The bag is taken from the valet with shaking, but determined hands. Her ice-blue gaze flickers around the room as her hands seek out what she is looking for... a long bundle within the bag. Concentrating, she reaches out with her senses, seeking out for any tricks of illusion or details she may have missed originally.
"Will you go and prepare a room for me?" Tori asks the valet calmly. Get him out of here and it's one less casualty. One less victim. "I am weary from the ride and will wish to rest..." Any excuse to get him out of here and out of here fast...
Where are you Morgan? Ian's teachings slowly filter through her terrified mind, shutting off one emotion after another, preparing to fight for her very life, using logic, clear thinking, and a clear head... emotion cripples her... she will not allow it this time...
The bag is given easily. Even perhaps quickly from the young valet to the guest. "Madame, the Inner Courtyard is through these doors," the double doorway ahead of you now. "Please, make yourself at home. I am going to check on the gates and will have someone bring you something to drink. I am sure your wait will not be long..."
The castle is alive...
The sound of metal against stone, from distant portions of the huge estate, reverberates. Medieval gates being lowered. And with the rest of Chinon silent, the sound carries...
All the way to where you stand...
The bag is given easily. Even perhaps quickly from the young valet to the guest. "Madame, the Inner Courtyard is through these doors," the double doorway ahead of you now. "Please, make yourself at home. I will... oui... see to a room for you...It will not be long, madame." And I shall check on the gates. Armand, if you are having another one of those drills without telling me, I shall kill you! The valet smiles and he turns, heading down a corridor to the left.
Now it seems neither you nor I can leave. Or at the very least... you will not be escaping me, my dear butterfly. Captured and held here in such a place. O... it suits you. As do I...
Oh, do you not remember, butterfly, when I held you in my hands and you trembled for the first time? Feel it. There. Soft as memory. At your elbow...
And there I materialize. I cannot help it. I must have you. "Sweet... it has been so long..." And blood rolls slowly from his two dark eyes. Tears. Too long parted. Too many centuries.
And now you are mine.
With unnatural speed, the younger Toreador spins wildly on her heel and backs away, putting space between her and her sire... She cannot stifle the cry of surprise, nor the sudden outpouring of fear from her... though she quickly scrambles within her mind to lock down the emotion, quickly putting each emotion into a glass jar in the back of her mind.
Seeing the face of the man she has feared for so long, yet loved deeply at one time in her life.... so long ago. As she moves, the bag is dropped, but not the wrapped up bundle from within... that she clutches in her hands, stopping on the other side of the room. She hesitates for only a moment... seeing the tears in her Sire's eyes... pity slips forth... a strange sense of longing...
No! Blinking, Tori checks these emotions quickly... Without a word, she quickly runs down in the direction of the chapel... as quickly as she can...
And then there is laughter...
Somewhere mid mad and triumphant. And beauty is sharp and lust materializes at his heels. And he is in motion behind you. His laughter ending as abruptly as it began.
Why do you run from me, my love and my childe?
The beautiful face is marred then by a passing shadow's wake. His jaw sets and a frown is etched upon a full-lipped mouth. "You run from me! When I would give you everything! You were ungrateful from the moment I met you..."
And again the stone walls of Chinon reverberate with harsh sound...
Behind you... the falling of his steps in swift pursuit... and then...
Silence...
Tori disappears down the passage to the right of the courtyard entrance, heading for the castle's private chapel and quarters.
The flames of the many torches flicker. With the wind of motion. And shadows scatter everywhere...
And one of them is moving...
Faster and faster Tori runs, barely containing her panic and fear. She knew that running would anger him, but if she didn't... she might not be alive now to contemplate the possible outcome.
The halls whistle with the sound of her passing, but she is but a blur...
Tori passes through the archway and ascends the spiral stairway.
And then the gardens...
Darkness is as swift as you. And finds its companion shadows everywhere...
There is no voice that gives him away, but you feel him... Everywhere.
Everywhere...
Do not run! Love me... we can be as we were... do you remember nothing!
Leave me be, Morgan... I only ever wanted to be free...
And still she runs, as fast as the wind....
A quick rush of air follows a blur of black...
And then both stop abruptly, leaving a young, very frightened Toreador standing in the midst of the gardens. Ice-blue eyes scan the area as slender fingers quickly work on the bindings of the bundle in her hands...
Where are you, Morgan? Show yourself...
Fear slowly dissolves into anger. She does not like being the prey... not when she had a good taste in New Port of what it's like to not be on that end of the food chain. Her gaze flashes as she snarls verbally, "Quit playing games, Morgan..."
Her senses sharpen as her very begin searches for his location, her muscles taut, ready to spring when she needs to be... fingers still work on the bindings of the bundle in her hands, quickly loosening them.
What was a house rising in an agitated flurry is now oddly quiet, punctuated by off-kilter noises.
Someone else is inside. Someplace.
It is not the feel of cowering servants or those responsible for securing the house. Something is transpiring.
Rope falls to the floor, as does the covering of the bundle Tori holds. Light glints off metal as she then brandishes a sword, holding it before her in a defensive stance.
Something is definitely transpiring. There's the sound of gunshots and the splintering noise of a cracking door...
"Damn you, Morgan! Show yourself!" Tori demands, scanning every shadow now...
The gunshots, however, distract her momentarily as her gaze flickers in the direction of the sound...
Shadows dissolve and he steps from them. And his stride continues toward you, preternatural. Without ceasing. With an inhuman grace. "You were the one who started running," comes his voice. So soft. Such a soft timbre. Such as shadows might speak.
"I but wanted to speak to you. To show you my regret... my love..." Dark eyes lower to the glint of the weapon. And still he slowly crosses to you. "And now you brandish weapons at me..."
Gunshots. That makes Morgan stop. I don't have much time. Hands outspread as he turns to you again. "I have come here unarmed... and I am the one... you call evil." His dark brows open in an arch. His beautiful face...sharply so. So sharp in its... non expression.
"Are you going to kill me, Victoria... when all I wish... all I have wished for a hundred years is that I might hear you sing again..."
There is strangeness in the shadows...a section of darkness going against the grain of the light.
And then its gone.
"Stop it!" Morgan shouts at last, his voice loud and filling the vast courtyard.
Looking back, now looking at him fully now... Forgetting her fear for a brief moment... forgetting the gunfire... forgetting even the sword in her hands... the beauty there... she remembers now why she first fell in love with him... it would be easy to do so again....
No! Damn that weakness.... Blinking, she says as calmly as she can, "You tried to kill me before, Morgan... why should I not prepare to defend myself from you again?
Hearing your shout, however, she takes a step backward... who is he yelling at?
An exhalation. The expiration of false breath. The shadows are forgotten. They will follow me forever. Forget them, Morgan. All you ever wanted is now before you...
"Do you not know... it was my too much love of you that drove me mad... your voice.. your voice..." And again Morgan sighs. Dark eyes are bright and pleading. "Sing for me... songbird... then you may do what you like. But do not send me to Nothing in silence..."
And still, he slowly approaches. His feet make no sound. And his face, that beautiful face, it wears a softened look of longing. Morgan seems to take no mind of the sword in your hand. Sing for me...
Please sing for me...
"I owe you nothing, Morgan," the raven-haired beauty says lowly. Her eyes flash again, in defiance against that which not only created her, but that which has tormented her for so long.
This is not the same shy, proper lady you met over two centuries ago, Morgan. No. She's changed. She's grown a spine. She holds herself proudly and steadily, even if she inwardly trembles beneath all the modern clothing and the antique weapon within her hands.
As he approaches, she backs away, step by step, matching his pace. Her docs make quiet thudding noises upon the floor... such tiny feet in such large boots. Would you be shocked to know she's taken to riding a specially-made Harley, Morgan, and that she is known as the Goth Diva in some places in the States?
"Stop..." she demands, holding the sword more firmly.
"What may you do to me... when you slay me with your silence. You think I fear a sword?" And then his face erupts into laughter. Dark eyes twinkle in the darkness that surrounds him and he laughs. Richly. Fine and strong hands lift to steeple at his lips and behind them, against them he grins.
And then he shimmers into darkness once again...
You owe me everything... without me... where would you be?
In the ground, lady, in the ground...
Blinking as he disappears, Tori remains silent for a brief moment, then says, "Then maybe you should have left me be when you saw me... to live as a mortal... to get married... to have children... to grow old... and to die. But you destroyed all that, Morgan."
There is a pause, then she adds cruelly, "You only know how to destroy, Morgan. You don't create. You corrupt and destroy. You are a disgrace to the Clan.."
Where has he gone, lady, where has he gone?
He's in the shadows, lady...
There is a whisper of sound. Air? His sigh?
At your ear. A touch to your back...
"I have no Clan," comes the sound of his voice behind you. Right behind you. "I have but myself in all the world and you. You... are my creation. While you live..."
Sing! And the air crackles with the command...
The hairs on the back of her neck stand up on end as his voice sounds so close and behind her...
Hearing the command, her mind begins to automatically search for an appropriate song... He can easily control her, having the advantage of generation over her...
But then something happens...
In a show of sheer will, Tori screams out, "NOOOO!" And she spins, swinging the sword...
No clan. Certainly.
But no Family? Ah, but that is untrue, my most unwell brother...
The shadow that was once swimming upstream stops.
Ex nihilo, vita...
And not so far from Morgan stands a handsome man, of swarthy complexion. In black leather pants and black shirt, he is the manifestation of dimness.
He pushes Morgan out of the way, gaze narrowing as the sword lands across his blackened chest, cutting him deeply.
Almost instantly, the room is filled with the heady scent of blood. Al Seif's eyes glance down, but he seems not to fall. Instead, there is but anger and annoyance....
Ice-blue eyes blink in disbelief as the sword does solidly meet something... but not Morgan.
Utter confusion and distress floods over Tori's pale expression as she finds her sword covered in the blood of not her sire, but someone she does not know at all... where did this fellow come from? The raven-haired one backs away from the newcomer, seeing that he's not overly affected by the blow... Fear slowly creeps into the young one again...
Why, oh, why, am I always the last at these events?
Edward Meurelle comes running through the open doorway, hot on the heels of something. He's flushed and breathing heavy, his white shirt currently stained brilliant crimson. He's bleeding.
With a Browning 9mm in hand, he comes to a halt inside the doorway, quite surprised to see the amalgamation of beings.
"Holy fuck," he says, now truly disgusted. One, two, three...three. Who is that? Who are any of you...wait...
You will kill your sire... the world will know it...
And then there is outrage. "This is my battle!" But he does not miss the opportunity to step to the side. And as his childe is in her swing, seek to grab her...
"All I wanted... was to hear you sing...you ungrateful childe..."
The rest is in arabic. No, Morgan is not of Europe. Frederick... is from Sicily by way of Arabia...
But as hands were poised to grab her... to stop the contest and wrestle the blade from her, another enters and Morgan veers wide-eyed.
And a glance to Al Seif. Brother... who is this?
Taking advantage of everyone else's confusion, Tori moves quickly, away from the one she cut and from her Sire... but she does not place herself the third, either. Who the hell are these two?
Singing? Okay, all of you are just insane.
But the target is chosen. Edward smiles at the materializing Al Seif and smirks.
"Sabbat weakness. Never know when to leave someone stewing in their own shit..."
Hands come up in the moment between moments, where preternatural speed lives. If he aimed, no mortal would have ever known, for in the instant, there are two shots, bullets moving even as Edward locks himself into firing position.
Ice-blue glazes over as Tori watches all of this... blue turning into grey slowly... No, no, dammit.. I have to maintain control...
A slender hand reaches up and covers her eyes as she fights off the deranging haze which cripples her in moments of violence...
Why would you leave me in madness...
As shots ring out, Morgan shimmers into shadows again, sweeping out after the fleeing woman.
Appearing in front of her...
"When you can cure me... by returning to me... you would leave me here in madness!" And his voice fills the courtyard again. Anger as he reaches to grab her.
When Morgan's childe looks up at him, it is no longer with those beautiful ice-blue eyes that he used to love... the gaze is grey... storm grey... dangerous... confused... conflicted...
Inside, she fights with her past. Through her memories flooding her, she can see her sire looming over her.... she knows she's in danger... Her hands move to raise the sword again as she fights to regain control over her body...
The bullets whip into the chest of the Arabic man, streaming against air, piercing the linen of his shirt, and then breaking skin. The trained ear can hear it all, including the man's body contorting from the pellets of fire.
That is what they are. He leaves his position, seeming to move instantly from his spot, and the one he called brother, to do something about the relentless Brujah. Him...he knows.
And deep within the cavity of Al Seif's chest, there is noise.
One. Explosion. It stops his stretched leg, and he shakes his head.
Two. Explosion. That brings a gasp and a stream of Arabic. His hand grasping at his chest. You bastard.
Edward only smirks. Nothing like APEX for a Browning. Handmade.
You will not kill me...
"You cannot kill me..."
And laughing he outspreads his arms. You will not sing... you cannot fight... But the man with the gun....
He can fight...
Morgan is a blur in motion. He grabs the sword, his hands bleed, and with it pulls the woman to him. If he is going to shoot me, he will have to shoot you too. And they call me crazy...
"Do you see now, Victoria... I am bleeding for you..." Blood, dark, runs over his fingers.
Arabic continues from Al Seif. Allah curse him! Curse Frederick Morgan. I rue the day they ever said bring him to us. I hope he is Burned to Ash in Allah's Gaze....
Al Seif reaches to his back, lean shoulders twisting as Accelerated Time allows him. A weapon comes out as well, some gun, and in Kindred eyes, ticking commences.
Tick.
The barrel of Al Seif's gun is visible, the grip reeling skillfully in his hand.
Tock.
A glance at the young woman. You will never know, girl. And may you rot with your Sire...
Tick.
The trigger is squeezed in Edward's direction, shot before aim, before steadiness. No need in this universe, this world between Moments....
Through her greying haze, Tori realizes something has gone drastically wrong... The closeness of his presence sends her off the edge as she howls out, in a very animalistic manner. The sword is released and with all her might, she lunges at his face, clawing at it, digging sharp nails into his flesh, the force of her body slamming into him harshly...her petite body suddenly gaining a strength that Morgan certainly never knew she had...
I don't know who you are, lady, but you'd better do something.
Edward has never left his position. And as Al Seif's bullets streak through the room, there's a gentle twitch of Edward's hands, two times.
Two more bullets.
Two more explosions in the tall man's chest.
And for him? Two bullets...one in the arm, one in Edward's flank. Only then does he release his position, bending slightly at the shots to his body.
You bitch. You ungrateful childe!
The sword cuts through the flesh. Searing even in its tearing. Double-edged, a broadsword of such fine quality. It once was the death of hundreds of English soldiers...
And it cuts his hand severely... more blood to its name...as it falls. And as he stumbles back, his balance lost in surprise...
And in pain...
And in blindness...
And the sword skitters against the floor, clapping metallic. Gleaming. Bloodied...
Raven-black hair gets tossed about frantically as childe attacks sire with a visciousness the childe has never known... a century's worth of pent-up anger, resentment and fear, all channelled into her hands which claw and pound into the man who ripped her from her parents, from her life, and from her innocence.
Oblivious to anything else, not even noticing as she stumbles with him, she continues in her attack, fangs bared as she growls, hisses and snarls at him as the blood frenzy settles into her small frame. Morgan, she was -never- this strong when you knew her... she had very good teachers...
And now, she will use that to see you dead... To hell with everyone else...
Nearby, Al Seif trembles, clutching at his chest. Knees bend and threaten to buckle, the gun dropping from his hands....
And in the courtyard...
...upon the echoes of tripping water against a marble fountain...
...there issues a roar. And Frederick Morgan wrestles, wrangling with his mauling childe. Seeking to spare his face. Seeking to hurt her as she hurts him. But simultaneously seeking her forgiveness...
How I loved you...
When I first saw you at your parents home, dressed in your fine silk. Playing the piano. How I loved you. I had to make you mine.
Forgive me...
Even as his hands, strong, wrap around her wrists and tighten, pulling. Seeking to pull them away.
Some things, he hopes, always stays with one. A memory.
When will you stop running? William's voice softly echoes from the walls of his palace, his Chinon. Ian seems next to him, his brogue asking When will you stop and defend your home? When will you claim your own home? When will you claim your self?
Though neither are present, they are here. How can they not be? In truth, they never leave you, Victoria, and their faces and smirking smiles hint at a wisdom that you too might soon share -- the key to Self...is to never run.
If there is pain in her wrists, she does not feel it, so strong is her anger at this very moment. If he wishes to stop her, he will have to do it with brute strength, for squeezing her frail-seeming wrists will not do it. However, noticing her progress is being prevented, she lashes out at that which binds her... biting with bared fangs, ripping into flesh deeply...
There is no pleasure in this tearing of flesh. Oh no, Morgan... this does not feel good. There is no passion or lust in these bites, as there might have been in the past. This is malicious and done with intent to hurt. She attacks like a woman crazed, feral sounds escaping her lips. She will have an end to this, somehow...
And even through the frenzy, the woman does try to gain control of herself... remembering where the sword fell... trying to gain enough control to be able to reach for it at the next convenience...
Edward sighs, moving over the body of Al Seif, who struggles with healing himself. The gun shifted and held in stronger arm. He doesn't need both.
"You should have never come here," he informs Al Seif, speaking a Truth. Never Here. Never in France, Never in Chinon. Never in Our Backyard. Mine and William's. That was your last mistake.
And while struggling happens nearby, Edward handles the present situation before him. The gun is pointed at Al Seif's head, and four bullets are put into the weakening man's skull, cracking against the floor.
Half-moment following, Kindred ear can hear the four small explosions in Al-Seif's cranium and see the results. At Edward's feet, blood and flesh pool...
And there is a point at which there is no more fighting...
Where tightened grip was poised to break such wrists. But then... it stops.
Abruptly.
When you can no longer see and you can no longer hear, there comes a kind of peace. With the open arms of surrender.
Bloodied. One mangled hand falls against the stone, one finger gone. The other unbloodied falls to his other side. And there comes no more fight from Morgan. No sight left to control you -- his eyes are gone. No tongue yet to lilt and lie to you, his mouth is mangled. And his mind is silent. Strangely silent.
The combination of the taste of blood and the sudden lack of response from the man beneath her causes the frenzy in Tori to subside, almost as abruptly. As her wrists are released, she quickly moves off of him, heading for the sword... eyes still grey, however...
Edward looks over now at the scene unfolding before him. He knows not what is happening, but he cannot say much to a young woman defending herself against part of a pack. A glance to the man standing there without sight and word brings pity from him, but it is not enough to act to defend him. Everyone's time comes.
I don't know you stranger, he thinks, but maybe this is your time. Ermine-brown eyes look at the young woman, wondering many things about her, but at this point, all he has for both is sympathy. It takes not the heart of a Toreador to know that.
And it is as if Chinon Itself sits poised, watching... waiting for the execution. It has seen a few. It has seen its share of battles. It share of death. And the room is silent. But for the sound of the fountain's water...
Falling...
Cajoling like a mob of peasants...
End it...
And Morgan lies still. Silent. His face... his face that once was the seat of Beauty, however mad and dark, is now just blood. Nothing recognizable of the man remains. Perhaps his soul has already taken flight, no longer recognizing itself in its shell. The seeming lifeless body waits.
End it.
Metal scrapes along the courtyard floor as Tori slowly raises herself, drawing the sword along with her. The stranger off to the side is forgotten... he was forgotten a while ago...
Grey-blue eyes watch Morgan for a moment, then she moves forward, like a dark angel, ready to collect his soul if it has not already fled from him. Her long hair fans out about her, partially covering her pale, beautiful face... marked with his blood... splattered with it... her hands are stained, too...
"You will torment me no more, Morgan," her voice says lowly, and strangely, calmly. Metal scrapes again as the sword is dragged upward. She clasps the hilt between her slender hands, her gaze never leaving his form, as though expecting him to reach up and grab her in one last attempt to get the upper hand...
"You will never have me... ever again..." And the sword arcs downward, aimed for his throat...
Unflinching, Edward watches. Only as the blade falls does he seem to rustle the air about him. And with his form, that's a considerable breeze.
But with one remaining and his orders still on the table, he lifts his gun arm towards the young woman, however lovely, and lackadasically points it at her. Defending himself...and all.
The sound is unmistakable. It is the sound of Finality.
And the head rolls slightly from the impact, and blood covers the floor. The echo of the sword striking the stone rings out. Were the stone not so wet from blood there would have been sparks.
There. It is done.
For those who can see the faces of the other realm, captured souls were released. Held upon captive blood. They have their freedom.
And Morgan has his date with God...
"'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."
For a long moment, she stands there, holding the sword in both hands, listening to the echoing sound of the sword hitting the stone.
Then the sword clatters to the floor beneath her boots...
As she collapses to her knees, weeping...
She hears you, whomever you are... give her a moment...
A quiet phrase is murmured in an unmistakably English accent, "For you, father... mother..."
And then she says a bit more audibly, "I am Victoria Whitethorne... if you are here to kill me, I will not stop you. I have done what I needed to do. I have killed my sire. If I am to be condemned for it, so be it." I am free. I don't care now what happens. She does not rise from her knees... nor does she look over her shoulder at the one behind her... her arms wrap about herself protectively, perhaps bracing for her own end.
Weird. A phone rings.
Edward stands there a moment, watching you pray and speak of parents. Sires dying. He winces and just stands for a moment, then puts the Browning away, somewhere behind his back.
"Sorry...madamoiselle." For whatever happened here.
Edward then looks at his arm, the bullet, and then the bulge at his jacket pocket. The source of the ringing noise.
Hmm. Edward watches the woman, and turns away, stepping from the scene to pull the phone from his jacket.
"Yeah..." he says earnestly, trying to remain quiet and give a few moments...
The woman does not move, simply watching the blood leave the body of her dead sire, remaining silent for the moment...
And there is a point at which the blood ceases to flow. There is no heart to pump it. There has not been a heart for many, many years...
And once again, it is the fountain who is left with the speaking part. Water, rhythmic, lapping against the marble...
From the phone, a familiar voice: "You're alive... that's always a good start." William. His French is quick, ancient. "How about everyone else?"
"Yeah, I'm alive...fuckin'...I don't know what they were, but definitely not of the...White Russian sort." Black Russian. Sabbat. "Um...shit...this is truly fucked. Where are you?" Words in something more medieval.
You can hear Edward speak softly, in a French form...something a bit older. Some of the words familiar, many, perhaps not. The strange arrival gives affirmation that he is indeed, alive, and...well a string of pretty odd words that are perhaps rather colorful. Something of White Russians. And then a question of where the caller is....
The black scarf around Tori's neck is removed as she slowly begins to attempt to remove the blood from her hands, her eyes finally lowering from the body before her.
On the phone: "I am outside the main gate... keeping everyone else out here, including your young protege," meaning Valan, "out of your way. And practicing great restraint..." And you can hear it. That tone. That... Plantagenet even tone. He is, in a word, pissed. "Is there anyone left..."
The man keeps talking, steps taking him further across the courtyard.
"Well...yeah. Um...get in here. There's this girl, dunno who she is. I've got...a mess here, Will..."
Ah. There's something in the string. Someone called Guillaume...
The young Toreador glances up at the name, pausing in her efforts to remove the blood. Guillaume. Could he mean William?
Ah. Motion. Edward half-swivels, eyes at the young woman. No, not a leap at him, but interest. So, maybe she is a Known Quantity.
"Okay, she seems...to know you?"
Phone: "I am on my way..." You hear the sound of a gate opening. Large, mechanical. "I am keeping the house locked down until I can verify there are no more shadows..." That was said for everyone else's benefit. "Hmmm... keep her there... I will come see for myself..." And then the phone goes dead...
No, the woman is passive for now. Quiet. Calm. The ferocity of moments before seems to have vanished, leaving Tori in a strange sense of peace. Her soul still aches, for the act itself... for the lost love she once had with the man... for much more. But she is at peace for now. She will heal now. Her wound was open for a century, and now it is finally able to heal.
Abruptly, the call is ended. The man, a rather attractive sort, but built like a brick shithouse, turns about to watch you. He takes up a spot near the fountain, giving you a polite smile.
"Well...the owner of the place here..." he returning to more modern French, since you seem to know it, "...he...is coming. So..." like a good sentry, "...we wait." The gun is left out, and the injury to him still seems painful. But regardless, he goes still by the water, a good soldier.
"William's returning? How long?" the woman manages to ask, her pent up emotions threatening to flood forth again, but still she holds them in check.
There follows again a sound of metal and stone. One of the gates lifting?
The sound is close...
"That's probably him," the man says, clearly of Brujah stock. He glances towards the open doorway expectantly...
Slowly standing, Tori continues to try to wipe the blood from her hands, forgetting about her face for the time being. She nods once toward the man seated nearby, then looks in the direction of the sound...
He'll not ask questions. The man looks at his arm again, wondering at it. That'll be a nasty heal, but hey. Such is life. Eyes scan the bodies at the floor, and he sighs, stretching a little in his black leather jacket. He's been on a motorbike recently.
Good thing his Doc Martens are sturdy. They'll be a mess to clean.
Those laces will have to go.
What follows after is known by you both. The thud against the air. Felt, even before the sound of steps could be heard. The rush and fire of the lord of the house...
And then he can be seen, clothed like a king. In the long leather coat, black, and in black lambskin that may as well be painted on -- except where the leather gathers out of necessity. The shirt, likewise black. His expression is placid. Even. But for the eyes. Active. Alert. Sharp indigo. Brilliant. And he steps in, his gaze to those moving within. And then those not moving.
The gun is stowed in an inside jacket pocket. William inclines his head. Study given to you both. Bleeding both. A dark brow upraises. Yes, he is the picture... the very definition of restraint. He moves past Edward first -- he is on the way -- and gives him a cursatory inspection. A skimming touch. Merci. And then he moves further in. "Are both of you alright... do I need to donate any blood..."
Shaking her head, Tori fights off an overwhelming urge to cry as she sees William and hears his words. "I'm... this isn't my blood..." the young one stammers, holding out her hands and then checking herself... she doesn't think she got hurt... strange as it is... dark grey eyes check herself for missed injuries...
"Who'd want to drink that stale shit?" the man asks, rather comfortable now. He chuckles, and free hands reach into jacket pocket to retrieve a cigarette. Claim your house, Plantagenet. I'm done.
Sitting up now, Edward moves towards the two bodies on the floor, fishing to pull out a lighter. Does well with one arm, this guy. "What in the fuck is going on, eh?" English comes, twinged with a London feel. "Why am I here, why am I being tossed about by Black Russians, and who is she?" motioning at Tori. "Sorry, madamoiselle," he adds, in your bereavement, and all.
"Good," is his one-word answer. But it is given with warmth. Even with a touch of gentleness. William's languid stride halts and he half-turns to Edward. The brows are yet lifted and the expression yet placid. Beautiful. And in his own quiet ire, all the more so. "I do not know, brother," comes his murmur, flecked with Provencal. "... the events that led up to this... I trust my friend Victoria Whitethorne will have a few answers. The rest..." A gesture is made to the two bodies, "...God alone will have. I can tell you that the dark one was Al Seif... former Ventrue... present at the Council of Thorns and last seen in New Port, Oregon..." Where I was prince. It seems like ages.
William exhales, turning back to Tori. "I'm going to take it... that that faceless wretch was once your sire. Hastur is outside. He will be so pleased to know that justice has been served." For you both. William inclines his head again. This is strangely deja vu. "I feel like Fortinbras coming in at the end of Hamlet..." And with another sigh, William looks to Tori. "You did a great service to your Clan tonight, Ms. Whitethorne." The smallest of smiles appears upon his mouth, that mouth that makes of every smile a natural sensuality. It cannot be helped. "And most importantly, you have freed yourself. I am very proud of you and you must be exhausted. You are welcome to stay..." As if she doubted it.
Huh? Okay, information's given, but damned if it makes any sense. Edward blinks at the woman and then to the bodies. "Al-who? Okay, cos," he goes on, "...you wanna explain a bit more, huh?"
A sigh is released from Tori's now-shaking body as she nods and murmurs, "That was Morgan... yes..." And this is his blood on my hands... and on my face... ugh, a bath will be in order later.
"He... Morgan followed me from New Port," she begins to explain. "Darius, my lover, went missing... I don't know where he is..." She pauses, to hold back worry for that point, then continues, "And I found one of my ghouls torn to shreds in my haven... with Morgan's ring."
A hand dips into a pocket, then returns, holding the item for everyone to see.
"I fled New Port... and he followed me... and, well, here we are..." she finishes, her voice dipping off at the end.
The young Toreador then looks back up at William and offers a quiet, exhausted smile. Yes, she'll stay. Gods, yes... she's not going back..
"I'm going home," Edward states, the cigarette in full bloom now. "Nice to meet ya, um... Victoria Whitethorne." Whatever. Survivor with a wicked set of nails.
"Nice t' see ya, cos." Edward grins and pushes off, knowing when it's his time to depart. "Sorry on the mess, you have good servants though, Will..."
Indigo settles upon Edward and holds there a moment at the askance of more explanation. No not especially. Beneath the soft voice, the languid motion and the placid countenance is still an angry Angevin lord. My home has been invaded. This is about as social as it's going to get, Meurelle. William looks to Tori, then withdraws something from his jacket. His phone. A number is dialed. "Tell Christian he can come clean up his mess..."
The call is ended and William turns again, eyes following Edward. A nod. "Merci, Edward. I owe you. And wounded on the job as well... I suppose I'll never hear the end of it..." Ah, the wry Angevin tone. "You are welcome to stay out the night in another tower, brother Edward."
And then to Victoria, William turns once more. A nod to her and then a lifted hand. We can hear the story later. "I can show you to the bath..." You should get cleaned up and rest.
Christian? Edward makes a face and sticks out his tongue. "He's here?" he wonders, moving towards the exit. Oh well. A smile is given to Tori, and he saunters out of the gardens and into the house....
"Nice to meet you, sir..." Tori murmurs quietly to Edward, rather subdued compared to earlier. Her hands are shoved into her jacket pockets as she stands there, watching the two men converse while she mulls over the events of this night. Who would have thought she would have killed her sire tonight?
Nodding, Tori murmurs softly to William, "A bath... yes... thank you..."
Who would have thought I would have a nest of sabbat in my home? These are things that amaze the mind, ne c'est pas? "I will... tend to ... this... do not worry. A good spraying with a hose, it will be as good as new..." As if you were worried about the mess. William pauses. His anger, his own indignation -- righteous as it may be -- is stalled for the moment. How could he think of anything but you and your pain as he sees you thus.
William motions to you with a hand. Come here. "You do not have to be afraid anymore," he murmurs, his French coming soft but thickened, with the drawl of the south upon it.
Moving toward you, Tori's eyes finally well up with crimson tears. She can't hold the emotions back much longer... "William... I... if I knew he would get into the castle... I wouldn't have come here..." she murmurs pitifully, brokenly. No, she wouldn't have. She didn't know how close he was, though. And even as you show your concern for her, she apologizes for leading two sabbat right into your own home.
He shakes his head, and there follows a brief chuckle. "I will... get over it..." After I set Spain on fire. But... we each have our way of dealing with emotions, oui? "We are just glad you are all right. And Ian... Ian will be relieved... I think I saw him break a sweat. He was worried..." And he smiles, he cannot help making light. It is his role in life, when things get too heavy. It is the talent of the son who was the Fifth of Five.
"But... it is over. And you can move on from here. Europe is yours again." William inclines his head, and the hint of the smile remains. "Welcome home, Victoria..."
He has to see for his own eyes. He has to! A man arrives, delicately featured. Light brown hair is disheveled, and he walks with the haste of a man possessed.
"Is it true? True?" His brown eyes flare even as he pulls his coat around himself. And seeing the mess, he comes to a halt to stare at it.
For a moment, it seems that Tori might just fall forward against William, suddenly looking very tired, exhausted and overwhelmed. Then the newcomer shows up and Tori straightens herself, looking over...
Perhaps her question is visible upon her face: Now who the hell is this??
"It's him, right?" he asks William, eyes wide. Maybe now he can get a bit of peace himself. But then he notices Victoria, and bobs his head. A bookish element seems to hang upon him, but for some reason, that seems to have been worn thin. Once he was, perhaps, but now? He's much different.
"Oh..." he says, "...right. Yes. I...just had to see," he motions at Morgan-by-elimination. And he smiles faintly.
William and Victoria stand in... a bloody mess. Yes, it is true. There is Frederick Morgan without a head, his face clawed into obscurity. And also, the large persian...
A hand was coming out to brace the much smaller woman, the large Plantagenet paw poised to balance her and draw her in, when the man enters. The placid expression yet remains, a kind of nonchalant regality, and William gestures to either bloody pile. Take your pick...
"Oui, Hastur... it is him and it is finished..."
There is a pause...
Hastur?
Dark grey eyes are just beginning to regain flecks of blue in them as they focus upon the newcomer.
"Hastur? The one who harassed me in my club? The one who terrified me because I thought he might be Morgan himself? The one who harassed my childe?" The young Toreador's voice raises with each question as she turns to face the one gawking over the mess. Anger and resentment filter up to the surface within her as she begins advancing toward him...
"What?" Hastur blinks, taking a step back. His eyes widen at William, as if begging his intercession...
The ex-Toreador Primogen continues advancing, adding, "The one who felt it necessary to attempt to lure my childe to the south side, and then dropped off a necklace that belonged to me, which he never explained how he had gotten it... The one who was -using- me to get to Morgan?"
"I...um...I didn't..." Hastur's eyes widen and the coat seems more like a prison. "That...wasn't me. He...someone was using my name...and..."
"This is the... actual Hastur, Victoria," comes William's carrying tone. Lifting, filling the chamber as only the crusader can. "The gentleman who called himself Hastur while in New Port... was Al Seif..." And William gestures to the other bloody heap. "Hastur," a motion of his hand to the young man, "... is innocent of that."
William's words halt her in her tracks. Indeed, the demeanor of this man is quite different than the Hastur she knows from New Port. Nodding, she relaxes, lowers her head and murmurs, "My apologies, monsieur. I did not know..." Looking over toward the other body that William indicates, Tori then adds softly, "At least the one who tried to frame you for that is now dead.."
Bobbing his head, he tries to reassure that indeed, what William says is correct. "I'm sorry...if...someone...injured you. I..." he looks at William, "The Justicar told me...to come in..." he says apologetically, then to Victoria, "...he told me to come see for myself. I'm sorry, Miss Whitethorne."
"It's...okay," he nods, "I mean...you didn't know. I...had asked for help..." he looks at William, explaining, "...and...well..." none came. So he followed himself, not sure what to do.
Sighing heavily, Tori nods, looking back at the man. "The Justicar... who obviously could do nothing either... it took the creature's childe to destroy it..." she murmurs bitterly, turning on her heel to move back toward William. Stopping before him, but looking toward Hastur, she adds, "Monsieur, I apologize... my bitterness is not directed toward you."
He nods again, Hastur does, a creature of habit. "Maybe..." he shrugs. "Well, nevermind." No need to get into his own story. A long look at the body to confirm, and he arights himself as if preparing to go. "I...shouldn't intrude anymore." A polite bow to William and a smile to you, Victoria. "I'm sorry..." he says again, turning to leave.
"Yes," comes William's lifted voice again, "... and speaking of the Justicar... where is he?" That is spoken to neither of you directly -- that you are in the same room, you benefit from a well-placed Angevin roar. Without emotion, but with something of wry humor in the tone. "I have no intention of cleaning this up myself, Christian..."
I'm sure your lurking about somewhere...
Large hands slide into his pockets and he exhales, his head shaking a moment. What a fucking mess. "Hastur... give my regards to Marquette ... travel well. Do you need a car...?" Why am I playing host? A hand comes out of his jacket and rakes through his hair. Ah well... might as well drag the bodies out and set them on fire...
Blue-grey eyes look about, their gaze flickering into all the corners of the room as Tori now scans to see if there is another person in this room... she will find them if they are... You cannot hide... where are you...
"A car..." he nods, "I will...that would be good, Prince William, thank you." Hastur smiles and glances around at the mention of the Justicar, but simply heads out, expecting to be tended to after a while.
A quiet nod is given in Hastur's general direction, but Tori remains silent for a moment. She's already on edge and has enough dealing with people who slink around in the shadows for one day. "Christian, where the fuck are you? Show yourself." The second is a command. It's not a request. Justicars be damned!
Hiding? Oh come now...
The voice is clear, though the figure is not...until a space shimmers and the one called The Justicar appears.
Dressed in a black PVC coat, it hangs to his ankles. Boots protrude from the hemline, and green eyes glow vibrant. Standing almost six-four, Christian Lausanne is loathe to make appearances. But there's always an exception. The thoughts come easily from him, but the forms of the sentences...the structures are terribly Latinate.
I have never needed to hide he smiles faintly. No need to be gloating or rude. The jade eyes look to the floor, his red-brown brow lifting. Pale, he is, as if he has never enjoyed the sun. It takes someone a bit to get around this maze of yours, Prince Plantagenet...
Victoria Whitethorne the tall man goes on, lips closed unfortunate to meet this way, but...well, no but. It is simply unfortunate. A sigh comes from him, hands within the tailored coat that hourglasses around his figure.
Both men in the room would likely pick up on the surge of anger eminating in waves from Tori as Christian materializes...
Two can play at this game...
You son of a bitch... all these years... and you waited for his fucking childe to destroy him... you coward!
The anger is likely felt by anyone with a hint of empathy in the room... She doesn't care right now who this is or what rank he holds. She's still reeling from the incident and his pretensious attitude isn't helping her mood any...
Hastur received a nod for his request and his departure...
And then the Justicar appears and dark brows arch slowly upward. A hand casually surveys the mess left behind this evening's event. There, you can take the baggage out on your way out. His own leather longcoat hangs upon him like a mantle as he turns and heads toward his fountain. "By design, Lausanne..."
The rest of it is, of course, lost on Plantagenet. He doesn't have telepathy. And it's just as well. Would you want Angevin to have such a skill as that? With an exhale, William sits upon the lip of his fountain, a hand cupping a bit of the water. It is sipped and then raked through his hair.
"I need to spend time with my frightened servants," he murmurs, rising at last. Dark tower that he is. "I will be back momentarily..." A last look to Tori, a glance to Lausanne. After tonight, no more Toreador parties in my castle. You can handle your business on your own damned turf...
I'm sorry Christian apologizes, and for as much as he can, it appears genuine. Suffice to say...well... a hand waves for he knows that nothing he says will mean much strange and mysterious are the ways.... of justicar? Of councils.
He sighs and waits an instant before adding William...of course...has much right. Unfortunately....your sire appears to have undergone...The Ritual For that, he is pensive a moment, looking at his body. He leads to...Al Seif...who leads to...well...certain Cardinals and Prisci... his hand waves. You can imagine. Well placed Black Russians, as Edward called them.
In the midst of your own conversation... you notice the lord of the castle is no longer in the room. His departure, silent...
It will be a while before the chambers of the palace are open to all again. But there is a sound of a gate lifting. One other portion of the castle has been opened.
He will have a headache by dawn, and few will recall fear or anxiety from this night. Though the event will not be erased, it shall be soothed. Explained. A false alarm...
Crossing her slender arms over her chest, her sire's blood drying on her flesh, Tori's anger does not abate so quickly or easily... but it does lessen. Perhaps he cannot completely be held to blame, however, she doesn't have to be happy about this.
If I find out I'm being used like that again by -anyone-, they will hear from me. Do you understand me? Frowning, she continues, I am no one's plaything. Morgan thought I was. He's dead now. And those who suffered by his fangs are free, as I am. I care not for Cardinals and Prisci. Tell the council to find another piece of bait because this one wriggled off their hook and fell into the water, free again.
There is a pause.
Perhaps no one has ever seen her this angry before.
I apologize if you're getting the brunt of this... but you are their messenger. Convey my displeasure, if you will. And if you were smart, you would eventually find it beneficial to pull yourself out of their meddlings, also. But that is your fate, not mine. There is a slight shrug of her narrow shoulders as her hands then move back into her coat pockets and some of her anger subsides.
He tries not to laugh and is good enough not to do so with the force he'd enjoy. Christian nods though, taking the chastisment. I will convey your displeasure, Miss Whitethorne his hands coming out of the jacket and to his side. For what it is worth, I doubt...the situation began with you. You, in the last few years...well...threads become frayed, Victoria and it's understandable why he's called the most accessible Justicar ...and you and Morgan were easy trails. But, I shall indeed tell the interested parties of your comments.
He cocks his head, brown hair falling askance, then says with a smile You should have handled him ages ago. Then...there would have been nothing for anyone to follow. It works both ways. Obvious threads, whomever leaves them, are still obvious. And anyone...can pick up on them. Christian smirks though, adding, I have never been known for being smart, they say. Fashionable, trendy...well, sure...but smart? Not my forte. I leave that to Ventrue he smiles, glancing after William. Maybe I'll get smart...and leave that council to its own devices Oh, yeah. That's how it works.
Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM
