Dei is returning to London. This information, having eaten away at Drancy's self-confidence for the past week, has turned the normally self confident (even to the point of brash) punk journalist into something more closely resembling a jelly. It was with this in mind that she oh-so-casually inquired of her various editors if they had anything going on, anywhere, or knew of anyone who did, that would take her out of London for an undisclosed amount of time. Eventually, a few possible assignments fell in her lap...
     A bit of a trek, though, and still needing the cheap seats - expense accounts only cover just so much. Hwyll's been left home alone, with strict orders to "Don't fuck with my cds. Feel free to watch the telly, but leave the telephone -alone-, the machine can pick it up while I'm gone. I don't imagine you need money, but there's fifty pounds in the sugar jar if you really need. I'll be back when you see me." A slam of the door, and she's gone.
     "Must be getting old," Drancy grumbles to herself, legs still stiff from buses and trains, as she glares absentmindedly around the garden. "To think I turned down the chance to go into Tibet, for a garden piece?"
     The tour guide's been droning on about the magnificent landscaping, the historical import, and a bunch of other tosh that Drancy's ignoring as hard as possible, while a pair of studious-looking young German men, four small, slightly round Japanese men and women, and six Americans - three couples, all married and comfortably 'forty-fiftyish' and more than just a little well-upholstered, all listen with various degrees of attentiveness. Drancy's taken one look at them, and begun hanging to the rear, at odds in every way possible.
     "I even look like a member of another bloody species," she mumbles. Her long oak-blonde hair's in its usual beaded and baubled state, crystals and bells chiming faintly as she trudges along. An oversized shirt with floppy cuffs and collar is a blazon of imperial purple, streaked with India black ink and green paint, and is paired with rather disreputable jeans and combat boots. With her, as usual, is her pack, covered with patches and ribbons and buttons advertising various bands.
     As the tour group begins moving towards the gate, Drancy steps behind a tree for a moment of privacy, thinking aloud. "Normally, I'd avoid something like this like the plague - so why the hell do I feel like I should know this? Any moment now, something's going to pop up and hit me over the head..."

     The Chateau Milieu, or Middle Castle, is in actuality the open space about which the old walls gird. It is here that one may come to know just how vast the Chateau du Chinon is. There are eleven towers in all that make up the castle complex. They seem carved of the very rock of this high plateau, springing from the formidable earth.
     Paths of cobble and stone lead from the clock tower around the walls and into the gardens that splay. Westward across the bridge that leads over an inner moat, now filled with fish, is an orchard. The dungeons that once stood long since been replaced with groves of lemon, pear, plum and cherry trees. To the southwest of the Tour de l'Horloge, is the Logis Royeaux, the royal residences, still occupied.
     Everyone comes to retrace the steps of Sainte Jeanne, Joan of Arc. They want to know where she walked, perhaps to know Why she walked as she walked. The tour covers her story, more than the king who built this castle and his sons who fought for it.
     By the end of their lives, Henry and Eleanor knew nothing of love, particularly of one another. Henry died here, and as it so happens Eleanor's journey ended just across the Vienne from here at Fontvrault Abbey. Richard died nearby as well. But those oldest memories faded after a time. It is Jeanne that the people first remember...
     So Chinon is a tourist stop, with its Angevin churches, built by Henry II, king of England and holder of most of France, with its winery, still in operation, and with the lingering presence of sainthood. Jeanne's prison no longer stands, the one that had... before it held the saint... held the last of the Knights Templar, just before their burning day at Notre Dame. Only one tower of any of that remains. The rest has been converted to terraced orchards. And it is from these orchards that two come strolling. There is something about them. Maybe it is the murmurs of their conversation. Maybe it is the anticipation of being caught, Drancy, without the rest of your tour group. Maybe it is that .... Something... that lingers on the air around them...
     William strolls, the normally languid stride slowed even further. He is wandering. And the wind wanders against his shirt, the violet silk moved away and against him in intervals. The rest is leather and suede. His hair is cut shorter than normal, longer pieces at the front no longer ...long. The beard that Shall Never Be Full or Complete darkens at the line of his jaw, surrounds his mouth in a constant ... immortal state of Becoming...
     "It comes slowly, and rarely these days," issues the soft, deep voiced French, the French modern only by way of courtesy, as Victoria knows nothing of 12th Century dialects. "I am restoring a Caravaggio portrait. Living here. Enjoying Chinon. There is not much to say when one is more or less retired. I am... not in Poitiers or Tours these nights..."
     And immortal society has been stirred by that. A-buzz with Plantagenet's Surrender. He is the only one of his family ever to have given up land and territory and power.... willingly.

     There is a gentle smile offered to William as she walks by his side. Her long coat floats gently behind her, moving freely as her hands remain hidden within the pockets of her black jeans. Conservatively dressed, for the most part, some who have known her might say they wouldn't know her to see her now. Always one to dress according to her mood or flights of fancy, it appears Victoria prefers a lower profile these days.
     Shaking her head, she replies quietly, "It sounds wonderful, in truth. I envy you sometimes, old friend." A brief chuckle escapes with her words as she adds, "Things have been...jolting as of late." Offering a quick wink over her specs at him, she then reaches up to adjust them back up her nose. Light glints off a ring with a red stone.
     Victoria's life has been affected by much lately, including the Surrender. But she seems to take it all in stride. Snorting slightly, she murmurs something about vultures fighting over a leftovers and smirks. Her own French sounds strange, coming out fluently, yet with an accent... something English, certainly.

     Chinon means little enough to this particular London sparrow, though Drancy is anything but drab. Still, there's an element of Cheapside to her glance, and even now, she's bolder than she is shy. Once she's quite convinced the tour group's moved on without her, she comes back out from behind the tree, and begins wandering more or less aimlessly.
     She, of course, knows nothing of the Surrender - even the concept of surrender in general is something she's not good at grappling with. In that, at least, she holds common ground with some who outdate her by centuries rather than decades or years...
     "Right, then," she says aloud, hands on her hips in the middle of the garden, as out of place there as a prickly cactus might be. "If I'm here, I may as well hunt for a good story. Just because Rancid Grease wants to shoot a video here, well, that's no lead at all..."
     She begins striding forth, boots clopping slightly against the stones, thanks to the aggressiveness of her tread.

     Usually, the tours are finished by the time he's strolling his home. Good thing too, for in the summer evenings he's known to lie about in next to nothing, or take dips in the fresh water moat sans anything at all, or walk the castle halls from his bed chamber in Logis Royeaux to the neighboring tower and its great bath in nothing but a drowsy smile. But in spring, Time is deceptive. Dark is not late...
     And so, the ... feeling that others were around is confirmed with the loud-as-hell tromping through what, one can only presume, was a tranquil garden before her arrival. And she's hard to miss with her long blonde hair, her pack of buttons and her Attitude. "You're missing the tour of the royal winery," comes the droll tone, held lingering... upon elongated and -- most notably -- very out of practice English. So thick the accent that English seems not English. And the voice...
     Well... have you forgotten that, Drancy?
     William glances to Tori, mouth beginning to hold a smile -- as if to say watch this -- as he continues to slowly walk from the west end of the gardens toward the center, along one of the many stone paths. "And... if memory serves," comes that voice again, the mouth slanting a grin, the indigo eyes holding something of pleasure and mirth, "... you were not a fan of... private escort..."
     To the virgins, make most of time...

     Victoria doesn't need her sharp sense of hearing to notice the unmistakable sounds of someone else romping around in the gardens. Swiveling her head slightly so that she faces the sound, she transforms her smirk into a grin, even as William calls out to the young punk reporter.
     English now, hm? Not a problem. But she doesn't speak just yet. Catching the expression on William's face, as well as a few other hints more than likely, Tori pauses in her step to allow William some space with the other woman.
     She will follow, surely, but in a moment or so. Pulling her hands out of her pockets, she crosses her arms and stands back a small distance, watching to see what unfolds with amusement in her own expression.

     Drancy turns when addressed, annoyed and wary - she jumps, but like a cat, landings on the balls of her feet before settling, and doesn't relax but rather, pads forward with caution. Aggressive determination at least is pushed back a bit, softening her footfalls as she narrows her eyes.
     I recognize you... more, perhaps, than I ought...
     Aloud, she responds with intentional cheekiness, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets. "Should've known a bloke like you'd show up in a toff place like this." Has anyone called the tall stones and rolling gardens, the antiquity and the splendour that is Chinon - toff, before? If not ... Drancy has provided another first.
     "Private escort - hnh. Depends on the escort. I put up with what I have to, and the rest can go to whichever devil pleases them. I don't much care." Changeable eyes regard William with a remaining wary aggression. "Besides, I'm on duty, mate. Why, did you think I was waiting for the gardener to look the other way to see what I could pinch and make off with?"
     I've been kicked out of worse places than this, it's true, but whatever else I am and have been, I'm not here to be a thief - just ... look around while running away...
     And Victoria gains the ringside seat - English punk versus French royalty. This, in itself, is no doubt quite the story.

     There is only amusement for the aggression -- ah, I remember that -- for what lion can truly resist a mouse with a bit of fight? Dark eyes are bright with it, and arms folding against his chest, he continues his roundabout approach. He's in no hurry. Why should he be: he lives here. "Where else should... a bloke like me be?" he wonders, now grinning. A wave given to the surroundings, even to the woman along with him -- though she remains back a pace or two now.
     Amusement runs high, indeed...
     "Non... no no," he says easily enough, easy with confidence -- he has that in spades, one might imagine, "... I'm not at all concerned that you're running off with a bit of free flowers and fruit." William half-pauses, then quirks up an eyebrow, "You haven't any dirt on your hands, have you?" Spoken with mock suspicions. No, I am not at all concerned.
     "The Chateau does close... however... in about thirty minutes..." A pause. "But you are just in time for dinner," go ahead and laugh, Victoria. "...perhaps over a meal you can tell me what duty brings you to Chinon. We ... don't get much of that these days." He chuckles, smooth that sound and rich. "Or ... are you the second coming of St. Joan?"

     Oh lord, William...
     Tori can't help but stifle a chuckle and glance down at her boots for a moment to compose herself once more. Ahh, combat boots...roughed up ones. It's perhaps a good thing that they aren't shiny enough to reflect the expression on her face right now.
     A brief moment passes and she raises her head again to look back at the two before her. Clearing her throat slightly and bouncing a bit on her heels, she grins widely. "Ahh, dinner... surely you could stay for dinner to tell us about yourself and your duty here, oui," Tori finally says clearly, accent playing with the French word at the end. A Frenchman speaking English and an Englishwoman speaking French... perhaps an interesting mixture. Perhaps not.
     "Ahh... and if you are the second coming of St. Joan, what better reason to have a fabulous feast, hm?" Tori suggests, now moving forward slowly, closing some of the distance between herself and the pair before her. Her own boots nearly make no sound in comparison to the clomping of boots heard earlier.

     The expression on Drancy's face is one of absolute horror and revulsion, perhaps unexpectedly strong in the vacuum of silence left after statements and queries, and her response is as heartfelt and instantaneous as it is genuine. "Fuckin' cancerous sores, I'd better not be some kind of Christ-loving Joan of Arc!"
     Oh, that'd be a laugh, wouldn't it... Hwyll'd piss himself, like as not... they'd better not be right, is all I can say.
     "Free grub's always good," she says aloud, sliding one hand out of her pocket to irritably push her hair away from her face, with a ringing of bells and jangling of beads. "So long's you're not expecting me to sing for my supper as part of your hospitality."
     Now, what prompted her to say that? She's no idea, but it ... felt right ...
     She glances shrewdly from William to Victoria, and then back. "I can tell you if you like, but I doubt it fits very much into your world. You two look a bit ... clean for it."

     Amazing what the passing of a few centuries can do. Clean. Civilization crackles on him, he has the appearance of a religious icon when he is close to you. Tall, broad... the mark of someone who, perhaps, was not always used to clean living. Or may not be living so cleanly now, even though he's bathed. You speak of clean living and the man standing before you smiles. Warmly. Perhaps too warmly. Beautifully, perhaps too beautifully. The smile that has made its mark upon the world and Time. In it, echoes of deflowered women, shattered vows, and sensual shadows.
     If you're St. Joan, he's like to be St. Michael. A Medieval paragon shares your space, and seems about to share his table...
     "Not unless you can sing. Nothing worse than indigestion due to off-key catterwauling," William murmurs. And the grin remains, coupled with a wink. "I think," a look to Victoria and shared interest, "... that the story would make for interesting dinner conversation. I, for one," his voice lowers and his eyes linger on the Punk's face, "...would love to hear it. I had no idea I was going to be hosting a band's video. Sounds fun. Maybe if it's particularly dirty I will have sinned by proxy," he drolls.
     There's little doubt that he can probably sin quite well on his own...
     "So," he warmly quips, voice lifting, head turning toward the departing tour as it winds its way over to the Tour du Chien, restored earlier this century, "...there they go. Shall we..." And he motions toward the south, and the high structure of Logis Royeaux. It must be six storeys...

     Clean? Tori snorts again as she comes to settle next to William. Her specs show a reflection of Drancy in the coloured glass lenses, hiding her gaze from the world around her.
     She turns her face toward William briefly, grinning at him. Clean? Again, she snorts as she moves her face to look back at the punk before her.
     "A bit clean for it... Judging based on looks, hmm?" Tori quips in a light sing-song voice. "You'd be surprised," she adds, tilting her lips slightly into a smirk. Her hands slip into her coat pockets as she looks over to William. Grinning about the catterwauling, looks in the direction that William motions. A moment later, she is heading in that direction, stuffing her hands in her pockets once more.

     "I've seen his car." To her, there's whole worlds that lie between the stately country of Chinon and the slums of London's lower East Side, where more than once she's wandered through piss and vomit with egregious good cheer en route to or from a show which had too much noise, too many people, and too much random violence for the sake of violence. The car has become a symbol of that, in proper Steinbeck fashion, in Drancy's mind at least.
     "I'm told I can sing a little. Couldn't prove it by me. Right then, what's for dinner?" She's slightly cheered by the prospect of something which doesn't come out of a poorly labelled tin, and isn't 'Le Big Mac' - even though she was longing for it while in Tir Na Nog, that longing's been sated and overcome... perhaps one of the only such.
     She meets the suspicion of sin with suspicion of her own, moving forward as she speaks to close the gap - the lamb walking into the slaughter? Perhaps. "I said they want to, wouldn't know if they've got the right or permission to. I just report the news... I don't make it..."
     Her pants, contrary to expectation, do not burst into flame upon the utterance.

     Hmmm...well...
     "I will have to see if we've received a request. Guillermo would know. I think it would be good. We have let movies film here. When one owns a castle," he smiles beautifically. "...one has to figure out ways to keep paying for the repairs, ne c'est pas?" An arm extends, outspreading in old courtesy, to let the women go first. "One must be creative. And it helps to be an engineer," which he was, in a former life. He and his brother Richard, and his father before him, all engineers. They built magificant castles in short order, designed abbeys, saw the structures in their lifetimes. Mirabeau. Chinon. Fontevrault. Chateau Galliard. From Normandy to Anjou. From Anjou to Touraine. His abilities were only bolstered by his friendship with Leonardo and Michelangelo.
     "We may have to have a little music with our food, then. Victoria is a singer. She prefers...what is it... NIN?" he wonders aloud, looking to Victoria, wondering if he got that right. Nine Inch Nails. "Myself, I was always more of a fan of Iggy Popp."
     As for the grit of London... what can he tell you. Vomit and urine are the least of it. Only in this... clean modern age have those even become remotely disgusting. He could tell you stories of war and torture that would top it. But it's not polite conversation for the dinner table. William moves ahead of you both once the doors to the Logis Royeaux are reached -- he moves quickly for one so large -- and the door is opened. Who said chivalry was dead? "After you..."

     The Logis Royeaux, or royal residence, butts against the perimeter stone of the Chinon plateau, to the south of the gardens. It is bordered on one side by the inner moat and is connected to one of the eleven towers of Chinon, the Tour de Boissy. Rectangular and quite large, the Logis Royeaux is some five storeys high and serves as the residence for those who still call Chinon home.
     The main entrance point is to the east side of the Logis Royeaux, facing the Tour de L'Horloge. The north side, or garden-side. There are twelve stained glass windows, each one arched in the 'Angevin' romanesque style.

     Castles. In a way, she's relieved that she doesn't own one. She'd likely have to hit the stage again just to keep the upkeep going.
     "Yes, William... NIN. You have it right," Tori replies gently with a grin. Well, you'd like the band too if you'd spent any studio time with the man behind it all. "Iggy is great, of course... but right now I'm focused on a different sound. That's all," she explains, pulling a hand from a pocket to wave it lazily in the air as she moves.
     "But William, I am out of practice. It has been a while since I performed," the raven-haired one complains lightly. It -has- been a while... and a few countries ago. She has not performed since she landed in Europe, perhaps to the dismay of some of her colleagues.

     "I'm more'n relieved to leave it up to other people to do the performing. I just do the reviewing," Drancy assures both with a quick grin as she sidles forward, shouldering her way through the open door as if she were a much bigger person than she is. "Never felt the lure of the stage, I'm too private a person, I s'pose, for fishbowls."
     She looks around for a moment, then sidesteps and waits, hands jammed roughly back into her pockets again with a hunch of her shoulders. Misplaced or not, she feels ... safer ... around William with Victoria present. All the blatant maleness in the world diffused by the addition of that female presence.
     "NIN's not punk," she adds offhandedly. "Which isn't to say they're no good - they're just ... not what I write about ... as a rule. - I'd hate t' have a place this big," Drancy continues, with a lopsided grin. "I'd keep getting lost, and what d'you do when you put something down in 'the other room'? Send out the bloodhounds?"

     You sidle through an immense doorway, Drancy, which opens into an equally immense space. You, small woman with a swagger to match John Wayne's, do you fill the architecture? Or does it, in surrounding you, temper your swagger. If only for a moment. His laughter -- and your words -- echo against the honeyed stone, and William closes the door behind you. The sound of that swallowing whole the remaining sound of his humor. "No, not bloodhounds. I have people who pick up after me. I pay them to be my ... compass and maps." But I know this place like the back of my hand. I know it as well as I know my own body after eight centuries. And it knows me. It is as if we were one being, Chinon and I.
     "I do have a ...few dogs," he mentions in an aside, and grins to Tori. More than a few, would you not say? "And then, of course, my lover has his. It is one enormous Anglo-French family," he drolls. And then, door closed, he moves toward the west, and to another set of double doors. But... he does not hurry you along. There is plenty to look at, architecturally speaking.
     "What would you like to eat, mon guest? The menu has not been decided. I will ... leave it up to you."

     Chuckling, Tori lets the conversation about musical tastes get lost in the stones of this immense structure. As to living in a fishbowl, all she can do is agree that it's not for everyone. Sometimes it's not for her, even. It's true. She's even gotten to points where she's only given private concerts or even stopped performing altogether.
     Soft laughter interrupts her train of thought on this matter as her two companions speak of the size of this place and the need for human maps and compasses. With a bob of her head, she concurs, "I often get lost here. It's easily done. I don't know how he manages to keep the rooms straight." Lowering her head slightly so she can look at the reporter over her specs for a brief moment, she winks at her. Crystal blue shines beneath the lenses. It might be difficult to figure out if those are contacts or if it's her real eye colour. She falls silent once more to allow the guest to decide on dinner.

     Quiet laughter, and deep. "Sometimes, I don't keep them straight. I have interrupted more than one tryst in my day..."

     "Yeahr, well, size isn't everything, mate." That quip - she had to, if she hadn't said it, it would have forced its way past her teeth and thrown itself out into the air of its own accord. Drancy looks around herself, unconsciously stiffening her shoulders, as if challenged.
     Again, with the bloody familiarity. All right, all right, I accept someone's trying to tell me something, but would it be too flipping much to ask for a phone call instead?
     "T'eat? Oh, I'm pretty easy to please," she demurs. Well ... where food is concerned, it's true enough. "I wouldn't want to put your staff to any great trouble, you know." Which is true enough as well, though perhaps surprisingly civilized where the punk rubs off, here and there. "Besides, I've no idea what you've got in your larder, or what you'll eat, for that matter."
     Her own eyes change as the lighting does, colour vague and indeterminate, a swirl of blues and greens and greys that occasionally go brilliant, or unexpected. Drancy bobs a nod to Victoria. "Whyn't you pick? You're a friend of his, I'll wager you're much better equipped to guess as to what's what, here." Talk of dogs and lovers alike run off her back like water. If she's going to be legging it out of her with dogs after... well... there's always that charm around her neck...

     Indigo eyes... both violet and blue -- if you were close, as close as some might get to him, you might notice how the 'flowerlets' of color are like morning glories. So filled with both colors as to be neither individually. Without blue, it would seem violet could not exist. And vice versa. With amusement, therefore, the violet flickers. A little like flame. There is a look shared between he and Victoria...
     Size doesn't count?
     "Well," a chuckle, "... if you're thinking that the castle is an extension or substitute for penis enlargement, think again." Pause. "That's what the car is for," and the hall holds his laughter even as he moves forward.
     Coming at last to the second set of double doors. He tugs one ajar, no mean feat, and holds it open. Within, a fire is already burning. The stone of the hall glows warm and golden. And there is a shock of vibrant color, sparkling...
     Black eyebrow cocks up and William looks to Victoria, smirking, "... isn't that right, my dear..." And she can actually confirm it. "Well, then... if no one knows what they want, I will pick for you..."

     As William drags open the large door and the conversation about size continues, Tori glances to the Frenchman over her specs and chuckles. Did her pale cheeks just redden slightly? Oh, no, it has to be the glow of the fire from within the next room.
     "Car... is that what they're using for comparison for that nowadays..." she trails off as she steps into the next room. Firelight glints from the lenses and frames of her sunglasses as she reaches up and re-adjusts them on the upper part of her nose once more, hiding her gaze from view.
     Instead of moving toward the fire to warm herself, she actually seems to move away from it as she calls back toward William, "Go ahead and pick, William... I do not know what I am in the mood for. So long as it's served with wine, I think nearly anything will do."
     Yeah, as if she has to bother asking for wine in this place..

     Drancy rolls her eyes - sexual innuendo. Like living with Hwyll the wonder-fairy hasn't been giving her enough of that... Still, she's a guest here, and an uninvited one at that. She's not entirely lacking in politesse. "I'll take your word for it, not planning on sneaking in for a panty raid later on."
     Wouldn't that be amusing ... Stealing the lord of Chinon's knickers and running them up a flagpole ... An interesting image, surely, even if she has no such intention.
     Drancy approaches the warmth of the fire, holding her hands out to it, even though with the spring weather, she shouldn't be all that chilled. "Nice place you've got, anyway." Dammit. Someone say something before I start repeating myself with trite old platitudes and get forced to get rude...
     "You in residence year-round, or is this more or less your weekend estate? Riding to the hounds, what-ho, terribly sorry, I do say." Ruthlessly, she mimicks the accents of the British upper-class with a deadly precision. "Yeah, wine'll do me. Thanks."

     Panty raids and upper-class-British pantomimes are behind the grin that conquers the rest of his expression, adds fire to the eyes, fills the hall with echoing laughter, and he waves you both in. "Good Whig," comes the provencal heavy on the tongue, decidedly non-English, "... I could never manage. And... I don't wear panties..." he murmurs in an aside. And well... Victoria knows that, too. She's quite knowledgeable, actually.
     "Very well then... we will have... brandied pears, fruit from the orchard, bread from the oven, cheese from the dairy and honey-pear wine." All light, but all decadent in their own way.
     William follows you both into the great hall, "And should Ian join us, brandy and scotch will be at the ready as well. Make yourselves comfortable. There, by the fire," there is a comfortable seating area there. "... also by the windows, if you'd rather..."
     And he leaves the doors to the hall open, well... one of them, and he himself, seeing Drancy approach the fire, follows along. A glance to the stained glass windows. A little smile given to the image there of his mother.

     It has been restored to its Medieval grandeur. Unchanged, it seems, by all the Time that has past. Uncluttered by the dust of the revolutions that once destroyed it. Once again, the hush of majesty may be found here, as if it had never been disturbed.
     The Angevin arches, one seemingly unfolding from another, meet at points high above. Though careful notice would tell you that the ceiling itself is not vaulted. Space only seems infinite. The great hall still serves as formal greeting and gathering area, as well as formal dining. All furnishings are antique, wooden, and all restored with velvet and damask. Nearest the great hearth, which sits against the southern wall, there are comfortable chairs gathered, where one may retire after dining at the long table that sits to the east.
     To the north, facing the gardens, are twelve windows, each one of a stained glass figure. And beneath these, other pockets of seating areas are arranged. By day, the reflection of the sun upon the glass scatters colors at your feet. By night, the hall is golden lit, suffuse in firelight. A stairway curves upward from the termination of the west wall, most frequented by the staff.

     There is no comment about William not wearing panties from Tori, save her laughter. Shaking her head, she then removes her coat and tosses it over the back of a chair. Leaving the commentaries about panties alone, she focuses on dinner arrangements instead. "Sounds divine, William," Tori chimes lightly from her distance away from the fire, leaving the two of you to it.
     "I can't guarantee I'll eat much of it, however... my appetite has been off lately. All this jet-traveling upsets me," she admits off-handedly. But something else he says catches her attention. Ian. She beams a bit at this. It's been a while since she's seen him. Wouldn't it be grand if he did show up?
     Moving a bit further till she reaches the windows, the raven-haired diva murmurs, "This place is as magnificent as ever, William. You must work your help to the bone in this place."
     Turning her face toward Drancy, she then asks, "Have you ever been to a place so beautiful before? I don't suppose your line of work allows for it, hm? Punk musicians don't strike me as the type to own castles."

     Oh ... great ... more flowery food. Like I didn't get enough of that in Tir ...
     Drancy will put up with it, though - she'd look churlish, even for her, if she changed it now. "Sounds kind of sticky," is her only comment, to the food - she, also, leaves the issue of William's lack of underwear well alone. "But I'll cope. Not like I'm on any sort of diet. - Got any vodka?"
     She suddenly looks hopeful. Vodka, that'll get her through this... surely. Drancy settles into a chair, sprawling a bit. Then her attention's gotten by Tori's comments, and questions, and ... well, someone lit the fuse on the firecracker, it seems.
     "Actually," she says it with prim precision, the Cheapside accent slipping off and gone for a moment, "I do think it's terribly a mistake to assume one's antecedence by one's present position, don't you?" And with that, the feral half-mask of punk slides back over her visage, the sprawl bordering on the obscene in defiance of polish. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I always say. S'nice, sure - if you like a place where you have to worry if you break a dish or a candlestick that your head's goin' to come off next."
     Drancy draws her thumbnail along her throat for emphasis, and adds, offhandedly, "Wealth is just a pain in the arse that way - it won't look after itself. Most punk musicians aren't in it for the money, and the ones who are go corporate soon enough."

     Oh, he stays out of any discussions of wealth or privilege. What can he say, without sounding sanctimonious or out-and-out dishonest? If he talks of the work that has to go into it, he will sound as if he is whining about being wealthy. If he admits that it is glorious, he will seem as pompous as people expect him to be. He knows the trap that is Him and His Life. Nothing he says is taken for what it is, even as he himself, an icon and nothing more to most of Europe, is how others see him. What the truth is...
     That has never mattered to anyone...
     "I was born here," William says simply, looking up as one of his servants comes in. A lovely woman, in her forties it would seem. "Astrid," spoken as if he expected her to show, rather than one of the younger girls under her management, "...could you please bring in a vintner's tray, and ..." a glance to Drancy and Victoria, "... the pear wine, and the usual selection of brandy and scotch..."
     "L'earl vous joindra-t-il ce soir, monsieur?" Astrid Morineau looks to the others present. One she recognizes, the other she does not. Hmm... young ladies sprawling like that. I will never get used to it. Quickly back to William, her smile is warm but officious.
     "He may," William murmurs, the smile warming a touch. "If he calls looking for me, tell him I'm downstairs," and the smile becomes a grin. "And that I would be happy for him to join us." A look to the other women, and he moves to take a seat. "I have been working on renovations," he says to Victoria, and including Drancy in the conversation with a glance. "It is coming along. The stables are next. The stonework is ... getting a little worn. I need to shore it up. But..." eyes glance upward, following the Angevin arches, "... living in a space... rejuvenates it, I think. So," enough about me, please, "...you said you were here on duty? And that was... finding out about this band playing here, or... was it something else? Something," eyebrows arch upward, opening his expression to show his curiosity, "... you forgot on your last trip?"

     Astrid turns to leave, a smile given to both young women...

     She can't help the chuckle which escapes her as Drancy scolds her on making assumptions. Removing her specs with a delicate hand, she reveals a wink tossed at the reporter.
     "Now I was only teasing... it's like making an assumption that we're too 'clean' for hearing about your work, non?" She did it on purpose. Grinning, she tucks the sunglasses away in the discarded jacket and then holds her hand up. "Forgive me... I have a habit of teasing. I hope I have not truly offended," she explains. Her tone has laughter in it, but her expression is genuine.
     "I do agree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, yes... I have seen many things which I think are beautiful -- things that others would not give the time of day. Beauty has to have meaning," she muses, staring off at the ceiling for a moment.
     Blinking, she slips back to the conversation at hand about renovations and offers you both an apologetic smile. "Mon dieu, where are my manners? I'm getting lost in little details. Ah, William, did you want me to find Ian? I could see if he wanted to join us for dinner this eve?" she offers, motioning to the door and the passing servant.

     "There's different kinds of dirt. Don't worry about it - I'm a big girl, I'll handle it." That's all Drancy says to that, eyes suddenly heavy, and she sits up a little, or at least, pulls herself to a less obscene position, lacing her hands loosely together on one knee. She listens with apparent politeness, though little interest, to discussion of architecture and renovation - too much like something her parents, or their friends, would be interested in for her taste.
     William's questions draw her attention, grey eyes shifting to vague blue-green. "My editor sent me to follow up on a rumour that they're here," she explains, "and that they may be shooting here, is all. They aren't really punk, and they're not corporate enough to make it in the long run - " she speaks with authority, having seen enough bands come and go, rise and fall, to be an adequate predictor of such - "but they're not too terrible, if they get the notion of what money's for and isn't for, or chuck the corporate angle and just go for the principle of the game."
     She considers the following words with a frown. "Last trip?" What's he talking about, anyway, last trip? Eyebrows draw together suspiciously. "Last trip where?"
     He's Davydd's friend, isn't he? Well... If Davydd's told him about me and the fairies, I'll bloody rip those dragons off...

     There is a smile to Tori as he settles upon one of the chairs, a smile that is perhaps... well, too full of knowing. "He may still be resting," William begins to sprawl out, half-lordly, giving long legs a stretch, and the smile spreads slowly as well. Yes, if he is still resting, he likely deserves to. "But if not... he should be upstairs... you know where it is? The floor beneath the one where your room normally is, cher. Ah... one of the boys will show you if you like?" You can call one yourself. They are used to it.
     He is quiet for a time, the moments where Tori may decide to stay or go. Warmed by the fire, he is made more radiant by it. And in the fire's glow, the sheer violet silk that he wears takes on an airy shimmer. And the knight's frame beneath it is revealed wherever light lands. "You don't remember," he says finally to Drancy, a glance to Tori. He holds here, out of politeness...just in case Victoria takes her leave...

     Nodding to William, Tori replies, "I think I know where I'm going, but I will call on someone if I get lost again." She winks, then looks to Drancy with another bob of her head. Realizing the conversation is starting to tread into a slightly different area, she decides now's the time to go. Without another word, she beelines for the door, her soft foot falls fading quickly.

     Drancy's brow furrows at William, even as she takes note of Tori's departure. "What're you talking about, mate?" If appearances are any indication... no, she doesn't remember a single thing, and is looking a bit annoyed, as well as paranoid, about it. "How can I say if I remember or not? What trip're you referring to?"
     Fuck... don't tell me he knows... ah, shite, Hwyll didn't tell me what to do about this.
     Of course, Hwyll also likely didn't anticipate her marching straight into the vampire's den, either. Whatever Drancy does, it does tend to be a bit larger than life. One hand creeps up absently towards the charm, tugging on its chain so she can run the feel of it between her fingertips.
     Well, she's not panicky enough to call on Huw yet, at least... "This doesn't have anything to do with Dei, does it?" All roads lead to Dei, for her, it seems, at least right now.

     Black eyebrows knit together only briefly and then his expression soothens again. "Non... I do not know a Dei." A pause and he smiles suddenly, "And it has nothing to do with God. I do not think." He softly tacks that on. And he pauses, as if he knew that the food was on its way. And so it is...
     Pushed upon a cart, tray of fruit and cheese and bread, the vintner's special, along with wine and the requeted alcohol down below. William holds the conversation here, looking up and turning his head as his timing was confirmed. And as the young woman smiles to you and begins to set the tray of food upon one of the small tables in the seating area, and then pour the wine, indigo fixes on you. No, you don't remember. That is good. Very good in fact. Drinks now offered, the honey-pear wine with its golden color, the sweetness of its fragrance, the young woman curtsies to William and leaves with the cart...
     "I must be mistaken," he offers. "You... look like someone who popped in on me a while back now." He stares at you again, leaning slightly to take the wine. And in the motion, the silk seems to dissolve against the musculature it covers. Now you are alone with him. And is it the fire? Is it all of it together? There is an energy around him. Charisma, appeal perhaps. Does the hair on the back of your neck stand up? Or does it affect you at all? The beauty of that face, the crackling on the air. "But... you were probably back in London, working. Why would you be in Chinon, afterall." And William smiles. "Please," he nods to the food, "...help yourself..."

     A crimson flush comes to the woman's face, and she lifts one slim hand to push exasperatedly at the heavy mass of her hair. Dot still thinks it's a wig, but... well... she knows better, obviously. She settles forward in her seat, unconsciously taking a very prim, ladylike pose as she was taught years and years ago, and lifts her hair and collects it back away from her face. It buys her time ...
     "Thanks," she mutters to the girl doing the serving, and scoots her chair forward with a slight jerk. "Nah, Dei's just another one of the musicians I've worked with some, is all. Been doing some travelling, helping the fellows out, as part of a recent assignment."
     Lies compounded with truths... where does one stop, when one begins? Sticky wine, and sticky fruits, and lies to make the soul sticky...
     Drancy has never been comfortable in the face of overwhelming masculine sexuality, as much as she represses that side of herself. And Dei - well, Dei-that-was-not - turned a key in that lock, even as she tries to fling her weight against that door to keep it from opening. This doesn't help at all in her efforts.
     "Of course I was," she starts to say, then coughs, voice in a slightly higher register than normal. She clears her throat, taking a hasty swallow of the wine, making a slight face - to her, sweet is almost always cloying.
     "Of course I was... most of the time, I'm on the club circuits. S'pretty rare I get to go out of town at all. Haven't been to France in... oh, four years." And that's true, too - at least, to the best of her conscious knowledge ...

     From nearby, the filtering sound of laughter through the stones...

     Not even with the Demon Prince of Lust inhabiting a mortal body have you sat so closely with the embodiment of Male Sexuality as you do now. Not even when you kissed the demon believing it was the young man. Not even when you sat in his lap. It is, as you say: blatant, overwhelming. Even those older than you, who believed themselves brave enough, talented enough, strong enough to both handle it... and encourage it... have been burned by it. Consumed by it. And some have been killed by it. That is the truth. That is the power. And he had to learn the lesson of that power himself, along with the rest of humanity. You, Drancy, are not alone...
     Sensitive perhaps to that, or perhaps he wants to take his time, when you flush, he sits back, taking the wine with him. He drinks it. Studies it upon the tongue. Lastly swallows it. It is not as sticky as one might expect. It is light upon the tongue, but then the shock of pear sneaks up and almost bites. It is like a sudden kiss. Or... would you know what that is like...
     William smiles, in fact the smile that showed itself earlier never really faded. It lingers, promised at the corners of his mouth, spreads upon it slightly as you speak. And his eyes rarely leave your face. When they do, they follow the sound of laughter. Apparently Victoria has found Ian afterall...
     "Oh, non... nothing to do with Dei. You have an interesting occupation. A writer, but not in it for the... book deals or the accolades. You write... simply for the love of it? Or the release of it," he wonders. "If I were not paid for painting, I would still do it. That is the difference between and artist and a hack..."

     How does Drancy cope with it? Well... she tries to put some distance between herself and it, by focusing on other things. There are reasons, some thought out carefully, some not, for her denial of the flesh - sexuality or otherwise. And very few of those reasons have basis in financial concerns, though she'd never admit it...
     A sort of self-imposed ascetism burns behind her eyes, rekindled by her determination to not be affected - the starving man looks through the windows at the feast, then resolutely turns away. Hwyll would understand that look, even if he would not agree with it.
     "Interesting? I s'pose. A lot of people tell me they find it surprising, but I'm not in it for money, and what'd I do if I became famous? Deal with more wankers?" She snorts, though less rudely than in mild derision at the idea, picking up a piece of cheese. "I write because I can, and because it's something that can be done without having to sell bits and pieces of myself off in the process. What you see is what you get - I mean, can you -really- picture me as a lawyer? Or doctor, or chiropodist, or politician?" She rolls her eyes expressively.
     All the things her parents hoped for, for her, and more left unsaid... "I'm probably a hack, but I don't much worry about it. Read my stuff and judge for yourself, only," she smirks a bit, "I don't imagine it's much to your taste. Punk e-zines, you know, don't really show much what the writing's like, even if it's less formulaic than Rolling Stone."
     If she's got writings of her own, published or otherwise, she'll never admit it - and chances are, even Huw didn't find those... She pops a piece of cheese into her mouth, cutting off any further commentary.

     There's the slow pull of a smile. Oh, I might seem refined... but it's only with centuries of practice. In this very hall, long ago, I would prop muddy boots on a table, toss meaty bones to my favorite dogs, which then -- as now -- was all of them, drink in great quantities, and fuck in great quantities....
     Well, alright some things haven't changed despite the more... refined exterior...
     ... Laugh loudly, bathe often -- surprisingly fastidious for a man of my Age, but then... I was French -- and talk over my brothers, which could, and often did, require great lungs and a great amount of volume. I am many things, but I am not... literary...
     "I don't read much, I was never able to sit still long enough. I ...can read... I just don't enjoy it. Unless it's filthy, funny or rude. Then," a grin, "... I'm interested. I tend to stick to sports and the National Enquirer. Surprised? Did you think I sat around here and read great tomes of art and literature?" He laughs, quietly but fully, held in the chest with such a resonance. Such a warmth. It pulls at his throat, it lingers in the warmth of his smile. "I cannot picture you as a lawyer, I can't picture anyone doing that. But what you do... suits you... because you enjoy it. If you enjoyed law, you'd probably be suited to pursue that, but I wouldn't find you half as interesting." William sips at the wine again, eyeing the cheese from time to time, but not taking any of it yet. Eyes settle on yours again, your face. "I'm an awful writer. I can't rhyme. But... we can't do everything, now can we."
     The laughter sounds again, but he doesn't look upward toward it. The castle breathes with the sounds of those living in it. William leans in finally, his left hand holding his glass of wine balanced upon a leathered thigh, his right hand taking a sliver of pear and a cube of brie. He watches you, he smiles. He seems interested.
     And he doesn't look at your tits once...

     "I enjoy the blood and guts of punk," Drancy admits, finding the direct scrutiny perhaps more unsettling, and more inconvenient, than if you were staring at her tits. After all, she deals with crass punks nightly - dealing with a more ... civilized, or even more practiced approach, she's more uncertain, and a bit more guarded.
     She chews, swallows down cheese with more wine, leaning forward to prop an elbow on the table, though her chin remains away from her hand. "I guess you could say I like its spirit, of breaking windows and kicking in doors, to show something true to people. It's - closer to the bone, and feels more 'real' than studying for eight to ten years, just to make obscene wealth being nice to people you can't stand and talking about them behind their backs with other people you can't stand..."
     Why am I telling him this? It's not like he gives a piss... I'm just an evening's diversion from his usual life, after all. He makes me feel like ... bah. I don't want to think about that.
     Unconsciously, she curls her hand around the stem of her glass. "I imagine this isn't terribly interesting for you to hear about, though," in an only mildly sardonic tone of voice, for her. "Not quite-quite, and all that. Would you prefer, by the way, if I switched to French? I do know some..."

     Tell me your stories, your tales, the little bits of your life. That is what I'm here for, ne c'est pas? The artist who is a vampire. We feed from the stories of those lives we encounter as surely as we feed off of the blood that pumps through your heart and to each and every portion of you. Those who do not, miss the point of it all. And so when you speak about yourself, I am attentive. As if fascinated. And perhaps I am. Fascinated about how you came to be as you are, your family. The miniscule details. The thousand and one things other than how you look or dress or what you drive that gives you humanity.
     William's eyes lower a moment -- perhaps to your drink, perhaps to your breasts, who knows with him. "Let me know when you would like a refill, and ..." he chuckles, "...non... you are not bothering me..." But your offer to speak French impresses him a little. And he slips into it...
     How he changes...
     The language born of that tongue, with that voice, spoken by that mouth and coupled with the face and form you sit with. And the fire plays upon the color of his eyes. "Oh, I find it more interesting then half the things I have to tolerate listening to," the French is slow, considerate. "It is... as you say... Real. I would find false stories or... pretentious tales to be tedious." William smiles a little, the expression more held in his eyes. "You are not tedious, Drancy."
     He remembered your name...
     If he leaned forward... what would you do. Where would your resolve go? If he kissed you, how much would you give up? William leans forward, emptying his glass as he goes, and he reaches for the bottle of brandy. Much more his style.

     Her own knowledge of French is more impressive than she admits to, with her little polite offer. After all, wasn't she tutored from the time she -could- speak, by a succession of nannies and governesses and private institutions with immaculately kept gardens and hedges, with clippers for those hedges and clippers for the soul and spirit? Perhaps more impressive than her speaking is the fact that she has a soul of her own.
     It is, of course, modern French, without any tinge of antiquity. Drancy shrugs, a faint, very English little shrug. "Non, merci, I'll be fine for the time being." She changes as well, because with language, that shift, she has to return to some degree to what she was shaped to be, originally - the setting, the company, the surroundings all dictate it, even if she only does so grudgingly.
     "I don't waste much time on pretense if I can avoid it. I'm me, and the devil take anyone who wants me to be otherwise." Drancy flushes scarlet, still not used to this too-close scrutiny and regard, nor comfortable at all with the sudden warmth, and rush to her belly. But ... she'll try to act normal, inasmuch as she can.
     "Is the wine from your own vineyards?" It's a polite little question, but hurled into the gap with a little twist of abruptness. Fend for yourself, question, and buy me time.

     "From the orchards, mais oui... you are drinking last year's pears. Honey from the village. The fruit is from the market, my trees are not yet producing," nor would until the summer and fall of this year, still months away. William chuckles a little, the sound captured and held in his throat. "I like it for the spring. It is not so heavy. Can you taste the limestone in it, the shale of this valley? The grapes are particular to this region," his mouth twists, sensuality curving on itself, "... and you are bored now, yes?" William winks, and the sliver of pear and cube of brie are now gone. He will stick to the brie and the bread he thinks. At least one slice of it. "It goes good with the cheese and the bread, together. It is... all like chemistry..."
     William grins as he sits back. "Your French is very polished, and I apologize for noticing. Are you going to call me elitist because I did not expect it?" He is amused by the prospect. He almost hopes you do. He likes the fight in you. You can see that, perhaps. "I prefer to speak the mother tongue," his French is modern, but it is southern, not the French of Paris. It is flecked with fire, it drags and it elongates. And with his coloring, it would be easy to assume he is from the darker, southern regions of France. Meditteranean, in the olive-bronze complexion. "My English is very rusty..."

     I gave up that life, voluntarily... wines and meads, fine silks and jewels... By choice, by preference, to close those doors forevermore...
     "Bored?" She straightens a bit, giving a polite lie in response to the suggestion. "No, but I'm afraid my palate's a bit out of practice. Wine isn't really the beverage of choice for the discriminating punk, you know, so mainly I stick to vodka, except when I eat curry." Curry and vodka being, of course, a fast way to turn into a dragon - less literally than perhaps some, but in terms of breathing fire, well.
     "Elitist for not expecting it? No, but I will say that I'm surprised at your surprise - you ... don't strike me as someone who is unable to expect the unexpected." A flash of dark humour leavens her face for a moment, Drancy sticking to French but using the formalities of it, avoiding the little intimacies the language can lead one into, almost by snares...
     "I don't mind, I haven't spoken French regularly in years. Years and years," she repeats, looking at the wine with renewed, wary respect and setting her glass down. Is it the wine that's gone to her head, or the headiness of the entire experience?
     "I'm also surprised to find you here, instead of mixing it up in some or other major trade port, hostile takeovers and cloak and dagger innuendo." All the things, again, which she threw out the window, along with the baby and the bathwater. "Didn't expect you to have that much sense."

     "I do not have much of a head for business. I hire people to do that for me. I am good at what I do," all he has mentioned is painting, but how many artists drive the cars he drives or live where he lives? Has he fucked his way to the top, inherited it, or is the answer more complicated than that? "And part of that is recognizing what I am not good at," how Oscar Wilde of him. He replaces wine with brandy. "I forgot to ask for vodka, my apologies... when she comes to check on us, I won't forget..."
     The brandy is not the usual red god, but like his eyes holds a resonance of violet. It is deep, dark. There follows the scent of cloves and plum. The bottle is unlabeled. Presumably, this is a home blend. William lifts his gaze to you as he pours, smiling smoothly. "Expecting the unexpected takes away all the fun," he murmurs. "How dull a life I would lead, if I expected the unexpected without fail." A pause. "I am, however, an occasional 'good guesser'." You can just imagine. "And you do surprise me. When I met you in London, even after the car ride," he grins at that. "... I knew there was more than you were showing. But... what form that would take? Ending up on my doorstep? Drinking my wine? Speaking French so well?" William chuckles, the flicker of violet sparkling in his wink.
     "I prefer restoring artwork to cloak and daggar innuendo," he murmurs, pouring done. "Making old buildings new again..." Rebirth, reincarnation, restoration. These are big with him. "It may not look like it," he smirks, "...but I prefer quiet evenings at home."

     "I didn't anticipate landing on your bloody doorstep, you know," Drancy switches back to English for that remonstration, automatically - French, rich as it is, lacks the right blend of emotions for that sentence, for her. "It just sort of ... happened. Had no idea you lived here, in point of fact."
     Another point of truth, laid down in a solitaire of them. She's no idea what she's in the middle of...
     She glances to the brandy, but doesn't inquire too closely - brandy reminds her too much of other things. "I've given up on trying to expect the unexpected, because just when I think I've got everything covered, another unexpected turn comes round to hit me in the back of the head, tie me up, and leave me in a locked little toolshed in the middle of nowhere to perish." She has a turn for metaphor. But then, she's a writer, isn't she?
     "You're making me curious. Didn't think I'd made that much of an impact as all that." Drancy shrugs her shoulders. Yes, she's curious, but it's an uncomfortable sort of curiosity - the sort the mouse feels, wondering if the cat's paw hovers by the edge of the mousehole. "I certainly wasn't trying to impress you."
     She slouches down in her chair slightly, fingertips to her cheek in an unconscious little habitual gesture that's rather akin to a Tenielle sketch - the hair and face are not dissimiliar, are they, to poor Alice in her blue frock with the white starched apron? But where does the resemblance end?
     "Older I get," she admits, "the more I do, too. But don't tell my editors, they might try to replace me." A quick, feral grin, all fox and eyes and suppressed appetite for something raw, something punk. "But that's mainly because people suck."

     "That you weren't trying to impress me... impressed me." You don't realize how cloying the world is to me. How few times I may leave this place, go out into humanity and be challenged. To be treated.. in a real way. The world is full of sycophants. And I have had my fill of them.
     William looks to you over the rim of his glass. Settling into his chair by the fire, the lordly sprawl rearranges itself, violet silk dissolving against his structure and the lambskin leathers. His elbows rest upon the arms of his chair, the glass of brandy held pendulous in between. It is a lazy, languid pose. Propriety? He knows little of that. His smile spreads like he settles, conquering, languid. "Mum is the word," he confirms with grin. At the sound of a nearby door closing, William lifts his eyebrows and turns his head against the back of his chair. "Ah good, Melli..." he uses the nickname for a favorite servant perhaps....
     ... A young woman, in her early twenties, blonde and neither fat nor rail thin. Seeing him there, hearing her name, she smiles and obediently comes his way.
     "My guest requested vodka earlier... and I neglected to mention that to Astrid. Could you please fetch a bottle of the Grey Goose? Merci..."

     "Of course, sir..." And with that, and a glance to you, she is on her way.
     William sips at the brandy and then, after a moment sits up and sets it aside. He grins to mention of 'people sucking' and manages not to make a sexual reference. Proud? You should be. Leaning forward again, this time for a little while... do you smell the plum and clove now? The cinnamon he wears on his skin? His fingers pluck another cube of brie and another small section of bread. "Do you have a place to stay," he wonders. "It is getting late now... well," a grin to you, "... late for this sleepy little village."

     "Nah," she slips back into English yet again, needing the space, the ... breathing room, as it were. "I can get a room at one of the maisons, though. I checked earlier, and they said they should still have rooms. Worst comes to worst, I catch the next tram back across the channel, and snooze on the way."
     Not the most comfortable experience, not luxurious at all, but neither are the maisons, really... more of that denial of the flesh. Is Drancy pure, in her self-torment and doubt? Does it make her flame burn the brighter, does it make her more or less human? For her, it is an automatic, denial of the earth and the pleasures in it, the fear of earthly consequences... without even looking to heavenly rewards...
     The serving girl gets an equal glance back, but neutral, lacking particular heat or challenge.
     In a way, I envy you, settling into a comfortable life which you understand and feel no need to change... I can't do it, but I envy those who can. I don't even know my own shape, anymore.
     Spicy scents make her lean back in her seat, loungingly so - the temptation to relax under it strong, making her squirm. The pear and honey scent and taste mingles with that of cucumber soap, a perhaps surprisingly clean and innocent scent for the punk, and with earthy sage shampoo.
     "Beats sleeping where I slept, the last time I was in France," Drancy mutters aloud, more to herself than anything. "Thanks for the vodka, by the way." Even if it's not here yet, remembering the last time makes her want that. "I'll get dressed up occasionally," she resumes, "but ... trying to impress people gets me angry. With myself, and with others."

     The Punk is a covering, like chain mail. Weaker arrows blunt against it, and break. And whole, you move. Strikes may slide against you. You may even bruise a little. But you will be whole. You do not allow defeat, but in so doing, you never grasp the true joy of victory...
     Without pain, what is love?
     Without love, what is this life?
     William leans against this arm of his chair, readjusting his large frame in the small space. He is full of intensity -- intensity that seems to be born in his eyes, crafted in his smile, that touches the air around him. He can even make this room seem small and intimate. "We have rooms, if you like you may stay here the night." Oh sure... and with him lurking around the corners...
     Beautiful...
     Available...
     And probably even willing...
     He expects you to say, No...
     William eats the brie and bread, chases it with brandy and then settles back, with a grin. Davydd would kill me. "I have to offer," he explains. It is the way of Hospitality and courtesy. He doesn't expect you to take it. Perhaps you even see that. You will deny yourself...
     St. Jeanne...
     Sleep upon your bed of nails to tell the world you're strong enough, too strong to be hurt by it...

     It hasn't worked very well, has it...
     All her armour, all her shell, all it's done is keep people from seeing that she's hurt. She isn't whole, and hasn't been in more years than not, by now.
     Sometimes, when she so rarely lets herself consider, she wonders if she ever was...
     But there's so many snares and pitfalls, and lately, increasingly, with increased temptations, she sees increased ways of being hurt. And even though refusing hurts, too, in its way, she continues to throw herself with increased franticness - increased fanaticism - against the bars of her self-imposed prison...
     Drab London sparrow or bright tropical songbird, kept in an iron cage.
     "Have to?", Drancy repeats quizzically, forehead furrowing. "Some sort of weird religious thing?"
     She does see it, and she sees it in herself, too - and because of that need to break convention and expectation, perhaps even surprising herself, she answers...
     "Sure, if you're sure it wouldn't be an imposition. The tour group's left by now, and it's a hellish walk back to the village, anyway - my boots need resoling before I tackle a hike like that."
     Someone is going to be pushing heavy oak furniture up against the inside of the door, even if she has to call Huw to do so.

     He looks at you for a moment. You've got to be kidding. But then he tilts a smile. "The tour group has left, mais oui. Long by now. The castle closes at six. It is later than that now. This is true. And in this weather, it is to rain tonight," so many rationalizations. He teases with it, but he nods, "You are welcome to stay. I will have Eros show you the way to a room." Eros. Love? Funny coincidence. It has to be.
     William rises, unfolding the large more than six foot frame, a stretch and he takes a step from the fireplace seating. "I will call him. And security." He smirks. "They're probably still looking for you..." Yes, the tour told them they were one short. "Make yourself at home, oui? I will be back..."
     Guillaume XI, the last free and independent Count of Poitou, moves past the stained glass window bearing his Medieval likeness. Passing it, he turns to look back to you. "The vodka should be on its way... if you want something else, tell Melli... she will get it for you..."
     Turning, William moves past the double doors and into other parts of Logis Royeaux...
     Out of his presence... do you change your mind...?

Posted by rowan at May 30, 2003 09:50 PM