dear_mun | (no subject)

Get used to it, boy-o. They're not good advice followers. Even when it comes from our voices in their heads.

Which is surprising. All the adages suggest that they listen to those voices, but in reality...

[He spreads his hands.]

At least there's whiskey.

Eh, what can ya' do? Not like we can kill 'em...though the temptation is overwhelming on occasion.

[He smirks and pulls a flask from his jacket and tips it in his direction before taking a sip.]

Damn right about that. Whiskey makes everything better.

[A sharp look is cast at the blond when he mentions the temptation to kill, and a sharper smile follows it. It's not really a smile, more a shark-like grin.]

Don't I know it.

[His own flask is withdrawn from the pocket of his suit jacket, magic ensuring the lines aren't spoilt. He's a little vain.]

That it does. It might even allow me to overlook you calling me "boy-o".

[It's a grin he recognizes. He may have worn it himself a time or two. But the latter remark has him chuckling.]

Force of habit - regional dialect, nothin' personal. Everyone's "boy-o" or "mate" or something similar. I'll refrain if it irritates ya' that much.

[...or use it more often than he normally would. It's a 50/50 shot, really.]

[It's a very particular sort of expression, usually only worn by certain types of people.]

Suited to someone slightly younger than me, I think. [He's no boy-o. He also isn't a betting man, but if he was, he'd be betting it comes out more. A mouthful of whiskey chases his words, and he follows it with,] Which region might that be? You sound... Scots.

[He sounds very cut-glass English, only that slip of his mother tongue earlier giving away that it might not be his origin point. Blue eyes also take in that odd coloring in the blond's hair - a steely grey that doesn't match the age he appears.]

True enough, likely is. [He takes another generous gulp, pointing a single finger at him before smirking at the question.]

Got it in one, points for you. English blood, Scot-raised....well, technically German by blood, but you get the point.

And you? That term earlier came a little too easily to you just to be a linguist slip.

[He's not very knowledgeable on world cultures; never interested him enough. But he's familiar with certain accent lilts from the pubs. And he's dealt with his fair share of Durmstrang alumni, so he's not entirely in the dark.]

A man of many places. Not a bad way to be. [Not always a good way, either.

Rodolphus lets the other man's return question sit a moment as he savours another mouthful of Ogden's. He appreciates many, many Muggle things, including their liquor - but some things you can't go past.]

The language you speak as a child is the hardest to lose, they say. [A shrug.] I went to school in Bulgaria.

[He was also born and raised there, but it doesn't match how he sounds now, so his tendency is to talk around it. And since blondie noticed it, he has to wonder what else might have been noticed.]

I try to get around, helps me keep ahead of certain people. [Namely, Aurors, and the law in general.]

Bulgaria? Heh...long way off from here.

[He gives a short sniff, smirking at the particular scent his keen nose pinpoints.]

If that's the case...Durmstrang, was it? Because unless I've missed my guess, you're sure as hell no Muggle.

[Muggles have a particularly mundane smell. Wizards and Witches...they're a little more interesting in scent. There's a musky darkness that any self-respecting wolf could identify.]

The cologne nearly hid it...nearly.

[He does the same thing, but in international political circles, in Armani. It's a tough gig, but someone has to do it.

That sniff is odd. Blue eyes narrow slightly as the other man makes some impressively accurate leaps in logic. That has to be related.]

It was, and I'm not.

[Head tilted casually, he shifts his weight onto one leg in case he needs to leave suddenly, hiding the motion behind another nip of whiskey.]

And if you can tell that by scent in addition to my cologne when I'm several feet from you and don't bathe in it, then neither are you. And perhaps something else.

[Fafnir would find the Armani suits far too confining. Besides, for that amount of money, getting the blood stains out would be an annoyance he'd rather not deal with.]

[Then again, magic is a beautiful thing.]

[He laughs at the change in body language and the sudden tension in the air. Fafnir takes another sip of his whiskey.]

Relax, if I wanted to kill ya' or turn ya' in I would've done it already.

But you're right on with that. Fafnir Greyback's the name, which should tell ya' all you need to know.

[He grins and tilts his flask to the other man, as if in toast before drinking again.]

So, now that we're done dancin' around the details. Who might you be?

[But Fafnir, clothes maketh the man. Armani is essential for who he pretends to be when he's working... and magic is a beautiful thing. So is being paid a hell of a lot.

Being told to relax usually doesn't make him do so, but the tension eases somewhat at the admission and the introduction.]

Greyback. [Interesting. Inherited, then? He hadn't realised that was possible... something to keep in mind.] Rodolphus Lestrange.

[Not the one married to Batshit Bella. Does Fafnir know his Death Eaters?]

[He's no slouch, he's not so raggedly-dressed as his father used to be.]

[The introduction makes him pause mid-sip. Not a feat easily accomplished.]

...a bit young. Clearly not the Death Eater, eh? A relation, I'm guessing?

[That has also been noted. Fenrir wasn't known for his attention to personal grooming or fashion.]

...his nephew. [Much too young to be who the name initially suggests; Rodolphus, had he attended Hogwarts, would have been at school with the Boy Who Lived.

Not in the lion's den, though.

But still a Death Eater. It's not something he tends to admit to, and his Dark Mark - which faded significantly with the Dark Lord's demise - is well and truly disguised with a spectacular sleeve.] I didn't know him well.

[Or at all, what with Azkaban and then dying and other irritating life events. Same goes for his father.]

[Whereas Fafnir takes pride in his physical appearance - makes luring in prey so much easier.]

I see. Means you're also of relation to bitchface Bella - my condolences, as that's hardly a bragging point. [Her fanatic nature always left a bad taste in his mouth. But then quite a bit could be said about his father.]

[And it has. But by the time the younger wolf was around, the elder was long gone.]

So what sent you all the way out to Bulgaria? Survival, my guess?

[Doesn't it, though?

Rodolphus raises an eyebrow at the mention of Bella. He'd been a mere seventeen when he'd met her, and he's not actually sure she was sane enough to realise who he was, even with the name.]

By marriage only. I think you might mean 'batshit'? [That was the problem with the old guard. All fanatics, none sensible. He was a child, but a child with his eye on thriving and no real ties to the war.]

My mother prefers her homeland. She also felt Durmstrang would be a more... rounded education than other schools I might have attended.

[Likely she wasn't - was the woman ever sane a day in her life?]

Same difference. Either way she was not the sort I enjoyed dealing with.

[Her lack of respect for the pack was...disturbing, at best.]

And you? What's your preference when it comes to residences?

[Fafnir himself tends to go from safe house to safe house and pub to pub. Places owned and run by the pack. Running it more like a mob boss than the thug his father was.]

[Probably when she was small. That sort of madness takes cultivating.

He lifts his flask in a toast of acknowlegement. Bellatrix is dead, and that's that.]

I reside wherever my work takes me. Invariably an hotel, but always an excellent one.

You, however, strike me as someone who'd rather stay with friends than be a lone wolf. So to speak.

[Thank heavens for that. Her particular breed of crazy tends to make things unnecessarily complicated.

[All the same, he gives a return tip of his own flask and takes a sip.]

Yeah, you seem the type. Always the lap of luxury, not that I could blame ya' I suppose.

I go where I please and when it pleases me to do so. But yeah, usually I stay in places run by my pack. Gotta' make sure my operation is running smoothly, after all.

[That covers most of her generation of Death Eaters, really... his father and uncle included. At least his father had the foresight to get his wife and unborn son out of the country when shit got real.]

Luxury is the payoff for the hours and job description. I'd be a fool not to take advantage.

[Head tilt.]

You're alpha, I take it. And with a business acumen I wouldn't have attributed to others who bore your name.

Oh? And what precisely might that job description entail? You don't seem the grunt work type.

[A smirk, and there might be a slight glow of mischief in those steel-colored eyes.]

I am. The old man got the pack started, and when I came on the scene, I got shit in order, made it more organized. That's of course after I took the pack from the wolf who thought he was gonna' move in and take over after my father died.

[He smiles, almost dreamily recalling the day - what a lovely day of pummeling and bone-breaking that was. A day he remembers fondly.]

Essentially, whatever is needed and don't get caught. [Rodolphus is a Bad Man disguised as a political attache and diplomatic assistant.]

And what do you intend on doing with the order you created from chaos?

A hit man of sorts, eh? I could respect that.

[He pauses, that trademark smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.]

Simple. Make the pack bigger and make those who aren't wolves respect us - through fear and violence, if that's what it takes. I plan on making the pack so big that I can essentially run the criminal underground.

[In short: He's got his eyes set on being the wolf king of crime.]

What an accusation. {Said mildly, with one hand to his chest in mock horror.] I said nothing of the kind.

You, on the other hand... you have grand designs. Do you have a financial backer? Headquarters? Competent underlings and someone you trust implicitly - and someone you don't, but whose advice is sound? What about contacts in other cities, countries, and magical communities?

[The gesture earns a bark of a laugh; one of those genuine laughs that comes straight from one's gut. Oh, he's entertained indeed.]

[The laundry list he rattles off is met with a long stare and a smile before Fafnir polishes off what's left in his flask and tucks it back in his jacket.]

You've had experience with this.

Money - working on it. Prefer to procure my own funds rather than rely on someone else.

Headquarters - yes, temporarily, I never like to be in one place too long.

Competent underlings - absolutely. No one defies the alpha.

And of course working on establishing connections with other packs across the border. That one has been...slower than I'd like, but establishing dominance takes time and my name only gets me so far.

[That not-nice grin is back. Talking business with someone who has some understanding of what he does is a relief. Lying comes naturally to him, but giving the same cover story over and over to the people he encounters eventually leaves him feeling... washed out. Lesser. He invariably takes that out on them, which is never a problem, but there are times a man likes to talk shop.]

I've seen some good ideas and solid plans fall to pieces on execution. It's generally a lack of competence in the lower orders.

[He eyes his flask with regret, then tucks it away. There's no sign in his jacket that anything has been added.]

I'm not denying the obedience of your wolves, but I guarantee you, there are idiots among them. My suggestion, should you be at all interested, is that you have at least some with brains as well as brawn. Loyalty is not enough if you have to spell everything out yourself. You'll get too caught in the minutiae for anything to be effective, or things will go to shit.

I've seen it happen.

[The war of some two decades past is a prime example of clinging to loyal supporters and not allowing those with sense to help. Rodolphus genuinely believes that had there been less insanity and megalomania going around and more lieutenants with common sense to interpret orders instead of just following, the world would be a very different place.]

[Fafnir's more than happy to talk shop - it's a refreshing change of pace, talking with someone outside the pack so candidly. Usually wolves are suspicious of outsiders, but there's a certain understanding he feels with Rodolphus.]

You're right, no arguments there. And of course there's our fair share of fools, but I've got some solid wolves - some who want to see the pack under new leadership. I tell them they're welcome to try, if they want to be alpha, all they gotta' do is bring me down.

Obviously they've yet to be successful. I know to watch them, they know I demand loyalty and respect. They keep me on my toes, from getting lazy.

But they're in minority. Most of the pack is loyal without question. I've got some sharp wolves working for me.

I'd say be careful what you wish for, but... [He spreads his hands.] ...they're your wolves, mate.

[Mate, because Fafnir is not a female, which means princess, sweetheart, angel - all his usual casually friendly terms - don't apply. They also tend to only apply to people he intends to take to bed in one way or another, but needs must.]

It occurs to me I might know some people who may have some interest in the change in Britain's werewolf packs - for academic reasons, of course. Is it a stretch to ask if you have a card?

[A flick of the wrist and deft slight of hand, and Fafnir produces a card from his sleeve. On it, the card bares the image of a wolf howling at a full moon.]

[It's enchanted, of course. Inspired by such documents as the Marauders Map to keep his contact information out of the wrong hands - he takes the card and blows across its surface. Activated by werewolf breath, the card fades to black with the logo of a dragon and wolf entangled and the words in red: Fafnir Greyback - Owner/Proprietor DragonWolf Pub (for appointments, see Mariska at the bar)]

Feel free to stop by yourself, first drink's on the house since you've proven to be a most interesting drinkin' partner.

[An eyebrow cocks in surprise at the magical skill in effect on the card.]

Impressive. [It's tucked away into the whiskey pocket - clearly not just a pocket - and his own crisp card is withdrawn in response. Heavy cream cardstock bears his name in black with several letters after it; Muggle qualifications he may or may not have legitimately earned gain him passage and acceptance in their world, which is crucial to his role and cover. Centred below it is a cell phone number.] If you don't use an owl, this is the only way to reach me, if you have need.

I try - can't have just anyone tracking me down, after all.

[He tilts a brow as the cards are exchanged. Clearly trying to decipher what the extra letters mean. But for the moment he tries to pass it off as though he does indeed understand them. He similarly tucks the card away in his jacket.]

Good to know. I don't have a permanent cell phone, I make use of burners from time to time when an owl just ain't quick enough. But if you call down to the pub and ask for me, Mariska should be able to connect you.

Duly noted. [Hands capable of killing, among other things, slide into expensive trouser pockets.] I expect our paths will cross again; my work takes me in all sorts of directions.

[And Fafnir probably knows some great options for downtime.]

[Oh he does indeed. Attempting to run a city makes it necessary for one to know it backwards and forwards.]

More than likely - don't be a stranger, then.

Catch ya' later.

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Sorry, my notifs and my weekend are both crazy

No worries!!

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