[It's day six in Tennessee and the pickings for good gigs are getting slimmer by the day. Not that it was real smart to head out this way in the first place—Nashville is swarming with wannabe country stars and there's naturally gonna be an excess even outside the city of fools like him who think he just might get discovered in the back of a dive like this. Fools, with their shitty old guitars and lyrics that speak to the soul if every drifter that hears them. Granted, he's deemed good enough by this bar owner to get a gig for the night, but he know tomorrow there might be some kid younger and more talented than him sitting on this shitty wood stool crooning to a half empty bar full of old drunks and guys with confederate tattoos.
But that's tomorrow-Jimmy's problem. All tonight-Jimmy has to worry about is staying on that line between buzzed and drunk long enough to put on a great set and if his strings are gonna hold up. He's got the money for it, but it's a goddamn oddesy to the nearest music store that sells his brand. Spares won't work—they muddy up the music and the magic in it and turn everything sickly and dull.
What's coming out of guitar right now is anything but. His fingers fly over the strings, the music curling from the wood and metal in orage-green whips. It curls around him like smoke, and shit, he's absolutely on fire tonight. He croons his words into the microphone, all about loss and the road and Baptist guilt that keeps him from becoming a bastard or point of pride from his parents. They're not new ideas, countless songs have been written before. But shit, when he leans into the microphone and sings, he can feel a little of himself coming out with it and it's exhilarating.
No one's listening, of paying attention to the tendrils of music that swirl around them and dissipate like smoke. It doesn't matter. He's happy for the moment.
[ Meliorn dislikes country music, and he always has, and he wonders if Her Majesty had sent him to the south on purpose because of an imagined slight. It's something Meliorn would not put passed his beloved, not a single bit, even if Meliorn had said naught but 'yes, My Queen' for the past three months straight and was on his best behaviour.
Or maybe that's exactly why he's here--maybe his Queen has deigned him special enough to take this mission, and no one else. It's hard to say, and not even his place to question, and so he doesn't. Instead, he asks for wine (that earns an odd look) and listens.
To his absolute delight, Jimmy McLeod is listenable. There's still the country twang, but it's not at the frequency that makes Meliorn's ears hurt. It has to be frequency, he thinks, because he's quite fond of electronic music. Regardless, lifting the glass to his lips, he watches.
His Queen is right. Jimmy is talented, and a smile pulls at his lips as he realizes exactly why he's here. Best the Seelie's get their hands on that power than the Warlocks, or, heaven forbid, Shadowhunters.
He's polite, though. Meliorn waits until the song is up before buying him a drink. He's glamoured to look as normal as possible, although he still wears floral patterns and muted earth tones. Once the other's on a brief break, he raises his glass to signal a hello, and gets up altogether to approach him. ]
[His set's over after this one song anyway and, and just in time too. He's gotta piss like a racehorse and his Jack and Coke (which is not actually Coke and just more Jack) is all gone. He needs a pick me up before either next set, because going by the clientele here, it's ginna be a long ass lonely night.
He sidled on up to the bar and before saying anything the bartender, a middle aged woman who looks more weathered than her bartop, shoves a chicken finger basket in front of him like he'd requested earlier. He's just shoving a French fry into his mouth when, suddenly, there's a guy next to him. A good looking guy.
Huh.]
Thanks.
[Jimmy finishes pulling out the carton of American Spirits in his breast pocket and taps one out. He flicks his hand, once, and goes to light the cigarette with his thumb, but the bartender clears her throat loudly and he can't help but look up. She clears her throat and points to the large NO SMOKING sign above her, looking more tired than annoyed. Clearly it's a war she ages every day, and it's a war she never wins.
Jimmy lights it anyway.
He takes a long drag, then gives this....new guy a long look up and down. He absolutely don't belong here, that's obvious. This is Fuck all, Tennessee, the locals barely wear any kind of pattern besides football gear for fear of looking....well. Y'know. He's too put together looking, too.
I'm absolutely positive I'm in the right bar. [ He doesn't miss that look, the slight once over, though Meliorn sees it as an unsure gesture. He's unsurprised - people have been looking at him oddly so often that he wonders if they can see his hair colour, or his ears, or his markings. He'd had to double check in the mirror on more than one occasion.
But he looks at the pale stranger and he can't help a smile, flashing too-white teeth as he lights a cigarette anyway.
He's absolutely perfect, Meliorn thinks, and that smile turns into a pleased smirk. ]
Has anyone told you how mesmerizing your work is? I hardly listen to country, but...
[The thing is this: Jimmy's only half in the closet. He's accepted it himself, worked through it and mostly embraceed the trials and tribulations that comes with being a bisexual man in the south. That don't mean he's advertising it in a place like this, where there's a cross over the door to the bathrooms and a faded American flag tacked permanently above the pool table.
Unfortunately, this guy is...okay. Fuckin' hot. An absolute mystery, and making him itchy, but Hot.
Fuck. Not like he's been known for good decisions anyway. ]
Uh. Sure? [He turns then to the bartender, who's giving him an odd look. Not bad, just. Odd.] Miss Caroline? Two PBRs, please?
[He gives her a wide grin, teeth clenched around his cigarette like a vice. Thw wink there at the end is a little unnecessary, but it warms her up enough to smirk ever so slightly and, it seems, forgive the whole cigarette buisness for the moment. Once her back is turned to grab the pint glasses, Jimmy leans in closer to the guy and whispers.]
Look, buddy, who are you? You outta Nashville? I mean, you're not from here, obviously.
A ways away. [ Meliorn answers, and he nods politely at the bartender--Miss Caroline--and gives her a hefty tip for her troubles. Let him look rich, he doesn't care.
The money's going to disappear in 12 hours anyway, most likely while it's still in the till. He learns over, just a bit--he's easy on the eyes, he can't help himself--and whispers almost conspiratorially. ]
New York. Near Central Park, actually, it's a wonderful view. [ He extends a hand in greeting, all charm, voice alluringly musical. New York hadn't been a lie, that's where the Seelie Court portal opens up. ]
Just here for a bit of business. I'm looking for people like you.
[For the brief moment the stranger is tipping Miss Caroline—hey, she deserves it with the shit she puts up with—Jimmy takes advantage and gives him another look. A different look this time, one that notes just how small he isn't, not when you look close enough. Jimmy himself is thin, maybe can throw a punch, but in reality he's more of a nice looking scarecrow than a man. This guy is-
And that's where that tread ends, because he says the magic words. New York. Fuck, he's lost talented friends to labels in New York. This could be it??? Instantly his demeanor changes. He straightens on his barstool, smooths back his shaggy hair like he can actually make it look presentable. He knows the outlaw vibe works in his favor, but lookin like a goddamn slob don't. ]
Holy shit. Uh. Yeah. No. Of course.
[Immediately he pops the cigarette back into his mouth so he has a free hand to shake with. It's a little weak, a little over eager, but the nicotine and nerves make him jittery.]
I don't - how did you even hear about me? I'm gonna be honest, I'm not doin' big stages here. And my YouTube channel's for shit.
[ Who is he to deny Jimmy McLeod of anything? Meliorn's smirk becomes sinister--just a little--and he leans back while the other straightens up. Jimmy's words are music to Meliorn's ears, moreso than Jimmy's actual music, as talented as he is.
Mundanes--and he counts Jimmy as one--are hopeful at their core. Meliorn knows exactly how to spin things, to twist things, to weave an intricate web of truths. It's in his blood, after all. ]
Please, please. Relax. [ He touches Jimmy's knee, however brief, and it looks almost like an accident before he grabs his drink. Beer has never been his favourite, and as he sips it he looks thoughtful. ] My higher-up. She sent me out here, actually, to look for people with talent and a gift. I didn't expect it to be here.
[ A small smile to the bartender. ]
I've never been so pleasantly surprised in my entire life. I'm Meliorn.
[The smirk flies past him, but Jimmy absolutely catches that little knee touch. Accident be fucked, there's a hell of a lot behind that one little touch and he prays none of the white trash sitting behind them catches it out the corner of their eyes. He tries not to show he even registers it, and maybe he does. The sudden nerves churning in his gut sure does drown a lot out.]
Jimmy. [Wait, no.] James. McLeod. But I mean, you know that, don't you? Heh.
[Jimmy takes his hand back and immediately plucks the cigarette from his mouth, setting it aside on a damp cardboard coaster. He takes a deep breath, coughs a little, then drains half the fresh pint that's Miss Caroline set down moments before. Fuckin nerves, man. Big shot musical types always throw him off and set him to churning, like too much Adderall and too little sleep.
[ Oh, he's nervous. He's chattering like a squirrel and Meliorn is genuinely pleased at the reaction. So much so that his next smile isn't hidden, and is instead genuine. His next drink is just a little deeper, taking his time. Let him sweat just a little longer. ]
It doesn't matter if I liked it or not--and I liked it--but what you need to concern yourself with is impressing the one I work for. Do you know much about first impressions, Jimmy?
Well that's a hell of a question. [He laughs, and brushes his hair out from his eyes.] My grandaddy always said first impressions don't mean shit because your work should speak for itself. Goes without saying people didn't like him much.
[Jimmy laughs, pure and genuine, the alcohol slipping through his veins loosening the grip his nerves have on the rest of his body. It's just as well; his buzz had been flagging dangerously and leading back into sobriety, and sober he's usually no good with high pressure situations.
He pops a few more fries into his mouth, leaning back in his barstool to give the joint a quick look over. Nope, no other outstanding patrons. No women in fancy floral or even in something that didn't come from a Wal Mart or a JC Pennys. If his boss is looking for a real first impression, she didn't pick tonight. And it's a shame, because he's been on fire tonight. He can still feel the music in his fingers, pulsing and pushing to be released.]
Is your boss here? I mean, live's always the best way to hear anyone, in my opinion. It don't look the same coming out the speaker, you know? Not as rich.
She trusts me implicitly. [ Meliorn seems quite pleased with Jimmy's answer, his own voice song-like and soft by virtue of his race and not any musical talent. The words themselves aren't short or clipped but firm, confident. A simple social cue to drop the line of questioning. ]
Do you doubt me?
[ He allows the amusement to be seen - a quirk of the lips, almost showing teeth. ]
Malik is the Brotherhoods best kept secret, having outlived most of his Assassin brothers. There are very few trusted with the knowledge of his age, or how many lifetimes he's lived. He does not appear to have aged beyond 26, and though he has been offered the title of Grand Master of their order, time and time again, he refuses to take up the mantle. He feels he is most useful as a Dai, their enemies rarely worry about him due to his position, more interested in picking off individual assassins and going after the Grand Master or hitting them at home. So long as he is alive, he is a living embodiment of their history and creed, and possesses valuable knowledge. But the Templars have yet to figure out just how valuable he is, mostly due to the fact that there is very little record of him, and the record is changed from time to time to hide what he truly is.
Being a Dai means he's been moved from one location to another where he's needed, he's been around the world at this point. He is given command of an area and any assassins, or shadowhunters as they are often called, assigned to him. He is their hub for information, handing out missions and work, rebuilding, protecting or otherwise fighting off their enemies or defending their area. And of course, being made to spy, gather information or hunt down targets and kill them. It has been a long time since Malik himself has gone out on missions, not that he isn't capable or hasn't been called to action from time to time. He occasionally likes to get his hands dirty to keep his skills sharp and go out and help the community in which he lives.
But for the most part Malik can always be found tending to his Bureau, which is located somewhere in the heart of the current town he finds himself in. His Bureau, now his home until he's needed elsewhere, is placed at the top of a building, with a wooden lattice that is left open for visitors to drop down through. Most are not aware of his location, as his assassins are trained well enough not to lead the enemy to him, but he also has his ways of covering up what his bureau is if anyone comes sniffing around that doesn't belong.
If one were to drop in from the top entrance they would be welcomed by a common room with places to rest on comfortable pillows and throws, potted plants and a fountain to help bring them calm. The view from above is a wonderful sight, the rest can be closed up if enemies are near or a storm threatens to bear down on them. Moving further into the bureau will find Malik's work area, with a counter, still strewn with hand drawn maps. Perhaps he is old fashioned but it gives him a reason to get the lay of the land and better track their work. He still uses ink and a quill to draw. There are shelves of books behind him, some simply there to mislead. Beyond this room are his living quarters and kitchen, most of the finery is that of his Arabic home, Not much has changed in over 800 years.
Malik and his kind are no doubt known to the Seelie court and all the other Supernaturals of downworld, they choose not to take any sort of side, remaining neutral and seeking to keep a balance. Many times they are sought by each side to help remove certain threats where necessary but they hold a tenuous position between the varying forces. Much of their work has to do with guiding human history and keeping certain power hungry sects like the Templars at bay, so they can not alter what is not theirs to command. They are also tasked with protecting certain powerful artifacts given to them by the First Civilization, that if fallen into the wrong hands, could do great and terrible things to the mortal and supernatural worlds. All in all, because of their work, they are sometimes looked down upon as dangerous or unscrupulous and while the former may be true, their Creed is heavily rooted in doing what is right, taking on the hard truths and doing the dirty work no one wishes to be responsible for. They are death dealers, so naturally, some find it hard to see them as a good force.
Malik will be easily found this day, in his bureau working on a new map. One thing is certain, that over the years he always has need to make new ones, even of a place he's already been 500 times over. The landscape is ever changing with time as buildings and designs are updated or made anew. There is only one way in or out of his home, unless someone uses supernatural means. And the Dai will notice one way or the other, his keen senses pricking to any magics or movement.
Shadowhunters - Assasins - whatever they are, Meliorn can't say he has any sort of love for them. In all fairness, he has little love for anyone that isn't Seelie, and it's not unfounded. No one trusts anyone but their own race, after all. Vampires stick to themselves and the mobs, Werewolves have their little herds, Warlocks rule over their own and Seelie hardly give anyone half a glance unless it's for their own gain.
There's a reason why 'never trust a Seelie' is so widespread.
Now, though, Meliorn has business. His Queen had given him orders, and he obeyed unquestioningly: go to the headquarters where the assasins are. Parlay. Meliorn is a soldier, yes, but now he's playing the role of the envoy.
There's a rogue Seelie on the loose, one who's killing indiscriminately -- and while Meliorn had genuinely liked Kaelie, the fact of the matter is she has to be dealt with. The problem is getting others to let the Seelie do it on their own terms.
He's unsurprised when he slips in that the man notices him right away, and he steps forward, a half smile on his lips. He's wearing no armor, which means his kind aren't at war - just floral pants, a white blouse, and his favourite brown trenchcoat.
Malik doesn't feel any sense of threat coming off the other as he steps forward and so, dips his quill to finish his work before setting it back in the inkwell and finally looking up. Dark eyes take in the sight of the other, not in armor but in light, comfortable clothing. Though he does not appear a threat, Malik won't so easily let his guard down, but he will be less guarded in his tone and dealing at least. He straightens up and folds his arm behind the small of his back, tipping his head as he studies the man before him. At first he almost appears human, if it weren't for the slight points to his ears. He blinks, shifts his gaze to eagle vision to get a better look at him or the color he glows, then blinks again.
"You are of the Seelie court, am I correct?" He is almost positive however, "I have not heard from your people in a very long time."
A soft musing before unfolding his arm and motioning with his open palm as if welcoming someone into his home and showing them the way.
"Please, introduce yourself and tell me what it is that troubles you today."
[ He hears of it, of course. One doesn't go far without hearing of the dreamwalkers and the sleepweavers. They're rumours, of course. Legends. Mundanes that somehow have the power to walk through dreams and weave other people's sleeps -- Shadowhunter or Downworlder alike, the consensus is the same: they're very stupid and going to get into more danger than needs to be.
But they're technically mundane, so they're technically under Shadowhunter protection, so they're technically off-limits. A pack of werewolves got one in Bombay, or so Maia heard and let others know. The mundane with the Sight and the briefcase was mauled instantly, the pack claiming he had not only stumbled onto their territory but threatened them, and that was that.
It's also exactly why Meliorn is currently at Hunter's Moon, where he may or may not be trying to figure out how to get his hands on said suitcase. Maia's not much help, not that he fully knows, but truth be told, Meliorn misses doing envoy work. As grimey and polluted as New York City is, he likes it. And he likes the Hunter's Moon.
The entire atmosphere shifts, though, the moment someone no one recognizes comes in. Someone without any runes. Meliorn glances over at Maia and she looks confused - doesn't smell like a werewolf. A glance at Simon over at the table with Clary confirms he's not a vampire, either. A mundane, then. It's been quite a while since a handsome mundane walked into the Downworlder bar. Meliorn is pleased, suddenly, the only empty seat in the crowded tavern is next to him. He nods, half-smiling. ]
[Eames has a specific mission that he's getting paid well for: find out what's the deal with these magic folks that people exposed to Somnacin can see now. Well, not all Somnacin. It seems to be a specific variation on the formula, but it is a good formula, so it's going around. After the death of an extractor in Bombay, everyone's been on high alert. And Gregor Industries - a company with their hand in about everyone's pocket - has always relied heavily upon corporate spies - ones in dream share specifically.
He scans the bar as he walks in, looking for exits, and for an empty seat and a target. The second part is easier than the first; it's packed in here, and he's the center of attention right away. He's wearing tailored trousers, a colorful button-down with the sleeves rolled up juuust enough that you can tell those are tattoos on his arms, not runes. He nods back as he sits next to the other man.]
Hello! Nice night, yeah?
[He knows probably everyone in that bar wants to know his motive for being there, but he decides to act casual.]
An old-fashioned, [he tells the bartender with a wink.]
[ Says the man who wears floral print consistently when off the clock. Meliorn keeps his voice smooth and his smile neutral but friendly. He's yet to figure out if this man's merely a walk in, or one who can see the vines along his face and the blue in his hair, nevermind the pointed ears. Maia immediately sets about to making it, but not before glancing over at Meliorn. It's a warning look that Meliorn chooses to flat out ignore. ]
I'll have one as well--tourist?
[ Maia gives him another look. Meliorn finishes the last gulps of his glass of wine, and the crowd slowly begins to turn their attention back on their business--after all, Meliorn's practically called dibs. ]
[ Oh dear, is he fishing? Meliorn's friendly smile turns into a nearly cat like smirk. He's fishing. It's the same sweep of the eyes Seelie use. That, or he's just a very fashion challenged homosexual.
Either way, Meliorn gets to have a bit of fun tonight. ]
Charming. Bold of you march right up here, but I'm fond of people who knows what they want.
[ And, once their drinks are made and Meliorn waves slightly (put it on his tab), he holds it up and looks at the other pointedly. ]
And just like that, Meliorn has the upper hand. He has to give it to the other, he really does -- either this one is a mundane with the Sight (Which is rare, very rare), or a dreamwalker. Either way, he's now number one on Meliorn's list of people to take home.
The problem is that he has to be careful. Clary's a table over. Simon, too. And Maia. It's only a matter of time before Magnus and Alec show up.
Meliorn's smirk widens. ] It didn't hurt. That's the next question you were going to ask, correct?
[ When he sticks a hand out for a shake, the smirk is back to a smile. ]
You're... [ How to phrase this in a way that sounds convincing? He presses his lips together, allowing himself to think. He knows Maia can hear them both, despite being at the other end of the noisy bar. The clock is also ticking down until the Head of the New York Institute comes sauntering in with his High Warlock boyfriend. ]
You're quite new, if you didn't recognize this. [ A tap to his face. ] But you're attractive, and I've always liked accents, so I'll cut you some slack.
[ The trick is to feed just enough information to him to make it seem like he's the one playing you. That's how it always works. ]
They don't know this is one of many Downworlder bars, for instance. And they don't know that we're very aware of what they do. Or how angry some of us are getting.
[ It's over. Valentine has been defeated, the Shadow world is safe again. But not before it all came too damn close to falling apart, and not before the always fragile trust in the Shadowhunters became almost irreparably damaged.
Now is the time for strengthening bonds and making new ones, to create assurances and perform displays of goodwill.
The suggestion from the Seelie Queen that a Shadowhunter marry a member of her court came as a complete surprise, but it was hardly out of character. She does like to shock after all, and Isabelle is still of the opinion that underneath all the layers of scheming this is also some kind of punishment.
That is, in fact, exactly why she offered herself up to be the bride. She has, to her own mind, a lot of atoning to do. This is as good a place as any to start.
She knows now that she wants so much more than the flighty and very physical relationships she has enjoyed in the past. She wants a deep connection, something not just between bodies, but between souls.
She is also convinced that she doesn't deserve to have this. Not anymore.
The Queen being... The Queen, the whole affair of course came with some quirks to it. Izzy still doesn't actually know who she will be marrying, which is supremely uncomfortable on the one hand, but on the other she doesn't really know that many Seelies so in the end it might not matter all that much.
She did toy with the thought of it being Meliorn, and what she would do if that was the case, but surely the Queen wouldn't impose something like that on one of her favourites?
So, here she is, on her wedding day, still not sure who she will be meeting once she enters the seelie realm.
She decided to wear the same golden dress that she wore to Alec's wedding. Not getting a brand new one is a tiny gesture of defiance that she allows herself. Besides, it looks fantastic on her.
The group of Shadowhunters escorting her to the Seelie grove are being guided to the ceremony by some highly amused Seelies (who first took the time to braid an abundance of flowers into her hair), and Izzy holds her head high the entire way. She's not going to let anyone see that she has started to tremble a little inside. ]
[ He wonders if this is punishment. His face had been marred--a lesson, of course, in straying from the Queen's orders--but he was deemed to valuable to live. This, he thinks, is more punishment. A strategic punishment, of course, because Meliorn has the best relationship with the Shadowhunters, but there's something more.
There's always something more.
It's not uncommon for political marriages to not know who one another are -- he's aware that there's a Shadowhunter, and they're aware (hopefully) that it's a Seelie in the knight caste. Nothing more. There doesn't need to be anything more.
Shadowhunters are the ones who try to shut off their emotions and fail. Seelie are superior in that aspect: not that Meliorn had a choice, but he agreed without hesitation. At the very worst, he'll just outlive the other. That's his line of thinking going into this, dressed in his armour -- again, tradition -- and waiting to see his bride. She rounds the corner int he woods, and Meliorn's eyes can't help but widen. ]
Isabelle.
[ She's ethereal. Captivating. Meliorn ignores the flood of happiness that flows through him save for a small smile. ]
You look... beautiful. [ It's the flowers that make it, woven in neatly into her hair. Like a Seelie princess. ]
[ It takes a long moment before Isabelle can speak, a whole big mess of feelings fighting a small war inside her as she looks at her future husband.
In some ways, this is the best possible outcome. It's Meliorn after all. He is her friend, and not long ago he was even her lover.
That's just the thing, though. She cares about Meliorn, she cares about him a lot, and even though she was okay with marrying someone she doesn't feel the same way about as she does about Raphael... that isn't something she wants to do to someone who means as much to her as Mel.
She can't back out though, she knows that, so all these conflicting emotions are going to have to hide behind the little smirk she manages to force onto her lips, aiming for something like their usual banter. ]
[ It hadn't been that bad for a Saturday night, all things considered. Meliorn and parties are an odd mix--he enjoys them to an extent, but he never seems to get drunk. He watches himself carefully, paces himself accordingly, because being out of control seems like a monumentally stupid idea. Probably an inner hang-up. He should see a psychologist about it. But, no, he stays in control and self-contained.
Unless, of course, it involves sex. Meliorn has no problems being out of control when it comes to coital affairs, and that's why there's an even warmer air about him today. Meliorn's always been relaxed, effortlessly elegant--someone who got his dance start in ballet before moving onto other styles--but there's an extra spring in his step that only really happens after he's had one hell of a romp.
A threesome with Brigitte and Bucky will make anyone rather pleased with themselves, Meliorn included.
He usually arrives to the dressing room early, the one he shares with Bucky, and this is no exception--it gives him time to relax, time to think, time to spread out a yoga matt on the very small floor and sit cross-legged. He's shirtless, in dance leggings and his dancer belt, eyes closed, breathing soft. Meditating. ]
[ he hadn't really expected things to go down the way they had. sure, he's had his share of hookups, but he'd never actually entertained the thought of sleeping with a guy before. aside from wondering about it anyway. while really drunk. but the fact remains that he'd never really thought about it much before, not due to aversion or disinterest but simply because it just hadn't ever been something to consider properly for more than the sake of momentary entertainment.
maybe it's because the three of them are playing roles that are actually that of friends, but proper thoughts aside, it somehow just made sense that the three of them would try something together, if not now at least sometime before the end of the season. that's what he feels when he goes to get coffee for the three of them, something he's done a few times since casting that is less about who or why but the fact that everyone in the city practically runs on the stuff. not that he understands how meliorn's preferred fancy pants cup of joe does half as much of a good job, but it does always smell nice.
he knocks before entering, in case mel's changing and wants to cover up, but bucky's pretty sure his co-star is probably just doing yoga. opening the door, he finds exactly just that and smiles amusedly to himself as he hangs up his bag and sets the drinks holder carton on the makeup counter. as is now normal, he keeps quiet, letting mel have his moment to relax. it can get pretty intense and stressful once rehearsal starts. they could both use the quiet, really. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But that's tomorrow-Jimmy's problem. All tonight-Jimmy has to worry about is staying on that line between buzzed and drunk long enough to put on a great set and if his strings are gonna hold up. He's got the money for it, but it's a goddamn oddesy to the nearest music store that sells his brand. Spares won't work—they muddy up the music and the magic in it and turn everything sickly and dull.
What's coming out of guitar right now is anything but. His fingers fly over the strings, the music curling from the wood and metal in orage-green whips. It curls around him like smoke, and shit, he's absolutely on fire tonight. He croons his words into the microphone, all about loss and the road and Baptist guilt that keeps him from becoming a bastard or point of pride from his parents. They're not new ideas, countless songs have been written before. But shit, when he leans into the microphone and sings, he can feel a little of himself coming out with it and it's exhilarating.
No one's listening, of paying attention to the tendrils of music that swirl around them and dissipate like smoke. It doesn't matter. He's happy for the moment.
no subject
Or maybe that's exactly why he's here--maybe his Queen has deigned him special enough to take this mission, and no one else. It's hard to say, and not even his place to question, and so he doesn't. Instead, he asks for wine (that earns an odd look) and listens.
To his absolute delight, Jimmy McLeod is listenable. There's still the country twang, but it's not at the frequency that makes Meliorn's ears hurt. It has to be frequency, he thinks, because he's quite fond of electronic music. Regardless, lifting the glass to his lips, he watches.
His Queen is right. Jimmy is talented, and a smile pulls at his lips as he realizes exactly why he's here. Best the Seelie's get their hands on that power than the Warlocks, or, heaven forbid, Shadowhunters.
He's polite, though. Meliorn waits until the song is up before buying him a drink. He's glamoured to look as normal as possible, although he still wears floral patterns and muted earth tones. Once the other's on a brief break, he raises his glass to signal a hello, and gets up altogether to approach him. ]
You're quite talented.
[ He makes it a point to look bashful and shy. ]
no subject
He sidled on up to the bar and before saying anything the bartender, a middle aged woman who looks more weathered than her bartop, shoves a chicken finger basket in front of him like he'd requested earlier. He's just shoving a French fry into his mouth when, suddenly, there's a guy next to him. A good looking guy.
Huh.]
Thanks.
[Jimmy finishes pulling out the carton of American Spirits in his breast pocket and taps one out. He flicks his hand, once, and goes to light the cigarette with his thumb, but the bartender clears her throat loudly and he can't help but look up. She clears her throat and points to the large NO SMOKING sign above her, looking more tired than annoyed. Clearly it's a war she ages every day, and it's a war she never wins.
Jimmy lights it anyway.
He takes a long drag, then gives this....new guy a long look up and down. He absolutely don't belong here, that's obvious. This is Fuck all, Tennessee, the locals barely wear any kind of pattern besides football gear for fear of looking....well. Y'know. He's too put together looking, too.
Oh, shit. Could he be from a record label?]
Man, you, uh. You sure you're in the right bar?
no subject
But he looks at the pale stranger and he can't help a smile, flashing too-white teeth as he lights a cigarette anyway.
He's absolutely perfect, Meliorn thinks, and that smile turns into a pleased smirk. ]
Has anyone told you how mesmerizing your work is? I hardly listen to country, but...
[ He waves a hand dismissively. ]
Join me in a drink, will you? My treat.
no subject
Unfortunately, this guy is...okay. Fuckin' hot. An absolute mystery, and making him itchy, but Hot.
Fuck. Not like he's been known for good decisions anyway. ]
Uh. Sure? [He turns then to the bartender, who's giving him an odd look. Not bad, just. Odd.] Miss Caroline? Two PBRs, please?
[He gives her a wide grin, teeth clenched around his cigarette like a vice. Thw wink there at the end is a little unnecessary, but it warms her up enough to smirk ever so slightly and, it seems, forgive the whole cigarette buisness for the moment. Once her back is turned to grab the pint glasses, Jimmy leans in closer to the guy and whispers.]
Look, buddy, who are you? You outta Nashville? I mean, you're not from here, obviously.
no subject
The money's going to disappear in 12 hours anyway, most likely while it's still in the till. He learns over, just a bit--he's easy on the eyes, he can't help himself--and whispers almost conspiratorially. ]
New York. Near Central Park, actually, it's a wonderful view. [ He extends a hand in greeting, all charm, voice alluringly musical. New York hadn't been a lie, that's where the Seelie Court portal opens up. ]
Just here for a bit of business. I'm looking for people like you.
no subject
And that's where that tread ends, because he says the magic words. New York. Fuck, he's lost talented friends to labels in New York. This could be it??? Instantly his demeanor changes. He straightens on his barstool, smooths back his shaggy hair like he can actually make it look presentable. He knows the outlaw vibe works in his favor, but lookin like a goddamn slob don't. ]
Holy shit. Uh. Yeah. No. Of course.
[Immediately he pops the cigarette back into his mouth so he has a free hand to shake with. It's a little weak, a little over eager, but the nicotine and nerves make him jittery.]
I don't - how did you even hear about me? I'm gonna be honest, I'm not doin' big stages here. And my YouTube channel's for shit.
no subject
Mundanes--and he counts Jimmy as one--are hopeful at their core. Meliorn knows exactly how to spin things, to twist things, to weave an intricate web of truths. It's in his blood, after all. ]
Please, please. Relax. [ He touches Jimmy's knee, however brief, and it looks almost like an accident before he grabs his drink. Beer has never been his favourite, and as he sips it he looks thoughtful. ] My higher-up. She sent me out here, actually, to look for people with talent and a gift. I didn't expect it to be here.
[ A small smile to the bartender. ]
I've never been so pleasantly surprised in my entire life. I'm Meliorn.
no subject
Jimmy. [Wait, no.] James. McLeod. But I mean, you know that, don't you? Heh.
[Jimmy takes his hand back and immediately plucks the cigarette from his mouth, setting it aside on a damp cardboard coaster. He takes a deep breath, coughs a little, then drains half the fresh pint that's Miss Caroline set down moments before. Fuckin nerves, man.
Big shot musical types always throw him off and set him to churning, like too much Adderall and too little sleep.
And. He can still feel that hand on his knee]
Uh. So....how'd you like the set?
no subject
It doesn't matter if I liked it or not--and I liked it--but what you need to concern yourself with is impressing the one I work for. Do you know much about first impressions, Jimmy?
[ The smile's more of a smirk. ]
no subject
[Jimmy laughs, pure and genuine, the alcohol slipping through his veins loosening the grip his nerves have on the rest of his body. It's just as well; his buzz had been flagging dangerously and leading back into sobriety, and sober he's usually no good with high pressure situations.
He pops a few more fries into his mouth, leaning back in his barstool to give the joint a quick look over. Nope, no other outstanding patrons. No women in fancy floral or even in something that didn't come from a Wal Mart or a JC Pennys. If his boss is looking for a real first impression, she didn't pick tonight. And it's a shame, because he's been on fire tonight. He can still feel the music in his fingers, pulsing and pushing to be released.]
Is your boss here? I mean, live's always the best way to hear anyone, in my opinion. It don't look the same coming out the speaker, you know? Not as rich.
no subject
Do you doubt me?
[ He allows the amusement to be seen - a quirk of the lips, almost showing teeth. ]
AU! Malik + Assassins
Being a Dai means he's been moved from one location to another where he's needed, he's been around the world at this point. He is given command of an area and any assassins, or shadowhunters as they are often called, assigned to him. He is their hub for information, handing out missions and work, rebuilding, protecting or otherwise fighting off their enemies or defending their area. And of course, being made to spy, gather information or hunt down targets and kill them. It has been a long time since Malik himself has gone out on missions, not that he isn't capable or hasn't been called to action from time to time. He occasionally likes to get his hands dirty to keep his skills sharp and go out and help the community in which he lives.
But for the most part Malik can always be found tending to his Bureau, which is located somewhere in the heart of the current town he finds himself in. His Bureau, now his home until he's needed elsewhere, is placed at the top of a building, with a wooden lattice that is left open for visitors to drop down through. Most are not aware of his location, as his assassins are trained well enough not to lead the enemy to him, but he also has his ways of covering up what his bureau is if anyone comes sniffing around that doesn't belong.
If one were to drop in from the top entrance they would be welcomed by a common room with places to rest on comfortable pillows and throws, potted plants and a fountain to help bring them calm. The view from above is a wonderful sight, the rest can be closed up if enemies are near or a storm threatens to bear down on them. Moving further into the bureau will find Malik's work area, with a counter, still strewn with hand drawn maps. Perhaps he is old fashioned but it gives him a reason to get the lay of the land and better track their work. He still uses ink and a quill to draw. There are shelves of books behind him, some simply there to mislead. Beyond this room are his living quarters and kitchen, most of the finery is that of his Arabic home, Not much has changed in over 800 years.
Malik and his kind are no doubt known to the Seelie court and all the other Supernaturals of downworld, they choose not to take any sort of side, remaining neutral and seeking to keep a balance. Many times they are sought by each side to help remove certain threats where necessary but they hold a tenuous position between the varying forces. Much of their work has to do with guiding human history and keeping certain power hungry sects like the Templars at bay, so they can not alter what is not theirs to command. They are also tasked with protecting certain powerful artifacts given to them by the First Civilization, that if fallen into the wrong hands, could do great and terrible things to the mortal and supernatural worlds. All in all, because of their work, they are sometimes looked down upon as dangerous or unscrupulous and while the former may be true, their Creed is heavily rooted in doing what is right, taking on the hard truths and doing the dirty work no one wishes to be responsible for. They are death dealers, so naturally, some find it hard to see them as a good force.
Malik will be easily found this day, in his bureau working on a new map. One thing is certain, that over the years he always has need to make new ones, even of a place he's already been 500 times over. The landscape is ever changing with time as buildings and designs are updated or made anew. There is only one way in or out of his home, unless someone uses supernatural means. And the Dai will notice one way or the other, his keen senses pricking to any magics or movement.
"Come in and make yourself known." He mutters, not looking up from the lines he is carefully drawing. His accent is still thick and curled at the edges, but his voice is smooth like silk. He is missing an arm, one dark sleeve pinned up over the remaining stump so that it does not hang loosely.
I'm just making shit up lmk if it's alright.
There's a reason why 'never trust a Seelie' is so widespread.
Now, though, Meliorn has business. His Queen had given him orders, and he obeyed unquestioningly: go to the headquarters where the assasins are. Parlay. Meliorn is a soldier, yes, but now he's playing the role of the envoy.
There's a rogue Seelie on the loose, one who's killing indiscriminately -- and while Meliorn had genuinely liked Kaelie, the fact of the matter is she has to be dealt with. The problem is getting others to let the Seelie do it on their own terms.
He's unsurprised when he slips in that the man notices him right away, and he steps forward, a half smile on his lips. He's wearing no armor, which means his kind aren't at war - just floral pants, a white blouse, and his favourite brown trenchcoat.
"I wish to talk on behalf of my people."
it's all good
"You are of the Seelie court, am I correct?" He is almost positive however, "I have not heard from your people in a very long time."
A soft musing before unfolding his arm and motioning with his open palm as if welcoming someone into his home and showing them the way.
"Please, introduce yourself and tell me what it is that troubles you today."
eames; don't wake up i'll be here for centuries;
But they're technically mundane, so they're technically under Shadowhunter protection, so they're technically off-limits. A pack of werewolves got one in Bombay, or so Maia heard and let others know. The mundane with the Sight and the briefcase was mauled instantly, the pack claiming he had not only stumbled onto their territory but threatened them, and that was that.
It's also exactly why Meliorn is currently at Hunter's Moon, where he may or may not be trying to figure out how to get his hands on said suitcase. Maia's not much help, not that he fully knows, but truth be told, Meliorn misses doing envoy work. As grimey and polluted as New York City is, he likes it. And he likes the Hunter's Moon.
The entire atmosphere shifts, though, the moment someone no one recognizes comes in. Someone without any runes. Meliorn glances over at Maia and she looks confused - doesn't smell like a werewolf. A glance at Simon over at the table with Clary confirms he's not a vampire, either. A mundane, then. It's been quite a while since a handsome mundane walked into the Downworlder bar. Meliorn is pleased, suddenly, the only empty seat in the crowded tavern is next to him. He nods, half-smiling. ]
no subject
He scans the bar as he walks in, looking for exits, and for an empty seat and a target. The second part is easier than the first; it's packed in here, and he's the center of attention right away. He's wearing tailored trousers, a colorful button-down with the sleeves rolled up juuust enough that you can tell those are tattoos on his arms, not runes. He nods back as he sits next to the other man.]
Hello! Nice night, yeah?
[He knows probably everyone in that bar wants to know his motive for being there, but he decides to act casual.]
An old-fashioned, [he tells the bartender with a wink.]
no subject
[ Says the man who wears floral print consistently when off the clock. Meliorn keeps his voice smooth and his smile neutral but friendly. He's yet to figure out if this man's merely a walk in, or one who can see the vines along his face and the blue in his hair, nevermind the pointed ears. Maia immediately sets about to making it, but not before glancing over at Meliorn. It's a warning look that Meliorn chooses to flat out ignore. ]
I'll have one as well--tourist?
[ Maia gives him another look. Meliorn finishes the last gulps of his glass of wine, and the crowd slowly begins to turn their attention back on their business--after all, Meliorn's practically called dibs. ]
no subject
[He's bait, so Eames is being as mysterious as he wants, hoping he'll interest the man enough to get him talking.]
You could say that, [he says carefully.] Although I do have more of an idea of what I'd like than I think a tourist would.
[And then he intentionally looks over Meliorn, as if he can't help himself.]
no subject
Either way, Meliorn gets to have a bit of fun tonight. ]
Charming. Bold of you march right up here, but I'm fond of people who knows what they want.
[ And, once their drinks are made and Meliorn waves slightly (put it on his tab), he holds it up and looks at the other pointedly. ]
What is it, exactly, what you want?
no subject
Enlightenment, [he says vaguely, swallowing back some of his drink.]
Is that a tattoo?
[He points to Mel's face, unaware he's giving something away.]
no subject
And just like that, Meliorn has the upper hand. He has to give it to the other, he really does -- either this one is a mundane with the Sight (Which is rare, very rare), or a dreamwalker. Either way, he's now number one on Meliorn's list of people to take home.
The problem is that he has to be careful. Clary's a table over. Simon, too. And Maia. It's only a matter of time before Magnus and Alec show up.
Meliorn's smirk widens. ] It didn't hurt. That's the next question you were going to ask, correct?
[ When he sticks a hand out for a shake, the smirk is back to a smile. ]
no subject
Perhaps.
[He shakes his hand, firm but warm, and leans in a little.]
Eames.
[There's really no reason not to use this name. It's not like these people have resources within the dream community.]
no subject
[ He's going to tell him anyway, and, without giving his name back, he takes a sip. ]
That there are mundanes out there with the Sight, now. They can see through our glamour.
no subject
The dream people? What do you know of them?
[He's not aware there are non-dream share people that can see through their 'glamour', and he's unaware of his mistake in assuming that.]
no subject
You're quite new, if you didn't recognize this. [ A tap to his face. ] But you're attractive, and I've always liked accents, so I'll cut you some slack.
[ The trick is to feed just enough information to him to make it seem like he's the one playing you. That's how it always works. ]
They don't know this is one of many Downworlder bars, for instance. And they don't know that we're very aware of what they do. Or how angry some of us are getting.
no subject
How aware? You know some people within the business?
[He hopes not, or this is worse than he thought.]
Angry why?
Wedding time!! (sorry about the delay)
Now is the time for strengthening bonds and making new ones, to create assurances and perform displays of goodwill.
The suggestion from the Seelie Queen that a Shadowhunter marry a member of her court came as a complete surprise, but it was hardly out of character. She does like to shock after all, and Isabelle is still of the opinion that underneath all the layers of scheming this is also some kind of punishment.
That is, in fact, exactly why she offered herself up to be the bride. She has, to her own mind, a lot of atoning to do. This is as good a place as any to start.
She knows now that she wants so much more than the flighty and very physical relationships she has enjoyed in the past. She wants a deep connection, something not just between bodies, but between souls.
She is also convinced that she doesn't deserve to have this. Not anymore.
The Queen being... The Queen, the whole affair of course came with some quirks to it. Izzy still doesn't actually know who she will be marrying, which is supremely uncomfortable on the one hand, but on the other she doesn't really know that many Seelies so in the end it might not matter all that much.
She did toy with the thought of it being Meliorn, and what she would do if that was the case, but surely the Queen wouldn't impose something like that on one of her favourites?
So, here she is, on her wedding day, still not sure who she will be meeting once she enters the seelie realm.
She decided to wear the same golden dress that she wore to Alec's wedding. Not getting a brand new one is a tiny gesture of defiance that she allows herself. Besides, it looks fantastic on her.
The group of Shadowhunters escorting her to the Seelie grove are being guided to the ceremony by some highly amused Seelies (who first took the time to braid an abundance of flowers into her hair), and Izzy holds her head high the entire way. She's not going to let anyone see that she has started to tremble a little inside. ]
no subject
There's always something more.
It's not uncommon for political marriages to not know who one another are -- he's aware that there's a Shadowhunter, and they're aware (hopefully) that it's a Seelie in the knight caste. Nothing more. There doesn't need to be anything more.
Shadowhunters are the ones who try to shut off their emotions and fail. Seelie are superior in that aspect: not that Meliorn had a choice, but he agreed without hesitation. At the very worst, he'll just outlive the other. That's his line of thinking going into this, dressed in his armour -- again, tradition -- and waiting to see his bride. She rounds the corner int he woods, and Meliorn's eyes can't help but widen. ]
Isabelle.
[ She's ethereal. Captivating. Meliorn ignores the flood of happiness that flows through him save for a small smile. ]
You look... beautiful. [ It's the flowers that make it, woven in neatly into her hair. Like a Seelie princess. ]
I totally get it if this is too old to continue
In some ways, this is the best possible outcome. It's Meliorn after all. He is her friend, and not long ago he was even her lover.
That's just the thing, though. She cares about Meliorn, she cares about him a lot, and even though she was okay with marrying someone she doesn't feel the same way about as she does about Raphael... that isn't something she wants to do to someone who means as much to her as Mel.
She can't back out though, she knows that, so all these conflicting emotions are going to have to hide behind the little smirk she manages to force onto her lips, aiming for something like their usual banter. ]
I guess you clean up pretty alright too.
You do something to me;
Unless, of course, it involves sex. Meliorn has no problems being out of control when it comes to coital affairs, and that's why there's an even warmer air about him today. Meliorn's always been relaxed, effortlessly elegant--someone who got his dance start in ballet before moving onto other styles--but there's an extra spring in his step that only really happens after he's had one hell of a romp.
A threesome with Brigitte and Bucky will make anyone rather pleased with themselves, Meliorn included.
He usually arrives to the dressing room early, the one he shares with Bucky, and this is no exception--it gives him time to relax, time to think, time to spread out a yoga matt on the very small floor and sit cross-legged. He's shirtless, in dance leggings and his dancer belt, eyes closed, breathing soft. Meditating. ]
no subject
maybe it's because the three of them are playing roles that are actually that of friends, but proper thoughts aside, it somehow just made sense that the three of them would try something together, if not now at least sometime before the end of the season. that's what he feels when he goes to get coffee for the three of them, something he's done a few times since casting that is less about who or why but the fact that everyone in the city practically runs on the stuff. not that he understands how meliorn's preferred fancy pants cup of joe does half as much of a good job, but it does always smell nice.
he knocks before entering, in case mel's changing and wants to cover up, but bucky's pretty sure his co-star is probably just doing yoga. opening the door, he finds exactly just that and smiles amusedly to himself as he hangs up his bag and sets the drinks holder carton on the makeup counter. as is now normal, he keeps quiet, letting mel have his moment to relax. it can get pretty intense and stressful once rehearsal starts. they could both use the quiet, really. ]