France, again. There's something about France - something about the way it smells, no, no, not the way it smells, precisely. It seems funny, amusing to speak of France with precision in mind, whenever I think of France I think of battlefields, and no matter how precise the strategy and plan, there is nothing precise and orderly about battlefields - even of the sort of battles which are fought over coffee instead of powder. Or the less intellectual disciplines.
     Andrei's mind is in motion behind a sloping tannic brow tonight as he makes his way down a street, around a corner, past young lovers whose enamored embraces are - to the Russian, uninspired. Insipid. Lacking not in Intent, perhaps, but lacking in Meaning...
     There is Time, of course there is time. Time and time - the little time, which these mortals use to count their hours and minutes and seconds of equally hourglass lives than run out quickly, run out in thin streams into cups and mouths (and if they are very lucky, into something which an ounce of real meaning behind it, something which even a short-lived ant can sink its pincers into), and then there is Time. A slower thing, for more patient creatures, for those who hunt something beyond mere food...
     Ah, here. I have arrived. This would appear to be the place, this would appear even, I amuse myself, to be the time. And I imagine that it will be enlightening or at least something like entertaining to talk with others with hourglasses held carefully cupped so that the sands of other people's existences are contained. What man has wrought, some god may yet put asunder...
     He steps inside. There is no pause before his step, no glance to mirror of shop-glass to see if he meets with anyone's approval or if he has lost his own. What he is, he knows - what he wears is nothing more and nothing less than a sort of informal travel uniform. Black pressed trousers, navy turtleneck, brown leather jacket, black boots. A pair of steel-rimmed spectacles are there not to improve vampiric sight but rather to render the combined appearance of thin features and almost stocky build into a seemingly harmless, even scholarly whole. He looks about - a casual glance, nothing to indicate 'now, there is where the assassin would come from if one were here', and then he is moving for a table. Have they arrived ahead of him...
     Or is he early...
     Well. Really. He doesn't care.

     The caves of Lascaux, by day, are filled with the sounds of curious visitors, tromping along the several corridors of underground caves. There are those they see, certainly, and there are the miles, cartoned off for ground instability or high cultural significance. And then there are those caverns closed off permanently as private spaces.
     The clamor rises high as the latest arrival crosses the opening. A cheer, bright and loud, though it is not specifically for Andrei's arrival. Plainly visible once inside the rocky space, is another opening not so far away. Males and females alike stand around, laughing and milling as they watch something beyond the curtain they mail. For the taller, there are a couple of heads - presumably belonging to figures - that move around in some sort of parted dance. The crowd of twenty, some dressed finely, some dressed as if they've walked in from an open air motorbike ride, are terribly amused, and three in particular, dressed in toney suits, hold clothing for someone else.

     "Andrei?" comes a voice. Alix Markko comes from the right, where a few sit around heavy wooden tables. He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at the arrival. "Is you!" Amazingly enough. The young Brujah from Warsaw laughs and extends his hand, walking the short distance to greet.

     France. Still. I had never been there -- well, that is not true, I had been to Paris on several occasions, but Paris is not France. Paris is like a city under a bubble. It is its own place, beholden and belonging to no one. It is not like Italy. It is not like Rome. It is not like my Genoa, where everybody's business is everybody's business, where there is an intense, intimate ownership with a place, with one's city, with one's neighbors. Everything is immediate to the senses: the wealth of others, the age of a city, the ruination of small enterprise, the encroachment of the western way of doing business, and by that I mean American.
     Sometimes, I cannot help but feel I have been exiled here in this strange place, with these strange people...
     I live now in Tours, I serve my clan in a position that is new to me, one, however, that I earned with sweat and blood on the Genoese piers, with smarts that one has to have when one is living in Italy. Sharp minds, sharp tongues, we used to say sharp swords before swords went out of fashion. I preferred stilettos all the same.
     I was called there by the Genoan League, sent to France in a concession won from the transference of power from the Ventrue to the Toreador. It is a concession that Rome may feel some glee over, but for my part I should rather be in Genoa holding plump, dark-haired women on my lap, drinking the ombre, playing knives and jacks and watching over my docks.
     I think more than all else, I miss the water...
     Fingers jot, a pen moves against the rough pages of a small notebook, as a wiry, dark-haired man stands on one of the wooden tables. The notes? Wagers taken on one half. Once a Genoese banker's son, always a Genoese banker's son. Banker. Well, that's a word for it. Iovis Macarelli, newly assigned Brujah Primogen of Tours, puckers a Botticellian mouth as he looks down on the action like a cherub from above.
     An evil cherub with a dagger's smile.
     He glances down as Alix Markko calls out to another, his black eyes lifting and following. "It is just as well you missed the round of bets," he says generally, his accent pronounced and Genoan, "... I think more shirts than Mark's are going to be held by other hands when it is done..."

     One hand is extended to take Markko's, then the other hand goes over that - a hand sandwich which is clasped, then released. "None other," Andrei agrees with a quick smile of his own, a faintly sardonic cast to the eyebrows - as if to say, who else could it possibly be? "No body doubles pulled into existence this year. You look as if you're fitting in well. So," he jerks his chin towards the surroundings, beginning to move towards the tables, "tell me everything."
     Everything? Everything, the poet declares...
     "And," Andrei adds without pause, "let's get something cold to drink. Something to tighten up the bowels."
     There is only one table worth sitting at, at the moment, and if it's to be dagger smiles, well, he's used to that. He's even used to something less involving teeth and more involving metal, aimed at his back. And so he drops into place across from the Genoese Brujah, chair rocking diagonally as he slants a smile of his own.
     "I always bet. I never bet my shirt. It's a nice one, but I like it on me - not on someone else. So what's the news that's fit to tell?" As if there could be any other kind. Andrei leans back, and his smile is tight and as sharp as his gaze.

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.
     "Go ahead Hakkinen!" someone yells. "You've got him!"

     Alix smiles as he's relocated to the new table. The friends at the other will see him later. "Oh, I am well," the young man waves off, reaching out to a bottle with no label. Something clear. He yanks at a nearby glass and inserts his nose. Oh well. It's not like one could catch anything. "And yes...this is exciting, yes? I have only been here a few weeks this time. I go home next week, by way of Prague," a notion that makes Alix shudder. But he smiles and pours one drink, then pushes over two more used glasses, pouring a second and third. "I did not know that you would be here," the accent still upon his tongue. He speaks English, but certainly this is not his second or third language. "I would have...met you or some such."
     "Prost!" Alix slurs, slamming the bottle back onto the table as he lifts his glass. Bottle set, he picks up the third glass and offers it up to the Genoan hovering above, saying, "Sir..."

     "I have a way of turning up in places." It is what I do. I do not stay in one place. To stop moving is to gather moss and begin to decay. Look at the courts - it is happening to many already. They do not know it. Their childer do not know it. Quite likely even if it were pointed out to them - as I have done, as I often do - they would resent it. As they have done, as they do.
     Andrei grins slightly, fingering the glass in front of him as if it were potentially more fragile than it is. He picks up his glass with a solid shrug that ripples his shoulders, glancing slowly to the two others, then to the blonde in the fray.
     "So that's who the money is on? Or is it on his ... opponent?" Slightly thick lips twitch once, then part in a faint grin. "I'm tempted, you know," Andrei remarks conversationally. "You're going to have to persuade me not to go in there and win money betting on myself."

     In the ring, for it must be one, things must be winding up. There's a sudden loud shout, and the crowd parts again, but more slowly. There's hysterical laughter, as the ones holding the clothing prepare them for their owner's return. The one called Hakkinen stands, though visibly bruised and bleeding, with a couple of toughly-dressed Brujah near him in solidarity. They look a little sullen, but really...wasn't it all in fun?
     Near some of the better dressed, the second combatant appears. Tall and fit, he's more the soccer player than the thuggish bruiser -- if one wants to be so particular. With brown hair and blue eyes, he walks towards his companions who offer him a towel. Wet. Followed by a dry one.
     Such are the benefits of being the Brujah Primogen of Paris.
     Mark Mamion's all smiles, even though he's bruised. His neat slacks are thoroughly trashed, but such is the way of dominance games.

     Alix looks up and over to the crowd. "I don't know," he says, looking up to the Sir on the table. He'll know the score. But to other matters. "Much is new though. I will tell you," Alix nods, working on his drink first.

     "It reminds me of the pits, only less bloodshed, still..." the Genoese cherub speaks and then he smiles again, the sharp smile of one for whom violence is a kind of art. "It is not bad. If only Hakkinen were any good," he laughs, jotting something down -- he's working the numbers. Glancing down, he smiles again to Alix, and moreso to the generous offering of a glass. "Ah, amice, my thanks."
     He looks to Andrei, "Iovis Macarelli," he says, "... of Genoa, late of Tours, say...what is this?" he sniffs at the drink.
     It has no smell. It must be vodka.
     "I am drinking," he announces to the group, "... so, that means I must be next." Looking down to Alix and then to Andrei. "I should not drink this, it will make me crazy." But he drinks it anyway. Actually, it is the reason he lifts the cup.
     "Why would I want to persuade you not to win money betting on yourself," he makes a wave. "Me? I bet on my opponent... it gives them hope..." he grandly says, Iovis winks and he looks back to the action. "Call it!" he calls for the bets to come in. "Everyone settles!"

     There's a groan. Apparently, the crowd talked the talk about the strength of Paris, but bet on the dashing good looks and large fists of Oslo. Euros are exchanged and plenty go flying at Iovis on the table.

     Mark laughs, "Liars all. Fucking bet against me..." he says, taking it in stride. A drink is given to him by his entourage, and he turns to enjoy it for a moment.

     There is a sudden exchange of euros, with the Genoese playing the skillful banker. Perhaps a little too skillful. "Two points to you, Jerome," he says to one, who was already on his 'double or nothing'. He got his double. "Now, we are even. You can keep your shirt and your car...say... how about your woman, you know you're tired of her..."

     "He'll learn or he'll die." That's Andrei's contribution on the topic of Hakkinen. Blood must be spilled for the gods of the crossroads to be appeased. "As for money, everyone knows I do not carry money with me. Well. Not what most people consider money in this unenlightened age."
     The Russian shrugs his shoulders, that ripple of fabric over flesh again. "My name is Andrei Donskoi," he informs Iovis with that shrug, with a toss back of sleek hair from chilly Northern eyes. The quick smile is the perfect counterbalance to it. He assumes he is unrecognized, save, of course, by Markko, who receives a nod. The contents of the glass are finally downed...
     Then he rises, looking to the Primogen with a faint smile, now, the faint curl of a lip. "You," he calls to Mark, "owe me a round sometime, friend. In the halls of Socrates there is only one cup more bitter than hemlock, and that is defeat. Your opponent," he shrugs to where Hakkinen and his cronies look slightly sullen yet, "need to learn how to wash that down."

     A rise of 'ooh' comes from the two caverns, followed by laughter and grimacing from the Scandinavians. Before Mark can reply, Hakkinen's scowl prompts a response from a woman near him with white hair, "Fuck you."
     So simply put.
     More laughs and a bit of mumbling follow. The white-haired woman steps up near her defeated friend, saying, "Better yet, come here," her accent heavy, "...and let me shove it down your throat, your hemlock."

     Alix blinks a few times, noting, "Ach..." which translates loosely as Oh, christ on a stick. The young man, smart to avoid the ring, drinks more of his vodka and looks up to Iovis, then to Mark, then to Andrei's back.
     Maybe he should have stayed at the literature discussion.
     "Come on..." Alix says, polishing his best English, "...it's fun, yes?" Humor. Sometimes we forget it.

     Iovis' eyebrows cock up. My, isn't he the silver lining on a cloud of piss. But he doesn't have time to make commentary. He's too busy counting his money, passing some of it out, pocketing other of it. "Another victory for Paris. How boring," the Genoese's voice lifts in humor, a wink passed to a woman who is now holding his cup as he counts the change. He looks then to Mark, blinking like the very Lamb of God. "I will go speak with Hakkinen briefly. After he recovers from his crushing defeat. I am a little offended no one has challenged the Genoese to get down and dirty. You would think that they think I have knives between my fingers..."
     With all the money settled, the book is closed and tucked in waistband between shirt and trousers and his vodka is taken with a soft word or two for the woman. "Desiderate combatterli? Una faccia gradisce quella, io potrebbe lasciarla vincere..." If only there were Toreador women here who would buy my bullshit. "Fine, fine fine fine," he says, waving her off as attitude began, "... tell it to my mother. She would love to hear word of her son."
     Iovis looks up at the taunting and promise of hemlock, then down at his fellows. "You know, from her, I might take a little hemlock... I bet she could crush me with her thighs, but I bet I would not mind so much. Una morte degno morire, sono corretto?" He laughs and downs the clear liquid, and then he looks around as if plotting his downfall from the table.

     At the primogen's words, a few laugh. At least some few understand Italian.

     "Fucking," Andrei says drolly, "is both underrated and overrated. But no, thank you, I'm not here to fuck. But if you want to drink with me," hemlock, "by all means. One moment, madam."
     He turns to Iovis, unbuckling a leather strap with heavy metal buckles from around one wrist. "Hold onto this. As holder of the book, you also hold the tokens, after all. But I would if I were you hold out for one who can make blinis." He gives the whitehaired woman a glance, then asides, "She does not look like she makes very good blinis, my friend."
     A heavy hand falls onto Markko's shoulder. "Am I a gangster or a murderer? Of what crime do I stand condemned? I made the whole world weep at the beauty of my land. - You can be well-rounded and still win a fight. Find me some more vodka while I have a few words with the," he arches an eyebrow, the full lips smirking for a moment, "lady." He turns. He moves. Does he shoot and score? No basketballs, no soccer balls. He just walks over to the white-haired woman and comes to a halt in front of her and looks at her. Waiting, patiently.
     One free punch, maybe? Is he a gentleman, really and truly?

     "Nena," Mark says, turning about. Towel in his hand, he seems to have heard enough. The blue towel's run over his head, causing it to slick against his skin. He speaks what's on the minds of more than a few.
     "It's humor. Try and get some."
     "Tommi knew what he was getting into and he got it handed to him. Don't piss on my party," he says, lifting brows.
     "And no, she probably doesn't make good blinis," the primogen notes, walking from his unfinished dressing. "She does, however, make Brunhilde seem like a wet-nurse." The caverns quiet slightly, but frankly, a few in heated discussions on Derrida don't particularly care.
     There's a look to Andrei as Mark makes the third part of the triangle. "Donskoi," Mark says softer, nodding his head. A welcome. He smiles slightly, looking between Nena and Andrei.
     Saving face is everything to some, really.

     Nena does not back down from the man who's facing her. A short girl, her blazing white hair flows behind her. She glances as Mark approaches and her name is said. Does Hakkinen need that much defense?
     "Come to Oslo," Nena says to Andrei between teeth, feeling Mark nearby.

     Alix takes the glass, deciding to pour another round as recommended while he waits to see how it all turns out. "I thought you said it would be a nice meeting?" Alix suddenly asks Iovis. "Nice, you said. I remember this word, Sir. Nice. It is a strange word, this..."

     "I do not need a woman to make me a blini," he's not even sure he knows what it is. The caverns resound with sudden feet to floor as the cherub descends from on high. On his feet, he is not so imposing. He is Genoese. Not some of these vikings in the room with their huge forms. If he's 5'9" he's lying (he is 5'8" and that is all God and his mother gave him). His dark eyes, such a dark brown that they can only be called black, open a touch wide and his eyebrows quirk up. "It is nice, sir, I said. Look," he gestures, "...no one died...it's a cave in France -- this is about as nice as it gets." Smirking, he glances back to the woman and her ilk: "... I cannot help it if humor died after the Age of Satire," he makes a wave. I cannot do anything about her.
     "So, what is this blini? And why do I need her to make them for me, when all I want any woman to do is get on her knees? I do not need pastries," Iovis laughs and he plops down at the table, relaxing for a moment. Which means to say he is reaching for another drink and leaning in close to speak. First to Alix, "Do you want to talk literature and politics? Shall I begin? Plutarch was a twat, now... you go..."
     The bottle of vodka won't be lasting long. What lushes we are. Glancing to Mark, "So, how drunk should I be to give the others a sporting chance?" No one grapples with a Genoese and goes unscathed. He probably has stilettos tucked behind his ears. God knows when the last time he washed them was. That's how the sayings go.
     Lastly to Andrei, "Fucking is overrated? Who have you been sleeping with?" He laughs. "Here, I will give you a name in Genoa... go to her...she will change your mind. She changed the pope's..."

     Mark gains a nod from the Russian, along with another of his brief smiles. "Pity I missed the match. I always enjoy watching, you know that. Really," Andrei says almost plaintively, "it's no fair, I always miss the exhibitions. It needs to be undone." He scratches his chin, then adjusts his stance slightly to glance down at Nena.
     "I've been to Oslo. Not recently, of course. Is there something in Oslo which requires my particular attentions?" He isn't the tallest of the tall, though he gives the impression of standing so solidly that it doesn't matter how tall he is. And he's far from short. "If I have time, though, I'll come to Oslo. I take it that I should ask for Nena. I," and for a moment there's the almost martial click of heels, sketched without being done - a minute mockery of self and the world, "am Andrei Donskoi." She may have heard of him. She may not. He doesn't care...
     He smiles, turning to Iovis and wandering back in the Italian's direction, Nena apparently forgotten. "Blinis and sour cream. With blueberries and caviar... food. It tastes good. It sates the sense, if nothing else at all. And it is nothing else at all, after all."
     Dropping back into his chair with the same rocking motion as before, he gestures to Markko : my vodka, where is my vodka. "Thanks, but I don't fuck women very often. Or men."

     Iovis just stares at the man. He reaches for his book and tears out a page. On it he writes the name: Primavera Montagna and her number. He slides it over to the obviously sick man with a look of concern on his face, as if he was told the man had cancer. "Call her, signore. Before it is too late..."

     Plutarch was a twat and...Andrei doesn't fuck? Alix's brows furrow deeper as he pushes another drink towards Andrei before filling his own glass once more. "Is true..." Alix sighs, "...no one has died," in observation.

     Nena stares at Andrei, even as his back is turned. "Donskoi," she repeats, glancing to her friends nearby. A name she'll not soon forget. There's a slur of words as Nena, too, slowly turns away to rejoin her friends. Whatever's said, it causes smiles from her cohort, but in the face of Mamion, it seems that's all it will be.

     With the situation diffused, Mark's blue eyes sidle left and right, around both caverns. High-energy is how he always classifies his clanmates, friends all. And there's nothing wrong with high-energy, save that you sometimes need to keep it from exploding.
     But riding the edge? Ah, there's nothing better.
     The Primogen looks to his peer, then winks. Two distinct functions, controlled brawling twinned with complex conversation, presided over by the ebb and flow that is typically Brujah.
     Mark turns around to head back to his entourage, one holding a shirt up to him. And even as he dresses, finding haberdashered respectability once more, Mark smiles to hear the sound of two others deciding to pick up where he and Tommi Hakkinen left off.

     "I said that I don't do it often, not that I'm teetotal. I've been known to fuck in a variety of directions - just one at a time." Andrei glances at the number then at Iovis in something which combines faint annoyance with marginally tolerant amusement and shakes his head. Fucking Italians. Wait - that's what he's recommending, isn't it?
     Nena doesn't even get a wave of a hand. He's not here on business. Yet. Children get to make nuisances of themselves at parties if no other time...
     "So," Andrei remarks, "what's the next bout between? Having disposed of Plutarch, are we moving on to Kierkegaard and the inevitability of our own sin in the face of free will? We could put that up against - Hock, you said his name is? Come to think of it, I wouldn't mind seeing Kierkegaard get the piss beaten out of him."

     Alix sits sullenly, twirling his glass. "I need toast," he murmurs to himself in Russian, then finishes off the last of the vodka. It's not much of a finish though -- he quickly pours himself another, but only enough to cover the bottom of his glass. He looks at Andrei, then stands to find another open bottle on a nearby table.

     "Macarelli! Can you do anything other than talk? Come prove it," comes the call, a French Brujah by the name of Gascon (Gascon the gastronomical, as he is known in some quarters) is heading to the circle. He's tall, fair, and long-haired.

     The cup that once held vodka (he snuck in a second, or is it now the third? round in when no one was looking -- typical) is set upon the table in a sound that one may only call Announcement, and with that and with no other motion interceding, the cherub is once more on high, on the tabletop before most vampires would have noticed him. "As I said to your woman last night -- I'm coming!"

     "You're going to have to search him," several cries come up.

     "Stand still, Gascon," Iovis chortles, "I can hit you from here!" Still standing on the table, he glances down to his fellows. "So... who's going to take bets. I would bet on myself but that would be crass, no?" He doesn't even protest when he is approached by a pair to frisk him. It's all part of the theater. And you know how Genoans love their theater. "Should I tell them about the ones between my fingers, amice, or shall we leave them in suspense. You might want to check the lumbar, the sleeves..." he murmurs to the ones coming to pat him down as he hops lightly (too lightly) down onto the floor of the cave and holds out his arms. The clang of steel stiletti fill the cavern as they are dropped one by one onto the table.

     "Toast?" Alix gets a glance that combines elements of mild disparagement and wry humour. "You need more vodka." Andrei leans over to pick up an abandoned glass, peering through it and up at the ceiling. "It's another kind of light, the light of familiarity. The feeling of having been somewhere before, done something before - right now, I'm planning on fighting a little talking a little, who knows - maybe even fucking a little. The age of miracles is not yet past."
     The rolling muscular shrug is added to leaven the words and he snaps his fingers and points with arched wrist at the direction the Genoese heads in. "Let's see what Mark has to say about it all. Ho, philosopher-king!" He ambles in the Primogen's direction with an ungainly laziness that is assumed for bucolic pleasure. "You're dressing expensively. Whose protection racket have you assumed? Or have your littler investments begun to pay you dividends like birds in bushes?"

     A bit away, Mark's buttoning up his shirt. The three associates look up, all neonates, and Mark turns slowly about to see who's talking to him.
     "Camille's," Mark says drolly, smirking as he returns to face the neonates who keep to themselves in nervous fashion. "She left it to me after, well..." Mark grins, running a hand over his ear.
     All in good fun, yes?
     "I always dress for success, Donskoi."
     "What's your excuse?"
     Tucking in his shirt, Mark notices the gearing up of another match. Iovis, not so shockingly. A hand waves, and an older woman moves over to Iovis, explaining, "I'll take your spot." Andrea MacCallum, formerly of Glasgow steps up, lifting her hand to signal she'll handle the bets.

     "Is that all of it?"
     They always have to ask the question...
     To which, the only reply that Iovis has is to remove his jacket and his shirt, which he then tosses onto the surface of the table, conveniently over the several stiletto daggers that were removed from his person. "If I find anymore," Iovis announces with a grin, "I am sure that Gascon will be the first one to know!" There is laughter for that, this is classic taunting at its best, educated, and while Gascon is grumbling in the back and already calling him a cheater, Iovis is turning to the woman, looking first at her breasts and then her face as any good man would. "He is bigger than I am," he lists out for all to hear, "...he is taller than I am, he is from a better family though that is little consolation, and he is likely lighter in the trousers than I am," he grins to that. "So, the odds are in his favor."
     Iovis is also a liar as well as a cheat.
     Though he is not tall, only very average in height, there is nothing wasted on his form. He is lean, muscular and as of yet unmarked. That will not last. "Andrei," he shouts back, twisting to look at the Russian. "When you see Primavera, tell her... my last words were of her." With a wink and a laugh he is up on the shoulders of a large German and between seconds, before the German can even respond, he's in the center of the circle.
     Gascon, shirt off, wastes no time. He is like a train in motion, but he hits only the air. A rising cry shouts Ole! like this is Mexico City or Barcelona...

     Alix secures another bottle -- there are plenty of them of all colors and sizes around the caverns -- and returns to plop open-legged into his chair. "For the vodka," Alix explains, somehow returning instantly to the previous mention of the toast. He looks at the pending competition. "I think I'm hungry," Alix murmurs, brows rising to see Gascon remove his shirt.

     "I dress so the bloodstains don't show."
     For his excuses he turns to the classics, deadpanning it and passing a hand over his hair as he moves by folding and unfolding himself into the direction of the Primogen while watching the preparations for the next match. "Congratulations upon your," he smirks, "inheritance."
     Someone has to handle the bets. He glances to Andrea, recognizing the accent if not the face, then turns back to Mark. "Good to see that you've got steady work, though. And," another smirk, this time aimed at the Primogen with a genuine wolfish humour, "I'm passing through, not staying long; where shall I deliver the bodies?"
     He's turning as he's called to, grinning to Iovis. "If I see her, I'll tell her but I think you'll see her before I do -and in less than I do." Gaze suddenly alert, he watches motions as if scanning the crowd for someone in specific, for some incredibly fast-moving blur that's on the edge of perceptions, buzzing with mosquito-like persistence. "If you're hungry, fill your belly," he counsels Alix patiently, looking to the man. "That's the rule. Fill what's empty, no matter which hole it is."

     Bets come at the woman fast and furious, as quick as the Genoan himself. Hand gestures signaling points. Names. Double or nothing. Over/unders.

     "Cologne," Mark smiles, sliding into his coat and leaving the three to their own devices for a while. Shirt in, he adjusts his shoulders as he heads over to the now-central table. "They like them cold and stiff there, so I hear."
     Karl-Anselm will appreciate hearing that.
     "Nice to see you, Donskoi," Mark says, switching to Russian. He extends his hand to Andrei and winks at Alix, saying, "Alix...welcome..."
     Must be time to mix and mingle again.
     And to glance at the fight.

     Gascon is getting frustrated. A punch lands, but not where he expects it. He turns, even with his celerity, but by that time Iovis is already on the other side, bouncing on the balls of his feet. There is no commentary now, remarkable for Iovis, even if he is playing. For soon, so soon, it is not playing. Soon, so soon, there is a body hitting the circle, carried by his momentum and being thrown back into the ring to fight...? to dance with the Genoan.
     Iovis cannot beat him power for power. But he can see Gascon coming for days. He can see the anger making Gascon clumsy, he can see too much weight on one leg, his suddenly is there and Gascon goes down on the ground. In a grappling move, in a blur even for these collective eyes, he is on the ground with him, a solid placing of his fist in the middle of the man's chest.
     The dagger would be here, my friend, it seems to say...
     Bounding up, Iovis waits for Gascon to rise, bested and infuriated, as there is laughter swelling and voices coming and going. Thief. Cheat. Do not let him dance around you, Gascon. The crowd cheers for the larger man. He is, afterall, the underdog...

     "Nice to see you as well." The hand is taken - firmly and strongly, the clasp of an old fighter feeling out old and new tensions through the strength of a grip. "I'll keep your words in mind - next time I'm in Cologne." He doesn't believe in Cologne. It's a figment, he thinks, of collective imaginations...
     What is there in Cologne, after all? Karl-Anselm not counted.
     He glances again to Alix, then from inside his coat takes out a hip flask. Old, silver, but not so ornate as some. Unscrewing it, he takes a swig and then deadpan offers the flask and its contents out to the other two. "Shot?"
     His real attention, after all, is on the fight. Will the underdog bite the hand that's aimed at him...

     Mark waves off the drink for now. "Thank you," he says, turning around to watch the fight as he crosses his arms at his chest. "Make sure you come to Paris," he notes for the record, "...Villon will be pleased that you visit," the Primogen says evenly as he focuses on Tours' new Brujah leader.

     Alix, into his current glass, looks up at the offer. "Oh, dasvadanya," he murmurs, standing to accept the flask. "To you," he bobs his head.

     He could not explain it, how things move for him very slowly when he is moving very quickly. It is as close to being two places at once that he shall ever experience. He moves so quickly he can almost watch himself fight, out of body. In that extreme haste, there is absolute focus and peace. The only way he can know serenity, when he becomes the stiletto. Iovis moves, for him it is a process. For everyone else it is a blink, a shell game only with fists.
     One... a shot to the opponent's stomach...
     Two... a shot to his chin...
     Three... letting Gascon's momentum carry him forward, blows landed...
     Four... turning, opposite the falling Frenchman...
     Five... the sound of Gascon falling unconscious against the crowd...
     Six...the sound rushes back. In the sudden stillness, it all comes rushing in on him. And it is over. Focus is lost when it is over. There is no control in the stillness.
     That is where humor comes in -- quickness of wit is the only thing that keeps him focused when he is sitting still. Standing shirtless and unmarked, his black eyes bright and his mouth parted in a grin, Iovis beams as the heavy sack of French ire is left on the floor. "Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest..." The circle pushes outward, several others checking their pockets for their wallets as the Genoan files past and through them.
     A hand comes down upon Alix's shoulder, a pat given for a friend. As money changes hands. Looks are also exchanged. "I float like a butterfly and sting like the bee... which is more than I can say for your mood, amice. Your eyes are full of lead and your soul of mercury. Who is she?" It must be women. They are the sole source of all our joy and woe. Glancing to Mark and Andrei, "Too much vodka will do this to you. I crave a good ombre. But where the hell am I going to find good wine in France..."

     "Nicely done." Andrei approves. Not that his approval is what Iovis is seeking, but he approves nonetheless, with a short nod of his chin and one hand fisted in against his stomach for a moment. "It's been a while since I've watched someone fight," as opposed to the petty squabbles of so many crows. He purses his mouth several times, lips pushing in and out as he considers something internal to himself.
     He's lifted from his considerations by two things : Mark and Alix. Which stirs him first isn't really obvious. Mark, however, receives dibs on his attention. "Villon? Pleased? Does anything please that man? I wouldn't think so. Well. Maybe those pastries - you know, the baked ones, with custard or cream inside. Oh - no, those are from Vienna. He wouldn't like those."
     He hunkers down into a squat, propping his chin on one broad fist, smiling narrowly at his surroundings. "Who is leading the revels tonight?", Andrei wonders, gaze moving from face to face - from one set of ankles to another, at his present vantage. "We need more women in the pit. It isn't a real party until the women have begun to fight. Alix, if it is a woman, get her into the pit. You will feel better once you have seen her bleed a little."

     Alix looks up, hearing his name. Apparently, he wasn't paying much attention. "Wha--? Oh." His hand waves dismissively. Such boredom from one so young. "I don't like to see women fight." Even Brujah. He finishes the last swig he'll take of the flask, and returns it to its owner with a thankful nod. "And it is no woman," he explains to the two present. "I have my fill of fighting at home, yes? I think I shall sit the rest of this night out," he explains as he prepares to depart.

     "He may be mollified," Mark explains, having known the Prince of Paris for some time, and having served specifically as primogen for two centuries now. "I assure you," he smiles, turning about to the table again now that the current fight's done. "Very well done, by the way," Mark approves, clearly sizing up the latest Primogen to rank and to France. The suit fits him well, despite the rumor of Mark Mamion's true Nature.
     There's a stare at Alix's reticence on the night, but Mark seems not too upset by it. Instead, he counsels, "Maybe you'd rather explore the countryside? I'm sure Marie and Akre would be happy to escort you around. It is a little cramped in here."

     The table resounds with the clattering of daggers and a rattling of wood as Iovis Macarelli is up on the table, black jacket worn but the red shirt left to cover the knives. A moment later, he's plunking himself down on a bench and reaching for a cup. Empty. Then a bottle. Empty. With a smirking frown, he stands, leaning over and reaching for another bottle. "I prefer stiletto throwing to fighting. I just can't convince anyone to stand still long enough. I do not understand this. You would think I were not trusted. But, I have done my one show, so that is good. I will stay a bit longer," then back to Tours.
     "But the caves, this was a good idea," he looks to Mark. "Shame to waste it on the tourists only. They who come, trample, see and do not understand." He pours a drink. "That is the double-edged blade of it. How do we remain Ourselves and be the Europe they want to see. So," Iovis raises a cup to Mark, "... here's to defiling a national treasure. Viva la revolution...."

     "Women are like any other savage creature. They need to be true to their own nature." Andrei shrugs a little, taking his flask up again and swallowing as if thirsty. He squints for a moment at Alix, then shrugs. "Whatever is in you - empty it or not, but it's not invisible. Pythons are like that too."
     Andrei straightens up and squints around himself, then turns to Mark. "Mollified. Hm. Perhaps. Well, I will likely be passing by Paris sooner rather than later anyway, so why not?" There's a shrug from the Russian which is more voluble than his tongue. "I will bring him a gift. That will hopefully cease his motherly worrying. A cock, perhaps. My farms are doing well."
     His head tilted to the side, he stares a moment longer at Mark, then turns to Iovis. "I'll stand still if you like. A hole here and there - it's worth the price of the show, isn't it? But not now. You've already put yourself back together; the next time. As for revolution!" His voice goes loud, emphasis and he raises one finger, as if about to proclaim something. However, he only says, "Revolution makes me thirsty. I'm going to find a drink and then, if you like, we can plan a small war."

     Alix's brows arch at Andrei's observation, then he says, "You confuse me," as if he's said it a million times before. Alix smiles though before he goes. "Let me know how the war planning goes," he nods, "I could be interested in this." There's a nod to Mark, and Alix raps the table three times with his knuckles before taking Mark's advice to head out to wander the night in the countryside. He waves as he spins to head out, motioning at Akre, who motions at Marie.

     Mark's quiet as he watches the three head out, then he finally chimes, "I'm glad you liked the idea," blue eyes sweeping to the two remaining. "Vive le revolution..." he says with a French slur, shaking his head as he grins at Iovis. He exhales and leans on the back of one of the chairs.
     "As for your thought," Mark picks up, "...it is simple to look one way and to be another. The tourists may have the light. It is as it is now. There is another world they do not know. It is not so hard to give them what they need, knowing things are far different. I am with Donskoi here -- revolution makes me a little sleepy. Perhaps it's age," he teases himself.

     "The only ones who profit in war are the Financiers and Bankers," Ventrue, "...the rest is just a big bore and a mess...though I expect," Iovis' voice lifts, "...for that opinion to make me unpopular. What do I care for that. I'm unpopular now," Iovis laughs. Black eyes glance to Mark and he smirks. "I don't give a shit about war or popularity. And I'm not sure about that, Mark," back to the balance of tourism and real life. "How can I keep the docks true to themselves and trendy for tourism? It all becomes a charade. In Genoa, there is no pretending. You wish to go to Genoa, go. But you see her faults as much as her history. The ruination is part of it. In France? Everything has to have a wash on it. Not as bad as England...but I do not know..." He shakes his head. He's not sold on it. "What makes a woman beautiful is not the perfection of her features but the fact that she has unkempt hair or maybe a crooked tooth, or lopsided breasts. What makes a city a city is that it is as it is, blemishes and all. I would rather have an ugly truth than a beautiful lie."

     "Yes, but..." Mark's brows arch, "...you are not mortal."

     The hand waves. I know. I know. Iovis exhales, eyes widening and the arms make a motion again -- not like the unanimated, stiff Venetians. "I will ask the Ventrue to open a Starbucks..."

     "War is useful. It isn't the profit - it's that it's an agent of change. As we age, we see that there are many ways to enact change, not just the ones popular in our youth." Andrei shrugs again, fatalism writ for a moment in mockery of tragedy and comedy alike. "It doesn't mean that what we used when we were young was wrong. It just means we have more tools to choose from and not less. To pretend that war is not a tool is to allow the Moneychangers free access to not only the temple but the temple treasury as well."
     There's a brief flash of open-mouthed smile, teeth visible and then the plump lips close again with a snap of enamel. "As for worlds and non-worlds, it's horse shit. The mortals like not knowing - it keeps their world tidier as well as easier for us. Ever seen a mortal faced with the knowledge of their own death - of course you have," he moves over to one of the tables and sprawls down onto it, boot heels digging into the stone underneath, "they can't accept it. They don't know how. It's not until we become something else that we start coping. Pity not all of us will ever manage it, but every garden needs a bit of weeding."
     Iovis is giving a long humorous look. "Women again? Do it as they've done in Saint Petersburg. There you have centuries of beauty and history and architecture and little to no real understanding of the blood of the people. And there you also have American jeans being sold on the street and people being dragged off and killed. Including tourists, sometimes. To exist is to risk everything, to risk all."

     Iovis leans in again, his hand taking up his shirt and tossing it over his shoulders. Bare now, the stiletti rest. One by one he gathers them (all five) into his hand. "I have had all the philosophy I can take," Iovis says, smiling a crooked smile. "I now need to drive fast, fuck slow and sleep. No one else seems in the mood to challenge me tonight, cowards," he chuckles, making a last sweep of the crowd, busy with another match. "I have," his other hand reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wad of euros, "...plenty to keep me occupied."
     The money is stowed away and he begins arming himself, five black blurs and then he fastens the jacket, hiding them all. "If you are in Tours, be sure to come to the northside warehouse. Ask for the Genoan bastard, you won't have trouble finding me, yes?" Grinning, Iovis mounts the table again. "Everyone, Iovis is leaving! Check your back pockets..."
     One... he is off the table...
     Two... the red shirt is tossed to some woman...
     Three... she rolls her eyes (she's no gullible Rose!)...
     Four...Iovis is gone...
     Five...the roar of the Ducati's engine... it's very non-stock, non-standard engine...

     Mark looks vindicated. He smiled as Iovis dismissed, rose, and headed off into the night. "Maybe he'll find Markko," Mark says, pushing up so that his hands only curl around the back of the chair.
     "I never did like philosophy," the Primogen Prime says slowly. Perhaps he actually means it.
     "Donskoi, a pleasure. Paris soon," Mark restates, leaving the conversation to lie. Apparently no one has the taste for it.
     They'd rather as most of their clan -- only fuck, fight, and find food.
     Maybe.

     "All roads lead to Paris. At least when one is in France, Italy or Germany," Andrei remarks, another shrug of his shoulders given. "Maybe he'll find Markko. Maybe he'll find a python. For me? I think I'm going to go find a light supper and then finish with Plato. Annoyingly smug bastard, Plato."
     He offers Mark a sketched wave with his flask, looking around at the children at play with a leaden benevolence, an old dog watching pups at play with the potential for a heavy paw.
     "Everything turns to shit in the end," he comments. Then he turns, taking a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles back out of his coat and unfolding them. He lumbers his long limbs to the door as if he were stockier than he is - the Russian bear, departing.

Posted by rowan at July 11, 2004 04:57 PM