Who: Gideon Morrow and Jones
When: last night
Where: a back street in New Meridian
What: Jones ventures out after a night of drinking and runs into former "arch-nemesis" Gideon Morrow. They have an odd conversation before parting ways.


Jones enjoyed pretending to be drunk nearly as much as actually being drunk. There were some benefits to the game - you would remember the conversations you had in such a condition, there would be no hangover come morning, and you could see which of your associates would try to take advantage of you should you need to rely on a companion.

Fringe benefits: You could sing as loudly as you wanted, stumble about, act foolish, and people passed it off to the fact that you were helplessly inebriated. (Or so they assumed.) Sometimes a good hard drunk was necessary to flush out the mind and help retain sanity for a while, but if you wanted amusement you could laugh at for some weeks instead of the few hours that would slip away with the dawn, the deception was a sure way to go.

Currently, the faun had left behind the so-called 'friends' he had been drinking with. Two of them had been written off immediately, after turning their noses down on the blue wine he'd purchased. The third, once they had been well into their cups, had tried to pass off the entire bill to Jones, who was not quite as drunk as his associates had believed. Luckily. Jones had prattled on long enough about tax and importing and the expense of supplying the wine, that the others had resigned themselves to splitting up the tab. And Jones had slipped away before they could try to find away to get their profit back.

Oh, well. The bar hadn't been that spectacular anyway. Even if the youth who had appreciated the wine had been somewhat attractive.

Jones was carrying his wine bottle in one hand, his swaying motions as he walked down the road carefully planned as not to spill a drop. The blue Aeriun Wine was abundant on the Plane of Air, but here in Aylasia, it was more rare than... than...

"Light bulbs," he muttered, taking a drink. "Ain't got any light bulbs here. Not like that third rock from Sol."

Okay. Maybe he wasn't completely pretending. But he was far closer to sober than sauced.

Gideon Morrow was out for one of his evening walks in New Meridian. The weather was pleasant, a little cooler than usual for this hottest month of the year. It was later than he thought. He hadn't put much store into his clock lately; the older he got the less he seemed to care about the convention of time when he had no need of punctuality (he would never dream of being late for Parliament).

It was quiet enough meandering along the street burning with gaslight every few feet. New Meridian was one of the few places that could afford such extravagant and beautiful lighting during all hours of the night. On this lovely evening on the quiet street he noticed a less than quiet denizen tottering drunkenly down the way. That faun, he thought with gritted teeth, though Jones could hardly be considered a regular sort of faun. He knew him, had tried several times in vain to investigate the faun's comings and goings when he was still a member of the law enforcement bureau. He hung back and watched the drunken behavior from a distance. He didn't feel the need or desire to approach yet.

Jones, meanwhile, had heard the footsteps. His vision was as excellent as it had always been - even in the shadowy areas between the streetlamps, he could see as clearly as day. Morrow was someone he couldn't help but know by shape alone. The man had taken an interest in him for years. Not that Jones could blame him. After all, it was clear to anyone with a brain that Jones was hardly your typical woodland faun. It was almost flattering.

Encouraged by the audience, Jones began to sing. His voice was strong and baritone, and he could hold a note well. When sober. Since the point of this evening's escapade was to indicate otherwise, his voice was off-key and out of tune.

"A man walked into a chandler's shop, some candles for to buy / And when he got into the shop, nobody did he spy / So he turned upon his heel, and towards the door he sped / When he heard the sound of a--" Jones clapped his hands thrice in succession. "--Right above his head / Yes, he heard the sound of a" Clap, clap, clap "Right above his head!"

Gideon was hardly amused by the musical escapade. He smirked all the same, wondering why there were no laws on the book about drunken revelry in the streets. "Why hello there Jones," he called, almost as if he had every right in the world to call out to the faun in such a friendly way. "How does this evening find you?"

Jones looked back towards the man, pretending to squint as though his vision were blurry. "'Ey, copper!" he said, his strange accent thickening with the improvised slur. "Evenin', is it? Ach! Must be why all these fireflies be followin' me home." He waved a hand at the gas lit lamps, as if trying to rid himself of a fly.

He lifted the bottle in his hand. "Ye fancy a drink, copper, sir?"

It was a known fact that Gideon Morrow was no longer an investigator. No, the man had wormed his way up the ranks to a loftier perch. But that hadn't stopped Jones from continuing to refer to the man as a cop

"Why Jones, I am sure you know I'm no longer an officer with the law enforcement bureau," he said, trying to maintain his sense of composure. Such a happy snake to slither politely through the streets and greet friends and enemies as if all were delightful old companions. He eyed the bottle of wine a little suspiciously. "I'm not certain I've ever seen that sort of liquor before," he said, which was more truthful than sly. He had never seen blue wine before and was innocently curious for once.

"Ach! There's a pity, now. If ye like wine, it's got a good bit of kick. Special import, ye know." He waggled the bottle just a bit. He wasn't sure that Morrow would take any, though he was curious enough to see if he would. One sip would be all, though. Jones didn't like the man enough to share a bottle. That was a pasttime reserved for Hamlin. That bloke knew how to enjoy himself.

He also wasn't going to say exactly where it was imported from. Let the man wonder what he liked.

"I'm not sure I'm one for a good kick," Gideon replied, a little prudishly. "Though I do appreciate the offer," he added quickly, attempting to be smooth. It wasn't really working. "What has you out on this fine evening?" he asked, though it was certainly none of his business and he was just as likely to get the same runabout he did back in his investigating days.

Jones leaned back, taking a long swig from his bottle. Then he smiled, and pointed at the sky. "Fresh air, an' all. Pretty lovely, once ye get the hang of it." He scratched at one of his horns, then rested his arm against it. "That's moon is lovely tonight, eh? Don't it just make ye want to howl?"

From this angle, however, the moon was well behind Jones. He was pointing at a street lamp instead.

"All them bitty little stars flyin' about it as well. I ain't seen a sight like that in..." He trailed off, tilting his head and simultaneously stretching the arm over his horn. "Ye know, I think I ain't never seen a sight quite like that." He started a bit, and brought up his hands. "It reminds me of a song! C'mon, copper, doncha know it?" As strong and bad as before, Jones began to sing. "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amore!"

"I can't say as I know that song," Gideon said, his eyes bigger than the "moon" Jones was staring at. "Is it one of your faun folk songs?" he asked, unable to hide the tinge of derision in his question. He had no interest in the songs of magical beings, hardly any interest in conversing with one but to find out the mystery of his disappearances and returns.

Faun... folk songs?

The question made Jones start laughing. Genuinely laughing. A great, deep, belly laugh rumbled it's way out of his chest, and he had to curl the wine bottle tightly in his arms to preserve it. "That's a good one, copper," he said, still chuckling. "But ye know we faun use our pipes. Tradition, a'course." Fauns and satyrs alike used their pipes to bewitch and suggest. Jones had never learned the skill. He could sing and he could whistle, and he now did the latter in a short and piping tune. But being raised... elsewhere, he had never developed that bond with the reed pipes of his father's kin.

"Nah, that song comes from the Italians. Me mother spoke o' them. Strange lot. Obsessed with noodles and tomatoes." He tilted his head at the man, taking a step forward that was clearly unsteady. "Y' ne'er heard o' them?" The faun shrugged. "E' un peccato!" He raised his bottle to his lips, then frowned. Jones examined the bottle and sighed. It was empty. "Quello sarà duro da sostituire," he added with a pout.

That's a shame! // That will be hard to replace.

"No," he said, no less interested in these words than he'd been about the wine. The italians? "I've never heard of them," he said with slight interest, another attempt at subtlety, though given Jones' state he hoped this one might work better than the last.

No such luck, mate. "Pity," was the only thing Jones said on the matter, before settling back against a building and leaning his head back until his horns were braced against it. Then he shut his eyes.

Infuriating, frustrating, stone-walling demon spawn! Gideon held his spluttering inside and eyed the faun with a level of irritation he hadn't felt since his failed investigations. This was why he had worked so tediously to learn all of Jones' secrets (and yet to still walk away with the knowledge of none). "Perhaps someday," he said, though the interest had gone out of his tone and clearly meeting Italians was not on his to-do list. "I don't get out of the city much these days. No hopes of meeting interesting new people when I never leave my own backyard."

He sighed, shrugged, shuffled his feet. He was reluctant to part ways just on the off chance that Jones might let something slip, something besides another infuriatingly insubstantial clue. Of course, Gideon had never had much luck with the demon faun. He might just better give up now before frustrating himself into a headache.

"Might be time for a vacay, then." His eyes didn't open, but the goat-like ears flickered in Morrow's direction. "Ever think of it? How far ye been from yer front door, copper?" From the note of disinterest in Morrow's voice, it didn't seem likely. Still, Jones was curious enough to wonder. He was also betting himself another bottle of wine that Morrow hadn't been more than two days travel from New Meridian in his life. "Might do ye some good t' walk th' world a while. Ease off on that distrustin' streak ye got goin'."

Ah, the safety net of drunkenness. It was almost a free pass to say exactly what was on your mind. Almost. Sometimes words could still get you in trouble.

"To distrust is to be prepared," Gideon intoned, as if this old proverb wouldn't fall on deaf ears. "I have traveled, in my youth," he added. "I don't seem able to find the time much to do it now." It was close enough to the truth. He'd spent his law enforcement days traveling New Meridian and Hamlin, every now and again visiting his alma mater, Salem Academy. Very briefly after graduation he'd traveled even further in Aylasia, to towns he would never forget but could not see himself ever living in. Recently he'd been so caught up in politics and scheming that he couldn't seem to find the time or the desire for traveling, not as he had in his younger days. "Besides, I doubt further world travel would really help with the distrustin' bit," he said, using Jones' own manner of speech.

"Ach," the faun scolded. "If ye meet people, ye trust more manner of 'em. Even th' ones with horns. Or hooves. Or wings. Or claws." Jones smiled at him. "Or th' ones with none, or all. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." His accent changed on that line,

It was a shame this world didn't know the term 'prejudice'. Perhaps, Jones thought, he could start lobbying on the negative stigma caused by speciesism. The werewolves would love it. Even the Shifters. The faun grinned to himself, under the lamplight.

It was clear that no amount of further poking would get him any more knowledge from Jones tonight, besides proverbs and poems he didn't care for. That and he feared another bout of off key singing. He forced a smile. "It's not horns I mistrust," he said, not certain that Jones would get his meaning. It's those who defy the law, even under its protection. He couldn't deny his own particular prejudices, but those came with privilege and class, of which he had been born to. Asking Gideon to change how he saw magical beings and certain mages was like asking the stars to stop in their orbital tracks and remain still forever. It was simply unthinkable to him, unfathomable to alter oneself and the teachings that had been instilled. "But truly sir, your philosophy leaves me in no position to argue," he added with a fake kind of joviality. "Perhaps we can discuss more some time, when I have brought my own fine wine to the table."

Jones looked up, and grinned at the man, his eyes wide, as though he'd just heard an utterly brilliant suggestion. "Aye! I'll be takin' ye up on that offer!" Not bloody likely, but let the man worry over it for a moment. He took a step, and faked a stumble. "Eh. Maybe on a night I ain't got so much in me head already. Ach, that'll be smartin' in th' morn." He put a hand to his head. "Which way t' me house, copper?"

Gideon frowned and wondered if maybe Jones wasn't just playing it up to fake him out. He was shrewd enough to guess properly, but rarely skilled enough to confirm. "Two blocks down, one to the left. Fourth house from the street sign on the right," he offered, his directions as confusing as he could possibly make them. For some reason, he never got past being called cop once he'd graduated to Parliament. Plus, he wasn't completely sure if the address given was Jones' house now, though it had been his residence all through the years he was under investigation. "Can't miss it really. No one else on the block has your sense of style."

Jones grinned. "O'course not. They ain't got to make way for me horns, do they?" Jones steadied his footing, and glanced each way down the street. "Two down..." he murmured, and started to shuffle off in the direction Morrow had instructed. It certainly was the right address - Jones hadn't left the small manor house since he had purchased it. A lot of money had gone into its restoration, but the end result was worth the price. Taller than usual ceilings, custom stairwells, every scrap of furniture fitted for his body, half a dozen safety escape routes that Jones had added himself, a secret cellar, and what the mason had called a "door to nowhere". It was, in fact, a door, perfectly hinged and skillfully carved, which, when opened, showed only earth behind it. Earth and rock where the cellar had been cut into the ground. It was Jones' favorite room.

"Always a pleasure, copper," he said, tipping the man a wink. "I won't be forgettin' yer offer, now."

Gideon shuddered to think how a simple conversational perhaps had turned into an offer of wine and conversation. If Gideon had simply loosened up he might realize that he actually enjoyed the faun's company, however unconventional. Yet the man was set in his ways and too stubborn to realize. He waved half-heartedly at Jones and hoped no one had seen him chatting in the street to the drunken peculiarity known almost everywhere else as High Ambassador Jones.