Adriana 'Sal' Salazar's page

"I know of a Priest, Father Michael Preston." he says softly. "He's a friend of a vicar friend of mine. I could call him?"

Adjusting his tie, he adds a touch mischievously; "Plus isn't that what you Catholics are like, continually lapsed."

Sal tries not to smile too much. "Not all of us, Fothergill. But my real question is... well, is this Father Preston, um, in the know about weird stuff that goes on in the world? Because I really don't want to be mistaken for a lunatic." Pause. "Again."

He stops his eyebrow raises slightly; "Yes, he knows some of that. He's an ancillary member of the Order of St. John." he pauses; "Preston plays bridge at the Cathedral with the more senior members."

"I... I suppose that would be good. It would be nice to... anyway. Yeah. I'd like that. Thanks, Fothergill." Sal gives the older man a genuine smile.

"Wake up, perfesser, I have another question for you."

She continues to shake him more and more roughly until he is awake and can talk to her.

The professor blinks awake, attempting to drag the sheets upto his chin but they seem to be attached to the mattress.

"Wazzit." he says groggily through his painful jaw.

"Wake up. This is important. You said if you had somebody immune to the vamp venom that you might be able to create a cure for the vampire illness. What about people addicted to their venom? Could you use an immune person to create a cure for them?" Sal speaks quietly but urgently, trying to be as clear as possible for the addled man and hoping his 'science brain' is still engaged.

He blinks, still hazy and half alseep; "Yeah, that'd be easier. Well it'd be a mixture of magic and science. Detox, but for both magic and reality .... although I expect it'd only work for these Poppy Court vampires. Since the illness is making it less potent anyway."

He yawn and his jaw cracks, stifling a gurgling scream in his throat. "tho' I'd knees to 'alk 'o a witch or wizard." he groans through a broken jaw. Seemingly enthused by a new research direction.

"There are witches?" Sal muses quietly, "Huh. What about the immune person. What would you need from them? Some blood?"

"Glud, skin samples, 'aybe DNA - stuff like that." He garbles; "I 'eard there were witches or was it 'itches, in York. There for a while, tho' t' difference between 'em and wizards....not sure. They is lady wizards, I expect." He moves back down under the covers, despite his enthusiasm - he's not used to ladies in his bedroom.

"Huh. And gear. I think your lab was blown up, sadly," Sal muses, rising to pull the drapes shut again. "Well, get some sleep. I just wondered if it would work. Maybe you can redeem yourself."

She heads back to the door, unlocking it, slipping out, and locking it securely behind her. The key goes back onto its hook.

Unless he has more to say, then she'll talk before leaving.

Sal stops at those words and waits for the person to catch up before resuming. "Did they send you? I listened to them. That's why I am here." Her arms prickle as the tiny hairs there stand on end. More strangeness. What do they want now?

He chuckles softly, making him seem more human. "You could say that." his tone wry with a hint of self-deprecation. "Originally, I was expecting Thetis' son, but the auguries changed."

"But let us discuss this over a drink." he moves in front of Sal, his hood slipping from his head to lie upon his shoulders as a dark mantle and revealing auburn hair.

Thetis' son? Sal wonders, then gives the man a brisk nod. "There's a place right here, as a matter of fact. I could ask 'discuss what?' but if you're anything like the Ladies, you're not going to tell me until you're good and ready." She quirks a tiny smile, jams her hands in her pockets, and hunches her shoulders until her coat is up around her ears. "Is this place OK?"

"They have a decent band on a Thursday." he says holding open the door for Sal. "I'm not quite like then, they are limited by what they can tell you (and by their agenda's) whilst I'm only limited by what I can see."

With a pause and a wry grin; "Now I see me getting a cool cider, and a fruit juice for you?" he asks entering the bar.

Sal ducks quickly in front of the stranger, unused to such niceties as door-holding and uncomfortable at having him behind her. However, getting into a public place is a relief. She chooses a table in the corner, hoping it might be a little quieter there, and seats herself with her back to one wall so she can see the room and get out from behind the table quickly if need be.

She gives her companion a nod. "Juice, or maybe tea if they'll serve it here," she agrees. Just how much does this guy know about me? Just knows what he can see? Can he see my addiction? She lets him place the order and deal with the waitress, watching him closely.

"So, what brings you here? Sightseeing? It's very pretty out here in the country," she says lightly once they have a bit of privacy, quirking a tiny, wry smile to show him she doesn't believe for one moment that he's a tourist. She keeps both hands on the table, loose and relaxed. For her, that is not a state of ease. She was trained to stay loose to be ready for action, the poised relaxation of a runner ready for the starting gun.

Taking a stool with his back to the wall, seeming incautious of the same dangers as the soldier, he flips a couple of card mats onto the varnished table. Drawing one hand through his autumnal rough cut hair, he suddenly seems a touch older than the couple of decades - give or take - that hang upon his broad shoulders.

Blinking rapidly, as if realising something for the first time. "I'm Cy, by the way." he adds as an introduction. "They do a nice tea, but there's always a J2O for those who drive here"

Slipping from his seat to the bar, he somehow returns only a few moments later - despite the busy bar. "I'm a local, one might say..."

"Tea for me," Sal tells the stranger and watches him narrowly as he vanishes into the crowd. She tries not to fidgit until his return.

She accepts the tea and nods her thanks. "I'm Sal, but you might already know that. You're from here in Whitby? How do you know the three Girls from London?" unwilling to speak their names in the crowded bar.

He sort of looks away, showing a strong profile where the light dances across his features. "They're sort of family..."

"Godparents, of a sort." his voice holds a low quietness that shows he's a touch uncomfortable, hinting maybe the query is key to the mans' whole persona. Especially when he slips to the second question. "Oh, I run a small shop. I work in Jet, cutting things up. Whitby's one of the few places that has deposits of jet."

"Oh," Sal replies cautiously, "They are... interesting... people," not believing they are people. She nods as the man continues, cupping her hands around the tea for warmth.

"Jet... is that like black onyx? Do you make sculptures?" No geology expert, she remembers some carved onyx figurines from her grandmother's. After Tangris and Danny's boisterous personas and Kenneth's disturbing magnetism, Cy's retiring personality is soothing and she finds herself relaxing despite herself

Sipping at his drink, he seems to commiserate with Sal and her problems. "I'm sure your friends will be alright. What I saw was more to do with you. That you're special..." his face flushes slightly. [smaller]"special blood, or circumstances. That they'd meet someone to whom you'd be vunerable." sensing the expression in her eyes, he adds. "And nobody wants to be vulnerable."

Looking to change the subject he points out; "Jet is a gemstone, well it's a fancy coal - that I make into jewellery." He pushes a small black bracelet across the table.

Sal frowns into her tea. "Vulnerable? But I'm less vulnerable..." She trails off, unwilling to give this stranger any information, and plays with the bangle instead.

"This is coal? It's pretty," she says, admiring the shining bauble, "Where did you learn to do that? You're not from around here, are you? I'm not terribly familiar with Yorkshire accents yet, but yours doesn't sound quite right." A tiny smile finally bends her lips until she hides it with a sip of tea.

"My mother was Greek, then we moved up north when I was a kid. She didn't really like London, so it's a bit of a mix." the tone is a touch mournful in the shadow's of the past. However the light in his visage is apparent as he answers the other query; "Oh, I had a good teacher, Malcolm he let me take over his shop when he retired. But he still comes by everyday. How about you? You working at the moment?"

The snippet she plays is Cy reciting:
"Thy journey starts far from home
To purge of the taint so vile.
When you possess AElffaed bones.
Through strength, speed and guile."

"Hello Maya, how can I be of assistance?" a young woman's voice answers the first call. Though distorted, there's a vague recollection of a similar mellifluous tone, recently.

"Oh!" Sal pauses a second or two. "Yeah, Maya. Um, this is Sal. Remember, from the art gallery opening? I'm the 'critic' that was there when you slashed that painting?"

Sal pauses to clear her throat and let Maya answer, wondering if the woman would remember her.

There's a pause, you can almost hear the raised eyebrow. "Certainly, the pale woman. You need my help I take it? Problem-solving?"

"Um... maybe. Things got a little crazy that night and tempers kinda got lost. We didn't get much of a chance to talk about what was going on. My friends are good people; it just looked kind of bad. But anyway, yeah. I thought maybe we could meet for lunch or something. I might... there might be something you can help me with, too. I'm not sure yet. I just know for certain that I was supposed to call you." Sal's voice, tentative at first, strengthens on the last sentence as she recognizes the connections of Fate.

"Certainly, the tracks of good meander across the stream of truth. Actions don't always match motivation and purpose." she adds enigmatically, like a school madam. "I'm sure there's a lot I can help you with - as much as you can help yourself. It's my job afterall."

"Your...job?" Sal stammers, "Uh huh. Sounds intriguing. Look, I gotta run meet some friends soon, for lunch. Will you be in town this afternoon? Can we meet, say, outside the Minster? Maybe twoish?"