The St. Charlotte's square entrance to Siddhane Gael hides the treasure trove within. Unlike the flashy glass entrance of Prince's Street, the St. Charlotte's side was inviting, the Georgian white columns flecked with later portico and mouldings of the following William period. It looks more like New Orleans or Melbourne from this entrance, with iron fence and gardens framing the path to the large wraparound portico and imposing wood doors that rise the full height of the first storey.
     Inside, a large foyer serves as welcome and ballroom. A large chandelier is centered over the fresco of the floor. King William's seal, emblazoned with heralds of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and Hanover, is the dominant feature of the brightly colored tile. This side of the gallery still reflects the old house's stately feel. A double-staircase forms a perfect oval that anchors around the floor's seal, one going left and one going right to the second floor galleries. Around the foyer are several salons, rich in woods and seating of well-restored silks.
     At the side of the opening to the left salons is a sign beautifully printed and set upon a silver easel. Next to the easel is a small French provincal table with a fanned catalog of silver script upon sandalwood-colored paper. A personal letter and guide to the exhibit, certainly. Within the left gallery, the several salons are tastefully lit, and some works are clearly visible, even at a distance...
     A broad archway leads to another gallery, this one a bit brighter than the previous. In here begins oils, a transition from sketches to things more modern. Silks and woods disappear, giving way to a plainer presentation of soft white lights that focuses on the colors and shapes in the artist's work.
     The carpeted path to the third salon passes beneath a cathedral-shaped archway of brilliant glossed white trippled in a kaleidescope of colors, like stained glass dancing upon wood. Within, the nearest period, a time post-surreality and far into the hyperreal.
     The path ends, having curved through several salons. A cathedral arch, much like the previous, leads out to the grand foyer again, to a point almost behind the left great stairs.

     The invitations were hand-delivered. There's little other way to reach the guest list these nights. Some, I knew, would never reach their intended guest. Days become years, become decades. Many of the names sent to me were names I had not seen written or heard of in centuries. It was a shock to learn that Caterine still existed and would come. I have not seen Edward Meurelle since the War. It was nice to see Raymond ... he's finally gotten what he has long deserved. Alire d'Avignon? Goodness. I should have thought of him before the list. I have not seen him in what...a century and a half?
     Richard, Felix, Andrea, Robert...Sebastian! Good names all. Friends once, or friends of friends. Some only spoken of in whispers, or as if they have Gone. Even to see Villon's name.
     Oh, but where is Johannes? His name...is not here. A saint taken away from us. I should have gone to see him, instead of sending him letters. I should have gone to Saarbrucken instead of always rescheduling...
     And there were surprises. Yes, some names formality, but acceptances! Villon, all the way from Paris. The Dignitary himself! Here! In my gallery! And Cologne...ah. I will not let him slip from me this time...
     I should not have been surprised, perhaps. This is an extraordinary event. A revelation, a gathering, an exclusive. A social remembering, as we see who is not with us.
     It's hard to believe, really. I had not seen William...or Ian ... since they left for America fifty years ago. And now? They are among us again, the same and different. Everyone here is happy to have Ian among us once more. And William? He is...a new man. A new artist. What he sent to me has been nothing short of glorious.

     My smile has not diminished one bit since the first guests came in the door. Shaking hands, a few hugs. Even a few stares -- some are as amazed as I am to see faces pulled forth from foggy memory. Some wish that they hadn't been reminded. But no matter. All conflict must be put aside for tonight's reason.
     That...everyone seems to understand.
     And look. A face that makes Ian smile. Even William shakes a hand. I know them not, but I am sure that I soon will.
     It's about time. I had a speech prepared, but maybe it's best to speak extemporaneously tonight. God. I can barely take my eyes from those two, greeting guests. But, then ah...there's Nilsson at my arm...
     The Left Salons of St. Charlotte's begin to fill. The security is subtle, but certainly there: along Princes' rooftops and alleys, along the Georgian circle where the St. Charlotte's entry sits. Inside, there is but warmth and gentle light, with Siddhane Gael staff milling about, serving champagne. It's a glorious thing, really. But as mortals live, so does the shroud that must be pulled over their eyes and memories. It is a night that none of them will remember.
     In the Grand Foyer, beneath the chandelier, Jezebel stands, glorious in her dark green gown that fits her snugly. She's radiant in diamonds that hang at her throat and drip from her ears. Her chestnut hair seems darker in this light, but gleams as she twists and turns to shake hands and greet arrivals. She motions to the catalog and the Left Salons, encouraging arrivals to see the artist and find the treasures upon the gallery's walls within...

     Ian would laugh to know that I am thinking of Arsuf even as I stand here in silk and wool, centuries removed from it. Those of you who have not known battles as I have known them would not comprehend the metaphor. But this soldier sees the passing hands. The smiles, the faces, the wandering eyes in the same slow motion and blur that once sand and blood, spears and swords once moved.
     In truth, it could be Navarre, not so strangely missing from tonight's festivities, or any battle. Name one. The rise and fall of voices, the pitch of whispers, the colors. It is enough to make the ears ring. Blood rises and fills the ears, and movements become reflexes, moving on instinct while the mind is... somewhere else.
     But that is where the metaphor thankfully ends...
     So many old faces still seeming so young. Only the eyes belie the time that has passed. And those in attendance mark more viscerally the others who are no longer with us, no longer here. Recently departed.
     There are some I kiss, some I greet softly, others I clasp upon the arm and elbow in memories older than most of the mortal existences outside these walls combined. And on the wall all eyes tend, and mine.
     William stands just past the catalogs, at the beginning of the display, back to an uncovered wall. He leans in to answer a question, there is the motion of his fingers, the catch of light upon a gold ring, the only jewelry he wears. But even as he explains a bit of background on a piece, an explanation of technique to one of the invitees passing by, he is half-turning to the one at his side, and in his hand a golden drink recently plucked. Better than a flower, something of France sparkling in a glass, is held to Ian.

     "Well, thank you," Ian says softly to William, letting Caterine d'Bohay go on to see someone else. Greetings now, conversation later. After seeing the paintings.
     "Did you see Edward's face?" Ian says, twisting to look inside the salons. Ian laughs a little as he accepts the flute from William. "I thought he would have a stroke down there," Ian adds, leaning to see down the path. He exhales and looks up and around the gallery, smiling and waving to a few whose eye he catches. There's nerves, certainly, and Ian sticks to William's side, allowing the artist to remain closest to the first salon's archway.

     In the second gallery, Allemagne Castenet, Prince of Cologne, stands talking with Francois Villon, Prince of Paris. It is all too much really. Jezebel gives Alastair Nilsson a nudge, motioning to the conglomeration of princes. "Shouldn't you be over there?" she mumbles. No need for him to be at the main door. "Don't you all have princely things to discuss? Or whatever it is you all do..."

     The Prince of Edinburgh twists, his brow furrowing. "Nae, blessed God, why'd I want to talk to them," he laments, sighing into his champagne. "Maybe I'll go see Raymond...to see how he's settling in," Nilsson replies, "...since you definitely want me to go away..." Nilsson smirks and heads off further inside.

     A stony, youthful face emphasized rather than hidden by a grey silk domino mask, eyes the colour of ice move around the gathering. Stiff in his dress uniform, the German enters with a low bow that sets his cloak to fluttering, and rises without haste, moving smoothly into the room on his own individual axis.
     Germany, the world ... the world, Germany. Germany travels with him, an invisible band of isolation that paints the pale face with colours even a flouroscope is not sensitive enough to pick up - but the trained eye of the artist, or of the breeder, might.
     Hansl is alone, without retinue or escort. Apparently the rulers of Saarbrucken are ... not entirely certain of what to do with this young scion of their departed saint and protector. If he feels the emptiness behind his back, then he makes no sign of it, every motion proper, careful, every glance equally so. And he is so curiously silent...

     "I did," William grins, a slight slant to the pull of his mouth. The smile hangs around his features, even when the smile itself comes and goes in the drinking and greeting. "Wait until he gets to the end. I do expect to hear the dulcet tones of him taking the Lord's name in vain." He pauses, plucking a glass for himself. "Again."
     For his part, he is happy to stand where he is. With Ian beside him and his work proceeding down the hallway. Not known to be the sort who would be nervous at these sort of things, he is nevertheless keeping some distance between the work and himself. Let them look at it. Unmolested, let them see it for themselves...

     Among those moving through the Renaissance is Davydd Llywelyn, dressed formally, too elegant for those who know him well and for the passing acquaintence, damn near gleaming. Green eyes move from thing to thing and back again. Having to look twice. Three times. A large hand grasps a smaller in a gentle squeeze as he falls into staring. He looks carefully, the Cymri does, studying where one might think he would sail on by in his usual Mars march...

     "Hansl," calls Villon, leaving conversation with Cologne. The Toreador Prince of Paris is dressed dashingly, as expected, in brocaded silk that fits his lean form. It's said he once was one of the Queen's Muskateers. If so, he continues to dress like it.
     "Here," Villon says, offering the young man a drink. "I did not think I would see you this evening," his German coming rather French-like. "You look well."

     It took some coaxing from several different people, but she finally decided to show up tonight. By now, the rumours about her mental instability have flown all over the place. She has been whispered about in Elysiums and Toreador great halls, referred to as the 'shattered rose'. Her disappearance from public didn't help, only adding to the mystery and whispers.
     Fighting off her fears for her two very dear friends, she enters the gallery, accompanied by her two remaining retainers.
     One stands to her left, holding her hand in the crook of his arm. His long chestnut hair has been pulled back into a ponytail, firmly fastened with suede lacing. A silk shirt of the deepest plum is tucked into crisp black slacks. The other is a young woman, dressed similarly to the gentleman in a long black skirt and a blouse of the same plum. Raf and Mae.
     She is so much smaller than her escorts, just a tiny little thing, so delicate. Black silk drapes from her narrow shoulders down to the floor, cinching up in an empire waistline before flaring out loosely about her. Pale arms are only partially hidden beneath sheer bell-sleeves which hang just a little longer than normal, partially hiding her hands as well.
     Tori pauses just inside the entrance, as though contemplating turning around and slipping back out the door. But she doesn't... she merely stands there and looks around...

     "Here," Sandrine murmurs, motioning to one of the works at the first room. She angles toward it, moving undisturbed. "We should start here," she offers, looking to the first sketches. Her hand remains in Davydd's, though, other hand clutching her invitation.

     The good doctor enters the gallery, already unburdened of her cloak at the door. She steps to the center of the entryway with a presence that those who have not seen her of late may not necessarily associate with the same person she was those years before. She comes without any company of her own, her chin level and gazing around the room, taking in the gathering and the art with the perceptive gaze that trademarked her from early on.
     She smiles and nods to the waiting hostess before her attention is caught by another, "Tori?" Stopping she examines more closely, not approaching too quickly in fear of encouraging the flight out the door, "My lord, it's been ages..."

     Davydd comes along as she leads, easily. As easily may it be said that a rose has just moved a mountain. Without word, his hand remains on her. First her hand. Then her elbow. Then the small of her back.

     Ian tips his champagne up, but then pauses as he looks to Jezebel at the main doors...

     "Welcome," Jezebel says to the arriving doctor. It is pleasant, but it's also clear she doesn't know the young doctor. "I'm Jezebel," she says, then turns to see Tori nearby. That one, she vaguely knows of...

     Her name is called and it takes a moment for this to sink in. Looking slightly startled, she turns toward the voice, replying, "Yes?" And her eyes fall on Victoria. Eyes that are...not quite right. Ice-blue is missing, leaving storm-cloud grey, but that is not the worst of it. One pupil is nearly completely dilated, while the other is nearly a pin-prick.
     "Victoria? Wow... it's been so long," she replies softly with a smile, pulling her hand from Raf to offer the other woman a hug.

     Along with Tori, not far behind her in fact, is the Dignitary Himself, Il Dignitario, Girault-Antonio di Medici, dressed in silks, scarlets and golds. The colors of Florence and bearing her presence here, and in the story of it all. His dark curls are unbound tonight, and silken they fall across his shoulders. Spreading his arms out wide, he radiates toward Jezebel. "Mia cara... mia tesora, e cosi meraviglioso vederlo!" The latest coiture of Milan hanging upon his frame, offsetting his Raphael face.
     He turns to look to Victoria. Apparently the young woman and her attendants are in his larger company.

     "Oh, Dignitary!" Jezebel starts, leaving her greets of the two ladies. She laughs and moves to Girault's open arms, hands landing in his. "You look...there are no words," Jezebel effuses, kissing Girault three times, twice on his left cheek. "Welcome, indeed," she adds, taking a step back to see him better.

     Dame Glamorgan Glynnis, the Prince of Glastonbury, stands a giant among men, a woman of uncommon stature. Stately, slender, she moves through the exhibit, her gossamer white chiffon moving upon the air around her. A high collar sets off a swan's neck. There is a glance to Llywelyn and to Sandrine Jorgensen, and there is a smile. Her dark brown hair is piled upon her head. A Celt of some of the first families, her lineage distinctly Romano-British. Every smile comes with a secret. She is the embodiment of the Women's Mysteries and perhaps one of the main reasons for Glastonbury's continued...mystical aura...

     "Sir," Hansl offers in greeting, giving the Prince of Paris a stiff, formal bow, hands at his sides, down a quarter, then back up. His heels don't click, but they could have. He rises, accepting the drink, and nods, slightly. "You are kind. You look as always - prepared to win the night back from any who might challenge it from you." His expression is unchanged, unaltered from its stony bent. Was it always so? Some might remember when a goodnatured, almost shy smile was the norm, but ... well. Boys grow up.

     "O, you soon shall spoil Antonio," Girault responds, a broad smile given, a hug, a kiss, a turn toward Victoria Whitethorne. "A friend of Ian and William's from America, a prodigal daughter returned," he softly explains. "Ah, but this... magnificent. You must tell me sometime the story of How You Did It." He smile to Nilsson in the same breath, "Nilsson, you are looking radiant. Is it the scotch, my old friend?" Old friend? A bit of a stretch, but Girault is a 'friend' to everyone he meets.

     Villon grins at Hansl, eyes narrowing in the expression. "Only if they're challenging in a taverna -- and you know I am not kind." Tush. Please. "It is good you are out," he nods, "...we have missed you in Paris, though everyone knows that you are terribly busy in Saarbrucken. When shall you come our way again?" Something to get you from that miserable town. "I'm sure," Villon grins, hands upon his flute, "...that you must tire of all the attention, yes?" Girault and a Justicar spending much to much time there. "A holiday...would be good, yes?"

     Nilsson looks up and grins, already preparing to head inside. He pats Girault on the arm as he goes off. "You must tell me who your tailor is," he smirks, giving William and Ian another wave as he chuckles by to head inside.

     "It has, yes." Stepping forward to the embrace, the doctor offers out her arms to the Toreador and a continental greeting of kisses on either cheek, "I think the last time was just before Ui and I left the city." She doesn't ask if things have been well, instead stepping back and out of the way of the rest of the entering party. With a warm smile she leaves a hand on the woman's arm, glancing around again, "It's quite the gathering. I don't mean to take you away from your group, though."

      Jezebel nods at Girault, turning to see the two Victorias talking. "American friends?" she asks, trying to make out their accents. "I recall from the list. I didn't send many mails to America..." she notes, lowering her voice to stay out of the pair's regreetings.

     Tori greets her friend with kisses upon the cheeks, then releases her as she hears her name being mentioned again. "Yes... it is magnificent. And I will have to hear about how you and Ui are doing..." Later, however. With an apologetic look to Victoria, she then turns her face back toward Girault, then to Jezebel. She steps forward, saying softly, "Victoria Whitethorne." Her hand is offered to Jezebel with a pleasant smile, "It is a pleasure to meet you."

      Further in the salon, a rather cleaned-up pair walk around. Their clothes are neat, to be sure, but nothing of the finery seen on everyone here. But that suits Donal and Marta fine. No one rushes to speak to them...save Edward and Davydd...and they seem content to explore the works in each other's company.

     The German - is it possible to be more German than was Arnaul? No, clearly not, but he was trained well. The German folds his arms loosely over his chest, goblet dangling from long fingers. "I should say that the majority of the attention is focused away from me due to recent events, not upon me."
     For a moment, the pale, wolfish gaze moves around the gathering, seeking out recognizable faces, then returns attentively to Villon. "I may," Hansl nods, once, abruptly, "with your kind permission, if I am given leave to travel. At the moment, they are ... at odds. There are some quibbles as to what will be done with Saarbrucken."

     Golden liquid passes and the smile winds across his features, starting in the indigo eyes and ending at his mouth. But as Ian turns his attention toward the door, so does he. "There she is," he murmurs. Eyes are then on Ian. She would not have missed this. Even months ago, when she was sleeping in the tower, crying, bleeding, not feeding, she would have come then. Love is like that.
      "And the good doctor," William says, seeing The Other Victoria. Dark eyebrows lift, a surprising arch. Well, we asked. Who knew that she would actually come?

     "A pleasure," Jezebel says to Tori, taking the guest's hand gently. "Friends of William and Ian are always welcome here," she murmurs. "Please come in...they are there," she motions near the entry to the first salon, "...and would be glad to see you, of course." Both of you. "Jezebel," she says to Victoria. "Welcome to Edinburgh," her English with a definite Scottish brogue. "I hope your trip was comfortable," she asks the doctor.

     Girault moves forward, taking one of the catalogs, beginning to meander toward William and Ian and the beginning of the displays.

     Villon looks at Hansl, nodding in curious fashion. "What to do?" he chimes. "I expect...the Toreador to continue to hold Saarbrucken and another Toreador...perhaps yourself...to move into the seat of Johann." Isn't that the plan? Villon automatically turns so he might see Girault better, as if accusing him of not handling things in expected manner. Too bad Lausanne isn't here.

     Immediately, Tori's gaze flickers from Jezebel to the entry of the first salon...then back again. "Thank you... this is lovely. I look forward to the evening," she murmurs with a smile. She's handling herself so well, it seems. With a glance to Girault, she then follows, also taking a catalog on the way. Raf and Mae follow behind her silently, glancing about the gallery.

     Nodding to the sentiments from the artist, Victoria turns to the greeting hostess once more, waiting until after Tori has made her introductions. "Lovely to meet you, Victoria Gifford." She smiles pleasantly, almost glowing in comparison to the more withdrawn namesake next to her. Quite the reflection in opposites of years past, "Yes, from America. The trip was fine, thank you, it's been years since I was here last, everything looks wonderful."

     Jezebel nods in the confirmation. "Thank you. Please...I am sure William and Ian will be delighted to see you. Enjoy the evening," she offers the doctor.

     Wow. Ian does look surprised, though he'd heard that a response had been provided. Both Victorias, in his view. "I thought I was in New Port for a moment," he says, taking steps to greet both women. The flute is set aside on a tray, so Ian's hands may remain empty.

     The show of a lifetime, the chance of a lifetime. Another woman of America steps into a Scottish gallery. Dressed in a Victorian-styled crimson taffeta with velvet layer overlays, a black velvet wrap. Her red hair is in a lifted, Victorian style, held in place by red-gemmed comb. She extends a hand to the woman beneath the chandelier. She must be Genevieve. "Juliana dePriest," she offers, "Prince of San Francisco." Another 'Dame' among the Princely men. Is this a growing trend? Not bad for a former saloon girl. "A pleasure to meet you." Her roseate features show the warmth contained in her greeting smile.

     Alix Markko laughs loudly in the second gallery as he speaks with Edward Meurelle and Valan Montague. He seems glad to see fellow Brujah, smiling as he shakes Valan's hand while offering Welcome, welcome!, following it up with kisses on the young man's cheeks.

     The door swings open again and in walks quite a vision. A larger gentleman dressed in pilot's uniform from the Great War enters with with a slender and stunning beauty on his arm.
     Look out, here comes the Commander.
     "Ah, here we are, my lady... let me take your cape..." he says to the woman on his right arm, accepting the garment and draping it over his left arm. Spotting Jezebel, the man's face lights up, causing his handle-bar moustache to jump about widly, "Alright, then! Jezie! Jolly-good show here... looks fan-bloody-tastic!"

     "There is some ... debate as to who will fill his shoes," Hansl half-confirms, half-disputes the Frenchman's statement. Long arms unfold, and the drink is brought to his lips for a moment, then lowered. At the loud laughter from above, his gaze drifts upwards. Oh. Brujah. Well - very well, let them laugh. The stone just goes a touch more to granite, and he replies to Paris' ruler with ineffable courtesy, "The exact division of the estate ... and lands ... it's all entailed, you see, but the present Prince," nowhere in evidence, "is not entirely pleased. And so there are delays."

     Another! Jezebel nods. "A train of Americans...well, from America," she quirks, not so sure about this one. "Welcome, please," she motions to Juliana, arm opening in a swing to the broader room and Ian and William standing inside the foyer. An audience for the artist and model already.
     Oh, God.
     No one calls her Jezie. Well. Mostly no one.
      "Commander," she greets, letting Juliana go on in to see the guests of honor. "So glad to see you again..." Jezebel says politely with a growing smirk.

     Tori's face lights up with a bright smile as her eyes land on William and Ian as she approaches. Her pace quickens just slightly to get her there a little more quickly. No, she wouldn't have missed this for the world...even if the idea of being in public again terrifies her, she has weathered it for now, and she is here.

     Valan Montague. He has the distinct pleasure of being the youngest person in the room. Born in 1984. Embraced in 2010. Surrounded by men older than Christ. Older than Egyptian pharoahs when their ages are combined. But he moves undaunted, unshaken by the sheer weight of history around him. He smiles to Alix. "Merci, merci. C'est un monde interessant..." he says, his voice filtering though the crowd. Yes, it is an interesting world. To say the least.

     Not pleased? Nothing worse than a weak Prince...Ventrue Prince ... fighting against the powerstructure. "Is Messereich involved?" Villon asks directly. Everyone knows that the Toreador have cared for Saarbrucken, even if a Ventrue sits in the Chair. Why cause problems?

     Going to the indicated salon she tilts her head to the side curiously with a lightly glowing smile still on her features, "You look as though you've seen a ghost, Ian." Letting Tori make her introductions first in her haste to get there, Victoria hangs back slightly, not interrupting the flow of things. Her hands stay easily at her sides as she watches the other three nearest her, no fidgeting or grasping or fiddling of the still present wedding band.

     Girault would reply to Villon, but that would be rude, considering he is some distance away and moving to greet the guests of special honor. "Ian... William... I thought this day was never going to come. Grazie, amice... amice," he says to you both, friends, dear friends. Seeing them already engaged with the young woman of America, he smiles, he bows to them, he moves on. I will see you both later.

     "Victoria," Ian says, letting William see to Tori. Four hands, no waiting. "I...have!" he cheers, stepping around to embrace the American traveler. "Oh, let me see you," Ian grins, leaving kisses on the doctor's cheeks as he leans backwards to get her fully into his view again. "Look at you! You look well," he smiles, effusive in his delight to see Victoria. "Goddess, I can't believe you are here," the young man thrills.
      "Thank you, Girault," Ian says quickly, reaching to pat Girault as he enters the room...

     "No ghosts," William says, a smile tracing his expression. "But it is good to see you all the same. It has been a long time," now hasn't it. As Ian reaches forward to take Doctor Gifford's hands, William is turning to Tori, a hand reaching out for her. "Merci, amie," he says softly. This is not easy, I know. But you came. "We are thrilled you are here...."

     Commander Biggles, as he likes to be called, steps forward and (after dislodging his companion) offers his right hand in a gentleman-like fashion. "Jezie... it is an honour and a privilege to attend such a glorious shindig." Glorious. Shindig. Only the Commander.
     At his side, the thing of beauty pipes up in a chiming voice, "Jezebel, you've outdone yourself. Where did you get so many lighting elves for the night?" Slender, long-legged and achingly beautiful...all packaged up in a pure-white satin evening gown and saphires. Her chosen hair colour for the night is black, tied up in elaborate loops and tiny braids, giving her a sculpted look.

     She can't help but hear Villon's annoyance. Caterine d'Bohay moves where Hansl and Villon are chatting. A Ventrue, her head leans askance as she closes in on the two men.
     Isn't she a Ventrue Archon?
     "He'd rather not be involved," Caterine says to Hansl and Villon, "...but as Lausanne is involved..." Caterine reminds...

     Tori's gaze switches to William as he turns to her. The hand outstretched toward her is taken by one of her own, so small in his. "I'm happy I could make it..." I didn't know if I would. I don't know how long I'll be here. "Everything looks so wonderful... I'm so pleased." For you, for Ian, for being here, for everything.

     "Probably," replies Hansl, with equal bluntness. "I haven't been told. At present, you know, I've no positions in Saarbrucken, and while I've proved myself in ... other places," on missions for the once-saint, "the current regime is inclined to regard it as a fluke - or as my sire having been kind in his opinions as he voiced them." The corners of that full mouth twitch, in unamused amusement. "As you yourself have said of yourself, so is it - was it - of him. Kindness has no place in our world." At the side rejoinder, the young-seeming man turns, and offers a half-bow to Caterine. "No insult is meant, my lady. Only a youth's impatience with indecision. I pray, forgive it."

     "I talked to Santa," Jezebel replies to Buttons with a straight face. "He loaned the elves," she nods, looking at Biggles and Buttons in turn. "And thank you for coming," Jezebel smiles. Only a Toreador could maintain talk with Malkavians. "Villon is here," she lets them know. Their Prince.

     Davydd stands before the painting entitled "Two Princes". From the Renaissance through the Baroque to the Neo-Classicism of the 19th century. He and Sandrine may as well be in their own little world. To him, the rest of them are not even present. Spirit-like, he moves slowly, hearing none of the voices around him. Not even Edward's. He takes Sandrine's hand upon his arm, his other hand covering her hand with warmth and with constancy.

     The doctor laughs brightly at the greeting, her own affection for the elder Ventrue obvious in the warm return of his embrace. The kisses returned on Ian's cheeks, her expression remains jovial and lights up her eyes to their full emerald quality, "I am, thank you." She turns a little at the request to be seen, the dress modeled slightly in perhaps a private joke, "Well, how could I possibly refuse? And your invitation arrived at a particularly opportune moment and let me get some business handeled without having to find an excuse to dispense with the unpleasant after effects."      Turning to smile to William in turn she says, "Ui sends his congratulations and regrets. He, unfortunately for him, is stuck cleaning up the mess I made for his entertainment." She certainly doesn't seem worried about it in any respect, despite her progeny's inauspicious beginnings.

     "Well, that was nice of him, wasn't it?" Buttons replies with a pleased smile. "Such pretty lights... for such pretty people... and pretty... oh! Paintings! Come on, Commander... I want to see!"
      "Ah! Jolly-good!" Biggles replies to Jezebel, then glances over to where Villon and company stand. "Villon! I say, Villon, old chap! You still owe me that pint of amber nectar, old chum. And don't you try to get out of it, right?" He bellows this across the gallery, laughing the whole time, his rosey cheeks seeming all the more rosey as he does.
     With that, he's already tromping across the room, with Buttons in tow, heading straight for Villon. Oh lord.

     "I intend on seeing to every one of Johannes last wishes, and to the sanctity and protection of Saarbrucken," comes the voice of the Dignitary as he comes around the corner with a lift of champagne. "Peace takes time," he reminds. And patience. "Ah, Caterine... how good it is, always, to see you. For how could the eyes ever tire of your beauty though I have seen you every day this week." A wink to her and he turns to Villon. "How is it the building is standing with both of us in it, ami. You are going to have me to your palace before I must return to Saarbrucken?"

     "None taken," Caterine replies, looking at the two men. "And you are forgiven, Hansl." Caterine looks the young man up and down before turning to the real point. "Things are complicated," Caterine says to Villon, "...it is too bad that you do not travel much from your beautiful Paris," she says, "...to see how...things are." East of you. "Perhaps you should come to Prague," she countering Villon's invite of Hansl to Paris. "Both of you."
     Caterine twists to see Girault, swallowing as she takes a step back to allow Girault space to join the conversation.

     And with Saarbrucken on his lips, Girault turns to Hansl, both hands coming out. "My dear Hansl... I am glad you are here, though still I must insist that you join me this August in Venice. I fear now that you must bear the love both that I bear you and for Johannes." He smiles warmly, sympathetically and empathetically.

     Well, Villon was about to say something in reply to Caterine's butting-in. But seeing Biggles and Buttons set upon him, he glares towards Jezebel.
     "Ah, you two! You have left home for this, yes?" Villon doesn't groan, but he takes a moment to leave the political talk for now.
     "And I saw Prague once..." Villon leaves behind in his wake. Apparently there was no reason to return.

     A touch on Girault's arm as he passes on leaving the chat. "I will," Villon says, drinking from his flute. He has to deal with Malkavians now. "I will see you in a while, Hansl," he notes to the young man, not leaving much else for Caterine.

     "How is Ui?" Ian half-grumps, smile still upon his lips. "I trust he's well, yes? And your primogenate?" Ian makes up. "Things are well, yes?"

     There is quiet, Aquitaine laughter from the front spaces of the show. William leans in toward Victoria Gifford, "Be sure to give him our well wishes when you see him. How have you been?" It has been a long, long time. America has become as distant as it was to him after it's seeming discovery.
     With a slight pivot, William faces Victoria Whitethorne again. A nod to her, "Merci... I hope you can see some of it," without freezing up. But there are plenty here who could help you snap out of that, non? "We are so pleased you could make it..."

     See? Have your father figure die, and you become la creme de la creme. With three invitations all one after another - Paris, Prague, Venice - it's a good thing that Hansl is independently wealthy by now. He bows to Villon's departure, then rises again, a veritable drinking bird to the various around him. "I will endeavour, of course, to repay such hospitality as is shown me with what humble means are at my disposal."

     Ian takes a moment and nods at Tori while waiting on Victoria's response regarding Ui. "You look splendid," he whispers at Tori, leaning to give her a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispers lowly, knowing how much it took.

     Sticking close to William, she squeezes his hand and glances around. So many pictures, paintings, experiences... oh, how these paintings could talk to her. She announces to William, her gaze flickering back to him, "I will do what I can." Even if I have to come back later. She's already starting to get antsy. Raf and Mae stick by close but don't interrupt any ongoing conversations.
     Then, her attention flickers back to Ian again as she is kissed. This brings a beautiful smile to her lips. "So do both of you, my friend... I... I can't stay long..." This crowd... it's beginning to stifle me.

     Valan Montague stands before one of the later works. Unfinished. Sketches. Paintings that saw less the light of day than their would be creator. "J'ai ce fait," Valan murmurs. "I did this. I created this." Narrowing his eyes, he turns to Edward Meurelle. "Que ce moyen? Pas la peinture. Elle signifie autre chose, oui?"

     "Dignitary," Caterine says politely, barbs done for the moment. "I never tire of seeing you. I am glad, though, that we are seeing each other in...more cheerful surroundings."
     "Hansl," name purred, "...do...drop me a line, yes? I think you would enjoy my city."
     You want to leave Saabrucken, don't you?
     A bob of her head and Caterine is done for now. "Dignitary," she offers respectfully, a valediction as she moves away to see the French Ventrue, gathered in a corner.

     "He is very well, thank you. He still insists on wearing those God awful novelty ties but I'm trying to cure him of it steadily." Doctor Victoria nods and smiles, "Seattle is doing nicely, particularly since I got to dispatch some problem areas before I left." Hence the cleaning up most likely. "But it's improving steadily, Tindell is hoping to be able to go off to see his progeny in Chicago soon and wanted to have me clear that up first." The unspoken implication of course being that once it was handled she could take the reigns for a while. "If you ever get across the pond again you should visit."

     "I understand," Ian says, looking between the two Victorias. "We can see you at home," he reaffirms. We can visit more there. "Be warned," Ian quips, "...there are Toreador inside," he teases. One never knows about them.
     Back across the pond? Ian looks at William, smirk on his lips. "No, no pond-hopping for me for a while," Ian states, letting Victoria's hands go. "We are...good here -- do you have a hotel here? We would certainly love for you to stay at Strathfayr," he invites, looking to William to agree.

     Politics. Well, what did we all think was going to be discussed? The weather? Girault smiles beautifully to the departing Caterine and let's that smile trace its way to Hansl. Do not worry. Johannes legacy will remain intact. "This work... what do you think of it, Hansl..." Have you your sire's eye for art.

     Approaching Villon, the Commander slaps him on the shoulder roughly and announces, "Villon, old boy, you're looking younger by the year! I might have to hit you up for that lager later. We should get together sometime and swap stories." About the Great War, of course.
     Buttons curtseys before Villon and sing-songs, "He looks younger by the year... and more handsome..." Cupid-bow lips curl into a wicked grin as she slips her hand onto Villon's arm and looks up at him dotingly.

     "Seems that way," Alix says, apparently understanding French. A pat on Edward's shoulder, and he moves off to see the Strasbourg contingent.

     Edward stares, shrugging in his black tuxedo. A modern take...it has a priest's collar, as the style is called. "I don't know," comes Edward's reply. He leans in to look at the signature more carefully. "His...blood?" he wonders.

     William lifts an eyebrow at the mention of the pond. It takes him a moment to remember the Atlantic Ocean. He grins at the thought of crossing it but there shall be no such trip. "We would love to have you visit Strathfayr," he affirms, looking to Ian, smile quickening. "I will pick my shoes up off the floor," spoken as if he has to tidy up. As if he would in any case.

     Chuckles already rise from bystanders. Villon looks at Biggles and Buttons. Well, he can never turn down stories and someone discoursing on his great looks. "Of course, when we get to the city, hmm? Say...have you both been to see the kaleidscope colors on the archway there?" Villon points to the colored lights at the cathedral arch. "You should investigate," he suggests.

     Such popularity. It'd go to his head, if he were of a mind to. Caterine gets another low bow. "Of course, my lady. Do enjoy the gathering, I will contact you once I am free to do so." Girault receives a bow as well, and then Hansl turns to the artwork in question, lips pursed as he prepares to examine it, one hand lifting as if feeling around it as he looks.

     Juliana dePriest finally has her moment. Just behind the Two Victorias, the Victorian woman stands. As one steps away to view the art with her attendants in tow, Juliana steps forward, "William," and her smile is wide. There is a flush to her skin, noticeable for all the cream-pallor of the red-headed vampire. It has been ages, Plantagenet. She turns to take both William and Ian in her gaze, and the woman who lingers with them.

     "Staying at Strathfayr would be very nice, thank you. I'd love to see it again." Not to mention letting her leave the mess to her young man a little longer in response to a visit. Victoria answers, looking to Tori next to her again with a smile, "Are you staying nearby as well? It might be easier for everyone to catch up then, certainly."

     Hand still in Davydd's, Sandrine moves towards the first of the acrylics: Falconer to be exact. "This is marvelous," she murmurs to Davydd. "Look at the detail of wings, Davydd," Sandrine murmurs, leaning in. "I...didn't know..." she says softly. Didn't know that William could paint. Not like this.

     Biggles nods at Villon. "Ah, very good. Oh! There's Davydd! I haven't seen him in a dog's age!" Turning back to Villon and Buttons, he says, "I fear that the kaleidscope will have to wait for me... ah, why not take Buttons over? I'll take my leave for now... I simply must talk to him. Cheerio!" With that, off Biggles marches, calling out for Davydd now, grinning like a fool, his moustache flapping about wildly again. Buttons glances up at Villon adoringly, "Mmm, why not show me?" She doesn't appear ready to remove herself from his arm just yet.

     Francois Villon, Queen's Own Muskateer, Prince of Paris, Reims and Versailles, stands with Buttons around his arm. Asking about kaleidescope colors. "Err," he says, "...sure." Smacking his lips, Villon manages a weak smile and heads to the third room's archway.

     He would have doubted that the Italian contingent's appearance more than the arrival of the next greeter. Hers was the last name added to the list. A call placed to Jezebel just prior to the last round of invitations. But she is here. He knew she would be. "Ian, Victoria Gifford.... this is Juliana dePriest, Prince of San Francisco."

     "Ian.. it is a pleasure to finally meet you," Juliana says. "Finally, the face to go with the legend." And rooms of art to adorn the love. She turns to Victoria Gifford, "A pleasure."

     Jezebel seems content for now. She looks at her list, then around the room. If anyone was to show, they'd have done so by now. She gives the list to her own attendant, sending them away once done. With a sweep of her hand, she is soon at Nilsson's side once more.

     The raven-haired Victoria glances to the good doctor and murmurs, "I've been traveling recently, but am in the area for a short time." There's a glance to Girault, then back to Victoria, "I've been traveling with Antonio here for a little while." She then pauses as introductions are being made. Her gaze darts around the room a bit..

     Ian nods, shifting talk of the house. "It is...thank you for coming. It is a long way for a few paintings and sketches," he says self-deprecatingly. "But we are glad you would come," the young man says. Legend? Bah. Ian slips a hand into William's now, eyes moving between the three women.

     "And Victoria Whitethorne, I believe you may actually have met before," William posits, eyes narrowing. He's not quite sure about that. "Juliana was at not a few conferences in Portland and Seattle," William explains to Tori.

     Taking the other woman into her view, Juliana smiles. Pleasantly. "The name is a familiar one on the West Coast," she says of Victoria Whitethorne. "Who would think I would meet the Diva in a gallery in Scotland." The world is quite small among us all.

     Hansl's first glance is at the painting entitled Liquid, but his glance slides away from it, dragged elsewhere, to a piece from the late Baroque period instead. "This one says something which I very much would like to hear more of," he murmurs, not to Girault so much as to the painting itself, taking a slight step forward. The ice-like eyes are focused on some point inside the painting, and he moves as though planning to enter the canvas, stopping only when he really has no choice but to. "A loneliness of spirit, but not without triumph, the strength of the artist's hand may be illusion - but the subject remains inviolate. A captured moment taken from an age which poor mortals no longer may remember, save as retold futilely, on pages and in echos. There is more forgotten truth in a thimbleful of this paint than is remembered in all of the newspapers which will be printed this year."

     Tori's attention swerves back to the conversation going on again and automatically offers her hand to Juliana. Those strange eyes focus on her even as she offers a polite smile and greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Juliana. Oh... well, I haven't been the 'Diva' in a few years. But, it's nice someone remembers."

     "I think this is my favorite," Davydd says, nodding slowly. Still, he does not hear the clarion call of Commander Biggles. His hand closes over hers, another gentle squeeze. "It's one thing to know he painted, that's what he does," the Cymri's voice rolls in its lilts and drags. "But... I did not know he painted." Emphasis noting the difference. He leans in to her. "I wonder... if I asked him... if he would paint me something of you..." It takes work for Davydd not to give into a moment of personal and public pleasure. Not one normally known for being demonstrative in public, there is a lift of his eyes to the woman who walks close with him. Where you go, woman, I follow. I have known nothing like it in all my nights and days...

     Buttons moves along with Villon, practically hanging off of his arm. "Such pretty colours... like a rainbow," she comments, looking at the arch. Perhaps it's been known for a little while that Buttons has had a bit of a crush on the Parisian Prince. Such a burden he must bear. The woman truly is lovely to look at... too bad she's a Malkavian.

     Girault looks between the works that Hansl notes. His arms go behind his back and his fingertips lightly grasp one another. A smile traces over his features, sublime. Cinnamon eyes take in the images, take in the emotion, take in the technique. He stepped fully from Leonardo's shadow. This is not a Florentine-French artist, this belongs to no one school, but to he himself, and from him to us all. "You have an excellent eye, Hansl," Girault notes, nodding. "This one..." he takes a step back, he gestures to the one entitled "Chennai". "This one. The impressions of Them. They are nowhere seen but they are everywhere evident. This... this one I wish I could put in my pocket and carry it away..."

     The loud Commander passes by, calling out for Davydd again, causing Tori to jump slightly. Her jaw sets a bit, as though she's trying to force herself to remain calm. Raf steps forward now, instinctively. He murmurs something in her ear, to which she nods once. Turning back toward William and Ian, she murmurs, "I... I'm sorry. I have to go..."

     Davydd twists, hearing his name. Good lord, it's Biggles. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. Forest eyes settle between his woman and the painting of Ian and the hawk.

     "Come, Victoria," Ian murmurs, "I have a few people for you to meet, hmm?" We can converse later. Ian spins as Tori speaks of leaving, half-expecting her to be escorted by William. "If you are sure," Ian murmurs, smiling. "We will...see you later," he folding Victoria's hand over his arm.

     Nodding to Juliana, the brunette Victoria smiles and offers out a hand in turn after the singer's, "Lovely to meet you, I'm afraid I don't get down the coast much." She turns to Tori and offers her another smile, "Perhaps we can catch up while we're both here? Unless of course you don't have the time, in which case I understand." Giving the woman a graceful way to beg out of the engagement as always.

     Juliana does not stay past the greetings. She smiles, she turns to William. "Thank you," she mouths. And she moves in to see the show.

     Sandrine continued to stare at the painting of the Falconer. "You didn't know he painted..." she asks curiously, her next statement cut off by the bellowing of Commander Biggles. Unlike Davydd's tree-like posture (nothing to see here, move along), Sandrine turns as she wonders where the noise comes from...

     To Ian, Tori murmurs softly, "I will see you later, yes..." Just for now, I have to go. All of this is... too much. Her expression is apologetic, but Raf and Mae are closing in on her, putting her wrap about her shoulders, taking her by the elbow.
     Then she turns to Victoria and replies, "Of course... I'm in town. I will drop by and see you." She knows where you're staying now.

     William was preparing to do just that, when Tori spoke. He takes her hand, he kisses it, he squeezes it in understanding. "We will see you very soon," he whispers to her. "And when the show is over, I will set it up in Strathfayr for you to view... whenever you visit." He smiles to her. You will have missed nothing. "Be well, amie." Two kisses he gives her, one upon each cheek as she departs.

     "No, I knew he painted... I was just... never really into art..." he murmurs. "I have only seen a couple of pieces ever. But nothing like this." Davydd looks to Sandrine, smirking. You'll just encourage him.

     She turns again, now to William as he kissed her hand. "I will be in touch soon." In a day or two. "And I would like to see it then, yes... be well. Congratulations.. this was wonderful." She accepts the kisses, then backs away. She is escorted out rather quickly by her two loyal retainers, even as she offers a wave to Girault. I will see you later.

     Despite the public discourse on art, Karl Castenet moves over to stand near Hansl and Girault. He, too, looks at the Chennai paintings, choosing just to listen in on their observations. Really, what do Ventrue truly understand of art?

     As Ian takes Victoria to lead her into the fray of European immortal society, William grins. He will venture out on his own. And who could make such a venture with an empty glass? A new glass of golden liquid is plucked from a passing tray, in exchange for the empty left behind. William moves forward, pausing a moment before his oldest works.
     The expression that follows is placid. He has seen them before. He did them. But he has never seen them hanging on a wall. It changes things. William studies them no less than the others who move around the various salons.

     Hand linked through Ian's arm easily, the remaining Victoria waves lightly to the departing Victoria and nods at the promised visit. Turning her smile to the gentleman who has taken it upon himself to be her escort she nods, "I would be glad to meet more of your guests, they all seem so colorful." She glances around, nodding towards the two avoiding the Malkavians, "I remember Davydd from our brief meeting when I was here last, but only enough to recognize him."

     The German, nods slowly, turning a slightly distorted gaze onto the painting indicated by the Cat of Florence. "Of course, sir," Hansl murmurs. He's not drunk. But he could be. It takes him a moment to focus - some curses may be blessings in disguise, but some curses are too potent.

     Girault smiles, he places a gentle hand upon Hansel's shoulder. "Walk with me, my dear friend..." What Girault's curse may be, or how it manifests itself is not clear. There is noticeable lifting of energy. A coursing that moves through him and to those around him. With Girault, it comes in heightened energy. He is moved and so moved... must put himself in motion or go mad.

     It does not take long. As William comes available, several move over towards him. A small swarm of the French Ventrue, coming to say hello and take up a little more of his time and energy. So much has happened in Touraine and in Navarre, so they rush to seek his council and ask of his work.

     "How about here first," Ian smiles, moving to where the Edinburgh court stands gabbing. As he approaches, they turn about, giving their former Prince their attention. Ian expected no less, and almost in the same breath, he begins introductions.
     "Victoria Gifford, this is Alastair Nilsson, Prince of Edinburgh," Ian explains. "His graces allow us all here. You have met Jezebel...and Siddfein, Keith McPhair...Laura Stanhope...Primogen all." Toreador, Gangrel, Brujah, and Ventrue. All in a row. "Dr. Victoria Gifford. Northwest Corridor, America..." Ian says, finishing up with some amount of pride.

     Castenet takes the place of Hansl and Girault, continuing to stare at the work. His brows arch as he seeks whatever it was the two men were just discussing.

     Having left the French Ventrue, Sebastian deRancey and Robert LeGrasse walk together through the salons. They smile at Davydd and Sandrine, but take up a spot in front of another work at the end of the second gallery. Sebastian talks animatedly at Robert about the painting called "Oregon."

      There is mention of Poitiers. There is mention of Tours. Soon, princes of Tours, Poitiers and the Angevin of Chinon who was once called both are in close quarters. Alire d'Avignon is on his second run-through. Dressed impeccably, as if he has ever been seen in Memory any other way. A tuxedo of several layers, like William's own, Continental, echoes of Paris fashion. The height of culture. What a pretty picture the regions of France make. Rich Poitou and Touraine, a region of old -- but still growing -- strength...
     Alire smiles to William. He is among the French Ventrue who are gathered together around the Renaissance and Baroque. They speak of art, of this work, of what he will do next. But also of Poitiers. Also of Tours.

     Nodding to those gathered in the little knot, Victoria smiles, "Lovely to meet all of you." The prince is given a deeper bob of her head than the others, her manner ever polite, "I have only been to Edinburgh once before but it was a quite plesant if short visit. It all looks beautiful though from what I have seen."

     Since Jezebel's spoken enough, she remains quiet. It's Laura Stanhope who speaks first, dressed in a yellow chiffon gown. "Hopefully," she blushes at Ian, "...we shall get to show you more of it. Say, how long will you remain? It is always nice to meet others of clan in America." Strange place, we all hear. Laura certainly sizes the doctor up for a moment.
     "Absolutely," comes Keith's broguish voice. "Well, tis nice t' see American friends of Ian and William. I'd say we're sorry for takin' 'em back, but...we're not," he laughs, trying to bring a little levity to it all.

     Raymond, recent Prince of Tours, gives a salute in Hansl and Girault's direction. He sticks close to Alire as they consider the work of the moment. Though he stands in the discoursive throng, Raymond's eyes wander about, to the various pairings and groups. His brown eyes land on Hansl again, but Raymond looks back to Alire, and then to the others in their coterie.
     "That would be very kind of you, it's always nice to have a tour from someone who knows the city inside and out. I have a few weeks actually, if I want them. I didn't want to impose of course." Grinning Victoria shakes her head, "No appologies necessary, I think for the most part their hearts were already tied here in the first place. We just borrowed them for a while." For one of the younger here from her tribe she certainly seems to be minimally intimidated by the imposing figures surrounding her. "Doesn't mean we won't try and steal them back, of course."

     Glancing to Girault, Hansl nods slowly, moving with the other man. He's gripping his glass far too tightly, it's a mercy that the stem hasn't snapped. "Of course," he agrees, slightly curtly, but with a curtness aimed inwards, not outwards, a reprimand of the self. Contain yourself, he might well be telling the unbeating heart within his breast. Behave yourself. You are not alone. Do not disgrace yourself, your clan, or your sire - never your sire. "Do lead on, sir."

     Davydd rounds the corner, leaving the Renaissance and Baroque, Neo-Classicism and Impressionism behind. He comes to another of the salons. Later works, passing beneath the cathedral-shaped archway. What he sees actually stops him. The colors. Everything. Assaulted by the most vivid. Dark green eyes blink in brief rapid succession. He turns to glance to Sandrine.

     Girault smiles, leaving a hand upon Hansl's arm. "The most recent work. I admit, I am most curious to see what William has been doing when he hasn't been trying to conquer the world like his papa and gran-papas. And their papas. And theirs..." And so on. Girault laughs. Oh, I kill me.

     Sandrine's already halted, having returned a slight wave at Sebastian. She blinks at the entryway, then looks at Davydd in return. You didn't tell me. Oh. You didn't know either. She glances at her curled catalog, then walks into the room to stand at Davydd's side.

     Alix Markko moves into Hansl and Girault's path. "Greets," he says, shoving hands into his pockets. Girault, he knows. There are few hands like Alix's that can be used with good efficiency in the East. Alix grins at Girault, but looks at Hansl, as if expecting an introduction. But then, he says, "Are you goin' to introduce me, Dignitary?"
     Saarbrucken's become a popular place, yes?

     Valan Montague draws near the painting of the pomegranates and apricots. His face goes.... red. He draws near, he backs away. He lifts a hand to his mouth, his fingers pressing his lower lip, a slight squeeze between forefinger and thumb. He glances to Edward. Were he alive, warmth would eminate from the darkening of his complexion. He clears his throat and moves to the next image...

     "I heard something of some of his recent work," admits the 'young' German. Well, he is young - in comparison, a mere child of only a couple hundred, give or take. "When I was stuck waiting for the Prince - she had some of those magazines in her lobby." And that indignity has not yet been forgotten. Being made to wait in a lobby like a common tradesperson ... he comes to a halt, uncertainty covered in stiffly formal silence, proper and correct.

     "We can't blame you for trying," Siddfein says, his rough brown-suit having seen better days. Not bad for a Gangrel though. "Maybe we'll see you at Social," he says, glancing around to the others. "It's -- "

     "It's where everyone gets together for a grand slosh," Ian intervenes, tsking beneath his breath. Everyone around laughs. "If you want to go to Social," Ian says, "...I'll take you," thankyouverymuch, his glance seem to say to the group.
     Ian pats Victoria's hand, "Don't trust this crowd," he recommends, beginning to move her away.

     Nilsson smirks, "All in fun. Welcome to Edinburgh," the Prince says, surrounded by a smirking court. "We look forward to seeing you another night, Dr. Gifford."

     "What?" Edward asks Valan, seeing his changed color. Edward gives a chin-up at Davydd, but then looks to his companion's discomfort. Edward takes a glance at the painting, then waits on Valan.

     A sable brow lifts to Alix. Did I say you could cut in? This dance is mine. But Girault smiles, his face beautific, incandescent. "Hansl Veter-Falkensteiner of Saarbrucken, this is Alexei Markovitch... Alix Markko... from Warsaw, and while you may think that nothing good has ever come from Warsaw, and you may be in fact correct," Girault smiles grandly, "...Alix does put that old adage to rest. He is of the Clan of the Closed Fist," Brujah, "He is one of Our," the Camarillas, "... most outstanding young gentlemen."

     "I'm glad I didn't kill him in the forest when I had the chance," Davydd murmurs, winking to Sandrine. "Look at what we would have missed." He lifts her hand to his mouth for a kiss. He stares openly at the work in front of him.

     "That's the best introduction I've ever had," Alix smiles, the Eastern clip in his voice apparent. "Nice to meet you," he says to Hansl, extending his hand. A short man, perhaps 5'9, Alix seems pleasant enough. "Just...Alix," he says in like language of Girault to Hansl.

     "It is a talent I have," Girault notes grandly. "I do make the best entrances." And he hopes Villon heard that.

     What? Sandrine looks over at Davydd. Exaggeration again, yes? She smiles at the kiss, then looks again at the painting.

     Hansl bows first, a quarter-bow of circumspection, given to one whose rank is unclear but to whom one does not wish to risk offense through impolite behaviour. He then carefully clasps the offered hand in a brief, firmly militant handshake. "A pleasure, sir. I am Hansl." The ice-like eyes seem impervious to any comments about children in the woods and old witches at the end of the path. "How do you do."

     "I'm not much for sloshing, but it certainly might be an interesting experience none the less." Victoria returns, still smiling in amusement. Turning to Ian with a grin at his look to the others, "Thank you. It was lovely to meet you all, I'm sure I'll see you again soon."
     Looking over to her companion as he turns her to other groupings, "Really?" She blinks innocently, her acting ability not obviously being tested with the blank expression at all, "I was going to take that candy bar he was offering, it just looked so tasty." She may not have been born hundreds of years ago, but it still wasn't yesterday. Back to her earlier smile she says, "Thank you for the warning though. So where are we off to next, since it seems like most of the world is here, tonight."

     I told you that story, Davydd looks to her. We were enemies once, remember? He and I. I was a princeps, he was the son of my great foe. Davydd chuckles, he pats her hand. Nevermind, cariad. I'll remind you later. A hand closing over hers again, he leads her to the painting called 'Oregon'.

     "Excellent," Alix nods at Hansl, then smiles at Girault. "I had heard you were of Saarbrucken...I am sorry to hear of your loss," he nods. "I trust that things will work out appropriately," Alix says and suggests simultaneously. He looks to Girault and Hansl in turn. Someone will find who did it and make them pay.

     "We," the Clan and Camarilla, "thank you, Alix... and we will certainly do our best to see that it is so, si." He lets Hansl answer for Saarbrucken. He's going to have to get used to that task.

     Hansl bows his head for a moment to the representative from Warsaw, closing his eyes. From granite to marble, unbreathing, unliving, every eyelash and every line of his face so pale, so close to death, even the slight furrow over one immaculate cheekbone seeming freshly placed with chisel rather than once-bloodied flesh. "I thank you," he murmurs formally, "for your condolences. There will be a reckoning." And for a moment, his hand drifts to the scabbard at his waist - it may be only a token, for show, but it is one of significance in a gathering such as this. Someone will pay.

     "Here," Ian smiles, stepping towards Alire d'Avignon. "If there is a Ventrue of France to meet...this is he," Ian says proudly, coming to the side where William, Alire, and Raymond stand.
     "Dr. Victoria Gifford," Ian says, "This is Alire d'Avignon," said with pride again, "...the Prince of Poitiers. And, Raymond Marsellet, the Toreador Prince of Tours. Both gentlemen have recently acceded to their positions, but have served their clans well for some time." If she did not know the names already.
     "Gentlemen, Dr. Victoria Gifford of the Northwest Corridor of America."

     A swirl of mist from under the door and a sudden materialization brings into shape one Kackinvan MacKinnon. The elder Gangrel seemed all to happy to skip the greeters at the front door, but his invitation is still in his pocket in case he gets accosted.
     Gangrel, more than any other clan, show their age in frightening ways. His ears are curled knots of dark brown fur and his eyes are yellow slits shared with the beasts of the glen and not with man. Small tusks press against his upper lip from his lower square jaw. His nose has been flattened nearly against his face. Kack MacKinnon looks nearly to be a strange experiment from the Island of Dr. Moreau: a fusion of man and animal. He lives in the county of Ross and Cromarty. As another typical trait of his clan, he prefers country to city, isolation to society, and silence to talk. Of politics, he has enough influence to be left alone, yet not enough to avoid those seeking his opinion. All that being said, he is dressed nicely enough in modern formal Scottish attire. Tux and Tartan both.
     His reputation is as close to sterling as a Gangrel can get. He has known Ian and his sire for centuries and has managed nearly the impossible, maintaining a friendly relationship with both of them. That being said, he prefers the childe to the mentor. His invitation to this event was a polite courtesy, his actual appearance here a surprise.

     All three men of the heart of France turn. William, with words upon his lips halted, becoming a widening smile. Alire, his gloves hands holding a drink, his expression open, warm. Poitiers and Chinon turn their attention simultaneously. Can Tours be far behind?
     Alire smiles. It is a slight expression but it conveys in depth what it seems to lack in breadth. Like William, he is well over six feet in height and solidly built. But there is an uncommon grace in the way his clothing sits upon him, the just-so-ness of it all, the ease of it. He does not have William's darker beauty, but in his golden ways he is no less charismatic. He's merely... quiet and studious. Alire smiles to Ian, he smiles in the introductions. He reaches for the young woman's hand. "A pleasure to meet you. From America," his oceanic blue eyes widen a touch. "You have made quite the journey. Welcome to the Other Side," he smiles. Alire. Alire just made a joke.

     Alix nods at Hansl and Girault, his work done. He believes what they both say. "Please...let me know if there is anything I can do, yes? I am not in Saabrucken so often," Alix explains to Hansl, "...but the Dignitary knows how to reach me."

     "Lovely to meet you." She turns to d'Avignon, giving him her hand without the provincial shake, "I believe you know my sire, Maximilian Constantine. Or did, many years ago when he lived on the continent." Victoria smiles and nods in greeting to the others as she is introduced, "It is always wonderful to put names to faces as well, we hear only a little of what happens across the Atlantic so far on the other coast, but I try to keep at least informed."

     The condensing form in the foyer causes a yelp from a staffer. Jezebel turns about, leaving the Edinburgh Court to head back to the main foyer area.
     "Oh!" Jezebel chirps. "Kackinvan McKinnon of the Clan McKinnon," her own brogue calls. "So, y'd decide t'show, eh?" She laughs, hands around her champagne flute. "Can't you walk in a door like everyone else?"

     "Constantine," Alire breathes with a smile. "Good lord. It has been ages. I hope he is well. You must convey my well wishes to him. I fear we have been out of touch for too long. I am embarrassed to say how long. A childe of Constantine's!" he says, incredulous. As if one should never expect to see such a thing.

     "You're Constantine's?" Raymond Marsellet chimes in, recognition there. He nods, holding a drink in his hand like everyone else. A glance to Alire. Jinx! Raymond extends a hand to Victoria as well, but his is for a shake. "Welcome," he nods eagerly, glad to see someone of noble stock.

     "I'll be sure to." Victoria smiles, her hand exchanged to the next offer and returning the shake. She seems infinitely amused by the surprise at the fact that her sire has continued his line, either from the reaction or simply from the fact that she knows him well enough to understand the sentiment. "There are two of us, actually. Though Neil's much more dignified than I am and still in New York with our sire." With her poise tonight if her sibling is more dignified he probably has starch in his socks. Nodding to Raymond she adds, "Thank you, it's very nice to be here."

     Another small, curt nod of his head. Saarbrucken's heir, such as he is, is starting to feel confined, and it shows in the brief, almost longing glance at the walls, though he resists any urge to loosen his collar. Hansl bows slightly, taking a slight step back. "You will excuse me, I hope," he half-asks, politely, "but I would like a fresh drink." And a chance to cool the Germanic temper, with no vengeance easily to hand.

     "Any more dignified and one would snap in two," comes the Aquitinian drawl. William lifts his glass, a sip taken, a wink given to Ian. He does not yet slip away, though his name is sounding on the air again. With two princes of his region in audience with him, he would not simply continue onward.

     Alix nods, "Certainly," not sure if his offer of assistance was too much. Alix looks to Girault, as if to ask 'what gives', then watches Hansl wander off toward the drinks.

     Kack MacKinnon looks at Jezebel, his yellow eyes unfathonable. "Aye, I could have." He smiles at her, somehow the smile is friendly and warm despite the pointed teeth and feral face. "How are you Jezebel McMaster? Been a few years has it not?" His voice is pure and strong, his vocal cords seem to be one of the few areas untouched by the Beast. He adds further, "You look well. My thanks to you and yours for the kind invitation tonight." He lowers his head politely.

     Ian rolls his eyes, smirking as he angles to take Victoria on to the next stop. "We will leave you all to your own devices," he explains, hand patting the young woman's again. "Though," he looks at the group, "...should I...take her towards..." as he motions towards Villon, Girault, and a host of others. "Recommendations?" the sharp-suited Ian asks.

     Girault waves at Hansl: of course. "I will see you in a few moments. I am going to finish staring at the paintings and maybe I will try to haggle with William. Surely, one of these could find its way to Florence. It is the least he could do!"
     A look follows to Alix. He has had a difficult year. Who would not want blood and vengeance for a father's death more than a collection of art. Even art as fine as this...

     "It has been a while, I feel well, and you are welcome for the invitation. Though," Jezebel explains, "...it was William and Ian who invited you. They are inside," she says, twisting to look over her shoulder. "Surrounded by thronging fans..."
     Her arms up, Jezebel glances at her watch. "Oh," she says, "I...should introduce our artist." Oops. She's running a tad late. "Here, come with, Kack, while I announce William, please."

     William lifts an eyebrow, smile sliding slowly along as he looks to Ian and between both him and Victoria. "Girault would not forgive you if you did not. Besides, he has been wanting your attention since he arrived." You know how he is. Glutton. "Villon... not seeing Villon is like... going to Disneyland and not looking for Mickey Mouse..."

     "Avoid Villon, go directly to Girault first," Raymond suggests, nodding as if he knows the right path. "Then see Villon. Have you met d'Bohay? You might like her," he thinks. "And...I saw Tattinger here for a bit...there are so many to meet, if you have not been here in a while. And make sure you tell them of your sire," he adds.

     Speaking of Caterine d'Bohay, she stands near the champagne service...

     How his mouth forms the smile. William turns, "Oui... do mention Contantine." Enjoy this, Victoria. A sire with renown. You will be famous by the end of the night.

     Alire laughs, it lights his entire face. The Disneyland comment caught him. A hand to his stomach, the laughter halts. "Girault then Villon. I must concur with Tours in this..." Tours and Poitiers. They are embarking upon a relationship they have not had since Eleanor's death and their surrender to the Valois. Alire smiles to Raymond and turns back to look at the painting of Ian with the hawk.

     Kack tilts his head as he regards Jezebel. He follows her and speaks, "Yes, I have not met Ian's child... I hear he is Norman Royalty eh?" One can hear the laughter in his voice as he says 'Norman Royalty'. Kack is, after all, an old Northern Scottish independant through and through. It is beneficial that in modern time, English kings are regulated to ribbon cutting ceremonies at local MacDonalds. Long Live the King!

     His blood is still young in many ways, young and old at once, and the suggestion of thunderclouds are caught in his belly. Hansl makes his way to a tray of drinks, where he can brood with Hapsburg elegance over a glass, staring at the rim of the cut-crystal decanter as though it holds some secret fascination for him. "Would that thou were here in this hour," he murmurs absently, in English.

     Victoria nods and smiles yet, her vivacious quality still present and seeming unforced as her yet natural breathing. "Well, that's certainly a colorful set of descriptions, William. I'll have to remember that when I get to meet them." She nods to Raymond, "I will, thank you. It was lovely to get to meet you, if you're ever on the West Coast I'd be happy to introduce you around." As if introductions were necessary, but it is polite to offer in any case. "Maximilian's still in New York if you wished to get ahold of him."

     "Hansl," calls Allemagne Castenet. He has spent much of the evening, wandering by himself. But Karl-Anselm, as he's really called, is no shrinking violet. Not a possible way of existing if you're Prince of Cologne.
     The Prince comes to Hansl's side, matching his gait. "I thought I would not get to greet you," he smiles. "You are...rather popular." Dressed in black, the preferred color of the evening, the rather blonde Karl-Anselm strikes an imposing pose: in addition to the rank he holds.

     "I will have to do this," Alire remarks. He was still listening.

     "You have never met William?" Jezebel says to Kack, stopping at the archway of the first salon. She blinks a few times, then shakes his head. "Where have you been?" she says softly, rather surprised. It has been ... well...centuries.

     Nilsson sees Jezebel appear in the first archway, then blinks to see her latest guest. Now there's a sight. He keeps towards her anyway, expecting her introductions.

     "Reflected glory, borrowed glory," Hansl replies, turning to yet another Prince, Archon, lord, lady, master of the realm with a practicedly smooth, courtly bow, the Germanic stiffness still evident in the tension to his shoulders nonetheless. "I thank you, sir, but I cannot claim credit. Were Johannes alive..." He would not be here. And like as not, Arnaul himself would have found himself too busy, too caught in his own cocoon, to leave it for overlong - but who knows? The childe is not the sire, but there is a reflection. The pearly grey of his garb is a contrast to the sea of black he swims in. "I an honoured nonetheless by your recognition."

     "Well, bless my tiny little soul," the Cymri rolls as he and Sandrine come upon none other than Edward Meurelle and Valan Montague. Not that they've been sight unseen all night. Davydd smiles, then glances to the painting titled 'Creation'. Well, it started as a glance. He's soon staring at it, too. "So, lads... what think you?" he murmurs to them.

     "If Johannes were still alive," Karl-Anselm postulates, in German, "...neither of you would be here this night, this would be a boring function, and you would be hiding in Saarbrucken. And you would not get to meet those here you do not know, nor reacquaint with those who do know you. It's not borrowed. It is his glory and your honor. Soon, it will be, I expect, the beginning of your own growing glory. There is nothing wrong in this," the prince suggests.

     At the head of the salons, Jezebel stands with...well, it must be a Gangrel...along with Nilsson. She politely taps a champagne flute, sending tinny chimes through the din of the salons...

     Raymond nods at Victoria and Alire, but stifles any response as the champagne flute's chime floats through.

     William, Alire and Raymond were talking quietly again, talk drifting back to their joining regions. And growing association. All three halt, however, at the tinkling of glass. William finishes his champagne in a swallow.

     The young German starts to respond, but whatever his response might be, it is swallowed in the silence growing at the humming of glass tapped and vibrated. Hansl casts a glance of politely deferent apology to Karl-Anselm, then turns to face Jezebel, expression expectant as he regards the hostess.
     Turning at the chiming of the glass, Victoria waits with interest at the coming announcement. One arm still comfortably through Ian's she reaches for a nearby flute, not having yet paused long enough to procure one for herself. Her attention is given to Jezebel while she does so, keeping her smile even though the witty banter is for the moment quiet.

     Kackinvan murmers to Jezebel, "No. I have na' had the pleasure of meeting William. I met his father once though. A rather intimidating man and not very pleasant. Still, he was a strong one. Even I knew to mind my manners around such a man." Kackinvan snorts rather noisily, the sound of it exactly like a horse cleaning out hay dust. He enters the room proper, his yellow slits scanning the surprisingly large crowd gathered throughout these rooms. Who would have thought something like art shows would bring such a crowd? He represses the uncomfortable feeling he gets when closed indoors around so many people.

     "Good evening," Jezebel says, lowering the flute as heads begin to turn her direction. She smiles at each of the men at her side. "It is..." she beams, "...just miraculous to see you all. Some, I have met tonight; most are faces that I have not seen in much too long. Thank you all for coming."
     "I...only wanted to say a few words. The works here speak for themselves, truly. There is little I can or will say about them. You see them with your own eyes, feel them with your own hearts. Instead, I wish to say something about the man whose visions were are blessed to see and the one who is a vision to behold..." Jezebel grins at William and Ian, then speaks again.
     "I have had the fortune of knowing one of them well for my entire existence. He is a friend of my own late progenitor. He is...an important part of our life here in Lothian," Jezebel grins to use the older name, "...Lothian would be an entirely different world without him." Tears seem to well in her eyes, but the smile remains. "May can attest to this. Our independent spirit," a political phrase, "...was secured when Ian made a place for us in Society," polite vampire society. "For that, we are always grateful."

     Victoria listens, knowing most of the history from the tales she has heard in the past from all the various sources, but still interested in what those here have to say of them.

     Ah, Girault beams, she is so good at this. She is even better at entrances than I am! Girault folds his arms against his chest. He looks to Ian and William from where he stands.

     "The other," Jezebel says, "...our artist...I have known most of my existence, but not as well as I do now in recent times. I did not know he could see the world as he does. I knew only the tip of a person, shadowed by other ages, other times, other stories. I came to know him and his talent myself, oddly enough, while he was away," Jezebel smirks at William. "It's odd when you think you know someone...then you find that you really do not," Jezebel admits with a smile.
     "Tonight, we're here to examine the work of an artist, this is true, but I think there's something more. A chance to see two people as they envision and reflect each other. Not how we know them as friends, political associates, Princes, or allies. But through the filter of intimacy, manifested in blossoming color and the perfecting hand of a maturing artist."
     "Who knows what happens between two people -- any two people -- when they are alone? Is similar to when you are alone with a beloved? Of course, we all think...no one's love is as honest and true as mine for my love. No one understands. But...that isn't true. The dynamic of Lover and Beloved is something that all of us can understand. We all have exprerienced it," Jezebel insists, looking around the crowd, "...and tonight, we get to see it reflected in Art. In it, I hope good memories return for you all."
     "I'd like to present to you our artist," Jezebel beams, her green eyes watery. "I am deeply honored...to present to you all...William Plantagenet." She turns to William and begins to clap her hands.

     Beside Jezebel, Alastair Nilsson nodded at the securing of the Scottish place in society. At her announcement of William, his hands clap loudly as well as he steps aside to allow William his spot beside his hostess.

     The sound of clapping hands rises in the salons quickly. Even the staff put down their service for the moment, giving a salute to the artist that graces their gallery tonight.

     Ah, the real downside to having a glass at these events. Hansl blinks, then shrugs, and abruptly downs the contents of his glass, setting it aside almost defiantly so that his hands are free. He applauds firmly and briskly, but with the usual reserve that remains wrapped around him.

     Next to Hansl, Karl-Anselm claps loudly, a bright smile on his face. It's been a while since he has seen Ian and William both, and it is a lovely night to honor a partnership and such stunning artwork.

     Lifting her hand from Ian's arm briefly, Victoria sets down her glass again to applaud. She smiles broadly at him as he is recognized, still silent and watching to see what his response will be.

     For all the stories and all rumors, innuendo and insinuations, over all the centuries. From standing beside Richard the Lionhearted to Leonardo and... well.. Ian Dunross. From charges into battle, parades into cities, you'd think accolades would be easy, maybe even meaningless. But they are not. Easy or meaningless.
     There are no grand gestures -- those are rightly Girault's to make. Nor is there any shrinking -- that's not his style. William turns, and he doesn't look around to each and every person. He looks to one person. And past the smile, there is a nod given to Ian. Come with me.
     It's not all that unlike when you asked me, in a manner of speaking, to go with you. Isn't this what it all means, at the end of the day? It's simpler and grander than we can imagine.
     Only after he looks at Ian and nods at him, smiles at him and in that silent way asks him to come with him, William steps out of Alire's and out of Raymond's company for the moment.
     Finally, there is a nod to you all. An easy smile and a simple, "Thank you." Once in Gaelic. Once in francais. That is as it should be.

     Ian keeps his position for now. His hands clap as everyone else's, hearing William recognized. For him, he is but subject. Tonight salutes the creator.
     The ring on his finger gleams as his hands come together in quick fashion. Upon his face...a beatific smile. There is immense pride for William there, not as Sire or even Lover, but as a friend glad to see another honored as he should be. Ian chuckles a little and grins at Alire,      Go up front?
     Ian blinks, looking at the faces and clapping. He takes William's hand and nods, agreeing in a forward step to accompany him.

     Alright, alright. Even Villon has to clap and smirk. He glances beside him to his entourage, including Biggles and Buttons, making sure they're clapping appropriately.

     Victoria grins at Ian's blinking surprise in the request from William to accompany him. Picking up her glass again she remains near Raymond and Alire, watching the two take 'center stage'.

     From somewhere in the crowd, in the vicinity of Alix and a few younger vampires, a series of whistles and shouts go up. Young people, indeed.

     Biggles is all about the clapping. And the superlatives. "Hip hip and pip pip!" and a whislte and a tally ho. Good lord, if only he knew he were really French. Poor crazed bastard. Oh, but fear the day he remembers.

     Kack applauds politely as well. Jezebel's words were quite kind and well meant. This is obviously a gathering of friends and well wishers. Perhaps that's why the crowds of Brujah and Gangrel are kept to a rather small minority, since both clans have little use for such flowery and flattering speeches.

     Standing together, Edward and Donal clap, along with Sandrine and Marta. Edward smiles at Valan at his side, hands lifting in salute to the pair at the front.

     There would have been none of this without you. Why shouldn't you be up there with me? The look as much conveys it. A hand holding Ian's, which he lifts at the continued applause, and the other wraps around Jezebel, pulling her in for a slight, but affectionate one-armed hug.
     Hug given, William raises his free hand, waving it. "Thank you all again for coming," he says to everyone, "... and thank you," he says, turning to Jezebel. "...for the evening and the words..." But there will be no speech. What can he say that the work has not already said for him. And much better. More meaningfully. "The rest," William notes, a smile and a look given to Ian, "... is on the walls. I do not think there is anything more to say but thank you. And enjoy the rest of the evening."

     "I don't believe it," pipes up a voice from the back. Davydd's to be exact. There's warmth to the rumble and a grin that's audible as well as visible. "I've been waiting a long time to see William Plantagenet speechless..."

     Edward glances at Davydd, then looks ahead. "Wanker. I want a speech," Edward says to Davydd. "That's it? Thanks?" he laughs softly, hands clapping again.

     Jezebel claps again, motioning the staff to resume champagne service. She kisses William on the cheek, then Ian in turn, quickly moving off to let well-wishers come up to speak to them.
     Victoria applauds once more, smiling up at the two there before picking up her drink again and glancing around. She's already gotten to congratulate the two of them and monopolize Ian for herself most of the evening so far. There will be plenty of chances for her to get to talk to them later.

     Raymond of Tours remains next to Victoria, exchanging one glass from a passing waiter with another. "Do you enjoy Art?" he asks Victoria quietly while watching the two up front.

     "For the first half of my life, I did enough talking for this half of it," William says outloud to Edward and Davydd. "Be grateful for the gift of silence, ami." So, he grins. See, boys, it is simple. I am in love. There he is on the walls. William gestures to the paintings. What else is there?
     Well, there is this...
     William leans in toward Ian, something is mouthed. Not given voice. Vampires will have to read lips. He smiles then and brushes his mouth to Ian's forehead.
     Fuck the speeches. I'm not Villon.

     The doctor sips from her glass, glancing over to Raymond again, "Yes, actually. Not astutely or anything, but as a hobby." Victoria looks to the walls and back, "I spent quite a bit of time at the gallery when Ian and William were in New Port. And of course Maximilian instilled an appreciation of the finer things of the world. But I'm really just an amature. You?"

     Ian looks much like the proverbial deer in the headlights. For one who has spent his existence rather invisible, he's forced out of his shell this evening. His hand remains tight around William's, and eyes close for the moment William kisses his forehead.
     Wait. Is that McKinnon?
     "Kackinvan McKinnon?" Ian blinks, keeping his spot at William's side. "Goddess," Ian whispers, extending his free hand in Kack's direction.

     "Well," Raymond begins, likely long-winded for a Toreador, "...I like the colors and subjects, but...it's not totally my thing. They are lovely works, these. But I'm not one for deconstructing meanings from them," he explains to the doctor.

     Alire left Raymond's side during the speech. He is half way through the second tour. He wants to see that last painting again. The portrait at the end. And so he files past others. He smiles to Villon and promises to return in a moment.

     Hansl watches the interplay between his elders in silence, one hand lowering to find another drink for himself. He doesn't need to look; his hands instinctively know, have mapped the space between themselves and the table. Speeches are ... speeches, and what they contain might or might not prove valuable - even lifesaving.

     Karl-Anselm remains beside Hansl, glancing occasionally to see the young man's actions. "So," he picks up again, "...you were about to say earlier?" he prompts, giving the young man a path to return to the previous conversation.

     William looks over to ...who? Not one he recognizes really. As Ian turns to Kackinvan, William turns to one of the service crew, lifting another flute of champagne. He is thankful for the prop it makes, if not the taste itself. The champagne is quite good actually...
     Lifting his head, William gives a nod to Edward and Davydd. What wallflowers you all make...

     Victoria smiles, "There's something to be said for that, I think." She turns to look at one of them, "I've always thought William's work was wonderful. But it seems like overanalyzing can take the magic out of things sometimes, no?" Holding her glass in her hands, she looks back to her conversation partner again, taking her eyes from the canvas.

     Edward grins and curtseys, keeping hand gestures to himself. He laughs though, and turns back to the crowd he's chatting with.

     Kackinvan grins broadly and approaches Ian. He takes the man's hand in warm welcome. "Ian Dunross... Thank you for inviting me here. It is truly a pleasure to see you." His head tilts a bit as he regards the man, "Aye, of course your surprised to see me. But when a little bird dropped by such a warm invitation, I could not refuse. It has been entirely too long. Even I have to dig myself out of the earth once in a while to greet old friends."

     "Absolutely," Raymond smiles, seeing the shared sentiment. "So, you collect then?" he asks further of Victoria.

     It takes the German a moment to remember what he was saying, sufficiently derailed from his earlier conversation to need a moment's pause. "We will see what it begins," Hansl says finally, after the moment's ended, voice quiet and grim. "The shape of it is less familiar than I had expected, and there are many obstacles, many suspicions." For a moment, only, a shadow of a smile touches his mouth. "At least those who thought to accuse me have silenced their baying voices."

     "After a fashion." Victoria replies, "I have a few of William's pieces that he gave me as gifts when we were more regular aquaintances. And I've picked up some things from other friends along the way that struck my fancy. I don't know that there is any kind of consistancy to it."

     "So," Davydd says quietly to Sandrine, he is capable of speaking quietly, "... you never did answer my question..."

     Ian's hand shakes Kackinvan's, but in truth, he's rather stunned. "McKinnon of the Clan MacAlpin and MacKinnon," he says in Gaelic...the only way he knows to speak to Kackinvan. "It's amazing to see you, thank you for coming," he can only manage to offer.
     "Have you..." Ian looks at William, "...met William? Plantagenet called Fraser..." to relate it to something close to home.

     Girault is beside Villon, now that matters of art and love and friendship have been given their moments, politics softly creep back in. But is there not other news? Girault's ...association with the young woman seen earlier in the night...

     Raymond nods at Victoria, but waves at a passing Frenchman that wanders by and on. "Me too," he admits. "I mean...I don't have anything of Duke William's," old habits hard to break, "...but I see things and if I like them, then..." he shrugs. They are purchased.
     Raymond looks around. "I shouldn't monopolize your time," he says almost blushingly. "It was...nice to meet you," the Prince offers.

     "Which was?" Sandrine asks, moving down towards the painting of Chennai. She grins and takes Davydd's hand again, leading him down the primrose path, to be sure. "So much has happened in the last few minutes," Sandrine confesses, watching a tray of champagne go by.

     "Come on," Karl-Anselm laughs. "You have to lighten up, Hansl." He can say that now -- Johannes isn't here to say otherwise. "Maybe it's me...I find the politics at these sorts of events to be incredibly amusing. You cannot take any of this...them..." he looks in several persons' directions, "...seriously."
     Easy to say that when you're Prince of one of the oldest and most powerful cities on the continent.

     "What I do collect is glass, actually." The doctor answers, nodding politely to the unknown who greets the Prince next to her.
     With an inclination of her chin in agreement, Victoria offers Raymond a surprised smile, "I should be saying that to you I think. Thank you for the conversation.

     "No, I can't say that I have. It is a pleasure to meet you Prince William. You have quite a reputation in this part of the country, a good one I am pleased to say." The slits of Kackinvaninvan's eyes glimmer cheerfully as greets William. "I once had the pleasure of meeting your father. An impressive figure of a man. Even through all these centuries, I remember that day strongly." He holds out a hand to the Norman Prince.

     "Oh, you're wel-- you like glass?" Raymond's eyes light up. "Me too," he smiles, twirling the flute in his hands. "Interesting," Raymond nods.
     And here you thought you'd get away, Victoria?
     "Any particular place or time? Personally, I am a great afficianado of Austrian..."

     William turns to Kackinvan, his hand setting Ian's free finally. It's been moments. No, there is no recognition when he looks to Kackinvan. He is good with faces and certainly he would have remembered this one. "I do not think so. Honored," William Plantagenet-turned-Fraser notes, his Gaelic without a trace of French accent. He extends a hand to the old Gangrel
     For what else could he be...

     Davydd grins and leans in toward his woman, his voice kept soft, "I would like to ask William if he would paint something of you for me. So, would you sit for the man and make your man happy?"

     "I would," Sandrine says softly, blushing as she looks to the work in front of her. There. "Is that an answer?" she asks, moving on to the cathedral archway.

     A careful pause - this, this could be tricky. "I will keep your words under advisement, sir," Hansl assents, with a careful shifting of the shoulders in minute bow. "Such freedoms as have been granted me, I shall not squander."

     The amusement at the immediate jump back into conversation after an obvious attempt at escape is friendly as Victoria chuckles lightly, "Yes, very much, actually." Turning from the painting again slightly she nods once more, "Tiffany is my favorite. I think it's the colors. And the subjects. But there are some lovely Austrian pieces, of course. I have a lead crystal vase that I'm particularly fond of."

     Raymond nods eagerly, "Yes, yes, Tiffany...ah, but you have spent much time in America. This makes sense," he adds. "Do you have a large collection?"

     Victoria smiles, "Large is relative, but I have about twenty-five or so lamps and panes that are Tiffany pieces. Some dozen paper weights and vases that came from his shop too. And then ten or so odd pieces I've picked up from other makers that I just liked." Her glass changes hands and she raises an eyebrow a bit, "You?"

     Well, he's not getting so far. The Prince of Cologne watches Hansl for a moment, then decides to drop it. "I look forward to your investiture as the Toreador Primogen," the Ventrue says. Karl-Anselm's brows arch, but figures that last word of encouragement may also fall flat. A smile. "Let me know if there is anything you need," the Prince says. Despite being of another clan, the houses of Saarland and Rhine-Westplatz have been linked for ages...through the houses of Nassau-Saarbrucken. Karl-Anselm holds out a hand to Hansl.

     Kackinvaninvan admits, "I have not yet had the chance to admire your artwork, but I am glad for the oppurtunity to be social. It is rare that I rouse myself out of my slumbers long enough to attend such functions." Kackinvan half turns towards the paintings and nods his head approvingly. One can now see why his reputation is so sterling; for a Gangrel he is quite well house trained. He continues after a brief pause, "I admit some surprise that you would have such a show here, rather than in your native France."

     "Streidl and Swarovski," Raymond says. "It is extensive," considering how long he's perhaps collected. "Riedel's ceremonial glass and crystal," he adds. "I enjoy it immensely." Light and color, captured in one's hands. It is the only way to see the sun.

     William's eyebrows lift. It's rare to hear of his father these days. "I am just as pleased to hear it," and he smiles. "I'm not certain that meeting Henry could have ever been called.... a pleasure..." he chuckles quietly. "So, there is a story to this," your association. He looks betweek Kackinvan and Ian and waits for the story of it. Who have you known that I have not known, truly? It's a rare night.

     "M'Kynnon," comes Donal Wallach's voice, a hoarse recognition. Donal comes to a halt near William, mouth open as he sees the aged Gangrel. Existing. In the flesh. A string of some tongue comes forth, gael and aged.
     How are you? You are well? I cannot believe this. Where have you been...what...this has brought you forth...everyone has wondered of you...
     Gangrel surprised by Gangrel. Even Marta comes to stare, looking over Donal's shoulder.

     "Ah, there was no other place I could have it. France may be mine," of him, of his family and of his background, "...but Scotland is of Us." He and Ian joined. William shakes his head a little, looking to Ian. "There is no other place I would have wished this to take place than here in Edinburgh."

     Ian continues to be amazed. He's amazed that Donal and Marta are amazed. "Well..." Ian finally says, coming from his reverie, "...I met Kackinvan..."
     Donal's string and William's string interrupt Ian's thinking. He goes quiet, trying to remember exactly when it was that he met Kackinvaninvan McKinnon.

     "The one Swarovski piece I have is small, but it's lovely." She says, "I've also been taking an interest in the moderns. Have you been able to see Chihuly at all? He had the Venitian exhibit on the continent for some time with his sculptures over the canals that were fascinating. Unfortunately I wasn't able to come see them in their intended settings." Victoria says.

     "Oh, absolutely," Raymond nods. "I only have one by him, but it is this stunning mobile...each globe is this swirl of color." Raymond closes his eyes for a moment. "A lovely thing. I saw this exhibit," he affirms, opening his eyes to Victoria again. "There are five globes in my mobile..."

     Hansl accepts the hand, bowing over it slightly. "I will do so," he avows, voice quiet. "Thank you for your support." There isn't much else to add, save a brief, fleeting smile as he straightens. A man of few words, apparently, our Hansl.

     Davydd laughs, "Aye, aye... so it is." He draws Sandrine in for a walking hug. His voice lowers again as he comes to stand near Alire -- good god, that's a blast from the past, isn't it? "I'll talk to him then... a lovely portrait of you and Frikka." Yes, that would be nice. "Well, Alire d'Avignon, Prince of Poitiers. I thought we'd never get a chance to say hello. How are you, Good Sir?" Davydd's hand comes out to give Alire a proper greeting. "Sandrine Jorgensen," just in case the two of you haven't met.

      Alire turns, his expression quiet, reflective after staring at that portrait of Ian. Stunning. It is all so... stunning and overwhelming. I wish Giancarlo could be here to see it. As he sees Davydd Llywelyn and Sandrine he smiles, the smile is warm, open. "It is good to see you again, Davydd," Dah-vuth, it sounds. More or less dead on. "Ms. Jorgensen...a pleasure..."

     Victoria sighs a little with jealousy, "His factory and school are in Seattle where I am now and they're fascinating. I have a film of all the parts that went into making up that exhibit and all the other factories they went to for the various pieces." She nods, "I'm sure it's marvelous. His colors are all so rich, it's one of the things I originally found so involving with them."

     "A pleasure, Sir," Sandrine says. Blue eyes wash over Alire, then return to polite glancing back and forth between the two men.

     Oh, now you've done it. Raymond nods, "If you are so close, you should certainly invest in more," he recommends to Victoria.

     The Prince of Cologne shakes Hansl's hand. It's almost like seeing Johannes. But it's not. Ah. A conversation for another day. "I will speak to you again soon," Karl-Anselm says...warns...before giving Hansl a smile and turning to head towards Villon. You must speak to that boy!

     "I'm hoping to get one of the chandeliers but I don't currently have any place to put one." Victoria says, "The highest ceiling I have is only ten feet. I'm going to need to keep it in mind though if I aquire another residence. I am a fairly good supporter of a few of the programs there, I should get you a paperweight. They come out of the projects that wilt in the kilns, so you can generally trace them back to the larger piece they were intended for."

     Kackinvan startles at the sound of Donal's voice, although he thought he scented the vampire here. His feral grin is accompanied by a low throaty chuckle. "Wallach... my clansman. Aye, As I fail to live and breath." He speaks softly but rapidly, his own native Gael spoken so readily and natural it is easy to forget he spoke in any other tongue. Yes, the earth has not claimed him perminantly, nor has the Beast. He grows tired though, and waking is not as easy as it once was. He shares with Donal that he slept through the entire 1980's.
     He has been told he didn't miss much.
     "I am friends with Ian's sire, Prince William." He remarks, perhaps unaware of exactly how hostile the relationship between Ian and Liam has become.

     "I am well," Alire continues. He glances back to the painting of Ian at the end, the great portrait. "Very well, in fact. Is this not amazing?" He is not much of a one to make for small talk, particularly when he is the subject. Alire gestures to the portrait. "Of all the ones I have seen, this is my favorite." He pauses, smiles a little and even colors a little. "Ms. Jorgensen, I should not be so ...overcome, so rude. Have you enjoyed your evening?" You are with Llywelyn? How's that working out for you? Alire smiles.

     Raymond nods again at Victoria. "I would be appreciative," he says on the offer of a paperweight. "Thank you," the prince says.
     Ah, another flagging point.
     "I should," Raymond grins, "...let you meet others. It really has been a pleasure," the prince notes, bobbing his head at the doctor. A childe of Constantine. Imagine that.

     Sandrine was returning to the nearest image, but is startled by the direct address. "It has been a spectacular evening, Mons