( if — or when — asked, william will claim that he'd spent the night on the streets of london; for once, it had been a dry night (only in the most literal of senses), though one could not, of course, see the stars in the sky above, even if one ventured to one of the parks (hyde, regent's, victoria, green—) for the inevitable and, will would claim, permanent clouds above even the tallest buildings in london obscured sight of even the most brightest of constellations, and that was without touching upon the smog. he would continue, then, with claims of starting the evening in the centre of town, of working his way south from soho towards leicester square into china town, through trafalgar square and across the river. he'd remark that he'd started a conversation (a discussion, no, a debate—) with an exceptionally (surprisingly) attractive young woman somewhere handy to nine, and she'd proceeded to lead him on a trek across the city, a walk-and-talk interrupted by the occasional (or more) dalliance into a public house and argument with the odd local who took affront to his less-than-english accent (or fondness for being less than complimentary, it was one or the other, he was certain.)
it, he'd finish, had evidently been a trick; the woman had been of the fair folk and she'd tricked him. (he'd add, of course, that it turned out she was fair only in name, as all fey were wont to be, but that was neither here nor there.)
the truth of it all was a matter of distinctly more sobriety: he'd taken offense to some remark or other uttered at the institute (it was nothing he could recall now, his attention focussed far more on the here-and-the-now) and instead of taking refuge in the library (tessa, he imagined, would either be there or attempt to seek him out there, and he neither wanted or cared for that), he took to the streets of london in an effort to clear his head. whilst london was eternally dirty and the air lacking in anything he imagined was, really, breathable (certainly not in comparison to anywhere in wales, at any rate), it held a great deal more freedom than the more-than-four walls of the institute. he'd followed the fair folk against his better judgement, curiosity winning over anything resembling logic and strategy, and he'd ended up here.
(or, more accurately, there, where he'd been informed of a war and of this and of that, and none of it had garnered any sympathy, for fey did little but speak in circles and in untruths and misdirections. if they were after the aid of a shadowhunter—
—or, they wouldn't be, will was certain.)
the feast, thus far, has done little to help his mood or his suspicions, and whilst he'd prefer to sulk in a corner, he's instead taken to talking to (or at) anyone near, using the pretence of intoxication — he's plenty of practice as to that illusion — as an excuse to eavesdrop, to push into conversations where he can and otherwise see if he can't find out anything useful.
(he hasn't, yet, and it's beginning to wear on him — he'd love little more than to crash into bed and sleep, but unless there's a chance for true privacy, he's disinclined to find bed-and-board in the court.)
so when he drops into a seat back at one of the tables, he studies the individuals near him with a pointed, though fleetingly mingled expression of clarity and curiosity, before smiling broadly. )
This— ( he gestures broadly and loosely and without apparent care for the person (or being) to his left. ) —is quite the party, isn't it? ( a pause and a breath. his accent, for those familiar, is distinctly welsh (north); his manner and tone pointedly, deliberately light and almost giddy, though there's a distinct and noticeable edge of tiredness to both it and him. ) Fairies. Imps. Goblins. ( a twitch of his lips and a laugh. ) Who'd have thought?
william herondale | the infernal devices (omg I swear I don't always essay)
( if — or when — asked, william will claim that he'd spent the night on the streets of london; for once, it had been a dry night (only in the most literal of senses), though one could not, of course, see the stars in the sky above, even if one ventured to one of the parks (hyde, regent's, victoria, green—) for the inevitable and, will would claim, permanent clouds above even the tallest buildings in london obscured sight of even the most brightest of constellations, and that was without touching upon the smog. he would continue, then, with claims of starting the evening in the centre of town, of working his way south from soho towards leicester square into china town, through trafalgar square and across the river. he'd remark that he'd started a conversation (a discussion, no, a debate—) with an exceptionally (surprisingly) attractive young woman somewhere handy to nine, and she'd proceeded to lead him on a trek across the city, a walk-and-talk interrupted by the occasional (or more) dalliance into a public house and argument with the odd local who took affront to his less-than-english accent (or fondness for being less than complimentary, it was one or the other, he was certain.)
it, he'd finish, had evidently been a trick; the woman had been of the fair folk and she'd tricked him. (he'd add, of course, that it turned out she was fair only in name, as all fey were wont to be, but that was neither here nor there.)
the truth of it all was a matter of distinctly more sobriety: he'd taken offense to some remark or other uttered at the institute (it was nothing he could recall now, his attention focussed far more on the here-and-the-now) and instead of taking refuge in the library (tessa, he imagined, would either be there or attempt to seek him out there, and he neither wanted or cared for that), he took to the streets of london in an effort to clear his head. whilst london was eternally dirty and the air lacking in anything he imagined was, really, breathable (certainly not in comparison to anywhere in wales, at any rate), it held a great deal more freedom than the more-than-four walls of the institute. he'd followed the fair folk against his better judgement, curiosity winning over anything resembling logic and strategy, and he'd ended up here.
(or, more accurately, there, where he'd been informed of a war and of this and of that, and none of it had garnered any sympathy, for fey did little but speak in circles and in untruths and misdirections. if they were after the aid of a shadowhunter—
—or, they wouldn't be, will was certain.)
the feast, thus far, has done little to help his mood or his suspicions, and whilst he'd prefer to sulk in a corner, he's instead taken to talking to (or at) anyone near, using the pretence of intoxication — he's plenty of practice as to that illusion — as an excuse to eavesdrop, to push into conversations where he can and otherwise see if he can't find out anything useful.
(he hasn't, yet, and it's beginning to wear on him — he'd love little more than to crash into bed and sleep, but unless there's a chance for true privacy, he's disinclined to find bed-and-board in the court.)
so when he drops into a seat back at one of the tables, he studies the individuals near him with a pointed, though fleetingly mingled expression of clarity and curiosity, before smiling broadly. )
This— ( he gestures broadly and loosely and without apparent care for the person (or being) to his left. ) —is quite the party, isn't it? ( a pause and a breath. his accent, for those familiar, is distinctly welsh (north); his manner and tone pointedly, deliberately light and almost giddy, though there's a distinct and noticeable edge of tiredness to both it and him. ) Fairies. Imps. Goblins. ( a twitch of his lips and a laugh. ) Who'd have thought?