Who: Lorcan & Sofiya (appearance by npc!Calbhach) When: Wednesday evening, somewhat during and after these exchanges Where: Travelers' Camp, Ireland What: Lorcan enjoys teasing, maybe a little too much. Meaningful?
"What's she saying now?" The sudden inquiry jolted Lorcan from his intense stare at his journal. His head jerked to look at Calbhach, the turned vampire who had taken him in when he ran away from home, as the elder man situated himself down on the log beside him.
"It's not her entry," he lied in Gaeilge.
Calbhach chortled and speared a piece of rare meat, "Bollocks."
Lorcan rolled his eyes and shut the book to give Calbhach his full attention. "Has anyone ever told you you pry too much?"
"You read too much."
"You-- shut it," Lorcan sighed and reopened to the page with Sofiya's entry, pulling in his leg to help prop the book. "It's the only way to get to know the girl." Rather it was, since seeing her writing to Connolly again had risen his temper enough to make him want to reply. He had hoped to ignore his servant's entries long enough for her to feel comfortable conversing with her mates. Merlin knew she had already said a number of things out of wards that he never would have dared, but then she probably did not have the years of experience he did in trying to hide what he was really thinking.
Calbhach nodded and speared another piece of meat with a grunt. "You could try talking to her."
"I can't talk to a servant."
"Becauuuse...?"
"Because a certain Dark and Sinister man likely frowns on being nice to people who've wronged him and are worthy of punishment."
"Or," Calbhach quirked a brow. "Because you're afraid of her getting to know you."
Silence sat between them for a long pause, save for a few of their camp mates dancing to a fellow vampire playing guitar. Typically, he would be out there with them; trying to pull Saiorse, a new and very quiet vampire, out there with him, but for some reason Sofiya's constant flirting with other fellas over her journal was bothering him. Not that he could pinpoint why it was bothering him, or perhaps Bhach was right and he didn't want to think about why it could bother him.
Instead of continuing the conversation, Lorcan shook his head and pushed himself to stand, dusting off his trousers before walking off. "You're daft."
"And you're scared," Calbhach smirked after him. His grin only widened as Lorcan showed him the bowfingers.
** ** * ** ** * ** ** * ** **
A few minutes later Lorcan was back inside his tent. He had skipped out on the last of the usual nightly festivities before, usually to give Sofiya her orders for the following day, only to return again, but tonight he almost felt like just trying to sleep early. Lack of blood, or so he blamed, since he had not hunted or drank enough juices from his meals for a few days. Halfbreeds did not need as much blood as the next vampire, but it was still vital to his existence, and his good temperament. It seemed as good an excuse as any for his odd behavior.
Walking quietly about the commons, he tossed his journal onto his bed and sank into his favorite chair to enjoy the pudding he had taken at Deirbhile's insistence (the woman nagged him like a mum; how could he refuse?), casting a glance idly upward toward the bookshelf. He stared at the picture on the middle shelf for a long while, letting the wheels crank in his mind as if he could hold a silent conversation with the woman in the frame. Before long he emitted a low growl and pushed himself to stand, giving the picture one last glare and heading over to lean against the wall beside Sofiya's 'room.'
"Knock, knock," he said, matching his words with the same action against the wall. "How's the conversation going?"