Entering the hall, Tori has her hands shoved into the pockets of her black jeans -- perhaps to keep the memories of the castle out for now? A large, grey sweater keeps her warm this eve. The sleeves of which are actually a bit too long, and so she has rolled them up much like a high school girl might do when her boyfriend loans her his sweater.
     She's spent Yule in the castle with you both and truly enjoyed herself. Every smile and exclamation of delight has been genuine. However, she has started to get restless once more. Perhaps she's not spoken about it, but it's evident. She needs to be set free again, like a bird seeking its migration path after being cooped up for a bit.
     She must resume her search again. Soon. Very soon.
     She wears a gentle, friendly smile as she looks around, seeing if the two lords are around somewhere.

     Normally, even though stirring, they would not have done such so far from their own rooms. There are some nights, indeed, when they do not make it out of bed, but for the shower and sauna. But when guests are about, they at least attempt an air of... accessibility.
     It wouldn't do to be rude...
     But the false distance that some times is put up for the benefit of guests -- sometimes automatically, other times with blatant forethought -- is not erected for you. You knew they would be here -- you could feel them, to be sure, you could follow a trail of shower, men, cinnamon, patchouli and fine living all the way down the turret staircase. They knew you would eventually find your way down here. But in the meantime, they went about their evening.
     There has been a game of chess going, hand-carved pieces of the finest Italian marble in green and red. The green, with its griffins and Celts. The red, with its Crusaders and kings upon the field. And there have been snifters of brandy, bowls of scotch. And with the fall of another pawn, there was a reach across the board, the lifting of a hand, the parting of a mouth at the belly of a lover's wrist.
     And so may you find them, William with his eyes closed, Ian's wrist at his mouth. It was to have been a simple kiss. But 'simple' and 'Plantagenet' just do not go together.
     He is dressed casually, but still regally, Guillaume. Even his most casual vestments these days are the height of a new fashion. In an odd mixture of brown and blue. Odd, but on him, amazing. How well Italian linen and wool suits him...

     "All that for a pawn," Ian chuckles, demure in black slacks and grey sweater. Perhaps it's the deep winter outdoors that keeps him subdued. Shaking his head, Ian removes the piece from the board, setting it aside.
     But someone's arrived. Despite his occupied hand, Ian looks up in the direction of the turret. "Good evening," he smiles, working to retrieve his captured hand. It is quiet now, but for the last couple of days, servants have moved about the keep, preparing for a large scale departure. Entire army units never moved so efficiently.
     "Drink?" Ian asks, motioning at the brandy nearby.

     Tori enters the room once she is acknowledged, smiling warmly at her two friends. The smile turns into a mild grin as she murmurs, "I hope I'm not intruding..." There is a quick glance at the captured wrist, but then it moves just as swiftly to both of your faces, then the offered brandy.
     "Ah, well, that sounds lovely," she admits, even if she's still getting used to drinking the stuff. She would still even argue that it's not as good as drinking it from someone else who has partaken of the liquid fire, but she does not argue on this night.
     There is a glance to the chess board as she moves toward the bottle. "Who's winning, hm?" she asks.

     The wrist is surrendered, but not quickly, and a smile winds across William's mouth, living and adding fire to blue-violet eyes. "Oui... and if you think that is something, wait until one of us loses a queen," eyes widen a touch for emphasis, and he turns in his seat, lover's hand finally relinquished and the smile doesn't change for the arrival of the guest. The warmth does not shift like a political wind, to best suit a purpose, but remains heated.
     A sneak of blood will do that, perhaps...
     "Good morning," William salutes and with a glance to the board, and then to Ian the smile curves another notch. "He is... but then, it is no surprise... I rarely beat him," he finishes off in a whispered aside. As if Ian couldn't hear. William leans an elbow on the arm of his chair, and then leans his chin on his hand. Eyes on the board and pondering his next move. "It is excellent brandy," comes the mull of that baritone, French is what is spoken -- of the modern variety even, out of courtesy for the guest. "That would be a brag if it weren't also true. And so how does this morning find you?"
     And he moves his Queen's Knight -- that would be Richard The Lionhearted -- to a position midway between the Queen's Bishop -- That'd be The Pope -- and the Queen (Eleanor of course).

     He doesn't seem convinced that he's winning. There is no smile from Ian at the comment. He's already a mirror to William, elbows on arms of his chair, hands laced beneath his chin. "Hmm," he grunts, pushing up from his spot to stand near tonight's cart of delectables.
     That cart gets around.
     "One brandy," he says softly, deciding to serve as bartender. A snifter is poured with a gentle series of glass tinkles. "We used to keep track," he said, "...but these decades," he shrugs with a smile. Who knows who's ahead anymore, really.
     "Actually, I think he is trying something different tonight," Ian confesses, turning about to offer the snifter to Tori. "I'm not sure what he's up to. Maybe he's been reading someone's chess column again. Or, he watched part of the World Championships," and stealing ideas from there. The wiggle of Ian's brows suggests that whatever it is, it won't work. "Here," he says to her. "Cheers."

     "Thank you," she murmurs to Ian as she plucks the offered snifter out of his hand. Her gaze lands upon the board as she seems to assess the game. Looking back at Ian, she shrugs and chuckles. "You know... I never learned to play. Just as well, perhaps. I don't think I have the right mind for it," she jokes.
     The glass is then lifted before her in a salute to you both and she takes a small little sip of the liquid within. A small wince follows it. "I'm still not used to drinking this stuff, but I'm getting better."
     "As for how I'm doing -- I'm doing alright, thanks," she answers William's question a little belatedly. "It looks like the two of you are just about set to go, non?" she asks.

     "The subtle workings of the Plantagenet Mind," comes the ominous murmur, complete with wiggling fingers. "Actually, it's more of an exercise of strategy for the mind... we don't keep score," William notes, with the clearing of his throat. And then he grins. "Most nights. Now, get us in a game of billiards, and you might see blood spilled..."
     William settles back in his chair, bringing his snifter of brandy with him, game put on 'pause' as the conversation begins. And he watches Ian, as if watching the stylings of the world's best bartender. And perhaps that's what he is. "Hmm... oui... I have it turned out and ready to go in my usual style. I can move an entire castle in three days -- furniture, paintings, servants, the whole kit. Neat trick I picked up from father." That'd be Henry, the likeness of whom is the king on William's side of the chess field. "It's actually the Alexandrian with a half twist of Charlemagne," William whispers to Ian of the chess manuevering. "It'll probably end in mud and bad poetry."
     He twists a bit to Tori, "Feel free to drag over a chair, m'dear," and there's one nearby. Won't take her much to move it. He'd get up himself but... well... he's comfortable. William sips at the brandy again, looking over the rim of it to Ian. There's a warm smile for him there. A lover's locking look. "So... now that the holidays are almost over, how shall you be welcoming in the new year?"

     Pause in the game. Ian retakes his seat, expecting Tori will pull up a chair for a bit of conversation. A sigh follows as he sits back -- strange Plantagenet mirror he is -- his own snifter held in a gentle steeple. He's curious as to the answer to William's question, so he doesn't intrude by asking another. Just confuses things.

     She does indeed grab a chair and arranges it nearby the two of you. Settling in, she draws her knees up in the chair and places her bare feet on the cushion beneath her. She folds herself up, just like that. Her own glass is held aloft by a lazy arm resting against one of the knees, elbow to kneecap.
     "Mmm... I don't know. I thought I'd return to London until the new year and then resume my traveling," she replies quietly. Again, the brandy is lifted and tasted, this time a little bit more than the previous moment.

     "Anything we can do?" Ian wonders, not quite sure why he's asking. But a wandering soul cannot be a content one. He knows. "We will be at Chenonceau...maybe you would like to come there later?" After you have done whatever it is you're doing. "I guess we may be there...how long, Guillaume?" he asks softly, looking across his snifter and the field of play. "Until Chinon?" Hm. A long time from Strathfayr, and winter won't be over yet.

     There is a difference, a noticeable difference in his demeanor and expression when he is called 'Guillaume' over 'William'. It is an immediate intimacy. His expression opens and he looks to Ian, "Ah non... not so long as that, unless you want to stay, amours. I thought a week or two, to introduce you to your little country house," a half-chuckle at that. "But... if you do not want to stay longer, we do not have to. I want to move the horses from Chinon..." and then William shrugs, that's all he had planned.
     Indigo eyes settle on Tori then and fall into a moment's study. "You are welcome to come by if you like, of course," you will be searching. You are searching. Do we talk about it or no? "Have you thought of ..." he hears himself start to say it and then William exhales. "I should not give advice when none was asked. You do know... we are concerned..." About you. About him. William looks to Ian. Save me. I'm awful at this.

     Her hair moves gently as she shakes her head briefly. The brandy is lifted again, and another mouthful swallowed. Hesitating a moment, Tori lowers the glass before speaking.
     "No, I do not think so. But thank you," she murmurs softly, offering a gentle smile. Rocking the glass back and forth a little, she gazes deep into the dark liquid as she adds, "Thank you... I know where you both are if something comes up. But, you should enjoy your time in Chenonceau." Another glance up at the two of you is accompanied with a quiet, "I shall be fine."
     Unless someone is good at magic tricks and pulling vampires out of hats, it's not likely that there is much either of you could do. She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave." She finds comfort in a little humour, and perhaps assumes Ian has heard what her wandering means.

     "Have you considered," Ian gently suggests, "...speaking to others who might be in the know?" You can't solve some things yourself. "Elders...others who could assist?" Not the traditional means of detective work. His head tilts to the side, as if resting upon the turtleneck's edge. "I mean," Ian murmurs, looking at William, "...every resource should be used." Not that you asked. But, I would. I would shake magical spells out of every Tremere and Tzimisce upon the planet, to find William.
     But, I'm also not considered a 'well' being by some.
     "I could make a call or two...if that would help. Or...other insiders," in your clan, "...who might...well, you never know..."

     William doesn't mention the obvious. If you've summoned him -- and by now, he can't imagine you wouldn't have tried -- and he hasn't shown up... it means he ... can't show up. Which means he is either incapacitated or ... being kept alive somehow, for some reason, by someone.
     None of which she wants to hear, or he's about to say...
     There is a look to Ian -- a long look by polite-company standards, and he looks to Tori. "I don't know what we can do... if anything... but... we will help if we can, Victoria. Please know this."
     If it were Ian, the world would be on fire by now...

     She can't help but perk up a bit at Ian's offer. "Really? You'd do that for me?" Her fingers quickly grasp the glass which was nearly dropped as her head snapped up to look at the blond lord not too far away.
     Shaking her head, Tori murmurs, "I'll admit that I just don't have the contacts." It's true she was born just outside of London and Embraced not too far away from her birthplace, but it means squat when you've been away for nearly a century.
     "I was hoping ... I was hoping the Bond would lead me to him, but I have had no luck," she admits.

Posted by rowan at June 16, 2003 02:23 PM