Just Because We Get Around [Dimitri]

[Westley Roberts]

Of the catalogue of observations he'd noted of this school over the years, one of them was this: it offered surprisingly few opportunities to unpack his mask and kerchief.

Most of the mayhem here was conducted openly. Very few of those in residence ever seemed to be too concerned with the concealment of their true identities, let alone with making themselves appear more imposing than nature intended. It was possible they thought there to be no point, not in a place where a magical corporation ruled somewhat omnipresently, and everyone seemed to know each other—or at least of each other—in the first place.

That was fine, for some. Others knew better. 

Westley held precisely two advantages in this area. The first was that, beyond Della and Alyss, he hadn't made terribly many friends or acquaintances in his time here as a student, and since returning, he'd made only a few, none of which would be present in a place like this. He'd never made waves, either, aside from dying once, which was largely forgotten by now. That afforded him anonymity. The second was that he was extremely well-versed in the powerful value of the simplest of 'old-school' touches, untarnished by Tintagel's unimpressed disregard. The slow approach of oil-black boots, for example. The ominous figure of a shrouded man. Gaze cloaked in midnight. Maraud long enough, and you wouldn't forget it, either.

He'd snuck his way here, slipping away at dusk while the girls were occupied. Partly to avoid being followed by a curious Tori, who he'd no sooner endanger than his own child, and partly to keep from calling attention to the fact that a member of the faculty was off to act the criminal among criminals. It was highly unlikely that anyone would care about the latter, he knew, considering the average caliber of person the school employed, but he had promised not to let down Headmaster Thatch, and that was reason enough to take precaution. 

Now that he was here, however, he walked tall. His carriage and steady manner worked as much to his advantage as the black he wore, his mouth held in a firm line as he cast a calculating gaze all around, slowly. Here, he wanted to be seen. For all the danger of his legend. For the sword and scabbard at his hip, and all the things his black-gloved hand might do with it. For the utter lack of fear of death in his black-masked eyes.

For one reason, and one reason only.

Dangerous men attract one another. And Westley was here to recruit.

Hades was not anticipating an army.

[Dimitri]

For every bit that man in black wanted to get noticed, Dimitri was the exact opposite. He walked hunched over, cap pulled down low over his eyes, hands stuff deeply into his worn brown coat. He wasn't sure what a guy like him was doing in a place like this, other than it being the quickest route from point A to point B. Or that's what he told himself. More likely he was looking to make a little money.

Or maybe he was just bored.

How long had they been back here now, at Tintagel? And how many conversations had he had in all that time? Sadly, he had become pretty much a hermit, living in the small apartment above his bar, doing little in the way of promotion to try to entice people in. To the bar, not his apartment. He wasn't even thinking about that right now.

There was a lot going on at the Academy, with everyone else having decided to clean the place up and restart classes. Try as he might to convince himself that that was why nobody had come to see him, he knew that wasn't true. Why would anyone visit him? Most of his friends hadn't even returned, and things weren't that great with the ones who had. How sad was his life when Gaston dropping into the bar had been the highlight of his month?

So maybe he was here for many reasons, and maybe the mysterious man in black that suddenly stepped into his path could give him another one. Hell, at least he could offer an interesting distraction.

[Westley Roberts]

Then again, attracting dangerous men (or dangerous anyone, for that matter; far be it from him to discount a powerful woman) was proving to be more difficult than Westley had thought.

Frankly, he was coming to the realization that he shouldn't have been surprised. There were really only two reasons for anyone in such a seedy area as this to interact with one another. The first was trade—favors, goods, passage—and the second was confrontation. Here, in both cases, he was at a disadvantage. In this uniform, he looked far too intimidating to approach with any sort of proposition; he knew it looked more likely that he'd steal the goods in question and leave the propositioner quivering in his underclothes. And the same problem was true in the case of any drunkards or hooligans who could have been itching for a fight. Only a true fool would haul off and sock a man dressed as though he commits murder for a living and gets away with it.

He was beginning to adjust to the idea that perhaps his plan had been lacking a certain something—not that it affected his carriage in the slightest; there went another pickpocket flinching away to avoid eye contact—when the moment came that he encountered something truly surprising. 

There was a rare, third category after all. Traders, fighters...and a lone man immediately ahead, looking as if he'd rather vanish into the fray entirely. That was new.

What would possess a person to pass through such a dangerous place if he didn't want to be there? True, it was possible the man just committed some sort of devious transaction of his own, but from what Westley could see of the look he wore, it didn't seem to be one of guilt or flight.... At any rate, he didn't have a lot of time to make his mind up, given they were on each other's proverbial doorsteps. Westley made up his mind, and he didn't avert his course. This man certainly didn't appear to be the sort of dangerous character he'd come in search of, and might very well prove to be useless in an army against Hades, but this was the person who had his interest now. Who knew what would come of it? He had to find out.

"You there," he said, almost as if he'd headed for the man on purpose. Still with a light air of authority in his tone, considering the surrounding company, but not altogether unkindly, either. No matter what, he wasn't here to make enemies. "What is your name?" The Dread Pirate Roberts—when dressed as such, and therefore with a brand to uphold—was always direct, after all.

[Dimitri]

There were several options in a place like this for things to do to waste a few hours, and a few of those could even make a bit of money. All of them, though, were dangerous, it was just the nature of this place. Just being here was dangerous, probably the air itself he was breathing was dangerous. Not that Dimitri was afraid of a little danger, nor was he a stranger to it. He used to enjoy it sometimes, honestly, though very little thrilled him anymore. Not since the war.

Finding himself on a direct path towards the man in black who didn't seem to be moving, Dimitri was about to sidestep when the man addressed him directly, asking his name. Well, that was unexpected; wasn't this the kind of place where name weren't important? “You're wearing a mask, and you want me to tell you my name?” he replied, lowering the brim of his hat just a little, as if that would help to conceal his identity.

Not that anyone in these parts of town would probably remember him. He didn't recognize anyone, like they were all new townspeople. Had they all lived entire lives in the few years he had been gone? Were these the children or grandchildren of the people that had been here before? Or had he really just not paid enough attention to anyone but the few regulars his bar had had?

Did it matter?

[Westley Roberts]

Westley wasn't sure what sort of reply he had expected—possibly to be attacked in some way, given the patronage in this quarter, not that he wouldn't be able to make quick work of him, in that case—but safe to say, the reply he received would not have been on the list of expectations even if he'd had them. That was....well. The man did have something of a point.

"I suppose there is a fair amount of irony in that, yes," Westley noted with a lift of his brow, more to himself than to the stranger in front of him, dispensing with his pirately persona somewhat. "Admittedly I never thought of that; you would think it'd have come up..." But then he picked it right back up again, subtle about the adjustments to his stance. He held his shoulders square and chest broad, even with the sense that this shrouded man did not pose a threat. Others here did, or might, and this was not a place to appear vulnerable. Too often, that was how fights began, and although he knew to an almost laughable degree that he would win any brawl that began here, he really wasn't in the mood to engage in that sort of thing. He hardly knew how he'd explain a thing like that to the women he lived with.

"Very well." His most captainly tone had returned. The 'loyalty-inspiring leader' one, not the 'going to throw you overboard to your almost certain death' one. That was a very important difference. "I'll go first. I am the Dread Pirate Roberts." Because he couldn't very well use his real name in this costume. No one would surrender to the Dread Pirate Westl...look, everyone gets the idea. "I seek allies. And what I'd like to know is this: what business does a man who looks to be avoiding trouble have in a place like this, where trouble is the main attraction?"

If the odd, shifty man's answer revealed anything in the neighborhood of bravery, who knew? This run-in may have alerted him to a new ally after all.