milliways_bar | EP: post-AU week

Hotspur had a weird night-- but that will happen when you temporarily have two overlapping lifetimes' worth of strange dreams, instead of just the one. Actually, he had a weird morning as well. His memory of the last-- day? few days?-- is oddly hazy, in a way that makes him wonder if perhaps he was ill, though he feels perfectly well and normal now.

Plus there were two dogs in his room. Which is fantastic, of course. But they're not his dogs, they're dogs he's never seen before. Not that this stops him from bringing them down to the bar with him; one of them, the older, curls up beneath his chair, while the younger one sniffs around just in case anyone dropped anything on the ground that even remotely resembles food.

Hotspur himself sits at a table, making his way through a plate of eggs. He gives off a different kind of air than usual, somehow simultaneously more settled and more confident. This might be because of the other unexpected thing he found in his room this morning, which of course he strapped on and brought downstairs with him, because etiquette be damned.

Yes, at long last, Harry Hotspur has a sword. (But don't worry, he's not looking particularly inclined to use it.)

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"That seems a shame," Eric murmurs as a tiny drop of blood makes it way down from his left nostril.

"And it won't see much action here either."

"No, and the more shame for it. O, why--" He fumbles for a napkin on the table, which he offers to Erik. "You bleed, sir!"

He takes it and dabs beneath his nose, absentmindedly.
"You might be able to find someone who'd at least be willing to do a round or two, maybe even to first blood," he says, and then he dabs at his right ear.
It's begun bleeding too. Just a little.

"I doubt it not, there seem many able fighters here-- but sir, I think you are not well." He'd never normally say such a motherish thing, but bleeding from multiple orifices is a bit extreme to ignore.

"I'm fine," Eric says as his left eye decides to join in with the tiniest, little trickle.

"It's a bit painful but it won't pick up till the sun is fully up."

--right, that's alarming. Harry stands, as if to offer help, but of course he has no idea what kind of help to offer.

"What has the sun to do with it?"

"I'm a vampire," Eric says, rubbing at the trickle from his eyes with his fingers and only managing to smear it across his cheek.

It doesn't really improve matters.

"A creature of the night?"

Edited 2015-07-25 17:00 (UTC)

Harry's blank expression probably makes it clear enough that that word doesn't exist yet in 15th century English.

"What, a thief?" he asks, as that's the only kind of 'creature of the night' he can think of. "They say a corpse will bleed when set before his murderer, but I have not heard a thief will bleed from looking on the sun."

Eric sighs.

"No," he says. "I was a man once, then I was turned into a vampire. I feed on blood in the night and sleep during the day."

Harry looks suspicious. "...whose blood?"

Eric leans in a little. Conspiratorially.

"Whose do you think?"

"--I know not." He doesn't lean back, because that would maybe possibly imply that Eric is making him nervous. Which is obviously not true!

"Human blood," Eric tells him.
"I bite people with my fangs and then I drink their blood."

His teeth are - disappointingly - normal.
But nice.

"Um," says Harry.

But God forbid he betray anything like nervousness or uncertainty for more than .2 seconds: he has quickly bristled himself back up again. "Why, 'tis unnatural!"

"Really? That's your comment?"

Though he oughtn't be surprised. He remember Harry's time well enough.

"Not interested in having a go?"

He certainly isn't expecting a yes. And he ought to go sleep now. But the hairs on end just makes it too much fun to let up straight away.

"If with a sword you mean, I will not fight an unarmed man-- if y'can be called a man at all," he sniffs.

"You wouldn't stand a chance," Eric says, conversationally. "But no, I meant have a go at being bitten. Many people find it quite - enjoyable."
The last word definitely sounds filthy the way he says it.

Hotspur's face has gone bright red, though whether this is from anger or embarrassment or-- most likely-- some combination of the two isn't entirely clear. It's probably not clear to him, either.

"I would glad test that, sir," he snaps. "It may be, sir, that the devil found you easily tempted by such inhuman doings, but you will not find me so."

"Really?," Eric says, sounding pleased.
Pleased like a cat who's just come across a bowl of unguarded, hotheaded cream.

"I'll be happy to accommodate you, but it will have to be some other time, I'm afraid. On account of the sun."

"When and where you will, sir," Harry says, an edge of fierce glee sneaking into his tone and the prospect of an actual, real, proper duel.

"First blood? And winner gets to drink it?"

Now his eye is definitely bleeding.

"If he pleases," Harry amends, because obviously he intends to win and he does not particularly want to drink anyone's blood.

"Your eye--"

"That is a deal, then," Eric says. "If you'll look into the formalities? "
And then he is gone. Vanished.

--what.

Harry is slightly concerned that he maybe just agreed to duel the devil.

...whatever, he can still win.

{ ooc : ha!perfect}

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harryhotspur - 2015-07-25 18:34 (UTC) - Expand