Flowers and vines dip downward, perfume and shadows are their offering. Beneath them, archways of red stone lead inward to the sound of doves and larks. The archways lead to the aviary, a garden of birds, a garden of sound as much as sight.
Soft solitude. The archways themselves lead into pockets of gardens full of tender and exotic flowers, herbs and violets. None of the birds here are caged, but fly in and out in spectral colors and shades, all time of the day and of the night. Their voices, too, are constant here, even the trumpet of a swan, the plaintive call of a peacock.
Past the archways, the downward slope of this rocky mount continues, and gardens will soon to give way to river valley. Stone steps lead from this terrace downward, beneath the shelter of overhanging boughs.
There is evidence that he was here...
Traces in the air of a man's cologne. Traces of whiskey. Traces of a cigarette. Or two.
... three...
He was here. In the ripple of the air that yet hums his name, in the last tendril of a cigarette's smoke into nothingness. In the glass left half-full of an 'old fashioned' (ha! the irony!). He has been here. He was just here...
Maybe you are attuned to such things as the air popping with magic, a hum of energy (not altogether unlike Majesty only more visceral) that moves along the air, through it.
The birds certainly feel it...
The peacocks scamper until they can vault in the air for the nearby trees. Finches, swallows, doves, even the pair of ravens all lift. Wings slap against the air, carrying them up and away in their multitude of colors and cries.
And then from shadows, Davydd comes, popping air punctuated by the march of the Cymri. His aura could light half of Welshpool. If you view it, ever, but certainly now, it'd fill the aviary full of bright white light. And in it, swimming, dragons of blue light in nine locations.
"Oh, there you are," Sandrine replies, a veritable nymph in a forest. She turns about, a little surprised to see someone where she had just looked. Perhaps she had not looked so well. "I had called you for your drink," Sandrine explains, "...but then there was no response."
She walks over to a small table and sets down two martinis. "Everything alright?" Sandrine asks, rising and peering about slightly, noting the strangeness in the air.
"Drinks," Davydd says, appearing at your side, an arm around your waist and his mouth at your ear. "Excellent." He beams -- he can't help that, really -- and, arm coiling around your waist, he leans back. "Oh, sorry, sweet," he remembers that he's covered in London rain.
It hasn't rained here lately and... just how did he get wet beneath the shelter of the aviary?
Davydd draws his arm away and shrugs out of his jacket, giving it a toss. His short-sleeved shirt reveals tattooes at his wrists and peeking beneath the sleeves at large biceps. The shirt, a soft black cotton; his pants, a wool blend. "Everything's good... I didn't mean to pop off," literally, "...without a word. I had to take care of something quick-like."
Sandrine's confused now, her features twisting slightly. "You're wet," she observes, looking up and around the aviary.
I'm going to have to explain this, aren't I...
Davydd nods once and exhales. "Aye, I am." His hair is wet, too. Not drenched as before, but he's definitely not been in the aviary, even though all evidence would point to the contrary. "I got a call from Valan," he explains quietly. "Edward took a bit of a tumble. Unexpected brawl with ... god knows who, really. Appears to have suffered from a poisoned edge. They needed me to swing by. He's good as new, but he had me worried sommat when I saw him."
Edward lives in London. To London, and back? In less than half an hour? Even if he turned into a bird, he'd have to have a jet engine on his back to make it there in that time.
"There are a few ways to get to London in a hurry," he offers up in a whisper. But he leaves it at that. If you want to know more, you'll ask him. "So! That was my night. Happy he's alright now and happy to be back. You're a fine woman, bringing me a martini..." With that, he takes it up...
Sandrine stares a moment, then returns to the present at the mention of martinis. "Oh, yes, martini, as you like it." She nods, soaking in your comments and the implications of it. There's no question, really. Sandrine appears to 'get it.'
"I guess everything is alright now, with them?"
He nods as he sips. "Aye so... he's healed at any rate. Bit more than simple poison to lay down Meurelle. It's a bit concerning. It didn't seem like it would be lethal, but it certainly wasn't pleasant." Another sip and his expression turns to one of blessed bliss. "You make the best martini this side of Manhattan." As if he's been to New York.
He takes a sit on the bench and holds a hand out for you. "I'm not soggy straight through and softer than the bench," an offer for his lap and a grin. To have his arms around you -- that's a treat.
"So where were we?" he wonders. Before your drink-making and his leave-taking interrupted things. "Oh, right..." his synapses fire and he nods, "... the lovely Loire Valley. We've been invited to stay at the chateau for a week before Will closes it for the winter and packs up for Scotland again. Should be a lovely time," Davydd murmurs, tipping his head back to see you.
"France, yes," Sandrine remembers, taking the offered seat. She sips at her drink and smiles. "That would be nice," she agrees, "...I don't think I've ever been to Chinon, is it?"
It's a good seat, and for all the muscle a gentle one as well. An arm comes around you to support you there, thighs hold you easily, his other hand free to curl his drink toward and away from him in a motion as rhythmic as the tide.
There's a simplicity to this between you, a growing easiness after having suffered a bump or two in the road. "Chinon," Davydd confirms. "Great, colossal place it is. I remember when he acquired it... it was before Napoleon, during the Revolution. It was a pile of rubble, really. Some structure left after Richlieu had ordered it to be disassembled. I admired the Don Quixote-ness of the project. I think it was Edward who told him he was fucking nuts. But he restored it," Davydd sips at his drink and looks to you past the rim. "It's a lovely thing. You'll enjoy the gardens and orchards, I think. Ours," a glance around, meaning Powis' world famous gardens, "... are far grander, but his orchards are amazing."
He leans in, a kiss placed upon your cheek. He watches the color of it come and go, and he smiles. "We'll go and have a lovely week. Enjoy the wine festival and come back here and settle in for a nice, simple, quiet, cozy winter. No London. No traveling. Just you and me..."
"What is the festival like?" Sandrine wonders. "I mean, won't we miss most of it?" Activities during the day and all. "Though, I guess William will throw parties at night." And why not? "A week away," Sandrine muses. "It will be our first trip off the island..."
Pauses on that. "You know, you're right. I hadn't thought of that." Davydd blushes a touch, which makes the freckles on the bridge of his nose stand out a bit. It makes him look fifteen for a split second. Puck like indeed. "I don't get off the island much. I really should do something about that. I'd like to go to Spain sometime. As for the festival, a lot of it happens at night, actually. During the day, it's for tourists. Ren faires and shopping, wine sipping and the like. At night, there is dancing, I hear, and the festival opens with the lighting of bonfires," like the Old Ways still, "... and usually a ritualistic dumping into a wine vat. Grape crushing, drunkeness, singing. A good pagan leftover. I'm sure Gwilym will have something at the chateau as well, as he will be there this year. It will likely be simple, like a family event."
No grande balls or the like, and that suits Davydd -- and William -- just fine.
"Would you like to travel more," Davydd wonders. "I'd still like to go to your homeland for a spell. We've not done that. We don't have to stay at Powis this year if you don't want..." Davydd finishes his martini, sets the glass on the bench beside him and soon both arms are around you, and he quite close. The cologne is something natural, not a refined, synthetic scent. It smells slightly of orange. It is incredibly subtle.
"Whichever," Sandrine replies. "I will go where you wish." There's the comforting smile again and she drinks from her martini. "Mm," she swallows, touching her bottom lip to save a droplet, "...but the festival sounds like good fun. Most festivals as that are gone nowdays."
"This means that there will be others at the castle? I mean, other friends visiting?"
"Could be," he notes with a nod. "Not sure if Edward and Valan will be there or not. I'll ask when I call tomorrow to make sure all is yet well. Alire may be there. It'd be good to see him. He's a first-rate gentleman, that one. Gentleman prince now, but Poitiers celebrates with Chinon this time of year, politics notwithstanding." He smiles a bit.
Vampires can suck the joy out of things till they're not fun anymore, but so far the festival remains immune!
Davydd gives you a squeeze, making a low sound in his throat. You know what that means. "For all I know the Sultan," Nasr, "...will be there. It is hard to tell with that one. He's getting reclusive in his dotage. You'll like him. He's an Islamic comedian."
Now, that is funny...
Islamic comedian? Now that's strange. Sandrine tips her drink away from her lips, thinking on that one. "I do not think I have met...many...of that type." She shrugs a little and nods. "It sounds like an interesting crowd though."
"How is your drink?" Sandrine wonders, taking another sip of hers. "I changed vodkas tonight. Klimt instead. What do you think?" Ah, a topic shift in the wind...
He doesn't linger on the topic of Islamic comics or Sultans but instead snaps to at the mention of vodka. The smile is sudden, bright. As bright as his living aura, sparkles as much as the sparkly bits of magic in the air around him. "Hmm... good... it's already gone to my head," he notes. "I think I should have another. Care to adjourn to the sitting room?" Of the bedchamber, that is.
"While I can still walk, even..." he laughs, merry and earthy all at the same time. Magic and exertion followed by the sugary energy of alcohol's fermentation can become tipsiness quite easily and quite quickly. Bronze eyelashes half-mast and he's looking at your lips, or somewhere just above your hips. Magic and exertion also put him in A Mood.
"As you wish," Sandrine grins, shaking her head. A transparent man, this is true. But she'll go along with the plans for the sitting room, knowing that the bedroom cannot be so far behind.
"Any word from..." she hates to bring her up, "...London? Well, other than Edward and Valan?" Sandrine must mean Drancy. "It has been so quiet," she observes, her dress rustling as she stands.
"Not a word," Davydd says, there's even a smile. But he isn't going to push his luck. He's occasionally superstitious. There's a thing or two he'd like to do tonight, or at least the One Thing, twice -- and he'd just as soon not jinx it entirely. A lean forward and he says shhh against your mouth as he stands after you. And grins.
"I like the quiet," he admits, arm around you as he bends to take his jacket and his empty glass. He picks up after himself, this one. "I like serenity, I'm chaotic enough as it is I like the rest of my surroundings to be as peaceful as a forest." Or a garden.
Drawing you to him to walk flush, and therefore slowly, Davydd looks to you. He says nothing for a time -- it's a miracle! -- but he's naturally chatty, so it doesn't last long. He leads you toward the terrace exit and not to the other one that presumably exists. There may be quick ways to London but getting around Powis takes old fashioned foot power.
Posted by rowan at October 17, 2003 11:50 AM
