They attended all the same parties...
     Now, each of them holds a piece of South Waterfront real estate. Juliet deMontrachet has her famously exclusive rooftop restaurant, and Davydd ap Owain has his neighboring two bedroom penthouse flat overlooking the same river. They should stop meeting like this, or people will be prone to talk.
     As if.
     The restaurant occupies the penthouse level of one of the tallest buildings on this south waterfront strand, with a rooftop garden terrace for those who wish to dine out, or smoke. It is spectacularly decorated for the holidays, quickly approaching, with fir trees decorated with crystals that catch the glow from the brightly hanging lamplights.
     It has the latest hours of any of London's premier clubs. To set herself apart from her competition? Perhaps that is a nice bonus, but in truth it is to better serve the majority of her clientele. The very rich. The very beautiful. The very dead.
     And of the dead, one of the deadest is Davydd ap Owain. Despite the fact that its winter, though this particular night is a dry night and and is warmer than it certainly could be, he is on the rooftop terrace nursing a cigarette and a whisky and taking in the view.
     Or maybe he is part of the Christmas scenery, like the manger and the sheep would be to a nativity scene -- he in his wool coat and sweater, his blacks and his greys. Juliet has come and gone again, bringing his coffee to him personally, and the little cakes that she knows he likes. To see to the elder that makes much of his time in her establishment. That is what one does.
     Davydd isn't the only one out here. It is well into the evening. There is a bar out here, and portable fireplaces of terra cotta that create an ambient warmth. It's quite comfortable. By dawn, there will have been dancing.

     Valentine Rossini's arrival upstairs is marked by the sudden quiet upon the rooftop of the ancilla and neonates that are connected enough - influential enough - to know Juliet's and be allowed to congregate there.
     Everyone started somewhere, sometime, in their social climb.
     The Chief Harpy of any city, likely having cut teeth (literally) elsewhere, has already benefitted from such hiking. Once the subject of a harpy, as everyone is, he is now The Harpy. It really is the irony of ironies.
     No one tries to be a harpy. Well, that's not necessarily true. Some try to be the influential observer, and instead, land flat on their faces as whoring gossip-mongerers. That's what happens when you have no influence. Talk, talk, talk, with no power.
     The rare few plan to be a harpy or become The Harpy because they know the true path - poise first, influence second, power follows. Only then will the crowd point and say - That is the one you need to talk to. That is the one you should impress.
     And Valentine found himself in such a role when it was time for him to move on as Prevot of Florence. His court influence and local power meant that he knew more, and had forgotten more, than anyone else. When he wished it, and a well-placed friend found himself Prince, Valentine was chosen by London, and chose not to be Prevot, but to be Chief Harpy.
     As always, his mouth remains closed. He shall catch no flies, they say. (Oddly, he is they.) Valentine spent a goodly part of the evening downstairs, but as the evening turns to deepest night, he decided to seek more rarefied climes.
     Hence, Juliet's rooftop.
     Valentine follows the last round of cakes to their recipient, making no bones about his intent.
     "Davydd," he smiles, "...it has been a while."

     As always with Davydd, his mouth has been open. The colonies of flies he has caught in there is astounding. There's rumors, to be sure, that his flies have set up separate colonies, have erected statues among his teeth and may be developing a nuclear arsenal.
     But like sugar from the fingers of Antoinette, what an Elder says passes in and out of everyone's memory, drizzling on the grass, evaporating in the mind, dissolving on the tongue.
     That is, until some other Elder decides to take it personally. Let them eat cake, indeed.
     But his tongue (and the flies that are preparing their first launch to the moon, his tonsils no doubt) and Juliet's ladyfingers soaked in Chambord and further crowned with cream won't be doing him in tonight, or likely any night. Most people his age ignore what he says, or quickly forget it. Those younger, well... who knows what the Young People of today are thinking?
     Davydd ap Owain looks up at the sound of his name (actually, his attention was piqued when a hush fell over the room. Unconsciously, even he looked to make sure his fly was fastened just in case it was the queen.), to see the Chambord soaked ladyfingers descending and Valentine Rossini arriving.
     "Care to join me in Juliet's Lady Poitiers?" He sets his cigarette in the ashtray. He smiles and gestures to a seat at the table. "It's been a least a week. Diolch," he says to the waiter. "Tell Madame deMontrachet she is very kind to remember my love of raspberries."
     Once the waiter goes about his business -- they aren't the chatty sort here but nice, professional French waiters who don't get into the banter so frequented by Americans and British -- Davydd looks to you with something of Celtic mischief in his eyes. "It is like a blanket for the feet of an old man, Chambord cakes. She made me a flaming Mithras for my birthday. You should have it some time. It's quite the treat. How are you?"

     Valentine waves his hand to both cakes and the waiter. "I am not much of a partaker," of solids, that is. "But I thank you." The Harpy opens his long coat, serving double-duty tonight, and takes a seat immediately near his host's left hand. "It is good to see you in the city again, Davydd. We have not had so much of you in an age. These past few years - we have benefitted from your presence again."
     "Our once-again gain must be Wales' loss," Valentine grins, knowing that is not necessarily true. "But I go too quickly. I know that," he looks over the crowd, hand coming to the fine, neat hairs that shadow his face, "...is an overreach. You shall never abandon your birth. And so it is with many of us, no matter where we go."

     "You bring Florence with you, I bring Cymru," he observes quietly. "I spent a little down time in the country for the past few years, but... as things have been since the death of Arthur, the future and the present belong with London." Davydd smiles, a sudden eruption before he takes a sip of the whisky. "Don't tell Cardiff I said this. They hate to admit it outloud. But..." He shrugs with the nonchalance that only a Welsh prince can have when English politics are discussed.
     "I am glad to be back in the City," capital, that, in language and in life. "Gain or loss notwithstanding," he grins at that. He has an easiness with self-deprecating humor when it comes to him and London. Davydd sits back in his chair, the smile tilting on his mouth once again ever-present, sewn on is the expression.
     He'll get to the Chambord in a bit. It will not hurt it a wit for it to sit in those juices for a while.

     Valentine smiles oddly. "I try not to bring Florence anywhere," he corrects gently. "But she will as she will as she has." He grins and grows quiet a moment. "And you? How does Cymru bear in London these nights? If we could be move real estate - but then," Valentine's brows lift, "...it would not be real estate."

     Ah, Italians. It is not the land that binds them but ...something else. Real estate to a Welshman? Well, land is life. Davydd takes up his cigarette, but stamps it to its death rather than smoke it. "London could do with a mountain or two, hell... a hill would be nice, but... that's why we have the country, aye? To have some place to go," he grins.
     "As for how I am bearing London... I would think the words would be flipped on that. How does It bear me," he posits. But he doesn't answer it. He only smiles. "Things are going well. I have a few projects going. Things are good. Everyone is happy and healthy, so... I have no complaints. London has ... been good to me. For many years," he says this seriously. "It is a great city. And you, Rossini?"

     "It bears you as it bears others - when did the city ever truly unburden itself of you," Valentine explains. "That is hers to bear...the all of us. But I am glad to hear things are going well for you. It seems so," he affirms. "And so existence comes into bloom again," he nods, "...for a while, the city was darker. But, that time quickly fades to the Past of Pasts, a place where even things start to haze for the likes of us."

     "We each have our cycles," Davydd nods, reaching for the plate of Chambord-soaked ladyfingers. "The City no less. But you know... Thierry's done a good job." It's said with a rumble in his chest, green eyes looking at you. "The council has, it's a fine court, it does its job well. Look at London now. When I was here in the 16th Century, the place was a right dump." He winks at that and then pauses for a bite of the Chambord.
     Heaven on a fork...
     Davydd rolls his eyes and sits back after the explosion in his mouth. Good lord that's good. "You're missing it," he gestures to the plate with his fork, then sets it aside. "Jesus, and the woman is single again. The men she dates are fools," Davydd chuckles. "And I ought to know, I was one of them." He does have a penchant for wooing and subsequently losing some of the finest women in town.
     An even bigger penchant for dating Toreador women. But then again, who doesn't?

     The compliments to the court are met with a placid face. These things, he knows. "A Ventrue to praise a Toreador. You are kind - or the dessert is quite fabulous." Valentine smiles sweetly. "Juliet," he looks over as if she were present and visible, "...chooses her men as she selects her creations. She is, of course, a Guild Master. We'd expect no less of her hands," he offers, looking at the plate.
     "You have paid compliments to two Toreador this night. What shall We," the Guild, "...think?"

     "Be sure to pass that around. I hear I have made Toreador unhappy. I give credit where credit is due, that's all," Davydd continues. "And the dessert is an experience. As for Juliet? Perhaps that's how she chooses her others. When she chose me, I'm sure it was for the novelty," he chuckles. "Women love to take care of wild animals." Fiery eyebrows dance up and down at that.
     Such must have been the case for Sandrine as well.
     Davydd laces his fingers against the woven wool at his stomach, a fine sweater made of the finest Welsh wool. He looks across the table for a moment, his mouth quirking. "They are less compliments and more acknowledgments, really. I save the compliments for shake hands with the Prince day and family night."

     "I do not pass anything around, Davydd," Valentine says curtly. He will not have his office minimized - or seen as mere gossip. "Nor am I a megaphone...nor a recording," for play later. Crossing his legs, Valentine looks down at his hands crossed at his lap.
     "Maybe I should let you be this night," Valentine offers, nodding his head. "If it is an audience with Thierry you truly wish, I am sure you can arrange such."

     "My sense of humor never fails," Davydd quietly bears. "My apologies, signore. I did not mean offense. Truly." His hands make a motion. "Please, do not leave on my failing humor's account." He reaches for his pack of cigarettes and a light. A smoke before dessert.
     Davydd lights up, turning his head as he does so. Gallantry out of habit.

     "Apology accepted," Valentine says quickly, not fussed about the cigarette. He simply watches, waiting for the first inhale of comfort to pass. All smokers need it, apparently.
     "Compliments," he picks up, "...or acknowledgments. I call them compliments on our Prince, the city, and Juliet." Generously so. Valentine is undaunted by self-deprecating humor. It is just noted. "I am sure the sentiments will be appreciated, if they are known by such who would care to hear the sentiments. Such positive statements to the world are should be appreciated by all."

     See? Open mouth, flies. Davydd smiles with the first exhale. Paradise. "I will have to see the Prince some time and tell him personally. The Tate is doing well. I don't go in for art, typically. I can appreciate it from afar. I like, more, that it exists. But for all that, it's quite the showpiece. A friendly, or not, competition with Paris. We have the fashion now, the good museums, the better restaurants, and a ferris wheel right downtown. If I didn't know any better, I'd say we were in the City of Lights. There's a lot to be optimistic about. I think that is where I am, sitting in an optimistic present."
     Could that alone explain the real estate, the constant presence? Perhaps.
     "After such a long life, that's a bit of a miracle, isn't it. To be optimistic at eight hundred." Davydd pauses, "... and some odd..."

     "Few can say that they are," Valentine muses, casting a glance to the dark sky. "Blessed one is that can," he does smile. "At any age."
     "It is true, what you say, of the City. Paris pales in her drab nostalgia. She has come far, but she took a seat some time ago. This city," the smile is genuine, "...is another story. Much different than all of the others." Or so it is said. "Still creating its way," he affirms, thinking on it with a return of his gaze to his table companion. "She knows that her future lay ahead, but starts this instant. She thinks on it now, she plans. She does not wait to the past to return, nor does she expect that others will see her grandness and fall in with awe."
     "There is much to be done, and it is being done here," Valentine clearly agrees.

     "I wonder how much the alliance with the United States in the 20th Century has led to this almost... American sensibility of the Now and Tomorrow. London has reinvented itself, is reinventing itself, which for a European city is pretty damned remarkable. Maybe it is completely unrelated," Davydd thinks out loud.
     "It is interesting, I think, how all of these things are starting to move together. Individuals reinventing themselves, a kind of renaissance at last, and the city reflects this. We never got much of the first Renaissance. It was a weak wave by the time it hit us. I don't think it even mussed my hair to be honest."
     Davydd grins, "It's contagious. And those who don't change, die. Paris is ... sadly, because it is a grand city, I'll give 'em that...it's seen its best days. It isn't ready to change, and so... it falls behind. London is the future, I feel that very strongly."
     Smoke curls from Davydd's mouth and nose as he exhales. He breathes fire, and like a dragon is all the better for it. "The past...well, I think it becomes a comfort to the long-lived. Even the short-lived," he chuckles quietly. "But it's in the past. What's important is what is ahead of us. That's why I'm here."

     "And what do you see in the future?" Valentine asks. "I have my vision of London. What is yours? Is it so different?"

     I do see... with clearer vision now than before. They are not prophecies of promises, or promises of prophecies, but rather the possibilities that exist. Some may come to be, some others not.
     "Our visions are probably not so different," Davydd notes. "I'd like to see this British resurgence extend to its musical heritage. We've lost that some where along the way. That I'd like changed. Maybe I'll have to help with that one personally. I've been composing lately. You know, the Lord helps those who help themselves."
     Davydd grins as he looks across the table to you, stamping out his cigarette and reaching for the fork again. Yes, it is like smoking after sex. Now, back for the intercourse of Chambord and ladyfingers.
     "I think the support is there, I think the momentum is good for this cultural blossoming. Those of us from Britain's Celtic corners are having a good influence, I believe, on the capital city. We nurture our languages, our cultures, and England tends to its own for a change. I think the culinary," he wrinkles his nose a bit at the term, "... thing will come and go. It's a flash in the pan," Davydd grins wildly at the pun, "...sort of endeavor. But fashion's here to stay. Financial investments are here to stay. And we make a damn fine vodka. Whatever vision the court has, it seems to be working..."

     Valentine eyes remain affixed during the explanation. "Music and art," he finally restates. "More Celtic than Ventrue, I should say? Or," he wonders, "...are you a Toreador in secret?" It would explain much. But he doubts that seriously. Valentine looks to the emptying plate, then his hands again. He grins at some private thought, perhaps, while he unlaces his fingers. Just a fleeting notion.
     "Maybe more Celts," the word sound odd upon Valentine's lips, "...should spend more time in the halls, then. Mayhap you have more to say to everyone. To educate. Maybe our educators..." he considers, "...are not focusing on the same things that You are." In the larger, Celtic sense.

     Davydd chuckles to that -- once Chambord-soaked cakes are swallowed, chased by a sip of whisky. Good lord, that's potent. She's trying to get me drunk! As if it takes much trying. "Celtic sensibilities tend toward the cyclical and the musical. Sadly, Mithras was not so inclined. But I have my Welsh blood to thank for my particular bent."
     Maybe Mithras enjoyed the music on his way out...
     "Maybe we should," Davydd nods to that, holding his whisky a moment then sipping at it again in thought. "We... have a different sense of what this Island is about, what it means, who we are. It is a different way of looking at things as they transpire, to see them in a cycle, an epic, rather than a linear path. Music is an expression of this Island's soul. It is ... not Britain without it."
     And Britain is more than England, more than London.
     Davydd pauses to consider something. "What Mithras was trying to achieve, from what I understand, was to tap into that ... essential self of this Island and to use that power outward in the world. Being Persian," and evil, Davydd smiles, "... he didn't really understand how to ... manipulate it, and by manipulate here... I mean the verbatim translation. To mold it, move it with one's hands, to shape it and have it affect everyone, in some respect. He didn't understand the nature of the Island he ruled. I think, in some ways, those patterns have been traced and retraced. By the Danish, then German, then French waves that followed. The court could likely benefit from hearing that point of view. A native point of view. What few of us remain." He flashes a grin at that. "Well, there's a whole country of them out west," Davydd rumbles good-naturedly.

     Again, the dark eyes remain affixed at the dissertation. "Maybe the court would," Valentine offers. This immediately begs, Maybe not. But the Harpy smiles regardless, even at discussion of Mithras. "Unfortunately," he goes on, "...you are few. And converts can be difficult, for that is what it sounds like you wish."

     Fiery eyebrows lift and Davydd smiles, shaking his head. "No, not converts. It's just a point of view. One that has been either missing, or hidden." He shrugs. "Those of the native persuasion have been... guilty of committing the crimes of seeming mysterious. It may be in our nature, but I can't say it's in our best interest."
     A fork scoops up what will be the last sampling of the Chambord for now. It's too rich. He'll have to take the rest of it home. Davydd rolls his eyes again. Sweet Jesus. "They moan about it in Wales and Ireland and Cornwall, but truth be told if they really wanted it to be different they'd be here changing it. Glynnis is preaching to the choir out there in Somerset. God love the woman, and I do, don't misunderstand me. But the future is here, not out in Somerset. And the future's not some hand-holding, hippie, tree-hugging, sitting on a blanket singing love-in," Davydd rumbles. "It's concerted effort, putting your money where your mouth is."

     "Apparently, you have thought of this much," Valentine observes, his even tone still with him, even at this late hour. "And so you think those of you long to this island have made a mistake?" He frowns, but likely as he finds his words, "Or you simply did not assert yourself in the history of this place after We arrived?" Valentine smiles gently then, his brows lifting. "Do not think me contrary, Davydd. I am asking for a clarification."

     "I think our habits of keeping our knowledge sacred, and therefore hidden, has cost us more than it gained us. Did it protect our culture that we refused to write things down? When the world considers Beowulf the height of pre-Norman literature on this island?" Davydd laughs at that. It is a hearty laugh at that, earthy and rich.
     "What were we waiting for, I wonder. It begs the question, don't you think? And I was more guilty of it than the others. I killed Mithras, dragon slayer that I am. And then what? Retreated into the mists like a good Arthurian figment?" Davydd chuckles. "We did not demand our place at the table. For a while, yes, we were too busy making sure we weren't burned or staked or what-have-you, and... I admit an insurrection or two or twelve. But ...yes... I would say that, at least speaking for myself as a native, Our tendencies toward secrecy, mystery and the Sacred was our undoing over the long term of time."
     And that has to change. Without us, Britain has prosperity, but it does not have its soul. Its very magical soul.
     "We are the history, that is assured to us," Davydd smiles, "...but we must be in the here and now. I have woken to that reality, and I hope the others will join me."

     "I see," Valentine offers, however coolly. He nods his head, exhaling in thought once more. Hands become the object of his interest for a few passing seconds. "How will such knowledge or remembrance work in the history of the Camarilla?" he wonders.

     "The Camarilla is the table, it's what exists. It's who we are. We're in it. I certainly am. God knows there has to be order. Anarchy works shite. It's all well and good until someone loses and eye and then it's a ruddy free for all," he moves his hands when he speaks just like a Roman. It must be inherited from the Romano-British line.
     "It's just a point of view, better said a sensibility. They can't sit back and complain in Cornwall that no one's listening if they don't show up, be seen, be heard and get on with it. Some do, I'm speaking of generalities. And ...well...myself in specific. The past is neither here nor there now. Those who dwell in it are stuck in it."
     Davydd rolls his shoulder, and by such a motion contends that he shall not be one of those...

     Valentine acknowledges, "You have given me much to consider, Davydd. I shall do so with all earnestness. Really - I feel as if I am speaking to a different man than one I have spoken to in past times. If this is what brings you forth here again, then, I shall try your bemusements as a positive thing, as it seems to have a forward-facing effect. You are here," he nods, the grin brightening again.
     "But so, I am afraid my time draws close. I still have a call to make this night. Maybe I should have a taste of your dessert on another time. I shall ask Juliet to prepare such a thing for me."

     "A pleasure as always, Rossini," Davydd nods to you and he smiles. "Some things change, some things remain the same. I can talk a blue streak." A painted blue streak at that. "And do," his green eyes widen, "...the Flaming Mithras is a Persian chocolate torte with a brandy flambe. It is," his face makes an expression of ecstasy, "... there are no words. And that's not just because of the title." He grins at that.
     No one has more fun at Mithras' expense than Davydd does. Serves him right, sneaking around in the woods, trespassing, kidnapping, neck-biting bastard.
     "I have to be going soon myself. I think I have a date tonight," he teases his own reputation. "I'm probably already late. Knowing me." Davydd rises. "It was good to see you. I'm sure you'll pass me at the brandy cart at court. You know how I love to drink Thierry's alcohol." The smile flashes with familiar warmth and humor. That much has not changed.

     "I shall look for you there," Valentine grins as he shakes his head upon standing as well. The Chief Harpy is done - and his comments on having another stop are likely true. No reason for a Harpy to lie. Not ever, when you have influence over reality.
     "I do appreciate your time, Davydd," Valentine says as he steps around the chair. No reason for you to leave too, his lifted hand suggests. He was the one making noise about departing. "Do enjoy your evening and dessert," he winks.

     "Have a good rest of your evening, Rossini," Davydd replies in his own farewell. He turns, getting his waiter's attention...
     "I'm going to need a box," Davydd can be heard saying to his waiter. "And do you think she would mind prepping another? If I show up to my dearie's house with a half-eaten Chambord goodness, I'll be sleeping outside for sure..."
     "Certainement," the waiter says, taking the half-eaten Chambord ladyfinger confection with him. Davydd will be given two wrapped to-go boxes, with two ribbons on them tied just so and inside them two new Lady Poitiers to go.

Posted by rowan at January 07, 2006 01:54 PM