That time of the month eh?

Raleigh Montague arrives at the ruins in the middle of the Tump, where, unaccountably, nobody goes, and slips in between the marble ruins to the centre, where there is a rather crude courtyard. He settles down on a fallen column, and takes in the surrounds, as the last of the pink light disappears from the sky.

Daimon arrives on silent wings, scanning the area before landing and resuming his human shape right behind the assassin. “Boo.”

“Come in, we’ve been expecting you”, says Raleigh Montague in Uberwaldean, and laughs. “Yo, Daimon.”

Daimon hops onto the column, squatting Indian style on it. “Got a note for you.” He holds out a piece of plain looking paper.

Raleigh Montague takes the paper from you, and tucks it away inside his coat; it can wait, whatever it is. “How’ve you been?” He turns around to look at you as he lights a fat candle left behind in the shade of the column, which provides enough light for him to see you clearly. “Sorry about last week. I was – busy.” That was definitely a slight pause.

Daimon looks up at the dark sky. “Been… a bit distracted. You?”

Raleigh Montague looks at the horizon. “Yeah, about the same”, he says absent-mindedly.

Daimon glances the assassin. “You been sitting around rooftops fantasizing about killing people too?”

Raleigh Montague grins as he begins wrapping his fists in preparation for his sparring session with you. “Nah. Don’t need to, mate. I get to do plenty of that.” He glances at you sideways. “That time of the month eh?”

Daimon nods. “Yeah. Guess you’d know about that.” The vampire does nothing to prepare himself.

Raleigh Montague gets to his feet and casually says, “Did you hear from Aell after she went away?” He rolls his eyes. “I feel like I should add the word ‘again’ here.”

Daimon shakes his head. “Don’t think I really got my name on her friendly vampire list anymore. Don’t think she’s in town, though. Not enough bodies.”

Raleigh Montague snorts as he discards his coat, revealing that he is dressed in his preferred non-assassin attire of worn-out jeans and a very casual t-shirt, with boots resembling work boots on his feet. He balls his fists up. “Well, I don’t think she’s got anyone else on that list, so it’s probably empty.” He dances about. “The night is young, dude.”

Daimon stands and lets his hands fall to his sides, the black coat falling to his ankles. “Mm-hmm. My chick asked me to beat a guy up.” He waits for the assassin’s first move.

Raleigh Montague puts his fists in front of his face without clenching them, crouches, and goes for your shoulder instead of your head, probably because this a friendly spar and is intended to be prolonged, both as a social interaction and as practice. “She did?”

Daimon side steps easily with preternatural speed, cloak swishing. He crouches down and prepares for the real hit he knows must be coming. “Yeah, bloke as beats his wife.”

Raleigh Montague takes his time, circling around you, and aims with a backfist. “In that case, the request is entirely justified.”

Daimon counters by raising his arm to intercept the blow, a sensation not unlike hitting a brick wall. “Yeah, I’m thinking about it. Don’t want folks to think I’m a killer, though.”

Raleigh Montague heads in for a grapple, enjoying the tussle. “You’re not going to kill him, you’re just going to scare him straight.”

Daimon sinks into the other man’s embrace a bit too willingly, carrying out a mock biting motion towards his throat. “Yeah.”

Raleigh Montague avoids the lunge and laughs, putting you in a mock choke hold as he does. “So where does this miscreant live? No point reporting him to the watch first?”

Daimon puts his palms on the other man’s chest and presses, hard, pushing himself free with preternatural strength. “Reckon the watch ain’t got time for every domestic tiff in Peach Pie Street.”

Raleigh Montague spins, aims low, and wraps his arms around your knees, pushing forward to dislodge your balance until you land on your back. He quickly straddles your waist. “Yeah, well, the watch is supposed to care about all of this. Domestic dispute 101.”

Daimon arches his back, coiling up and releasing like a spring, in attempt to throw the other man off himself. “Just gotta make sure I don’t like beating him too much.”

Raleigh Montague gets off you, slapping your chest lightly with the back of his hand. “Well, he’s likely not in peak physical condition, so you don’t even need to take too long about it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Hm. What would the NN do, I wonder?”

Daimon takes a step backward, cloak settling into place around him with a swish of that natural style vampires possess. “The who?”

Raleigh Montague spins and kicks, but near you, not at you. “NN. Naughty Nobles. I have no idea who is behind it, but the theory goes that one day a bored Ankhian decided to do some good in the world for a change, and got up this group. They don black masks and black clothing, so it’s impossible to tell who they are.” Another kick. “The group has some sixteen to seventeen people in it now, and comprises both ladies and gentlemen. They often deal with cases like this.”

Daimon reaches out to snatch the doctor’s ankle out of the air mid-kick. “Yeah?”

Raleigh Montague bends backwards, quite literally, which is the only way to get out of a move like that, and releases his ankle from your grasp. “Yeah. It’s all shrouded in secrecy, although I haven’t been approached to join. I suspect I may know one or two people who are in it, however.”

Daimon crouches with feline grace, awaiting the next attack. “Reckon they’d do more good as by lowering the rent.”

Raleigh Montague grins as he dances around. “Not every Ankhian owns disgusting tenements at high prices in Morpork, Daimon. Besides, they do some good, so what harm can come of it? I hear Commander Vimes has offered a reward to anyone who can tell him about this group. They call them vigilantes.”

Daimon gestures, conjuring up mist at his feet. “Do you?”

Raleigh Montague eyes the gathering mist. “The only property I own is my own home.” He considers this. “In Ankh-Morpork, anyway.”

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: d’Ackerley bloke owns quite a bit.

Raleigh Montague aims a kick to where he thinks your knees are. “Yeah, he does. He’s Ankhian though, so it’s to be expected.”

Daimon sidesteps, sending a whorl of mist up around himself and reappearing behind you. “Some of those places ain’t fit for living in. Think one of the Rusts owns ours.”

Raleigh Montague jabs back with a lethal elbow, although he doesn’t really mean it. “d’Ackerley’s related to the Rusts.”

Daimon easily dodges but relocates to being in front of you all the same, allowing the mist to dissipate. “Figures, ain’t most of ’em shagging up with cousins and grands?”

Raleigh Montague thrusts this slightly disturbing image out of his head. “Yeah.” He pauses. “It’s an endless game, although d’Ackerley can at least laugh at some of it. Not all of them can.”

Daimon nods and bends at the knees to launch himself in a superhuman leap -over- the other man. Grinning he agrees, “Yeah he ain’t the worst of the lot though he really fucking hates vampires.”

Raleigh Montague whips around, plait flying. “Nice move, Fangs.” He grins. “He’s not the only one. You’re tolerable for your species, you know.”

Daimon crouches, awaiting the other man’s next move. “Yeah, yeah. I’m bein’ so human I oughta hand in my teeth.”

Raleigh Montague takes his t-shirt off; it’s cold, but he’s made himself hot with all the running and jumping. He balls it into the pile where his coat is and circles you. “What’s the alternative?” He pauses. “If you want to live here, with your family – the woman you love and the kid you call your own – then tell me, what’s the alternative? Hm?”

Daimon watches with interest before replying, “Lying. I could lie.”

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: People die in Morpork all the time. When as I kill, I don’t leave fang marks.”

Raleigh Montague lashes out with an open palm – he’s not an idiot enough to come at you with a closed fist, because he knows it’d be like smacking cement – and wraps it around your throat. “Except you can’t, Fangs. You’d die.”

Daimon’s hand whips out, catching Raleigh’s throat in a similar hold, initiating a stalemate that is a tad unfair given that only one man needs to breathe. “Naw, that ain’t why I don’t. It’s cause killing ain’t right.”

Raleigh Montague grasps your wrist with his other hand, trying to move it down and aside. His eyes are amused, even though he can’t really talk right now, and kicks your ankle, hoping it will distract you enough to break your hold around his throat.

Daimon yelps and hops backwards. “Ow!”

Raleigh Montague steps backwards, putting some distance between you and him. “And that’s what I mean. You think it’s ‘not right’. That’s abnormal for a vampire, dude. The fact that you think that is abnormal.” His voice, understanding until now, becomes mocking, teasing in the way men do. “You have morals. Who’s a little moral vampire then?”

Daimon’s pale lip curls into a sneer as he flies straight at the other man’s face, hands first. Sore spot.

Raleigh Montague dodges out of the way with quick reflexes, but barely. He circles around, eyes watchful, as his hands go up in front of his face again.

Daimon pauses. “Don’t make me angry.”

Raleigh Montague raises an eyebrow. “Or what?” He puts his hands down. “You – know I was teasing, right?”

Daimon nods. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just… Not when we fight. Any other time, make fun of me, just not while we fight.”

Raleigh Montague nods, and leans in with his fists to bump them with you. “Maybe we should call it a night, eh? Want a smoke?”

Daimon returns the fist bomb. “Yeah, sure. You know how my curse works, right?”

Raleigh Montague fishes about in his coat and finds his cigarettes, which he keeps in a plain holder, and tosses them to you, followed by a box of matches. He picks up his t-shirt and shrugs into it. “Well, I think so. You feel what you inflict? So good gives you good, bad gives you bad?”

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Kinda. If I got their living blood on me.

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: IN me, I mean.

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Can still kill a guy with my fists.

Raleigh Montague sits on the column, his eyes tired suddenly. “Yeah. I can do that too, sadly enough.”

Daimon nods at Raleigh. “Difference between you and me is, you don’t get off on it, I reckon.”

Raleigh Montague stretches his legs out in front of him, and leans on another column as the flickering light from the candle lights the arena. “I don’t know why I do it.” He glances at you. “Or I do, and I don’t want to discuss it. Reckon it’s already all talked out anyway.”

Daimon nods and lights his cigarette on a flame procured from his thumb. “Yeah. I’m gonna beat that guy up. Just gonna make sure I don’t like it -too- much.”

Raleigh Montague lights a cigarette of his own, using his hand to shade it as he does. “Hard not to, I’d like that a little too much too.” He grins. “No wonder people become vigilantes. Even the thought of doling out justice like that feels like a drug.”

Daimon studies the other man a moment. “Yeah, I suppose it would.”

Raleigh Montague smokes his cigarette, thoughtful himself. “I may not be able to make it next week. I – told a lady I couldn’t have dinner with her today because I’d already promised to come here. Course I didn’t tell her what, why, where, or whom.”

Daimon fixes his lavender gaze on the younger man. “Yeah? Good. Guy needs a chick to make it worth dealing with the shit life throws at ‘im.”

Raleigh Montague says wryly, “And let’s face it, it’ll never be Aell. I’m not waiting around for that.” He glances back at you. “I don’t know what this is, but she’s interesting.” He adds as an afterthought, “And attractive.”

Daimon asks with an Uberwaldean accent: Aell is like, totally fuckable but she ain’t someone you marry or even live with. So good on you. Anyone I know?

Raleigh Montague reminiscently says: Oh yeah, Aell was hot.

Raleigh Montague drily says: Plus, we’d give each other hell.

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Aell gives everyone hell, that’s what she does for fun.

Raleigh Montague shakes his head. “Genuan. Lady.”

Raleigh Montague drily says: No, that’s what she does because she can’t help herself.

Daimon searches his memories, then shrugs. “Haven’t really noticed. Introduce me sometime if as you think it’ll be okay.”

Raleigh Montague nods, as he looks at the shadows on the marble. “Yeah, maybe.”

Daimon rests his feet on the column. “Posh type?”

Raleigh Montague says: Definitely a lady. You’d remember if you met her.

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Probably not my type, then. I ain’t exactly been keeping up on my ballroom manners.

Raleigh Montague grins. “How’s your barroom manners?” He gets to his feet and offers you his hand. “In other words, want to get a drink? Let’s go the long way.”

Daimon says with an Uberwaldean accent: Coffee. Your treat. The good stuff.

Raleigh Montague says: Deal.

About Raleigh Montague

Doctor Raleigh Montague is the House Master of Black Widow House in the Conlegium Sicariorum, and the Senior Lecturer in Physical Education.
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