Evidence of the procession litters the village of Chinon. Despite the cleanup, plenty of vats still remain around the town's center, and campers along the River Vienne keep bonfires going. Tourists have begun to wane in the festival's third night, but there are still plenty of revelers from the region who have not so far to go to find a bed.
Local shops and stores keep longer hours this week, happy to benefit from the swelling numbers. Perfumeries and chocolatiers are popular, but so are the brasseries, restaurants, cafes, and the boucheries. Food and wine remain the heart of the festival, but craftsmen and artisans are doing perfectly well, thank you. Along the Rue de Voltaire, the oldest street in Chinon, below the castle, stalls provide lovely silks and embroideries, hand-painted woods, and instruments. On Rue de Chinon, fresh fruits and late harvest vegetables do a brisk business, along with beaderies and accessories for the fashion-conscious. Tourist Information stalls (with large, blue script i) continue to call and find room and board for the late arrivals. And along the Vienne itself, travelers from all over ply their homemade wares and creations in myriad colors and shapes.
The setting sun does nothing to dampen moods. Fires blaze higher, songs increase in volume and frequency, and the food from campers wafts onto the cityside of the river. A circus performance takes place in the small park where the statue of Jeanne d'Arc rides upon her steed, sword drawn. Cars now drive in a few of the previously closed streets, but in general, everyone continues to walk the village beneath the lights of its massive castle.
The backpack slung across his shoulder, the beaten up jeans, and the faded plaid shirt, mark him as not a local. Definitely not from around here. The backpack has the flags of a dozen nations sewn to it.
To Other eyes, he is more. The Slumbering Sun illuminates his princely vestments, and sets life to his shadow. Shadows. Definitely in the plural. So many little four-legged shadows which rub up against his legs, purring, as he pokes about the shops.
He has a few bags in hand, a purchase or three of some trinkets that caught his eye. Likely they are shiny, or make noise.
He had to take her to the orchards just so he could sneak away! His woman is wandering the inner sanctum of a lush garden, with pear and plum and roses and lilies. Enough to distract her. With a kiss, Davydd ap Owain slipped away.
He's wandering down the Voltaire, looking at silks and jewelry and books and all manners of things. Shoes! Good lord, the shoes. A fairy could wear himself out on all the shoe distributing choices in this town. He pauses at a window, hands slipping into the pockets of his light suit jacket, eyes on a pair of powder blue leather pumps.
Not for himself!
Pursing his lips in thought a moment, Davydd ap Owain turns instead and wanders to the next boutique.
On Rue de Voltaire, a few people gather to watch a juggling troupe. Blowing fire from their mouths, the team of four pranced around each other, jumping and tossing balls. Every so often, the crowd would clap loudly, and a few coins dropped into a nearby open violin case.
A dark face walks among those on Voltaire. Not so many like him, to be sure. Certainly none with such straight hair, such long hair. It remains tied back by a blue strap with white dotting. Dressed in dark blue, the man looks left and right at various items in a particular stall where beadwork is done.
"I will have..." Ishrael pauses, "...thirty of those." Clear bead bracelets, he points at.
The artist blinks at her bracelets, then looks back at Ishrael. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I don't have thirty, I only have five..."
Wandering up and down the streets with her camera at the ready, Fiona is paying more attention to photo-opportunities than to what the photos could symbolize; a deliberate choice on her part. Every time she stops to -think-, things keep happening : flashes of memory that are not-memory, little twitches and fiery nerve-spasms of magic that are more sensual than masturbation and less disturbing the more they occur, making them more disturbing for that very reason.
As a result, whether kneeling on pavestones for a low-angled shot or perched in a doorway to examine lovers through her lens, Fiona, sometimes known as Drancy, sometimes known as ... some other things (being many things to many people has its costs as well as rewards), is fighting off a wave of dizziness by immersing herself in cold, hard work.
As such, she's oblivious to the trail of millet seeds dropped in her wake. The pigeons and ravens swooping after crumbs left by tourists are more observant, however, flocking to peck up the seeds. Is it magic? Or a prank by a member of the camera crew, involving her equipment bag and a small hole near the bottom?
He skips, almost, happy in this atmosphere. There is a glamour to the air, a scent of wonder that draws people like this man. Tibalt. Never ask him his full titles, he'll lie for hours.
"Are we happy?" To most he is speaking to no one. To him, he speaks to his constant feline companies. They purr their agreement. "Good, wouldn't want you to become bored, you might cause damage." No, they won't. The felines are largely harmless, here. It is the fluffs of dust that hide in the folds of the cloak that one should worry about.
Finding a fountain, and a troupe of jugglers to watch, the Prince and his Procession seat themselves.
Bronze-haired head tilts as green eyes find purchase on a certain ring. The glass of the storefront is a mirror suddenly, reflecting the studious aspect of a concentrating ap Owain. No, no more rings. No more necklaces. I've given her enough pendants to choke Marie-Antoinette.
Back when she had a neck, even...
Davydd whistles as he comes upright, grinning as he half-pivots to watch the fire-juggling. Some things never go out of style, thankfully. And he has to admit to himself that, really, he's missed these sorts of gatherings. Fire festivals, flowing wine, gift-giving and rolling in the grass.
It is an amusing happenstance that the three fairies (or fairy-touched individuals) in this part of Chinon are creating a triangle between them. Maybe it isn't happenstance at all. Skin tingles with energy, magic and more Base than that, and like magnets they will either pull one another in or send the triad skipping off the universe like a flat stone on smooth water. Davydd looks up, away from the jugglers to a congregation of squabs. Such a glance allows him to see both Tibalt and Drancy.
Drancy?
He'd face palm but then he knows better than to think it's coincidence. "Vous allez commencer une emeute de pigeon avec toute cette graine," Davydd calls out. Surprise.
Tibalt shares his soul with that a cat, and the pigeons can sense that. Soon they might explode into a fury of feathers as they take to the air in fear.
Oh. Well, why wouldn't you have thirty? Just make thirty?
Ishrael's eyes widen at the woman in the stall as he asks, "How long will it take you to make twenty-five more?" Some response comes, because Ishrael nods. "I will take the five then."
Electricity is impossible to ignore, whatever flavour of energy it might convey. Fiona whirls round, startled by the name, particularly when paired with that language, then grins despite herself, shaking her head. Coincidence? Coincidence ... coincidence or not coincidence, he is there, and she is here, and it is a fact.
"Je n'ai aucune graine, mais j'ai note les pigeons. Sont-ils a vous, puis?" She responds fluently, fluidly, in the same language, glancing over her shoulder. Seed? What seed? She knows nothing of this seed whereof he speaks. In English, then, she adds, "Hello, Davydd. Been a while. Been keeping well?"
She's still clamping down too tightly to have noticed Tibalt for what he is, only a glimmer of glamour trickling past her to thread outwards. A trickle is enough, though, to limn Fiona to others' eyes, however briefly. She glances over - one side, then the other - and then shrugs. Philosophy. Bah.
If Tibalt has noticed Fiona, he doesn't show it. Instead, he is content to watch the jugglers and talk with his otherwise-invisible cats.
The black shadows gather around him, their tails twitching, as their feline green eyes glow out from their fur's darkness.
Tibalt says "I once met a fire eater who had burnt his tongue clean off." Tibalt says to them, "Don't you think that this would be a terribly exciting profession?""
The artisan prepares the five bracelets, wrapping each in a thin film of tissue paper. She folds them into another bag, which she hands to Ishrael. A price is quoted, and after several seconds of figuring out money - she just stared - the man passed euros to the woman, took his bag, and began walking further along Rue de Voltaire.
Davydd smiles back, it's an easy look, warm and congenial even. Davydd tilts his head, looking at the swarm of birds. "Must be your perfume then," he chuckles. "I'd check it if I were you. So! You've come in for the festival?" He'll admit to be surprised by that. Doesn't seem your sort of scene. Either as Fiona or Drancy.
Standing now beside her, he throws off the equilibrium of the triangle. Now the preponderance of magic and glamour is on their side of the road. Dark green eyes trail over to the jugglers again. Something's making his hair stand on end...
"Anyway," his voice rumbles, "... got here the other night myself. Forgot how much fun these things were. I may have to come back next year. 'sides, good rooms at the palace," of course he's staying with William.
"Work, actually," Fiona replies casually, hoisting the camera and rolling her shoulders to shrug in a minor key. She glances back at the flocking birds, frowning; how did -that- come about? Well, no point in fussing over it. "I'm on assignment," she resumes, "and just had the art layout turned over to me for this one. So I figured I and my little extra eye should go on walkabout, so to speak, and come up with extra ideas."
She holds her ground, less angrily than usual, but with an added stolidness that betrays the stoic side to her. Even if she is relatively unafraid, at the moment, Joan of Arc could still ride into the flames again.
"Didn't know you lot were here, of course, though I did see the king of the castle, last night," Fiona's lips twitch slightly, "in all his glory. That nearly got me in trouble - in fact, it's what landed me with this extra work." A brief flash of colour threads through her eyes, and she turns again, frowning in the vague direction of the King of Cats. No pinpointed location, not even a true piece of information; just a premonition, as the scattered millet melts away, both into the bellies of birds and into the ground itself.
Tibalt laughs and claps, as his little friends try to show up the jugglers. Dark feline shapes vault into the air, doing the springing-leap that only cats can manage. Like black, furry popcorn, they spring up in groups. Five, ten, fifteen. There are many of the green-eyed blacknesses.
To onlookers -- not Fiona, nor Davydd -- he seems to be enjoying the jugglers: laughing, and clapping at their antics. But it is not him that he pays attention.
Seeping from his jacket, some dust has come to join the fray. Tufts of dust no larger than an apple, yet with beady eyes of chipped gemstones. Strange creatures, these. To any but the cats and Tibalt, they seem ominous. They seem to Hunger.
"Can we see if they have candied apples? I do so love candied apples... they're so red and pretty, and tasty, and, and..." comes the excited, child-like voice from somewhere amid the crowd.
"Right-o, young lass. There must be a vendor somewhere here with them. And if they don't, we'll ask them why-blooming-not," answers the booming, very decidedly British voice from the same area of the crowd. "Come along, lass... I think I saw Davy-boy... I could be wrong. But he still owes me a pint, afterall..."
"Ohhhh! Commander! Look! Kitties!!!" she young lady practically squeals as she emerges from a crowd, pointing at the acrobatic cats. She's hardly a child...more like an extremely beautiful, young lady dressed in a flowing gown of dark green. In tow is an older man dressed in a flight jacket, slacks and aviator cap, complete with the goggles on the top of his head... and the white scarf tossed carelessly about and over his shoulder.
Davydd laughs, warm and hearty. He doesn't make any commentary. That has always spoken for itself. Or if not it, then William himself. It never lacks for press. But something catches his eyes then. He hadn't cared to see perhaps, or simply hadn't noticed, the 'pride' of black cats following the jugglers' number-one-fan. Fiery eyebrows cock up and Davydd pivots more toward the scene.
Why am I suddenly concerned?
And that's not all he has to be concerned about. Apart from Tibalt the Prince of Cats (the one with the killer dust bunnies and the mexican jumping bean pusses), and Drancy herself who's no stranger to trouble, now he hears the booming voice of Commander Biggles, RAF! And his trusty (and fucking bonkers) sidekick, Buttons.
Davydd face palms, his hand rubbing his bare chin, then giving his bottom lip a tug. Maybe if I run now, I'll be able to get a good night's sleep. "He's certainly... into juggling," Davydd mutters. He stands perfectly still for a moment. Maybe Buttons will think he's a lamppost.
"Juggling?" Fiona's attention's diverted to Davydd again, and she stares. "Are we still discussing William? Though it would be rather entertaining to see him managing three eggs, a bowling pin, and a fully lit birthday cake with candles and keeping them all in the air. Not his usual, anyway." She shrugs, turning back again, and ... freezing.
Oh, dear. Trouble. Cats and dust and strange things, oh my. "Davydd?", Fiona asks casually, eyes darting nervously from blue to green, from dust and cats to the red eyebrows that've risen, "...Did someone spike my drink with LSD again? Because if not..."
Trouble. Indeed. And she isn't even more than marginally aware of Biggles and Buttons, except as faces in the crowd...
Pointed out, the cats end their springing. Four paws on the ground, they all turn to regard the interloper. Their green eyes blink just-off unison, as they watch. Even the man turns his green feline eyes in her direction, while his cat's ears twitch.
He looks confused.
Tibalt shrugs, and more dust filters to the stone rim of the fountain. "Continue, friends, unless you want to disappoint your audience?" There is a mewing from the shapes of shadow, and they return to their acrobatics. Feline pyramids. Vaults. Popcorn leaping. Crazy cats these are.
Feeling a momentary chill, from over his shoulder -- in the direction of Davydd and Fiona -- Tibalt pulls his not-there cloak about himself. Black silk, draped with silver beads and drops, shimmers.
"Mmm... no, no... or... if they did, I took a sip," Davydd whispers. "Course, I was never so much partial to cats," he continues to murmur to Drancy, turning to look at her. "I was always a dog man. But Frikka is alright. Aha! That is what I will get her," he must be talking about Sandrine, "... a new cat and a pair of new shoes..." He exhales, thankful for the inspiration and subsequent decision.
A weight has been lifted!
"And ... I really don't want to think about William and juggling or his extra arm," he cackles.
"Ohhh, they're just soooo cute! Oh, Commander, I do so want a kitty someday..." She claps delightedly at their antics, her face lighting up brightly. Seemingly unaware of any tension or of any 'wrongness' in the air, she continues to watch the jumping felines with wonder and fondness.
Meanwhile, Biggles pats her on the shoulder, muttering something about 'one day, maybe', then lets his gaze flicker about the crowd. "Ah hah! Davy-boy! There you are! Jolly good that I found you!" he starts, urging Buttons to come along with him. Reluctantly, she pulls her gaze from the cats to see where the Commander is heading, and spots Davydd. The pout turns into a huge grin as the small woman hurries to catch up with her companion.
Davydd smirks. Shite.
"What ho, Commander. How was your flight in?" In your Spitfire, dog-fighting aircraft, no doubt. "Buttons, jolly good to see you, too..." He plays right into it, as you should with folks who are crazy as hell. Just play along.
Davydd half-turns to Drancy, forest eyes going wide. He mouths; They... are... fucking... crazy... nice... but ...nuts. Ah, autumn, the season of the waning moon, the rise of the unseelie courts, and time of all things mischievous and... a little off...
The Oak King sighs. Summer is over. It's all downhill from here...
"I quite like cats. Well. I did," Fiona corrects herself absently, "though Huw put me off them, a little, with his ... act." No need to go into details on that in public - especially when mentions of third limbs are being thrown about. "Oh, is it Sandrine's birthday?", she then asks, innocently enough.
Almost, she misses the dripping dust, the restored calisthenics, but Fiona turns with her camera uplifted, and almost against her will, she aims, and clicks. Quite probably, nothing will show up; how does mortal, mundane film capture the essence of faerie, anyway? But it's a whim she isn't quite able to prevent.
Then the part-faerie, part-mortal, part-unknown lowers the camera again, turning as though to ask Davydd something - and finds two approaching : and Davydd, unvoicing a warning. Oh, shite... "Trouble," she mutters, with a sigh of her own. And then, very belatedly, she claps a hand over her mouth.
With the death of Summer, then comes in Autumn. And whose name has she just unwittingly voiced?
His hoard of cats all being to mew at him. It is his turn to entertain them. "Let me tell you a story, my friends, " Tibalt is so fond of stories, half made up and half lies. "and maybe that will satisfy your hearts."
The cats arrange in a ring, their tails swishing together, their eyes unblinking.
"Oh, let me see. This was back when I was still in the court of the good Baroness Elesambria. Such a dear she was, even if she did not live well with the loss of her beloved Baron Alamar. You do remember Elesambria, do you not? You might have been but kittens then, but the bunnies remember, I'm sure." He pats one of the tufts of dust.
"This was when Lunch had gotten himself in such trouble with Tor, and everyone was in a tizzy. If memory serves --" and it usually doesn't "-- Lunch had made off with Tor's hammer. How the rat had managed to lift that thing, I'll never know, but off with it he went."
And so the rambling story begins.
"The flight was fantastic, boyo! Absolutely fantastic. But it's good to be here. Wouldn't have missed it for the world, right Buttons?" the Commander replies with a grin, brushing at his mustache a bit with one hand as his other claps down on Davydd's shoulder with a resounding -smack-... the man never did know his own strength.
Buttons beams brightly at Davydd and replies sweetly, "Good to see you, too, Davy... it's so wonderful, isn't it? The cats... they were so cute. I so want one. Oh, do you know if they have candied apples here? Oh, and is Villon here?..." The questions nearly don't quit, but of course she'd ask about Villon... so typical of her. Then, very suddenly, she turns to Davydd's companion and asks, "Who's this? I don't believe we've met." With that, her small hand is stuck out before Fiona for a handshake.
Were it not for his own strength, he might have hit the cobblestones from that clap upon his back. As it is, Davydd goes wide-eyed and takes a half-stumbled step forward. "Aye, bloody great to see you, Old Bean," Davydd mutters. He glances to Fiona, clears his throat, rights himself and makes a grand gesture, "May I present you to Lady Fiona Arundel, Lady Fiona... this is Commander Biggles of the RAF," forest eyes widen a little as he looks directly to Fiona. Just play along. Trust me. "And his trusty sidekick, Buttons McFlaherty, all around Girl Friday. Buttons, Commander..."
But then his eyes, his attention, the energy in the air around him is drawn again to the ... kitties? And the one controlling them. And seemingly the goblins of dustbunnies at his feet. Baroness Elesambria. Baron Alamar. Tor's Hammer.
Why do I get the sudden feeling that things are going to go awry?
"How do you do." Fiona's instinctive response upon being introduced - her hand comes up, a slightly frozen smile thawing into graciousness on her lips as she offers it, palm flat and downwards as it extends towards 'the commander'. "I'm sure that any friends of Davydd's are bound to be lovely people."
Frost-blue eyes dart up and to the side, in Davydd's direction, as though for confirmation that this is, in fact real, and not another fairy-induced hallucination (really, who needs absinthe to see things that have no place existing?), and then the photographer-noble extends the smile to Buttons. "Scottish, I take it? I was just in Inverness the other week, with my parents. Lovely country."
Mentally, she grits her teeth, and prepares to think of England. Internally, though, it's funny - the thoughts in her mind are not so different from the Welshman towering over her.
The Commander immediately takes the offered hand with one hand and half-bows over it, placing a fleeting kiss upon the top of it. Glancing up through his bushy brows, he says, "I am at your service, good Lady. You need only ever call for it." He then releases Fiona's hand and straightens, looking to Buttons.
"Ahh, lass... it has been a while since you've been home, has it not?"
Buttons gives a small, nearly shy curtsey to Fiona, offering up a warm, yet child-like smile. "Aye, lady. The good Commander is correct... it has been a while since I've been home. Sometimes I miss it... and Nessie." Nessie. You know... the monster. Surely she kids. But then again... the sad conviction in her eyes says otherwise. Instantly, she brightens again and adds, "But we will visit again sometime soon. We're always visiting somewhere."
The man with the cats continues to speak with to them, unravelling a story for their pleasure. "Do you remember all that difficulty with the Barony of Puzzled Waters? Oh, how that all came to a head and caused mischief. Such a pity about the Baron. Pity." He seems genuinely sad for a moment, but it is just an act. Tibalt can't be genuine. "Anyway, back to the topic at hand: Tor's hammer. It had been revealed by none other than Yours Truly, that the hammer was somehow dreadfully important to the goings on in Puzzled Waters."
Tibalt picks up one of the tufts of dust and pets it absently as he continues rambling. "Though, admittedly, no one had actually told me how it was important, merely that it was. Thrice Damned Melchior, I'll teach him a good lesson about all that sometime."
The cats look to each other. Their expression is of slightly rolling eyes and exasperation. As if to say There goes Tibalt, again, off rambling about nothing.
Then he pauses, looking around. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck raising, distracting him from his story. When he finally does return his attention -- mostly due to the mewing of the shadows -- he has forgotten what he was saying. "What were we talking about little ones?" Just like a cat to be distracted by something shiny.
If friends of Davydd are bound to be lovely people what about his passing acquaintances?
Gravel and dying leaves crunch beneath the wheels of a Range Rover that rolls to a stop along the road side. A little french boy selling... something is quick to run up and pester the man in the on the drivers side as the window rolls down.
What follows is a very quick and excited recount of the events of the festival, subliminally punctuated with clever attempts to get the driver to agree to buy something. "So I missed someone being sacrificed to a giant barrel of sweet red?" Comes a smooth baritone voice that is far more expressive and inflected than it needs to be. "No wonder the German's conquered you lot."
The door opens and the tall raven haired man steps out. With a wave of his hand he shoos the young boy away. It seems he stopped on account of recognizing someone within the Entourage. "Davydd," Lowe says speaking up. "Fancy seeing you hear. I don't suppose I can have that fifty pounds you owe me? In francs please, I forgot to the stop at the currency Exchange." His accent is decidedly British, but it's hard to pin it to an exact region.
Across the way from the Juggler and His Many Pusses and Goblins -- and now looking directly at him -- is one Davydd ap Owain. Not so much a spinner of a tapestry of tales as a singer of songs, walker on the strings of steel, and the cursed sidhe champion of Gwynedd and Powys. All he can do is stare, even though he knows he shouldn't look (it really would be better if he didn't), arms folded across his chest and all nine tattoos pricking against his skin. We're seeing something that others aren't seeing...
Davydd pulls his attention away, just at the point where he could feel himself sinking into the earth, slipping between the skins of the worlds, like moving through curtains to different stages. It's like waking. He looks to Biggles, Buttons and Fiona and anchors himself in the Mundane. "So, here for the festival? Have you seen Gwilym? I bet he's looking for you up the palace. I hear there is going to be dancing and merriment inside..."
Forest green eyes flicker to another sound. That of his name. He starts to face palm, in fact... a moment later he is doing just that. Fiery brows waggle momentarily and then his mouth cuts a smirk. "Why is it the only time I see you, Lowe," Loo-vuh he says, "...you're hitting me up for cash." Davydd lowers his hand, his arms folding against his chest again, "...don't you have a job?"
"How charming." Fiona quirks a small smile as she reclaims her hand, posture still proclaiming her graciousness - lady bountiful among the people. The smile falters for the barest moment as she listens to Buttons. "Yes? Well, I'm sure that Nessie misses you as well. Hopefully, the two of you will be fortunate enough to visit your home again soon."
She's not so certain that any of this is real, anymore; and if it isn't, then, well, why not? Buttons might as well know Nessie, as one figment to another...
Turning, she glances over in the direction of the shifting sea of shadow-cats, then twitches away, towards Davydd.
I didn't see anything, there's nothing there, this is the reasonable world again... god help me if it is...
Her vision rests on Davydd for a moment - not accusatory, that look, but a slightly strained expression nonetheless. She smiles pleasantly, opening her mouth to call to him - and the frost-blue eyes shade towards aqua, gaze sliding towards the car, towards the man stepping out. A countryman! But is he sane?
"Gwilym? No, sir, I have not seen that chap as of yet. I sometimes think he hides from me some years," Biggles states with a barking laugh. Oh, if only he knew. At the sound of another comer, he turns to see Lowe. "Hah! Davy-boy, seems I'm not the only one that you owe, hm? Wracking up the debts, are you?" It doesn't matter that Davydd has likely bought the good Commander a dozen or more pints over the years, but he never remembers this...it seems.
Meanwhile, Buttons' attention has quickly been swayed from Fiona to the cats and cat-man again. She simply cannot help herself. "They're so pretty...and happy..." she murmurs, seemingly mesmerized by the sight, unaware of the fact that others within the crowd can likely not see what she is seeing. For her, they are real. As real as her right hand. And dammit, she wants to touch one.
The desire to touch one is strong within her. So strong that she has already begun to drift from the grouping, toward the dancing cats and dustbunnies or whatever they might be.... her hand outstretched and a curious expression splayed across her fine features...
"Hungry?" Tibalt shifts directions from before, having forgotten what he was talking about. With one hand he pulls a backpack from beneath his black voile cloak. A backpack that is fully real, and solid, though moments ago wasn't on this side of the curtain. Tibalt can't tell the difference, of course, he is far too gone for that.
"Camembert, cavier, cassis, and crackers? Perfect for a carnival of cats." Pulling these from the backpack he begins portioning, with a wickedly quick knife. The remains of wrappers are tossed idly to the gremlins of dust who ignore the offerings -- until no one is looking in their direction. Then, when the eye returns, the wrappers and garbage are gone without trace.
Putting out saucers, Tibalt pours out some cassis for the shadows and dust, while filling a glass for himself.
"Much better, don't you think?"
As Buttons approaches, the cats exchange expressions. They are curious as to what to do. It is obvious they are seen, and this doesn't bother them. Tibalt can be such tiresome company at times.
And so, bravely, one departs the flock to inch closer to Buttons, and see if the strange little person will be friendly. If not, well, the others are watching -- and the Dustbunnies are terribly protective of the shadows.
Tibalt doesn't seem to have noticed Buttons' approach.
"If I had a job that would ruin my aloof mystique." Lowe explains, Politely mind you. He makes his way over to the small entourage and turns to watch the juggler that is surrounded with... cats?
"Dangerous keeping those beasts in so great a number. There's probably children gone missing at this affair that have been devoured by those heinous little teeth." Lowe shakes his head, "Such a waste." He looks to Fiona then a dark brow raises up slowly, "Have we met?" Recognition colors his eyes but he seems to just shake his head and move on, "I know i have not meet you good Sir." He looks to Biggles, "I know we have certainly not met. I heard them call you Commander? Impressive." He looks to Davydd then as if to say 'See I'm being nice.'
Oh, no, the cats would certainly not devour little children. The bunnies however, well, they are an entirely different matter. In fact, they may have already made off with one of the town's children. They are hungry little blighters, after all.
Top Five Things To Avoid -- Buttons making friendly with the fae. This... ladies and gentlemen... could be bad. What if the kittens aren't friendly? What if they are energy sucking succubi of unseelie debauchery? What if they nibble on her eye jellies and she freaks out, breaks the masquerade and the Camarilla descend from the castle and have to dominate an entire village for all the mischief and mayhem? Why does everyone think I owe them money?
If Davydd appears to be distracted for a moment, it's because he is. There's a lot of shit going on here, people! "Ah...right..." he drawls out for a moment. He watches Buttons, and half-glances to the rest of the conversation. "Lowe, Fiona Arundel," yes THOSE Arundels. "... Fiona, this is Lowe. One of my neighbors," he notes. Welshmen apparently spring out of the ground in France. "Commander, shouldn't you and Buttons head up the palace?" A gentle suggestion but not Suggestion with a capital S. He can't do that bit. "Gwilym will be miffed if you spend all your time chasing pusses while you're here. You know how he likes sharing stories about The Great War," the Big One. Any of them.
Davydd's voice drifts off as he watches Buttons stalking a kitten. And he prepares himself to leap at a moment's notice...
The slight woman continues to stalk forward, still with her hand outstretched. "Here kitty... you're so pretty..." Not wanting to startle or scare off the animal, Buttons decides to stop in her tracks and slowly lowers herself to sit on the ground cross-legged. There, she pats her lap and says, "Here kitty... I won't hurt you..." Her voice is soft and tone is quiet. She seems harmless enough.
Biggles turns back toward Lowe and puffs up his chest a little. In that booming, commander-esque voice, he replies with, "Commander Biggles of the RAF, good sir. And you are...?" His smile is big, warm and friendly beneath that handlebar mustache of his. See? He -must- be who he says he is... look at his flight jacket, and the goggles atop his head. And it wouldn't be complete without the white scarf tossed about his neck.
But then Davydd mentions Buttons... and the realization hits home as he looks next to him. Buttons is gone. "What, what? Where has that girl gone?" he says, suddenly more serious than he is normally seen. What was that? A flicker of concern? Apprehension? Fear? Something of the sort flickers briefly in his eyes as he whirls around, seeking out the one he swore to protect so many years before... and spots her with her hand outstretched to an approaching cat.
Chuckling at his own worry, he replies with an unsteady, "Ahh... right... well, Gwilym was on our agenda. I'll let her play a moment later, then we should really go and see him, yes..." He does seem a bit off-balance now. His brows knit together and unknit, and his gaze flickers back and forth between the company he keeps and the girl just a small distance away.
With a fascinated gaze, Fiona watches Buttons advance on something which by all rights shouldn't exist at all. She opens her mouth to speak - and is addressed by Lowe, and referred to by Davydd. She whirls, straightening, offering her gracious-lady smile.
"How do you do? I ... no, I don't think we've met ... have we?" Lady Fiona Arundel is developing a headache. She summons up another pleasant smile from the stock which they supplied her with in finishing school, offering her hand to Lowe as well. Be polite. Smile, smile, smile. When in trouble, when in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout... that's up next, if her British reserve gives way.
"As I've said, any friend of Davydd's," Fiona adds, making an effort to keep her voice smooth, even as she considers edging away. "I ... oh, dear."
The black shadow of a cat takes a daring step into the lap of the strange little lady. It raises its nose to sniff her face -- very cat like -- and then begins to paw.
There is trepidation in its motions, testing the waters. Acting like a cat, in hopes that no one will notice that it isn't a cat -- merely a feline fleck of stringy shadows with glowing emeralds for eyes and shards of ivory for claws.
"Oh, this is wonderful caviar, don't you think?" comes Tibalt's voice from near the fountain. "Sparrow is so good at finding the perfect treats" He hasn't noticed that none of his companions are paying him any mind. They are as watchful of the one courageous kitten, as Biggles is of Buttons.
Davydd snaps to again, the presence of mind -- despite the great distraction and the even greater temptation -- to look around. What are the people of Chinon doing? What are they saying? Have they noticed? Has the party stopped at all?
While the distractions of the village are many and varied -- people coming and going, parties, dancing, drinking, eating -- there are some who have begun to take notice of a group standing out of the way. Nothing abnormal about that. It is the woman who is kneeling and talking to thin air that is starting to attract a little attention.
And the action that was promised in Davydd's stance is realized in the next moment. The gait is casual, not the usual Mercury stride and Martian march. His arms unfold and he bends with a grin to kiss the top of Button's head. "Miss McFlaherty," he holds out his hand so she can see it, "... will you dance with me?"
Lowe still looks to the cats with a cautionary glance. After all, Bunnies are quick and evil.. but not as stealthy as a well trained pussy. But I digress. With casual ease, Lowe returns his gaze to Commander Biggles, "Ahh well I am glad that the RAF has sent one of her best to keep an eye on all these unruly french men." He looks around the village, his eyes carrying more disappointment than disdain, "They've been pooftas one and all since the Martel." he murmurs beneath his breath. Strictly speaking Lowe's observation is not entirely accurate. "As, Young Master Davydd says I am called Lowe by my friends." Ah.. a service nickname or some sort perhaps?
Now that Fiona is properly introduced, Lowe bows to her and says, "A pleasure to meet you Miss Arundel. Suffice to say, you must favor a relative of yours that I have meet before." Again those sharp eyes flick to the young girl stalking after the cat. "I really do think you should watch her. I think they are trying to separate her from the herd so they can ambush her. I've seen in BBC before." And gods know BBC is never wrong!
"Fiona, please," Fiona answers politely, smiling to Lowe. She adjusts the strap of the camera hanging round her neck, fiddling with it absently, then turns with a blink as Davydd bears down on Buttons.
I think I must have brushed up against the wrong mirror again this morning...
Taking a careful step back and to the side, Fiona eyes the clowder of cats and their apparent owner again, then turns determinedly away, marching towards one of the many stands and booths all around, offering wares for sale. "I'll have a drink, please. No wine? Fine, what've you got? ...Fizzy ...lemonade." The look on her face says it all. "Fine, if that's what you've got. Here." Francs are exchanged, and a bottle of pale watery-looking lemon-flavored stuff is handed to Fiona.
Maybe, for my next trick, I can turn it into something drinkable...
Buttons giggles delightedly and murmurs, "See? I'm not so bad, am I?" She remains mostly still, her hands twitching on her knees a bit, but otherwise not moving. She doesn't want to disturb the kitty. Her eyes sparkle with wonder and happiness. Small pleasures. Finally, she can't remain still any longer. She starts to move a hand, as though ready pat the feline in her lap... and then there is a kiss placed upon her head.
Glancing up suddenly with an, "Oh!" she recognizes Davydd, though it takes a split second. "Sorry kitty," she whispers, then gently nudges it off her lap before taking Davydd's hand to rise. "A dance? I would be so delighted!" she exclaims happily, unaware of the spectacle she might have been making of herself.
Biggles glances from Lowe to Buttons in alarm at the thought that the cats might ambush his young ward. He moves, as though to pull her back from the imminent danger, but is intercepted by Davydd. With a sudden look of relief, he chuckles almost sheepishly, muttering, "Ahh... well, seems Davydd saved the day for me. Good chap. Good chap." He pulls a handkerchief from a pocket and dabs distractedly at his face, as though he were sweating up a storm -- which he's not... at least physically.
Shaking his head, he chuckles and looks at Lowe again. "The girl's got a mind of her own. But she can be quite the damsel-in-distress, if you know what I mean. Poor thing needs to constantly be watched..." He comes across as though he's joking, perhaps, but there is something in the way he looks back at her... how much of it is actually truth?
There is a mew from near the ground, where the offending cat has positioned itself. Confused. It is harmless, really. And now it is offended.
With a over-the-shoulder hiss, it stalks back to the herd to gossip and parlay about the rudeness of strangers.
"Yes Davydd has always been the knight in shining armor." Lowe says as a crooked smile plays at his lips, "Though I'm told he prefers his Damsels in states of undress rather than distress." A casual shrug after all, Lowe's just something of a neighbor. How the welsh end up all over the ends of the earth is anyone's guess. Though perhaps Lowe's of Norman Decent.. he's awfully tall.
Looking after Fiona then, Lowe says, "Fiona it is then." he reaches into a hip pocket and produces a very nice and shiny hip flask. "I believe the Liquor de Jour is Brandy if you would like some beverage surgery to make that....." he waves a hand as he searches for a word, "Fizzy.. stuff..." good word... "Drinkable."
Who knew that the Welsh mountain could be so.... nimble?
When Buttons stands, Davydd is already sweeping the young -- and very beautiful -- Buttons McFlaherty into a close dance. Very close. A wink makes the dark green eyes flicker and the earlier troubles just melt away.
Hey, doesn't he already have a woman?
Without so much as a wave goodbye, a ta-ta, or a so's your mother, Davydd and Buttons McFlaherty are on their way, dancing up the street and toward the looming fairytale castle and its bridge.
And those of the ville who had looked to them in curiosity now smile and applaud. That red-haired fellow has been dancing all weekend. He's good at it, too. He and another woman were dancing the tango in the street...
But maybe one or two of those left behind will notice, maybe one of them will see, that with every turn of himself and Buttons, or Buttons alone in a close, protected swirl, those eyes are on the Fair Folk below.
The Commander puts the 'kerchief away, shoving it roughly into a pocket... probably not the one he got it from. "Well, I trust him with Buttons. She's a fragile little creature and he knows it," he responds. Then, tipping his hat at those around him, he draws in a great breath, puffing up his chest again.
"Well, jolly good. She's in good hands, so I think I might wander off to find a bit of a bite to eat and maybe a pint or two. Then I'll collect the lass and go pay Gwilym a visit. No doubt, he's missed me horribly!" he announces with a hearty guffaw. "Good to meet you both," he adds, bows, then makes his exit. Lumbering through the crowd, he can be heard over most of the din, calling out, "Good lord, Alfred old boy! How have you been, mate? Ah, lovely Eileen! It's been years and you only seem to look younger than the last time I saw you! Alfred... better watch or I might have to snatch your lovely wife away from you! Ha ha!"
"Brandy? Lovely." Fiona smiles at Lowe with apparent gratitude, tearing the cap off the bottle of lemonade and pouring a certain amount out, in apparent libation to the gods of please-get-me-out-of-this-mess. "I've never seen Davydd in armor," she adds, taking the statement apparently literally. "Wouldn't it take an awful lot of time to keep polished?"
Well, we couldn't anyone thinking she was entirely sane, either, could we?
The small dishes of cassis now dry, the round of camembert gone. Crackers, and caviar enjoyed and finished. The crumbs are left for the dustbunnies, while the dishes are put back into that backpack.
"It seems the Knights got lost." Tibalt remarks, tapping his chin with one finger. "I had been hoping they would have figured out the clues and tracked me here." Mischievous eyes glance at the cats. "Do you think they are still lost in the Russian steppes?" That would be amusing, if it had a kernel of truth to it.
As other's make their way out, Lowe complies and spikes Fiona's drink with a suitable amount of brandy to make the drink worth of consuming. The cap on the shiny flask replaced. Lowe looks to make his exit much like the others. "Well a good day to you Fiona. I wager you will see me around again if you are any kind of acquaintance of Davydd's..." Well not that Lowe hangs around with the man terrible often.
His flask replaced the tall man slips off as have the others intent on enjoying the festivale.
"Davydd and I rarely see each other, actually, but I look forward to our paths crossing again," Fiona answers politely as she takes a cautious sip of what amounts to brandy, water, and lemon juice with a dash of sugar. "I'm based in London, these days. A pleasure to have made your acquaintance."
With that, the noblewoman holds her bottle up to the light, eyeing the scene through it as though through a lens of a different colour. Shaking her head, she wanders off in a different direction - perhaps over there, things will make sense...
And if not, well, perhaps she'll find more brandy.
Posted by rowan at November 09, 2003 08:34 PM
