Most evenings, she can usually be found in the music chamber,
practicing with the Dignitary, but tonight she's been given a little free time. That free time has her in the ballroom with her loyal retainer, standing close to him, with one hand over his shoulder and the other in his palm.
     "No, no, no... it's step, two, three, step, two three! Not step, two, three-four. Here, watch, Raf..." The woman with the long, raven-black hair steps away from him, dislodging herself from his grasp. She then glides along to and fro to the rhythm she calls out, arms outstretched as though she were dancing with a partner, "Step, two, three... step, two three..."
     Shaking his head, the long chestnut ponytail swinging behind him, Raf protests, "Tori, maybe I'm just not cut out for this dancing thing..." The tall, lanky man reaches up and scritches the back of his head, trying to make sense of her graceful movements, but obviously just not getting it.
     "Oh, tut, don't say that! You'll get it... eventually," she replies with a grin, still moving along, perhaps hoping he'll watch and it will just all make sense.

     One long shadow detaches itself from the various shadows along the hallway, moving with steady, impassive gait. Tonight, he's dressed as impeccably as usual, and even if his face were not that of Germany, his garb would show it nonetheless - a crisply tailored white shirt with a high collar, slightly opened at the top; dark grey trousers, immaculately pressed; black shoes. No tie, but there is the suggestion that a tie is there, hanging invisibly about his neck, matching the rigidity of his spine. His features are handsome, the ice blue of his eyes distant, the white line of a scar on his left cheek.
     "I beg pardon," he mutters as he steps inside, clearly intending to make his way through and to the doorway on the other side. His Italian is not flawless, but quite decent - for a German.

     The newcomer's voice stops Tori in mid-step as she turns to face him. Raf also turns his head to see who has arrived, then gives a polite nod.
     Gracing the German man with a warm smile, the raven-haired one replies politely, "Good evening, good sir," her own voice answering in Italian, though it is with a slight British accent. "Do you seek the Dignitary?" she asks, seeing that he seems determined to just pass through, but wanting to quench her curiosity.
     Dressed in a simple, light dress of deep blue silk, reaching down to mid-calf.... revealing her shoe-less feet. Shoe-less and sock-less. Completely barefoot, with the flowing dress and the untied locks, perhaps she looks a little wild. Her deep blue eyes look up to yours... the pupils are not quite right. One is large, while the other is small.

     "The Dignitary?" Hansl flinches very slightly, then shakes his head; for some reason, the notion seems to pain him. "No, no. I am not ... there is no reason for me to disturb Il Dignitaro's rest tonight."
     He does pause, ever polite and particularly in the company of women - and those who might outrank him. His spine remains seemingly rigid, and he folds both hands behind his back as he comes to rest, standing straight. "I left some ... things in another chamber," he explains quietly. "Which I must prepare, to give to him at the time of his choosing."

     Perhaps she notices the flinch, but the smile on her lips soften a bit as she replies, "Oh... well, then, I don't need to tell you where he can be found, do I?" After a brief pause, she holds out her hand, introducing herself. "I'm Victoria Whitethorne... most who know me just call me Tori. This is my good friend, Rafael."
     The lanky man smiles obligingly and murmurs, "Most know me just as Raf." Even if the Dignitary refers to him as his proper given name. His accent is very decidedly American.

     The heels come slightly together, hands coming forward to press thumbs to the sideseams of his trousers, and he offers a very slight forward-bow. Very Prussian - the German's High German. "Hansl, once Arnaul, of Saarbrucken, now of no name, and Paris," he pronounces gravely. "Enchanted, Frau Whitethorn, Herr Rafael."

     "Good to meet you," Raf replies and a smile and another nod. "Tori, sir, if you'll excuse me a moment... I am in need of some water," he adds, then politely moves off in search of his refreshment after a quick nod from Tori.
     Turning her attentions away from her retainer and back to you, she smiles broadly, replying, "It is lovely to meet you, Hansl... if you don't mind me calling you that. Please, call me Tori." This last is said with an nearly dismissive wave of her hand.
     "Paris... very nice. It has been a while since I have been there. Hm, but I am being rude. You did not come here to chat with me... are you in a rush, because if you are, please forgive me for detaining you..." she apologizes softly.

     "Of course, frau," Hansl murmurs, with another clicked bow. It's as close as he can unbend, perhaps. "I am in no hurry. I apologise if it seems so." The words are offered slightly awkwardly, but not angrily, a faint hesitation between sentences.
     Raf is given a glance, then the pale gaze turns back onto Tori directly, the hands retreating to behind his back once more. "I doubt that Il Dignitaro shall summon me tonight," Hansl says simply. "I only desire to be prepared, so that I am in no lack of fulfilling my duty."

     Frau. She lets that slide. "Oh, no, you did not seem so. I just realized that I had started a conversation with you while you were in the middle of a task. Really... I feared I was the one being rude. But, no matter. It seems no one is offended and no one is at fault." There is another wave of the hand. How opposite you both seem, perhaps -- one all rigid and straight, the other all relaxed and fluid.
     "Tell me, how are you liking Paris? Eventually I will need to find a place to locate myself more permanently and Paris has come to mind, as has London," she confesses. Tilting her head slightly, curiosity overtakes her again as she asks, "And, do you mind me asking what you are preparing for Antonio? Or is it a secret?" She can't help herself, perhaps.

     "There is no rudeness to require my forgiveness, frau, I assure you." Hansl glances to Raf again, but finding the man silent, focuses his attention fully on the female member of the party, as it were. Does he relax? Only his tailor knows for sure.
     "Paris is strange to me, and unfamiliar. Perhaps in time I will formulate an opinion." Other than that it is strange and unfamiliar, no doubt. Hansl shakes his head very faintly, as if unaware he's even doing so. "And I have been told that I am to prepare for Il Dignitaro a small ... examination of my work."
     Told, not asked. The mention of 'Antonio' is noted, but not commented upon, and if possible, his spine grows a little straighter.

     Raf slips away to get that glass of water, relieved that the devilish dancing lessons are over, at least for now.
     Tori's gaze flickers to him briefly, then back at the man before her. The smile on her lips curls upward a bit more, perhaps seeming nearly impish in combination with the odd eyes and wild-hair on this small, delicate woman. "Strange and unfamiliar... yes, that sounds like the Paris I remember. It was always so... different than London, as I recall. Decadent, lavish... I shall have to visit it again sometime soon," she replies with a chuckle.
     "Ooh, your work? What type of work is it you do?" she asks, her curiosity apparently piqued, lighting up her pale face, making her more animated. Then there is a pause, as though she realized something, the smile fading somewhat. "You were told to show this to him... ah, yes." Her voice lowers, nearly to a whisper, just loud enough so that only the two of you can hear what she says. "They do that a lot here in Europe, I've found out. They're all quite fussy about how things are done; protocol and status. I'm still not used to that, myself, having spent so long in America..."

     "Indeed, frau," Hansl murmurs in apparent agreement. One does not directly contradict the highly placed without consent - perhaps not even then. "I find it very unlike what I am accustomed to," he admits, words still carefully chosen. "Perhaps in time I shall adjust."
     You ask about his work, and he doesn't quite flinch, but for a moment, he grows further remote. "I am a painter. A poor one, but it is what I do. I paint. Perhaps it would be better to say that - yes - than that I am a painter; perhaps someday I will be a painter, but for now - I paint. And ja - I am to show him." There is a leaden quality to his face and voice. Protocol, certainly - and perhaps more reason than protocol alone.

     "Well... I doubt I'll ever adjust to it. I suppose America spoiled me. You know, I wonder if They ever forgave me for the rude message I sent to Them when I first returned to Europe," she muses, the grin finally slipping back onto her face. This last is said more as a side-thought to herself, rather than something pointedly told to someone else. Thinking aloud, apparently. Chuckling at the thought, she shakes her head and adds, "I'm going to get myself into trouble one of these days."
     Tilting her head to the side again, causing her long locks to sway behind her, Tori asks, "Why do you say you are a poor one? Has someone said that to you? Or is that merely your own critical view of your own work? 'We are our own worst critics,' according to some, afterall."

     The look on his face is as blank and poised as any marble statue; had he been born pupil-less, he could do no better. "I do not know, frau," Hansl answers politely, remaining standing almost at attention.
     "My work is poor because I am a poor artist and have little vision," he then adds, woodenly. "In due course, perhaps, this shall change. I have been told that I have too little experience of the world to make such art."
     "Hm? Oh!" Tori replies with a chuckle. "No, you would not know... you probably haven't heard what I told the Council what to do with themselves. Well, I sent the message, anyway." This is said with a wink and a slanted grin. The devil!
     Turning away from that topic to let you think of it what you will, she says, "You have been told... there's that word again. Ah
well, they will continue to tell us all what they think... however, what do -you- think, Hansl? Forget about them for a moment, and tell me what you really think about your work, deep inside, deep in your heart? Forget that I am here. Forget that Raf is off somewhere getting water. Forget where you are. Forget anyone else exists. What does your heart tell you?"
     She moves a little closer, looking upwards at him now, her blue gaze intense.

     "The Council?" It's offered politely but with minor confusion. There's too many Councils for that to mean anything to him, really - citizen's council? Primogen Council? Council for the Fine Arts?
     Hansl blinks, then, at the question which follows, answering automatically without quite realizing he's answering it. "There is no reason for my continued existence save my work. It is very poor. I hope that I might improve it, but I do not know that to improve is a thing which lies within my grasp. Yet I must try or I will shame myself, and the memory of he who Made me. If I could, I would destroy all that has come before, and erase all my failures as I cannot erase what has been done - by me or ..."
     He blinks again, falling back half a step.

     Chuckling, the raven-haired one murmurs softly regarding the Council, "Nevermind... it's really not important." Another wave of her hand brushes that off. If he didn't get her meaning right away, she shouldn't explain it. Some things are best left alone.
     Noticing the step back, Tori halts her movement, as though gauging how to handle this. She realizes as he pauses that he likely said more than he intended. She tries to draw attention away from that a bit, replying softly, "You will improve, for we all have the ability to improve. Do not fret about it. Have faith in that."
     The smile which had grown warm, even sympathetic, now slants again as her devilishness returns. "By the way... you know, you really should relax a bit. Being so tense all the time isn't good for a person." She simply calls it like she sees it.

     "I am relaxed." Anything but the god-given truth, but the reply comes automatically, suggesting that this is something the German is asked often. For that matter, it's not -that- far from true; this isn't as tense as he -can- get. There's only one person in the room with him, after all...
     Hansl glances to the doors, then back. "I must apologise for interrupting your dancing," he adds formally. "I hope that I am not keeping you from Il Dignitario."

     "Hm," Tori murmurs, apparently unconvinced about the man's state of relaxation. Shaking her head, she assures you with a chuckle, "Oh, you weren't interrupting. In fact, judging by how long Raf's been gone, I'd say he was begging for someone to end his torment. I've been trying to teach him how to dance, but he keeps telling me he has two left feet." After a moment's consideration, she asks hopefully, "You don't happen to dance, do you?"
     As for the second comment, she shrugs in a nonchalant way. "Keeping me from Antonio? Bah, no. This is my time, my break from the studies and practice he keeps me busy with. I welcome the change of scenery, so to speak," she assures you.
     "Don't get me wrong, though! I appreciate all he has done for me. I just... I look forward to the day when I am mistress of my own life again, that is all." There is something slightly strained in her tone that is there for a fleeting moment, then gone again. "But... I have not been deemed... well enough to do so yet," she adds. It is her turn to wince a little.

     "Only a little, I fear." He's taut, he's not stupid! Hansl offers a grave inclination of his head. "I apologize, frau. I fear my seclusion in Saarbrucken did not lead to frequent dancing."
     He blinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Studies and practice? But as you say, of course. I do not know of Il Dignitario beyond reputation; we have met only fleetingly, through ... someone else." His sire. The now deceased Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken.
     Saarbrucken, how will you fare, I wonder, now that he is gone...
     "I am sorry if you are unwell," Hansl adds courteously. "You do not look so, frau."

     There is a fleeting moment of disappointment which flashes upon her fae-like face, then she smiles. "Ah, perhaps I could teach you sometime, if you had an interest," she comments. It is not a question, more of an offer... and no answer is needed, from her tone. It seems she will torment only one gentleman this evening with lessons.
     The smile begins to return to her as she replies, "Of course. I am under his tutelage here. One of the many under his wing, so to speak. He has me practicing scales and a cappella duets with him daily, along with lessons on piano." There is a pause, then she says more softly, "Thank you, Hansl. You are most kind." She is well aware of the physical manifestation of her illness, and that you are merely being polite...surely.

     Apparently, Hansl has been left somewhat out of the loop as to what the appearance indicates; after all, at Paris there are so many who affect such strange customs. After being the country mouse for as many years as he has...
     "I am sure that you are an apt pupil and a credit to your instructor," Hansl answers politely, "but there is no politeness in stating the truth. It is an honour to encounter one held thus in such regard by Il Dignitario himself."

     Tori's hand flutters again in that vague fluttering motion as though to banish the thought. The smile which she flashes at him now is not the slanted grin or wicked smirk, but one that is quiet and gentle. Her teasing demeanor has slunk away with her own sobering thoughts coming up to the surface now.
     Shaking her head with quiet laughter, she murmurs, "Hansl, really... relax. I know you say you are, but... I know otherwise." I know things. I sense things. You're not fooling anyone.
     "You want to know who you're apparently so honoured to meet? I was a runaway. I ran away from my Sire from Europe to America, where I stayed for a while. I owned a goth club and rubbed elbows with drug addicts, drunks and ravers -- and even sang for them. Eventually, I ended up back here, had an 'episode' and probably would have killed myself if people I know didn't step in. And here I am now."
     Grinning weakly, she adds softly, "So, please, Hansl... stop thinking I'm someone special, because I'm not. I'm just another screwed up soul."

     The look on the German's face is one of discomfort, insufficiently masked by politeness. It is the expression of why are you telling me this combined with exactly how much trouble am I going to be in for now knowing this.
     "I will endeavor to relax, frau," Hansl murmurs, "but I am disinclined towards ... what many consider relaxed." Ah,
understatement, how nicely you fit into a nutshell.
     The hands come forward, one up to rub his chin, the other to support the first arm's elbow. "Honour is irrelevant to origin. It is who we are, not who we were - I am still who I was half of a decade ago, regrettably. Perhaps in time ... but you are someone whom Il Dignitario considers worthy, frau. And while perhaps that is, to you, not always enough - it is obviously to him, and as his guest in his city, it must be to myself."

     One doesn't need to be empathic to pick up on his discomfort, certainly, and as soon as he reacts, Tori winces. Shaking her head, she murmurs, "Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I told you this, not to make you feel badly for me, or to cause trouble... merely to try to make you understand that really, I do not see myself as any different than you or any more worthy of praise, even if 'Il Dignitario' or anyone else disagrees. But, I think we will forever disagree on this, hm?"
     With a shrug, she chuckles a bit, and says, "Endeavouring to relax is better than nothing, I suppose. Ah, but... I have kept you too long, have I not?" Then, attempting to rectify the discomfort she has caused, she adds with sincerity, "I would like very much to see some of your work, myself... if you would permit it sometime?" If you would permit it. She is not demanding it. She is asking, unlike some others.

     "There is no need to seek my forgiveness, frau, please." He bows again, slightly, sketchily, though the hands do not this time drop. "Honour and merit are given by superiors; we must accept, regardless of our own beliefs. If those superiors tell us once that we are unworthy, we must ever after work the harder to cause those lines to fade..."
     Fade, but not wash away...
     Hansl drops his arms to his sides, clicking his heels silently as he bows at the waist again. "Indeed. I must prepare. And I fear my work is poor, but if you wish." Whether he takes it as a request or a command is immaterial in the end. He is a guest. And you are a pupil of Il Dignitario. "If you will forgive me, Frau Whitethorne. I will take my leave of you now."

     She listens to all of this, perhaps storing it away for further contemplation -- momentarily her dark eyebrows knit together at something, but quickly reverse, smoothing out her brow. Whatever bothered her, she does not speak of it; at least not for now.
     The difference in the two bows are noticed, however, and again stored away. Interesting...
     "Certainly,, Hansl. Please do not let me detain you any further... though I do hope we get a chance to speak again sometime, and certainly to look at your work." Again, if you'll permit it. "It was a pleasure," she adds quietly, already seeming to get lost in strange and disturbing thoughts, allowing you to get on with your evening. Already, the silent call has gone out to Raf... she is in need of a drink...

Posted by rowan at March 08, 2004 12:01 PM