As one of the children comes up to him with a handful of grapes, Valmiki laughs, accepting the offering philosophically. He is not a god, though he has met gods, and ... other things. "Thank you," he tells the little girl. "Tell you what," he adds confidingly, "there is too much here, too many, for myself, alone. I will take one, but you take the rest - but I thank you for your gift, and," he winks, "I will remember you to Vishnu and Lakshmi. Tonight, you may have dreams of gold and fish, and cities below the desert sands, with sunlight upon the faintest spires that emerge from beneath." He pops the grape into his mouth, trying not to choke on the sudden overly sweetness of it.

     Glasses are raised in a toast to the Professor and the Stargazer. Recent additions to this Valley family, they have become much loved. Some around the vats begin to head toward the general motion of the crowd, people slowly moving from the vineyards and bonfires and toward the bridge.

     Falcon grins, coming up and into a friendly hug, hands clapping against the Professor's back. They say that these two are comrades and colleagues from Paris, here in Chinon to take in the country life.
     "Yes, ami, a drink is exactly what I need!"

     "You are sent." Yes, no arguing that. "It is Its nature to find reasons that will be accepted. You were drawn." The man raises his glass, takes a sip.
     "Close is better." He says without warning, though that should be no surprise.
     They have always been at the table near the castle. Which one? It doesn't matter. Closer is all that matters. Ishrael joined him here. He has spent the entire Time here. Across the bridge, where everyone is going. A wrought iron table, out of the way, that was placed here just for him. By him. And later won't be. And never will have been.

     The calm young man in yellow laughs at the blessing and prayer the piper bestows on the child. There's a nod for the kindness of it, the sentiment's bounteous generosity and peaceful intent. As Valmiki eats the grape, the young man smirks, knowing exactly how the grapes of the Vienne taste.

     The prince of cats stretches, falling backwards on the roof. He is effortlessly lazy. "Come, let us get closer." Standing in fluid motion, the man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt -- and a black cloak, and the clothing of a Prince -- walks along the rooftop. In his wake, the shadows seethe with glowing green feline eyes, and twitching black feline tails.

     "Dreams of gold and fish, and cities below desert sands, with sunlight upon the faintest spires that emerge from beneath..."
     Ishrael blinks, giving a self-satisfied smile.
     "And so that will Be..."
     But, then, there is This. Ishrael's eyes narrow as he stares into some point. A singularity. "Closer, there," he says in response to his companion.

     And they already are. Almost no need for Ishrael to even have said.

     Among the throng beginning to make their creeping way across the bridge and toward the center of the ville itself -- lastly to the castle sitting upon the plateau right above it, bathed again in amber lighting -- is Etienne Denais, chief vintner of the chateau du Chinon itself, Eros Foury, the castle's newly appointed steward, Michele duPris, chairman of the Chinon Appellation and with them, walking in the center of them all Guillaume d'Angevin.
     In the procession line itself, which is broad as well as increasing in length as people down the line of it begin to come together, there is that same song. Langue d'Oc. The song was written for Eleanor long ago, a praise to her beauty, the beauty of this Valley, and a tribute to the language as rich as the Valley's wine.

     "Come on," Laurent grins, a woman near the vat offering his shoes and socks back to him. "We'll wash in the river, hmm? Then, something else. Oh, perhaps...cabernet franc?" Aren't we tired of it yet? Apparently not. Laurent smirks and begins to haul himself over the vat's edge, trying to bring Falcon with him.

     Falcon laughs. Cabernet franc. They've been swimming in cabernet. His eyes are now the color of the cabernet franc, no? The astronomer is quite spry for a drunk academician. He slides over the other side of the vat, coming to stand on dry land again.
     Of course the dry land is now sticking to his wet feet...

     ...on the castle battlements, another crowd watches from above. Dressed in their fineries, they stand on the ramparts and turrets of Chinon Castle, adorned in jewels and silks, with glasses filled red. The Wanderers, children of Caine, their faces pale as the moonlight itself...

     Yes, as Marcabru said:
     Probet del lignatge Cai
     del primeiran home fello
      a tans aissi
     Of the lineage of Cain, of the first treacherous man, there are some here...

     "I've taken care of it," Sebastian says to Yisun and Fiona, motioning with a broad hand to Paul and Beth. "There will be access, just no photographs of personal items. Textiles, some artwork will be on display. Certainly architecture shots are possible. That's it. I'll explain more when we get there."

     "We'll move up," Fiona agrees, finishing off a string of shots and glancing across to Yisun. "Let's go now, in fact - get good positions for the shots. Do we Know anyone," capitalized, "for permission to get good angles." Odd, it all seems vaguely familiar. "Drag our happy couple with us, or leave them here - crowd shots'll work as easily as posed, and the procession'll likely be better footage."

     "Ah, you can laugh," Valmiki tells the man in yellow, with a chuckle of his own as he spits the seed out into the palm of his hand, eyeing it contemplatively. "I am an entertainer, after all. Do you speak, then? Or have you other voice than that heard with the ears?" He taps the seed with a fingertip, then, murmuring in Sanskrit over it.
     "...to the earth again you go, and be blessed and fruitful. May the children of your seed and your seed's seed grow proudly and green, your strength sufficient to be as dreamed of, without fear of failure or decay." Yes, Valmiki's whimsically blessing a single grape seed. And why not? His life is spent on fancy, spent on others, not on himself. It is his blessing and his curse, is it not?

     Sebastian just grins at Fiona. Your wish is my command...

     Coming out of her pose, Marie-Lys smiles -- and her boyfriend grins -- "I have to go to the chateau to get my jacket anyway. Jervais and I are going to camp on the river later." As if anyone cared. But apparently she lives there?

     Yisun nods, capping her lens for now. "I think so. Sooner rather than later. Make sure we get in," she says.

     The crowd is thick upon the bridge now, but still moving well. More and more stream from the surrounding vineyards to follow them to the Chateau visible from here. Nearly from any angle, situated on an outcropping of limestone plateau as it is.
     The songs shift, still with that same steady rhythm, quickening slightly, perhaps in encouragement for those at the head of the bridge to get moving...

     "I do speak," the man in yellow remarks, hands sliding slowly into his pockets. A bit of shyness. A Frenchman. A man of little import, just a traveller and reveler among more of the same. "Sorry...for staring. Your music is wonderful," he says politely.
     "I'm Darius," he says as if it's an explanation.

      "Oh," Sebastian adds, turning and bringing his finger to his lips. Before he forgets. "No people. The owner's requested that as well. The textiles, architecture, and particular artworks. We'll be given a tour." No random walking. "So, if you're ready," Sebastian motions to the bridge and the tower, "...let's go."

      Interesting. Important People. Ishrael stares into his point of singularity, unmoving and unblinking.

     Word of the forming procession spreads as it gathers participants from all of the surrounding fields and those who were waiting for it on the bridge as it begins to cross. In the Rue Voltaire dancing has given way to music playing and the last few rounds of drinks before the procession arrives. Those who scoped tables early are among the fortunate few. The rest are standing...

      "Do you want to go..." Laurent asks Falcon, motioning to where the festivities appear to be starting? "Personally, a wash and the drink sounds good enough for me. It has been a long night, yes?"

     Davydd draws Sandrine to him, the last turn of a dance now halted and he grins. "Ydw dedwydd i," he whispers to her and he walks her toward the chateau. In anticipation of the crowd...

     "So am I, Davydd," Sandrine replies, her Welsh improving. "Me too."

     Falcon turns to look at the crowd heading toward Chinon and its chateau. A few remain at the Domaine de Rabelais, mostly to watch and tend the bonfires. "A wash and a drink sound fine for me. It will be a while before we can get home, I think," he chuckles. "Just do not let me drown!" he pleads suddenly, grinning. Yes, drunk. Very.

     "Right, up to the castle it is." Fiona half-grins, half-grimaces. The last time she was there, she was still a punk. The time before - though she doesn't remember it - she was possessed by her many times great-grandmother, a faerie queen or something. She hefts her equipment testingly, nodding to Marie-Lys, then to Yisun. "At this rate, if we can get a foot in the door, we'll be fortunate."

     "How do you do, Darius? I am Valmiki." Valmiki jumps to his feet in order to bow sweepingly, using the flute to extend the bow. "I am accustomed to being stared at, and your stare was not particularly opprobrious. I am glad that you enjoyed my playing, however."

     "Good," Darius murmurs. A man with quietude. "I'm glad it's alright. And yes, your playing is marvelous. I heard it," Darius twists, motioning to the square beyond, "...back there." A nod of his head. He doesn't appear to have too much to say, his dark hair lifted by the breeze. Silence.

     Sebastian's already walking. The crowd continues to part for him, his Moses mask still apparently working.

     Eros, Etienne, Michele and Guillaume move in the midst of the throng, about halfway through the crowd. Hands begin to come together, beating out the measure of a jaunty tune. Across the bridge, there is a shouting -- one clear voice lifting above the others:
     "Qui mourra ainsi les vignes seront-elles soutenues encore?"
     Who will die so the vines will be reborn?
     "Il sera moi!" another answers: It will be me...
     If one were watching from above, one would see how the crowd turns and twists upon itself, a brief eddy created as a couple of members of the march halt to lift a man upon their shoulders...
     There is a roar again as the crowd applauds, laughs, sings and shouts its way across the bridge spilling into the main thoroughfare.

     Yisun glances back at the roaring wave of human sound and looks to Sebastian. "Hey, Moses, pick it up a notch. I can hear the sea at my back..."

     Sebastian glances over his shoulder, expression firm. He's not amused. But his stride does pick up as he suddenly finds a pace that he can't possibly sustain.
     Keep up everyone.

     "We're doing the running of the bulls next, aren't we," Fiona mutters, picking up her pace. Despite everything, she can move pretty quickly - and lately, she's taken to working out to improve her fitness, at odd hours of the day and night. No matter what hours she works, her personal cycle is a mix of day and night-time hours. A little for every aspect... Her eyes flare into colour for a moment, and she comes to a halt. "Right. Blood and wine..." She shakes her head, shaking the thought away as she starts jogging again. Normal, remember?

     Dropping back to his cross-legged position, Valmiki seems in no hurry to go anywhere. Stories are everywhere, after all. "Did you? I thought to play to find something, but I don't know for certain what it was that I had lost. Are you from this patch of fragrant and unsolitary earth, then?" He grins to Darius, unworried by the quietness in the man. He talks enough for two or more, after all.

     ...the ramparts fill with quiet faces. The laughter has died down among the silken and pale, as if they can hear the words from the crowd, asking for a sacrifice for the betterment of all....

     ... As for the chateau...
     The bacchanalian frenzy of the early evening hasn't waned so much as it's switched gears into full-on preparation mode. French victors of the earlier contest now work hand-in-hand with their Italian cohorts, filling the vat in firebrigade style only with ropes and pulleys.
     Tables ring the gardens, just as they had last night, with bounteous spreads for the village and those working so hard here. Not everyone will be able to squeeze past the gates, but a lot could fit within, were they to take positions on the steps to the Horloge, the Tour du Chien, the bridge over the interior moat and the orchards and gardens.
     Guests staying at the castle, those very lucky few, can stand above and away from the press of crowds on the turret walkways and upper deck bridge between the Logis and the Tour de Boissy. Edged with lights, the windmill of the Windmill Tower is in full swing, the mill stones and irrigation engines converted to a grape press. A multi-function mill.

     "I am," Darius says, a smile for Valmiki's way of casting things. "Near Paris, originally, but now, I spend more time east of there, in Rensiere. M...my...church is there. Where I work. And sometimes, I visit Chinon."
     "And you? You," Darius smiles, "...are not from here..."

     The crowds swell in the Rue Voltaire, and along the way the sacrifice for the year is handed a bottle of wine, even a glass or two. He drinks it, glasses passed back to safety. The bottle is likewise lifted to a resounding cheer. There are now the sounds of chanting voices, drums, hands coming together and the bells of the Marie Javelle...

     Yisun crosses the rampart to the castle, smirking as she half-trots in high heels behind the huge blonde Moses. Set my people free! And my aching feet! Gah!

     A white shirt flutters over the field of humanity. It hangs momentarily like a spirit over the crowd as the wind catches it before tossing it down to the crowd. One lucky woman will have a souvenir...

     Bulls no, but the quickened pace assures a great spot on the bridge where Sebastian halts. "Enough complaining," he says, hand lifting. "Look there," Sebastian says, pointing out across the vista.
     Indeed, the curve and coil upwards lead to a place spectacular. From the castle bridge, the ville can be seen. Towers and spires of old buildings lead forth, giving way to a rather wide river below. Further up are the gates to the castle proper, but Sebastian takes a moment in case some photos need to happen.
     "Check out the crowd," he suggests. Indeed, throngs are there, some holding flames. A veritable mob, but where is the Monster...

     At the table-not table, there is quiet. Time passes and folds on itself.

     The sacrifice is barechested and barefooted now, wine staining his feet. He is a fitting sacrifice. A big sacrifice, at least. There was no skimping to the gods this year. Not after they year they have had. Dark-haired, beautiful, he revels with them even as they carry him, joining them in their chanting, in their singing:
     "La terre vit outre du sang de la vigne!"
     "Le vin, le vin qui etait le sang de L'Agneau!"
      "Ce soir nous versons hors de nos tasses pour vous!"
      "Ce soir nous donnons en arrire le sang de la terre!"
     The chant goes:
     The earth lives off the blood of the vine!
      The wine, the wine that was the blood of the Lamb!
     Tonight we pour out our cups for You!
     Tonight we give back the blood of the land!

     "Who's complaining? You pay for the airfare and hotel, right?" Fiona pulls herself up and into position, craning to get a better angle. "If I fall and die, I just want you to know, I'm coming back to haunt you." She's mildly nervous - but she jumped off a bridge once. This is ... easier than that. There is no need to commit oneself to the depths. For a moment, she almost freezes as she spots the sacrifice, paused in time before her heart remembers to beat again. Flashes of memory and not-memory can be so inconvenient in their timing....

     "No, I am not from here," Valmiki agrees with a laugh. "I am from India, originally, but now, I am from nowhere - no crisscrossone's child, save the gods, when they choose to remember me," and may they not hear me and remember me now, he silently adds, "a solitary wanderer. Some old acquaintances of mine live here - our paths crisscross, it seems, and this is the third time I have run into one of them - the second, for the other."

     These things move in threes... three times to Chinon, for Fiona, and three times encountering William, for Valmiki. What next?

     "Interesting," Darius smiles. "And...I knew you were from India," he confesses. He just didn't have a line to enter the observation with. "A wanderer, then?" Darius' eyes roll as he nods. He's done the same thing himself. A familiar tale.
     "Are you enjoying France, at least? Visiting friends and making new ones," Darius wonders, looking at the children nearby.

     "What a ham," Davydd murmurs to the one nearest to him as he leans against the parapet wall, grinning at his old enemy-brother-friend. "Looks good on him though," he follows in a quip and chased hard by warm laughter. "I would have killed you years ago if I'd known you wanted it!" comes a stream of Welsh from the parapets. "I love you just that much!"
     He says that for his benefit as much as William's. Who knows if he can even hear him over that racket. But maybe Robert got a kick out of it. Or Genevieve. God knows.

     "Haunt me?" Now that's funny. Sebastian smirks and looks out at the scene now some distance below. He laughs softly, shaking his head, though still no quippy comment comes.

     Beth and Paul bring up the rear, holding far too much equipment for two people. At some stage, Cynthia's joined them, her heels not quite the best choice for the night. They stand behind, keeping out of the view and taking a needed moment to catch their breaths.

     The first streaming of humanity begins to move toward the St. George Bridge and to the castle itself, William now carried by a multitude of hands and shoulders. Behind him Eros Foury, Etienne Denais and Michele duPris, grinning among the crowd.
     The procession picks up its pace now that the castle is so near. Soon it will be a flood...

     Within the walls of the castle, in the open area known as the Milieu, or Middle Castle, the last cask of the sacrificial wine is poured into the vat. The singing and chanting has moved within the walls now...

     Yisun fans out after stepping past the Tour d'Horloge and its portraits of St. Jeanne and its bell tower. Turning, she spots a bit of unoccupied stairway and heads that way, grabbing a perch for what appears to be the main event...

     In the middle of the lines of Kindred pushing at the ramparts to see, is the other occupant of the castle. Ian, dressed solidly in black, is the palest of all. Blonde-white hair are brilliant against his dark lapels, and grey eyes appear to gleam. He's quiet now, hip and arm along his portion of the rampart. Fingers rest gently on the cool stones. Yet, when Davydd speaks, Ian smiles at him, gaze returning to the developing scene below.

     Their names are known by few. Jezebel. Robert. Martine and Christophe. Sidhe. Sandrine. Davydd. Petrov and Miranda. Stephen. Henry, Padraig. Murphy. Raphael. Gerard and Josef. Victoria. So many of them, Kindred and their servants. Some from as near as Tours and Paris. Poitiers. Others from as far as Scotland and Athens. Preternatural eyes watch as the citizenry begins to stream up the bridge and into the Milieu, unknowingly returning to Them one of Their Own.

     "Shite," Paul says, seeing the surge. He's not quite into position. Taking his cue from Yisun, Paul pushes at Beth and tells her to get ready.

     "Well, I could try coming back to life, but I'm out of practice." Fiona shifts uneasily, coming out of her momentary reverie, and again concentrates on aiming the camera, making mental notes on how it'll all get written up. "What slant do you want on this? Realism, mystical, religioso?"

     "I betray myself," Valmiki answers smilingly. He is doing nothing of the sort, after all. "The visit was accidental, but yes - I enjoy it. I pray for changes, and for newness - everyone seeks release, relief, do they not? What of yourself, Darius?" He leans back on the grass, looking up. "What ... burdens or pleasures do you come here to escape? Ah, but forgive me; I collect stories, you see."

     Yisun's quite the spry kitty. Seeing Paul come after, she moves a couple of steps up, allowing more room. Hey, head the the high ground in a flood, she always says....

     Sebastian's staring at the people passing him by. "Hmm?" he asks, suddenly returning to the present. "Oh," his brow knits at Fiona, "I don't know. That's what I pay you for, right?"

     Cynthia chimes in, thinking as her boss does. "I'm thinking mystical. It'll work with the textiles inside. Something otherworldly lapping over with the mundane. The architecture, leading upwards, opening to the skies. Heaven. The textiles some manifestation of the hands of man. The ritual...the connective piece." Yeah, that's it.
     A look is given to Yisun and Fiona. "What say you? Mystical, not religion. We want something Out of Time."

     As the crowd heads for the Angevin archway entrance to the Horloge, William lies back. It gives him a good vantage of the passing parapets and the crowd gathered above. And in the passing of hands, and in the passing moments, the last veil is removed, the sacrifice prepared, and the trousers sailing in the night.
     And you thought they were chanting and screaming before...
     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     Yisun chews on that a moment and then watches the sacrifice get naked for the occasion. "Definitely mystical," she deadpans.

     Fiona turns brilliantly, furiously red, eyes widening and averting for a moment - surprised, anyone? It likely does surprise most, in fact. She's not a prude ...
     Just a virgin...
     "That's more of him than I needed to see," Lady Fiona Arundel mutters, settling back into position and beginning to snap off another roll of film. "Page three material, then?"

     "I don't think I'm escaping anything," Darius smiles. "Just to see the ritual. I study religions, so, this is of interest to me. And, it is a small holiday. I know someone who lives in the Castle, so I decided to come see the festival this year." Nothing so dramatic. "I haven't been here during the festival before."

     "I'd put that on the cover and make a million bucks," Yisun smirks. Then snaps. Laughs. Then snaps again. I've grown a sense of humor, O Brilliance! Me! Just imagine!

     Sebastian just watches the procession pass him. There is no joy or annoyance from him. Instead, he reaches inside a pocket and retrieves a cigarette and lighter. He curls his frame and cups the smoke, lighting it easily, despite the cool evening breeze. He sighs after the first inhale, shoving the pack and lighter back into his pocket.

     The chanting intensifies as three men with the sacrifice borne on their shoulders, their arms joined, carries him up to the ramp, feet jogging, hitting the ramp in unisoned thuds as the crowd behind them spills into the castle like viscous mud.
     One...
     Two...
     Three...
     "Laissez lui soyez fait!"

     "Holy Mother," Cynthia says, mouth open. "Christ, who is that?" She watches the train go by and stands on her tiptoes. "We have got to get a name...a picture."
     "Paul! Paul! Did you get that??"

     Davydd leans over to Sandrine as he grins and applauds. "This is my favorite part. The dunking..." He lets out a loud whistle as the men burst up the ramp to dump his majesty overboard.

     "Holy shite! That knob's like a fuckin' door!" Paul moves around, dragging Beth with him, to capture the scene of the throng bringing in the nude sacrifice. "Where'd they get this bloke?"

     "Ah, then perhaps we know someone in common," Valmiki offers up cheerfully, to Darius. "I am visiting, quite coincidentally, with William and Ian." The names are offered up hesitantly; does he even know last names? Have they been forgotten, as sometimes, things are, for the sake of Story? "They were kind to me in Scotland, and then, last night, kind again."
     Boy, couldn't that be taken the wrong way...

     "William," Fiona answers Cynthia, absently, concentrating increasingly much on the work she's doing, rather than allowing her mind to dwell too much on the subject. Trying not to get too sucked in, to where faerie things and magic might still dwell, and might - make a mess of things... "Still, I suppose it's only fair. He saw me naked, the last time, I suppose it was my turn."
     And again : boy, couldn't that be taken the wrong way...

     Cynthia looks over at Fiona, her face blank. "You know him?" Then a look is shot at Sebastian. What the hell? Something she's not in on...

     Darius does quirk. Oh. Interesting. "William who lives in the castle?" A surprise at that. But from who's point of view. "William Fraser?" Well, he does get around then. Knowing someone from India.

     At the top of the ramp, with full momentum, the three men lean forward and let the sacrifice go. And he makes an enormous splash of cabernet franc, being the big Franc that he is himself. The crowd's pitching shouts, song, laughter and chanting crescendo. Folks jump in place, clapping, as the sacrifice is 'killed' for the betterment of All...

     Sandrine claps, though it's all a bit much. Her brows arch at the drama of it, seeing a friend tossed into a vat so. But, it's the way of the locals, and she shrugs at Davydd as she starts to chuckle.

     "And so the king dies for the land again and the land is renewed by the blood of the king," Davydd explains.

     Sebastian is enjoying his cigarette. He looks up again to find Cynthia gawking at him, which causes his brows to knit: What? What did he miss?
     Stepping from his spot, Sebastian walks over to his executive producer. "Problem?"

      "Well, not a problem," Cynthia drawls out with much sarcasm. "Just...I didn't know that Fiona would know the random bloke in this," her hands wave, "...ritual thing, is all."

     Yisun stands, capturing the dunking, the submerging and the subsequent surfacing of the year's great -- and we do mean great -- sacrifice for the coming year. She smirks, turning her camera and her attention to the crowd below...

     "I'm glad it's the Laird and not me," Genevieve says drolly. "And all that wine, ruined." She shakes her head. Is this almost over?
      The green gown flows as Genevieve McMaster is the first to break the Kindred Line. She sighs and moves from her position, heading over towards Raphael, a thin blonde man with round, brown eyes. "Let's go inside," Genevieve purrs at him.

     "Yes, that would be him," Valmiki answers, happy once again to have a piece of information, even if it does go away again. "A charming fellow - a prince among men. He saw to my Capitaine's food and lodging as well as my own. Is he who you are visiting, too?"

     "He lives here," Fiona answers, voice bland, aware of vague tension and not entirely sure of what's causing it. She continues snapping photos, leaning up another few inches. "We've met a few times, that's all. Enough to say hello to each other. I wouldn't describe us as being on intimate terms." In any sense of the word, thank you. The size of him would kill her...

     The chanting of the crowd softens and then fades to laughter and congenial conversation. Wine is poured from bottles into glasses for all, the servants of Chinon distributing drinks among the crowd. The Italians return to their vat and begin dancing in wine again, and the three men -- two of them Eros Foury and Etienne Denais -- sit on the edge of the great vat, looking into it and laughing to something the Sacrifice says.

     Michele duPrist waves at the crowd: "A une annee genereuse pour Chinon!" The crowd applauds the Appellation's chairman but that is the beginning and ending of speeches. The crowd then begins to disperse.

     Darius hmphs and smiles at Valmiki. How small is God's world? "Well, I have an invite from him, but I do not know whether I'll get to see him. I am staying at a pension on Rue Altamonte. But, we met a few years ago. I was surprised to receive his invitation, but here I am." Darius shrugs and makes a 'wow' face at his fortune and bobs his head at the serendipity of it all.

     Cynthia looks to Sebastian again. "The bloke they just tossed lives here?" Oh. And she thought he was some local harvester or vintner's son. The local official or pretty boy selected for this year's honor. Cynthia's hand comes up to her head, scratching at the back of her neck. "Well, we should get shots of him," she recommends again. "I can see a collage with him in it. A left nav callout perhaps. Grapes, a man, perhaps a vineyard shot."

     Laurent stands up, feet cleaned and shoes and socks on once again. He looks up to the castle, and shakes his head at Falcon. "Are you ready?" he asks, glancing at his watch. "I could use...a bit of pate. I think we still have some at the house."

     Working on his shoes, Falcon looks up and smiles. "Oui, Laurent. Ah, pate at home, more wine... I like this. You think we can get to our door yet?" He chuckles as he stands, somewhat gracefully...

     "I think so..." Laurent smirks, putting an arm around Falcon. "And see, it is not so far for us..."

     "Raphael," Ian says softly, grinning at Genevieve, "...put us out of our misery, will you?"
     There's a bit of laughter around Ian for his comment as he passes to stand before the Kindred arranged to see the dunking. He doesn't rush to William's side -- not that he could -- nor does Ian appear to have anything prepared. This holiday is by Chinon, for Chinon. He, and the others, are but interested observers.

     Genevieve smirks as Raphael turns her about, glad to take the lady inside and away from the boring mundanities of kine.

     William rises from the wine, covered and stained in it. He leans against the body of the vat, crossed arms resting on the wooden lip of it. Eros and Etienne, sensing playful disaster (as if they trust him!) stand and grin. Etienne heads back down the ramp but Eros stays. Somewhere there is a servant scurrying for a towel.
     A hand is lifted to those on the parapet. To one in particular...
     But the sacrifice does not call the representative of the God to him; he will go to the God. That is the way of sacrifice. William turns, nodding and smiling to someone from the village. Some are staying a while to be on the lawn of the castle -- a rare treat -- while others return to their own parties, their own homes, or their campgrounds...

     "I was not invited," Valmiki confesses, sitting back up, resting his hands on his knees. "I simply ... arrived," a slight gesture with the flute, diagramming the suddenness of it all, "and there they were. They were kind enough to offer me a bed for the night, though I chose to sleep in the garden. A pomegranate tree and I befriended one another, as well. I have a ... weakness ... for pomegranates..." Historical in nature, no doubt.

     Fiona edges just a bit further forward, perched almost precariously, having more than enough space now from the others - trying for one last shot. "He likes his privacy," she remarks. "I did an interview with him, once - apparently it was a bit of a rarity. He paints." Simple statements, not really conveying much of anything. "I suppose you could ask, of course. I've known him for a while. Not well - just ... we keep running into each other."

     Another look to Sebastian. "I know the article -- it's the same bloke?" Okay, this is far too coincidental. Cynthia asks Sebastian, "Did you know it was the same guy? We're doing another piece on the same guy from that 'M' bit? I don't want to rehash...or seem like we're...late. Bloody-hoo-fuckin'-ray...."
     "So, this is a total wasted trip," Cynthia asks the group. "We can't run this guy again."

     Ah. Darius smiles, though it is sorta strange. "It seems they are good to wanderers," he observes. "Maybe we are lucky in that regard, to know them." His conversation then lapses again, perhaps a catalyst for him to begin a departure.

     Sebastian shakes his head, "Then, don't use him. Focus on the festival, the ritual. The design and architecture inside. The mysticism of wine and upholstery. Don't put him in it, then," he suggests easily. "It's not the Bombing." Of London. "Stick to what we came for...that's -this-." Everything else. Not a particular individual.

     Yisun cocks up an eyebrow and lowers the camera. She holds her shots until she gets anymore word. Someone lives here really? Huh. "Do we have to run the guy, or can we just run the castle... maybe he can provide a spokesman... you can get around it..."

     Yisun nods to Sebastian. I should just shut up. I'm getting too mouthy! Why does this vessel always have to run off at the mouth!

     One of the valets approaches the grand vat, a towel wrap in hand...
     Eros glances over to the group of photographers hanging out not far from the vat. William glances over, but doesn't make any huge pretense of joining them. He'd just as soon be invisible...
     Only that's really hard to do when you were just carried in naked and dunked in a pool of cabernet franc....

     "No reason for it to be a wasted trip," Fiona agrees with Sebastian. "The scenery's gorgeous, the ambience is great, and if we've got an angled, focused shot, it isn't like anyone's going to be looking at anything in the photo except the equipment, and," she suddenly grins, "anyone who can recognize him solely on the strength of that is probably not going to be saying anything of interest about -that- aspect of the article. Work on the primitive avatar instead." She settles back on her haunches on the outcropping of stone facing she's perched herself on, seeming to lapse into meditative thought, expression almost dreamy as she aims the camera at the farther edge of the gates. "Dionysian sensuality of the earth. That which has been forgotten - not just some naked bloke who happens to paint." Blinking, she grins suddenly once again as she spots William glancing over. Lowering the camera, she aims a grin (which can only be described as so catfish-like it's a wonder her teeth aren't brown) at the king of the castle. Surprise.

      "If you'd like to go inside, or explore the ville, feel free," Ian says to the crowd around him. In truth, with the surge in human heat and pulses, many of his companions appear slightly agitated. "It's a lovely night in Chinon. William would want you all to enjoy it..."
     No disagreement comes. A few hand touch Ian on the shoulder in passing as the Kindred, too, begin to disperse. To do what they do as no other. They will disappear into the shadows of Chinon, finally getting the opportunity to experience what everyone else has enjoyed all evening...

     Cynthia is slow to respond, but the team seeming non-plussed about it all, she begins to nod. "Alright," she says at Fiona in particular, "...you decide the art. I just don't want anyone thinking we're following 'M'. That's it. I want our own spread, and I want the show to cross with the print. Rich and lush. Rich and lush..."

     "They are," Valmiki agrees warmly, rising to his feet. He's restless, feeling a pull, not knowing where from, not knowing where to. "Excuse me," he adds, "I think the wine I drank earlier is begging for release." A quick, unembarrassed smile, as he steps back, bowing. "If you will pardon, sir - a pleasure to have met you, if we should not meet again?"

     "I hope we will, Valmiki. Remember me," Darius says cryptically, nodding in allowance for the call. "I will be here another day or two, so...maybe we will see each other once more. If not, then I wish you safe journeys and peace."

     Paul and Beth look around to the team. The camera is still running -- there will be much footage to edit and select.
     "Let's just keep goin'," Paul interjects, focusing the camera on something new.

      The parties continue in the ville. The music and dancing rejoined. Dinners begun by some, continued drinking by others...
     In the Milieu, crowds of castle inhabitants and other guests gather in the gardens, enjoying the banquet. A group of the Italian men appear to be heading for the inner moat, filled with water. Let the naked swimming to clean off the wine begin!

     There is another sound of liquid being displaced, a wave of cabernet franc as William emerges from the vat. The towel will be ruined. William sits on the edge of the vat, towel brought first to wine drenched short hair, the fabric pooling at his lap. He speaks quietly to Eros, but his eyes lift upward to the parapets and the blonde-haired young man still standing there.
     "Make sure our guests are all happy, hmm? I'll be in the house in a moment." The house. Some house.

     Yisun watches the dark-haired sacrifice. He makes her skin tingly. What's with that? Is it evil or just that fetching? Hmmm. She caps the lens on her still shot. "I'm ready for some architecture." A pause. "Different architecture. Where are we permitted in the interior?"

     Davydd heads with Sandrine to the rooftop entrance of the Logis Royeaux, arm around her shoulders. He pauses a moment to look out over the terrain. The bonfires being extinguished. Overhead, a revelation of stars...
     "Look," he whispers and he points upward.

     "I'll see about getting the guide over here," Sebastian says, still puffing on his cigarette. "Once that's set up, he'll take you. I've got an appointment," he explains, pushing up his cuff to see that diamond-encrusted watch that seems never to leave his wrist.
     "I think you all can handle it from here." Doing arty things. "I'll catch up with you...dinner tomorrow night? I think we're scheduled," Sebastian asks-says, turning to Cynthia to confirm.

     "Right. Thirty Years," Cynthia replies. "8pm tomorrow. Back to London the morning after for us." Not meaning Sebastian, perhaps, in that.

     "Alright," Fiona agrees casually, crawling back off the stone and letting her feet dangle until they regain contact with solid stone underneath. She's unworried about finding inspiration. All she has to do is close her eyes. And if she's stuck - call a few old friends. Ash, oak leaf and thorn... just the notion makes things suppressed surge, changing grey eyes to green for a moment before her control exerts itself. "I'll get to work on it once we're in the clear. I think I'll wander and take some notes, for now - and more pictures."

     "I will be here for several days longer," Valmiki allows, testing the waters of his fate. "If you wish, of course, just send a note on the wind - who knows, it may even arrive." He laughs soundlessly, then turns. He really does need to - after all - go. And being who and what he really is... bathrooms are never entirely convenient.

     Sebastian angles through the crowd, heading against traffic. Moving towards Eros, he lifts a hand to the castle steward to get his attention...

     Eros turns as William heads not for the reporters and cameras but instead down the ramp in the other direction, towel wrapped around him toga-like as befitting a wine god sacrifice. "Bonsoir, monsieur," Eros says to Sebastian. He's a man in his mid-thirties, black-haired, black-eyed.

     A greeting, a handshake. Sebastian removes his cigarette to his mouth, and motions to the media team. There's your charges. I'm gone.

     Darius just smirks. He inhales sharply and shoves his hands into his pockets, wandering off towards the Vienne.

     "They're just stars," Sandrine murmurs, grinning as she stares at Davydd while he looks up. "Not that interesting, really." She encourages his arm to wrap around her own. "I'm glad we came, Davydd. I have not seen France in a very long time."

     Ah yes, Eros nods, looking over to the crew as hands meet then part. He smiles a little. "Good evening," he drops into English easily. "If you would follow me, we will be heading into the Logis Royeaux..."

     What do you mean not interesting? Davydd smirks. "Just stars?" he blurts, then laughs. Alright, they're just stars. The same ones I saw last night. "I'm glad we came too," arm around her, Davydd draws her in. "We can stay a few nights... no need to rush off...go to Paris for a night or two maybe...on the way back..."

     Oh, already? Cynthia, Paul, and Beth all swivel about, hearing that their tour is loaded up and ready. Cynthia walks ahead, extending her hand to Eros. "Thank you. We are excited about seeing the castle..."

     Eros shakes her hand, "You are welcome. I believe the terms have been mentioned? We have many guests here, they are not to be interviewed or filmed..." Yes? This has been covered? "The first area is the entrance hall and the lower half of the great hall..." He nods to each one of you and then turns to lead you toward the five-story building in the castle complex.

     Looking resigned, Fiona shifts position. Work detail - but she's seen the castle before. She waves to Cynthia, offering a polite nod to Eros. She wanders across the courtyard instead, in search of a good place to watch people and brood over angles before going inside to rejoin her group.

Posted by rowan at November 02, 2003 06:41 PM