The Witching Hour has come to the City of Love, and the club vibrates with intensity and life; heat and music, passion and promise swell about it, with bodies moving together in a timeless battle of dominance and submission. It's a mixed club, with every kind of pairing imaginable witnessed within the masses, from boys and girls to boys and boys to some couplings that are fairly indeterminate.
     Through the throbbing crowd comes a tall, handsome man; he is dressed in a shirt of bloody silk, buttoned in the middle only and thus allowing plenty of his mildly tanned skin and the strong muscles to show through. Greydon's eyes sweep over the assembled crowd, his green eyes seeking out over the assembled bodies as if seeking something, someone, his smile slight on his lips, inviting.

     I love Paris in the springtime...
     But it is still winter, nein? Winter, which settles in at the heart. It has settled in at the heart of this court. I wonder if it will freeze even me, that I resign myself to the gadding foreplay that seems to substitute for passionate creation among the others of my kind, here. It is circus; it is carnival. It is not real.
     But what is real...
     These thoughts are not shared with the air, but contained behind the surface of a Teutonic brow. It is a Paris club, and he is German; in modern Paris, to modern youth, this speaks of willing perversion, and he has learned to a degree to harness this expectation, less for his lust and more for his hunger. Tonight it is black trousers, snug-fitting and sleek, with a tight, high-collared white shirt, tailored to him. Hansl has allowed his hair to fall just a little into his eyes tonight, allowed his boots to be shinier than usual; a magpie, calling other magpies, the single splash of colour unintentional, a daub of cobalt blue paint behind and slightly under his left ear. (He had been so intent upon painting that almost he forgot his dinner. Almost.)
     "Nein," he explains patiently to a very drunk young lady, "I am not Deiter. Nein. Perhaps your Deiter is looking for you, ja?" His hand to her elbow, he turns her gently but firmly away, nudging her onto some equally drunk young man. Ice-blue eyes roll heavenwards. That she is replaced immediately by a carbon copy is almost unbearable, but he tries.
     "Nein. I am not this Deiter. I do not have good shit. And that," Hansl catches her hand before it can dive into his pants, "is not for you. Hm? Hansl. And nein, I am not looking for a Gretel, but danke schon." As if I have not heard it before.
     Even Toreador can lose their tempers, if provoked enough. Artistic temperament can lead to tantrums, can't it? But for now, he is controlled; irritated enough that the tension shows - but it is contained. "Nein... I do not know Deiter, but I am beginning to wish to, very much..." Perhaps he should be my dinner... instead of ruining it...

     Throughout the Toreador's difficulties, the mercurial Lord Grey takes notice of him and quirks a single brow, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he shifts in his steps and takes him along over towards the beleaguered German boy. He is amused by the persistence of the prey in their chase of the hunter, but soon he nears and steps in before the woman, his body serving as a wall of stone between her and the prize she so seeks. A hand comes out to rest upon Hansl's shoulder, a wink offered as he says in a voice that speaks of long association, even if they have done no more then seen each other across Court from time to time. "Ahh, there you are, my friend. We have been looking for you, and I must admit that the lovely young Marie has become distraught in her longing for a reunion with you. Shall we join her and set her fluttering heart to rest?"

     Vas is dast? The look of startlement could not be any plainer on Hansl's face if it had been painted on. He doesn't quite jump, but he springs to attention so that there is almost - almost the suggestion of a clicking of his heels. "Ah - ja," he agrees helpfully, after the words have filtered through and been translated from one language into another, into another, and compared. He looks a bit blankly at his would-be rescuer, but there is the click of the mental photograph being taken; the artistic summary being made. A slight hint of colour taints his skin, and he bobs his head slowly. "I ... would not wish to distress Marie further, nein."
     What am I getting myself into. But it will get me away from this silly child. Will it get me into another fire? There are days, mein vater, when I wish almost that you had left me where you'd found me.
     The Toreador eyes the girl over Lord Grey's broad shoulder, then turns to that worthy with another sketched suggestion of awkward bow. "I fear that Marie is, ah, so very disinclined to specifics. If she has mentioned you, your name has gone from my mind. Please, forgive me; shall we go to her?" And hope very much that you are not some creature of the Sabbat?

     "Ah, she has not mentioned me? I am wounded, and shall have to endeavor to make more of an impression upon her in the future." offers Greydon with a chuckle, letting an arm slip over the Toreador's shoulders to further separate him from his little fan and guide the young man through the crowd, leading them off towards the side of the club where the intensity of the crowd is lessened, where the throbbing music becomes a thing more heard then felt.
     Once away from the hunter, the predator lets his arm fall away from Hansl's shoulder and his hands slip into his pockets, chuckling softly, "Greydon Treveylan, a regular visitor to your fine city, but not one who has had the pleasure of meeting you of yet. An irritating child, that was, wasn't it?" A brow arches slightly, amusement clear upon his features, "Although easy takings, if that was your desire. You seemed instead to be rid of her."

     Oh, thank god. Not a Sabbat, then; or not a trap I recognise. The Toreador has allowed himself to be led away from his 'fan', who, no doubt, has gone in search of easier prey. Hansl turns to face the other man, coming to a parade rest more or less out of habit, hands folded behind his back as he looks his incomprehension. "I am Hansl Arnaul," he says simply; his sire's last name, taken as his own. Who he was before is of no great importance. "A ... pleasure?"
     To the topic of the girl, he bobs his head slowly, pale blue gaze looking his opposite up and down slowly, trying to assess; how many layers to this discussion? How easily offended? Do we speak on the same level, or ... "I - she is not to my taste. I am not yet so famished." Literally or figuratively. Hansl frowns, then blinks once. "Mein herr Trevelyan. I apologize; I am being rude. My thoughts are distracted, tonight; too much stimulation, perhaps, ja? I thank you for the rescue. You will allow, perhaps, I buy you a drink in recompense?" Let there be no debt. Ja.

     Then what is his taste, Grey wonders absently as he takes in the unusual pose of the young german soldier before him with a soft chuckle. "A terrible loss." he remarks in a voice which seems to sound sincere, and the fluttering of color about him bears that to be truth, "I am not so easy to offend, young Hansl; but to the topic of taste, well. That is comforting, for there are those who are tasted, and those who are left broken.. and she seemed quite the latter."
     He turns away, striding over towards one of the side tables and slipping into it, lifting his silk clad arms to rest against the back of the couch that enfolds it as he regards Hansl with a faint grin, "Although for your rescue, if it is debt you feel then debt I accept; but I do not thirst for what may be bought, and the mood does not strike me to play that I do. Sit, though, and we may find another means to restore balance. Mmm?"

     "...As you wish." Hansl nods slowly, unaccustomed perhaps to this; or, at least, no matter how frequent, he has yet to become accustomed to it. He moves to the couch with a glance at Grey, then slides along the couch swiftingly. He sits as he stood - at a lesser form of attention, hands arranged on his thighs. He is capable of relaxation, perhaps; but how often is it seen? "Herr Trevelyan. You are not, forgive me, un Parisian; you come to France on business, perhaps?" He shifts, uncomfortable with small talk - but he's trying. He leans forward a trifle, tapping a finger against the drink menu, then pulling it towards him to flip it open. Curiosity, not even real curiosity, but a prop with which he might toy. A potential barrier.

     Greydon watches Hansel lift up his barrier, as he himself remains there in an open posture, his green eyes watching absently at the sturdy young man.. vampire. "I make it a habit to travel from time to time, and Paris has ever been one of my favored places to linger, though Rome calls to me more often of late when my beloved London will relinquish the hold she has on my soul." He chuckles and gives a little shrug, "Although this is not a social visit, no. There is a thing that I would possess here, an exquisite beauty like no other; I have sought it for many years, and come now to lay claim to what I would have. Business? No. This is pleasure."

     Flip. Flip. Flip. He goes through the list of drinks restlessly, then sets the menu aside again, looking up at his host. He's listening, and as he listens, his attention is gradually drawn back towards Grey. His putting the booklet aside is almost incidental, done absently, posture not relaxing, exactly. Rather, Hansl seems absorbed in what Grey is saying, the focus of those blue eyes narrowing to tunnel vision, the club gradually tuning out. Background music? Nein. There is no music. What is this music of which you speak?
     "You have a very ... precise and poetic way of saying things, Herr Trevelyan." He's forgotten to blink. His eyes will hurt when he remembers. "I have never been to Rome. Nor to London." He gestures faintly, a slightly jerky motion of one hand. Hansl swallows dryly, lowering his hand to the table, still staring at the other man... vampire. "Please, mein herr, I would hear more. What is it that you seek?"
     And now Hansl blinks - but goes right on looking. And listening. Especially listening. Day in and day out at the Elysium, surrounded by the works of the masters, and only occasionally has he succumbed to his weakness, his eternal, inwards shame. And now, here, in so public a place... he falls again. Unaware, for now, of his fall; Icarus at his dizzying heights, his waxen wings melting and moulting to begin his spiraling plummet to earth could be no more oblivious.

     The mercurial Lord Grey does not seem so mercurial right now; in those green eyes of his there is a passionate fire as he leans forward, resting his arms upon the table as he grows nearer to the Toreador across from him; his demeanor is almost lusty, as if he were on the brink of making love or killing, whichever desire claims him. This one is different, though.
     "A manuscript from the 11th century, meticulously labored over, gold hammered into the finest leaf and inlaid upon the text; the illustrations painted with the utmost care. A special manuscript, heretical, that is exceedingly rare in these modern nights, but a manuscript with colors nearly as vibrant as the day it was made. A book. A book that has withstood more centuries then I, and which has within it the thoughts of another era, preserved forever upon its pages, if only those pages find their way into the hands of one who knows how to love them as they are deserving." He tilts his head to the side, a faint smile touching his lips, "It is no masterpiece by a master, renowned throughout the world for his skill.. But it is a thing nearly unique unto itself, and deserving of eternity."

     Hansl nods slowly, a faint hint of colour in his face for a moment; his usual self-consciousness has been forgotten in the force of the other's passion. Slowly, there's the flicker of pale eyelashes coming down to shutter those frost-touched eyes; a respite. A chance to collect himself, to regain some semblance of control over himself, his reactions, however subtle they may have been... or not. "Ja, I can see how that would be quite the find," the artist agrees, "though difficult to lay claim to, I should think, without there being stiff competition." Not from him; he is no collector, though he can understand, and appreciate, the desire.
     Equilibrium is recovering, approaching again to near normal; with it returns his discomfort, faint but omnipresent. What would one have to do, to see him truly at ease? "You are a - what is the word. Bibliophile?", Hansl hazards in his English. It has been drilled into him over these decades. His voice is still coloured nonetheless by Alsatian German, by northern lands. "I know of a few who write, among my ... associates," it would be unwise to speak of clan or even brethren, "though I do not. I have not the gift. You speak very well, mein herr." He inclines his head in a slow nod. Very well indeed. Disturbingly, distressingly, hypnotically well.

     Greydon regards the young man before him for a lingering moment, that passion within his eyes remaining evident, his entire being seeming filled with the heat and warmth of it. "Of the three copies of this manuscript that I am aware of, there is only this one that is available; stiff competition indeed, and for the acquisition there will be stiff compensation. That is why I am here. No middlemen, no agents. There are some things that you must do for yourself; some prizes you must reach out and wrap your hands around and take for yourself."
     He settles back against the couch once again, one arm lifting up to settle against the back of it, looking ever so relaxed as his smile takes on an almost wry note to it, "Bibliophile is only a part of it, you see. It is not the pages, no matter how beautifully scripted, but the knowledge within them, preserved through time that calls to me. I too can not write; my thoughts come free in spoken word when passion sings to me, but to transcribe that passion-- it never seems to be fulfilling, and so I seek other ways of expression. If one day you find yourself in London, I will show you my collection if you wish.'

     He is caught in ice. What warmth exists on the other side - this strange passion, this glow, reflected in words? He hears the words, and they are shaped so oddly; in a language he so less often uses, at that. Not German. Not French. His third language, and it has him so spellbound - it is absurd. And yet, very palpable.
     Hansl blinks, nodding slowly again. "You have ... much in the way of motivation. Determination," he says finally. "I can sympathize with that. I ... paint, a bit." A bit. It is all that he does, save when working in other media. The only time that he is not working, he is either at some court function or else he is intending to feed. As he was, tonight. This English lord has put thoughts of food far from him. He has a new hunger with which to occupy himself, now.
     He shifts slightly, leaning forward towards Greydon, hands resting elegantly against his thighs as he listens and seeks to respond. Self-consciousness is throttling him again, uncertainty flickering in his gaze as he begins the automatic, instinctive polite Teutonic response. "You flatter me, mein herr, but I would not wish to impose. Though I have," he admits, "reason to visit London soon, it is true. Do you compose, as well as read, then?"

     "Impose?" inquires Greydon with a wry hint of amusement lifting to his face, "If there was an imposition, the offer would not be made. It is true that I do not often share my collection with others, but it is only because I know few who may appreciate it. Mine is not a collection hoarded in greed, but a true desire to preserve and cherish what I have found." Once more he leans forward against the table, his fingers settling upon the wood and tracing against the smooth surface, almost caressing it.
     "I do not know if determination is a word I would use... That is a word which is so cold, so lifeless, a word that speaks of mad obsession and not the fire of desire that I am filled with. If your painting is so cold, I pity you.. but I do not suspect that is so. Do you feel determination or passion?"
     A faint smile touches his lips, and he gives a languid shrug of his shoulders, "If you do not wish to visit me on my estate, you are not obligated to do so. But if you simply fear over some imagined imposition, then there are ways to balance the matter. Share some of what drives you, and I shall share some of what drives me. To the subject of composition; a few books, here or there. Nothing I find satisfying. I am not an artist. I am a scholar."

     The German reddens, crystalline gaze focused on the absent motion of Greydon's fingertips. It's fascinating. Beautiful. To one such as him - deadly. It's a few long moments before he manages to respond, looking up guiltily. "...Nein, I would find it interesting, of course, Herr Trevelyan. Upon my oath." Which, as a soldier and former squire-effective to a former Knight Templar.... he takes very seriously. His expression as he looks upon the other man is so serious, so earnest. So lost.
     "...If I misspeak, I apologize. I have no wish to offer offense to you," Hansl does not quite stammer, though he jumps slightly, posture going rigidly erect, militarily precise once more. "As I have said. Words are not my medium; my art form, poor though it is, is expressed through images. I ... would not be a fit judge, to speak on my own works." He shakes his head doggedly, as if to shoo away flies of egoism which persist maddeningly through Greydon's words. "You would need see, judge for yourself - I could not see as through your eyes, but only mein own." He takes an unneeded breath, as if he has more words to add; then, slowly, lets it out again.
     "One may be artist and scholar at once," Hansl says simply, fixing his gaze on Greydon with a blink. "Forgive my imposition, herr; but I think you perhaps are both."

     The elder stretches his hand across the table, flipping it over to extend open his palm, his smile persisting through the other's words, as if offering or perhaps demanding, "There are those who take offense at the slightest word, and those who see that intention means more to this then otherwise. You do not mean offense; and so it is not taken. Not here, not now, not in the throbbing mass of bodies and heat and sound." And then the hand comes back, returning to its place where it caresses upon the table.
     "If you are willing, it would please me to see what pours from your soul onto the canvas; but this is something you must understand I ask with humbleness. There is no insult that will be taken at a refusal. The works of an artist can be a private thing, I know; they can speak of inner thoughts that may not readily wish to be seen. Others want acclaim; and which of these, or something between, I do not know which you are. Yet. You see, I am not driven to create; I am driven to love, to worship, to feel what it is that is offered. To consume and be consumed and know, to appreciate and to grow and to become through what I learn."

     Lost. He is so very lost. In a maze not of his own creation, not even of his own recognition; this is nowhere that he has been before. Not even with Johannes Arnaul, Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken; not anywhere. Perhaps he is nowhere at all.
     Nowhere, noone, and nothing...
     "I find no insult in your request. If you wish, I would be honored." Simple words. Simple concepts. Enormous in their portent, in what they might signify - what they could lead to. He has consumed no brandy; he nonetheless is reverting to type, as he did once before, the skin of the soldier a little uneasy over farmboy flesh. Blue eyes blink, lift to green, forehead puckered slightly as he tries to gain some sense, some cohesion to this thought, this plan. Seriously, he answers, voices his words, his thoughts in minutiae even if not in magnitude.
     "I do not think that there is much to learn, in what I paint," Hansl says with that gravity, it seeming more out of place now than before, perhaps. "I - but I do not answer you, mein herr, not correctly. Again, my apologies. Ja, if you wish. I am in the 17th Arrondissement - if you have time enough, I would be flattered to host you at my studio." From any other in this club, the offer would be thinly veiled, a hint and promise of beguilement, of sex. Dazzled as he is, offered now, it is what he says it is - an open-ended offering. Taken or refused.

     And so Greydon rises, moving over across the table to stand beside the other, gazing down at him as he gives a slight nod of his head, a hand reaching out once again, and this time it lingers there, waiting for the younger to lift his hand and offer it, "Then we are in agreement." he murmurs, his words sounding solemn, a tone more fitting to great treaties then to agreements for some future liaison, even if it is an innocent meeting.
     There is a chuckle that comes shortly after those words, though, and his demeanor shifts into something lighter, inviting in its easy acceptance. "Time is a thing I have in endless quantities, if I see reason to make it. Unconstrained by the desperate need to rush from moment to moment, I am free to float within its passage and wait with endless patience, and take any moment that I see before me that is worth the taking. Your moment is. But you are wrong on one thing; there is no work of the heart and soul which does not carry within it a message, a lesson, a whispering of meaning... or it is nothing more then a doodle on paper. Do you think your work is so low?"

     Now he manages to rouse himself, a little, from this hypnotism; and just as well, or he'd be caught staring at the man, as if he were some prophet, some salvation. Instead, slowly Hansl reaches out to that hand with one of his own, his other hand pressing against the wood to ease himself up to his feet. "...Ja? Agreement, of course, ja..."
     Perhaps he can't help it, a side effect of that pale golden hair, that he sounds so blankly amazed, still looks half-hypnotized. He, who is so paranoid, so nervous. Perhaps it will return in the taxi from this district to the arrondissement where he has his modest studio. Perhaps...
     "It is not that my work is low," Hansl says simply, "but that my message is - undefined. It is my weakness, you see. I do not cleave to a Cause, or a Movement." And on this topic, the topic of his Art, he may speak without the stiltedness, the reserve, sliding his hand away from the other man's with a quick smile, sudden in its sweetness, in its absence of guards and wards, its absence of the parade ground and the military formation. "I paint what I see; I do not distort form into nothingness. I still experiment, I seek to find myself, or a platform upon which my feet may rest. I do not know that I have yet succeeded - but. You will come, and you will see, and you will judge for yourself, hein?" He ducks his head quickly, the blonde locks flopping finally into his eyes and swept back by a rapid hand.
     "If, that is, you are still willing, after my unfortunate outburst. But I would like you to come."

     Greydon's hand shifts slightly, grasping about Hansl's wrist and guiding it with a soft strength that is impossible to deny. His other hand reaches into his pocket, and from it a small pen is retrieved, and upon the young man's palm a number is written, the point tracing almost sensually against the skin there. "Your message is what is heard, not what is said; your message is what is inspired and what grows from the seed that you plant with your work. Your message is yourself, even if you do not know it, or know how it is that it is you, and even if you seek through it to see yourself better. Your message is what I will see when I gaze upon your naked work and you are thus laid bare before me."
     And then, the hand is released, and the tall figure of the englishman seems almost to loom there for a moment before his smile touches his face once again. "I will come. Call this number, and I will answer, and then we will meet. For now, I must go; I hunger with a feverish desperation, and must give into it. And upon the next night, I have an appointment that will keep me. But after that?" A slow, languid shrug, "Time has no meaning, no demands that I can not make. Call." That last word is spoken softly, and yet with the unmistaken sense of command and authority behind it.

     Correction : he had managed to rouse himself. At this, he is suddenly lost again, composure thrust into the refiner's fire, to either burn up in smoke or come out the other end a changed thing. Hansl starts visibly, though manages not to jerk away and offer offense to the elder. Beneath the surface, there is that bubble of briefly rising panic tightening his loins, his inescapable reaction to his confusion. Du ist? Vas is das...
     There is again that hint of colour to the fair skin, uncertainty passing through his eyes before he again stiffens, blinking once, gaze glassy. He manages not to bow, not to salute; the reaction more the farmboy's than the soldier's, though there is overlap. "Ja, I ..." Promises, half-voiced, are stilled by caution's wariness. Hansl blinks, reclaiming his hand slowly at last. "...I will call." Given, in the end, but without the haste. As if it were his own idea? No; he isn't that good. He is too earnest, too much himself and not a political creature; alas for poor Hansl. His hand goes to behind his back, held there by the wrist by his other hand. "Gut nicht, Herr Trevelyan. Speed and fortune in your dining... and your other hunt." He means the book, of course. He is still too confused, too lost to entirely comprehend how easily he might become the target of a hunt - let alone how his words could be taken as encouragement.
     The blue eyes are puzzled, now, still startled, and Hansl watches the Englishman for a long moment; then sketches a slight nod, a slight bow. "Gut nicht," he repeats, and turns on his heel, moving swiftly through the crowd. His own dinner will have to wait. He has demons with which to wrestle, temptations to put down on canvas... and a phone number to write down before he, like Macbeth's wife, must scrub at his hands with meticulous and reddened care.

Posted by rowan at February 09, 2006 02:09 PM