It is December, and chilly winds race up and down the sprawling driveway, chasing bits of torn paper and shreds of leaves over and against the frost-rimed manor and its grounds. December, the hounds in their kennel lift their noses up and howl mournfully, now and again, despite the warmth - they are well-kept, the kennels, at the master's decree.
December, whispers the creak of the back stairs, where servants creep from pillar to post in their appointed rounds - December, the fire hisses in at the hearth, crackling and sending dark vapour of smoke through the ancient, yet well-maintained chimneys, adding warmth and some small illumination to the large sitting room and library it resides in, but little warmth and little comfort to the man who occupies it.
I rule here ... mine is the hand which rests upon the sword, and mine the neck around which the symbol is worn. No crown wear I, but it does not change, as I do not change. This, and I, am unending, eternal, resolute ...
Johann Arnaul steps back from the window, turning towards the open doors of the room, dark wood panelling and furnishings set in a stone structure. A vain man, some have called him, and so he is, and has been called, long before this modern age of steel vehicles and glass buildings. He dresses as befits the modern era, his ash-blond hair clipped short, falling easily against his skull, lending only the slightest impression of having perhaps been rumpled at one time to soften its immaculate sheen. The pale blue eyes that look out beneath equally ashen brows are alert, and have something of the wolfhound to them ...
Aloud, to the slightly nervous maidservant waiting in the room for his voice, he finally speaks. "My guests will be arriving at any moment. See to it that all my orders are carried through." A curt nod, and, "That will be all." The girl is new, and green enough to bend wetly - she answers respectfully, and leaves. Time will tell if her wood will season, he muses. Time will tell ...
You know what they say, amice, Time well tell. Time heals all wounds. Time flies when you're having fun. To everything there is a season, turn... turn...turn. I stopped counting. Months come and they go, amice. Years. Decades. Eras. Trends and fashions. Still I notice when the leaves change color. When moonlight lands upon an earth turned golden with a fallen forest. I simply do not linger long upon it. Leaves fall. Time passes. Mortals learn. Young girls age.
Any other clever witticisms and I shall make myself sick...
Ah. Breath leaves me in silver fog as I step out of my car, the attendant putting on my coat, the ermine. I look wretchedly fetching in ermine. He brushes my shoulders with his soft gloves and I can hear the pulse. It is music to my ears. With a smile, I turn. I do not tell him to wait, after all... where else would you go? I look up to the sky, I look past the thin layer of clouds and see the stars over Germany. It is like seeing the heartbeat of a young man just beneath the skin. I never tire of either.
Gathering the ermine, I move to the front of the house, the front door. A bottle of an old vintage under my arm. A delicacy from Firenze. I come bearing gifts. I am like St. Nick, si?
There is a knock, but you likely heard the car pull up and the approach of footsteps from behind. The knock is an afterthought. A trifle, really. Unnecessary, but courteous. And there he stands upon the landing: Girault-Antonio di Medici, as if he had stepped out of a Raphael painting. His long black hair, curly, unbound and over his shoulders, blending in with the ermine. When he smiles, it is like watching a work of art smile. Strange. Beautiful. Strange.
Contrast. A gathering of saints, then ... Saint Arnaul, protector of Saarbrucken chases away enough of his thoughts to join the century present rather than centuries passed by, and - there are those who would be shocked - answers his own door. There are not many he will do that for, any longer...
The door is opened, though as if by ritual, he waits for the knock before doing so, cold features warming by degrees to a smile of welcome, even though the wind outside howls at this opportunity to invade the otherwise protected manor.
"Enter, do enter," Johann invites, stepping back and out of the way with a chuckle. "It has been a very long time since you've done me an honour such as this. So ... enter, and warm yourself by my fire."
Maybe it's a side effect of being German, but there is an element of old darkness even in his bright words of welcome. Come warm yourself by the fire, my child, and let me brush your hair ... Of course, you are no child, and he has no need to lure you into a web. But there have been times, and tales ...
Of those who may be lured. Of those who may be tempted. There is none who would attempt to do so to the Old Dignitary. And but for a few... trifle handful of years... he is your Contemporary. More or Less. There are so few of you. The world is small, getting smaller all the time, and one may number one's Contemporaries on very few hands indeed. Fewer all the time. Some disappear. Some get tired. Some have merely forgotten their age and have slipped into a Einstein Relative Timelessness...
Known as Il Dignatario, your associate is one of standing yet of ...indefinable position? There are few who seem better placed, and yet... what is his placement? He is the self-proclaimed Diplomat in a world constantly in need of diplomacy. Ergo he makes the rounds. Mediating. Making peace. Making love. Making art. Ah, for you do have that in common. He and the diMedici family still up to their eyeballs in art, and as such perhaps second or third in the world for collecting. Their Renaissance collection is, of course, unrivaled. Funny, the Michelangelo's and Leonardo's and Titian's have come and gone -- the Medici are forever...
As the door is opened and you appear, outward go his arms and his smile. Warm, beautiful -- always with warmth no matter how unreal he looks, and he proffers the bottle of ... the old vintage. A hand-written and drawn label. Wine so precious, perhaps, that it is never sold. "Greetings, amice, greetings. And it has been too long," Girault grins affably, stepping in. The ermine remains on his shoulders, however. He will be loathe to part with it. Sly the smile and sly the look, and you appraised all the while. "But if one is to confess one's sins, to whom better than the Saint of Saarbrucken?" An eyebrow lifts with gossamer care, and the smile smoothens. "But then... why start to confess this late into the game. How are you, my friend. Oh!" He raises a gloved finger, and of course the gloves are also ermine. "Lausanne will be along in a few moments. He is right behind me." Lausanne. Christian. The Justicar. Well, the Dignitary does travel in style, they say.
"I have brought you an early Christmas present. From the heart of Venezia, the best of her stock." But be it blood or be it wine or be it bloodwine. You will have to uncork to tell.
The laugh that answers these words is soundless, lips curving into a smile that would be boyish, if only boyish pursuits had not been put away, oh! so long ago - Johann Arnaul has only faint recollection of youth, among those years. And while he has played his parts in time, as have you all, tonight he is neither Tempted nor Temper, but ... an old man in youthful guise, greeting a friend seen but only rarely. Life, and death, keep one busy.
Carefully and gently, he takes the wine - Johann seldom drinks, these days, but has a fondness for a steen op haut or burgundy. This close to the border? It would be scandalous not to stock one's cellar, if one is to entertain. The bottle is turned delicately, gaze scrutinizing the label as if for some fault, though if there were any, he is far too polite, and hardly likely to criticize a friend and a Contemporary.
"Wonderful. You always surprise me, my friend, with what you find to share with me."
Another soundless laugh, and perhaps this is why, why he greets you himself, rather than following empty formalities, and hollow gestures. There are not many who can still make him smile, or laugh, bring warmth to that angular face and those light blue eyes.
"Come into the study," the Saint invites. "And if you wish, there you may make such confessions to me as I am able to assign penance. I have left strict instructions that the meal shall be served there - nothing formal or fancy, but something light, to break the troubles of the road - and they will not disturb us for the rest of the night."
Between men who remember when the troubles of the road included far more danger and uncertainty than the motorcrosses of today, such formalities carry unspoken weight, perhaps. "Tell me if there is anything I and my household can provide," he murmurs, sliding the door closed against the frustrated wind, "and I will make it available to you. This is a rich and magnificent present indeed, and we will have to treat it kindly... Shall we settle in while Lausanne lags behind?"
And if I cannot surprise, amice, what is left for me to do? The cinnamon-ermine eyes sparkle at that and he turns to walk with you. "Ah, such confessions. The Lord Almighty would not wish to hear what I have to say, which of course He already knows." A wink. And his gloved hands come before him, fingers lacing as he strolls along with you.
"Hospitality is in short supply in this century. You have my utmost appreciation for the offer. I will be fine, amice, what your staff has prepared. And perhaps a little of your cognac," Girault adds conspiratorially. "You had, I believe, the finest collection of cognac the last time I visited." His hands unlace, that was not to last long, for he speaks with them as any good Italian, "An enviable selection."
Girault looks to you as he paces alongside you to your study. He, the shorter, though tall for a Florentine. His lips pucker in amused thought. Christian. "Yes, well...if Christian cannot be fashionably late, he would at least be fashionable." So says the man in the floor-length ermine coat, lined in crimson silk. The clothing beneath is the finest from exclusive Milan salons. Of course. "He will not mind if we visit without him. He is bold, Lausanne ... and unafraid of arriving in media res." The smile is broad.
My Sometimes Lover and Dear Friend, if you are anything it is Unafraid...
"So long," Johann responds with a touch of dry amusement, "as he does not arrive in company of the pack of tame wolves known as media today." His legs are indeed long - long enough that upon one battlefield, he was jeered at by opposing forces, making his horse look more like unto a pony or mule. They did not jeer for long...
I was to be a priest, once. I spoke to God, and God to me, or so I believed. A lay brother, and I considered sealing my vows for all time. If I yet have a soul, Lord, then let it be in this city, that it has flourished under my watchful eye - You my shepherd, and I theirs...
"Of course, I will make sure that they bring several bottles up, that you might decide which you like best." The silver smile grows sly. "Though if I bring too many, I will be accused of ulterior motives, hein? We cannot have that." The doors to the study are opened, the dark wood warmed by the flickering light of the laid fire. "You are looking well. Where you have travelled, it has agreed with you, and you look very ... colourful." Amusement tugs the corners of the Saint's mouth up again, and he beckons into the study as he enters. "Please. Make yourself comfortable, you are my guest. And," a pause, barely perceptible, before he adds offhandedly, "I would have you be my mirror, if not my Guide..."
God hears you, amice, and so do I. And your prayers have been answered. Your soul -- it is yet in you... and from you outward to your people. As it should be from those who lead. Who truly lead. You are among the very few, amice, who ...practice what they preach. So to speak. You are one of the great shepherds of Europe. And it is recognized. By the Circle, if not by you.
Not that I fancy myself God, that I should think this way. I am only an observant eye from the shadows...
Girault laughs, it sounds like singing, his laughter. His voice, a tenor. It can fill cathedrals, and has. And as you compliment him, he puts a hand to your arm. As if to say: Ah it is only a trifle, I am not so much, but thank you. "And you, Johann... Saarbrucken agrees with you... and you with it. The city is in marvelous hands." Yours. "And you... the cut and smile of a man who feels this is so. Well, let me be the one to confirm it for you. Germany has healed itself, and it is due in part to you and your leadership. It has been a long century, seemed interminable, but I see only ... resplendency in your future."
Girault pauses as he steps in and he at last removes his coat, revealing a fine Italian suit of brown and burgundy thread, a saffron-bronze shirt beneath. Bold, that. And, though modern, with a certain 19th Century flair. It is the latest style. Something made by the fashion revisionists of the newest millennium. "If I am to be your mirror, then I shall tell you that you are the fairest in the land, yes?" Dark eyes burn with that, the cinnamon around his pupils shining like embers. "And I will not tell if you do not," he mentions, finally, about the cognac. "So, are things in Saarbrucken as fair as they seem to the outward and touring eye?" meaning his own perception.
His chuckle is a low rumble, in the back of his throat - a bark suppressed. "Praise from Bacchus is high praise indeed." Johann has been shadowed, for a long time... if you are the warmth of Italy and Venice, then he contains within him a growing chill of German winters, building slowly, as the layers of ice on the window panes. Someday, perhaps, summer will fail to come...
He is clad simply, though not the less expensively, in fawn-coloured tailored trousers paired with crisp white shirt, and slate-blue sweater. Timelessly Twentieth Century, if such a thing could be said to exist. Johann lifts his hand, placing it briefly over yours, applying a moment of pressure before it drops.
"Thank you for the kind words," and his vanity's touched, and no doubt you knew it would be, for when has the Saint not had his private sin to wrestle with? Nor has he ever wrestled terribly hard, with that one. "For those words, I will forgive any excesses you deliver yourself of. Consider an indulgence to have been paid for..." And his chin lifts, in that soundless laugh of his.
"Saarbrucken prospers, though the latest EU Commision deals are somewhat troublesome. It will work out in time." His voice changes, with the topic, becoming brisk and cold again for a moment. "They are trying to unite too many factions, too quickly. I cannot see a viable end to it - it is as if you try to sew together shrunk and unshrunk fabric, when it is washed it will invariably pull away, and some shall tear beyond mending. But there are some ... smaller things, which have troubled me, of late. Things are not as they seem to the casual gaze."
And so, interest and curiosity are piqued, and as he sits his eyebrows are lifting. It is the Subtle that most interests him, for all his grand entrances, effusive statements, and general grandiosity. That is the theatre of Medici. But such is a ...brilliant garment overlying a more philosophical thoughtfulness. A finger lifts to his lips, brushing there before his hand lowers, and finally he removes his gloves. His hands, fine. "Indeed? And what are these small things which seem to concern you greatly, amice? You, who do not commonly show your trouble, for you to speak of it..." It must be bothering you greatly, indeed.
The EU notwithstanding. The Great Experiment, si? To see if Europe can become e pluribus unum...
Girault folds one leg over another and his warm gaze, yet keen, settles upon you. His smile is slight, yet it is warm -- never lacking in warmth. Or rather, should one see the smile grow chilled, one should take immediate flight. To see you respond to his flattery. To flirt with a saint. It does not get more Medici than that. And it is not empty, his words, though he can make the hollow seem beautiful -- like fabrige eggs...
He remains standing, poised and casual, yet there is an element of strength - shoulders squared to hold up the sky, chin lifted, gaze alert and considering. Long fingers slide back through his hair, leaving it ruffled for a moment, before it settles again, into its proper place. Saint Johann Arnaul may be called, but he is by no means ignorant of nor immune to temptations. Nor has he ever been - it simply wasn't part of the When he lived, to be, whether of the flesh, or of the ego.
"It is ... rather like walking through a room you have walked through, every day for years, only to gradually have it dawn upon you that things are not as they should be." He gestures with the hand as it falls from his scalp, at the bookcases shelved with their dark leather bindings. "A volume out of place here. A vase of flowers turned away from the window, where normally it would always be turned towards. A pile of papers still neatly arranged, but the pages out of order. Or, perhaps... a rose that does not seem to fade despite the turn of seasons..."
He rubs his chin, and for a moment there is an element of exhaustion to the movement. When one reaches a certain age, there becomes a lack of spontaneity to one's motion, a grace which attends footfalls and turns, coordination visiting attendance upon immortality's practice. And in that gesture, Johann's immortality appears illusory, for it's as clumsy as a schoolboy's, consideration and puzzlement having worn a hole thin in the cloak.
"There is a woman, in the city... who has caught my eye, as being out of place."
"Did someone call me?" The voice is sudden at the study's door, footfalls non-existent. No servant in attendance...he found his own way to the interior room. Christian gently spares the world an instant entrance, at least making his appearance at room's edge.
"Come now," he says, accent betraying Strasbourg. At least he has the decency to fake that part. "I could have sworn someone called my name," he laughs, pulling hands out of green leather gloves.
In fact, he's in all green. Olive green shirt, forest green tie, jacket, and slacks. Even a muted green-black shoe. Wait. He chose a black coat with ermine collar, cuff, and lining.
And he gets away with that...taste.
"Maybe my ears are just cold," he announces, stepping into the room fully, feet sounding now upon the fllor. "That must be it," he mumbles at himself for the world to hear, "...I'm losing my mind still..."
A stop. Arm points where the front door should be. "I even thought I saw Messereich outside!" The nerve of my own insanity. To think. Karl Messereich. Here. In Germany. As if the Ventrue Justicar, oh, who happens to be of German extraction, was following him.
Christian tsks low, "I know that just can't be possible." He sighs laboriously, shoving gloves into his pocket.
"Hey!" As if just noticing his host. "And how are you?" the Justicar grins innocently, green eyes blinking blankly.
O sweet delight. That would be my Christian soldier. Aha. Such humor yet in one so old. Girault turns in his chair, leg unfolding and then he from the chair. Very festive Christian. I, in red-silk lined ermine and you in your green. We look like a Christmas pageant.
"Your ears should be no less than tepid, for your name was not long off our lips. As you prefer it..."
Smoky, ember-filled eyes look over to the host and Girault's lips stray a smile, slightly tilting. "Now, I am outnumbered by the Northmen. Oh, woe... woe is me," hands to his chest, fingertips but barely touching the brown and burgundy threaded suit, the shirt of saffron silk. His ermine coat softens the chair that held him...and now holds him again as he returns to it.
"We had not yet cracked open the cognac and so your timing is impeccable as always," Girault offers. There is nothing said of Messereich. Merely a smirk. No, he is busy in France these days, I think. These nights. He has Ventrue making him busy.
Messereich may be a countryman of Arnaul's, but there has long been a rivalry, between those two. In matters of politics - both among the human cattle and among the blood-drinkers, and in matters more ... personal. The name almost provokes a very Germanic sneer from Johann. "I do not think you need worry about him," his voice remains smooth and silky. "He is ... unlikely to be about."
Saarbrucken is mine, and none other's... I allow others to lay claim to name and title, and sequester myself in nominal isolation here, my grasp is big enough for Saarbrucken alone, and with her I am ... content, perhaps. But that has never sat well with some others ...
'Saint' Arnaul steps forward, extending his hand to Christian with a smile of welcome that warms the ice blue eyes. "Girault is quite correct, we've not yet opened the cognac, nor have my people brought in the food - you are in more than good time. Please, do take full advantage of what slight hospitality is mine to offer, I beg." A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him again, and he adds across to the scarlet that contrasts the verdant, "You are clever enough to hold your own against four times our number, I am certain. Perhaps it is we who should do the wailing to Heaven's ear..."
The hand is accepted and shaken with a growing grin. The Justicar rarely makes appearances...save moments like these in the home of long-standing friends. "Good that I am in time," Christian smirks, curling his fingers around the edges of his coat. "And whatever you are offering, I am in for, Saarbrucken," he adds. Bad habit of the Justicar...remembering their leaders by place rather than first name. "You are terribly generous, letting us arrive with such little notice." Not that any would turn down The Toreador and the Dignitary. Well. Most wouldn't.
"Actually," Christian clears up, moving towards a seat, "...it was a delivery," he notes, affirming that Messereich is at least aware that they are around. "Sending an errand boy out. He could have called," Christian rolls his eyes.
"What have I missed?" he asks cheerily enough, laying his coat on the edge of a near sofa. "Well, conversationally, that is..."
"The evening began, as it frequently does, with my flattery," Girault summarizes, a light smile on his Raphealite features. Pre-Raphaelite, to be exact -- and not that later romantic movement, but truly before the time of Raphael. "Which of course leads me straight to courtesy and praise, and in response... Johann's glowing hospitality. We were considering cognac and he was telling me of a local woman and that's when you appeared, Christian. And so," hands gesture to Johann and the smile is tempered.
"You were telling me of this woman. A woman who is causing you concern. You say... she is .... out of place? But.. something subtle. What is it that has caught your eye so, Arnaul?" his look returns again to his studious curiosity. "What is the book... or the vase that is ...out of place?" Embered eyes take both you and Christian into their embrace, his attention balanced between you.
He steps back, approaching the desk and leaning back against it, fingertips splaying out against the dark wood at his sides, one hand returning to slightly hitch up his trouser leg. "The cognac, of course. It should be here soon, now that you both are present as well." So Messereich has his eyes about, again. That is enough to make Johann's eyes narrow in thought for a moment, not quite frowning.
"Ah, there we are." Almost restlessly, the so-called Saint pushes off from the desk with sudden energy, as a manservant wheels in a wooden cart with crisp white linens and silver and glass embellishments. "Thank you, that will be enough for tonight. You may go."
Once the servant has left, he busies himself for a few moments with the food and drink on the cart. "It would appear that we have been provided with some basic fare which I hope will please you, despite its simplicity. And, of course - plenty of cognac, my friends." Is Arnaul stalling? There is a slight element of discomfort as he reveals the cheeses and breads, cabbage rolls and potted meats, rich squares of cake and chocolates, the bottles on the lower tier of the cart.
Finally, sweeping the ash-blond of his hair back, as if to enable him to see, he comes round to the topic again. "At first, I believed it to be nothing of great consequence. In all fact, I would perhaps never have noticed anything unusual, save that she is the owner and proprietor of a gallery - a few paintings now and again, but mainly statuary, pottery, delicate objects of glass and ceramic, sturdier ones of metals and stone and wood. In fact, she has some beautiful items."
He warms, for a moment, to the memory of the art found there, passion lurking to lend fervour to his gaze and his voice, strengthening it and enriching it. "It ... holds some very impressive treasures, both modern and older." But. And there is a but there, and the fire slides away, a bleakness cooling in his eyes. "However, to the best of my observation, there is something wrong with the lady... she has not aged. Not enough, if at all, in the time I have frequented her gallery."
Christian eyed the cart from its arrival. Now seated, he exhales to grow more comfortable, crossing his legs. "You think someone has taken Liberties that you or someone else has not allowed?" Ah. His heart almost flutters at the notion of a Lawbreaker. "That should be easy enough for you to discover," Christian nods, leaving such in local hands.
"Has she been around long?" When will a snifter appear?
If you get excited, Christian, then I should get excited, and then where shall we be? On the floor in a pile, that is where. And perhaps Arnaul would join us...
...I should not think such things. (Who am I kidding?)
Girault's fingers come together, steepled and resting lightly at his mouth. As he begins to speak they open outward, syllables found in fingertips. They are used as much as his lips and tongue for speaking. "How much time? The things one can do to stay young nowadays, it is amazing. Truly," and he almost tangents off-subject there, but it is the food that eventually catches him, "O, this is perfect, Johann. Just what I was needing. You are such the host. Thank you, my friend...the bread, cheese and cognac. Now, who should ever need more than this?" The smile is brilliant, beautiful-more-than. "There are ways to find out... of course. And then," a hand waves, "...bring them to justice." He leans forward, as if to whisper something secret to Johann. "That is Christian's favorite part."
Well, that and punishment. Christian loves his punishments...
The ghost of a smile crosses Johann's features, between the two guests. Such friends he has, almost sometimes he can forget things...
"It has been perhaps thirty or forty years since first I began patronizing her establishment. And I have not lost my eye so very much, I assure you." And he chuckles again, quietly, stooping to pluck one darkened glass bottle, lifting it up easily. "Will this be acceptable? Or should we open the bottle which Girault has so graciously brought such a long way, instead? -It is not impossible to preserve youth, these days - but I am a connoisseur of Beauty." Johann says it simply, one hand on the bottle, the other busied with pulling the rounded glasses up to within easy reach, for pouring. "I would know, if she were applying such subterfuges, and she is not. She appears as fresh and untouched as forty years past. I can only conclude that someone - as you say - has broken with rules."
And the ice blue eyes harden, mouth tightening slightly. In his city. His Saarbrucken. He guards it jealously, as he has never so tightly nor possessively held any lover. Or ... not for as long, nor as tightly ... If he can discover, his wrath will be fearsome indeed.
"Then," Christian waves his hand. Easy then. "You or the Council will sort it out and dispense with the issue." He scoots up to attention now, crouching at the edge of the sofa. "Chocolate," he nods, "...cognac. Pate." A nod. "I think I will be happy now," Christian observes, golden-brown brows wiggling a little.
"Mm," he lifts a finger, "I was supposed to deliver a message," Christian growls, letting his head tilt at an angle while he watches your reaction. The expression teems with bored disdain. "Villon asks why you have not been in Paris lately." Yawn. That Other Toreador. The one who 'handles' Paris. Much like handling a live grenade. "There. My life as errand boy is done."
Lips pucker, a little twist. Errand boy. A very expensive messenger. And a rather... large boy. Rather. The eyes go smoky but lift with quickness to Arnaul. "Villon should be asking why anyone would visit. And in December?" Girault is incredulous -- or at least incredulous-seeming. "It is grey and rainy and crowded. Everyone smells like wet wool," or worse. Bah. Girault's fingers brush against his sleeve as if removing invisible lint.
Something tells me it will not be so easy... Ah, perhaps I am growing too old and too tired. It most likely is just some fledgeling, rebelliously seeking to gain treasures for his or her own use, thinking no one would notice. She is just a gallery owner, after all...
Surprise chases away frost, and Johann's eyes widen, even as he tends to the cognac, opening it and pouring equal amounts to swirl round the insides of the fat-bellied glasses. "Villon? Paris? I have not visited Paris in a very long time, it is true, but why should I? Everything I would need is right here." Everything he believes he needs, at any rate.
In each hand, he lifts a glass, long-legged stride carrying him quickly across to offer both out at once. A pretty picture, and one with a certain amusing twist. Saint Arnauf gives hospitality. "My thanks, though, friend, for bringing the message." And it is in a way, a disturbing invitation, one to be turned over and prodded at, examined for hidden meaning and hidden intention - but not now. "What of your own businesses, both of you? I trust you are faring well?"
Christian nods, pushing up to his full six-foot-four. "Death, dismemberment, sodomy, fashion, blood-letting...it all goes well," he chuckles, deciding that the chocolate is too tempting. Fingers deftly remove a confection, and he falls back onto the sofa, rolling the delight in his fingers.
"No," he chuckles, "...I should act appropriately." He inhales, "Things are well, Johannes," the familiar endearment used. "Unless you want me to speak of The Major Things." The ongoing Sabbat and other minor issues. "There is little new there, either, save...they are running." Still. He sighs and puts the chocolate on his tongue.
A hand comes up, delicate and yet masculine. The hand of a musician. It stops the world, as the world should be halted, to watch Christian eat chocolate. A moment of silence please. It makes one envious, suddenly, of chocolate.
The lifted hand takes the glass of cognac, brings it to his nose, to his mouth, and Girault settles back in his chair, curling up there like a most contented cat. And again, he crosses one leg over the other. His mouth pulls into a smile at the edge of his glass. "These are a few of our favorite things," he half-sings, but laughter claims him before he can turn it into an aria. Are we not wretched.
"And things are well... we are making strides," he speaks for the global We perhaps. "There are some... interesting things happening in parts that have been long silent. But we have had a few of our... elder wayward sons return to Europe. Such things always create a stir. But..." a sip of cognac, "...I believe we are cresting upon a second golden age." You can quote me.
"Johannes, I must say...this cognac is exquisite... almost as exquisite as watching the Justicar eat his chocolate..."
It prompts another smile, and Johann steps back - not withdrawing from the conversation, no. A half of a turn, and then he steps forward again, his glass cradled loosely in one hand. "Ah, so all goes well," he drolls. "I am relieved to hear it. I always trust you to know precisely when it is in bad taste to kill or to seduce, or conversely, in the best taste in all the world..."
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he says it. Are we not sophisticates. "I think we may leave things in a minor key tonight. This is not meant to be politics, but a simple gathering, among old friends, who do not see each other nearly often enough." He swallows a sip from the edge of his glass, lips hovering for a moment.
"A golden age? It is a vision that I can only pray you are correct in, my friends. Such things are all I would desire for my," his lips quirk as he lowers his glass, "old age." The glass is set aside, blue eyes mellowing at the praise, and at the start of laughter. "Always," he agrees. "Our mighty friend has the ability to exceed not only expectation, but aspiration itself. I would envy you, if I allowed myself."
What? Someone is paying attention?
Christian's gaze turns outward and he spies eyes upon his enjoyment. "Mmph, sorry..." he murbles, swallowing the confection quickly. A fine dust of chocolate coats his fingers and lips, causing him to stand up quickly to reach for a napkin on the tray. In his other hand, cognac finds purchase too.
"By the way," he brings up, since he's late to respond, "...it's never," his tongue swirls at his lips, "...in bad taste to seduce. Kill..." his hand extends, wavering left and right. Depends on that one. Never can be sure. "But," he nods, "I am content that things are moving in the right direction," voice of the 'official' position. "Well, mostly. Save the rumblings from the Jet Set." Plantagenet and Dunross. Already causing trouble. That requires a drink. Christian leans back and tips the cognac to his lips, as if warding off that pair.
The smile is simple, delighted, spreading. Girault raises his hand again, "Never apologize for that, amice," he purrs, something of a tenored rumble, toward Christian. "In fact, there is a whole plate of it. I like it better when you eat it." I will leave it to you. Satisfied, he grins like the very cat -- and Cat of Florence he is -- with an entire vault full of canaries. "Even with Plantagenet and Dunross in France, two large rocks in a still pond, we are doing well." Dunross is too quiet. He should get out more, but that is not his way.
"We have a minor victory. The Gypsy Princess of Navarre has been taken out of the picture. For the first time in ages, Spain is looking tremendous. The obstinant little roadblock was removed. The Pyrenees never looked so good." Alexandra of Navarre, the little Ventrue woman who thought she controlled so much. Well, her story is all but done. Done to satisfaction. For almost all involved. "There are gaps to fill," Girault murmurs. "I hope that We," the Clan, "... can be the mortar in the old foundations." And the first glass of cognac is finished. He looks between the two men, hoping to catch Christian eating more chocolate.
"I am certain matters in central France will calm down. Plantagenet will return to Scotland for the winter," like clockwork, "...and negotiations in Tours may move along a bit more...freely." Not that he's been sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong. Plantagenet rarely goes beyond Chinon these nights.
"He doesn't want to talk politics," Christian grins, reminding as much admitting the failure. He laughs and finishes off his own drink, never one to let anyone, even Girault, get too far ahead of him. He grins and stands up, ready to pour another round. "Maybe we should discuss the latest news of Saarbrucken -- other than broken laws," he smiles.
Is that a blush? Never! But outward comes the hand, offering the empty glass toward Christian. And another for me amice. And between dark lashes, dark but embered eyes shift toward Johann. "You must forgive. I do not get out much apparently."
Johann chuckles, a low sound from under his tongue, and settles back against the desk again, letting himself sprawl out a bit, helping himself to a small wedge of cake dusted with sugar in lace-like patterns. "I have every confidence in you both. You are more than merely competent - you are ... very nearly diabolical, in attaining that which you have decided you desire."
He watches movements lazily, cake washed down with a final swallow of cognac, adding his glass to the queue. "There is nothing to forgive, and less even to report, I am afraid." The mouth normally held in a thin line to give away nothing is more expressive here, in this setting, and he rubs at his lower lip with his forefinger for a moment.
"There are gardens of delight, and there are flowers in them - as I am sure you will have noticed." Lying upon the border is a lucky stroke of fate for Arnaul and for Saarbrucken alike, that commerce and people both traverse through. "It has been very quiet, though, since the last attempt on the part of the Hideous Ones," the Nosferatu, "to demand more than two of their kind be allowed to settle here. We ... came to an agreement, however."
Christian plays the role of sommelier fairly. He moves to refill Girault's snifter first, then a lazy turn brings the bottle to the host's. Lastly...a bit more for himself. And a chocolate.
"Two, really?" he wonders a moment, the sofa sighing with his weight. "Well, it is hard to create information when you have to work both sides. Easier when there is another. Even us old, deaf, and blind Kindred prefer not to tell all of our secrets to the same, singular Hideous Type." You know how we are all taken in.
In a look usually reserved for Paris, and teasingly Villon, Girault wrinkles his nose in partial disdain, lifting his glass to his mouth. "We should tell them the Cold War has ended one of these days. The Spy vs. Spy thing has become tiresome." Swallow. "They should not give you much trouble. They have much of Prague and all of Russia," practically. "But... I am glad that my perceptions of Saarbrucken were on-target. I should hate to think I were misinformed." A wink.
Girault sips again at the cognac, settling back once more. So comfortable. So pleased. "So... are there any particularly lovely tulips in your flower bed?" I am a wretch! I should be spanked.
Eyes slip over to watch Christian with his chocolate. "I will have to sin tonight. And lucky I am that a confession would be right at hand, how convenient!" Girault gestures with his hand, chuckling. "Yes," he is standing suddenly, setting his cognac down and moving to the bottle of the wine he has brought. Bloodwine, made with clove and cinnamon. A delicacy not to be wasted. "We will drink this tonight..."
A shake of his head, and the Saint rearranges his limbs loosely, making himself more comfortable. A sigh escapes him, though it seems a contented enough sound. "I think perhaps they should spend less time thinking and more time getting their hands dirty, directly." Of all, such a one to say so!
He rolls some cognac around on his tongue, meditatively, then almost chokes. Tulips, indeed. "No, Girault, there are no ... flowers that I have had transplanted from another's garden to my own." Johann laughs, envisioning some young thing perhaps, popping up from the soil like a daisy. "There has not been anyone for ... well. A long time, now. Perhaps I grow too close to the name people have given me."
"Sin, and then perform penance? Or will the penance be in with the sin?" He inquires it slyly, gaze shifting from Christian to Girault and back, putting his glass down and lacing his fingers together behind his neck. "Ah, we begin with another vice. A pleasant and fitting tribute among sinners and saints..."
It is a process to devour chocolate. It is not eating or tasting when Christian does it. It is the sharp and crisp consumption of something delightful. Fingers hold the confection delicately, understanding there is little substance there. Cocoa, butter, sugar. Maybe cream or cordial. A layer of dust that magically holds it together, sprinkled so finely.
He is not paying attention again when he parts his lips and closes his eyes, letting the sweetness settle upon his tongue. Canines will not pierce it -- oh no! -- ruining the moment. Instead, the chocolate will reveal itself to him over the next few moments in time, hurried along by a chaser of cognac.
He smiles as finger tap the napkin at his lap, the cognac brought closer to his face in anticipation of the right moment.
Ah, you two were talking again.
"How did we get onto sin?" Christian realizes, eyes narrowing as he turns them to Girault. "I do not talk sin in Saarbruken's presence. We could explode," he teases, now letting cognac follow chocolate.
"Or," he swallows, moment passed, "...maybe it is our fault that you are becoming more like your popular name, if that is so." He sighs at the idea. "Maybe we should call you the Lecher of Saabrucken?" he wonders, giving a grin.
"You, eating chocolate," hands wave and the great tenor's voice lifts, "...and you can wonder on the origin of sin! If I were at the Lord's Table and this were the Last Supper, I would be forced to point it out!" Girault fills his glass again and offers the bottle to the host first. Refill? And then Christian. Refill? He sighs, "... I am between seasons myself," Girault murmurs. "... I have put away my autumnal garments. I need to ...settle into something ... warm and ...strong for the long winter." You don't say. "I am thinking of going to Denmark or Switzerland. To lie in furs. To be surrounded by mountains." A deadpan pause. "And the Alps."
Lecher of Saarbrucken! Girault chuckles quietly. "Hmmm... Christian...we are a bad influence, si? Could it be possible that we are so bad as to corrupt a saint?" Oh. Say it isn't so! Embers sparkle and glow in his eyes, the otherwise deep brown turning smoky.
"What power there is, in a name," Johann is deeply amused by the idea. "No, noone has thought me a lecher since ... my last lover and I parted ways." Which was tempestuous enough to have captured more than just his eye, and have cost him more than just the priceless antiques that got smashed in the departure.
He holds out his glass, with a slight lean forward, stretching his arm forth. "Thank you. - I am not comprised of virtue, as you well know, no matter what legends people like to spin. If you do any exploding ... " A long pause, and he closes his eyes for a moment, reopening them lazily. "It will not be because of my holiness."
He says it with such a straight face, but at the last moment, loses his grip on it, mouth curving up even as he watches from the corners of his eyes to see. I can be the funny fellow, ja? "I've never met an Alp that was lined in furs," he adds slyly. "As for corruption, well - even saints must wrestle with their devils."
"I like that," Christian nods, extending his arm for more cognac. "Fur-lined Alps." No, no one will explode - that was his point. "I will never make you so holy," he sits back, "...that we cannot visit you, Johannes. You can count on me to do my part." A nod, and the cognac is tilted to his lips.
Even Germans can have a sense of humor. I had heard of that. His mouth twists as he looks between you and does not comment on the exploding. There is more than one way to take that. Cognac spills into the host's glass and then Christian's. "No one in this room is in danger of becoming holy. Not...on my watch..."
He returns to his chair. The bloodwine will wait afterall. Settling back, Girault sighs, "Hmm... fur covered alps..." He meditates on this for a few moments. The visuals must be stunning, yes? The slow creep of his smile alludes to this, no doubt. "I will take my own furs and... see what I can do..." Or whom. Or how many. However one wants to say this. Girault grins, wicked, warm and wide. "You should get at least one flower for your garden, Johann. Even if it is only a spring bloomer that grows wild." A look to Christian. A lift of his brow. "I have no one keeping my schedule. Do you know if I was to be anywhere else other than Switzerland, lying on furs and surrounded by mountains?"
"Not that I can recall," Christian says blandly, crossing his legs again. He holds his drink beneath his nose, fingers laced around the large bowl. "But then again, I have trouble keeping to my own schedule," he confesses freely, smiling before he takes another drink.
With a sudden, briefly decisive gesture, Johannes downs the contents of his glass, settling it to the desktop, uncaring of the damage potentially done to the wood by resins and residues. Unlike him, perhaps. "Sainthood is a burden I did not anticipate ... when I took the job." He chuckles, rising to his feet again, stillness not a gift he has in his possession tonight.
"I will take your advice under advisement, my friends, but for tonight, I fear ... I have some things I should tend to." Villon. Unseasonable roses that do not fade. Messereich and his errand-boys. Plots to uncover and plans to consider. For a moment, a sadness rises behind the pale blue wolfhound's gaze, but then is pushed away.
"I will need to send word to Paris, and Villon has ... surprised me, with this sudden invitation." No enemies, but no allies either, there. What could it mean?
For a moment, the edge of schoolboy awkwardness reappears as Johann pushes fingers through his pale locks, cradling the side of his skull, then dropping his hand again with a small, tightly apologetic smile. "Please, my friends, if there is anything I can get for you, do not hesitate to seek me out and tell me, but I should ... get started on this."
"Certainly," Christian starts, rising from his seat. "Everything is alright, yes?" he asks gently, peering through his host. "Anything we can do? You really," he waves his hand dismissively, "...should not worry on Villon. I will deliver any message. I think...he wished only to hear that you were in knots." Don't let hiim do that. He has no meaning. "See to whatever, but...do not give Villon much thought in your work for the evening."
Cognac finished. Three bowls full. And he begins unfolding himself from his chair, pulling his ermine behind him. "Best of luck to you. And... give Villon my warm regards, will you?" As if they weren't associates. He would never stretch it to say 'friend'. That is reserved for precious few. Perhaps Villon is one of those. Perhaps not. A look to Christian and then the smile slants. "Tell Villon to arrange better weather in Paris when he has his conversations with the Almighty, si?"
"Ah... good," he murmurs to Christian, "...then I will not feel bad about changing my plans. I go to Switzerland." And if you are not busy... perhaps you can come with. We will eat chocolate. Or maybe... I will just watch you. It is... better... that way.
"Do be careful with that vintage," Girault cautions, warmth in his tone, as the ermine slips against him, laying upon him. A half pivot and he smiles to the Saint. "It is not for public consumption. Lure some young thing in. Give them the night of their life and death. Toast in the new year with such a drink." His hands fold before him and his look softens. "It was so good seeing you again, my friend. And.. yes... the Justicar is quite right here. Let Villon sit and stew in his own juices. He is better when basted I have found..." A bow, a wink, and he turns to go.
The so-called Saint and Protector of Saarbrucken smiles again, and places his heels stiffly together, bowing. "Your concern touches me," Johann says, with every indication of sincerity. "I will keep your advice in mind."
Maybe he'll even follow it. "If you would wish, there are quarters available - it would honour me if you would be my guests. If you would prefer not, I understand, though regret..."
Formalities, but with heartfelt earnestness underneath it, the sadness not quite banished from behind the ice, as Arnaul straightens. "I will exercise all due caution, though I fear I do not have your skill at enticing young blossoms in from the cold. Be well, my friends, and do try not to stay away so long, the next time."
"It will not be so long," Christian offers, nodding on the upstairs. It is not a bad idea. "We shall see you tomorrow evening before we depart," he explains, now done. The snifter is set down for now, another sure to be found upstairs. "Gute nacht, Johannes..."
Such hospitality. If he were nearer he would kiss each cheek. But Girault only smiles, nods and gestures upstairs. "Tomorrow," he murmurs. And we will see you then. Talk of other things. Maybe even gardening. Ah, it is good to see old friends. I must make my rounds again. It has been months since I have seen some.
Even some of my most favored...
I should not let so much time pass, even for one such as I, for whom Time comes and goes and mostly without notice. But how long has it been since I have seen William and Ian, Edward and Valan, Alfonso, and my dear Sandrinaar. Though, she is in the company of dragons these days. I may have to rescue her. Poor tulip, in so rough a hand as that...
Posted by rowan at May 21, 2003 09:32 PM
