There is such attention to detail...
     To the half clean-shaven image shimmering in the mirror. The reflection of green eyes. The removal of barbaric traces. The swirl of deep and rich blue tatoos. Upon and over shoulders. Around biceps. Around wrists. Dragons and birthright and the markings of a self-made king.
     Modernity cannot fade it...
     The straight razor reminds him of how different life once was. Of attempting this with the straight of Roman scissors. It is a wonder his face is in as good a condition as it is. Apart from the crow's feet at his eyes that give away his years squinting in mud, blood and sunlight. Apart from the tiny scar -- some old memory of William Plantagenet.
     There are other, larger memories -- though well-healed mind you -- down below. You can tell the battles on Davydd like the years of a tree. Aye, just count the rings...
     As he turns, warm towel at face, the mirror holds the shimmering image of a swirled dragon dipping beneath the towel wrapped about his waist.
     Clean, pressed and dressed for success...
     The heather grey sweater hides the dragons on his skin. Hides the sinews and brawn of a man at the peak of the summer years. Hides the veterans scars. And looks damned good, if he must say so himself. Trousers on. Tackle in.
     It's going to be a marvelous evening...

     A knock at the door is firm. "Sir? You have a visitor." The valet, Charles, will not let himself in at this point, content to wait for you in the dressing room.

     "Is it a beautiful woman?"
     The voice makes its way easily past the door. The lifted quip. Because if it isn't, I'm busy...
     But he can't say that, can he. No, Davydd, you can't. "Who's calling?" Besides me...
     The door opens, and the breeze doesn't shift the copper hair, it's too trimmed for that. And he's dressed. Fully. Grey overcoat in his hands. "How do I look, no," a great hand comes up, "...don't tell me. Just make sure that I match on my way out..."

     The man startles as you open the door, not expecting to see you so immediately. "Yes, sir, you match," he fumbles, but that is not quite what he wanted to say. "Very nice, Sir." He compliments. "A Mr. de Rancey is here to see you, Sir, in the gallery."

     Shite.
     It's going to be like that, is it?
     The look he must be giving, it's worn evidently on his face. Something between a kid taking his medicine and resignation. A wrinkle of his nose and Davydd can go from 800 to 10 in under ten seconds. An exhale chases a smirk, and Davydd steps past the threshold. "How long has he been waiting..." he doesn't pause, "...have someone send a cart into the gallery, if they haven't already... No," a hand comes up, "...strike that. If I invite him to tea, he'll be here all bloody night." There's a nudge to your shoulder, and that's as much his thanks for the compliment. Nevermind the rest, lad.
     And so Mars leaves his apartments...
     A stride that covers the spaces shadowed and lit. The energy of Mercury, wings on his heels, some other, greater purpose in mind.
     Well, he certainly didn't clean himself up to meet with de Rancey now, did he...

     The man falls into step behind you. Yes, on the cart. No? Well, no then on the cart. "I will have drinks brought," he offers. No tea, nothing lingering. Just the usual. With that, he veers off, not following you to your meeting.

     You felt him, he'd imagine...
     You heard him, surely -- who could miss him? He doesn't bother with stealth, but rather announces himself, this glorified Ares. Radiant, damn near beaming. His short hair catching the light of the gallery and holding it burnished. He is a gold and red spectacle on otherwise black and white tiling and Victorian walls and chairs. The gallery shows touches of Victoria everywhere.
     In his blacks and greys, he's the model of Welsh autumn. A coat slung over his arm -- no, he didn't pull it on even though he thought it might give an indication of his business elsewhere. Eyebrows already lifted. Eyes expectant upon finding you, de Rancey.

     The man standing in the gallery is rather tall. But such are the de Ranceys. Of Norman stock, he is the more Angled, definitely Saxoned, cousin. It is said they arrived with William in 1066, and truthfully, it is easily verified, though the only name associated with the arrival is one Sebastian...
     Although you come near, Sebastian does not turn from his stare at one of the paintings upon the wall. Something 18th century, portraiture of one of Kensington's former inhabitants. Dressed in a blue-violet Saville row suit, the coat that lies across a chair is most certainly blue velvet. Saxon dress with Continental color and flair. His blonde hair is long, left to brush the naping collar of his jacket, and the coat tapers from wide shoulders to a thinner midriff. A figure it is, with dexterous carriage.
     "Well, good evening," he murmurs, his English impeccable. Sebastian pivots to face you, half-glasses perched upon his nose, blue eyes full behind the frame. Age and modernity in the look, something retro that could never be termed out of date. Funny how fashion makes circles.
     "Think Dunross would let me buy this?" he wonders, pointing at the Reynolds. "No," he pivots at the painting, "...he'd say that was terribly gauche of me. He'd say that I was trying to rip down his house." That brings a chuckle and bounce of his broad shoulders. Blondish brow quirks and what would be a smirk is a wide smile upon Sebastian's face. Never has he done much on the sly.
     "Bet I'm the last person you'd expect to see?" eyes noticing now that you're dressed. "Oh, sorry, were you going out?" he teases, nose visibly moving in his upturned features. "I can only guess where..." he lets on, grinning from ear to ear.

     "Actually, no... the last person I expected to see I saw the other night," the rumble sounds in the chest, humored. Warm. Amused. Bemused. "Evening, yourself... and... yes, I was going out..." The coat barely sounds as it's set upon a chair. Lobbed there in an underhand pitch. "And I'd give you three guesses, but from the looks of that grin on your face I'm going to say it'd only take one."
     "But," an exhale follows as he settles in the chair, "I've drinks on the way." And he stops a moment, your grin now contagious and covering his mouth. "... Say, is this going to be a sherry or a whiskey conversation?" Likely, they'll bring a touch of both.
     Green eyes stray to the painting, finally. It's lost on him. If it doesn't have birds, horses or dogs in it, or a combination of those three elements -- or naked women -- it might as well be a paint-by-numbers portrait of the current King for all he'd care. "I want to be there when you ask him," Davydd half-lilts, half-rumbles as he reaches a point of comfort. "Just don't take it on my watch, or he'll add it to my rent," the clip of his voice rides high with humor. And he vocalizes through a stretch as he reaches to the next chair and fishes through his coat for his cigarettes. "So...I'll get you started. Davydd, you great ass..." And then his hand makes the motion.
     Go on, you know the speech from here. You've given it a time or two.
     Or three...

     "God," Sebastian laments in loud voice, "...I don't drink that piss they call sherry," he sighs, wandering towards you. "Whisky's fine though. I won't stay too long, unless you don't like what I've got to say."
     The glasses are pushed up on Sebastian's wide nose, unlikely to slip anytime soon. "So, one guess as to whom you saw the other night?" Sebastian goes on. He exhales and looks around, eyes flitting between objects as if some answer lie in one of them. "Well, not Messereich," he says. "That much I know. And not me, your trusty Primogen." He does not mention the Archon bit, as of course, holding double roles is, well, tasteless. Or at least upsets many. There's only so many spots of power to go around. "So. Um. I'll guess then it was Jorgenson? That's the only person I hear you've been keeping time with today. Lovely thing, really," he mumbles, stopping to reach for a thread upon one of the highbacked chairs.
     "And since you're offering," Sebastian grins as he looks at you, "...Davydd, you great ass. What do you think you're doing? Getting us all into trouble, getting Brujah all upset, and causing Thierry's champagne to go flat. Makes for a dreadful party..." and he laughs again, rather amused at the image.

     He was about to just launch into it, head and feet first, whiskey promised in the bright eyes and the slanting grin, but you speak and it stops him.
     First, he has to laugh...
     "Are the Brujah upset with me? Why... who could imagine such a thing when they all but brought me a house-warming gift. God," his voice raises as his grin broadens, eyes a bit to boot, "... if I had thought of collecting tribute. There's bound to be a way to fill the coffers." The pack is retrieved and it's offered to you with copper brows lifted. Want one? Unlit, the cigarette held between his own lips now bobbles with the words that leave them, "I got nothing to do with the quality of the champagne. You can blame William for that. But..." he exhales smoke. The lighter, the flame -- these came and went with a glimmer of reflected light. "I see Jorgenson as frequently as she can stand me. It's gotten around town more than we have," Davydd sends ash scattering into the nearby tray. Green eyes settle on you and eyebrows lift. "Apparently."
     And there's a smirk for that. "You're correct for your guessin', if you were guessin' I was off to see her... I was. I will be," he tacks on to the end of that. "Let me guess," his voice transforms to that dark rumble you know so well. "It's not exactly a popular decision..."

     "Oh, thanks, mate," Sebastian says, taking the drink but waving off the cigarette. One of the few mysteries of the older days, de Rancey's presumed age along makes him the source of much conjecture. But if you want tickets to any show, any entertainment, he is your man. Events...are his business.
     "Nothing you've done lately is terribly popular with anyone," he confesses, coming to stand at the highboy. Nice, since he can rest his arms upon its back, drink perched in long fingers. Sebastian shrugs, not worried it seems. "But everything upsets everyone, so who cares at the end of the night. Yet, I'm here, and that means that a few people who don't need to be upset, perhaps are."
     "I couldn't give a flying fuck about the Brujah, but while I'm here," Sebastian goes on, "...I'll tell you about them and a few other things. I do have a reason for being here," he grins, knowing that it always takes many steps to get to a particular point. "They don't like you," he states simply, English voice making it sound worse. "Well, at least the Brujah that you're bothering don't like you." This excludes the crowd that might include Edward. "They think, and I think that's the impression you want to give," Sebastian's drink waving, "...you want to be Prince, that you're trying to threaten Thierry," he's the only person who'd call Tattinger by a given name, "...and play outside the Law. Granted, you haven't done shit," Sebastian's gaze twinkle, "...other than yank their chains, but..." and his hand waves. You get the point.
     "They all know the Conclave's coming up, and well..."

     "I never counted a high number of Brujah as my allies, with certain... notable exceptions," Edward being one of them. And others that are still mostly rumored, rarely shown. But Davydd was at Alhambra, with William and Edward. And with them, three such notable Brujah -- of which, naturally, Edward was one. "But you know, the relationship between Wales and Spain has been rocky since God was a boy. That the night after I moved in I had Margritte and Mortimer in my drawing room wasn't lost on me. So, they are panicking...knickers in a twist...this, does not surprise me." No, it doesn't. But it does help that they did exactly what he was hoping they would do, which is jump the gun. Move, and I know where you are. React, and I know how you feel.
     "But... since you're here..." another segue. Another opening for you to begin again. Davydd savors the smoke of his cigarette like a proper dragon. He leaves the whiskey alone for now...

     He'd zoned a moment, staring into his glass as you talked. But a nod comes forth. He can imagine your Brujah associates. Sebastian takes a quick swallow and goes on. "Suffice to say, it's not that they care so much about Thierry," Sebastian explains. "But Thierry -- Toreador that he is -- is not Ventrue or Gangrel. And as they have no other viable candidates for the role of Prince, save Mortimer himself, they'd rather Thierry. Though," he laughs, "Mortimer wants the job, but no one'd vote him in, certainly, and he doesn't have enough of the crowds to support a lengthy stay. Oddly, he blames your Meurelle, Isabella, and anyone else whose face has been on the Evening News," and Sebastian laughs again, a trill laugh that bespeaks of England more than Normandy. Rather smug. Ah, the world.
     "Though, I'm impressed that Margritte," he lifts his glass and drinks, "...came with him. I thought she'd stay more shrouded." A shrug. Oh well. "Not that it matters."
     "That leaves Thierry. He wants his job. He likes his job. He likes the..." Sebastian looks to a corner, "...the prestige he thinks it gives him. The prestige it does. The prestige...it doesn't. Hard to be Prince, when you know the main reason you're prince...is cause there are others who haven't decided to take up the cause. Until now."
     "And that brings me...back to here," he grins. Sebastian adjusts his blue-violet blazer, the double-buttons in an indigo hue.
     And of himself? He speaks not. Isabella was dropped in there, but there's quiet about her. Sebastian shrugs, leaving you to speak at this point.

     He mulls upon his cigarette. He mulls upon the smoke and the taste of fire. "And what... do you think he would be willing to part with... to feel a ...greater air of job security?" Davydd blinks and smiles. God, I've played this game before. Who couldn't love it? Sitting up on the mountain, raiding the borders, making folks who should know better quiver and piddle where they stand, just long enough to get a deal. Sod the king of England -- who needs that? "I'm just curious about the price. It's been so long, Sebastian, I'm not sure I know the going rate anymore..."
     The cigarette is stamped out and Davydd sits forward, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers lacing center. "Mortimer wants a lot of things he can't have. It's the hallmark of his Family. It's heredity," eyebrows lift, and the smile becomes a smirk, "...he can't help it. We," the greater we, "...can. So, it's just a matter of curiosity. He wants the job, aye. But how badly?"
     There's a shrug for Margritte. And there's no mention of Isabella. And actually no mention of Meurelle by name just yet. Davydd settles back again. "Is he more upset with my moving in here, or that my eyes -- and in his mind, god knows what else -- on a member of his own clan?" An Archon at that. And known.

     A large hand opens up and flat. He will not go to that point. Sebastian says, "I'll leave that to you and the Toreador, Davydd, but you're not a dunce, mate. Your choices are yours." He does not want to get into insulting discussions about the fair Sandrine. While she may be a part of things, however the talk goes, it cannot be positive. "You know how they talk."
     "And the going rate, is..." Sebastian's jaw sets, "...the job's not yours t' have, Davydd. If you're trying to raise the price of tea, you've done it. Mortimer's not getting the job. Thierry's groused. And...you're splitting Ventrue in the process." And that's why he cares. Had the clan come to mind?
     "But," Sebastian grins, thinking on it, "...Thierry's probably thought of that too..."

     "Good. Let him. If we start keeping score on that, we won't have time for anything else..." Managing the who's sleeping with whom, clan to clan soap opera would take a staff of thousands to support. "If he wants to waste his time on contemplating me in her bed, who am I to stop him? I contemplate it nightly myself." He laughs the last smoke of his first cigarette.
     But he goes back to something you said before. His demeanor suddenly quiet. His green eyes measuring. "I had not thought the divisions in Ventrue would be... " A pause. "... as immediately obvious, no. How could it not be divisive, at the end of things." A wave of his hand. You and he know this. "Where do the lines fall..."
     No, he is not saying he will or will not. He is not responding to it not being his to have. It is any man's who stands and can withstand it. But... it's a little premature to talk about that, isn't it...
     "Since you're here..."

     "I think you can guess," Sebastian's brow raises, drink at his lips. "Come on, Davydd," he murmurs, "...is that what you meant? Sure, I can sort out Brujah and Toreador. But why us?" Why stir the pot in Ventrue?

     With economic prosperity, there is a part of him, of course, that could not blame you all. And he mulls on that a moment. You may not know what his true intentions are or were, or whether it was simply the price of tea, as you put it, or the price of something else entirely, but you do know that whatever it is it isn't without thought. Consideration.
     He exhales and his head rests back against the back of the chair. "That Ventrue are so divided..." he says in quiet, lilting tones, "...when all I have done is to move into an available piece of real estate and date a beautiful woman... what am I to do with this, Sebastian? Move into a condo? Become a monk? What would you want of me..." And now it's whiskey time.
     Davydd leans in, pouring a glass. "William and Ian have lived here for years, and Ventrue wasn't worried. I move in, the city comes apart at the seams. Who'd want to be prince of that..."
     Green eyes lift to you, and then a fiery brow.

     "They have not lived here, Davydd, they may own it, but they do not live in London," Sebastian mildly points out. "But even in this conversation, you have said you simply did not move into real estate." He sighs.
     "We," Ventrue, "...have not bothered with The Seat since the War. You know that. And if you live here, between you and me, I don't care," Sebastian states. "But you know your move was intentional. And yes, I know that Isabella...well, she thinks the better of you than others. You cannot feign simplicity, Davydd. There were plenty of places to live. You chose here and apparently," Sebastian looks around, "...with Dunross' and Plantagenet's agreement. If that's all it is, then fine," he shrugs, "I'll be on my way, and the conversation's over. You'll deal with the Toreador, Brujah, and anything else they toss your direction."

     Another exhale. The forests shook when the oak king moved, boyo. And the leaves rattle with it still.
     Fingers lace against wool-covered stomach. He sits in silence for a moment. Perfectly still. No blink, no breath, no grin, no quip. And after a moment more there is an awakening warmth. Thoughts moving back up to the surface from the deep sea source. "My eyes were on the conclave. They have been on the conclave for the past decade," Davydd says quietly, suddenly. He nods, "I knew what moving here would do, in general. The timing, well..." A corner of his mouth lifts, "...that is the part no one can predict. I have rasied the price of tea," brows lift, seeming to trace the metaphor in their rise, "...Mortimer can't afford it now, though his hand is on his wallet. He watches what I do. If I fold now, Sebastian, the conclave may be interesting for far different reasons."
     And now he returns to former words, eyes narrowed on the point in thought. Not mine to have? Who among us wants it. "We have not bothered for The Seat, this is true. I was tired by '45. Exhausted." Few fought harder for Britain than he did in that second war. At the end of it, Llewelyn was spent. His energy has returned, however, and needs... occupation...? "You remember..."
     Another cigarette is lit, he exhales smoke. "Any change upsets business," he quotes from the Ventrue Handbook, "... but stasis is Death. To humor. To health. To profit. London is stable, but it will not grow. England as a whole is in trouble, while her formerly conquered," there's a wry twist of lips for that, "... states experience a rejuvenation not seen even in their most haloed centuries. London is the lifeblood of England. What happens in the body of the state is symbolic to the health of that heart. I think we can do better."
     That's the short speech. And maybe it's not reason enough. Maybe it should be dire. Maybe he should be content with what he has done for Wales. But Davydd is not content. Davydd does not know the meaning of that. "We've known each other a long time, de Rancey. I will listen to you." So if you have advice...
     If you have a warning...
     If you tell him he's a great ass...
     If you tell him it's not time...
     He will listen...

     "I don't think anyone disagrees," Sebastian says genially. "But you sound as if you are the only one thinking of the Conclave. Or of London and the islands at large." He finishes the whiskey, curling his lips as he savors the swallow.
     "You cannot think that all Ventrue just simply..." Sebastian grins, "...will fall into line? Mortimer can't afford the seat. He doesn't have the clout for it. Thierry has the clout, but tenuously so. I have the clout, and I want it," Sebastian says. "And most, know that. But that is beside the point. There's age here, Davydd. And no one moves on the board without others having some say about it. That is all. You think of a glorious London future, of what London could be. I think...of what London is and who is here to do her and her citizens harm in the Now."
     "It does not mean I don't think of Tomorrow, or that others don't," Sebastian says, "...but you know this..." and he grins, "...Things are Not Always As They Seem." Ventrue Handbook, pg. 3.

     "No one said anything about glorious. It's too early for that. I merely said better -- I'm a realist, Sebastian..." It is the same as saying Welsh. Suddenly he laughs. Green eyes widen a touch. The old veteran got caught in the bushes. It shows. Davydd leans in, stamping out the cigarette again, his eyes on you. Humor having its place, intermittently -- it's gone again.
     "Things are as they are. How they seem..." There is a small smile. "Well... we each make that our own, do we not..." Quite the Shakespearean twist. Seeming and Being. When the evening started he was in Henry V. Now, he finds himself playing the role of Glendower. Who spoke too much to Richmond and he paid for it.
     "So, since you're here," the motif continues, "...shall you ask for my support of your effort, be your decoy in Kensington as you make your move elsewhere... or would you prefer me off the field altogether. Let's be frank about it, de Rancey. There's little reason not to be. We know what we want. Now, it can be simple truth."

     "Would you rather me demonstrate that your move here was smoke and mirrors to the rest of the Clan?" Sebastian comes to his point with a grin. It is not so dramatic is that, but it would clear up problems for him. Sebastian chuckles, "If you wish the position," Sebastian offers freely, "...then you will want to talk to a few others, clarify this. If you wish to be considered for it, I will consider you an honest candidate in addition to myself. It will be put before the Clan. Certain members should be aware of what we all do and what we should put forth in coherent fashion." An honest race and information for the insiders.
     "But to the world..." Sebastian smiles. "That is another story. I am fine to see Thierry, Mortimer, and his lackeys squirm. But, two years is a long time for them to squirm. And as they do...things can happen." Consequences. "So think of this ruse before we enjoin it fully."

     "I will give it due consideration and the clan will know shortly."
     The smile broadens, sudden. The streak of a comet, with that brightness. And with it, he uncoils from the business this has become -- rather than the scolding he was half anticipating. He was looking forward to that. The air feels him. "We'll worry about the world the next time we meet... How about two weeks, Sebastian..."

     "Two weeks is fine," Sebastian waves off, not too distressed. His concern is more of those inside as opposed to those without. "What I hope," he chuckles, "...we all want, is for us...to Win. And for Them, to not." Chuckling turns into laughter at that. For him...it is so simple. "But, I should let you go on in your evening. You have places to be." He grins and moves around the seat, setting the empty glass upon the nearest table. "Good whiskey too, Davydd. At least you're keeping up with your drink," Sebastian laughs, reaching for his coat.

     "That should be the Common Cause," Davydd says, brows lifted and smile wry. But we have seen it play out otherwise more often. With that, Davydd rises, a hand reaching out for his coat. "Oes... I do," and the grin spreads. "And that is for my own part," the rest of you keep out of it. So says the rumble in the chest.
     "I can't take credit for the whiskey. That's all Dunross. Why do you think I moved in here, de Rancey? For the closet space? Best bar in the world..." Green eyes sparkle as he shrugs his coat on. "It helps to have friends in the know..."

     "Mmph," Sebastian acknowledges. You have to be right. He lays his blue velvet coat over his arm, a contrast to the suit. Languid walk moves him towards the exit. "No need to follow, Davydd, I will show myself out."
     A pause and turn, though. Something else he wants to say. "Take care, Davydd," Sebastian says evently. "Two weeks is a long time. Two years, is an eternity. It is best, we all do those two years on the same page." Not a chastisement to you, but a reminder to you all. "Just watch yourself, because others are doing it for you." A smile. "Messereich sends his best, of course, as does Tamarind," the latter an older Ventrue who spends his time near Norwich's churches. "I'll..." Sebastian grins, "...talk with you soon."

     "Have a good and peaceful fortnight --"
     He's not following you. He's checking his pockets for the usual suspects...
     Cigarettes --
     Lighter --
     Car keys --
     Gun --
     And it's all there. Oh, and the phone. It's in his hand as he glances up and pivots toward your departure. "And you, Sebastian. Give Messereich my best in return. And tell Tamarind to send me a postcard from the Holy Land. I don't think I'll make it this year..."
     And a number is dialed even as you leave. He's late now. He better call her...
     And all those years with Rosamund Caermichael... he never once did her that favor. But see, that's the difference of it.

     There's a blue-violet wave at Sebastian's pace picks up as he leaves the gallery. And magically, the tall, thin door at the end opens. "I will," he pronounces, mind and body already on his next appointment of the night...

     The jacket was on, but he didn't move...
     A call was placed to Sandrine. Soft voice carrying softer apology. But there was a smile for it, and a promise. Just one last thing to get out of the way...
     But before he leaves the house, he picks up the private phone -- as private a phone as you can have at any rate -- and dials a number from memory. Edward's.
     And he won't go to her smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. Those are packed away. Well, just one more each and then that's it. Feet prop up on the setee as he settles back in an old chair.
     One ring...
     Two rings...
     Pick up, Edward...

     "Oui," comes his voice, sublimely French. Behind his words, the sound of something roiling. Bubbling. "Oui, celui-l l-bas, ami," he says. "Yeah..." voice switches. It could be someone who speaks English.

     An exhale of smoke...
     Well, that could be William, couldn't it?
     But it isn't. The voice rattles in French right after. The pronunciation is... perfect. Not a hint of accent. "So I was on my way out the door to see my woman, on top of the world, and then I come out to Sebastian de Rancey in Kensington Gallery. Oh, hey, what's that I hear? A spa?" Davydd smirks. "I don't want to know what you are telling him to get. Do you have a minute?"
     He's polite enough to ask, that Davydd...

     "Oh, hey, mate," Edward says, making the shift. "Yeah, it's a spa. So, what was that? de Rancey? How are you? What's going on? Shite!" he yelps, "I didn't tell ya. I'm in France. Me and Valan both. He says hallo..."

     "Ah well, just as well. You might want to ... enjoy France a while..." That's the sound of him exhaling. "At least for the next two weeks. Sounds like Mortimer's twitching more than I thought. But... anyway, good on you. I'm thinking about heading to Wales, doing some thinking in peace. Making some phone calls. So, the Clan's expecting to hear from me then. Whether I'm putting my name in for it to go against de Rancey himself. In an effort," and in the pause, you know he's quoting, "... to be on the same page."
     "Oh, tell Master Montague I said hello and I'm sorry for interrupting his bath..."

     What? Edward's voice mutes an instant, something said in French to the young man who is probably not so far away.
     "What is this? I got the bit about Wales and Mortimer. What's this about de Rancey? Going against the clan? You're not talking sense, Dauphin,"
     He'll give your apologies later.
     "Maybe, Dauphin," Edward suddenly thinks, "...we'll come back? First thing in the evening?"

     Davydd settles in the chair, you can hear the wood creaking. "It has gone as I expected... but more quickly. Ventrue rivals are... as I expected them to be -- de Rancey, de Chantrain, Beaufort. But... the lines... the motion." He pauses. "It has been faster than I anticipated, Edward. Perhaps I have been distracted, more than I realized." But I'm not going to regret Sandrine. The trip. The semi-nightly visits...
     An inhale of fire and he holds it for a moment. "No, I think it is best for you to stay in Fleurlil. With Mortimer and Tattinger squirming... loudly. The outward appearance of calm is the better course. No matter how agitated." And it is safe to say that Davydd is a little agitated. "I have to toss my chips in, boyo -- and I have to do it now. Or not. And it's no shame on me either way. As de Rancey stated, I raised the price of tea... and caught Mortimer with his hands in his pockets. Mortimer wasn't counting on me as a rival... And now, he's all but locked out of it. For that, if nothing else, I do not regret the thought of it."

     Okay, you're talking politics and Valan is nibbling in his ear. Edward's silent an instant after you talk, but then chimes. "Chantrain and Beaufort? Well, I can see Beaufort. But...Chantrain? He can't do the job." Whatever. He'll not ponder on the merits of each. Your points are well taken.
     "Look, we'll come back in a few nights, if there's no rush. Mortimer's shite, and I'm not going to stay out of town if he thinks I'm doing it because of political shite."
     "Sorry things are going so fast, though Davy. You watch it, alright? Like we said at the out...all kinds of shite can come out of the woodwork."

     "Yeah, I know. I just need time for it to sink in. He just left, more or less. No, no rush. Take your time. I'm going to go see her. I need to tell her..." His voice goes quiet at that. He and Sandrine have talked about everything but this. But this... is Now.
     And I am dreading this...
     Making a decision and coming before the clan to discuss or debate? That's nothing...
     A cigarette is stamped out. "If I'm not in London, I'll be in Powys Manor. I'll let you know," he adds. "Hey, bring back some of your best. I'm peckish for good wine..."

     Her? Oh. Right. Jorgensen. "Well, of course," he understands, "...and yeah, we'll bring y' something nice, okay?"
     Edward's quiet again and then says, "Lookit, Davy, I should go. But I'll ring ya tomorrow eve, alright?"

     Davydd laughs. You're in a spa. You've gone quiet. Long punctuated silences. Funny that. "I'd tell you to enjoy your spa, but sounds like your spa's enjoying you...Nos dda..."
     And the call ends abruptly. Hmm. Spa. Maybe it'd be easier to tell her in the bath. Look, love, I've been meaning to tell you... no that's not it...
     I'll think of something...

Posted by rowan at May 05, 2003 10:49 PM