First came the Ritual. With a sword strike, a stake's thud, the prayers dripping from a vampire's mouth. Crosses made by three damned hands. And then... the night...
     The three descended upon one of the areas nicest bars. Outside the press-and-push of Paris, where the fashionable come to escape the tug of the center of the city upon their soul, La Maitresse De l'Empereur sits nestled. Something Old among the New. Or newer. Three levels, it is restaurant, bar and cafe. Its cuisine is a mixture of French and Russian, its decor somewhere between pub, Picasso and 17th-18th Century L'Age d'Or. Up the winding stairs, where scented smoke trails from cigarettes wind, the main bar is perched like a lurking beast. Convenient, non? And it is full of the young and the nubile. Female and male alike.
     From where you sit, it is a banquet.

     Indigo eyes lift past hexagonal lenses, soft blue. The painter in him likes the option of seeing the world through alternate colors. Moreover the lenses accentuate every leer. Ah, take heart Edward, you have not seen this side of William directed toward women in quite a while. And though Davydd's energy is swirling, Plantagenet's more earthy sensuality is making itself known. And he is thoroughly enjoying it. Smoke curls from his lips with an soft exhale, and he reaches forward, flicking ash from it with the tap of his short thumbnail. Long gone is the longcoat. Now, it is only the leather and the microfibre shirt that cover him. Well, cover isn't ... exactly the word for it, is it. "Blonde for Edward... Davy-bach... I am assuming," William turns his head, smile spreading slowly, slanting. "... you want a red-head...?" Indigo flickers to you Edward. And with it, barely a wink...

     There are already empty glasses on the table of the corner where the three of you are lording. And two empty already near Davydd, who sits nursing his third. Beer. The drink of kings! "Why limit m'self. Find me two... one red...one..." He grins and sniffs, "...as God wills it..." Settling in his bit of corner, Davydd takes up the glass and tries to wave away some of William's smoke. Goddamned furnace . "So... what for you, Plantagenet? I'm seeing... a brunette in your future. Hey..." A hand reaches over and hits Edward and Davydd gestures with a nod to one in particular. "50 pounds... William takes home the supermodel who looks like she needs a cracker..."

     "I think I can manage," Edward grumbles, wondering where the bright beacon's come from. This may be his ancestral home, but his stomping grounds, the place where he is his own...is London. Crackers? Edward blinks and turns halfway around, not bothering with any sort of etiquette. He stares a moment, then grimaces. "Never been much for supermodels. I like a girl who knows she's wearing her own hair." Dressed in the same clothing, his silver pants show a hint of spackling. He called it decor, when someone suggested he change. Color. Décolletage. Unbuttoning his white shirt, he appears the veritable 'come hither' boy. Hard black boots finish the outfit, and despite having decapitated someone, Edward appears rather dandy. "Besides, it ain't much good if he's here listening to the fuckin' bet, Davy." That sounds so much better in English, which he speaks.

     But while you two look at females, Edward's gaze bounces off the males about the room. A sniff, and he turns to look back at the table, eyes peering into the pint glass. "Christ, William," Edward sighs, "... here ... dammit ... gimme one." He was not going to smoke, but with the human chimney nearby, he desperately, suddenly, wants a smoke as well. "This place is ...well, there's shit in it." Like people. Worthwhile ones. Huh. Maybe he could visit here again.

     "Mais oui..." and the smile pulls broad. You can imagine that canines are distending... merely from the thought of it. Them. "I thought... it looked as if it would hold...promise..." The smile curls around the body of a cigarette and with a grin, William slides the pack to you. Egyptian. Special cloves. Cloves and hashish. A taste of Eastern pleasure and delight. It swirls around him, blending with sensations of cinnamon and patchouli. Goddamn William d'Angevin Plantagenet. He settles back in a lordly sprawl, silver lighter sliding against the table to Edward. Eyes scanning the crowd, Edward... though Davydd may fancy William is looking at women... William fancies he'll look at what he damn well pleases.
     And if you turn again, you'll note a certain...lingering... fascination for one of the young men near the bar. In the full flush of his twenties. He can almost taste the blood now. It is with effort that indigo pulls from its target and looks to his friends. A slight shrug, as if to say... it is just another night among the beautiful in France. Until Edward starts to undress. You really must be careful, Edward, with where you point your 'come hither' gun.
     William smirks and cuts a look to Davydd. "Trust me... I am a meat-eater, Davydd Llewelyn...if I fancy a cracker, I'll go to the bakers..." That said in English, with a lilt of something Northern upon it, oddly. In other words. Ah... non. William takes a moment to survey Blois, and then returns to his survey of the room. Smile damnably in place. And the swirl of humanity... no... it is no mistake... they are beginning to slowly drift toward you. "The flesh here is... quite remarkable," comes the languid baritone, now in French. At least it's modern.

     Davydd laughs, a rumble of sound held in his chest. The comment on meat-eating completely passes him by, you know. "Fuck you, since when..." he quips to William and leans in to Edward. "He's going to leave with someone here tonight, or he's not getting out of France until he does. I'm worried about him..." Meaning William. "And you..." he goes on, as he can. "You've barely touched your third beer. There're children starving in Ireland for that..." Settling back, Davydd finishes his third. Light-weights!

     That does get a laugh from Edward, his brows flickering. Instead of nursing, he goes ahead and tips the drink backwards, giving the bird's eye view of his throat to the middle of his chest. Take that, Humanity. Licking his lips, he sighs and sets the pint down, looking at Davydd as if to say, now what? "For once...I'm gonna agree with the backwater Frenchman," meaning William, "...and say that the stocks in here...wait...I already said that once." A chuckle and Edward looks over towards the bar, bobbing his head, all the while fishing for one of Will's cigarettes and picking up his lighter. "I will say though...I think this is an unusual night...these are the best looking in all of this wretched country." With that, he slips the cigarette between his lips, and closes his eyes as he flicks the lighter to life.

     I am going to have you. Dark eyes have settled on the tall blonde at the bar. I am going to take you from this place... you will forget your own name, but you will scream out mine. And it is as if the young man heard him, for he turns toward the energy and peers through the smoke. Smoke that likewise eases from William's parting lips, issuing like a spirit from his spreading smile. Full lordly and confident. He has his mark. The young man is bare-faced, with the high-sculpted cheeks of the northern Italies. Very well defined, dressed smartly -- to indicate how his body moves rather than reveal his musculature. "See anything in particular that appeals to you, cos?" I've got mine. William looks to you, the grin lingering with the phantom taste of blood. The future. That young man. "I thought a golden bird might be more your temperament tonight... but ... you know... with such a banquet... eyes are greedy. It is... difficult to decide..." And he chuckles quietly, the sound held in throat and chest. You know otherwise...

     Green eyes... emeralds with a dash of fire to them...look from you to William to the young man turning...to the energy he feels and that look on William's face. Waitaminute. The handsome face contracts in...perplexion. "Well... don't just sit there, Plantagenet, the birds are waiting... you know, I think Scotland's making you lazy..." Leaning in, Davydd looks past one of William's broad shoulders. "Your brunette is gettin' away!" Unbelievable! "Edward..." Davydd quips, voice lifting, "...are you seeing what I'm seeing? How the mighty do tumble," he rolls in that Welsh-flecked English. Lifting his hand, he calls for a waitress. He could have summoned her, but what the hell...

     Ah. You saw him too. Edward says it not, but the sudden need for his pint at his lips in place of the cigarette says it all. Easier to hide behind. "It is difficult," is all he says to you, grinning at Davydd's words and turning quips to him, "I told ya, laddie, brunettes are overrated sometimes." Pick another. "Personally, I'm havin' a wee bit of a conundrum. Must be all th' pressure," he peers between you both.

     The blonde turns back to the bar, a grin growing upon his features. Another please. Whatever I was having. He leans there, one foot on the stool's brace, the other at the floor. If he came with friends, they are long gone, for he drinks alone now, watching the bartender and sometimes eyeing the room. Now...he's eyeing you, William.

     Laughter, soft -- it warms his features beautiful. Lighting them. "Sorry... more hunting...less talk..." Saw him? He might as well be wearing a flashing sign that blinks 'William -- Come Get It Here'. "The brunette..." comes the mull of William's voice, slow, as his eyes are directed elsewhere. Yes... you. Lips pull in a smile, and the cigarette is extinguished, with a last gasp of scented smoke. "... was nice... but... not my type. I prefer them ...tall... lean... beautiful." Again, indigo eyes lift to you, Edward, and the grin is knowing. "Beard optional..." Lastly, to Davydd. Now, that'll give you something to chew on for a while... while I go find something to chew on, n'est ce pas? With that, William begins to rise, eyes on you again Edward. "When he wakes from his coma, give a wave. I need to... acquaint myself with my supper... I'll be right back..."

     Davydd's mouth was opened and he turned to speak to the ...very lovely waitress, "Hello, darling," he rattles off in French, "I'd..." And that's where it ends. Before eyes fly wide and he turns about to look at William. Fuck me. "Enough with the beer... what do you have in whiskey," he says to the young woman, turning with a placid expression and a blithe tongue. His French is damn near polished. "What do you mean bearded, William... is that some sort of ..." He waits for the Waitress to shove off and then leans in, "... Chaucerian reference...?" Medieval slang? Hell, who can remember that far back?

     Not far from the blonde at the bar, moving among the crowd...navigating table to table... is another young man. He, perhaps in his mid to late 20's, his hair sandy, from what can be seen through all the scented haze. There are women around him, much as you three are starting to be surrounded... slowly...but not truly with him. He is heading more toward this direction. Drawn. By something seen. Something felt. Something wanted. The three of you are surely among the most lovely in the room, afterall. And the... crowd does seem to be shifting in your general direction...

     "Ah, righty, thank you, dearie," Edward says casually, unaffected by William's commentary. He smiles, shifting pints all around himself, and putting the cigarette back between his lips. "Wot?" he blinks, looking up and between the girl's arms over to you, "Chaucer?" Who's that? Blue eyes glancing over to William's path. And there you are. William's found his. "I wonder if I saunter like that towards the night's festivities?" Nice blonde, really. Nice slip and slide towards the young man. Ah well. "I should get a vid or something to tape myself." A smirk, "Thank y', lass," he goes back to the woman, being polite as ever. She has a lot of glasses to pick up and ashtrays to dump out.
     But hark, someone approaches. Keen senses pick up on that. Edward glances over first, then turns his head, tendrils of smoke wafting. What is this? From the approving expression of Edward's, it's something nice.

     Tipping up his drink, the blonde at the bar only smiles at himself, face turning downward to hide the glow. You've decided to come see for yourself. He occupies himself by asking the bartender for another shot, and then looks to the mirror to see where you are, Will....

     The waitress... a lovely dark-haired -- burgundy actually -- woman, she smiles to you both and looks to Davydd, "We have Irish, Scotch, Vodka..."

     Davydd's hands fly up. "Vodka... perfect. Grey Goose. Vodka tonics...oui...bring three.." When he speaks French, it sounds more martial than romantic.

     "And for you...?" she murmurs to you Edward, bending toward you. "Another beer?"

     Green eyes watch William ... and coo, but he does saunter. Jesus... Your comments about filming yourself just skate right on by. At least for now. The cigarette dangling from his lips suddenly goes erect and Davydd lights it, smoke billowing from him. Looking very like the Dragon of Wales, actually. The smile still hasn't returned to his face. He's trying to process this bit of info. Go on and place your order. The corners of his mouth upturn. William... glam? Like David Bowie?

     To your right, Edward. There... shadows and the dim light of the bar play against a tall, lean figure. He is shorter than William ... shorter than you. Perhaps six even? And he carries himself ...confident. Approaching, but in a meandering fashion. He is not making a direct approach to you. Rather, he has turned, navigating around a table nearby. A survey around him... as if looking for someone. Looking at you. His hair is more golden than sandy, but not fair -- it is honeyed. His build... lean... more to you than to William. His shirt ... the light plays against it as he moves. Silk? Not quite. It is too...liquid to be silk. He wears leather, shiny, and boots. And he smells of wine and leather and something French...sunlight. He wears it. It warms his blood.

     "Uh, yeah," Edward blips, expecting that she had to have figured that out already. Edward looks at Davydd, then toward where William heads. "Ain't polite t' stare, Davy. What's the problem?" Ah, it is dawning upon him. Edward looks back towards the bar and smirks, picking up his present pint. "He can pick 'em, can't he?" he murmurs, attention half-trailing towards that circled table. "Sacre bleu," Edward whispers to himself, falling into his first language. A glance, and he remembers that Davydd is sitting beside him. Drooling is not recommended. But, God, who is that, and can I have some?

     "Bring him two..." Davydd quips, voice lifting to the waitress as she starts to head off, empties in hand. "How long has he been ...into men?" comes the sudden but quiet burst of French. It just hit him. 'Not Celibate. Meat Eater. No Women. Beards Optional.' I mean... it's William we're talking about. "Mr. I-can't-talk-to-you-right-now-because-I'm-face-down-in-models? I mean, he's always had an eye for lovely treats, but they've... always had breasts, Edward..." Smoke leaves him on an exhale. "It's livin in Scotland that's done this..." he murmurs. And well, you know what they say about the Scottish...

     The young man did not hear Davydd's little outburst, but he does turn more toward you. A smile. That mouth. Full and French and promising. A strong heart beat. It fills the space between you. And you see him, his form... his will, drawn. His navigation is interrupted. He stops your waitress as she begins to head off, and places his own order. And is coming to join you. Though the smile remains, there is something in hazel eyes far more fiery. This is where the beautiful dwell... and beautiful men... who seek to find one another...
     And the women who adore them for it...non?

     Did you say something, Davydd? Edward is silent for a couple of seconds after you speak, eyes looking elsewhere. Not at William. "Hu-- oh...him?" Edward shrugs, "What d' you think he and Dunross do up there, Davy?" Come on. Get real. "Have sherry?" A chuckle and Edward closes his eyes a moment to take a good drink of his pint. The other will be needed soon. He watches you afterwards, trying to gauge what's going on. A smirk and his brow furrows, "You...really, like, didn't know, mate, eh? I mean really ?" Edward laughs, bringing his hand over his mouth suddenly. "Oh, hey, I'm sorry, Davy, really. I just..." and he glances at the Mack William, "...I just ... figured ... you knew. You know?" Really, what did anyone think was happening between him and Ian for all this time? A grin and Edward's brows wiggle, as if to say, it's no big deal.

     However, that man approaching is a big deal. Edward tries to keep his attention to you, but goddamn, he simply can't. Blood and his own body are beginning to scream at him. But be glad...he doesn't just stand, wave, and leave. He's attempting to remain social until it's appropriate for him to disappear. "He's...into men, Davy," Edward says simply after a moment, "...like... very ... in ...them," he smirks, liking the prepositional use. Language can be fun. Maria would be proud.

     "Bah...Dunross... toss me in a vat of ice, why do you not then?" He can't wait for a vodka, he requires a vastly better vintage. One more heady. "I mean... I try not to... see him in that way... but... I know him... well..." I did. "I mean as long as I have known him, he's not... I mean...ah, fuck it..." His cigarette is extinguished. "It doesn't matter... meat is meat... but... why am I always the last to know?" And then the trademark grin, wide and barbarically beautiful. "Fuck him... he'd be very into anything he'd approach with that ..." Meaning his enormous and legendary... personality... "Look...I'm going to leave you to it, Edward. You'll ... mind out for d'Angevin tonight? Make sure he gets tucked in and all...I'll call you both tomorrow. Good show on tonight, boyo." Yes, I'm leaving. But I love you. Too much information to process...

     You look at me... and I want you. I want you... now. The most glorious thing in here. The young man smiles and murmurs "Good evening" in his lazy drawl of French. Accented central. Loire. Well, the land you and William share does produce the best vintage in France, does it not? Hazel eyes lift to Davydd as he rises. Then back to you. Interrupting? If so... do you care, Edward?

     Damn loyalty. Edward winces to hear that Davydd is departing right-this-instant, and before he can return the bedroom eyes to the young man, he sighs and glances away to see Davydd. Then the young man. Then Davydd. "Bonsoir," Edward decides to say, giving attention where attention is due. Can I do this fast enough? He grins and bites his bottom lip, before motioning to the now empty seats by him. No, no interruption. "Um...let me say good night to someone," he asks gently, hoping not to ruin any moment. He's just a friend, really.

     The eyes, in their various shades of green and gold and brown, lift and play with the lighting. Dimmed...but with the occasional spotlights. A look to you. A look to the red-head. A look to you again. All in instants. And you can feel ...can you hear?...the coursing of blood through a very slow and strong pulse. Lord in heaven, it sings of endurance and promise. The young man smiles as you speak, draws near in a lean -- though the music isn't that loud -- "Of course..." He smells just slightly of cologne and leans back. A hand lifting to call the waitress. Bring another, si vous plais ...this as he does begin to make himself comfortable.

     The steps of the Welshman are slowed... and his hands have slipped into the pockets of his long, wool overcoat. As he hears your voice, he pivots. Brows shooting up. And the smile curls at his mouth. In part slanting, in part slightly puckering. As if the next moment will be greeted with the rumble of his voice.

     "Hey, mate," Edward says, grinning quickly at the young man before scooting around the table to bounce towards Davydd's retreating back, "y'sure you're gonna go?" All this talk of William, but none of himself and his occasional forays has him grateful. He looks to the bar, and in the moment, the shirt Edward wears opens generously. "Y' want me t' go back to the house with you?" Is everything alright? You are alright? Please don't be upset. His slides his hands into his pockets, twisting a little as he looks boyishly at you. Hating to see disapproval from an older brother.

     Why do you do this, Blois? And make me a gentle man, though I am a creature of fierce habit. Wide spreads his grin and the eyes light up. Despite his stubborn disposition. "Bah," he almost growls, but it is a soft, damn near fond sound. "I'm fine. I'm sportin a bit of a headache. Do you have any of those powders ?" A sudden change of subject. But then Davydd smiles and reaches up, cuffing the back of your head. No, boyo, no disappointment. No upset. "I've no desire to...as they say... rain on your groove..." Where does he come up with this stuff? Davydd gives your shoulder a pat. "How about... you and d'Angevin -- if he's still vertical that is -- meet me...over in that corner..." He points to another corner table. "Before you go for the night...well, we go. I'm staying at your house...Oh... is there a limit on guests per room? I'm feeling a bit..." And then he just grins. You still understand... don't you? "Go enjoy your... drink, Edward..." he murmurs. I'm quite alright. And with that, Davydd parts from you with a wink and turns about...

     Your ...capture for the night. He's patient. The drinks have just now arrived...

     He nods, Edward does, knowing you are unsettled. But in truth, there is little he can do, save toss his own evening. "You can do whatever in the House...you know that," he smirks, some of his confidence returning. "I mean, if y' ready to go, then that's alright wit' me." He twists to see if the young man is at the table, then looks at you, "I'll be over there, alrighty, mate?"

     Oh, he's a bit unsettled. Just not used to it... all being out in the open. Now he has images of Plantagenet in his brain -- images that just should...quite simply...not be nesting in that primordial grey matter. Trying to do the calculations, even as you had... if you recall it, Edward... a few months back. The math doesn't add up to the picture. And Davydd was never good with his numbers. But ..inconsolable? Davydd Llewelyn? Oh... not at all. As he raises his hands with a wave, and the words, "Meet you at ground zero," leave his lips in a rush of Welsh-flecked French -- edged with his contagious laughter -- Davydd already has two women in sight. The next moment... those two women are on their feet and coming around to join him. In his way, he is every bit as charismatic and irresistible as your other brother-in-arms.
     You know, the one who's seemingly all but disappeared. You feel him. He is still here. That hum against the air. Maybe you hear his laughter on occasion.

     "I hope I did not encourage him to run off..." comes the mid-baritone of the new man at your table. The golden-haired, well-built, well-dressed man. He has an easy demeanor, a confidence that Knows Itself. He wasn't watching his watch. He is not young and impatient... well, not as young as some of the ones you've met in Phantasmagoria, at any rate. You turn, you see the smile. The eyes that are fastened on you, and studying. And the new array of drinks he has with him. Two for you... and two for me. Fine, dark beer... with a fine caliber of brandy to chase it. An odd combination. But a powerful one.

     He is impressed. Edward's saunter over was occasionally punctuated by a glance to his friends in the room. "Him? Nah," Edward smiles, retaking his seat. "A friend...he has had a harsh night, methinks." French returning. Always so much more fluid than his intentionally rough English. His smile grows, liking the choices of alcohol. "Edward," he says genially, only now letting his eyes wander. Hands curl around the beer, not unlike how he hopes they will move later. Ah, he had forgotten the appeal of the more polished sort. It is an unfortunate day, Edward, when you are considered the more polished in a pair. Such is the way in London. "Salut," he murmurs, lifting the brandy your direction.

     "Valan," he says, the smile lingering. Eyes drift from you to the cigarettes and the lighter. William's. But... as they say... when the cat is away, the mice will smoke his cigarettes. But there is no handshake -- it's not that kind of meeting. Settling back in the chair nearby, Valan leans in toward you. "I was... waiting to see if they were friends or if you were already surrounded," ah, his accent, his language. In it you can hear echoes of Your French. The Loire River and a part of the Vienne can be heard in his language, in how it moves from his tongue. He takes one of the cigarettes ... looking at the pack... and then to you again. "Do you mind?" Polite. Well-bred. Built like a fencer or maybe soccer. "I had to get a closer look," he says quietly. And then he grins.

     The crowd is alive. The spiral of mid-evening to late night has them all caught in its arms. Women. Men. Beautiful. And within the bar there are three separate...eddies of humanity. Where forms are drawn in a tidal fascination. Three corners, to which others seem to drift. To select tables nearby. To glance. To look. To want. To wish. Diagonal from you, Edward... William and the blonde have retired to a corner. Mostly shadowed, but your eyes can pick out a part of the ...activity. Talk that is not talking. Words that are not spoken but an Understanding is reached. To your left, the sound of laughter. Female, male entwining. Davydd. Pleasure. Death. Blood. Cigarettes. The ingredients all in place for a good, healthy batch of Sin...

     How you cause him to actually blush. The smile curls and he pushes the cigarette pack towards you. "Egyptian," he warns, just in case. William was not known for choosing anything mild or with a filter. "And I don't mind, they're not mine." Who they belong to...well, he can suffer. Edward grins at the use, and picks up the lighter, leaning in to flick the top back and send up a burst of light. Always the gentleman. "Can you see better now?" he wonders while you work on the smoke. For now, Edward's friends are comfortably forgotten, if remotely felt.

     Egyptian. A real novelty. He looks at the pack, the Arabic writing -- the orange and bloodred box. A glance to you, hazel eyes in their green and gold and brown glint with appreciation. Anticipation. How can he resist? Even as he puts the 'modified' clove to his lips, there is no question but that the temptation will be tasted. "Salut," he murmurs in reply. Mortals... could never resist novelty and adventure. It is the hallmark of their race. Fire erupts from your fingertips -- and he, the moth, moves toward it. "Hmm..." the sound of unexpected pleasure -- both for what he tastes and what he sees. And Valan smiles, even as smoke billows and the dark cigarette glows orange at one end. Brows shoot up in some surprise. Shock. Followed by a short, slight cough. He laughs, this mark of yours. "Dieu... I think I just took ten years off my life...but...good..." Smoke follows out upon the next exhale. It will work upon him quickly. The hashish is already snaking upon his blood. It will only serve to make what shall follow... all the more incredible. "L'Empereur... usually boasts nice things to view... " He offers you one of the pack. He can be generous with what isn't his. "And you ... I have not been lucky enough to see you here." A nice way of saying an old line. His French is impeccable. He either has or has come from some amount of money. Valan leans in, remaining close. Studying you, always. Unable to look away. The more he smokes, the more it shall be thus. You will surely be shocked if he does not get down on his knees under the table and tend you while you sit.

     He must be someone's son. Someone I know. Edward grins at the humor, twisting his lips as he turns the pack idly upon the table. He shakes his head negatively for the offering, grinning as he instead changes chemicals for the moment. Beer and brandy. "I guess I have not been here in a while," Edward observes, French suddenly matching Valan's. He cannot help occasionally being what he is...when the right person asks. "I'm a little surprised though," he confesses, looking at you, "...I don't recall this place being so...enjoyable." Arms fold on the table, allowing his shoulders to settle forward. It's a cradle for his drinks, as he hopes to nurse them for a while and simply watch. Hands cover his elbows, an almost cuddle. "I should get out more often," Edward finishes, giving a game smile. "You...seem to know the place well enough..." he asks, wonders.

     Perhaps he is. You will have to get it out of him. He introduces himself by first name only. As if to avoid any connection to the surname, perhaps. To...blend in. As the cigarette is held, pressed lightly between two fingers, the brandy is lifted and tasted. Even as you are watched past the rim of the glass. A portion of you reflected upon its surface. "It's become trendy, as they say... everyone is tired of the Old Scene in the central city," Paris, "...L'Empereur caters to the very beautiful and young audience that shall eventually betray it for the next ...strange spot." Ah, how French of him! To spout philosophy on societal trends while trying to flirt with a man. His lips pull with purpose upon the cigarette. Very strong.
     "But... for however long it lasts, I will be here. It is...one of the few mixed clubs this far out...hmm? Women who are here... looked at... someone will take them home. But," Valan grins, "...not most of us." And then he laughs scented smoke. A rich laugh. Young and full of fire. Your bed will be active if you find him in it. That intensity is in every motion, trails every look. Is embedded in the sound of his laughter. "I come here too much..." he murmurs. "Well... once a week... " His voice stills upon his tongue and he looks to you, head tilting in it. He looks at your mouth, and wants to know it. Your form, and wants to feel it. His eyes are drawn to where your shirt is open. "They won't be waiting up for you I take it? Your friends... " He remarked on the other dark-haired man with you earlier. He wouldn't kick either of you out of his bed for eating crackers. As they say.

     "No, no," Edward murmurs, watching your lips at the cigarette, then at the glass. He picks up his own beer and glances at William, smiling, "I think they'll be busy," turning back and giving you a knowing slant of his lips. "Lucky," he comments, eyes clearly on you. But not as lucky as I am. Or shall hope to be. But he puts his drink down and continues on, "I am surprised that such a crowd of the Beautiful People could be found so far away. Is the City so boring these days?" Maybe not for you. "You have come far to keep up with the In Crowd," he teases faintly, eyes narrowing and focusing on your cigarette. No wonder he did not take one for himself. Lifting a hand, Edward reaches over to pluck the cigarette from you...a borrowing of sorts.

     Smoke eases as you pull the cigarette from him. There was a grin in his eyes, partially upon those grasping lips, as you plucked it from him and then he chuckles, more smoke. Hashish. Clove. "Oui... very..." An answer to your comment on luck. And to your teasing. "But you know... I like the scenery. Ambiance to go with my food." Funny, you can say the same thing. Or that the ambiance is your food. "It is a Friday... and you know... all of the usual spots in Paris are occupied. Crumbling cathedrals or nuveau pyramids of glass. It's all the same. When avant garde becomes the norm..." He shrugs. What are you to do but continue to search? Ah, mortals. Are they not beautiful. "Edward...you will have to compliment your friend on his...choice of inhalants. It has the kiss of an asp to it. What is it called, The Death of Cleopatra?" He laughs quietly, and you can see it settling on him. I have to have you. I have to be had by you. "The beauty in Paris... it is all of one type," he begins again. Leaning in toward you. Or has his chair moved closer? "You... live in Paris... or...nearby?" And when can we go there?

     His grin is slow to respond. Not out of delay, but implications rolling in his mind. "Oui," he responds generally. Both. "But I will guess that you are interested in a more particular answer. Further," he murmurs, "...Blois itself." The village that has grown. "I have a place...there." Picking his drink up again, Edward downs a part of it, hating to see it left behind. But it will be. "The next drink," he suggests, "...is on me, hmm?" Poured elseplace. Blue eyes glance to the bar, and Edward returns with, "I have never been so good with the in crowd." Just so you know.

     A nod for that, and in preparation the brandy is finished. Sipped to death. The beer will go more quickly, and his hands surround it. "Blois ... it is nice country. I am from Tours... Touraine..." Ah, William's country. Well, what he calls his. In case you were curious. Hmm. Wine Country that. Well, even in France there are some places more known for it than others. Touraine is one of them. The beer will not be finished it doesn't look like, but it is swallowed. Valan smiles a bit. "I only pretend I am... if I were really trying I'd try to fuck Astrid d'Arien," he gestures in the direction of a ... well ... gorgeous blonde woman, surrounded by men and women alike. A group of friends perhaps? Or those simply waiting their turn. "She's in fashion these days..." Both literally and figuratively. "But... " Valan makes a mock wince. "While her breasts are nice, she's missing a few things I'm quite fond of..." Like proper genitalia, for starters. Yes, Muerelle, he prefers men, this one. Valan turns his head to you, closing space between you as he does. You'll be lucky if you can drive home without his head in your lap, Edward. "I think you are in another... stratosphere," he whispers. Why should you worry about fitting in to anything other than me? Oh, he quite nearly said it. Read it in the grin.

     He smiles at mention of Touraine, then looks over at Astrid. Certainly Edward's type -- the type you screw and run from. But she interests him not, and the lack of effusive expression shows it. At the comment of where Edward is, he blinks, and then shakes his head. Not likely. "You flatter me," he chuckles, "I think I like it." Another drink of the brandy, and it is gone. A deep inhale, and he draws himself back and away from you reluctantly, fishing in his pocket. A series of bills comes out, dumped unceremoniously on the table. You win. Blue eyes remain on yours as he begins to stand, reaching around for his long coat.

     "Then shall I start at the shoes and work my way up?" All this and a sense of humor and style? You must be living right, Edward Muerelle, for the Lord to give you such on the very night you beheaded a woman. Call it karma. As you rise, Valan takes the opportunity to watch you do so. Where shirt is opened, there is almost a sigh . Dieu. I must be living right. At least right now. Smiling slowly, Valan takes a last swallow of beer and rises. His shirt falling liquid about his frame. Where you go... I will follow. He even tosses a few of his own bills. A nice tip for Eloise, your waitress...

     And it is in that moment of your rising, when your own distraction perhaps wanes. A moment, no more than this, from your mark. You do not feel William anymore. And any glance to that corner would find him absent. But he is still near. Heading downstairs. To a car. Any car. And the blonde is likely with him. And Davydd? He is still at the table, but now joined by three young women. They have dropped down into a quiet four-way conversation and a drinking game. He has a banquet at either side of him. He may get greedy and keep all four. And this is why Rose hates him...
     It will be a very...boisterous night at your residence, Blois. It is good the house is... large...

     He does notice -- feel -- the change. He's departed without saying anything. Well, he's a big boy. Really. Edward's mind leaves William as he reaches within his coat and shakes it out to slip inside of it. Hands remain within and at his back for a moment, adjusting. Where did you come from? Edward grins at the shoe comment, looking down at his own. "We'll start at the top and work our way down." Both of us. Down should be the end of any sentence. Edward smiles, pushing himself around the chair and letting hands and coattails finally fall. Stepping from the cove, he gives a wave at Davydd, hoping he sees, and angles rather gentlemanly, to let you out and lead.

     "Down is good..." Valan says, smile slanting. "Always..."

     Does Davydd see you? He blows you a kiss and gives you a wink. Nothing to take William fucking Dunross right out of his mind than to be surrounded by women, a mind full of Rose and glasses full of drink. He really is so easy to please, your Davydd. A good man. If somewhat volatile. Tonight, he was your jester... and then you were his. And together, both propping, you stood and enjoyed the night. Neither of you succumbing to melancholy or confusion...
     And the benevolent ruler? The king and high priest? Though you do not feel him so much in the bar, you do in the stairway...

     Valan tumbles down the winding staircase, grinning broadly as he sees something of a couple of men... loitering against one of the hidden bends of it...where lighting does spotlight so harshly. Loitering...isn't really the word for it. One dark, the other blonde. He doesn't recognize either of them. But...wait...wasn't that one of your friends? The dark, beautiful one. I smoked his cigarettes...

     He was watching you walk, the saunter down the staircase. Davydd seems fine. William is...oh, not gone. Feeling his cos, Edward grimaces with the knowledge of wanting not to know. But it is much like a train wreck -- you just have to see. And as you peer at one of the bends, so does he, expecting exactly what is there. "Maybe," he says, coming to a halt flush at your back, "...I should give him his pack and light back," Edward wonders sardonically, taking the opportunity to stand in your aura. Mortal. He sighs there softly, then looks out among the cars.

     "Please do..." comes the languid baritone, that sound you have not heard for at least an hour. That accent upon his French of heady southern lands. Volume lifted. Once a Crusader...always a Crusader. "I'll be needing them in a few hours..." The blonde is laughing, quietly -- the sound held deep. He will get quite a bit of practice tonight...with concepts of depth, mais oui. You see the hand with the ring reach out. Si vous plais. The blonde is directed with a touch, and begins to descend the rest of the stairs. He is fully confident that the dark southerner will be right behind him...
     Something passes from his indigo to your dark brown, Blois. Something of fondness, love -- something family. And then William smiles, just the corners of his mouth upturning. I will see you at the house. Well... you may hear me before you see me...

     Valan grins, a leering mouth, and he pauses to feel you behind him. A lean back slightly. "Steal one first..." he whispers. And with a smirk, he heads downward. Following the blonde. Isn't this something of a parade of sin? How he moves, your mark. With strength. With poise. With a cockiness. Comfortable in his skin. Confident...

     "Good idea," Edward whispers to you, his own companion in Crime. Sin. Whatever. He filches four from the pack, and as he passes, tosses pack with lighter inside at William. Whatever wavers between you both is washed away with a grin. Yeah, I got you, cos. Edward's hand lands in yours and he presses it in a half-tug-shake. "I'll catch you on the flip side..." of morning. That done, the Brujah's form follows after his companion and into the darker reaches. Searching for a vehicle. Definitely not a man to bother -- any could see that -- but with silver pants on, one has to check again to make sure.
     "I should have kept his lighter," Edward smirks as he catches up with you. "You know where you're going, right?" he teases, coming to your side and walking sideways, facing you. Almost a cross-tap he does, deftly matching your pace.

     Late fall brings cool temperatures to the valley. There has been the pendulent threat of water, but as of yet, nothing has fallen from the sky. Footsteps are quiet at this hour, even for sleepy Parisian outskirts, there is a time that most things die down. Save in L'Empereur. As long as it's kept inside, the citizenry minds not.

     It was seeing the other pair that perhaps has Edward so quiet. His boots tap gently upon the bitumen and asphalt, footstep such that one can tell much. A man, of some strength, confident in his stride...yet something sauntered about it. He is in no rush. He fears not the night. Soon there is the rustle of noise, and the padded noise of unlocking doors on a dark car. Sauber Panos made for open European roads and just for two. Brown eyes glance back to see where you are, and Edward pulls the door open for you to sit in. He says nothing, drawing door back to himself, he able to lean over it.
     Within is darkness. A black car with a black interior. A small panel light flickers, but not much more.

     Though you and he have been quiet... there has not been a cessation of...meanings tossed between you. There is no rush to fill the quiet spaces with idle chatter the way the very young or insecure do. There is only the walk to the car. For your saunter, there is a following stroll. A half pace back behind you. Just enough that he may... catch sight of you walking. To be... observer again. Even as he was when you walked in.
     He didn't know the other pair but that one of them was associated with you and large and dark. Where he and his blonde appendage -- for he was already 'wearing' him -- have gone to, he did not see. There are a few circling taxi, like vultures upon a desert feed. The night is winding down for all but those within.
     And those walking to the car. Upon reaching it, some of the appreciation switches to your choice of auto. Sporty. Expensive. A powerhouse. You can tell a lot about a man by what he drives. This does not scream Family Man. It screams ... dynamic virility. Light eyes lift to you as he takes a seat. And in the darkness, you see a grin.
     This is just the beginning...
     A grin comes, but he looks not down at you. He can feel the smile and returns one in kind. His eyes look to the night and the circling taxis, the door closing as quickly as it opens.

     Within, a set of dim lights fades in. The control panel is highly electronic. There is no gear shifter that you can see. Instead, in the slots around the steering wheel, there are levers. The display is dark, but as the door opens on the driver's side, there is a shift of the seat, the low sound of positioning electronics. Digital. Green, white and red colors rise, and the man you are with folds the coat around himself, sliding into his spot with ease.
     "One-quarter lights," he says, feeling his seat adjusting. Suddenly, the lights grow darker. A hand reaches for the door as he calls, "Ignition," and a rumble starts as the door thuds to a close. Edward runs a hand through his hair then, and finally turns to give his attention to you. "You look different," he finally slows, "...in this light."

     Okay, time out for the car. This living, organic piece of machinery. The young Frenchman, bemused, loses a part of his grin for a moment of awe. He has had a lot of pleasures, but the Panos has not been one of them. But there is not shock or consternation or intimidation in this. Rather, there is comfort. That you and he are... somehow... peers. Perhaps there is something... reminiscent about this all. Men of equal peerage, heading off together for more... private engagements...
     Valan is seated comfortably, but he does appear young in the dim lighting. The hues of the control panel give the mortal a glow where it lands on him, one-quarter though they are. His smile warms him. How mortals glow when they smile. At they moment, there is no beast upon this earth that can match their beauty. "Green is my favorite color... I wear it well," and he grins. "Should I belt myself in... this... machine looks like a jet in disguise..." Or... shall I keep my hands... free. Valan leans a little toward you, what the seat allows. "How far..." he murmurs, his eyes trailing along you, returning to your face. How long will it take before we're tangled. You can feel the tension, how his body speaks it. How his pulse deepens and lifts all at once. In anticipation.

     Edward smiles, but nothing so bright. In you, his own darkness is most evident. Indeed, no face, no heart, no blood is as brilliant as yours. "How far?" he whispers back, closing the distance to your lips, "Not long," he answers in kind, some unusual seriousness there. Even he is not sure from whence it comes. "Not far." A flinch, and he decides it is time to go. Edward lifts a bit, his smile softer. "Twenty minutes perhaps. And yes, you will need a belt." For safety, though there is nothing safe about this. There had better be nothing safe about this. Lights on the steering wheel indicate he is in first, and turning about, Edward lets the car depart slowly, rolling out onto the street and towards the A27 south towards Blois.

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 12:44 PM