Cold drizzle. Spring. London. A perfect setting for an indoor gathering of the social elite. Within the stone and oak of Gainsworth manor the harpies have gathered: The wealthy matrons, the newest class of society's peerage. Professors, and scholars, as well as a handful of Lords and Ladies. The Peacocks have found their stage for the night.
     Intended to be a secret surprise for the evening, the gossip has spread of the night's festivities: The ancient mummy, incased in prayer shawls and treasures. Still, it is only spoken of in whispers and sidelong glances, to preserve the atmosphere of the evening. It would be terribly crass to ruin the evening's enjoyment simply by the sin of a wagging tongue.
     Lady Gainsworth, or simply Emily as her close friends prefer, has worked slavishly upon this eve. The lamps are turned low, filling the center of rooms with golden light while plunging the corners into mysterious shadows. Somewhere in the house a quartet plays sombre music that drifts through the halls, and creeps along chimney pipes. Cut glass sparkles, and silver shines, and odd to the decadence and power of this Empire's city.
     Many guests are already here, speaking amongst themselves and with their hosts. Others arrive regularly, their coats taken by quiet servants. A drink pressed into their hands, and then shown to where the others lurk.

     Alexander White, wealthy industrialist, speaks quietly amidst those guests who have already arrived. Glass of brandy glints in tones of red, glittering in the contrived shadows of the corner where he stands. Occasionally, like many of the guests, he glances towards the large shrouded box that is positioned against one wall. Politely, he continues the ruse that the contents are a secret.

     "I didn't see her on the Mall last Sunday," Lady Charlotte Makepeace mentions casually, somewhat, to the compatriot that walks beside her around the shrouded box. "I hear she has fallen ill," the lady explains, certainly disbelieving of the rumor.
      The companion only nods, gloved hands at her lap. She parades quietly, pausing to see the centerpiece of the evening's festivities.

     Gloves were unbuttoned...
     Stowed in coat, and hats and canes and coats taken...
     The thousand tiny and insignificant motions, natural, coming and going with a rhythmic precision known only by the shore and sea. Decadent, those motions. For their insignificance. For their subtlety. Each one coming with the grace that comes with a thousand years...
     Two young gentlemen enter in media res...
     One. Golden and sharp, though young bearing the carriage of the well-born. The well-placed. Well-dressed. Well-spoken, already beginning the conversations that will sustain him throughout the event.
     The second. Dark, where the other is golden. Towering. Certainly former military. Or if he were not, a horrible oversight on the Queen's part. He, as impeccably dressed as the one with whom he enters. A peacock among peacocks.
     A pair of aristocrats...
      A large but fine hand reaches for the golden pocket watch. A glance. And a quirk of lips to his companion.
     Lead on, Dunross...

     A nod is given to the servant accepting of his accoutrement. Tails flutter as he moves about, a perfectly tailored specimen if there was one. "I do so love these things," comes the blonde's voice, introduced at the door as the Earl of Strathfayr. A young Earl he is, perhaps all of nineteen. And of Scottish extraction, the tales on Pall Mall go.
     "Late?" the golden earl asks, dressed summarily in black, save the beautiful white shirt that underlies it all. Tie is taut, though he twists easily to gaze toward his companion's watch. "What am I saying? There is no such thing as late," he murmurs to his darker confidante, "We are merely arriving with the next level of the hoi polloi..."
     His grey eyes are his most striking feature. Not something approaching grey, as if some muted tone of blue. This is much like the fog when light leaves the City streets. Or the smoke billowing from the stacks across the Thames in Southwark. The Ether made manifest...

     "They say three died on the Oliver expedition." The words drift out from the cluster where Mr. White has ensconced himself. "Malaria." This word spoken like some hellish damnation.
     "Porters, I hope." This time Alexander speaks. Clear voice, accent indistinguishable from any properly raised aristocrat. "It would be a terrible tragedy to the museum if one of their researchers fell ill."
     "You've been that way, White, do you believe the story?"
     Laughter then. "What? And believe in savage's curses instead?"

     "Complete balderdash, my good captain. This Nightingale woman will not be the doom of the British Army." Brevet Major Humphrey Mannors Dunfort arrived nearly an half hour ago and has since been involved in a rather heated discussion with a Captain Bremmington of the Royal Navy. The topic at hand, reformations within the British Army and the condition of her Majesties troops in the recent Crimean conflict. "I assure you, during my command, I lost only 13 men in the Military Hospital, a marked improvement over my campaign in the Congo." The Major sniffs rather distainfully at the Navy man. Bremmington has walked the same social circles as the Major for years now, much to both men's dismay. Yet, there is a certian comfort in familiarity.

     "Late..." A pause. "For us... non..." The voice is a languid baritone, aided by the insistence of French upon his English. English worn only when required. Much as this waistcoat...
     In the company of the Earl of Strathfayr, was announced the Comte du Poitou, the dark companion. And as smiles are given on occasion as he moves beside, if not a little behind, the Earl, the Comte turns. A smile returned. Smooth and pulling. The smile would promise much. Though, what ... exactly... well... that is not as apparent...
     Dark eyes. Not merely dark, but something in equal parts blue and violet. Some light may find it one or the other, or a mixture of both. So goes twilight, the middle ground between day and night visible in every glance.
     And the glass in the hand. What shall be a continuous prop throughout the evening. A brandy. And it is lifted. Tasted even before it is sipped. Held upon the tongue as he strides along with his partner, his other arm, hand, couched behind his back. Relaxed but lordly. He does not wear regality -- it wears him.
     "I am most excited to see what this surprise will be..." The French pulls upon his English, elongating vowels and changing the cadence of the language to suit it. Indigo flickers as he looks to his companion, attention withdrawn from the room for a moment, "...perhaps it will inspire us to return to Cairo..."

     "Porters and guides." A nod from one of the others in the circle. "It will slow them, but the museum can afford the delay." A glance to the shrouded box. "Especially with the recent successes of the expeditions in Africa. The Americas will be another jewel in the crown of the Empire's greatest research institute." Definitely the voice of pride there. Indulgent smiles play across the lips of those in the circle, they have heard such exhortations before.
      "Any word from Amelson?" White shifts the conversation, away from the American expedition, and towards one of the black sheep of the scholarly world.
     "That madman couldn't find his way to the palace if he was dropped in Buckingham square, I sincerely doubt he will make it to the horn of Africa let alone the South Pole as he plans." Ferard, one of the Directors and one of the few men who approves expensive expeditions. "Don't know where he found the means to get there, without any support from any institution."
     "A pity," the words bring mild shock from White's companions "He can be so entertaining when he goes off on one of those farfetched tangents of his." Quiet chuckles replace shock, White smiles and excuses himself from the circle, to walk slowly about the periphery of the room.

     The blonde Earl tosses his head left and right as he steps into the room proper. "India by way of Cairo?" he wonders, nodding at a pair of passing ladies. "Perhaps," he finally nods after the initial hesitance. "It will cost extra...to get onto a boat to Cairo first...get off and explore...and then to pick up another boat near Ethiop," Strathfayr surmises.
     He twists, however, to hear murmurings of malaria and lost institutional monies. "Do you know this Amelson?" the blonde wonders, turning back to the Comte for the question.
     Bremmington has almost had it with this fool of a man. Recently knighted indeed. Just because The Major knows how to dig a tunnel cannot possibly justify such a honourific. Even if it was a French Knighthood. "Dunfort, do you even read a newspaper these days? Lady Nightingale is held up as a crusader, word has it, she has even been invited to the Palace."
     "So was I Bremmington, just because you can't seem to get an invitation is no reason to be bitter." The Major puffs up his chest, the flash of medals stuck thereto, attempts to blind his conversation companion. "I weary of hearing about 'The Plight of The Common Soldier'. I cannot be held responsible for the careless regard of a few callous officers. And do not think the Navy holds the high ground in this regard. The punishment of flogging was invented by you people." The Major snorts in distain.

     Mouth pauses at the rim, then glass is lowered. A swallow of brandy was poised, but now returns to merely promised. And a dark eyebrow lifts to the question of the golden Earl. And the name. Amelson. "No, I do not..."
     But 'crusader' makes him pause...
     Oh, the Nightingale. Nevermind. No one will get any argument from him on having female hands tend to the wounded. Is it not the preference of most male soldiers? Better her than the surgeons he knew...
     Coming into the salon proper, the dark comte raises his glass, the smile at the rim spreading. "But he sounds as if he would be an interesting dinner companion." Dark eyes hold visible laughter as the brandy is tasted again. Lowered, it is circled within the glass orb. Flavors stirred against the crystal.
     "India then," comes his voice warmly. A broad smile and it is decided. "We shall look into it, Earl." And then there is French. How it comes from him. Far more naturally than English. A quiet phrase: 'And our hostess here tonight...'
     One, more of the golden Earl's association than his own perhaps.

     Crisp white envelope, drawn from inner pocket. Careful, and graceful, the act seems totally natural though it draws the attention of half a dozen of the ladies. "Miss Clarford?" The envelope is offered, as other hand produces a tiny indigo box. Most might find the offings of business in such a setting to be rude. Yet many watch with hints of expectation. Perhaps this isn't business? "The details are all in there, of course, but you were right. It is of your family's, some three generations back." Broad smile, friendly, quietly intimate to match the voice. "Quite the history it has acquired."
     Miss Clarford's hands take the envelope and box, delicately like some religious icon. "Mr. White, thank you. It has been such a mystery for us."
     A few more murmured words, and White continues his route through the room. It is obvious, from some expressions, that others are expecting similar run ins.

     "Mmm," the Earl peers about, finger to his tender bottom lip. "She...in the gold and peach," he notes, careful not to point. Such display lacks any sort of subtlety.
     But business is being conducted. That gets a stare of grey eyes. "He was the one talking of rounding the Horn," Strathfayr breathes quietly, turning towards White's direction. "And he moves quickly about the room," he adds. Grey eyes flicker to the Comte, as if to ask, Shall we intercept him? "Ah, unless you should round the room towards our hostess first?"

     Bremmington waves his hand towards The Major. "Really Major, I was not looking to offend you, I was just inquiring as to your opinion regarding Florence Nightingale and her movement to reform the Army. I was not looking for Greek or Naval history."
     "Quite Right." The Major nods his head apologetically and clears his throat. "Either way, one cannot help but agree with better ways to lower casualties." The Major takes a drink from his brandy, putting an end to that conversation.

     Mr. White. The very busy Mr. White. "Then perhaps we should seek him out," comes the languid baritone, in quiet concurrence. Followed by the upturning of the corners of his mouth. The Comte tips his head to a smile given in his direction.
     His smile is constant. Held in his eyes. Perched upon his lips...
     "I am always interested in discovery, the sea and possible acquisitions..." Does he never stop...
     Non...
     But there is attention given to the medaled gentlman. The major and Bremerton. Old military arguments. The plight of the common soldier. The martial rule of the upper class. Familiar territory. It lends a quality of... being home... to hear such talk.
     The full mouth slants, and brandy is finished with a tipping of crystal. "Pity that ended," speaking of that debate. Ah well. As brandy goes, so shall discourse.

     And yet, although he filters through the room, no more envelopes or little boxes appear. Words of consolation and patience "A little time, please." "Do not fret, yours will be soon." "The next few days are not good. Friday, I promise."
     After a few such encounters, White stops amidst a small grouping to talk with an elderly lady. A slight bow, which brings indulgent chuckle from the woman. Adele Harrison. Generally considered to be the city's most acidic and unpleasant woman, to those she deems beneath notice. Apparently Mr. White is not amongst that unlucky group.

     Pity what ended? The Earl turns about upon brilliantly polished shoes. Ah. That. He has not thought much of the Crimean situation, as it were. Tonight's no different. A lift and fall of his golden brows signal disinterest, though he does size up the officer who speaks of Lady Nightingale.
     "This is why the sun will never set upon the Empire," the Earl explains, nudging the Comte as he navigates them both towards the gentleman of interest and the elderly lady he speaks to. A polite distance is kept as the Earl waits upon the pair to finish their conversation.

     It is the lady that passes a small box, this time. Burgundy,small enough to conceal a pendant, ring, or any number of other things. "My daughter's."
     White's hand enclose the box, Brandy set aside for the moment. Gentle, he clasps the box and Adele's hand with it. "A tragedy, I'm sorry." Agreement to something, expressed in a multitude of subtle nods of his head. Hands slip away, taking the box with them. "Anything I can find, you will know." A reassuring smile.
     "I have the utmost confidence, Mr. White."
     Box slips into a pocket, and with another small bow, White regains his brandy and moves on.

     I should sooner discuss the Crimean, such as it was, than Lady Edith Walter's cousin who was due to marry Lord Edward Grey until she fell in love with the son of a wealthy Industrialist and has run off to Yorkshire. Oh, the shame of it all...
     The things the ears hear when passing through a salon full of women he has not yet begun to seduce...
     Nor shall...
     The Comte inclines his head and receives another brandy. "Is this the reason. I thought it was simply that the Queen refuses to sleep in any West-facing chamber," the dark Comte murmurs. A grin pulling at his mouth. A chuckle pulling at his voice. Holding in the expanse of chest. In the confines of throat.
     And as they pause, and as they wait, the Comte du Poitou takes the opportunity of surveying the chamber. Those in it. A moment to listen to heartbeats. To feel himself surrounded. And the smile deepens, where it lies in his eyes, where it rests on his lips.

     Bremmington leans conspiratorially close to The Major, "What do you think of the event tonight?" Sir Dunfort rather casually inquires, "What event?" Bremmington shakes his head several times in the direction of the shrouded box propped against the far wall. "You know, that..."
     "Something wrong with your neck Bremmington? Do I need to call Florence Nightingale over to give it a good rub?" The corners of The Major's mouth twist slightly, and the sparkle in his eyes gives away that he knows all to well the events occuring this evening. He has an accute interest in ancient history, although Egypt has never been one of them. Time to expand new horizens. Bremmington blinks at The Major, "Oh come now, you know, the... unveiling." Brimmington says the last word as if he was sharing the ighest priority of military intelligence.

     "Excuse me," the Earl begins catching Mr. White in passing. "I am sorry for interrupting. A moment, if you please?" Ian smiles, his hands still empty. Perhaps he should find a drink.

     Beside the Earl, there is the other. The one with wandering dark eyes. But in your turning, Mr. White, there was a nod of greeting. He shall be letting the Earl ask his question. And do the introducing.
     He's so much better at it...
     And in the meantime...
     Brandy is lifted, swirled prior to sipping. And attention moves in glimpses. To the women dressed as confectionary. To the military men whispering in something like conspiracy. It cannot be, of course. The Major seems to shoot too straight and Bremerton too loudly...

     "Earl of Strathfayr," The blonde explains, "...and his Excellence, the Comte du Poitou," he motions with a quick and graceful hand. "You will forgive me for overhearing your earlier conversation...it was terribly fascinating, indeed," he grins between the two men. "You mentioned something to companions of yours," Strathfayr twisting to see the Frenchman and others from the museum, "...about expeditions and the museum." A slight laugh continues with, "I myself something of an interested explorer, as well as my associate here...might I ask of the bit concerning the South Pole? The museum is...financing such expeditions?"

     "Good Lord Bremmington. Are you sure you recieved an invitation to this party? You didn't drop my name, did you?" The Major half turns away from Bremmington, and looks about the room. Most of the people he knows all to well, it seems as if his downtime between wars is occupied by nights such as these. Thankfully, with the British Empire beseached by tyranny and barbarianism from all sides, these moments of respite are few and far between.
     Bremmington sputters, and looks apologeticly at the floor. He always felt more comfortable with a ship under his feet and the company of his men. "Well really Major... that's hardly fair. I was just striking a new conversation..." Something away from your tedious war stories and crackpot theories.
     "Quite Right Captain, quite right." The Major responds, "No need to apologize my dear chap." The Major eavesdrops upon the conversations regarding exploration. Alas, there are so few places left in the world for exploration. That fellow Livingston seems to be taking a grand tour throughout central Africa and leaving none of the continent for the rest of us.

     Eyebrows raise in understanding. Surprised, not quite what he was expecting perhaps. "Ask whatever you like" arms go wide, a moment, freely given information. "Though I may not hold all the answers." He then nods towards Ferard "If Master Ferard -" He accents the word 'master.' Sarcasm of some sort. "- has any say in it, there will be no expeditions to the Pole. He doesn't see the need."
     Then a chuckle. "Unless, of course, Amelson is right and that is where fabled Atlantis truly is."

     "That seems...a true shame. Reaching the pole is well...something that needs be done," Strathfayr explains, looking to the Comte for affirmation. "I am certain that such a worthwhile expedition will see the light of day...Atlantis or no," the young man smiles. "But...can you speak upon rounding the Horn? Is such in the near works by the museum? Certainly their great work in Africa so far," Livingston or no, "...would suggest that they anticipate further expedition on the continent and environs around?"

     "And might other interested parties," begins the Comte, his English precise -- as it is for non-native speakers -- no matter how accented, "voice their interest that plans for the expedition continue. There is nothing that persuades quite like ..." A pause. A raise of a brow. "Competition?"
     If Master Ferard is not interested, might he be persuaded. If he is needed...
      The corners of the Comte's mouth upturn. A slight, even archaic smile. But his eyes show keen interest, sharp mind, and humor.

     "Major Dunfort, sir," an elderly voice sounds. Another aristocrat, though ... of a former generation. Lord Wimberly, the Noah of St. James. "Splendid work, sir, splendid. Remarkable charge, wot... Bremmington, my dear man...how is your lovely wife?"
     Some would say the only thing worse than Major Dunfort and Bremmington debating in public is being assailed by Lord Wimberly most anywhere. Charming old man. Nutty as a walnut fruitcake...

     "Reaching the pole..." the Comte concurs with an incline of his head. "If we do not explore, we shall not learn and preserve. Certainly the museum sees the value in that..."
     Among the usual rape, pillaging and acquisitions...

     "Oh heavens." White chuckles. "I imagine that they are planning such an expedition. That doesn't sound beyond the realms of possibility." He nods towards the scholarly crowd he was speaking with earlier. "They know of future expeditions far more than I." Ingratiating smile "All I do is keep up with current expeditions. There isn't enough time in the day to keep track of all the proposals as well."
     Brandy goes to lips, as the Comte speaks. "I have never been much of a proponent of expeditions of preservation to lands where no life lives." A rueful shrug "Not a virtue, in myself, I know. But then, I am but a businessman, the halls of the museum are a place of curiosity for me. Not profession." Eyes drift to Wimberly. A grimace of sympathy for the two debating military men.

     "Lord Wimberly. What... what a pleasure to see you hear." Captain Bremmington stutters, "My wife is fine sure, a bit of the vapors, but I am sure she will be fine." Great, how could I possibly be stuck between a rock and.. another rock.
     "Lord Wimberly, old chap. Good to see your still up and running about. I heard that your knee was acting up." The Major smiles wanely. "We gave those Czars quite a run for their money, wot? Seems as if they never get tired of attempting to tread through Turkey, but that's one old empire that refuses to give up."

     "Well, perhaps," Strathfayr explains, "...you could let interested parties know that there are those quite interested in their pursuits, no matter the museum's interest. What is our nation if it is not supported by the hand of academia, goverment, and the private investor, yes? Or," the Earl looks towards the academics, "...would it be too presumptuous for us..." he glances at the Comte, "...to introduce ourselves to your associates?"

     "I'm sure word will spread." He smiles across the room to a woman recently entered. A nod of greetings. "Oh, I do not think it would be presumptious at all. Though academics can be notoriously strange when it comes to scrabbling over each other for funds." He says this last quietly, so his associates do not hear.
     Then dawning realization of something. "I never did introduce myself, did I?" He extends a hand. "Alexander White." No titles, and yet many people here seem to already know of him. Power of reputation perhaps.

     "Backbone of England!" A hand lands upon Major Dunfort's shoulder. "Good man, good man. Bremmington, Dunfort... I will see you at The General's fortnight hunt. Guns out, foxes down, wot?" And with a good natured smile, the old lord toddles off.
     There is one good thing about rambling old aristocratic lunatics, they tend to ramble on...
     And wander about as they do it...

     The Comte du Poitou smiles, a warm ease across aristocratic mouth. Oh, indeed. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. White," a tilt of his head. The hand extended first to the Earl. As it has been the better part of the Earl's conversation.
     "And do you know much of the promise of the ... evening's event?" A dark eyebrow lifts, and indigo eyes fasten for a moment upon his companion.

     Mr. White. Strathfayr nods at this, acknowledging that he has heard the name without interrupting the Comte's further questioning.
     In the intervening moment, the Earl glances around to the military types. Speaking of Turkey, another place one should wander soon. There, his grey eyes affix, idly staring while the Comte and Mr. White engage each other.

     Bremmington breathes a sigh of relief. There is a conversation that could have dragged on for hours on end and gone absolutely no where. "Amazing chap, Lord Wimberly. I hear he fought against the Americans at Fort McHenry in 1814.", Bremmington spouts. The Major chuckles softly, "Surely not. I can't imagine Lord Wimberly in battle, unless it was with some squirrels invading his wine cellar."

     A mock look of surprise. "Oh, dear, no. Whatever it is that is going to happen" White glances to the shrouded box "It remains ever the mystery." Eyes turn through the room again, mention of Turkey summoning his gaze like a sun bringing warmth.
     "It shall prove interesting, though, that is something I would lay odds on." another glance "Though heaven knows when it shall be unveiled."

     Servants glide effortlessly, and almost invisibly through, making sure everyone has what they might need without ever uttering a word.
     Francis disengages himself from his conversation, leaving his fiance behind, as he moves towards the shrouded box.
     Conversations continue, though everyone knows what is soon to come. Everyone brings their conversations to natural closes, as Francis Spencer arrives at the box.
     Expectation does not go unsatisfied as Spencer begins a long story about the trials of deepest Aegyptus. Possessing the soul of a poet, and a storyteller, rapt attention is his throughout. He tells the story of an ancient man, a priest, whose life was filled with intrigue and politics in that ancient city where he dwelt.

     The major pontificates, "Pity about the Ottomans, eh Bremmington? Sad to see a once glorious empire lame like a horse who broke its leg on a log. Yet no one has the heart to shoot it." Bremmington nods and takes a drink from his wineglass. "Yes, well, its only a matter of time." The Major smirks at Bremmington, bobbing his head in agreement. "No greater truth Bremmington. Its all a matter of time. Speaking of time, old chap, it looks like it has caught up with us. Lets see what all this ballyhoo is all about, wot?" The Major moves his way closer to the gathering, slowly making his way to the front. Will there be jewels, or just dust?

     There's a smile from the Earl as the officers finally agree on something, and then he nudges the Comte again, turning to see the host's approach to the point of the evening.

     Then a story of primordial ages beneath stultifying sands. Of waiting the day that the priest's soul would move on through ma'at and into the afterlife.
     Taking a side route, for a moment, Spencer goes on to detail his expedition. Of losing workers to raiding bandits. Of losing associates to frustration, and disease.
     Then, the shroud falls free of the wide wooden box. Within its open top, a wrapped form in faded white. The scent of sand, and death wafts through the room. "And then, my friends, the final wall fell free. Herein, we saw our first glimpse of this great tomb's nameless occupant who has travelled far to meet us tonight." Spencer smiles, waving a hand over the 'sleeping' guest.

     And the third orb of brandy has ...materialized in his grasp...
     He will give praise for the most attentive staff at the close of the evening, certainly...
     With the smile lingering, spreading with warmth, the Comte turns toward the nudge and to the start of the end of the night's mysteries. And the glass is lifted.
     Nothing is said, for the story has begun. And easily he stands in the Earl's company. Eyes upon the speaker. But ever so often...
     And just for a moment...
     His gaze strays to the golden Earl in his company and takes a survey of the chamber...

     For himself, Alexander White has found one of those mysterious shadows to stand in. He certainly has an odd aire about him. Anticipation, yes. Something more. He watches the proceedings with eyes only for the box and its contents. When the shroud falls, his eyes widen only momentarily, as he unconciously pulls at his sleeves. Pulling them down further around his wrists.

     Brandy sounds like a good idea. Earl Strathfayr reaches over to a passing servant, touching them on the arm and causing him to halt. It's just long enough for him to retrieve a snifter for himself. Once he does, he gives the servant a nod, and the servant nods before moving on.

     Francis stretches a hand out towards on the quiet servants, who produces a set of gilded scissors. "Tonight we unmask our guest. Let the light of the modern world awaken him from slumber, at least metaphorically," A twitter goes through some of the crowd. This is the beginnings of the Spiritualist age after all. And with that, he makes a first ceremonial cut, snapping ancient linen cord with sharp modern blades. Handing the scissors back to the servant, he then gestures to his other guests -- the breathing kind -- and entreats them to satisfy their curiousity.

     Sir Humphrey Mannors Dunfort stands front and center and listens intently as the history of this find is shared to the audience. He nods his head at every point, following the story with rapt attention. The glass of brandy, empty now, is forgotten in his hand. His eyes, watered blue, shift across the faces of his fellow attendees, catching simular looks of interest or even feigned boredom. Many of the social elites here have never been past Dover, much less across the Mediterranean.

     And as the ... honored guest is unveiled...
     The Comte inclines his head, dark eyes settling firmly upon the box, its inhabitant. The smell of old earth...sand...old wind...death...
     Poitou lifts his glass, finishing the sensations with that of the scent of brandy, he takes a swallow, holds it a moment upon his tongue before his throat claims it and his ancient blood receives it.
     I think him waking up about now would be the last thing we'd all want...
     No, I will not take the scissors...
     There's an indigo glance to Dunross...
     Promise me, amours. If I am ever wrapped up in some blankets for a while, you'll never unpack me for the amusement of your friends...

     The Earl's eyes are wide, the snifter at his lips. This is no way for someone to go out. But that presumes you believe it was a someone once. Or now, even. Ah well. Such is the fate of the dead, confined to the backwaters of the living, until someone needs entertainment. Oh, yes. And then you drag us out as spectacle or some bogeyman....
     "Well," Strathfayr whispers, meant for his companion only. "What I would think of as fun...is unlikely to happen, so...." let's pay our respects then. He sighs and takes his drink, tiptoeing to see between a few guests.

     Somewhere, between last he was looked at and now, Mr. White has shortened the distance between himself and the guest of honour. One of the few. Yet, he still stands there, watching. Not currently moving. Anticipation still clings to him, but also a feeling of judgement. Of determination.

     The glass orb holds his laugh, but the brandy kills the condensation in advance...
     The glass is held then in his grasp, lightly by fingers, until it would seem to drip from them. And yet it never falls. The Comte du Poitou nudges the shoulder of his companion and moves a little forward, a languid half-stride. In it there is assurance. In it, strength. In it, self-knowing. In it, faith in his place in the universe.
     Come with me...
     And no, this is no way for one to go. On display. Best in the fire of war, in bloody sand or a writhing sea. Knowing life in its fullness when Death is at its closest. Or in a loving embrace, when life is a surge and death comes in a soul's completion. But not like this. Merely unwrapped.
     And yet, one of Osiris' sons... of a sort... moves slightly toward the event. As attracted, as curious, as part of him is repulsed.

     Sigh is shallow, and Strathfayr follows the Comte forward with others in the throng. No, not too close. You never know what might happen.
     Christ, Dunross. Haven't you gotten paranoid in your old age?

     Trust me, amours...
     If he sits up, I'll blaze a clear path of humanity for you. And hold the door open. I'm a true gentleman...
     There's a glance to the Earl and the Comte halts. About midway toward the box from where they once stood...

     Now that a respectable distance of time has grown, since Francis stepped away, the guests begin to move closer. Adele Harrison is by far the first. Her arithritic, skeletal fingers clasp the scissors and another piece of vital linen falls away, revealing faded hieroglyphs across the interior. Prayers or curses. Who can tell.
      Though if the lady falls ill, or dies, within the next month we all know what will be blamed. Egyptian mummy curse.

     The Major notices the balking of many of the guests. The feint at heart ladies swooning in their lovers arms. The proper gentleman turning up their noses, yet peering intently down them. Sir Dunfort, however, has no such fears. He has seen death in a myraid of forms, all decidedly unpleasant. A corpse centuries and centuries old? It cannot hold any deathly sway, all that there is to disdain has long turned to dust.

     Adele moves off. White is closer now, again standing, no hint of motion. Another guest moves by. Again and again, each taking but a single snip. This will continue till everyone who has enough courage has done so. Then it will begin anew, with whatever treasures being horded away by their finders.

     The Major stands in line with the guests, as they make the motions to snip away pieces of the covering linen. When his turn arrives, he takes the scissors, but fails to cut the linen. Instead, he bides his time by running his fingers across the ancient heiroglyphs. His fingers lightly trace away the dust over this symbols, and softly quietly, his lips move as if speaking the written language. So powerful is his presence hovering across the crypt, that the gentleman in line stands momentarily afraid to clear his throat and beg his turn. Only after several heartbeats does the room seem to slide back into activity as The Major hands the ignored scissors to the next in line.

     "They're...snipping?" No, that's not French. Or English. Those with more northerly ears might hear familiar elements, but indeed, it is a language meant only for the Comte.
     But you know those Continentals. They speak all sorts of tongues.
     "Absolutely not," the Earl sputters in the same tongue. He looks at the Comte's shoulder, as if in some deep conversation with him, but he soon clears his throat, lifting snifter to his nose to hide his annoyance and disgust at the ravishing of another....Being.

     White is now in line as well. Heavens knows when he got in line. Ahead, someone cuts vital linen, releasing a spill of tourquoise beads. Once they were bound together, but the thread is long gone. Each bead glitters, carved in the form of the scarab: Kephera, guardian of immortality. Fifteen in all, they are quickly gathered up by a servant and placed to one side in a silver bowl.

     Non, I can't watch this...
     The Comte pivots from the scene, a slow half-turn toward the northern tongue murmured in his direction. A dark brow lifts. Lips press together slightly in thought, and indigo flickers, a gaze cast to the brandy remaining in his glass...
     "Yes, cutting him quite away," comes the northern murmur from a southern mouth. There is fluency, but he pauses now and again, perhaps for translation from French in his mind. "A priest? Yes? Sad... ruination of sanctity," he whispers, the Gaelic lilting. And then the Comte turns, not toward the event, but toward the brandy.
     "One more glass, my lord, or shall we take our leave?" And then the interruption of French: Will they notice if we leave... or will the ravens pick on?

     Ravens indeed. Perhaps that is the reason why the British tend to have such dark hair. White's hand gains the scissors, and the golden blades reveal a golden ring. Carefully, almost reverently, withdraws it from the desecrated finger. Holding it up for others to see, carnellian and tourquoise form images of winged scarabs and brilliant sun disks. A ring to guide the dead through the pathways to the afterlife. Protective, and now stolen.
     The servant makes to take the ring to one of the bowls, but White makes a gesture and the servant brings it to him instead. Easily, he slips it onto a thumb, twisting it about the finger. He looks pleased with the fit, though the aire of anticipation breaks the moment the gold touches his skin. Displeased about something.

     "A last glass," comes the Earl's voice, he glancing around at the more Mortal Beings he had conversed with before. Now, they look different. That uncanny ability for them to be unknowing. Comfortable in the fact that they understand All. Confidence in their presumed role at the top of the food chain. The Death Train. Nothing can harm them, there is little fear of the unknown. It is theirs for the taking.
     "Here," Strathfayr calls to a passing servant, giving him his empty glass. He turns to the Comte, again facing his shoulder, eyes not upon the scene a bit away. If he sees it at all, it is from the periphery of his grey eyes.

     Had I remained in the field of Arsuf where I lay, the hands of the Saladin's men would have done the same to me. And then the birds would have come. There would have been nothing left. The cross hidden beneath my clothing would not have been remembered for what it was. It would have been a trinket, in some woman's box or basket...
     Had I remained in the field of Arsuf where I lay...
     The empty glass is surrendered. Another, two more received. One for himself. One for his companion. And they seem content in their own company. Not even watching the fray at this point. They have dropped into some quiet conversation. A mixture of tongues. At times, French can be heard. At times, something from the north of this island.
     And when my sarcaphagus was vandalized, removed from Canterbury and lost, it felt like this. And so, old priest, I raise my glass to you...
     The brandy is tasted again. This, his fourth glass since he started counting. "I think music, later," he says quietly to his companion. Plans being made. Indigo eyes watch the swirl of red-gold liquid. Lift to the mortal men and women. They do not seem real, though I can hear their hearts beating. Strange creatures. Like three-headed birds in the wild of some remote island. Creatures. Far more so than you or I... or the priest in the box...

     "Simply Fascinating." Major Dunfort watches the guests take their turn to pillage a momento from the priests remains. The Major seems to have little interest in such trinkets but shows an equal lack of concern regarding the desecration of the dead. He stands at the end of the line smiling at each participant as they finish their grusome task and admires what they walk away with. Ancient treasures of such amazing craftmanship. He admires the work that was put into each jewel. He coos with each discovery, complimenting the guest for his gain. He begs to hold each piece, if just for a moment, before handing it back. "Simply fascinating."

     White moves away from the circling vultures. Content with his pound of flesh. He has slipped it off his finger, and holds it glittering in the light. Turning it over and over, his fingers follow the grooves and lines of its form. Yet, he does not look so much at it, but through it. Beyond it.
     Knowing glances his way, many of the guests smile to themselves. They think they know what he is about.

     As everyone comes forth, the Earl attempts to angle to watch. What fools these mortals be. I should not steal the line, mayhaps. Grey eyes flicker over earlier conversationalists. The academics, French and English both, now involved in some lengthy talk about the wrapping itself. Or the ladies, recovered enough from the unveiling to marvel at the small turquoise beads.
     Perhaps there is something fascinating about the dead. Indeed, recognition that they are not like yourself. Learning. Maybe that is what they do.
     "At least the brandy is decent," Strathfayr whispers finally in English, certain no one is paying attention to the likes of him and the Comte, when there is something so much more interesting than the Living...

     Dark eyes blink, and spun gold hair glimmers. White inwardly steps back and mouths a few words to himself. Certainly not english. Not by a long shot. Shaking his head, he places the ring back on his finger, and struggles regain that friendly, warm smile he wore earlier.
     He looks tired, of a sudden. He seems to radiate the need for rest.

     It is a strange thing, when the living and the dead switch places. The living become unrecognizable. The dead are ignored. Yes, wear his jewelry. Fill your bags with it if it pleases you. It won't stop what's coming.
     Only we can do that...
     His ring of immortality or his beads and jewels and scarabs won't bring you a minute more than your Fate's clock will tick. Go ahead.
     "It is, to my great surprise," comes the drawl of his French upon the English he once again speaks. Tugging and pulling. Elongating and lilting. It moves, as English should not move, but it is bettered for the alteration.
     There is an exhale and a small smile. "I long, however, for my Normandie," he whispers. There is a glance to motion. "Hmmm... I wonder," the Comte mulls, "...if that is what guilt looks like."
     And brandy is rolled upon the tongue and swallowed. And finished.

     And White sits down quite suddenly. A chair, positioned near by attentive servants. Brandy is brought. And curiously, other guests begin to non-chalantly drift closer to him. They now waiting upon something.
     Captain Bremmington walks up to The Major, "Why haven't you taken anything for yourself Major?" The Captain has cleaned a rather nice looking ruby that he found laying in the bottom, completely ignored. "Hmmm?" The Major focuses his attention to Bremmington, "What was that Bremmington?"
     "I said, why didn't you take anything for yourself. Not squeemish are you?" Bremmington asks.
     "Oh.. no, no.. nothing of the sort. I have travelled all over the world Captain. I have been to Africa, and India, Hong Kong and Cairo, Moscow and Washington D.C., what need do I have of some jade trinket? It was fascinating seeing a mummy however. Amazing work they are doing in Egypt these days, wot?" The Major smiles wanely at Bremmington. "Now, if you will excuse me for a moment Bremmington. I am curious about some of the other guests." With that, the Major leaves his fellow officer.

     Something amiss with that fellow White. Strathfayr gives the Comte a nudge again -- something apparently the nobility of France does not mind -- and motions to the man needing a seat. He peers around his snifter, now curious about what is transpiring across the room.
     A glance to the moving officer. They are an interesting pair. But one is in motion. The other...fascinated by a stone he has acquired. Even the military has no shame. Ah well. Maybe I am being too hard. The Earl smiles a bit and then looks back to those attending Mr. White.

     "-- wonder what he saw? --" comes drifting from two ladies who wait near Mr. White. A curious thing to say.
     For the moment, though, White doesn't seem to want to reply to the question. A few of sips of brandy and his smile returns. Tiredness leaves him. He is once more as whole seeming as he was previous.

     No, French nobility does not mind. But then, there are not many left to ask, mais oui?
     A dark brow lifts slightly, but the placid expression and demeanor of the Comte does not alter. The brandy is done. And the rest of it?
     He has no interest in the despoiling the dead -- that never goes as expected, and in the end, if they come back, it is hardly ever amusing. Despoiling the living is much more satisfying...
     And a crowd such as this reminds him why he enjoys it so...
     A faint smile lingers upon his lips, and the gold watch is removed. "So late, Strathfayr," Poitou murmurs, the smile beginning to slant. "Mr. White seems to be restored and revived, the priest is as dead as he was before," noblesse oblige tinges his voice. Nothing quite like Divine Right when it unfurls itself, "...and I, after several brandies, am of a mood to move..."

     "Merely murder" Comes in a whisper from the seated man. "Nothing new" A smile, conspiratorial. Perhaps he is a showman as well. This so called businessman who owns mines in Africa.
     A shake of his head, and he stands. Vigor. "Perhaps the story should await a different night, non?" He gestures towards the despoiled priest. "Perhaps it would be best to tell the story of a life away from the ears of the one who lived it? After they have left this mortal plane." The smile remains. He is milking the audience like so many spiritualists of the day.

     "It appears so," Strathfayr replies. Terribly polished for such a young man. To inherit the Earldom...something tragic must have befallen his father.
     Lifting his brandy, the Earl says quietly, "Good eve, dear Priest. Next time," his voice sardonic, "...use a pyre." Then things like this wouldn't happen to you. A smile and he turns snifter up, finishing off the brandy. A sigh and he peers at the glass. That was nice. At least there was some comfort this evening.
     Grey eyes make the usual scan to see if everyone is still in their places. Yes, the academics are still in conversation. The Hostess is getting rave reviews for such an exciting evening. The host...well, dragged into some in depth talk about his adventures. The officers? Making the rounds, it seems. Military's always a hit at functions.
     The Dead among the Living? Well, we simply go on.
     The spirtualist is a hit. Next, he'll discuss banshees. Time to make our way to the exit.

     The gold watch is returned to waistcoat pocket...
     Like the feathers of peacocks against the expansive chest and warrior's form. A turn, and soon he is out of the salon. All that remains as evidence of William Plantagenet's appearance is a glass devoid of brandy.
     The coat and hat and cane is retrieved. And gloves of softest kid are once again covering his hand. And the thousand tiny motions are lived through. Each one. With an understanding and an enjoyment most never know.
     For he did not remain on Arsuf's soil...
     And that was almost eight-hundred years ago...

     The Major walks around the sarcophagus, taking one last look at the feeble remains. Picked clean, as the goose at a yule feast. His eyes trace the heiroglyphs one last time, as if confirming his memory of them to complete accuracy. Time catches up with everyone, eventually. So was this priest stalked by time all his life, and now, thousands of years later, the time of one evening finishes off the work. The last vestiges of living memory now held by others. The Major is in no way morbid about such an event, rather, amused. The dreams of a man can reach the greatest depths of the bizarre and odd. He doubts, even in this priests wildest dreams, that he could have possibly dreamed what occured to him tonight.

     A last glance about the room. Strathfayr has followed the Comte's lead, moving past the center to the periphery.
     But not without passing the good Major. "Sir, I must say..." the young blonde man says, "...that your comments on the Crimea were spot on!" A winsome smile follows and a pat on the Major's back.
     One does need to continue to support the military, yes?

     White allows himself to be lulled into conversation with the many questioners. His smile genuine. He is where he wishes to be: the center of adoring attention. And this is how the night continues for him.

     The Major blinks, clears his throat and sputters, "Quite right, quite right." His eyes follow the strange couple and their exit. Odd pair, and most certianly, well, Bremmington would be better to comment on the looks of men alone together at sea for long, long periods of time. Now that the Major remembers it, the pair didn't even bother to participate in tonight's events. They took nothing with them, not even interest in its proceedings, it seems. Well, obviously nobility. Easily succumbed to perverse pleasures and no interest in intellectual pursuits.

     Then they have done their jobs correctly. Strathfayr smiles at the older man, giving him a right proper nod. A show of respect from the decaying class, to be sure.
     "I will send our Hostess a small token tomorrow," the Earl murmurs, catching up to the Comte and accepting gloves from the servant. And now begins the Great Arming Scene. Topcoat and hat follow; last taken is the black and silver handled cane. "Maybe she would like flowers...something a little more living?"
     A chuckle is offered, and the Earl taps the brim of his hat, giving the scene a last once-over before grinning, and turning to walk into the late evening.