The warmth of the wine is strange to her. Foreign. It is not what she is used to. At first, her body's first instinct is to reject the liquid, causing her to have to choke it down. Eyes close, threatening to tear with the effort of forcing her body to accept it.
But the gentle massaging upon her palm relaxes her a bit. After a pause, she opens her eyes and glances back at you. That small mouthful was swallowed and kept... but a whole glass will take some practice. But it is a start, non?
"Thank you... for distracting him. For allowing me to get strong enough to face him," she finally murmurs quietly, realizing that she would probably be long dead otherwise by now.
And there comes a sudden grin. Upon the Italian, flawless face, a radiant expression. Is this for your swallow? In some amusement at your words? Or what he can now hear taking place in the master suites. Like music. The oldest kind...
Girault releases your hand with a last press at the center of your palm and he settles back against the antique sofa. "See..." he says, and his voice is light, where his features are Radiance. "... Girault-Antonio di Medici keeps his promises..." Those he makes.
He tips his head back with an ever-growing smile. His eyes close and his lips part to give a sigh. He rarely breathes. He doesn't even bother to pantomime among his own kind. He is as a statue come to life. A work of art... on his own. Was he always this way? And quietly, a laugh pulls from his throat. Devilish. "And so... my dear... now that you are free... you will be able to ... experience such a world. You will return to your England?"
Ah, to suffer such sweet torment. Were he mine, I would do the same, amice. I would do the same...
Though the words find themselves within you, you will rightly sumise that they are not for you and you alone. "Hmmm... Chinon is ... practically pulsating. What a marvelous structure, to feel its master so profoundly." Girault opens his eyes and tilts his head to you. "You have run your fingers along the Angevin? You have felt him in these stones? You should do it... if you have not."
A quiet chuckle is her response for a moment, as she looks back down into the wine glass, looking deeply into the liquid there. How could she forget how to drink this? Such a simple pleasure. She will try it more and more, certainly.
Glancing back up, ice-blue and grey finding your face again as she replies quietly, "I would like to return to England in time..." She notices the your England tacked onto your question, but leaves it be for now. She has never thought it was hers... just maybe her original home. But going back will take some time and work.
"I will need to find a new place. A place of my own," she murmurs distractedly, picking up on your unspoken words. They confuse her, but she does not question you on them. Instead, she nods slowly, briefly, and adds, "I have listened to the stones, yes... in another visit..."
It is certainly more yours than mine! I go there and I freeze, no matter whether it is summer or winter. I do not think England has more than one season -- cold...
Dark eyes full of cinnamon embers smolder a while at you, his smile remaining, and soon he is moving -- his arms folding against his chest and the velvet there. When he moves his arms, you can detect the pattern of leaves embossed in the fabric. Girault close his eyes, and his grin grows. You should listen to them now... Laughter pulls from his throat, his chest, his gut -- from the very center of him. I do not think you should have to concentrate so much to feel it. And drink more wine! The glass must be empty before I open my eyes...
And to tease you, his lashes flutter... nearly but never quite opening...
"Si... a place of your own. I could never make up my mind, and so I have places everywhere in Europe. Venice, Florence, Cadiz and Paris... ah! You will have to come to the Clan Masque in Paris. To meet your cousins, your Family, Victoria Whitethorne..."
Christian... My Christian... are you hearing this? The sound of laughter eases past the leaves of the orchard, even as his words slide against your veins...
I hear you the gentlest of chuckles following. One cannot even rest in this place....
The glass must be empty or what? she questions silently, a bit of her usual playful self slowly beginning to surface.
"The Clan is having a Masque? How lovely! I would be delighted and honoured to be permitted to go," Tori replies, the corners of her lips curling upward in a bright smile. She's missed her Clan here. It has been too long... Her empty hand, now freed, reaches down to make contact with a stone of the building, very lightly...barely touching. Just a skimming, to see what has you so amused.
What has you so amused, Girault? Are you spying when you shouldn't, and now you're pulling her into doing so, also?
Ah... amice... but who needs rest among us... Laughter. Physical in the form of a breeze moving against the branches of a cherry tree. An old cherry tree. Laughter. Audible in the stream that passes through it, too alive to ever be frozen. Were I able to persuade the Golden One... do you think I would be resting? More laughter. Against your blood. In your ears. Echoed by the orchards that surround you.
If you could persuade him, I would be impressed. Christian retorts. The breeze wafts over him, and he settles into the touches. besides, you have me. What else is there? That too gets a smirk.
"Permit nothing... you live... you seize..." And Girault makes a wave of his hand. Broad, the grin that claims that mouth. And he shines with the laughter that is more felt than heard. "Hmm... si... you must come to Paris. You must meet Villon. I will introduce you. There will be more than a few who will be anxious to greet the Lost Daughter... I will not take no for an answer. I do not even know what that word means..." Another wave.
You can just imagine...
As for what Chinon has to say...
The stone pulses, not unlike actual skin -- a heartbeat held within. Strongly beating. Or is that the vibration of furniture in motion? Or a rhythmic thudding against the wall from somewhere...
Upstairs. The master suites of the Logis Royeaux. To one removed corner. Where Ian and William have disappeared...
He went to wake the Lord, and by the sudden flash of images... you might say that Ian is accomplishing that goal...
Smoldering. Something suddenly heated upon the winter breeze. This is true, My Christian... I do have you... perhaps even later tonight? And you feel the pull of the smile against your skin. But would you not say... if the Golden One could be so persuaded... it would not be worth it? Would you not yourself, amice... There is a pause. I cannot help the trying! And the laughter returns, a quiet brush against your ear. Sweet lord... but what he must endure. He is a stronger man than I... Teasing. Naturally.
Chuckling lowly, Tori murmurs softly, "You're spying on them..." Delicate fingers lift from the stone, cutting off the images. Though she is a hedonist, she will give them their privacy.
Shame on you, Antonio... she teases.
Leaning back a bit, the raven-haired one sighs, "I had no idea that people even knew about me or even thought I still existed over here. But, it would be good to meet up with them finally. It has been a while since I have been able to stop and actually enjoy Paris..." What she means by that, she leaves open to interpretation.
"But, since you insist so strongly, I will be there... are there any stipulations on costuming?" she asks, her smile turning into a smirk. She can guess the stipulation: be as grand and outlandish as you can.
"It is not spying... it is merely observing what is... impossible for me to miss..." His hand lifts, an arm partiallly unfolding from his chest, another wave to you. You are not drinking your wine, young lady... shall Antonio be forced to spank you?
But still he grins, the grin slanting. His eyes yet closed -- you still have time to drink! I am thinking of a full length satin gown myself... or maybe in nothing at all. It is ... an old Masque... of the festivale tradition of Europe. There will be no inhibitions... of any kind. Fashion or otherwise... His laughter is audible, smoothened tenor. Lilting naturally.
Perhaps I should ask Guillaume to paint me... I will go as the portrait of myself...the possibilities... too many to name... I never know in advance...
And eye opens to a crack, and his hand motions to the glass. "You are not drinking. Guillaume will think he is being insulted, you do not like his fine wine..."
Cinnamon flickers in a chasing wink...
"Of course," comes the voice, ex nihilo, "...be as grand and outlandish as you can."
From the entry, there is a ripple in the world, as if time and space unfolded. Where there was nothing, there is suddenly Christian Lausanne, melded from the heat ripples of invisibility. Dressed in burgundy leather. Standing rather tall...it's a lot of leather.
A nod at Girault, and he moves from the space-time gash and into this reality. Some six feet and a third of him. "Masque," his tongue swirls, the French laden archaic, "...you going to that?" As if he'd attend such stuff. Cigarette comes out, an instant reach and pull into the burgundy jacket that hangs to his formidable thighs. It lights and he smiles at Tori, coming to a halt a bit away from you both. Requiring some space and distance.
Spank her? She might enjoy that too much, dear Antonio. She is of your Clan, is she not? And a friend of Williams?
Sensing Girault's urging about the wine, Tori looks at the glass and hesitates. Maybe more will be tried later. For now, she sets it aside and replies quietly, "William will not take offense at it. In truth, he will be surprised I even tried it.." Her own chuckle rings through the area, then dies off as someone else enters the room. Hearing the voice, she glances upward... ah, Christian.
Standing, the wine glass being forgotten for now, the raven-haired one says clearly, "Christian... I am glad you are here. I wanted to apologize for my initial brashness with you.." In truth, she knows it was misplaced anger. For now, even talk of the Masque is left alone by her. All that is important right now is that she makes amends.
And his fingers are already extended. Amice... please... A cigarette? Unusual for Girault, unless it is of a ...certain kind. But with ... all that he feels, he needs something. What can I do?
"I must go. I ignored Villon all of last season. He was beginning to pout..." His hands move constantly as he speaks. Glorious, graceful gesticulation. "I could not bear to see him so... so! Girault must go..." And one of those motions gestures to Christian. Please join us, amice...
And yet his fingers yet signal for a cigarette...
See? No one can be angry with him. Look at that face and body! Girault exhales, his smile smoothly spreading. I am going to have to commit great sins. The Beautiful Golden Lord is in motion and Lausanne is wearing red...
"Apology accepted," says the non-diplomat, certainly on fashion form. Suddenly, his burgundy is silver, clearly magiced. A smile and he clearly thinks nothing of it. Why should he?
The cigarette in his fingers floats towards Girault, prepared.
Other hand? It waves at you, Tori, encouraging you to sit. So much water under the bridge. "I've learned," Christian smiles comfortably, "...not to take such things personally. You...have had a tough week." To put it lightly. He grins, and the silver shirt, jacket, pants, and boots gleam in the courtyard's natural lighting.
"And I've come in," he motions, turning to walk a few steps perpendicular to you both, beginning a wear upon the ground, "...upon the mention of the Hail Hallowed Humorless Homme."
God. Is that Villon?
The youngest Toreador seems impressed and even surprised at the change in colour. Impressive.
Hearing her apology being accepted, Tori nods and offers a relaxed smile. One of relief, perhaps. Or gratitude. She wouldn't have blamed him if he had made it hard on her. Shoving slender hands into her jeans' pockets, she says with a slanting grin, "The Masque does sound interesting.. I've not been in...years." No, well over a century.
Effortless. So effortless. Grace and magic and some subatomic communication. Knowing. In an instant, where each will be. And fingers of the justicar moved, and fingers of the Dignatary were poised and waiting. In seconds between seconds. Even to you, such motions are apparitions.
And somewhere, sometime, he stole a breath from the cigarette...
Between his smile, smoke issues. Girault smiles with blithe uncaring care. And he smokes without seeming to move. And the cigarette is held back in offerance to Christian.
"I hope you like orgies... that is what they always seem to become. I am not certain whether it is something for which I can take credit or no... but..." his hands outspread. What may I do but enjoy what the universe provides...
A pause.
Much as d'Angevin is enjoying now what the universe has so graciously provided him. Such a one! No Norman deserves such treasure... But he smiles. Love him as I do.
Girault rises. "You are entering a new existence, Victoria... such possibilities. Hmm... an enviable position..."
One of many you may have, if you attend the masque...
And he cannot... nor would not... help the laughter...
Angevin? Christian had almost forgotten about him. But he turns, now dressed in black from head to toe. Another dismissive wave and he turns about, heading back a few paces.
"I think the Dignitary is right-o when he talks about existences. Of course, we're here to help...well, as much anyone wants such help from the likes of me." Christian's black highlights the tawny tones of his skin, the green of his eyes, the bronze gilt of his hair. Hand lifts as the cigarette levitates back to him, settling into his expectant fingers.
Christian stops and turns to see the youngest of the group, asking, "Like orgies?"
Orgies. Dear gods... Tori refrains from commenting, merely chuckling to herself. She's known for being a hedonist, yes... dear gods, don't introduce her to orgies.
Mind you, perhaps that's where she might find Darius. That boy wanders more often than a Gangrel, it seems. She knows he's not dead...just off somewhere. But why he wandered off again is beyond her.
Stretching slightly, Tori looks back at Girault and chuckles, "Well... it certainly is like starting over again."
And then she's asked about orgies again. For the average person, perhaps this would make that person blush. But not this one. Afterall, she is Toreador... and was known as the Goth Diva by many...among other things. With a mischievious grin, Tori shrugs and replies simply, "I've never been to one."
"Ah, alright, okay," Christian says disdainfully, not believing a word of it. He bobs his head and puts the cigarette between his thin lips, turning to take up his pacing again.
"You're clearly no fun then," he notes, shrugging as he takes three steps, spins, and returns the same three steps in retracing his path.
Never???
The thought resounds in the sparkling courtyard, and Girault turns and open-eyed looks to her. With such a blank... incredulous... expression. What are they teaching the young in America??
Fingers go to the bridge of his nose and Girault closes his eyes. A sigh. And then a smile. "You will come to Paris... I will send the invitation to Guillaume... I trust he will know where to find you..."
The hand comes up again. The cigarette is called...
He has not forgotten the private words. No. No indeed. Yes... you will come to me...the third floor...I will be staying here for a few nights. Do not go, My Christian... without seeing me there... It is not a command. It is an .... understanding.
Pursing her lips, Tori suppresses a laugh. Shrugging, she replies wryly, "Orgies are generally frowned upon there, yes, Antonio..."
Shrugging lightly, she looks to Christian, obviously amused. Quick to judge, Christian.. I never said I would not try one... comes her equally amused response to those within the room. Her lithe form moves back over to where she was seated before as a slender hand scoops up the wine glass. Damn you, Antonio... now she will have to drink it so it does not go to waste.
He can barely get a taste of it before he breathes the cigarette away. Tendrils rise above Christian's head as he turns to walk his route again. "Nothing about trying," he notes agitatedly, hand waving again as it's empty, "I am..." he turns to see Tori, "...how old did you say you were again? I don't keep track of that stuff." He looks the noirish film detective now, hands coming to his hips. Interrogation at it's weakest. Hmm. Oh well. Even before you can answer, he turns on his way again, the tick-tock of an invisible clock behind him.
"How...can someone never have..." he glances around his arm at Tori, peering at the woman now, "...you don't get out much, eh? I mean...it's like eating..." he compares, tsking at the gap in life and education.
"See, this is what we were saying at the garden," he reminds Girault, nodding sternly. "No education. What has happened?" Ah, lamenting the decline of civilization.
"That," his finger lifts, a new cigarette suddenly in his fingers, "...that is..." Christian shakes his head, not finding the words. He just sighs loudly and looks disgusted as he walks on, the smoke lighting up of its own volition.
Tilting her head at Christian, Tori chuckles and says, "I'm 214 years old." She wouldn't look a day past 20, perhaps. Raven-black locks flutter slightly as she shakes her head, amused. "Christian... remember that I was on the run for close to thirty years or so... and prior to that, when I was in Europe, Morgan obsessed over me and wouldn't let me be touched by anyone. That should explain much." Well, if it doesn't, she just shrugs. She's open to the experience now, and perhaps that's the most she can offer.
Girault has been surprisingly quiet...
Even the air in the courtyard is still...
And he paces slowly. Something beyond languid. The air parts for him. Moving. Shadows curdling from him. Scattering from so much brilliance. Where Christian changes constantly, Girault is steady. He wears the dark burgundy velvet, embossed leaves in the luxurious fabric. The leather. Supple to his form. Strong, lean. Noble. He a prince of princes. His long hair, curled in dark ringlets, falling past his shoulders. He... every portrait Raphael ever painted. But older. Far older.
"It will be mended," Girault murmurs, his tenor caressing the corners of the honeyed stone. "In time, as all else. My Christian..." He pivots, grinning. "Perhaps ... instruction is in order... advise me, amice. Should I once again open the symposium in my palazzo and educate the young?"
Dark eyes smolder in a wink to Victoria.
That gets a pause. Christian turns about from the outward-going walk, dressed now in leather of hunter green. His brow flits and floats, eyes squinting. He looks at Tori, then at Girault.
"You'd do that?"
Well. Thin lips purse, something terribly Slavic in his angles, and Christian tilts burnished head to Victoria. "That...is an honor. If you can be so educated," he nods. "To be taught in the true arts of living....such grace is oft long gone from this world...."
And will you remind me, Antonio, of such lessons? Perhaps in the tower you speak about. Christian's face remains at Tori, but indeed, he speaks to you.
"I have not had a worthy student...since 1415..." begins Girault, his eyes sweeping upward to the ceiling. "Since I took the Angevin under my wings. And I have... another..." But that thought is ended. He turns to Christian again. Slow the smile that forms there.
"Perhaps it is time, My Christian..."
And then dark eyes settle upon Victoria. "I will consider it... but... know that if you seek answers... Girault can always listen to your questions..." And he softly laughs, turning to pace away...
It will be my pleasure, Mi Christian... a student such as you... ah, it is an honor for me. Please... amice... meet me in the tower tonight. We will recount the lessons and recall that which is hidden from most immortal senses...
Once more, full lips are pursed at the conversation. Pure amusement flashes across her face. If they thought she was decadent in the US, imagine once she 'lets loose' here in Europe...
Ice-blue eyes peer into her glass for a moment. Grey is gone. She is home. She is with her own. Glancing back up again, she raises the glass as though in a toast. Her voice speaks out clearly, strongly. "Then... I look forward to my re-education, if given the chance to learn under such a great teacher."
A wicked grin is flashed. This is going to be interesting. Indeed. If he chooses to teach her, it will be more than interesting, perhaps. Girault, what will you do when you unleash this one? Stand back and let the whirlwind die down on its own?
"It has already begun, Victoria Whitethorne... for see... after two centuries, you are able to drink..."
Girault chuckles and moves toward the fountain.
There is nothing past you. What you will to attain, you shall find in your grasp. You will see it in time...
Fingers glance against sparkling water. Water thereafter lands upon his skin...
What shall I do? Nothing. That will be for the world to figure out, si?
A turn to Victoria, and the palpable warmth of touching green eyes follows her form. "Your student is too willing, Dignitary," he observes, even as his clothing turns a brilliant yellow.
The cigarette is finished quickly. "To rethink...is the study, huh. To rethink self, habit, and understanding need. How to feed..." and clearly not just blood is meant, "...well...there are no words. I should just quit right now," Christian waves off.
It is a Life, he teaches. Not simply how to be fun at parties...
Truth springs from the font of your lips, Christian...
Crossing slender arms over her chest, wine glass dangling loosely from one hand, Tori shrugs and asks lightly, "Is it a bad thing to be eager to learn? Or to re-learn?" Her grin slants slightly as she looks between the two of you.
Shrugging again, Tori replies to Christian, her lips not moving, I think you underestimate me, Christian... I assumed nothing about parties. You must excuse my over-enthusiasm, but... I have a whole Life ahead of me to learn to enjoy. The thought, frankly, is exhillerating. Now her lips move, turning into a quiet, yet warm smile toward Christian, the ever-changing one.
It is a Way of Living... si... a way of Be-ing...
There is a moment of silence beyond Quiet. Where thoughts and voice are both stilled. And then Girault settles upon the lip of the marble fountain. It is... And Girault stops again, an exhale. For one who so rarely breathes, it is an expressive sound.
Fingers sparkle in the water yet again. My young friend, we will meet in Italy... sometime in the near future... and we will see what we will see... it will give you time to settle...
You have other things to do...
The small woman nods once, then looks at her wine glass. Shrugging slightly, she then raises the cup to her lips and experiments with another swallow. This is so alien to her. It's been two centuries since she's tasted wine.
Falling silent for a time, she focuses on just being able to swallow the wine and not be ill. It takes some doing, but she does do it. It will take some practice, yes, but hopefully she'll have it figured out before the Masque. Oh, wouldn't William or Ian be shocked to walk in now and see her with a wine glass tilted at her lips?
You take me too literally Christian smirks. "It was a comparison, that's all." He cocks his head, the aquiline features certainly bespeaking little of Northern Europe. A walking, talking metaphor he is, variable as the seasons.
"I should leave you both to it." Something's up. Christian smirks, his clothing now violet.
"A pleasure, Whitethorne. Welcome to the World." He chuckles and smiles at Girault. If something passes, it is beyond more formal kinds of communication.
Christian... rescue me... Soft laughter eases and echoes against your blood. Ah... but you leave me to be polite!
The glass is lowered and Tori looks to Christian. She murmurs quietly, "Je m'excuse... I'm too used to taking people literally. It was done a lot in the US." A friendly smile is offered to him as she says, "I'm sure I will see you again."
Fingers capture liquid and carry it to his skin. Girault rises with another exhalation. Though the tower is yet... pulsating with the lords' activity... I shall have to risk it He grins, with cat-like riddles and satisfaction. But the garden is calling me, my dear. Are we at peace, Victoria Whitethorne? And are you satisfied with the Council's answer?
More than likely Christian offers, the yellow almost washing him out. He turns about, tossing a detective's sloppy wave over his shoulder. Another night, another time he notes, walking towards the courtyard's archway into the corridor.
And before the arch is ever crossed, Christian vanishes.
Nodding briefly, Tori looks to Girault. Yes... of course... do not let me keep you.. Ah, is she to be left alone again? She understands and will not keep you, no.
There is a moment of shimmering air. A final smile. And he dissolves. Something more than nothing, less than shadow. Unseen. Unfelt...
Until his laughter may be heard in the garden moments after...
Posted by rowan at February 10, 2001 11:34 AM
