Just as the City is trying to pull itself up out of the water that holds it, to renovate the features of its face, to recapture the grandeur that is chipping now off of the structures of the buildings that comprise it, so too have traditions nearly lost to the Lagoon rekindled. In 1980, masks reappeared, and fantastic and even fantastically grotesque costumes filled the streets. Gondoliers began decorating their vessels and donning the traditional tabarro and bauto, the silken hoods and lace capes, turning each one into a masked Casanova.
     And the balls have resumed, opening the weeks' long event in St. Mark's Square, the Piazza, even as the parades and processions begin to take place from San Polo. Perhaps it is a swan's song, a moment of absolute vanity in what may be short remaining years. But, as they say in opera, it is not over until it is over, until Wagner's fat lady sings. And for itself, while it may be in its second act, Venice refuses to see the finale, and certainly refuses to sing it.
     For weeks now, processions upon the fire and lamplit waters of the Canale Grande have kicked off the evenings' festivities. Costumed revellers run along the fondamenta, men on stilts collect euro from those who come to Venice specifically at this damp and cold time of year. But who cares about the weather with such pageantry? Such decadent decay. There is dancing in the Piazza again tonight and in each of the campo throughout the city. Tonight is the Festival of the Masque, and parties public and private alike have begun...
     Ah... but the most spectacular sight in all the spectacles that abound this night... is the procession of red and gold gondola, the regatta of the Council of Ten revived. It bears those wearing the most fantastic, the most elaborate costumes, each gondolier a private gondolier working for the Palazzo Barbaro tonight. Each member of the red regatta is clothed in 17th Century gondolier attire and masks, bearing those in a dual anonymity. None shall know who is piloting, nor shall any know who was escorted.
     The most elaborate and the most exclusive of Carnivale events awaits you all, each of you traveling there. You may see it around the bend of the Canal...
     The line of red gondola...
     Masked figures...
     The lights upon and around the Palazzo Barbaro, the great complex of palaces...
     And on the arched balconies of one section of the palazzo complex, men and women stand, singing your way in, the gondoliers unconsciously moving to the tempo of their aria...

     One of those gondoliers, clothed in a tabarro of red and many folds of cloaks and bauto of scarlet, is the one known as Il Guardiano di Venezia, Paolo di Santo. He leads the regatta and will be the first to bring his passenger to the steps of the Barbaro.
     His passenger? Beneath the Byzantine fabrics, gold and purple and red, behind the mask of painted enamel, the face of an icon, is Ilario Campisi, the once famous satirist, literary rival of Machiavelli. He could cut a man in half with but two words...
     As the palazzo comes into sight, and ever closer, he briefly lifts his mask to reveal an even more iconic face. Full lips curl a smile delightful and he covers his face again. "What celebrations we shall have tonight," he exclaims.
     Paolo does not turn his head, nor his eyes nor his hands from his task but continues straight through the heart of the aria like an arrow. "Dite questo ogni anno..."
     Ilario laughs brightly. "Yes, and every year it is true. One night, my friend, for one night... it is enough to carry one through the whole year..."

     Drifting quietly along, in another gondola, stands a man with a mane of blonde hair. Tall and broad, he's draped in a violet cloak with red feathers flaring at his shoulders. His enamel mask of white swirls with swatches of red and violet as well, giving a Phantom-like feel. He converses softly with a woman in gauze white that fits her well-curved body that's topped with blonde-gold ringlets. Wrapping her like a web, thin gauze shimmers as an overlay. Caterine d'Bohay wears a gold mask tinged with gold and black feathers, and her companion, Sebastian de Rancey, murmurs softly to her in Slavic tones.

     Perhaps midway back in the long line of red gondola arriving from the direction of St. Mark's -- yet another line of gondola is traveling from the southwest and the Rialto -- a gondolier in military pageantry oars his passengers toward the Barbaro, keeping in perfect line behind his brother ahead of him. He pulls a royal regatta, a six-seat covered gondola, its red and gold curtains hiding those within. Majesty and secrecy. The hallmarks of this night...

     A single figure arrives in one of the gondolas, without retinue as others may, though in some ways that is itself appropriate. She takes the hand of one of those on the land when her boat comes to the pier, stepping up in a swirl of midnight velvet that seems to absorb the very light from the lanterns that line the walk and release it in small bursts of twinkling energy.
     She proceeds to the gathering as the others do, face cloaked from view by her hood and no other discernible features revealed.

     It must be planned. A gondola floats by, containing a bevy of goddesses, stepped directly from the lofty heights of Olympus. At the front, looking ahead, a woman of sun-kissed shoulders and chestnut hair that floats down her back. She's wrapped in colors of Monet, a gown whose cut sweeps shoulder to hip from bust to floor. Cream becomes a soft yellow, then transitions into blue and indigo, much like the color of evening Water Lilies on an ever-darkening pond. Her mask is indigo with gold-trimmed eyes and features framed by her mane of red-brown.
     Behind, two other deities converse while holding glasses. In shimmering, fitted black, stands Persephone of Naples, Medusa before her fall. With black hair, a black enamel mask and dark eyes gleaming within the sockets, the archon defies all around her to know her tyrannical glory. With her? A woman in flaming orange and green chiffon, with the shining gold-orange mask of Scaramouche. Ashleigh Pennington-Vries is a long way from London, but she has brought the drama of the stage with her.

     The captain of the regatta, Il Guardiano, holds his position at the broad steps as Ilario Campisi disembarks, his swirling Byzantine garments, an Emperor's regalia, barely misses the water as he heads up the steps of Palazzo Barbaro.
     The Palazzo is a group of palaces with a variety of landings. Room enough for several of the regatta to land at once. Behind the Toreador primogen, another of the Council late-arriving, Fabrizio the Fabulous, dressed as a buffo -- what else -- from the Commedia dell'Arte and comic opera stage. In fact, he's a mishmash of several characters -- apparently unable to make up his scattered mind...

     The gondola so recently departed its pier contains a trio. A man in silken green, his suit draped by a cloak of black velvet with green silk lining. He laughs amiably with a woman, despite his green and black mask shielding him from the lavender and grey of his companion. Upon her gown are sprinkled dotlets that catch the light and refract it upon the world. Diamonds, tossed like scattered drops of water. Both Frederick Chaillot of Tours and Gisela of Paris stop and turn suddenly, as if listening to someone. Alas, other than their gondolier, there is no one else visible.

     The cloaked figure continues into the palazzo, noting without much response those who arrive alongside with no apparent familiarity to any of the hidden identities immediately. Ascending the stairs the barest hint of sky blue is seen at the hem against marble, the velvet bowing a bit as the doors part, allowing entry amidst the song and glamour of the evening.

     One by one, the gondola approach the steps and two by four by six the marble steps of the Barbaro are covered in swirling colors of those disembarking. Their arrival is serenaded. Their arrival is watched by tourists who have inevitably gathered to watch the brilliantly arrayed move beyond their grasp like a dream at waking...
     One by one, the gondoliers freed of their passengers for now push away from the steps. It is a tidal wash of color, a water ballet. If watched from above it would all be synchronized cinematic.
     The curtains of gold and red are parted as the larger gondola lands at the steps. Two women, two men -- their arms interlinked -- step out of vessel and onto the steps, the gossamer layers of silk lingering on the air behind them. They are entirely in white. The men with great protruding masks, the phallic implications not lost on them or anyone else. The women veiled with great swaths of fabric upswept into fantastic interwoven hair designs. One of the women is Iniga Montagna, Brujah Primogen of the Council of Ten.

     So much spectacle, where do the eyes first land? Upon the glorious environs or those who fill it? Fill it to the brim this evening. All doors are open, all floors are occupied. There is music within, an orchestra playing, a chorus singing. So many colors, the rich fabrics. Sumptuosity is defined by This.
     Each room is richly arrayed, decorated for the event in boughs of heavy fruit that may be plucked and eaten, a false forest, a new Eden constructed in what is normally the sitting room, complete with mostly-naked Adams and mostly-naked Eves to serve those masked guests who linger here, flirt here, laugh here, speak softly here, wander in and out like capricious angels sporting before Paradise was lost.
     The environs of the library and reading room have been turned into a lavish seraglio, with pomegranates and everything proper harems should contain. Honey candles and fragrances and oils abound here. The oils as edible as they are fragrant -- and already being sampled.
     The doors to the private dining room are likewise open and a banquet is there for any who wish to partake. And for those of more delicate constitutions, there are always the servers. The chamber is fully decorated as a celebration of all things Venetian. Titians have been brought out for the occasion, and the servers are dressed as cherubim in Renaissance paintings. The fountains run with wine tonight.
     The side hall and main hall are full of those going in between the first floor rooms or those who loiter, making up their minds on where to go, who to see, what to do...
     What to do...
     The ballroom is the heart of the event, the doors open from music room and vocal chamber to the enormous grand ballroom itself.

     The man in green and black, along with the woman in lavender and grey with diamonds rise up the steps and into the entryway. Almost immediately, as if they'd been here before, they stride towards one of the side rooms, after giving nods of their heads to a few gathered others.

     Moving throughout the crowd, a tiny pixie-woman flitters between throngs of fantastical creatures, perhaps blending in a bit, perhaps not. Clothed -- barely -- in white, gold, silver and copper, she slides in behind one crowd, then emerges briefly before ducking in behind another... a brief shimmer of white and metallic. She inclines her head to a few who she recognizes, having spent many moons here recently... offers smiles to a few others.
     Her mask of stiffened silk partially covers her face, obscuring her identity, though her eyes seem wild to those who take a closer look -- the bluest blue, and odd, mismatched pupils... but could it be? Where are the raven-black locks she is known for? Perhaps it is not -her-... it must be a coincidence. This woman's hair has been cropped short, and is so blonde that it is nearly white.
     Hovering nearby, accompanying her, a tall, lanky man moves along... painted. Every piece of visible skin has been painstakingly painted, as though his flesh were the canvas. Celtic knotwork and symbols stretch across his bare chest, up over his shoulders, and down his back, as well as wrapping about his arms. His face is also painted up, portraying him to be a rather young-looking, handsome Green Man, though he sports no beard and mustache.

     The Byzantine emperor may be seen again, quickly surrounded -- mask or no -- by those who seem to know what lies beneath it. an arm looping with another partygoer's as they continue down the hall and to the ballroom, the source of the music. How is he known? By his laughter, if not by his face...

     The gossamer ladies and gossamer men disappear into the seraglio, trailing glorious white behind them...

     Stepping through the door, the cloaked lady of midnight is approached by one of the attendants to divest her of her outer shell. Apparently some enterprising costumer has devised a way that allows the cloak itself to come away in one smooth motion when unclasped. The hood itself sliding back from her crown as the front is parted, almost as though she emerges from the very heart of the darkness into brilliant light, candle glow reflecting off the shining surface of her beaten gold mask. The rising of the sun.

     A tenor rises from the hall, followed by the rustle of a thousand gowns and cloaks, and then by sounds of amazement. His voice, were it not now coupled with such vibrant costuming, would be enough, usually. But he wears 1001 Arabian Nights on his skin, stories told in vibrant swirls. He is the dream of Scheherezade...
     The only clothing is the turban that serves as a mask with its jeweled veils, and the transparent swaths of golden fabric that are constructed in such a way as to be a kind of toga-pant. His torso is bare, front and back, and likewise his feet. There is not an inch on him that has not been adorned by this artist.
     Two painted people at one party? The artist must be here...
     He is known by his cinnamon eyes. Girault-Antonio di Medici moves from the ballroom and room to room, seeing to those who have only just arrived. Ilario first, as he is closest by. Mask or no, anonymity or know, looks are exchanged, and quick embraces. Not a moment of Scheherezade's story is smudged....

     The Goddesses enter and place gentle kisses upon masked cheeks. They smile and divide, tripartite.
     In one direction, Monet given life with flamed chestnut tresses. Jezebel's arrival sparks a lift of din in the ballroom.
     In gauze white and gold, Caterine entrance brings but a lift of brows and slight murmuring. The noise only continues when the tall blonde in purple and red, Sebastian, sidles next to Caterine and extends his arm to her in companionship.
     The Dark goddess causes a stir. A gleaming statue of war, Persephone parts a path before her, a walk leading directly to Ilario and the newly-arrived Girault. Death seeking harbor.

     There's delight for the graceful Scaramouche. Ashleigh smiles as she passes Caterine and Sebastian, yet her arms, swirling in orange and cream, extend towards another man in a simple red suit and red mask. Actors these, with masks that are not masks. Ashleigh, with Cameron Delany, recently of Milan, laugh and embrace, not having seen each other in some time.

     The pixie flutters forward again, striving to get closer to quickly scan the newcomers, look for any familiar... well, not familiar faces, but perhaps mannerisms, voices, thoughts...
     The Green Man follows her, his hands hidden within the pockets of his plain black pants. His own rich brown hair has been teased out to look wild and he sports a thin mask of black material, mostly covering across his eyes a la Zorro, minus the bandana and cap. Silver hoop earrings catch candlelight briefly.

     It began in India. Valmiki, visiting the land which birthed him, when the Call came. Always, the Call comes, sooner or later. Go here. Go there. Hither and yon, thither and upon, hither and thither and back to where it began.
     The Call came, and he went - for there's no alternative, when it comes. Some might have seen him arrive - a modest figure seated almost as if in prayer in a gondola, rising before the vessel's quite reached the shore, laughing as he tosses a small pouch containing a quantity of coins and some folded bills. He leaps to the shore and bows to the gondolier with a flourish, straightening and turning towards the palazzo.
     He is most distinctly not in costume, and yet to many, he is as exotic as if he were. His blue-black pageboy's been allowed to grow a bit, almost to shoulder length; at present it's caught back with a scrap of leather thong in a short ponytail, the aquamarine eyes gleaming with lively interest. A cream-coloured tunic is cross-stitched at the neckline, cuffs and hem with cranberry-red thread, and reddish-brown breeches with dark sandals upon his feet. A silver flute drawn up to his lips played sweetly led to an invitation, and by now, as the guests flow in, he's a wanderer in and out of shadows and crowds, playing a lilting merry tune - the notes of which fade hauntingly whenever he pauses for breath.

     There is only one man here who is not wearing something of wool, silk, velvet or as two have done, paint. Tall, one of the tallest gathered here, a giant among Italians, he is armored, brilliant Damascan steel that shines with a blueish tint. His mask is a helm with platinum antlers protruding from it, interwoven metallic with silver, copper and bronze vines and flowers. A spirit of virile spring, a persistent and blatant insistence of Life amid the winter sleep. The mantle is a gathered silken, green-mottled cloak in toga folds and gathered by a Celt's torc brooch at his left shoulder. Perhaps he and The Green Man are associates...
     Indigo eyes may be seen past the silver, dark blue-violet that stand out brilliantly against his otherwise metallic setting. The only other visible portion of his face is his mouth. Italianate, it parts for a grape granted by a passing hand, and he smiles at the offering, turning to look to the hand that graced his way...

     The tenor lifts again, an aria unuttered but sung even so as Girault turns from Ilario to greet Persephone. The veil hides his smile -- but his eyes reveal it well enough on their own, going from cinnamon to smoky clove in greeting humor. "Paris was a fool. The apple should have been yours." A pause. "Or am I thinking of the wrong story? I have mine painted upon me and I can but barely keep it straight..."

     Persephone shakes her darkened mane, replying, "People often confuse me and Eris. I am but Hades' bride," she explains, nodding sagely. Of course, people forget.
     "But you are a sight, Dignitary," Persephone offers, hand remaining upon Ilario. "And a splendid host. Grazie," she says, bowing her head to her Elder.

     Even without the ability to see the unseen energies around those here at the gathering, the eyes could not be mistaken for any other. Aurora smiles and tilts her head a bit as she sees the pixie and her shadow flit through the crowd. And then, of course, she notices the hair.
     Cinnamon brows arch above the allowance of the golden mask as her surprise is half hidden from view, though still apparent, "Hello, there."
     A hint of a chuckle follows, "Well, that's... certainly a change."
     The green man is given a nod and a friendly smile, the warmth of light itself, presence an aura hanging about her in its own right.
     Then the second unmistakable figure is seen in his steel encasement, afforded a light curtsy from across the hallway as it stands, instead waiting to hear a response from the fae one as to the changes afforded.

     The Dream of Scheherezade's eyes smolder. "It was such torture. I cannot express it. To be under Guillaume's brush for hours, caro mio, and you'll never guess where he put Aladdin's Lamp. But!" changing the subject with delight, "...it is good to see you, you beautify my home and my party, welcome, welcome... the delights are as one would expect. My home is yours..." And no rooms are off-limits, and no activities so the rumor goes.

     Ilario Campisi tips his iconic face, his gloved hand coming over Persephone's own. "I am no Hades, though I expect to be sent there eventually," he purrs out. "Maybe you would give me the good grace of seeing me there." A pause. "I always did wish for a personal escort to hell. Oh, my dear queen, let there be trumpets to sound!"

     Brows arch behind the mask. "This way," Persephone finally says, leading Ilario away from the host and towards her first drink of the night.

     Not so far from the horned demigod stands Ian. How could it not be? White-blonde locks are stark behind a black mask trimmed with gold and diamond points. He's dressed in a black suit, cut to his figure, with a white shirt beneath. Simple really. His cuffs are diamond circles, with tiny diamonds on radial tips. A black cloak of roughened matte silk trails behind him. Perhaps he's the better companion to the goddess Death that walks the rooms.

     "I don't believe it," comes the soft, but sudden sound of Occitan from the great armored stag. A gauntleted hand reaches over and nudges the dark-clothed grape offerer. "Look, there," Guillaume d'Angevin, also known as William Plantagenet, continues. "It is ...Valmiki..." A pause. "I wonder if we should rescue him." The mouth that is revealed spreads in a smooth smile. The smile pauses where it is, mouth parting a little. Perhaps seeking yet another grape....
     Someone is sure to offer...

     Valmiki? Ian turns about to see where William points. Hands disappear beneath the cloak, even as a smile and nod is given to passing acquaintances.

     Tilting her head to one side, the pixie gifts Aurora with a flashing smile. Reaching up to tug on a strand of white-blonde hair, the petite woman remarks, "I'm impressed that you knew me even with such a change... it proves how long we have known each other, no? You look... simply radiant." She pauses, perhaps to bask in the sunlight of the other woman a moment... though she has not seen such light in so many years. Finally, she speaks again. "It is good to see you, my friend," she murmurs softly, opening her arms wide to offer an embrace.
     The Green Man inclines his head to the vision of daylight and offers a warm smile. "Good to see you," he intones deeply. The masterpiece upon his body does match the talent of that which the Host displays... perhaps they are two pieces in a series, painted by the same hand?

     ...Outside, a man in cobalt tabarro and bauto stands upon the arched balcony, looking out over the Canal and accompanied by those singers yet heralding in continued arrivals. Also with him, a young man dressed as Romeo, with all the pomp and circumstance of a proper Montague...

     "Rescue him or eat him," the stag murmurs again. "I am not supposed to be making these decisions on such a night." Such warm, languid warmth that pulls both upon accent and intonation.

     "He'd taste bad," Ian says, his expressions already unfathomable now are invisible as well. But apparently it all warrants a visit. Ian steps towards Valmiki, expecting William may follow...

     There is a low, echoing trill from the flute as Valmiki wanders between an Adam and an Eve, the darkling cuckoo in the nest of Eden. The flute trill ends, dying by the delighted smile upon his lips. An adventure and a story all at once!
     He dips below the conjoined hands of cherubs with a complicated medley of notes set free to drift along the festivities, straightening with a swish of ponytail. By now, somewhere, he's lost his sandals. He doesn't appear to be minding much, all in all - he lowers the flute, taking a deep breath. One hand rises to wipe at the tea-coloured forehead, Valmiki's brilliant gaze restless, darting about as if a child given too much sugar, trying to take all in at once and overlooking the obvious.

     "Indeed." Stepping in for a clasping of arms along with a continental greeting, careful not to spoil the art on her friends cheeks nor leave golden trails of her own. Who knows what kisses from the sun might do.
     Stepping back once more, Dawn nods to the man beside the pixie, "Wonderful to see you too." She addresses both of them, though keeping her proximity to the white bob the closer, "I had hoped to have everyone out for New Years, but things took longer to tie in than I thought, so the renovations aren't all finished yet."

     "How do you know..." William wonders, grin showing, and he does, indeed, follow his white-blonde companion. Such a guard as that, who is the other man one may well wonder -- and no doubt several attendees do.
     There is a musical note to his stride as the metal moves, both the armor and the silver and bronze vines.

     The fae-like woman returns the continental greeting, the sound of tiny bells chiming softly as she moves in, then back, giving the other woman space. "That," she replies with a grin, "is the law of things, usually. Murphy's Law or somesuch thing. But, we all understand how these things go. And there is always next time, right?"
     Gesturing around, she asks with a bright smile, "Is this not all so lovely? We never had anything like this in America. I mean, we had costume parties... but nothing like this. It is... so incredible and breath-taking. Your outfit is gorgeous.... you'll be sure to turn a few heads tonight."

     The pixie's painted companion smiles, murmuring, "She's right, you know. So few here have seen such a sight in years... it's certain to cause a bit of a stir." There is a friendly playfulness in his tone and smile -- he's not brooding as he can usually be found doing. The pair's spirits seem to be high tonight, which is a very good thing.

     She smiles brilliantly once more, "Well, thank you." She glances down at her gown briefly and then back up at the companions, "I'm having some second thoughts about it, in all honesty, but at the time it seemed like a marvelous idea."
     The surroundings are given another viewing, the views of paradise on either side of the door earn a bit of a wry grin, "It is truly marvelous. I don't know what precisely I expected, but it certainly wasn't quite so grand as this."

     At Victoria's shoulder - no good Toreador would have missed the press of the air - a man approaches. Tall and lean, he is covered in a dark, short-haired, brushed camel topcoat that ends at his heels. The coat is only buttoned at his waist, leaving it opened in an hourglass shape above and below the fastening. His suit beneath is a Sahara beige, of a linen surely seen in Cairo. Crushed white lapels fold crisply at his collar and flash at his cuffs.
     "Good evening," his tongue says in English, though its accented French. There's a man behind the mask of tan, orange, and black. A jaguar, piped in gold and edged in soft fur. His blue eyes are unmistakable, the blue of crystal, of chandeliers, of glass, and of sky.

     Flashing the Dawn another bright smile, Tori chuckles a reply, "You made your bed, so... I wouldn't worry about it. I think it was a perfect choice. Gives something for people to talk about later..." There is a wink accompanied with that, and the statement causes her companion to laugh as well.
     Glancing at the man coming up behind the other woman, she falls silent, smiling... allowing for the jaguar-man to exchange greetings with Victoria.

     The Dream of Scheherezade is visible again, moving from room to room with his laughing tenor, his singing greeting to some, flirtations to others. It begins to form the chorus of the night...
     Soon he appears near the sitting room, the Garden of Eden. It seems to be where many are lingering...

     Seeing himself approached, even if he does not immediately recognize those who approach him, Valmiki offers a low, sweeping bow, then straightens, playing something vaguely Celtic upon the flute in honour of the one's costume. He has the look of mischief to his features for a moment, which is gone a moment later as he gravely inquires, "Hail to you both. How may this humble servant, supplicant of Music's presence, be of service, gentlemen?"
     At least the genders of those he addresses are not so easily disguised - though if he's guessed wrong, he'd be in for a shock... but not as much of a shock as the costumed males.

     The young goddess turns at the words to her side, shining smile returning once more with pleased surprise, "Good evening." She steps back just slightly to include everyone in the conversation, "We were just talking about my housewarming party. I was going to try and have it at the beginning of the year, but my renovations missed my schedule."
     Gesturing between the Celts and the cat of the sands she asks, "Are you all acquainted?" There's the implication in her voice that she doesn't believe so, though she wouldn't want to presume.

     "We are, I believe," the man says, extending a hand. "Raymond Marillet." He neglects the part about Tours. Prince. "A pleasure again," he smiles, then narrows his gaze, "...but I think you look different than last time, yes?"

     Silken crowds part for the steel-clad stag, a rustle of garments and murmurs follow. And around him that energy, the unseen hands that swim before him, clearing his way. It would be hard to take him for anything other than masculine, but... in a party such as this anything can happen.
     "Do you believe in triplicity?" comes the French upon the English that he speaks for the poet's benefit. "For this is the third time I've seen you where I've least suspected, Valmiki." The indigo eyes -- how many one forget those? There is something of amusement in his armored expression, the slightest upturn of his mouth revealed.

     Ian looks accusatory.
     Not that anyone could tell.
     He stands at William's side, invisible.
     But the disapproval is there. Right?
     "I'm starting to think that the visit to our phone box was not so serendipitous."
     You think?

     If Tori does not remember meeting him before, her face shows nothing to indicate such. Smiling brightly, she accepts the offered hand and replies, "Victoria Whitethorne, but most call me Tori. And yes, a pleasure once more."
     The smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, changing into a grin as her appearance is mentioned. "Ah, yes... this is temporary, of course, just for tonight. Usually, you see me with long, black hair..." Quite the opposite spectrum from how she wears it tonight.

     "That's it," Raymond agrees, lifting the hand and kissing it softly as he bends. He rises and nods. "I knew it was something," he says with self-deprecating humor. A finger touches his temple in mock-humor.

     The lady of light chuckles, "Well, I like it."
     Turning to Raymond, she asks, "Have you been here long? I've just managed to get this far in the door so I haven't seem much of the rest of the party." Tori and Raf are also looked to with the same curiousity, since they're more residents of the city here than anyone else she knows in particular.

     Aquamarine eyes go wide at the voice, the indigo flash of eyes, the accompanying voice - he never forgets a Story, after all. "Triplicity? Ah, my lord, you do me no justice at all. Perhaps I'm a stalker in disguise, seeking to discover all your Stories, the both of you?" He laughs, a genuine, husky alto as he then sweeps into another bow.
     Valmiki continues even before rising. "I'll not mention names, my lords, for names have power, and if your identities are truly to be secret, tis best they not be Named. There's power in a name, after all, but I am in no more disguise than ever you find me." He spreads his arms out from his sides, laughing again, warmly, truly.
     And it is ... the Truth ... isn't it?
     "But I promise you, I have not come here seeking you, either of you," the poet-musician continues, folding his arms loosely over his chest and resting back on one heel, "save if you are the Stories which I've been sent to collect. You look well, though altogether altered. How could it be otherwise?"

     Tori pauses briefly, blinking, then glances from Raymond to Victoria for a moment, even as he bends over her hand. Her gaze flickers back at him once more. Soft laughter escapes her, as she murmurs, "Well, at least the change was not lost in this sea of loveliness and distraction... everyone -does- look so lovely tonight. It is a feast for the eyes."
     Retrieving her hand, she says softly to Victoria now, "This is merely the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. The sitting room seems to be the epicenter..." Her hand flutters in the air, vaguely gesturing in that direction.

     Raf, for the most part, remains silent, happy to be with good company, but content to let others speak as they will. But he nods as Tori mentions the sitting room, glancing over his shoulder.

     Raymond looks down his nose slightly to Victoria, "I haven't been here so long." If there's something else to say -- he has not given Victoria the full greeting as he has Tori -- Raymond does not speak it. He looks at Victoria another moment, then turns his attention to Tori once more. "And I like it too," he states for the record.
     Raymond turns slightly to the sitting room at Tori's motion. He leans to see into the room, and after a quick assessment, returns with, "Is there something planned?"

     "Non... there is nothing to tell," comes the smooth intonation, the warmly couched lie. Not even disguising itself as truth. The closest mask for it would appear to be humor. "I have a simple life," so Guillaume can say, can protest, can lie all he likes. Three castles does not a simple life make.
     There is no notion now of serendipity. He wonders now at the fate of it all. Why are you so constantly in our path? What purpose does it have? For us? For you? The great horned man looks from the unmasked poet to his masked companion. What do you make of this, amours?
     "How did you happen here? To this exclusive soiree? You have a knack, it would appear, in entering castles," his voice pulls slightly humored. And some people throughout history have tried so hard to escape them.

     "The doors are left open for him," Ian adds dryly, though there may be a smirk somewhere. "I'd walk in too."
      "I should have worn your outfit, Valmiki."

     "Well, in the ballroom, there are concerts being performed throughout the night," Tori explains, motioning with another flick of the wrist in the appropriate direction. "There are some truly talented individuals lined up for the party, so I truly recommend popping in there at least once tonight," she adds.

     Now Raf speaks up, an impish grin flashing across his Celtic face. "The rest, as you can probably guess, is left for everyone's enjoyment... they get out of it what they put in, if you know what I mean," he says lowly with a chuckle.

     "It is odd, my lords," Valmiki confesses, scratching his cheek lightly, mischief back in his eyes, "but in truth, I came to Venice on a whim," a Call may be a whim, after all, "and I was wandering by, playing upon my flute." He demonstrates, playing a sudden cacophony of notes, whirling like birdsong, mimicking a falling rain, then trailing off into silence.
     He lowers the flute again, with an eloquent shrug, flashing his grin first to one, then the other. "They invited me in to play for my supper, and as you well know - I can little refuse such generosity when it is offered." Valmiki winks. "And so - I am here. Where I shall be by night's end ... ah, we shall see where my whimsy forces me to follow, aye?"

     Victoria glances there herself, inquisitive as always, "Well, I'm at leisure to go wherever suits the rest of you. I'd like to meet the host at some point during the evening but I don't expect that to be a problem. I saw Jezebel come through, but she seemed to be involved with other things so I'll greet her in passing. And William and Ian are otherwise engaged at present."
     She shrugs slightly and smiles with graceful ease, apparently content to go along with the evening as it evolves, "From what it seems there is a good deal of activity in both rooms, and I believe I heard someone say the ballroom is down in that direction?" Raymond is given the benefit of her glow individually with a slight turn, "And your ensemble seems like it would blend in in either setting. Which is very clever by the way, it suits you."

     Raymond looks down at himself. "Well, thank you," he says absently, taking the instant to evaluate what he thinks. "Yours is..." Raymond begins, "...lovely. A veritable gleam." He smiles, then offers, "Perhaps you both should see the host. I am sure he'd like to know that you are here."
     "I should...say a few greetings to..." Raymond's hand waves in a circle, meaning others in the palace. "You know..." he says almost apologetically.

     So long as you keep playing, you may avoid becoming someone else's supper...
     Guillaume smiles a little. There's no warning from his lips. No, fate brought you here, Valmiki, and fate will have to see you through it. "It is a good night for whimsy," the stag says simply and he seems ready to continue his own revelry here, there and everywhere...

      "Thank you." Victoria says easily, "I got the idea from your gift, actually. Which I should thank you for again, by the way, it's wonderful. I'm sorry I didn't get to come down like I'd planned to when you weren't busy, things in the States got... hectic quicker than I'd anticipated."
     With the glance to the party and its movements she nods, "Of course. Anonymity has its privileges. I should take advantage of it while it lasts." She smiles, "Hopefully we'll run into each other again this evening, though."

     Raf leans close to the pixie-woman, and says something in her ear, his eyes training on the door.
     Tori nods briefly, then says to Raymond, "If you need to make your greetings, do not feel pinned down by myself and Raf... Victoria, if you wish to see Antonio, I could take you to him..." Unless she would like to go with Raymond, that is. Her gaze flickers briefly back to the door as a slight commotion starts there.

     There's no comment on whimsy from Ian. He exhales in the mask, causing it to emit a rushing sound. Then, "Just...take care, hmm? Some here may think 'You are delightful and delicious with champagne.'"
     There is no doubt in his mind that Valmiki is far more than he appears. Indeed, that Valmiki is of the constitution to care for himself. Maybe. But the warning about the room still seems prudent.
     The mask lifts in a quick sweep of Ian's pale hand. It is himself there, as young Now as he was Then. "It is nice to see you, Valmiki." A cheer to see the mysterious one; along with concern. It's not Valmiki that is the problem.

     There's no comment on whimsy from Ian. He exhales in the mask, causing it to emit a rushing sound. Then, "Just...take care, hmm? Some here may think 'You are delightful and delicious with champagne.'"
     There is no doubt in his mind that Valmiki is far more than he appears. Indeed, that Valmiki is of the constitution to care for himself. Maybe. But the warning about the room still seems prudent.
     The mask lifts in a quick sweep of Ian's pale hand. It is himself there, as young Now as he was Then. "It is nice to see you, Valmiki." A cheer to see the mysterious one; along with concern. It's not Valmiki that is the problem.

      There's no comment on whimsy from Ian. He exhales in the mask, causing it to emit a rushing sound. Then, "Just...take care, hmm? Some here may think 'You are delightful and delicious with champagne.'"
     There is no doubt in his mind that Valmiki is far more than he appears. Indeed, that Valmiki is of the constitution to care for himself. Maybe. But the warning about the room still seems prudent.
     The mask lifts in a quick sweep of Ian's pale hand. It is himself there, as young Now as he was Then. "It is nice to see you, Valmiki." A cheer to see the mysterious one; along with concern. It's not Valmiki that is the problem.

     Seldom is Valmiki entirely oblivious to danger - instead, he relies upon his glib tongue to work him loose from its clutches. And why not? It's always worked so far, has it not? "Of course, my lords, of course," the poet murmurs, then glances back over his shoulder. "Speaking of that - I must return to my playing if I am to sup," he laughs, making a slight bow and lifting the flute to his lips once more.
     "Perhaps we shall speak more later, but for now, enjoy the bacchanalia, sirs," Valmiki adds, aquamarine gaze dancing. His lips then close delicately around the reed-piece, and a few lilting notes are played. "I am most please to encounter my friends wherever they may occur." His lips quirk into a small grin, and the notes which follow are purely of India - a snakecharmer's tune, serpentine and rhythmic.
     It feels somehow ... appropriate to the Call.

     "It is no problem about the scheduling. As for seeing each other again this night, I'm sure we will," Raymond says, his eyes resting on Victoria a long moment. He inhales and then looks at Tori, "I should let you two be for a bit." No, he'll not do the introductions. "A pleasure again, Miss Whitethorne," the English used. "You," he chuckles, "...look spectacular," his eyes trailing to Victoria.
     Raymond's lips purse together and he steps back before turning and heading off in the direction of Valentine Rossini of Florence, who's now the Grand Harpy of London.

     No, Valmiki is not the problem here...
     What would he say to know he was in such dangerous, if beautiful, environs? A pit of snakes, a palazzo full of vipers. What then for the one snakecharmer? Could he play his flute fast enough to escape? To Indian tunes, Guillaume turns to Ian, face revealed. At least for a moment, and for that moment the stag allows himself the rapture that comes with it.
     A steeled hand slips within his companion's cloak. "This helm is hotter than I remember," he murmurs. "If only I were ignorant of what was in the water. But," he chuckles, "...there is a pool of illumination, apparently, somewhere in the neighboring section..." As if William shall be able to convince Ian to relax in Girault's house around so many of their Kind.
     He knows better...

     "Oh, well, thank you..." comes the response to Raymond. Beaming, Tori curtsies to him, then takes hold of Raf's arm. "Well, Victoria... shall I go and introduce the Waking Dawn to her Host of the evening? Have you not met him yet? He really is a wonderful man..." she babbles a little bit, seeming excited to be able to introduce her old friend to her newer friend.
     Raf turns slightly, offering an elbow to Victoria. "Shall we?" he asks, smiling warmly at her.

     Victoria nods once more, smiling yet, "Good." She's not disappointed about the polite decline of company, introductions could get... complicated under the circumstances. "See you later then."
     After his departure, she turns to Tori and Raf fully again after a glance at the door as she seems to realize it had their attention, "That would be nice, thanks. Or we could go say hello to William and Ian before they move out of the room."

     A late arrival sweeps into the hallway from outside... or rather, a group of late arrivals. Tittering and chatter can be heard from the gaggle of newcomers, all dressed in Elizabethan finery, the most stunning outfit adorning their figure-head, the one they all seem to defer to.
     Her gown is the largest, made of the richest fabrics, and adorned the most elaborately. Her blonde hair is swept up in a complex up-do, interwoven with white beads, all framing a beautiful face that has been powdered heavily, her cheeks and lips stained appropriately for the era.
     Never fear, darlings, the Madame is here.

     "We shall," Ian says to Valmiki, even as the person (ha) begins to flute away. "Well, we'll try to have a nice time," Ian says under his breath, fitting his mask over his face again.

     The serpentine tune winds its way through the crowd, shifting as Valmiki ducks under the arm of an Eve holding a grape out to a guest. It changes to something flirtatious, birdsong mingled with dappling sunlight.

     "Shall you?" Guillaume wonders aloud. "I've seen happier faces at funerals, amours..." Are you not here in style? With a handsome companion, in armor no less? Has Girault not been a gentleman and not tried to sleep with you? Armored fingers give the companion's waist a bit of a grab and nudge. "Come on... we should get ourselves somewhere and park, mais oui. Some place with a good view and better drinks...I hear the seraglio is entertaining..."
     Indigo eyes are visible behind the helm of Damascan steel, he turns his head to spy the next round of entrances.

     "The dead...the undead...celebrating their state?" Ian observes, muttering to William as he walks beside him, "I would think that means funeral." Ian shakes his head and chuckles, giving a wave to one of the smaller salons as they pass by and wend among the ornate revelers.

     Victoria of the dawn briefly looses site of Tori and her companion as the pixie flits in and out of the other guests briefly, getting caught up by one of those she knows here from her time in Venice as the small group makes its way to intersect with the two Ventrue as they cross the room.
     "Hello." She says with a smile, stepping over around one of the lightly clad Adams with his fruit of perfection on a plate.

     There is a great and musical commotion, starting from the ballroom and its full orchestra and choir. Strains of sudden 'Carmen', the voices of men and women raising. Celebration indeed, and through the open hallways and doors, women in gorgeous costume come running by, chased by men...

Les voici!
Les voici!
Les voici!
Oui les voici!
Voici la quadrille!
Les voici! voici la quadrille
la quadrille des toreros
Sur les lances
le soleil brille!
     And with it the Toreador Song from 'Carmen' embedded in rounding beauty with the chorus of young women. Spontaneous performance that fills each room, other participants taken by the hands and pulled along as the group disappears, running again. And for a moment, the entire Palazzo is caught up in the song and in the swell of inspired revelry that bore it...

     There's laughter and humor at the song. Certainly the Toreador in the crowd chuckle, some familiar faces grabbing fellows of their own clan for the dance....

     Raymond, who's been conversing amiably with Gisela and Frederick, grins as Frederick takes Gisela's hand and leads her in a wide arc to begin a round. Frederick's prince takes a step back and folds his arms across his chest, content to sit this one out. Behind the mask, he must smile at his Primogen and the Primogen from Paris, but it's hard to tell.

     He watches the running chorus, a shielding arm coming out in reflex as Guillaume steps back out of the way of running operatics, turning to look at Ian. "They are all crazy," he murmurs in Occitan. "And I promised Girault I would wear his fantastical costume tonight, made for me by the Guild, but I have lost ten pounds in sweat..." And now he is complaining. At a party?
     Guillaume?
     "I am going to go outside and get some fresh air..." He pauses, mouth holding an amused smirk. "Some cold, dank Venetian air, I should say, and maybe a smoke. You want to come with, amours?" I don't think Girault is going to chase you tonight. He's too busy chasing Marie di Posta, one spectacle running after another...

     "Victoria," Ian says, coming to a stop in his tracks. William's reply isn't forthcoming, although a hand comes to rest on William's arm. "It is you behind there, isn't it?" Ian says, certainly knowing better. "Look at you..." he nods, approvingly.

En l'air en l'air en l'air en l'air toques et sombreros! Les voici -- voici la quadrille la quadrille des toreros!      Beautiful hands grasp beautiful hands, and the singing begins to echo in other halls, in other chambers as the dance progresses through the Palazzo. Even in their departure, the air does not settle in the main hall and quadrant of main chambers. Laughter like trailing arias still sound. Les voici! les voici! les voici!

     An as-yet unoccupied balcony's been found by the ponytailed youth, one leg tucked up underneath him, the other dangling through an opening in the railing as he plays the flute. There's an almost mocking lilt to it for a moment, but the flute mimics the song being sung, echos it, the aquamarine eyes half-closed as Valmiki concentrates on song.

     "It's me." She smiles once more and shrugs slightly, still glowing a bit with an ease of energy that she rarely displays. Though perhaps she's also affected it to go with the effect of the costume. "Thank you. I realized about half way here that there was a chance I'd had one of the worst ideas, but it's worked out so far."
     Hopefully it keeps working out, apparently it dawned on her that some people at the party might not take the idea as quite as much of an amusement as she did. "You both look wonderful, of course. The armor is quite a nice touch, William."
     No, there's no doubt about who she's talking to on her part. Aura sight has its privileges on those that you're familiar with.

     ...Upon a neighboring balcony, a tall man in traditional finery turns to hear the sound of a flute. All that may be seen of him are his sky blue eyes, cobalt rimmed. Alire d'Avignon draws near to the sound and leans upon the railing. He has spent all the hours of this party in solitary fashion...
     But not so solitary...
     For from this vantage he can spy upon One in particular. And now he is present for a private concert of sorts. A sapphire blue silk cloth dangles over the edge of the railing and is set free for One to receive it down below. Or perhaps the gulls... or an offering to the Canale itself...

     "I do not know what I was thinking when I said 'Si' to Girault. I had forgotten that Damascan steel was so heavy. But..." his smile is revealed in the smooth, slow pull of that mouth and in the indigo visible beyond the silver and platinum swirls, "... I hope to have an employed hand rub out the kinks." A glance to Ian. "Very lovely," he says to Victoria. "You will be talked about tonight. Rossini is here. I doubt something as lovely as this," your costume, "...shall escape his notice." And, of course, that a childe of Maximilian had attended. That is news in itself.

     "I do not know what I was thinking when I said 'Si' to Girault. I had forgotten that Damascan steel was so heavy. But..." his smile is revealed in the smooth, slow pull of that mouth and in the indigo visible beyond the silver and platinum swirls, "... I hope to have an employed hand rub out the kinks." A glance to Ian. "Very lovely," he says to Victoria. "You will be talked about tonight. Rossini is here. I doubt something as lovely as this," your costume, "...shall escape his notice." And, of course, that a childe of Maximilian had attended. That is news in itself.

     There's a nod from the darkly brilliant Ian, "Absolutely. I am sure the island will not be lost for news from this."
     "How long have you been in Venice?"

     The Toreador Song kicks up again in the grand ballroom, in full male chorus, led by one tenor that rises above the rest, in clarity, in volume, in energy. It draws, it captures, it lures, it teases and with humor the song is phrased...

Toreador!
en garde Toreador Toreador!
Et songe bien oui songe en combattant
Qu'un oeil noir te regarde
Et que l'amour t'attend
Toreador L'amour t'attend!

     There's another golden toned grin and Victoria nods, "I'm sure that won't be a problem for you to come by." William never does have trouble finding attendants to his ills.
     "Only a day." She answers Ian, "I came in in time to get settled last night so I could make it to the party. I'm sorry I missed Christmas." There's a touch of a frown at that, clouds passing over the sun for a brief moment, "Portland took longer than I'd expected. I brought your gifts with me though if we have a chance sometime this week."

     "How is Oregon?" Ian says in his best droll voice. "Done," he answers for himself, sliding his arm around William's metaled arm. He then winces. Ugh. Oh well. "At least I hope it is done. For your sanity," he adds, lifting his gaze to look about the room as he talks.
     "And Christmas never ends here," Ian returns to the conversation. "That is the beauty of This."
     And where is that Valmiki?

     The sapphire blue cloth drifts to the voice of the flute, taken a moment by the wind, and then it falls toward the marble and those standing upon it. The sound is so moving. Alire remains where he is, listening as the spectacle of Venice and his own love plays before his eyes. It is a fantasy, perhaps. If so, he thinks, he smiles behind the veil, I will stay asleep wherever it is I lay...

     The trill of the flute sounds again, still a mockingbird call in the night. Valmiki is letting his mind wander, remembering songs sung, played lifetimes ago - the sounding of the notes begins to track back across centuries to before Britain ever conquered India...
     A time before and during and after Buddha's teachings, a time of a thousand thousand warring kingdoms - when Europeans crossed India in danger, in hope of following the Silk Road, the Spice Trail, to reach the great Khan, the land of the Wall, to reach Holy Lands in their chosen Crusades...
     And most often finding betrayal, danger, deception, death far more than coming face to face with the West's chosen Tortured God.
     How is it that all men of these Christian churches call themselves sons of God? When one is the descendant of a god, what does it mean...
     The flute sinks to meditation, the echoing call of the raga. There's a blink of aquamarine eyes as Valmiki is recalled to the present, and his song again returns to echoing the song below.
     One bare foot dangles down from through the bannisters, peering down at the spectacle with almost childlike curiosity and interest.

     "Yes, thankfully, done." She smiles, "Everything's sold or deeded or leased or managed. Positions are transfered, boxes on boats." A Romanesque curl is brushed off her glimmering shoulder back where it belongs with the ribbons absently. And she doesn't seem broken up about it at all, certainly. Apparently no one left their heart on the other side of the New World in any sense.
     "Unfortunately, I didn't have any better luck with the speed of the renovations, so the chateau isn't finished yet. It's fine for living in, though, so it's well enough."

     Near Alire, there's a flash of light. In mid-air, the blue scarf appears, dangling in the dim light.
     "You rang, bello?" The voice laughs softly. "I'm sorry -- I am a little further away at the moment. Edward has me doing a walk with two associates at the south of the festivities here..."

     The steel and the arm it covers, neither one are soft or comfortable. The mesh is at least a beautiful covering. As Ian winces, the arm beneath him shifts strongly, joined by its twin and soon the helm is off, Guillaume breaking the masquerade. But this one, perhaps it comes with less of a penalty.
     His short, thick hair stands mussed and is silvered, as is the area around his eyes, silver flakes it would appear, a powdery dust made of metal, more precious than glitter. It makes a kind of secondary mask. A more beautiful one...
     So maybe he will be forgiven...
     The helm is couched harmlessly under his left arm, Ian's hands still on his right. An eyebrow lifts slightly at words of Oregon. "The waters of the Pacific are more far-reaching than I expected. I have seen another person from New Port in Europe." And he's quite certain he doesn't like it. The looks is more noblesse oblige than he thinks when he makes it. It is a good thing he is beautiful, yes?

     There is a smile behind the tabarro's veil. It is clear from the eyes that are revealed beneath the tri-cornered hat. "I am listening to a flute and standing by myself on the balcony. The party is nice...but my mind is already on After, when the glitter is on the floor and masks are discarded."
     He's never been one for parties, Alire d'Avignon...

     Ian nods at William's comment and at whom he's about to mention. He'll let William tell that one. "Apparently in London. Little New Port seems to be all the rage in Europe now," Ian's voice trails absently, he finally spotting Valmiki. Standing. Well, sitting. Ian inhales, then says, "And I'm looking forward to seeing the chateau, Victoria."
     "Are we going there next?" Ian asks William, turning to look at him, now that he's revealed.

     The orchestral revelry fades into the sound of one piano...
     Nocturne Opus 9, No 1...
     Such a sound, that partygoers pass to and fro in the hallway, most lingering in the side hall and its entrance to the chamber music areas. Loud, singing laughter is replaced by soft conversations, gentle wanderings, and the occasional.... pairing off...

     The blue scarf flutters helplessly as it slinks around and settles upon Alire's neck. No worse for wear. "Well," the voice says, "...from here, it seems a glorious event. And all quiet down where I am...as quiet as things are in the middle of Carnivale." A sigh follows. "It's nice to be home again."
     The scarf may be settled, but it is no end of the magic. A little light floats from the scarf to the spot next to Alire again. This is not the magic of simple illumination. The little firefly seems to pulse, as if a heartbeat, and continues to make noise. "It's home...and not home at the same time. Ah, bello, that is not so true. It is home. And yet I see other places as well. That is more it."

     Eyebrows raise a little above the eyes of her mask at the mention of someone else coming from Oregon. "Oh?" Curious, of course.
     She nods at Ian's mention of seeing the changes to his former property, "As soon as everything's finished, I'm hoping to have a weekend." Her first 'big' soiree all on her own as a grown up. Even if it's probably only going to be for a half dozen or so. "I wanted to do it for New Years but..." She shrugs, obviously that didn't pan out the way she'd hoped, "I adore it though, the views of the lake are wonderful." As, of course, they already know.

     "One day, perhaps it will be home again," Alire whispers such, knowing that a prince should not wish his own demise or dethronement. He says no more on that. "I'm not much of one for parties, but it is glorious appearing. The music is pleasant. You missed spontaneous opera. It is sad, yes, caro? That I am at a party and all I want to do is find a good book and a decent drink and sit down in a quiet room." He laughs at himself and sighs. "What a man, this man from Avignon," he chastises softly.

     Indigo eyes, unhindered in full expression now by the helm that once surrounded them, glimmer in their dark way as he looks to Ian, and then to Victoria. "Once we get back to Scotland it will be difficult to leave again." His mouth makes a secretive smile but then the look fades for one of warm amusement. "The weather, you know," he whispers. "Is it ready now enough for us to see on our way home? Or do you want to unveil it properly and not when it is merely a convenience to us?" Warmth leaves him in his amused chuckle, and he looks over to Ian. Restlessness surrounds him, but he is doing a masterful job of remaining polite and affable. Even though his skin is pricking and he is on fire for action...
     Of just about any sort...

     "You didn't tell her whom you saw in London..." Ian notes for the record, nudging William's side.

     "Scarlet," Guillaume answers at the heels of the nudge, his arm looping around Ian suddenly, his fingers digging slightly at Ian's waist. Let the rough-housing begin!

     Above, the flute ceases as someone brings Valmiki a plate of some rich stew, a plate of bread and cheese on the side. A goblet with some strong drink is added, and he protests with a laugh, "I've but the two hands, but I thank you!"
      The flute is tucked into his belt, and he rests the plate next to him, the bowl in his lap, goblet on the other side. Even poets need to eat...

     There's another hint of a grin and a nod, "Weather indeed." Victoria shrugs slightly, "If you don't mind some noise during the day? The residence wing is finished, so there wouldn't be interruptions during the day on that count, some of the other rooms just aren't done yet. Like the armory." One might wonder if Victoria would even know what she wanted to do with an armory.
     "Oh?" She looks between the two gentlemen again and shrugs her shoulders a touch, "I met her on occasion but she didn't... socialize much with me." Vic having been well and truly tagged as a part of That Ventrue circle. And Tremere generally steering a wide birth. "She's here though? That's rather odd. Or, at least, an odd coincidence if nothing else."

     "Certainment," comes the illuminate voice near Alire. A switch in tongues. The affirmation's followed by another sigh. "I should...give my attention to this again. I should hate to think what would happen if I were not and something happened."
     "I am glad to know that you knew Edward. In all that is happening, I...think there is something good in this, si bello?"

     "Si, tesoro," Alire murmurs and he smiles. "Merci, this little light has made my night, bello." He laughs at his own rhyme. "Our circles... how close they were, tesoro, without our knowing, hmm? Be careful on this night, and tell Edward I said 'hello'. He is a good man... a friend of a friend..."
     How close the circles are indeed. Closer by one more ring...

     "I don't know her well myself," Ian affirms, glancing at Valmiki above, "...but it was interesting. William always has the interesting trips." Mine? They are boring.
     "But the noise is fine. We will live. It's better to see it now when we have time...we can't say later. And, well, winter has been rather harsh this year, so once we are at home..." William is correct; it's unlikely he'd leave.

     Energy...
      Energy that is about to burst...
     Were he sitting, his right leg would be bouncing. It is fortunate that he has not begun to pace or to jump around in all that heavy metal. What is the cause? Heredity...but also the swirl of color and activity, the sounds he can hear from other rooms, arousal and agitation combining. "It was not that interesting. I lost some money to Thierry," he smirks, "I saw her present herself to court. She has orders, she's been transferred. She says to investigate the rash of beheadings. She seemed to know enough about Tori's situation to offer sympathy."
     The tickling hand retracts from Ian's side, rubbing somewhere beneath the cloak before appearing again. Distracted, indigo sparkles as he looks to the spectacle moving in the hallway, room to room like an ocean of color, swirling and eddying.
     The last thing he needs right now is one of his cigarettes.
     "Have you ventured far? Met the host?" William offers, he glances to Ian. Help me.

     "I will remember it, d'Avignon," says the voice evenly, firmly. An officer at work. "Until later," the voice trails off.
     "Bello Alire..."
     So he may say that he did not forget.

     A slight nod of the chin, a visit it is then. "Marvelous. We can either go back together or if you're staying longer you can meet me there." Her stay in Venice isn't all that long in itself.
     Nodding to William she shrugs, "Well, I hope she has good luck with that, of course." Beheadings as a rule being a bad thing. Though Victoria doesn't seem overly curious about the goings on of the court of London itself. Question answered, mystery solved. Courts and presentations, at least, she seems to be taking a vacation from since her last appointment.
     At the mention of the host she shakes her head, ruddy hilights set off by the gold silk twisted through the hints of fire under the surface of her hair, "Just to this hall, actually. I came in and saw Tori and Raf and then Raymond. She was going to take me to meet him, but was waylaid by someone else along the way."

     Ian tightens his hold on William's arm and leans forward, "We should...take you to see Girault...and then I should...help William find another outfit. I believe we have another costume. I do not think this one is working out too well," Ian observes.

     The sapphire blue handkerchief is returned to the cobalt gauntlet, tucked there as a favor, and only as a true knight could. The blue spectacle exists the balcony through an archway alcove, through a window that is also a door. He is welcomed by those within the chamber. And somewhere someone is removing a deck of cards...

      Music continues from the ballroom, another series of arias are begun. This time 'Cosi fan Tutti'. Another chorus of voices among the spectators begins, and there is uproarious laughter and the sound of feet in motion again...
     ...from the chamber music hall, the soft instrumental continues, piano accompanied by violin...
     From room to room, costumed revelers move. A man is chasing a woman. In another room, a man has caught a woman. In the dining hall, some of the most renown women in attendance are holding a court of their own...

     It is not the costume, truly, though it isn't helping. Heavy and hot, it sets him off internally as well as externally -- and he needs little assistance. The silver shimmers with sweat -- actual sweat, fancy that -- and William looks to Ian, a pat upon his waist. "Let us find Girault, hmm? I think I hear him in the music rooms. And then," to Victoria, "...you should take your beautiful self into the ballroom. If Raymond is here, why are you here with us," he grins, "and not dancing?" He exhales. "One day, I shall have to punch Maximilian square in the mouth..."

     Ian, who was seemingly done with the conversation and allowing his gaze to wander for Girault, suddenly narrows his gaze at William. "For what?" Ian wonders with genuine curiosity. How did we get to violence? Oh well. Brows arch open and Ian 'hmphs' as he heads towards Girault's voice.

     Victoria chuckles at the knight's display, "I can find him on my own if you're anxious to go upstairs." If Plantaganet isn't interested in staying at a party, he must be particularly out of sorts or if nothing else out of interest.
     "And he needed to go make the rounds. I think he wanted to avoid awkward issues like, 'And this is...?'" The obligatory rounds that come with title never easy to avert, "He said he was going to find me later." Hopefully that keeps William from having to defend her honor too severely.
     Ian gets a grin and she moves along with the two of them, sidestepping others who make their runs through the room as seems to be the fashion.

Posted by rowan at February 20, 2004 12:30 AM