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Visigny doesn't bother hiding his high regard for Vincent when he actually picks up the phone and actually calls the warehouse and actually asks to speak with him. And then actually asks to meet for the offered lessons first before the offered conversation. There are compliments paid to the gentleman's temerity and so forth. A time is offered, assurances given not to worry himself over manner of dress beyond what he legitimately deem appropriate and that the salle would provide for his needs in terms of gear.
When Vincent discovers they live in a shitty warehouse on the pier, that may surprise him. The exterior is rubbish. The interior, however, once you get to the real interior rather than the fake interior which you can see from the outside-- the really real interior behind the fake walls of ceiling high boxes --they live like kings and cats. It's below ground, in a brightly lit room with mirrored walls, a barre, two pistes, and lockers full of gear. Everything here is an heirloom piece from the look of it. There are old plaques on the walls, name plates from old lockers, a framed rack of medals from various countries and campaigns from WWII. The Spina say to know a man you must fight him in his home.
The monsieur obliges.
Wearing more or less the exact same outfit as the night they first met, Visigny leads the way down the hall and into the salle. His heeled boots clack on the hardwood, the sound of it echoing off the walls like pistol shots to ears with auspex. He assumes a point between the head of the two pistes, sets his cane to the ground with a click, and snaps his heels together.
"Monsieur Drake, my gentleman guest. May I introduce myself?" (edited)
Vincent arrives the next night after his date with Avery. He show's up. . .well he didn't want to be fake so a 20 something with a Reel Big Fish shirt and jeans may seem underdress. He didn't expect a warehouse to be the lair of a gentlemen elder but then again Vinny is basically a squatter, so he won't judge, the interior was however. . .damn it was one of those evil hidden lairs out of a Bond film, he half expected to be told he was expected to dine.
"Go ahead, Monsieur." he answers in decent French, French tourist girls where an excellent motivator to learn a language. (edited)
His eyebrows lift while his lips pout in appreciation. He gestures between himself and Vincent, as though attemtping to conveny something. We're already learning about each other, perhaps. But he doesn't give it voice, and perhaps that's the point? Maybe. Then he smiles his neutral smile anew and relaxes back into his parade rest repose.
"I am as I said the Captain," A gesture of the cane to the medals and some pictures here and there, "Jean-Louis Visigny-" and at the last word, he points his cane at a different spot on the wall, of a ruddy blood soaked white cotton dress shirt bound tied in a wreath of thorns. "Winthrope." He pronounces every letter of that word as a syllable somehow, and with a hint of a purr.
He turns then to set his cane aside on one of the tables, starting to work at his cravat and loosen it from his neck. Once that's off, he shrugs out of his topcoat, revealing his bare sleeves and the doublet he wore beneath. He seems to be undressing, though where it will end is unclear. His eyes flit to Vincent's shirt, then to Vincent's nose.
"If anything were to happen to the clothing on your body would I be paying you the remotest discourtesy?"
He follows the man's cane, trying to keep up, "Vincent Drake." he replies, finding himself copying the man, a gentleman of a classic adventure book, cunning, chivalrous, honorable, it's like a storybook really and he can't help but admire the man he knows he'll never be.
"I've been in a few scraps in my life, you got to get dirty to learn." he says thinking he's catching on to the elder's words
"Haven't we all?" He agrees charitably and with a smile, dipping his head and dismissing his sincere concern for the man's person with a sweep of his hand. By and by, Visigny strips down to a bare chest which is quite unlike the rest of his body. It's the body that comes from being furniture and a chew toy for nearly a century after being raked with machine gun fire and laced with a hand grenade. Then left to heal. Then given blood. If he was chosen for his beauty, they overlooked some faults. One thing is clear, however, it's not a fact about which the frenchman is self-conscious.
With a lift a finger to request a moment more of patience, Visigny disappears into the storage room behind the glass wall. One panel swings out, he steps in, and in short order a silver service cart is rolled out with a silver lid.
"For your delectation, Master Drake, the first course this evening comes to you by way of the Smith and Wesson corporation, a reputable manufacturer of storied American firearms in your very own Springfield Massechussetts. Since 1852." Visigny sounds so cheerful as he relates these facts about this tool on the plate, which he presently reveals with a ring of the lifting silver lid and a grand sweep of the hand.
"Do you hear it whisper a promise to you from your old life? Do you hear it whisper power? Take it, Vincent." That purr is back in his voice as he sets the tray down and stalks, predatory and slow, in a semi-circle around the other Daeva. "Take up the gun. Your life has taught you to view my affectations as comical, and to get to know me I must first disabuse you of that notion. So kindly do take into your hand that sigil, that tool, that gun and do please attempt to kill me with it."
Visigny steps slowly away now, still slightly crouched, though he makes offer of his chest and head.
"I fear no target, though my sange d'amour may object to some over others."
Now, Vincent has been with some gals over the years. . .and some boys as well, not something he'd point out but nothing he'll deny, he'll admit Visigny knew how to present himself. "I do want power," he says to no one, as he takes the gun, "What you want me to do what now?!" he asks. . .but he does indeed take aim, he couldn't have lived this long if he was suicidal or stupid and something about him makes the neonate trust him, even though deep down he shouldn't. He takes aim for the head, "You asked for it Monsieur Visigny." he offers with respect and pulls the trigger. (edited)
"Please," he says with breathless anticipation, lips parted like a botticelli angel. "Tonight you may call me Visigny."
When the round collides with his skull, his head rockets back from the torque and he does stagger a bit. Whether it's from the force or damage to his prefontal cortex isn't really evident. It knocks his beret from his head, though.
He slowly draws himself back into composure and comportment, his shoulders and back shuddering in the process. The flesh of his forehead is gone, revealing skull and much of the eye in its socket. He shakes out a kerchief from his trouser pocket, daubs at his leaking eye, and holds up a hand again asking for patience.
He gets out a hand mirror.
After confirming something in the mirror, he snaps it shut and then turns back to Vincent and confirms, "It is my belief I am not in fact more deceased than I was prior to your attempt. Do you concur with my assessment, Master Drake?"
Vincent knew he should have expected this, but to still see it. . .that this man, that he where no longer human, it was still a shock. "No, your still kicking. . .so this is some intensive training then?" he says, "Does it hurt?" he asks motioning towards his own head
"Exquisitely, yes! Thank you, sir. Truly." Visigny gestures to his face, to the missing skin, the exposed eyeball. "Flayed with a bullet, Master Drake. You show promise as a painter, should you ever wish to learn." One gets the idea he is not speaking of actually painting.
Not bothering to heal the superficial damage, having only taken care to heal his potential to spatter on others, Visigny adopts a smile by way of a segue. "I have no wish to rush the gentleman's appetite should he wish to try a second time. I've found a collar bone shot to be positively debilitating in its potential for agony, and it's been so long since anyone has obliged me." He gestures to the impotent, pathetic, emasculated gun. A little tick of the head, a sad little pout of a smile. "Or are you ready for something more spicy? Mm?" Wetting his lips, Visigny begins to back away towards the glass wall again. (edited)
Vincent is now sure this man has some violence fetish, that or thinks war itself is his mistress. "If by spicy you mean something that will cause you or me more physical harm. . ." he shrugs, "Sure why not." Vinny had a knife yes. . .but it was for show, he never really needed to resort to violence, able to talk, charm, or run his way from any situation, plus he had Val beat a guy up once or twice but if he was to obtain his goals he needed to kick ass and takes names and lord byron here was offering to teach. "I shall be clay in your hands." he says, trying to imitate the class of it all
From a distant part of the warehouse, doors open and close rapidly, growing very very quickly closer. Or perhaps it's some sort of strange pantomime to make the place seem bigger than it is.
Visigny pauses his retreat at that, notably so. A hitch in the fluid, graceful, performance he is putting on for the benfit of the guest. There is a very brief moment where Visigny's eyes search Vincent for any wisp of insincerity. Something in the choice of words, the bearing, the cadence, the response? He didn't care for it at all, and if it was intentional it seems Vincent just got away with it. So the dance continues anew.
"You have not yet earned for yourself that distinction, young master." Maybe that's what all of this is about.
He is gone for a time, returning once more with the dessert cart.
"Were you aware," he prefaces with that same cheerful Museum curator tone, "that the nation of Pakistan is one of the leading exporters of cutlery and novelty knives and swords in the world. Pakistan!"
"I ask the gentleman and guest because for dessert I have for you..." Another grand lifting of the lid.
It is a novelty klingon knife.
"...The Klingon Dk'tagh as carried by Lieutenant Worf, Worf son of the House of Mogh. Manufactured to the generous and liberal specifications of a PDF sent from the Paramount Crafts Department. Notably, it features a poorly balanced pommel, a wobbly tang, a 440 stainless steel composition, and a maker's stamp decidenly not from Qo'nos."
"A symbol of mockery in your culture, a talisman of all that is sad and prone to fantasy. Ineffectual dreams from doughy ineffectual people with rubber lobsters on their foreheads." His head shakes. "Would I be correct in assuming, Master Drake, that the notion of carrying this novelty Pakistani dk'tagh about on your hip as a preventative to meeting an untimely death had not occurred to you until this very sentence reached your ears?"
He stares at the Dk'tagh, he can't help himself but to smile like a kid on Christmas. "Sir. . ." he starts with the grin getting wider, "You have now earned my utmost admiration and respect." he says eyeing the replica, "I didn't know I was learning the way of the warrior from such a learned scholar." he says jokingly but still with admiration, "Bat'leth's are also on the table I hope." he asks in all seriousness, "As per your question sir, no it has not but I am glad it is." he exclaims, "I hope to be worthy of Sto-vo-kor."
"Yes, of course. I have duelling knives from Andor. I have kris knives from Sha'hulud. I am a collector of the history of weapons, and that history includes its venture into popular culture, music, and art." Visigny said to get to know a man you must fight him in his home. The banter is affable, even if Visigny is missing part of his face and topless.
"Knowing how to discuss popular culture will aid you in hiding among the kine over the years. As no one listens to Edith Piaf, dear my gentleman, no one will listen to Taylor Swift when you are as me, either. Adapt or die, young one." That said, Visigny prods the lesson along.
The lid is pulled from the creamer dish, revealing a single red 8-sided die.
"The garnish. If the gentleman would kindly cast the die upon the table? We'll be discovering my fate here, shortly, and I entrust it entirely to your hand and providence, sir." He moves to look down at the table, then over at Vincent. Just waiting.
The doors open and close and then from a behind door that Vincent hasn't seen the other side of emerges a diminutive creature in something in a sugary confectionary dessert topping of an outfit: Artje wears a cream silk housecoat embroidered with gold and silver thread with tiny accents of cobalt blue, a matching silk dress beneath it which brushes the tops of her tiny bare feet. She's got her left hand on her still-sheathed rapier, and moves with absolutely inhuman speed.
And when she takes in the whole of the scene in front of her, her housecoat slipping to expose one perfect white shoulder, her lips purse and her hazel eyes flash, but she draws herself up so spotlessly that -- as with so many other things about Artje -- one must wonder how much of this is true concern and how much is deliberate, artifice.
Two words, and only two words. "I see."
"D&D too, you are truly a man of wealth and taste." he says as he picks up the dice and rolls, as the doors open, catching a glimpse of the vision he finds himself catching a breath. He says nothing but forgets the dice for a second, before focusing back to it, trying to see where it lands and how exactly his teacher's fate will be discovered.
"The eight sided die is not used solely in the game Dungeons and Dragons and is featured across many game lines, as well as in board games and their digital analogues." Visigny shares this with that Museum Curator tone to his voice, expouding on Vincent's knowledge with cheer.
Visigny's attention is stolen by the arrival of Artje. His demeanor changes immediately, growing somehow softer and more gentle. Like a switch flipped. "Ah, there you are. I wondered if that might not summon you." He indicates Vincent with his hand, "Artje Berenyi-Winthrope, may it please your pate that I present to you his most excellent Master Vincent Drake, late of the Invictus. The young master has been taken a fledge from a sire who has, regrettably, drank his last. We were just in the middle of introductions."
He looks down at the die, pointing at it with a fay lilt to his hand. "C'est deux." His eyebrows waggle at her.
Still staring at Artje he asks aside of Vincent, "My dear guest and gentleman friend. Have you chanced to study human anatomy?"
"Her last, if all whispers speak truth," Artje answers calmly, and the only part of her which moves are her eyes, at first. Then her hand moves to reach for her housecoat and pull it up over her shoulder, gently settling it perfectly into place. She turns her head minutely to check that she's settled properly before turning her attention back to Vincent. Her rather precise gaze sweeps up and down him, left hand still settled on the rapier which hangs at her right side until she relaxes just a little bit, and her right hand drapes lazily upon its hilt instead. "I have heard of him," she agrees.
She stares at Visigny for another moment, then crosses the salle's floor on cat-soft feet, rolling up to her very tiptoes to kiss precisely next to his ruined skull. "C'est deux," she agrees, and drops back down to her properly diminutive stature -- 5'1" at most -- and turns her face towards Vinny, waiting for his answer after saying, "It is good and appropriate to be introduced to you by my Jean-Louis, Herr Drake." (edited)
He involuntary flinches at the discussion of his sire, but the question brings memories he now cherishes, "I. . .might not be the student in the way you're implying but I know my way around a body." he offers, a slight wistful smile on his face. (edited)
Visigny is still staring at Artje as he agrees, in a manner similar to the one he had before, "Don't we all?" He finally casts a glance aside at Vincent, cocking up a grin that is openly lascivious. There's a bubble of sick, inhuman laughter that is that way only because he's being himself. One hopes.
"It is of the utmost importance that you learn. That you keep learning. That you tie yourself fast to the mast of the zeitgeist and exist in that space. Or you will most assuredly end earlier rather than later, Master Drake." Visigny plucks up the knife and taps it against his palm, every corny Pakistani inch of it.
"I wish to make you understand that you are now a predator. But that you are also a chameleon. You are a predator that travels among sheep, and to do so effectively you must walk as the sheep walks and speak as the sheep speaks and wear the wool of the sheep over your cold dead eyes."
He sweeps a hand over his face, theater of the mind style and is almost unrecognizable in how he now carries himself. Almost inhumanly quick he's a dockside chav from Liverpool, accent exact. "Oi, guv. Toss us a bob, will ya?"
The hand lifts again, and his chin is lifted like a street tough. Like a philly street tough. His balance ticks from foot to foot with the street swagger of someone that's strapped. He swipes a thumb across his jaw, clicks his tongue, and shows teeth. "Shit, I don' know about his jawn, Artje. He been trippin'." Pfff, comes the push of his hand at the air with the cock of the head away in a street tough's dismissal. Ain't worth the .38 cents.
He spins in place and is a soccer dad, a dopey grin on his guileless, insipid face. "What do you think, honey? Should we have ribs tonight?" He swings his bead back about to look at Artje, then waggles the blade in his hands.
He is again Visigny.
"Manners are based on context. Context is the terrain of language. Control terrain to win war." (edited)
Now is the time when Visigny takes center stage, and so Artje fades a little bit. It's kind of... a whole thing, the way that she does that. Daeva -- and Toreador especially -- take center stage with such ease, it's kind of uncanny the way she just seems to take up less space in deference to his more. When Visigny turns his head to look at her, the doll-faced little Daeva winks at him, hand draped lazily on the hilt of her rapier; it's the only part of her posture which isn't tucked-in and neat.
Vincent watches the performance with some amusement, if not for the immortal soldiering he would have been a great actor. "Ok. . ." he says trying to think, "I do speak some french," he begins in decent french, an accent added, "I'm merely an exchange student lost in the city, if only some lovely american beauty can show me around?" he tries before switching to russian, "Or I could be a recruit for the local russian outfit." he attempts, switching back to normal, "I've made a living scamming folks, adopting persona's has been a skill I've been working on." he says shrugging (edited)
Visigny slaps his hands together obliquely so it's more of a hiss of skin than a clap, "Ahh, he has it." Visigny lifts a hand towards Vincent when he adopts the role, and then executes a florid Viennese bow when he switches to Russian. And when he rises back to his feet, it is with can only be read as sincere applause. He nods, keeps nodding, and the applause doesn't stop. It finally ends with a simple, "Well done, Master Drake. Now, when you move among the exchange students, see how they view the city. It is not their city. But it is your city. And you must learn to move as though it were not. Speak, think, walk, move, like the student. Become the student, if only in your head, and then make them believe it. And you can get away, good my gentleman, with anything."
"And now, Master Drake, it is time for what I hope will not be our final lesson, but what will certainly become our final one of the evening for reasons which will become increasingly apprarent."
Visingy plucks up the horrible Dk'tagh and moves to the wall, plucking up a remote and poking the wall. A smart board slowly descends from it. With a bit of tinkering, it displays a desktop showing a numbered diagram of the human nervous system. 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on. To 8. They are pointing to various nerve clusters around the body. Two is his right shoulder. And it is to that point he settles the dagger tip, turning towards Artje.
"Madame Berenyi, if you would be so kind as to do the honors? Deep and through, if you would be everso kind."
"Your accent is not bad." Artje's head tips to one side, and then the other. "A little provincial, I think, with shades of shtetl or farm, but it will serve. It does make me wonder where you learned." Her eyes narrow slightly, evaluating the new kid more sharply, and then she turns her attention towards Visigny as he makes his request. The dk'tagh is not taken, however, as she wrinkles up her nose at it. Instead, she draws her rapier -- left-handed, though whether by necessity or conceit, who can say? -- and salutes her coteriemate with incredible formality. "As always," she replies, and one corner of her mouth curls up. That might be a sex joke.
Then again, it might not.
The blade moves with inhuman rapidity, stabbing very directly Visigny, exactly where indicated.
Vincent went wide eyed at the lunge, "Holy shit!" he finds himself exclaiming at the attack, "You. . of course your're ok. . ." he walks over, and looks at the wound, "Wow. . .your. . .I'm going to assume wife you share a last name, but your wife really did just stab you. . .and your completely fine." he says, if anything to himself, "So you want me to do this?" he asks (edited)
Visigny looks mildly confused by Artje's behavior throughout the whole of it, though his eyes open with surprise when she actually goes through with it. He doesn't move out of the way, or anything. He just has to get the hand and cheap knife out of the area before they're caught up in what's coming. Of course the knife is in the hand of the arm that got stabbed, so the hand falls open limp and the knife falls to the ground. And snaps. Because it's a Pakistani costume piece.
Visigny looks down at the mess, then up to Artje, then down at the mess. "Madame," he says with faux scandal. "You have upstaged me." He seems to be doing a dramatic swoon, but nothing is happening. So he reaches over, picks up the hand by the wrist, and positions against his forehead to resume his dramatic swoon. Just to get the point across that arm isn't open for business at the moment. It flops back to his side, lifeless meat.
He turns about from side to side as though modeling the sword stuck through him, "Do you like it, Madame? Is it me?" In the end, he slowly draws the weapon out of himself, using his resilience to clean the blade in the process. The wounds closes up once the blade is pulled free, and it is presented to Artje over the back of his wrist in a bow.
"Master Drake, I wished only to demonstrate to you why you should learn how. Your youth and inexperience will make you resistant to letting go of old modes of thinking, and that can and will get you killed. You are young and of unfortunate means and circumstances. I see a bit of my own becoming in your own, and I simply do not believe that you should be hemmed-in by limitations imposed by those around you with less imagination than you have." Every word he speaks feels like a seduction to something. (edited)
"Of course I did, my beloved." Her hazel eyes glitter, and she releases the rapier for the moment, allowing him to have his dramatic bit. "You asked me to so politely. How then could I refuse you?"
She draws back up like a dancer returning to first position, one hand propped on her hip. "I am one of his wives," agrees Artje -- her form really was perfect there, stunning. Artistic, really. Who knows how effective she would be in a real fight? But she does make it look good. "Our other wife is -- I believe -- technically still a Princess of Vienna," and her eyes roll there, as if princess is the silliest title one could have, "so she keeps her mother's name."
When the sword is offered back, she takes it, inspects it, and slips it back into its place on her opposite hip.
"Your other. . .how many Polycules are in this city?" he asks in all seriousness, no joke meant, "I've met a polycule of Lost and-never mind," he stops himself, "So. . . what does kill us then?" he ponders, "Sunlight I know, I reacted like a frightened animal to fire. . .what is deadly to our kind. . ." he then considers, "and do you know to how fight other supernaturals?" he mutters but realizes they can hear him, "No, I don't mean to wage war on their kind," he quickly says, "My lover is one of the Lost, I simply wish to prepare myself to face what dangers may come for them." he explains, "I thank you for these lessons and your hospitality, I'm glad to count you among my Clanmates." he nods to the gentleman (edited)
"Depending on who you ask, Master Drake, there are some who would argue it's sort of one large one. I don't really see the point in fussing over what a dead body does with its time. Besides, after so many years you'll welcome a change of pace in your relationships too, I imagine. In any case, don't knock it until you've tried but find your own because this one is mine." With the show over, Visigny slips on his shirt again and begins to put himself back into his more proper array.
"I have fought other Supernaturals. And beside them. My typical advice with regards to combat is to avoid it if possible and then undertake it with immediacy and overwhelming response. But in Vienne, peace was kept with corpses as often as it was with conversation. And of the two, the latter is the most often survivable. So. One learned."
Visigny then turns to Artje and notes, "I have had occasion to use rather more blood than I had anticipated this evening." Because someone stabbed him with a sword. Probably to make him hungry. "And now I should have a meal before I consider being done with the day. Perhaps Master Drake would care to join us tonight in the racks? See how the other half lives?" That he is a member of the first estate among carthians and also in more or less tatters compared to their riches makes that statement mean two things at once.
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