We should know better.
     How many times in eight to ten centuries has that phrase come up. Knowledge of immortality can lead down the path of wickedness. Such things mortals would never have chanced, fearing death. Unless they were seeking it. We, on the other hand, are Death. What mortals call Temples, we call Indestructible. There is little care involved these days. And what should happen if beauty and resilience should fade?
     Sitting quietly in one of the far seating areas with you, Ian is still. The servants needed a bit of space to continue their work on the second floor...a bit of loving redecoration is in order. And the gaming room seemed not so inviting. Too much vibrant energy. Thus, this spacious area, in which one could get lost and never be seen, seemed a prime place. The drapes are opened in the twilight's grandeur, allowing the thick panes of old lead glass to shimmer in greys, whites, and sometimes almost black. Already it feels as if the evening is old, but such is the nature of coursing chemicals. Servants are quiet as they tend to the second floor, using the southwest turret to bring up new upholsteries, rugs, and tapestries.
     Opposite, the northeast corner of the room, is where your evening drinks and small tray of delicasies was left. Out of the way of prying eyes and deep into the room's dimness. Shapely decanter is green-gold, a bit of breakfast wine. Nothing so harsh. Splashy and reviving. Bloody Marys were arranged by the kitchen, Dionnach herself delivering the beverages in sympathetic fashion. A whiff speaks of something fresh added specifically for the two of you. On a small china plate, a few dates and slices of apple, a bit of cheese, a halved Scotch Egg, and bread. They know your habits and tender palettes.
     "They must have already thought of redecorating," Ian murmurs, in his white silk pajama bottoms and matching robe. He is the best light in the area, for what it is worth. Arms are extended along the edges of his oversized seat, at the end, a glass of the breakfast wine firmly held. He looks ahead, bookshelves crowning him behind. "They are too clever," his monotone comes again, and like a pulley and lever, Ian's arm bends stiffly, bringing the glass to his lips.

     Oh Death, be not proud...
     And is this not a sight that stirs pride? Perhaps God somewhere, wherever it is He loiters about when not tending to the needs of every gambler in Las Vegas, is beaming with joy in the hopes that some lesson on Vanity will have been learned from That Evening. But... who will take the odds on who is happier, God or the Devil?
     Such high thoughts are not upon the mind of the large Norman sitting alongside you, taking up every particle of space within the large chair that holds him. He has showered and his hair is still damp with it, dark silken shine. Inky black with remaining water. He is clothed -- and that term should be taken in the loosest possible way -- in white cotton drawstring trousers and a shirt -- as of yet unfastened -- of that very same light material. Where he did not dry with care the fabric clings to him, translucent. And he in his lord's sprawl, holding dominion over the chair and the portion of floor before him. Covering the better part of his eyes, the hexagonal blue lenses of a former Prince of the City of Love. At his right hand, is a tall glass of bloody mary. Fingers barely coiled about the stem of the glass. It is, rather, the broad oaken arm of the chair that holds it upright and unspilled. He is languid decadence. It is not a matter of Seeming. It is Being.
     Two fingers pluck an olive from the glass, and as you speak, dark hair silks against the crown of his chair as William turns his head toward you. Electric indigo, like morning glories edged with opium brilliance, flicker with the lifting of a gaze past the edge of the lenses. His mouth curls with the beginning of a smile. "You...would have nothing less, yes?" Soft, the mulling baritone, held in his chest. As if the sound of his voice was savored by his own tongue. "And...it is... amazing, non... that faced with such... adversity...humankind always pulls together." Speaking as if the bedroom was a recognized disaster area...

     So true. Ian nods sagely, marvelling in the wonder that is humanity. An otherworld lord, appreciative of the minions. He is not hidden behind lenses, and like the slow turn of an owl, Ian's gaze pivots to see the drink in your hand. "Would you pass me mine, love?" his Gaelic comes, not so heavily. He will exchange wine for something of substance and sustinence. "Thank you," he whispers almost immediately, glad that you would even entertain the thought of motion.

     Dionnach herself suddenly arrives at the kitchen entrance. An odd figure, considering it is the dinner hour for some of the staff. She looks to the turret's action, but instead of going that way, she crosses the room towards the two of you. Something up.

     It comes with a groan, this motion. And strong but fair fingers coil around his own glass, that he not spill it unintentionally. His left hand slowly sweeps up the other that rests yet upon the table. With the figs. With the cheese. With other airy delicacies such as those in the Otherworld must eat, and no more. It is fortunate, in many ways, that you and Yours are of Scotland. Tam Lin and other fairy kind -- surely in some way you must seem so. You, the golden Tam Lin... William, the dark Oberon. How fitting, strangely. How very nearly correct. William settles back in the great chair, the oak creaking at the fall of his weight -- heavy he is just now -- and in that same motion, does he hold the glass forth. The look. For you, amours. There is a smile. A soft You're Welcome. Gaelic, how it falls from that mouth. Though colored with Provencal as it shall be for a while, it is lovely, is it not? Cotton-covered thighs splay comfortably, the lordly sprawl resuming.
     As Dionnach enters and Human is felt within the great expanse of this hall, William turns his gaze from you, his hand lifting his drink slowly -- as if controlled by invisible strings. Who is the puppet master then? His guardian Plantagenet angel?

     "Ach, pardon," she begins in rougher Gaelic, "...I hate t' bother ye, Sirs," Dionnach explains. Especially when you look like that. "But..." always straight forward, "...there's some auto comin' up th' drive," and she looks at you, William, "...dunno if y' want'd visitors t'night, so we wish'd t' check with ye, Sirs..." her blue eyes ending with Ian. Someone's on the watch...a bonus for security.

     Indigo finds you past the rim of lenses, and then left to Dionnach. So subtle the shift. Would she notice it? You can see the lord come upon the lover. The mantle of quiet command. A dark brow lifts, arching. "Hmmm... a visitor..." William looks to you. Were you expecting anyone? Did I forget to look at my calendar again....?

     There's a flicker of grey to you. Ian's brow arches. No, he was not expecting anyone at all. He draws back a little and says, "Well..." why does he have to make a decision, "...I guess..." a blink, and look to the woman, "...know who it is yet, lass?" That might help this decision some. "I'm disinclin'd t' see someone..."

     "I'm more likely to see double of wh'ever it is," comes the murmur of Gaelic beside you, muffled at the end as that mouth of his captures the straw. Everything he does is done with sensuality. He cannot help it. Naturally, it exudes from him. Making a Suggestion out of the smallest moves. "I would rather postpone a visit... but ... depending on who it is... and the conditions of the road... we could put them up until we're... more presentable." Around the straw does William grin.

     Dionnach nods, taking the responses as 'More Information Required.' "Aye, we'll see," she bobs, "...thank y' sirs," she offers, turning to head back towards the all-knowing kitchen.

     "Y'sure y' not expecting anyone?" Ian wonders, language affected by the elderly lady. Bloody Mary is tilted up again, and after a sip, Ian chews daintily upon an olive. Spain. Straws and drinks remind him. He smirks at you, finishing the fruit off and licking his bottom lip while wiggling his brows.

     Dark eyes shift toward you again and William rests his head back against the crown of the chair. Lord, why did it have to be tonight? But still he smiles. Perhaps it is sudden thought and image of Spain. Memories. Reminders. Mouth pulls upon the straw again and then releases it with an exhale. The olive taken is at last rolled upon the tongue. "Non... no one, amours... I can't think of a soul who'd stop by. You weren't expecting a meeting with Gerald were you? Or Legrasse?" The only two he knows would come all the way up to Strathfayr. Eyes close and it is an exquisite expression that crosses over him. A brush of warmth against him.

     The kitchen door opens again, and Dionnach is followed by a young man of Lioslaith's staff. Attractive man, dressed in black pants and grey shirt. "We are sorry to bother you," his very English accent comes, permission to speak having been given by Dionnach, "...we...had already stopped the arrival at the Bridge Tower by the time Mrs Campbell came to inform you." At his belt, a radio of some sort, presently turned down. Finally arriving at a respectful distance, he looks at you both, trying to hide the look that shoots across his face. He has apparently never met you. Holy shit is the expression, pure surprise to such such entities...and then a repeat...when he realizes...well, nevermind. He coughs, "I'm sorry," he laughs a little, "Damon Hill," he murmurs, letting his name be known. Dionnach smirks, her nudge at Damon's back initiating the revelation.

     The reaction nearly crackles. Were he half as hungover, William would grin at it. Even so, his smile does linger. Slight, but how his lips hold it. Attractive. Charismatic. Hmmm. The olive is finished and swallowed, and his left hand reaches up, removing the lenses. Dark eyes settle on the young man. Damon is it. A nod given to the introduction, and then he inclines his head, dark hair -- still damp -- draping back. "Mr. Hill," he begins, languid baritone lifting slightly, "...we weren't expecting...guests...who is it?" Curious and hungover, it lends to a kind of detached majesty about him. His voice lingers upon the syllables. His accent? To the young man it will seem thoroughly Continental... Italian? French?

     He looks at you, and for a moment, Damon...pauses. "Ah, err...a Mr. Wallach," Damon says, glancing to his radio. Remembering the name. "He asks to speak to a Mister...Fitzroy?" Was that the last name used? Unsure, Damon glances between both of you. Either of you use that appellation? "I can send th' man on his way, of course, if you like..."

     Slurping at his straw, Ian's lips curl around it, cleaning any droplets. Grey eyes look at you, a half-grin perched upon his lips. Not me, he can say gleefully. Boy, is this drink good. And he is constantly reminded Spain as he watches your response.

     "It's a bit of a ...nickname..." Son of the King. As his father was called FitzEmpress. "Open the gates and show him in. He's an old friend... " Again, head resting back against the chair, William turns to look to you. "He won't mind me being a bit rough around the edges..." He's seen worse. So the grin would say. Ah, but you surely must know -- it does not even have to be expressed. With a sound held in his throat, William resettles, the lordly sprawl stretching out again. And bloody drink is taken in a long pull. "Thank you, Mr. Hill... Dionnach," he says to her, voice warming and smile slanting. "...bring out the good scotch, will you?"

     Damon nods, hand turning the volume up as he backs away from the seating. Dionnach nods as well, "Aye, would 'e care for any supper?" More than likely not, but you never know.

     That Damon's not a bad looker. Ian considers him as you deal with the pleasantries of things. He was not paying so much attention at first, mind on Spain. But as the merry group breaks up, eyes turn to the staff, acknowledging their departures.

     "Ah... no... I'm fine for the now... I have finger foods... these shall do for me..." And indigo seeks silver-grey again. Catching just the last glimpse of study. No, indeed. That Damon was not a bad looking young man. Ah, but best not to pluck from the security staff. A sigh for that. William chuckles softly, "I hope you do not mind..." The visitor that is. And the sudden arrival. To see you... so freely ...living. To look at others and to lust and wonder. To think of Spain. Were he not in such a state it would set a fire in him. Now, it makes the air hum a bit. Presence trying to rouse itself. But it does not go far.

     Dionnach grins, nodding. She turns away, heading behind Damon out of the room. "We'll send 'im in presently," she murmurs, picking up the pace as sounds come from kitchen and courtyard.

     "Wallach, eh?" Ian smiles, eyes still on Damon until he's gone from sight. Oh well. Grey eyes are returned to you and your finger foods. "And of course," his Gaelic comes, "I don't mind, Will, at all. I'm surprised it took him so long." Maybe he didn't get the news in his wanderings as fast as everyone else did. "I should...get out of the way." Said gingerly. "See about the redecorations," he offers, giving you a chance to visit with Donal. He likes the Gangrel well enough...for a Gangrel. And upon Ian's face, a happy grin. He does not mind clearing the way for now.

     You do not have to go. But there is a smile that spreads slowly. "Come down if you get tired of overseeing..." A pause and then he chuckles, warmly. Almost living sounding. "But... I can imagine you'll enjoy your view. Are the valets helping?" The young men, among the best looking in the house... if not Scotland. The smile broadens, smoothens. "You will... be sure to tell me all about it... in a while, yes?" With a groan and an expression of Good God, Why Did I Do That? William sits forward and upright, setting his drink aside for the moment. Half thinking of rising. He thinks better of it. Suddenly. Vertigo widens his eyes slightly and he sits back. Chagrin everywhere present in his look. Mon Dieu. He reaches out with his hand toward you. A last touch. A cavalier motion to help you rise.

     Well, of course. Ian smiles at you. "Am I so transparent?" he wonders, chuckling softly. Maybe one will volunteer to see to the final arranging of the bed. He could use a long draught of something. "Come soon, hmm?" Ian says, taking your hand and kissing it afore he pushes up himself. He shudders, feeling the wash of opiate blood shimmer through his veins.

     There is outer noise. A vehicle and voices....

     The smile needs no translation. In any tongue it would be absolute scandal. His hand withdraws from yours with a squeeze. "Oui... I shall... " William murmurs, simply. Do not destroy the room before they are finished fixing it, love. Opiate sparkles fill his eyes, violet and blue. Shimmering like your blood. Like his. The air lives with it. The resurrection of consciousness. Wakened with the blood in the bloody mary. He grins, and the edges of fangs can be seen in it. A flash. A flirtation. And then William reaches over, fingers plucking another olive.

     He shall not. From his face, Ian has no plans save rest and perhaps something fresh. Something shared. Like enjoying a drink with two straws. But he will wait for you, picking up his bloody mary -- forget the wine -- and padding softly towards the busy southwest turret. His white robe follows behind him, a silken wake.

     And from towards the kitchen courtyard, doors opening and closing. Feet and people, greetings and acknowledgements given.

     How you move. And you leave him in your wake, suspended in amazement. He can follow every ripple of your robe. Watch the rise and fall, like sheets in a bed's commotion. Or... better still... the wings of his own angel. The thought makes the corner of his mouth cock upward. A knowing look. A smoldering one....

     But there is another commotion that grabs his attention. The swirl and sound of voices. Footsteps. Energy. And the thought of seeing an old friend. One he has not seen, now, in years. God, when William last saw Donal, Ian was in a box, dead to the world and sleeping to him. William finishes the bloody mary with a long pull. Energy from blood. Life. And though he feels at least half the age he truly is, there is a lightening against the blood.

     "Aye, yer a good lass," comes the voice, loud as it preceeds him through the doors. Nothing but Gaelic, of course. Donal comes as he always does, something comforting in that. Tan pants, black shirt though, but nothing special. Perhaps he has been doing much running around. Eyes lift as he enters the great living area, a bit of surprise in his green-hazel orbs. Ah. He has never been inside...
     He's quiet as first steps bring him upon the wood and carpet of the floors. Another stimuli. Eyes drop down, wondering at what is at his feet. Ah. Carpet. Donal looks at the nearest chair, then the wall, then up to find you. "I shouldna stare s' much at th' decor," he smiles, nothing rough and tumble today. A Gangrel doing calls...or recently from the city. He has that mark upon him. An attempt at a bit of polish. Donal smirks and walks more easily within, "I can see what's here later, huh lad?" he muses, hand and arms already open to greet you.

     Comforting like a pair of old but familiar shoes -- is that how the saying goes? It is a strange saying, is it not? For is a friend like a pair of old shoes... or should be? But perhaps it is that feeling of... being worn in. Familiar. Known. What's better than a pair of old slippers, formed perfectly to the feet? Or a visit from an old and dear friend...
     As carpet whispers and wood thuds to your entrance -- the greeting of a castle -- you are met with the raise of a Gaelic voice that fills the hall, as only his can. Meeting with the lifting of your gaze to his rising form, that slow coiling motion from the chair that held him. "Ha... Wallach... a lovely surprise this, neighbor..." All in Gaelic, with the tug and lilt of Provence upon it. He has not been long in Scotland, recently returned from Chinon -- as well you may know it -- and it colors his every syllable. There is warmth there that Provence gives to the Scottish he speaks. Up from his chair, the smile pulling to a ready grin, he is there to meet your hand. He goes to shake, but with a twist to that grin neverminds the formal greeting for a Medieval grasp. "It's good to see you. A sight for sore, as they say." comes his voice more quiet. "How've you been?" And the hug withdraws, him half-turning to offer you a chair. "I've given a call for the house best... " Come in, come in...
     What may you notice of him that has not undergone some... brilliant restoration? As if he were a painting stripped clean of the soot of Centuries. Renewed and with that Angevin vigor and passion, brightness and strength one should expect to find. The smiles are easy. And everywhere upon him -- held in high, well-fed complexion... in the shine of eyes. Of course, such shine is augmented a bit... the remaining...effects of opium's magic. Only one of Our Kind should notice it much. Even the beard. He is that Duke Restored...

     "Ach, Will," Donal smiles, moving slowly, looking at everything. Trying to assess. He is not so fast as you and Ian, and in his way, comes across as simply another mortal, wonderous at the place he stands and the man nearby. He smiles wanly, a hint of curious nerves, but then grins as you speak of something to drink and offer a seat. "Tis best t' see y' too, Will...I swear..." he looks around, "...I guess...this is how Ventrue go." No, none of his kind live like you do, as he has seen others live. They pride themselves on living on little. One could never tell that he too, is of Europe. "But," he looks at you again, "...y'look well, lad, an' that..." hand swipes at the beard, "...disguise?" A chuckle. "An' neighbor, eh? That's...what I been hearin'..." in murmurs and passing conversations with other nightwalkers.

     A sound of laughter, quiet. Slight. Held warmly at the mouth and throat, and deeply in the chest. Both brows lift as well the chin to the touch, "I thought I'd try a hand in looking like myself. I should be able to ....blend in about as well as ever..." Which is not at all. He's too tall, too dark, too...William. "And... I thought... well to be a Fraser... I better attempt to look the part, aye?" You've heard rumbles to be sure. The return of a Continental Fraser to Ross lands. Amazing how so little changes in Scotland -- news is still carried between the remnants of clans. Particularly among Our Kind. But the laughter transforms to a smile as you mention... How Ventrue go. Indigo sweeps up and around the large expanse, and a corner of his mouth lifts upward as his attention resettles on you. "I think we," meaning he and Ian, "...are somewhat more....modest than some." A brow lifts in an arch at that. He expects you will find it funny, as it was intended. "I could never think of living in a basilica like Francesco..." True Roman splendor that. William has only seen it once. I suppose that is a benefit to living in the modern Rome.
     Moving to the side, out of the hug finally with a last clap of his hand to your shoulder, William moves to take a seat in one of the old chairs. Comfortable. You see quite an assortment of little foods, dates and fruit and cheese and the like. Eating like a gentleman? And the smell of blood, salt, vodka. A bloody mary... Ventrue-style. The white cloth of his shirt shifts in the breeze of his sitting, and lies parted against his bronzed-olive complexion. The very picture of comfort and strength. "Aye... neighbors at last... I'm here for a while," he murmurs. "Back home," he continues with a grin. "But enough on me... how are you? What have you been up to...?"

     And Dionnach... ah, sweet matronly Dionnach... arrives at last with the McReedy and Glenlivet and two glasses.

     The two of you modest? He would never say such about you, and when it comes to creature comforts, even Donal has heard of Dunross' excess. But still, your point is well-taken. "Nay, m' neither," Donal admits, smiling when Dionnach comes with the drink. But still, his eyes are upon you. "So ye stayin' here?" he wonders. "D'yknow how long?" Has he been here when you have been here? Neighbors? And, "Ah...where's..." Dunross? His hand waves as Donal's eyes flit about. "I guess then...he's," his chin dips at you, wondering if such conversation is to be had, "....'right 'gain, right? An' I been up t' no good," he smiles, "...well, as much as Marta let's meh."

     Well, it's a kind of modesty. If having two castles, a villa, apartments, ships, horses and a fleet of cars can be called modest. But at least he doesn't live in a basilica. Now that's excess. All that gold, being able to see yourself in every reflection? Ah, when an Italian knight is made a Ventrue... every Toreador in Europe must weep for it. They are so...natural to the other, yes? William settles back within the embrace of the chair, filling its space completely. His fingers interlace against his stomach, and he nods as Dionnach sits the drinks and glasses aside, beginning to arrange them. "For a long while, Donal... though... I'm sure I'll share the time with Chinon. It is hard to turn down summers in the Loire. I ran into Edward there, actually... caught us ...making the rounds over Touraine..." Soft, the laughter at that. William sits forward. "Thank you, Dionnach," Gaelic for her. And a grateful smile and look.

     "D'ye care for anything else?" The matron's eyes tend toward the guest. "I can make fresh scones..."

     He'll let you say yay or nay to it. For his part, William makes a wave. No, he has enough and bread does ... wicked things to him. Even with his constitution. Indigo flickers as his gaze lifts to you. It holds there as he pours. "Ah... he's gone up a while...bit of a hangover..." And the grin at that. Well, now you may know why William looks a bit...how shall we say... rough around the edges...

     Scones? That makes Donal perk. His droopiness wears. "Aye, lass," he smiles, looking up from his seat, "...if y' got 'em, I'll be happy t' relieve y' of them," he grins politely, brushing at his own dark hair. "Thank ye," he grins, then looks back to you.
     "Hangover, eh?" Well, that means that whatever you did then, worked. "I'm glad t' hear that...y'know...it work'd as y' like," expression serious as he looks down to the scotch, recalling the time then. A twist and he brightens, reaching for the glass. "So, a toast then, an' not t' that brat cos of yers," Donal grins. "T' ye health an' that of yer Dunross, Will." And quickly, the glass is tossed back.

     A broad smile for that. Ah! One who will take to bread! Excitement, surely, to be able to cook for one who can truly receive it. Although, the lord Fraser does enjoy picking at them, particularly when they're hot and fresh. "Coming right away..." And with a spring in her step she goes, Mistress Lively as William calls her.

     Scotch pools in the glasses, ruddy gold, and again dark eyes lift to you, even as William sets the bottle aside and takes up his glass. "All is right again... more right than it has ever been...So," he continues, Gaelic yet spoken and yet colored with French, "...a toast to that. To health of all friends...even Le Brat..." Glass lifted and scotch is tossed back. Ah, a bite on this one. William pours another for sipping... lifting the bottle, making a motion to you, both brows lifted in question. "Up to no good, eh...? This sounds like the friend I know and love... " He gets back to the mention of Marta. It brings a certain ...twinkle to the eye. "How is she...? You know I'm on the outs with Rose again, aye? Since I nearly got Davydd arrested, so she thinks, the last time I saw him..."

     "Aye, really?" Donal wonders, a small smile pulling at his mouth. Shades of growth upon his face. "Well, Marta's fine, seein' about those who need seein' about, tis all," he grins, settling back into his seat and extending his glass to you. Certainly another. "An' needn't ye worry on Rose," Donal says firmly, "...all bark an no bite, tha' one." He'll say it plainly. "What were y' getting the Davy in for?"

     Another pour for you, and the slant of a grin. "Bar brawl...during the last world cup..." Slow, spreading his smile pulls. Languid, remembering. "Though I don't remember much of the evening, apart from the Brat frenzying... but we...managed to escape just this side of the bobbies..." It turns to laughter that. "Davydd thought I needed to lighten up, and you know... though he's no saint in the eyes of Rose, I am the Ventrue Devil Incarnate..." And well you may see he enjoys his role. There is a nod for Marta's sake. "You'll give her my best wishes when you see her, yes?" Quietly. Earnestly. Much meant. William settles back in the seat again and with a sigh, his hand holding balanced the glass of scotch upon his thigh. "So...neighbor..." emphasis on that, liking the sound of it and what it means. "...I haven't been in Scotland long... part of this year... last Yule... what's the latest and greatest on the heath?" Asking, as if he were an old clan chieftain himself. A large hand lifts his glass to his lips.

     "I'truth," Donal sighs, lips tight and slanting, as if bored with the whole notion, "Nothin'." He shrugs, face relaxing as he takes his drink. "I guess," and on his face, still something seems uneasy, "...look, Will," Donal smiles, "...I never been one t' ask much about y' life. But..." well, it has been a while, "...y'just up an' move here t' be meh neighbor?" Everyone knows that you both left eagerly after the war to see to the Americas, and now...out of the blue...you are suddenly back. And claiming to stay. "Now, tis homey an' all...an' if nothin's happenin', we're happy t' see ya here, but..." But. But no one knows the real truth of how things are going in the infernal war. "Y'dinna like America anymore?"

     A sip of scotch. A note of its color as much as its flavor. Its kiss both warm and cool. "America is... not home..." A small smile yet lingers. But it has come for serious explanation. And for truth. "I suppose it cannot be said so simply. There were ...are many reasons for me to return here for a time. I had... gone as far as I could go there. I had led two cities, but in truth, Donal... they're going to have to learn to do it for themselves... They're old enough, now. Now, it is time to look homeward for me... for Dunross... to return to where we belong and among those of our own understanding and kind. To ... move toward?" A roll of his shoulders. "I honestly have no plans but to rest a while, enjoy my life..." Indigo lifts with a grin to give the large chamber a sweeping survey, before settling upon you again. "To meet with my friends..." He lifts his glass to you in that, and then takes another swallow of it. "And to think about how I want to approach my millennium..." It's not that far away, old friend...

     Sentimentality? Donal blinks at you, then chuckles as he has another taste of Scotch. "Y'want t' be home?" He laughs. "It's th' same y'know...at least wit' America..there's...not this confoundin' politickin' that sets around a million years. Nothin' wrong wit' bein a Prince, Will, 'specially inna place like y'were, hmm? I hear th' coast is nice in America." Millenium? He thinks not on that. "An' well..." Donal grins, "...age is..." he smiles, somewhat wistful and philosophic on that. Scotch swings freely and Donal winks at you.

     Laughter, warm and damn near roaring. Leonine. It sets fires in dark eyes, and scotch is swallowed. Done. "Aye...home... in a land that understands me... hmm? Where I can ... just... be for a time. To... simply Exist. And... I should rather prince in Chinon and Loire... than to lead a bunch of American pups by the collars..." A wry smile at that. William leans in and pours himself another. A look to you on yours. "But... I am sure I will... find some occupation in the end. I should rather mind that Europe stays on its feet, that the Loire remain as clean as it can be. That the cities at the banks of my river are healthy. Maybe I will be finally show up as the Prince of Poitiers. I think... I have been prince enough. Three cities, two large... one European and two American. What more there can I do, Donal? That I have already not done?" That is more to the meat of the nut of it all. He has done it. Thrice. Successfully. What more is there to prove or do? "Being Prince....does have its advantages, but I find it rather cage-like. Better still," William grins, "...anchor-like. And there are politics in America. But politics takes patience, I am not sure Americans understand the concept. We will see..."

     He guesses so, laughing a little with you. Being a prince was never his thing. Donal nods at the offer of more to drink. "So, what's this with Fraser..." he wonders, mostly teasing. Crossing his legs, Donal lets his eyes wander again, to the draperies and panes, then to the wall of bookshelves.

     "I picked a name out of a hat... " William chuckles, soft and low, as he pours refreshments of empty glasses. Bottle set aside, he sits back once more. Returning to his lordly half-sprawl. "Actually... I needed to dispense with my last little incarnation, and the idea seemed to please Dunross. Lord William Fraser, Marquis of Aix-en-Maiselle... Fraser, by way of Anjou... as it would have to be..." William grins, "Ah, and I like strawberries... so... it seemed a good fit. I'm still... trying it out. How does it sit on me...? Do I stick out like a big Norman....thumb?" A brow lifts and the smile slants.

     "Aye, y'do," Donal responds dryly, then laughs himself. "Sorry, Will, y'jes' look th' part of someone wantin' t' have a cloth." Clan cloth, that is. Nursing this drink, Donal cannot help but let his eyes wander. "Y'know, they us'd t' say that this place, 'twas haunt'd," he explains, looking about. "I guess t' keep th' curious out, since 'tweren't open for tours, like many o' th' other places. So...if y'couldn't get in, that musta meant..." Donal swallows quickly, "...that someone...was here..." And they were always right. Not so much a question as an observation. And he here sits, within the hallowed halls.

     He can't help the laughter, nor would he if he could. Nor the grin that trails behind it. "Ah well... maybe I'll get a bit of that in time for the next tattoo. Or go throw some big rocks... I have yet to...make an official appearance as a Fraser. I'm half curious as to whether the others of the clan'll come knocking at the doors..." Scotch is sipped and then held. The color of it remarked. Something about it makes him smile. A certain...warmth. But it does not last long. Soon, his attention is on you again. His countenance, more beautiful than it should be for near on any man, holding the warmth of the surrounding light. "Oh... I have little doubt so they thought. For a time...in my Youth... I haunted it..." His youth as a vampire was spent here. So much of him is here. "But so long as none of the ghosts pop out to talk to me, I'm fine on the haunting..." William chuckles, a wink given. "I don't really like to go out in the woods alone, though. Dunsinane remembers too much too well, I think... " He laughs at himself for that and takes another swallow of fine scotch.

     And finally... after a while... Dionnach is seen and heard to enter once more, and with her and filling the hall is the smell of fresh baked scones and honey...

     Mm. The Woods. Never has Donal feared them. Myth or otherwise. He smiles, knowing that many do though. And maybe rightly so. The latest scotch is tested again, showing its mettle. The scents though cause Donal to stir, "Lookie," he smiles, twisting in his seat, "....though I should say smell that! Where'd ye find this one, Will?" Donal teases the woman, smirking faintly.

     Oh it is enough to make a woman blush -- and surely she does. Brightly with a Go To look. "Thank ye, sir..." she murmurs. "My pleasure...now... let me know if you need anythin' else..." Dionnach settles the plate of fresh scones and the little cup of honey and the stick for it upon the table between you. Brushing her hands on her apron, she pauses a moment, smiling and nodding again before turning to take her leave.

     The sensations. The smell of honey. The rise of scented heat. Bread. William closes his eyes. In this, he shall live vicariously. He may eat, true... and he will have his fill of the fruit and cheese. But scones? Such weighty bread he does not eat much of. "She is a true treasure to the house," William says, warm voice lifting to make sure she hears it.

     "Aye," Donal agrees, mouth already warm with bread, "...I can see that she is, good lass," he nods, scooting closer to the edge of his seat. "Brilliant," he murmurs, leaning to fish the stick from the honey pot. Apparently, Donal has not much to say, ignoring his drink on the table in favor of something warmer. Small plate is drawn close, and he leans as to not make any mess. Eyes glance in your direction, wondering as to where the next topic shall rise. "So, what's wit' th' cos o' yers, Will? Y'said y' saw him? How goes he?"

     Eyes open and his motion is sudden, fluid. Capturing a bit of honey on his finger. That, now, he can stomach. The honey, from local bees, is sucked from the end of the finger and then he's for a few of the dates and a bit of cheese. "Edward... " there is a pause for a swallow. "...was in Paris, he said. Caught wind of two old vampires roaming the countryside and came out to see who it was, more or less. He seems well as ever. Full of piss and vinegar," a chuckle to that and William grins broadly. "He and Davy have been in London a good bit of the time. I haven't talked business with Edward, so... not sure on that end, but he seems happy." For a Brujah. "He has several nice new cars... reminds me, need to see to that myself actually...." A note to himself. William sits back with a slight roll of a shoulder. "Not much to tell on him, but I'm sure that will, as ever, change. You know..." Ah, here it comes. A Plantagenet Idea. "...might be fun to all get together in London for a raising of a glass or two..." The languid baritone mulls upon that thought. Suddenly fancying it.

     "Not a bad idea," Donal murmurs, nibbling still, "...lemme know when...I ha'nt seen th' Bello Italiano inna while," he snorts, poking fun. "Though, I can't imagine wot'd upset Edward, y'know? He's..." and Donal smirks, "...ah, a word fer ye...unflappable." He's read that somewhere recently. "He dunna ha' a want i' th' world..."

     Unflappable. That's a word for it. "I do envy that quality at times. I am not certain that I ...was ever so carefree." A pause. "Even at my most carefree...hmmm? But... that is his way. Unflappable." A smile. "I like that. Edward the Unflappable." Laughter. It first touches his eyes, warms against his skin, and then sounds. "Oh, and I shall. I'll give Davy and Edward a call here... and get their schedules. I needed to talk with Girault anyway." Girault in London? And Lorenzo? "I might even be able to sweet-talk the sultan into it. Alfonso will be harder to manage, but a man can't read all the time. He has to have some variety..." The eldest in mortal years of all of you, Alfonso is the old scholar, the group's natural historian, the keeper of their exploits, the odd father figure. Leaning back, chewing upon a date, a thoughtful look comes over William. A warm wash of Consideration. "He has wants, but... they are all of the Present. He does not dwell, that Edward. But in The Moment of it all lives... " Indigo fastens upon you and a brow lifts. "And what of you Donal Wallach... the poet soul of us all... " If Alfonso is the father-figure and historian, it is Donal who is the group's conscience and balance. At least in William's viewing of it.

     "Aye, what of it?" Donal smiles, finishing up the first scone of the evening, laden with golden honey. "I dunno 'bout poet though," he backpedals, fishing for another. No, he knows you will not partake. So, he shall have more for you. "I go as they doo, hmm?" he posits, green-hazel eyes looking to you as he chews. "As weh all doo," he notes softly, apparently too concerned about the scones to investigate the room anymore. This is how you live. "It's nice t' see y' so....still," he offers gently, eyes looking ahead before he dips honey again. A nod of his head. Still. That is a word. He cannot speak on 'happiness.' Without much ripple. "I ha'nt seen ye still in a while."

     But he is tempted to. He can eat, in moderation. Sometimes, he will even have meat. But not often. Mostly, it is fruit and dates, honey and easy to manage things. But he is tempted. So much may the smile and look lead one to think. Still. William smiles. A flash. A knowing. A thought. "I do not know when last ... I was this... as you say...still. At peace. Happy." He puts it on there if you will not. "Content. I am all these things. It is...a wonderful kind of strange..." Indigo eyes widen slightly at this, self-directed humor. Teasing his own previous uncontented way of living. William pauses, finishing the cheese and the dates. He will let that be enough for the now. "This stillness. But... I am enjoying it. That is why I thought... it time to return home and plot my eventual conquest of England over a nice cup of Scotch-ladden tea..." A wink dispells that. Certainly he is kidding. Isn't he?

     Yes, you are. Donal takes it not so personally, laughing. Not anytime soon, very funny. "Tis a good thing, then," he surmises easily enough. Eyes glance up -- nice of that Dunross to make himself scarce for a while. Well, though, he might truly be not feeling well. He seems 'unwell' a lot lately. Donal grins and brushes his hands, sending a bit of dust flying. "Enjoy 't, 'cause ah man ne'er know when..." and Donal ponders a second, clearly pulling up remembered words, "...a shri calls fer thee..." Or something like that. He smirks and reaches for a nearby napkin.

     "True enough..." come the words upon a chuckle. As he sees your eyes lift up again, William leans in for a last pour of scotch. One more glass, and the bottle shall be done. "You can stay the night... or however long you want, Wallach. I should give you the tour of the haunted castle...yes? Be the proper host..." William smirks at that. He rarely is a proper host. More liable to be face down in his lover as to be attentive to whatever guests move through. Hospitable he is, a host he is not. But for you... he'd change his ways. "Besides, I'm sure Ian'd like to at least get a few words in likewise amid all the catch-up." Now Ian... he is far more the proper host, and old dark age and medieval notions of hospitality are not treated lightly.

     A smile comes. He should have not looked so obvious. "Nay, Will, another time. Now that we're nei'bors," Donal grins, leaving the rest unsaid. "We ha' some time." Despite what he's just said earlier. "I jes want t' touch base wit' ye an' make sure..." well, of course, that all was fine, and to see what transpiring. So used, is Donal, of wandering the ranges. Maybe what lies north of here, will be discussed another time. "I should be movin'..." he notes, glancing at his watch. A drive to go. "I am t' be in Nairn afore t' long." West of Inverness. A grin, and Donal says softly, "I'll jes take these for th' trip," hands reaching for the scones, "...an' y'll give meh regards..." shoulder and head tossing upwards. To Him.

     A hand lifts, understanding, and a grin claims him. "Everything is well... more than." Hangover and all. "Next time," William begins again, groaning a bit as he stands, "... we'll discuss that trip to London...oh, and do take the rest of those. Dionnach will hardly know what to do with herself to see them all gone." A pause. "And not being fed to a greyhound." The grin is both smooth and broad at that. He cannot help it that he likes the taste but can't take too much of the heavy bread. "I will certainly give your regards... as he would have me do likewise. You are welcome...any time, Donal. The ...old haunted castle... will always be open to you..." A hand lands at your shoulder again. "You will give my regards to Marta...yes?"

     Giving such to a dog? Certainly not. Donal has never been so affected by his supernatural canine tendencies as to have any affection specific for the beasts. He squints at you, as if you are strange, and then picks up a napkin to wrap them in. Still warm. Evil person. Giving such beautiful things to dogs. A chuckle follows and he stands, brushing himself into order. "Aye, 'iwill," he nods, "...she'll be glad t' hear that yer around, Will," he smiles, "...as we all are, lad, t' be sure."

     Oh he is certain there are a few who are not so...overjoyed, whose hearts are warmed by such thoughts of him being back on the island. Full time. But he accepts the sentiment with a grin, "Give her a squeeze and a flourish for me..." an old parting. But he shall see you all the way out to the courtyard. "It's... good to be back. So much, Wallach, I cannot say, hmm? I've missed it and you and all the rest..." A hand rakes through his hair, rubbing at his scalp. Hunger. And not for dates and cheese. It pulls at him again. "Maybe we can ... take a tour of the north territory before the weather goes completely foul... I haven't seen the upper highlands in a while..." And he ...does have someone he wants to torment. But he'll not get into that. A wave says it in volumes. "Getting ahead of m'self. It's just good to be back..."

     North? Donal turns for the door from whence he came, not missing a beat. "We could go North," he says, "...if...that's where y' want t' go." And stir up a heap of bees. "If'n y' want." Like others, he has never had much of a desire to even smell the air around Fitzhugh. But where you go, he will follow. Especially when specifically asked. "Y'lemme know when. But now, aye, tis best y'jes relax, I think." Scones cradled to himself, Donal's shoes tap once off the carpet and nearer the stone by the kitchen door.

     You know that laughter. He had a stick ready for the hive. But he turns loose of the thought as he goes along with you. "Ah, we'll head to London. The air's a bit sweeter there...I'll let you know... well in advance of that..." His steps are damn near silent -- and would be to any save you and Ian. The mortals would not hear a whisp of it. "Next time, let me know you're popping by, I'll make sure Dionnach has another plate for you..." William is not the same man he was when Fitzhugh last saw him. Edward is unflappable. William is formidable. Beneath that layer of skin is steel. Not out of defensiveness... but knowing. Of oneself and one's place in it all. Perhaps it is a holdover of "Divine Right".... but whatever it is, it wears well on him...

     "I will," Donal grins, flushing faintly. Practice makes perfect. "I shoulda call'd ye," he nods, realizing he should not have simply dropped in. But, with that smile, you can tell he's glad he did. "So, lemme know." He stops at the door and grins broadly, "Good seein' ye, Will, an' thank ye for th'..." and hands lift with the scones. A shrug and he turns to open the door and head back through to the kitchen to the courtyard....

     "Ah no... surprises keep me young... and I need all the help I can get, Wallach... as well you know it..." It was not a reproachment or anything of the kind. Just an offer of scones. "And you're welcome. You have the woman on cloud nine. I'll not hear the end of it..." His hand goes to the door. The kitchen staff jumps a bit when he enters. He's not usually seen here. But he passes through with a grin. "I'll come by and borrow a cuppa..." Whatever you have. Return the favor.
     At the exit from the kitchens and to the courtyard, William pauses. He'll remain in the threshold, not dressed for the outdoors. His hand comes out to you again. "Take it easy, Donal... and have a good ride, hmm? I'll call in the next week or so..."

     He nods, Donal Wallach does, getting into his small, older Sypder. It moves quickly, but it is nothing of the late machines of the last twenty years. This one is more of a hearkening back to older days. Passing a chicken, he sets the scones safely down on a seat before walking around to the driver's side and slipping within. A wave and soon the engine comes to life, running lights turned yellow. That is how he will back out of the courtyard and into the night, saving his lights only when he angles and disappears back down Bridge Tower road....

Posted by rowan at May 18, 2000 10:36 AM