interesting. He could be sleeping and still be more interesting than the carving.

Not that he watches him sleep or anything. Not in a creepy way.

It's very likely a good thing he is asleep when he's being watched. It tends to make him a little jumpy.

"Oh? And from whom did you get such a name?" he asks.

It's nice to be with someone he's comfortable around, that's all. Savor the quiet moments together while he can--that's what shore leave is for, a few hours of pretending he's got a normal life like normal people.

"A strange young woman with the shortest trousers I've ever seen," he says. "We--well, you'll see. I commissioned her to make that, and it took a while, and she certainly likes to talk."

Not that he minded listening. He now knows how to swear in Spanish, Italian and Gothic.

"Oh? Does that mean I should open it now?" he asks, settling down close enough that he can easily hear the vampir's whispery voice over the bar.

"Did you like listening to her?"

"It won't spoil if you wait, but I'd like to see you when you open it," he says.

He hopes he likes it. It's not the sort of gift he normally gives.

"And I did, yes--it was hard to follow her conversation sometimes, because she kept hopping from one subject to another, but eventually we were discussing techniques, you know, and she had some I'd never heard of. And a gift that she insisted I take when we were done."

He sets the package down. "I'll open it on the solstice," he says. "It's a celebration of sorts for me. You could join me--it's the longest night of the year."

Ganymede smiles, and raises a brow when he describes the conversation. "Techniques for what, precisely?"

"At home, we tend to miss the solstice," he says. "Well, not miss it exactly; the days still happen. But we travel away from winter, so it just means longer nights wherever we are."

Inconvenience for him, but safer for the rest of the city. Winter storms are terrible things.

"Techniques men enjoy--she used to be something of a professional, so she knows about tricks and products and toys I'd never heard of before. That part of the conversation, I could follow just fine."

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