The cold December weather remains prevalent, a chill that even the warmth of fireplaces or central heating cannot entirely chase from the palatial German manor. An entire day has gone by, the sun once again sunk below the rim of the horizon, a day spent by the staff in
moving about the manor to do their master's bidding, while he and his
guests slumbered in secure darkness. And now that night has come again, Johann has awoken, and turned to brooding...
The wolfhounds have been loosed for some supervised patrol, more for the purpose of exercise than any real concern. Still, with the previous night's startling news, it won't hurt for them to be too
careful - the dark canine shapes moving swiftly along the wall, around the edges of the house and at the borders of the wall at the end, periodically let out a low bark or whuffle.
It is in an inaccurately named sunroom that Johann watches this, pale moonlight filtering through the thin cloud cover as he stands on slate tiles, hands held behind his back as he observes. There is a
distance to his frost blue eyes, a distance more of years and of thought than of emotion...
"It is a lovely room," says a voice, projecting from where a corner chair sits empty. "I'll have to copy it now. But, I never
realized that in it, one could see further than the eye would allow."
The orb of invisibility drops, and Christian sits in the seat, as if he has been there for hours. He smiles; the mature world knows his bad habits of walking the Earth unseen and unheard. "Forgive me," he offers, "I did not expect you so soon." Christian sits up and allows the chair to make its normal noise from shifting weight. "I also do not think I have been anywhere so peaceful in a while, Johannes," lines around his eyes forming with the grin,"...you are a lucky man." He informs.
"But you know this," finger lifts, as if reminder to himself. "I need not say such things. And you've worked hard for such peace -- for yourself and the region. I should congratulate you on that more often." So sayeth The Toreador.
It elicits a blink, from the German, for a moment eyelids dropping to guard the windows of the soul, a slight shift of balance as he almost draws back a step. Arnaul is not accustomed to being on guard, even briefly, in his own home.
It passes quickly, though, and the man waves it off with a slight movement of one hand. "Peace is pleasant, but temporary at best. Even here, unpleasantries lurk just outside the borders, awaiting too
incautious an eye." Poetic, perhaps, but how very German. Heels click
close together, and he offers a slight bow.
"I had not thought that any might be here," he makes admission of his own carelessness, and moves on. "I am glad that what hospitality is mine to offer you, meets with your approval, though. Some evidence of it being ... worth it, perhaps." The corners of his lips twitch
upwards into a brief smile, that warms his countenance for a moment. "Surely, though, in all your travels, you see much grander and more accomplished things than this."
"Ah, forgive me," Christian says again. "I feel badly now that I have somehow broken a veil in your home. No, you should not
have to use some inner sight, Johannes, to make sure idiots like me are not lurking in the corners of your own haven. I offer my honest apology. It will never happen again." Not here.
Christian stands and heads your direction, dressed this evening in tans and browns. "Grand and accomplished," he shrugs,
"...are all about perspective. Have I seen the finest of architecture? Sure," Christian agrees, "...in Girault's very villa. However, have I seen moonlight so soothing in such a while? No. And that is here in Saarbrucken, in the conservatory of Johann Arnaul. Many would trade architecture over what is available in your moonroom," Christian observes. "But look, you make me philosophical," he smirks, hands slipping into the pockets of his dark caramel pants. "Law," as the Justicar is, "...is never philosophical." Humor from a stereotype.
That brings a chuckle to the pale-haired, pale-eyed figure. "You need not apologize," he says by way of reassurance. "It is good for me to be on my toes. If I am not - well." A promontory burden pushes behind Johann's eyes, disturbing his gaze for a moment, and he shrugs, wool
and linen shifting over the breadth of his shoulders. "I will surely reap the folly of my own ill-advisement."
"Does Girault yet keep a villa? I was uncertain - he seems to spend as much time in travel as you must, yourself." It brings another small smile to his lips, and he shifts position, folding one arm over
his stomach, the other hand hanging from his belt. "I am glad that my home provides something which you wished to find, however." He recognizes the humour, but doesn't seem to know quite what to say to it, considering and turning over options in his mind and discarding them, silent for the time it takes. "It is a hard think, seeking. It is a blessing when things are found, even if only in
philosophy."
There is a nod, "A lovely palazzo, I should correct myself," Christian's eyes roll for the error. "A glorious place, stuff of
legend..." and he narrows his eyes at you. "You're kidding, right? You've never heard of this place?" Well, in detail. Ah, the decadent detail.
"Maybe it's best you haven't," Christian finally chuckles. "But yes, the palazzo is resplendent with anything one could desire."
Literally. "I think he travels because he is bored." What else does an Elder do? "So, he follows me around," Christian laughs, the sound beginning as a rumble and spreading evenly. Bemused with himself. "I should repeat that. Maybe it'll become a rumor, Girault will hear of it, and totally explode." Ha.
He chuckles quietly, deep in his throat. "Do so, and Girault will plague you worse than last night, with or without chocolates, in the hopes of gaining some satisfaction, if not revenge." Johann shakes his head, the smile fading for a moment as he glances out to the lawn, and the sky.
"Are you satisfied?", he asks after a moment. "Does life still hold everything you'd hoped, or new delights? I know that your work is sometimes counted as your passion. Forgive me if I ask too deeply, I ... am seeking for answers to questions which have not fully formulated themselves."
Christian cocks his head to the side, causing brown hair to fall at his forehead. "Odd question, for one with your age and
experience," he confesses. "Does existing still provide interest and enjoyment?" Christian nods quickly. "It does. In part, it depends on how you define delights. If you can stay awash in constant change, then there is no end to what existing provides. If you find joy in serving others, there is no end of work," he explains, not getting too deeply into it. "My work," Christian grins, "...is not my passion, despite the constant definition of a Justicar as one who loves to travel, judge, execute, and be omniscient and omnipresent. That is not 'work'. That is godhood, and not how I define what I do."
"Satisfaction," he rolls around on his tongue, something Alsatian in the purring, "...is something else. That is more towards
self-gratification. Can I find gratification? Something a little more instant," his back to you as he walks towards the chair again, "...that's different. But in general, my reply to you," he spins about, black boots different than last night's green, "...is still yes. In general," he teases.
"The world changes, and we ... change with it, or get left behind," Arnaul muses, though he does respond to the smile with one of his own. "I still find things that are worth doing, experiences I wish to partake of. Sometimes, though, I do look at the world, and wonder - what happened? It is so removed, from what we once knew." A sudden burst of restlessness breaks through his philosophy, and he pushes off one heel to pace with brisk, forceful stride, to rest the flat of his palm against the glass. "I apologize," he offers with a
candid grin, with that brief touch of boyishness to it that the Prince and Primogen Council of Saarbrucken would never believe in. "You did not come to hear me maunder on. Perhaps I should have travelled, instead of sequestering myself here, but - what is done, is done." And he is not about to abandon his post now.
Another quick grin, and Johann turns, leaning back against the cold glass. "I'd ask for specifics," he shoots back, "but that would, I think, buy me trouble I cannot easily buy my way out of, ja?"
"What sort of specifics?" Christian asks, not bothered by queries. He will tell what he wishes, and if he wishes not, then he
will not reply. "And, you do not..." hand waves, "...maunder on." That brings an aged frown. "If I thought that, Johannes, I would not be here."
"So, ask your question? What is your Justicar if not a font of wise and useless tidbits?" he laughs, taking a seat on the edge of
the chair he sat in earlier.
Arnaul grins tightly, folding his arms over his chest as he leans. "One of the difficulties of reaching our advanced age is remembering those we knew, who did not achieve old age along with us." The shoes he wears a hunter's boots, lined with fur and a dun colour. The old
vampire dresses for warmth as well as fashion, it seems. "Perhaps I live too greatly up to the name given me, but sometimes I do wonder, what I did right, that I should have survived, and they wrong, not to..."
He sighs heavily, and continues. "The solitude of our position is wearing at me, mein freund. I have my human servants, to fill the roles I play, but they are not companions. It has been a very long
while, as well, since my old comrades and loved ones were with me still - Marcus, Gertrude, Arnulf, Woedrig..." Lieutenants and lovers, dead by treachery and mischance, their own or enemies. "How do you do it, then, would be my question, I think. Your position is surely, if anything, more solitary than my own, allowing not for any illusion of preference that might cloud your judgement or reputation." His pale blue eyes are sober in their regard, sadness held behind them. "How do you maintain that distance, or otherwise... ?"
"I don't," Christian grins, looking up to you from his perch. "I do not try. I do not attempt such falsity. It is not true, I have
no distance, I do not care." He stands suddenly, realizing something. "What? Do you not hear the rumors of my attendance at Villon's parties? Or of my habits? Do you think those are stories, generated by me, to cover something..." hands lift, "...more cunning and calculated? Or...is this," the muted colored version tonight, "...the image I have created?"
"I have no plans for my position to be isolated. Some," he nods, "...that is the route they prefer. Myself, my route is
different. It is my own. You of this Clan...you know me and my service. Whatever images childer to Elder carry of me, added with what they know of my record, is Truth. And that means there are..." he declines to say how many are in the clan, "...multitudes of Truth. I try not to reconcile them. That is not my problem. Not yet, anyway," he winks.
"I will tell you what you already know, Johannes. My archons are everywhere. And nowhere. I already knew of the Nosferatu wishing to come to Saarbrucken. In London, Tattinger's about to sign an agreement with Edmund Mortimer. Ian Dunross is in debt to his cold,
frozen Scottish ass. William Plantagenet thinks that a Ventrue will be made Prince of Tours. He is wrong. It will be a Toreador. And Villon? Villon thinks he has rooted out the troubles in Paris. He's not done yet."
"I tell you these things, frere Johannes, because distance is an illusion. It is not real. And when you fall into the trap of
thinking that your solitude somehow now saves others, instead of remembering that your solitude was a planned moment for a particular reason once," Christian's head tilts, "...then you have let a momentary illusion shroud your whole existence. And then you are alone, for no reason. For no one is.." hands wave, "...dramatically being saved by your stoic sacrifice." Christian smiles warmly.
"No one should be alone, Johannes. This I know. No one benefits from that sacrifice. No one."
He sighs. "As for me? I am what I am. How the World, human or not, sees me, matters not one..." his face contorts, "...fucking iota. What matters are the things that I have given myself to. Law.
Toreador....and a few other personal habits that I shall not bore you to mention," he laughs, snickering as he comes to a halt near your shoulder.
"Things will cloud my judgement. My recommendation to any who find themselves clouded in the wrong way...that is unfortunate. I am not infallible. I do not pretend so. Everything touches everything else, and everyone does as well. I have preferences. I show them.
They are our clan and the execution of the law. Those are my biases," he finishes, exhaling unnecessarily. "I have no difficulty with my lack of impartiality. I doubt the Others," the rest of the Justicar, "...have any difficulty either."
The Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken listens intently, emotions held frozen behind stained glass eyes. When the words roll to a halt, he nods slowly, remaining sprawled back against the glass, restlessness
contained and leashed by his not inconsiderable will. "I do not isolate myself for impartiality's illusion," he murmurs, "but ... well, I grew weary with those who I did not care about, and have had difficulty finding those whom I could give enough of myself to be damned for caring." A quick, brief smile, and he adds, "It is easier to admire a flower, to paraphrase last night's discussion with Girault, than to transplant it."
With a shrug, he straightens, hands sliding palm-first down to his pockets. It's a casual, yet studiedly modern posture, one which no doubt has been practiced in a mirror until it became naturally smooth
and graceful, rather than merely ordinary. "I hear rumours, ja, but if there is one truth, large or small, about me, it is this - I am a monomaniac." It's said simply, candidly. "Where Saarbrucken is concerned, I have given everything to keep her safe, and if not pure, then ... relatively unsullied."
"Only recently have events made me wonder, despite all these long years and toil ... if it is worth it. I feel a cold wind, Christian." It is the first time he's used the name, instead of some honorific or
impartial pleasantry, and it's whispered, as he turns to the window again. "I do not know where it comes from, but I ... have a horrible suspicion that something is going to break, and badly."
That stills him. Despite his flaring, bombastic tendencies, Christian can be as still as a mouse. In fact, invisible. "I take
that comment seriously, Johannes," he replies. "And, if it comes true, I would...be surprised, but not shocked. The world is built on change. It is the state of things. Yet, all one can do, is to be affirmed in self and meet the changing moment with the fullness that you are. That is...how I exist nightly. Any night may be my last," he grins, "...but that is not why one should be the fullest of Self. It is the fullest of Self, at all times, that is your beacon and guide through troubled seas. This, I do believe."
"Try not to worry. Do not look for the change. For whatever will break. Just, when it does, know that that wave came and met
Johann, the Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken, in his full glory."
"And things, from that instant, were never the same."
He laughs, quietly, some of the pent-up tension easing from his face. "And that, mein freund, is why you are the Justicar, and I but a lowly city Primogen, thought on but little by such dignitaries as
Messereich and Villon, save when they wish to see me squirm." Johann smiles, the expression lightening his countenance. Germans are very good at brooding, and it's quite a coup to so easily pull one out of it. "You are far better at such balance than I..."
That gets a roll of his eyes, self-deprecating humor. Christian smiles. "I have been at it longer." Longer than even you
know, Johannes. "And," he lifts a finger -- bad habit -- and touches the side of his nose, "...how many lowly primogen do you know even warrant a look from The Ventrue...and The Parisien?" Remember that.
"You are Saarbrucken. Everyone knows this. And they are mindful and respectful of it," Christian smiles. "Titles, frere Johannes, mean so little to real power." And that you have.
"I will remember." More even than the words spoken, no doubt. Arnaul is known for a long memory, known for it both by his friends and his enemies. The corners of his eyes crease, lines which will never turn into wrinkles, and he slides his palm back against his hair. "I am in
your debt, for your advice, and your time." More perhaps even than you know. Despair is an ancient enemy as well...
"Come to Paris," Christian smiles. "Even for a few nights. There are such sights," Christian grins broadly, suggesting something
other than the mausoleum of The Louvre that Villon holds. "I am sure Girault would make a splendid tour guide, and for the more esoterics," he grins, "I could spare an evening as your host," if you'd take up such frightening offer.
"Annabelle with her coterie would be glad to see you, and for grins, we could go bother Villon..."
"Well... Villon did extend such a delightfully timed invitation, which I admit makes me most curious as to what it is he desires of me." If it is anything at all, and not just to ruffle the German's feathers. "Perhaps you are right." Johann nods slowly, increasingly tempted by the idea. He has not left Saarbrucken in decades...
"Ah, delight," Christian's face shines, his hands clasping eagerly. "So. Shall we see you next week? Week after? I...may clear a
night for you. I am certain that Girault would clear a week..."
"Mirabile auditu," Christian regales. "Three nights. Even better. We will go and make way for you, hmm? I have a place you will like, in the Montremarte. A lovely place, private, with garden, but with access to everywhere? I shall leave you the address and see you there...three nights hence."
Johann bows, one hand extended along his side, the other bent inwards across his stomach. "Very well, mein freund. I am content to leave it to you, as I cannot imagine better hands to be in. I will go hence and begin preparations, that I might leave without coming home to an
insurrection. God be with you."
God? That gets a bright Christian Lausanne face. "No, I am afraid he left me long ago." He laughs, but your point is well taken. "Indeed, see to your affairs. I will...make note of where to find the
house and I will take Girault and see you in Paris..."
Christian grins and nods at you. "You will not regret this, Saarbrucken," he chimes, winking at you before heading back into the house proper to gather Girault and prepare the car...
While not as good a Catholic as he once was, Johann was once a very good Catholic indeed. It's a part of his life that died even before sunlight did, for him, though, and it only shows in archaic little oddments like that one. He smiles, straightening. "I am regretting it already, I am sure." He's not serious, though, and it's audible in his voice, as he turns back to the window, with a smile that is far removed from his earlier brooding. "Perhaps I was wrong..."
Posted by rowan at May 22, 2003 12:03 AM
