Soft, booted footfalls echo through the courtyard as the raven-haired Tori enters it. Black jeans and a black turtleneck on, she wanders the halls of the castle, thinking and listening. Listening to the heartbeats and surface emotions of passing staff. Listening to the memories within the stones themselves. She has much to contemplate.
     A few staff asked her if she was warm enough, just being in a thin turtle neck. She merely nodded and made vague comments about how she prefers to be a bit cooler...helps her think, and such. In truth, she is not even feeling it if she happens upon a draft. She is numb.
     Numb physically.
     Numb emotionally.
     And strangely quiet for a Toreador.

     So many stories. So many families. Not merely the one you know, but others. Others forgotten by both time and history. Others still who would later be thought of as mad or cursed or visionary. Of laughter. Of wars. Of the passing of hands and Time. This is Chinon. Her body hums with its own current. She lives the lives of everyone who has passed through her halls.
     Even you...
     Even Morgan...
     Even the persian known as Al Seif...
     But this is a lesser throb to those who yet live here. The mortals -- and there are many. It is, as it should be, a city of its own. A universe of its own. Within these walls may an entire world be known...
     And there are whispers that filter through the halls. Voices echoing to your senses from corridors far removed, filtered down to you by stairways and hallways. Male laughter -- not William's... you know his. You can feel that those who were here last night... they are still here...
     Edward Meurelle and his young mortal charge, the one you met... Valan. News of an impending departure. Of Christian Lausanne... the justicar yet remains within these walls... and someone else... someone new...
     But as you reach the main corridor, held within the front tower of Chinon, there is one thing missing. Any memories of the bullets and blood...
     The doors to the inner courtyard stand open, and light floods within. In the courtyard, the fountain gossips to the marble -- the candles pass their light like hands against the bevelled and stained lead crystal. There is wine. There is fruit. There is no sign of any blood, of any disturbance.
     It is as if last night... never happened...

     Christian. Ah, yes. Him. Tori makes a mental note to apologize to him the next time she sees him. He did not deserve her wrath... well, not all of it.
     The small woman stops for a moment, pauses in her musings, in her listening. Someone else? Someone new? Her senses reach out slightly more than is reflexive for her. Who is this? Just like a cat, she becomes instantly curious.
     Her steps resume, taking her further into the courtyard, toward the fountain as she ponders this newcomer. Seeing candles, she pauses slightly again, eyeing them suspiciously.
     Flame.
     But she is within William's home. It will not harm her here. And so, she relaxes a bit, watching the flickering of the candle flame with a kind of morbid curiosity, forgetting the newcomer for now.

     The laughter comes to life as energy parts it, sauntering slowly into the periphery of preternatural senses. The man parts the humor, walking easily through the tinkle of laughter, blossoms falling around his path. Living makes him more beautiful now that he no longer eschews it, and as mortals cross his path, he gives them a smile resplendent. Grey eyes that sparkle damply. A grin upturned and slanted. Hands that clasp at his back softly, fingers twirling in their idle ways. He is both Older and Younger nowdays, and the paradox rests gently with him.
     One of the voices chirps at him, a girl laughing as she bumps into him. He chuckles with her, patting her shoulder as he pushes her onward with her friends. But he walks on, that element of himself that presages all he does extending like tendrils. Searching the world, comfortable in his shoes.
     And his meandering path brings him to the inner courtyard, his grey eyes turned upwards, thoughts someplace else. Everywhere. Here.
     Is his white-blonde hair still his most telling feature? Or those near-silver eyes? Maybe it was the happy river that flows before him, content to go nowhere and everywhere simultaneously.
     Dressed in brown slacks and with a cream cashmere sweater, he seems almost as familiar as the fountain to this environment. He lives here. He smiles at you, aware in all things, and despite his meandering, all energy suddenly coalesces...and drops in front of you.
     "Well, bonsoir," comes his gaeliced French, but French it indeed is. Aren't you a sight unseen for a while?

     The courtyard sparkles... does it come from the laughter, or does the laughter fill it? It seems to take on another kind of light. Another life...
     And the water of the fountain moves in silver clarity against the old marble. Rhythmic chiming, soft the music only two can hear. Seeming, though, there are three immortals here. The fountain, the gentleman and thee...

     Her attention pulls away from the flame suddenly, ice-blue eyes, still tinged with grey, blink rapidly. Taking an involuntary step backward, Tori then turns her face toward the source of the approaching presence. And then, there he is...
     A welcoming smile appears upon Tori's lips as she murmurs quietly, "Ian... my dear friend... it is good to see you again." Moving toward him, she holds her arms open to embrace him, if he will allow it.
     You are a sight for sore yes, my friend. Long time no see. All of this shows in her gaze toward him. Both his presence and William's are welcome to her...and a relief for her.

     There is not the tinge of The Other following. No sign that he shall. No threshold darkens with his long cast shadow. No man, no woman sighs his name. There is no thud of fire that follows. Nor flicker of indigo...
     Only the one who entered with laughter in his wake and illumination all around him...
     From outside, the plaintive call of a peacock...

     "Oui, really?" he says softly, responding with such ease. The embrace is met with a like one and a smile. A pat at your shoulder blades. He is in your arms, and then like a butterfly, he is already back into his own space, face everready with a pleasant look. "And here," his French comes, the sweater crackling with energy from the brushing, "...I was thinking that you might avoid us...since you seem to have so many adventures with us around." A faint allusion to the previous night's events.
     A shrug and he moves towards the fountain. Drawn to it. It calls him. "So..." he begins, as if to open a conversation, "...asking you how things are going seems...rather stupid at the moment," then he laughs, patting the seat near the water so you might join him. "But I'll ask anyway....how are things going?" he chirps, eyes wide as if some great joke there. He finds it terribly funny, the question, and it causes color to rise at his cheeks.
      "Ach, wait," his hand lifts, no less soft than his sweater, trickling with motion, "...this is even better," he leans your direction, stiffening in mock-interest, "How was your flight?" That brings gales of laughter and a wink at you.

     Shaking her head, Tori smirks at you and says wryly, "If it weren't you asking me these questions, my friend, I might actually take offense to them." Chuckling, she draws in an unneeded breath and releases it quickly. "Well, the flight was... hurried. Tiresome and hectic. It's hard to enjoy a flight when you know you're being followed, hmm?" she replies with a slight sigh.
     "But, yes.... I am glad to see you. I was relieved to know when you had both arrived..." she murmurs quietly, searching for a seat now. Yes. She was terrified last night. And angry. And now, she is moody. But, she tries very hard to remain cheerful for you, one of her dearest friends.

     What was that...
     What else could it be...
     Within the hug, there was a warmth. Leaping from him, to you wherever you touch...
     For the length of the hold...
     Do you feel it yet, now he is parted from you?

     "There's too much to do," he smiles, hand reaching out to pick up your fingers, "...to take offense at things." Silver eyes blink at the water, and then the young man's gaze returns to yours. His hands are much like the cashmere, wispy in the grasp. His blonde-white head is given to you a moment as he looks down at your and his fingers, and it tilts to the side in curious wonder.
     "But, seriously," his French pours, "...how are you? And...I will guess what has brought you here."

     And again...
     There it is, it comes again...
     That feeling, that warmth...
     From his fingertips... to your fingertips...
     The warmth that moves against your blood...like the butterflies of love...

     Sighing, Tori's smile falls a bit, but only slightly. She probably did not sleep well during the day. Too much to do, indeed.
     "I... I survived. I surprised even myself in that," she admits with a quiet, wry laugh. "And, I was not physically harmed by him," she adds with a slight shrug. But she did not come out of the battle unscathed. The grey being present in her gaze is proof of that.
     "I, in truth, don't remember attacking him... but I guess I did... and then, I ended it. And it was over..." And Morgan is now dead, gone, and no longer a threat to her or anyone else. "I apologized to William last night... for leading them to Chinon... I had no idea they were so close, or if I had, I wouldn't have come here..." She wouldn't have endangered the security of your home. Of William's home.
     Slender fingers lightly squeeze your hand, not letting go. There's something about the touch of a friend... the touch of someone solid and trusted... that keeps reality in check.

     His lips purse in familiar ways. Not so familiar ways. As if all Reason behind such looks have changed.
     His fingers still pour over yours, a brush of feather. He looks down at them again.
     "Well, it is an old tale already, Victoria," an almost invocation. Even the timbre of his voice warbles like the water. Free-flowing.
     No words on being impressed.
     No words on running or home.
     Nothing.
     His eyes rise silver to yours and a warm smile comes again. "You are well. This is good to see," he murmurs, fingers trippling over yours. "Will you stay for a while now?"

     And still the feeling remains...
     Love made manifest in energy, humming from joined hands...
     It is as natural...
     ...and it is as created...
     ...as the fountain that is at your back...

     Soft and cool -- but not cold -- sprinkles of the water land upon your skin. Tiny. Like the breath of water, as the water moves in cascading cycles...

     Nodding to you, Tori murmurs quietly, "It will take time for me to forget, but I am working on it." It will take time for her to tie up some loose ends from this tale, also. But that is left alone for now.
     Offering you a warm smile, she nods again, then runs her free hand through her long locks, pulling them back from her face. "Yes... if William doesn't toss me out for bringing hostile elements into his home," she murmurs with a light chuckle. This is a joke, of course. She knows William would not do this... though if he did, she would not argue, nor would she blame him.
     After a pause, she adds quietly, "I... will not be returning to America anytime soon."
     Ice-blue eyes, tinged with grey, flicker slightly... to the side.. glancing at the fountain for a moment.

     Though you move a hand...
     still the feeling does not pass...
     And being as close to him as you are...
     the feeling is pervasive.
     It does not fade...
     And you are as surrounded by warmth
     as the fountain is the water...
     And still that fluttering against the blood...
     A flicker...
     A dance...
     Love...

     A faint rise and fall of his shoulders indicate understanding and acceptance.
     No talk of New Port.
     No questions why.
     "It will be an interesting time then," French words whisper, flecked with vowels that bespeak his Guillaume. "A fun time," he smiles brightly, fingers still dallying.
     "You can spend time here, Switzerland, Paris, London...all the usual places," he whispers conspiratorily. "Milan, even. Spain. Mm, Cairo," he nodding. The world is available.
     "There's just...so much to do," he finishes, voice rising. So much to see, so much to experience. Living. As if he has not done enough of it himself and does so now.

     The raven-haired one glances around for a moment, then looks back at the blonde one before her, not removing her hand from his. "Mmm, yes... I would like to visit London sometime... but that will come eventually," she says in the French everyone else has been speaking since she got here. But it is tinged with her own dialect... little by little, she is beginning to sound more British. But it is an older dialect than the one used now, making her voice sound a little strange, perhaps.
     Only a couple of people have heard that voice from her in the last century or so... that would be the One standing before her and the Other elsewhere in the castle.
     "But, I will have to think for a while about what I wish to do... and figure out where I want more permanent lodgings," she murmurs quietly.

     The Other. His energy is still quiet...
     As if the Great Norman were yet in bed...
     Asleep, but in that mortal way, of half-dozing and half-dreams. If you were to study it, that feeling or lack of feeling, you would find it to be so.
     d'Angevin is still in bed...

     But the house is still alive. Awake. The evening crew is settling in. Far off echoes of female voices, like the sound of distant birds. The sound of a door closing, the front door. And even the shadows and flickers of images pass by -- mortals moving past the open doorway to the courtyard. Heading to kitchens and cupboards, quarters and chambers. One even slips within the courtyard, carrying a pitcher...
     The young man does not speak, barely looks to either of you. And he refreshes the pitcher of steaming, mulled wine. New cloves. Fresh fruit...
     And then he is gone...

     He nods, the young man, finally releasing your fingers. They trickle away, landing at your lap once more. If he is aware of the servant's coming and going, he shows it not.
     But he knows. The air shifts with the turned attention, even if there is no physical motion.
     "I am sure Guillaume will help you," he says softly. He goes without saying. "And...you have Time." It is your friend.

     It is a slow ebbing...
     The withdrawal of warmth...
     Like the pulling away of hands
     that have covered one's eyes.
     But it goes slowly. Not suddenly...
     Even as it is not a complete removal of love.
     It is only a brief parting.

     "Oh," Ian smirks, "...your eyes are a funny color," he teases softly, glancing about and motioning to the water. Look there...

     The Toreador nods and smiles, murmuring, "Yes... both of these are true..." About William and Time.
     At the mention of her eyes, Tori blinks slightly, then sees your motioning to the water. Peering in, she focuses there for a moment, seeing the traces of grey within her gaze, marring the ice-blue.
     "Oh... so they are..." she comments lightly, as though she hadn't noticed it before... but it's something she's dealt with before. Many times. It happens when she becomes moody, brooding, or is going into one of her 'spells'. But there have been no 'spells' since last night. Thankfully.

     The water is flavored of this land and carries with it the textures of the Loire river. Can you smell the journey it has made? Could you taste it? The orchards and fields? The earth has a memory. It lives on its blood, the same as yours...
     And the rise and fall of water chimes against the marble. It sings as it falls into itself. From One, into Many. From Many, into One.

     Does it mask the sound? Of voices lifting from a corridor. From the sound and feel of ... something new. Different. Unknown.
     Does it hide the steps upon the stone floor, approaching?

     "You don't seem to have many bags with you," Ian observes, his brown slacks crossing, cashmere sweater rustling. The soft sheep frames his face, giving his throat length and his skin an almost burnished quality.
     And then those eyes.
     Recognition.
     "A visitor," he announces, gaze turning to see your reflection in the pool. "Interesting..." he whispers.
     About what, is hard to tell.

     "No... I did not have much time to pack--" Tori murmurs, then stops abruptly, glancing up for a moment as she hears the foot falls, and then your comment. Looking back into the pool, she asks quietly, "Are you expecting anyone?" There is a trace of anxiety in her question.. more surprises. Can she really deal with more?

     "No," Ian says softly, unnerved.
     "But there are many in Chinon right now. And this one," he smiles, getting a hint of who it is, "...I think it is alright."

     Tori relaxes slightly at this, but not completely. She keeps looking in the water for now, extending her senses protectively now... seeking out the newcomer... seeing what she can pick up...

     The sound of velvet -- it makes a luxurious whisper against the skin, against itself. He can hear it. Can you? The cologne. Something of Italy, but something made by hand specifically for him... a blend of spices, something perhaps of orange. Light.
     Is it coming from the water?
     No. There are steps that make themselves known in the courtyard, a presence that makes itself known. Like the extending of a hand in greeting. It is a flicker, and no more. A humming...
     A tenor voice, smooth and seraphic, issues in against the stone. Some ancient song that this castle bids him remember.
     It is not the castle singing, si? Or the ghost of a troubadour...
     "Grazie," he murmurs, twisting to the departing servant. And Girault's pace slows as he comes to those within. Cinnamon eyes... smoldering embers of deepest brown and amber... make a quick survey. Christian, you are as professional as always...
     "I am sorry I am late," comes the heavily Italicized English. It is worn beautifully, gracefully and with all the diplomatic grace of one who... speaks English so infrequently. "You cannot believe the snow in Paris!" Teasing exacerbation.
     And in walks a figure... beautiful. A Raphael painting brought into existence. Dressed in deep velvet... a black-burgundy... and leather, a deep brown, nearly black... he is... Glory. And a smile crosses his features, warmly upon the curling fullness of his mouth. His hair... ringlets of black... lies across his shoulders. Unbound and unstraightened. He bows his head, with a growing smile, to Ian. "Signore Dunross... a pleasure it is to see you... though the circumstances..." an exhale, "... were not the stuff of diplomatic legend, si?"

     A pale, beautiful face framed by long, straight locks, the colour of ravens, looks up. Ice-blue, tinged with grey, flickers toward the figure in velvet. She does not react otherwise at first... Ian has been addressed, and so she lets him greet his new guest.
     For now, outwardly, she is the picture of calm and quiet. Inwardly, mental defences quickly jump up into place at the sight and sensation of the newcomer reflexively.

     "No, Dignitary," his French still there, "...it will not make for good copy." Something else was pendant, but he lets it go. Rising, the lamb's warmth that covers him billows faintly, and he encourages Victoria to rise as well.
     "It may...make for good taunting next week in Castile, however."
     Definitely. Someone in Spain will find the events at Chinon a hoot.
     Beautiful as always. Taken right from the hands of a 15th century master. Certainly that is a portrait of Girault at the Alte Pinakothek in Munich. A beauteous man in sable, circled with ringlets and the slimmest of moustaches.
     "Victoria Whitethorne," the young blonde half-angles, "...Il Dignatario, Sir Girault of Florence." The rest, you can tell her yourself, certainly.

     As Ian encourages it, Tori rises to her feet, realizing she is to be introduced. Her movements are graceful and calculated, like those of a predatory cat. Even while she is not being predatory, perhaps this part of her nature still shows through a touch.
     And introductions come quickly, it seems. So, Tori extends a delicate hand toward Girault, saying quietly, "Pleased to meet you, Sir Girault..."

     His hands are covered in such sable gloves, gloves that are now removed as he moves inward. "I am certain, Signore, as much as I am in the sun rising at dawn and putting an end to my pleasures, that such taunting will be... short-lived..." Dark brows lift in a sweep to this and the smile slants. "And I hear that Clan Toreador has many... hmmm... how shall we say..." A pause and his eyes search the ceiling a moment, then lower to you both, "... public relations matters to attend to..."
     But as the woman stands, the jokes are set aside. "Girault-Antonio di Medici, Dignitario of Clan Toreador," his tenor moves smoothly upon the Italian. Ah, so much better suited for that mouth, that face, that tongue. "Victoria Whitethorne," he mulls upon the name for a moment, and then the smile is brilliance. "I am told by Christiane Lausanne that you had a message for The Council. I am here..."
     Deep eyes glance to Ian briefly. Amice, forgive me...
     "...in representation of Such." He takes her hand, and with a bow, he kisses it.
     "But I beg your patience for a moment, Girault has had a long evening already in Paris," another look and this time a turn to Ian, "...where the nights growing longer has more to do with Villon's lack of a sense of humor than the seasons of the sun. Amice, it is good to see you..." A pause. "You look..."
     Different? Amazing? Beautiful? Wondrous? Happy?
     All these things. "Signore Dunross, the sun sits on your shoulders..."

     At mention of the message to the Council, Tori's eyes glaze over for a moment. Oh damn. Ice-blue slowly fades, greying more and more with each passing moment. Her hand is kissed and she nods slowly, remaining strangely quiet for now.
     Ah, what words she wishes to hurl out right now, but she remains calm and silent. She does not wish to cause another scene or incident. For now, she will wait and try to ignore her impulse to curse the Council right here and now.
     As Girault speaks to Ian, Tori nods and watches the interaction between the two of you, not wishing to intrude. This is obviously a friend to Ian standing before her...and so she inwardly works on fighting off her growing irritation toward the Council.

     Council?
     Ah. Ian nods at Girault and is quiet for the moment, until Tori's silence causes him to chime in. "I will say nothing of Villon, and simply thank you, Dignitary, for the compliment." A smile rises, but the young blonde turns to see the woman beside him.
     Such Quiet.
     "You may be pleased to meet such a well-placed member of your association, Tori..." speak now, before I excuse myself.
     Transitions are always such fun.
     "A welcome wagon," he smiles at Girault, "...if there was one, Girault." Friends? Perhaps more out of familiarity than any long-standing kinship.
     Being old means you know lots of folks....

     Nodding to Ian, Tori murmurs quietly, "Of course... I would expect I would have to get back in touch with Toreador here now that I have returns... I'm certain much has changed." She manages a quiet smile, looking between the two of you.
     Her demeanor is quiet and calculated, and very different from the Tori people knew back in New Port. However, perhaps this can be understandable, considering recent events..

     "The less spoken of him the better," a sparkle of his eyes in visible, but inaudible laughter. Oh, Villon... I have such fun with you! We, all of us, need our entertainments, si?
     Girault smiles broadly, warmly to Ian. And he motions him to sit, even as his voice follows, "...I was en route last night," comes the tenor warmly, softly, "... but I did have to linger in Paris due to the weather. I had forgotten there was a reason no one visits that city except for in the spring and summer... deus meus..." an exhale comes and then he turns back to the young woman.
     For a moment, Girault says nothing. He merely holds the young woman's hand, the hum of his kiss yet upon it, and he studies her. Black curls move over his shoulders as he inclines his head. "I understand," he says softly to things she did not speak. And in his dark eyes, the cinnamon embers shine. "You are due your anger, Victoria Whitethorne," and his hand eases over her own. It is captured for that moment, but held so lightly as to not be held at all. "I shall not ask you to set it aside. I shall not ask you to forgive me. You have earned every moment."
     Another pause, another glance to Ian. I am revealing myself here to you now. Your time is coming, amice...
     "I only ask for ... an attempt at understanding. If you feel you must yell at me, please... do what your heart commands." Girault grins then, suddenly. Beautifully. "Besides, Plantagenet is still in bed... it will be a good wake up call for the great lion... no one should be in bed if Medici must be out of his own..." And then her hand is freed.

     He's been invoked.
     "And speaking of," the blonde says, waving off Girault's suggestions to sit, "...I should see to him and have him greet you." Leaving such moments. This is a familiar young man, is it?
     "I will be...around," he says vaguely, silver eyes looking between you both. He can be found, walking the halls.

     This was unexpected.
     Perhaps she expected him to have the same attitude as Christian, who came across as being smug to Tori. But, perhaps her vision was merely clouded with her anger.
     Looking to Ian, realizing he intends to leave to find William, she nods slightly and murmurs, "We will see you soon, oui?"
     For a moment, Girault is put on hold for Ian. She will get back to that conversation momentarily...

     "Yeah...of course," the young man chirps, fingers seeking each other behind his back. He takes a step back from you both, the brown making him taller. A flash of a smile and he turns to continue his meanderings, down a corridor and elseplace.

     "Ah..." Girault says, half-turning to Ian and his smile spreading once more. "...he has called, si?" And then he pauses. I should like you to hear this, what I have to say. But you will hear it, Ian of Strathfayr, when I carry the same to you. "Please... Signore... tell mi amico not to rush on my behalf. I will be staying for a night or two..." Or three. Or a week. One never knows. "He will not miss his chance to duel with me this time..."

     "I will," the blonde calls, glancing back at you both. Speak your peace, he flashes at Tori in a smile.

     The young Toreador watches Ian leave, then slowly turns back to Girault and studies him for a moment. Her blue-grey gaze catches every detail. Of course... she shouldn't have been surprised at him being able to pick up on her anger or thoughts. If she can do such a thing, it only makes sense if he can...
     Pausing a moment, trying to figure out where she should begin, or what to say, Tori finally says quietly, "Thank you for understanding why I am angry... And yes, I am very angry. However..." Pause. "However, I will not yell, non."
     There really is no point. It's over and done. She's already yelled at Christian, shooting the messenger, so to speak. What is the point in yelling more? And what's the point in yelling at someone who honestly does understand where she is coming from and agrees with her?
     Sighing, she shakes her head and murmurs, "He's gone. He can terrorize no one any longer. That's all that really matters." Holding a slender finger up, she then adds, "However... I will express that I did not like being used by the Council." And that's how she honestly feels. Used and discarded until needed further. It's not a pleasant feeling.

     Used...
     An ungloved hand -- so fine in shape, free of any of life's calluses or signs of work -- reaches upward and fingers skim your upper arm. "I need some wine... I am still listening..."
     You may continue, as I turn from the fountain and to one of the antique chairs, and the fruit and the wine that is there. "Would you join me in a glass..."
     Yes... I can feel you...
     His voice does not come to your ears, but to your mind and to your blood after. And dark eyes lift from the pouring of two glasses. Just in case. If you do not wish it, he will have this as well. "Used," he murmurs and he holds it upon his tongue. It is followed by wine and then by a look upward. Used. And then to you again Girault looks, his attention resting upon you like the light touch of his hand before. "The Council did not use you, signora. What do we have to gain by suffering?" Girault settles upon the chair. Yes... the We was intentional. "I do not say this to ...hmmm... offer an argument?" Dark brows lift up again and he leans in toward you, his hands holding the goblet of wine. "It is... only Truth I will offer you."
     But I think you will need more than this.
     "There... is no freedom... if you do not free yourself..."

     There is a quiet sigh now, escaping her lips. This is not going as badly as she originally feared it would. Thank whatever deities are watching over Chinon right now.
     Drawing in an unnecessary breath, Tori nods and murmurs, "I've never been able to drink it... but... maybe tonight I will try.." Why not? What has she to lose, right? Other than a possible gag reflex and then she'd hand over the glass.
     She stops moving toward the chairs for a moment as she feels and hears the voice. Even while conversing with Christian like this, it was not like this. She did not hear it in her blood with Christian... just her mind. It takes her a moment, but she recovers, then joins you at the grouping of chairs.
     "Used, yes... I feel that way. And I feel anger at something Christian suggested to me last night... about how I should have finished Morgan off years ago. I was incapable of doing so, and I told him this. I didn't even think I was capable of doing so last night... but I was lucky. Morgan would have just destroyed me years ago." Yes, and she also told Christian to do his own job next time.
     Shaking her head, the younger Toreador murmurs, "But, anyway... I feel used because Christian told me that I was the way to track others through Morgan. That was not appreciated." She is not a homing beacon for Sabbat, nor does she wish to be used thusly.

     "A life without wine?" Girault murmurs. "My dear," and his beautiful mouth moves in a smile, "...what sort of existence is that? Come... drink... I promise you, upon the word of Girault-Antonio di Medici, you will not so much as spill a drop, or feel a moment of sickness. It is strange... these things we lead ourselves to believe..."
     And he is quiet on that for now. He will get to it in a moment. First, a sip of the warm wine. Mulled, with spices from Chinon's kitchen, imported from the south of France and from Italy. "Christian Lausanne is a brilliant tactitian," he begins, his voice soft, as if recounting some old fable. "Even better than our d'Angevin, though... do not tell Guillaume I have said this," he breathes, "... he and Lausanne have a running contest and I am enjoying the draw between them." Another sip and the goblet is set aside for a moment. Girault pats the seat of the chair... it is large enough for two... Come sit with me...
     "He is a defender... an enforcer... a guardian... of all we hold dear. But..." And the smile grows. "...he is not a diplomat. Some men... are simply not cut of that cloth. I," fingers briefly touch to his velveted chest. "...am more of the diplomat. But... more on this... " His hand moves from his chest and make a wave. Some other time.
     Girault takes in a breath, looking at you. Considering you. Still, smiling at you. "Si... it is amazing... the things we tell ourselves. The things that we believe. The earth is flat... until a man sails the oceans again and says... no it is not so. And now we know it, we can see our round earth from space. It is the same... with you and your former sire. The ability to do what you have done... you had it, my dear... you only had to realize it for yourself." His hand sweeps outward for the goblet once again.

     The second glass is taken skeptically by her delicate fingers. Slender. Perhaps she plays the piano... or maybe you know that she does, if you've spoken with William at all about her.
     She eyes the glass, still unsure. How can you promise her she would not feel ill upon tasting it? It has made her ill every single time she has tried to taste it from a glass. It's as though she nearly forgets how to drink the stuff, even. Without tasting it yet, she looks back to you, murmuring quietly, "I'm not sure that you should be making that promise, Sir Girault.."
     Tori smirks quietly as you speak of Christian, your words seeming to temper her anger a little, calming her a bit more.
     And the unspoken invitation is heard... felt... it causes a ripple of... some kind of sensation or emotion to run through her. She inwardly reacts to the sensation of how you seem to speak to her very being that way... in a way Christian did not. How can she refuse such an invitation?
     Gracefully, she moves over toward you, seating herself just upon the edge of the chair, angling herself so that she can look at you.

     Christian is not a talker. No. He is many things, but he is not that...
     "I am a man of faith," and to that he grins. "I have faith in this principle. That which you desire to do, you can do. If you want to drink... you can drink. Hold my hand, sip with the other. And have faith in yourself..."
     Dark ringlets -- nearer to him as you are you can detect a hint of burgundy there -- brush against his shoulders, and the cologne he was wearing... yes... it is orange. Orange and myrrh. And he offers you his hand. A beautiful and strong hand. That of a knight? Of a kind. Such as Italy knew. Nothing like William. He has hands of a musician -- slender fingers, for a man -- an agile touch. And his dark eyes warm as you take a seat. "You do not have to call me 'Sir'. I am vain... but not a stickler upon protocol. Girault," he murmurs. "Or if you prefer, you may call me Antonio..." A pause and he inclines his head.
     "Would you like to know the reason I did not call Morgan to me and end it... as I could have easily done... is this the question you would like answered? Your anger... seems to have passed you now..."
     Yes, I can tell.
     "Though, maybe... you still would like to give my justicar a pinch, si? Hmmm... I do not blame you, he is quite handsome. I feel the same urge from time to time... I must admit to you..."

     When her gaze flickers up to your face, the grey has faded a bit, showing the ice-blue there... it is just spotted with the grey now. This will pass with time, as the anger subsides. Her flesh is pale, and she makes no attempts right not to make herself seem alive, save if a servant were to enter the room. And yet, she is still a beautiful creature, herself. No colour is in her straight locks... they are as black as pitch, reflecting light strangely like the feathers of a raven.
     With only a moment more of hesitation, she places a cool and within yours. But she does not drink just yet. Instead, she murmurs quietly, "Yes...Antonio.. that is the answer I would like.. why everyone waited for me to do it..." Can you truly read her that well?
     Why did everyone wait to see if I would get myself killed?
     She then looks into the glass of wine, pondering what to do with it. A quick glance is given back up to you, then she lifts the glass to her lips. She pauses before tilting the glass back a little. Closing her eyes, she takes a single sip of the wine...

     Hold it in your heart... that you will not choke... that this wine is now... as it was then. And you shall not be sick...even as you once told your hand to move, your eyes to blink... yes, you have done all of this. This also you can do...
     His words show themselves within you. Something deeper than hearing. Instant Knowing. Girault moves against your blood, in your mind...
     But your question he answers with his tongue. Your hand in his, his hand gently rubs, massaging... his thumb in the center of your smaller palm. "I am sorry that you suffered," he murmurs, his voice low. Does he say it or are you feeling it? With him, suddenly, there is so little difference. "Do you not know... you had to do this. You had to do it on your own. Had I ended it ... had I given Lausanne the nod to see it done... it would have robbed you of your most precious moment. The night you took back your heart, your soul. The moment you set yourself free. By your own hands.. and in your own power. This... was yours and yours alone. We did... however... " A small smile forms at the corners of his mouth. "... distract him as best we could. I do not think the universe will hold that against me..."

Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM