Not that night...
     Not the next night...
     But the third night...
     They say that some things move in threes. He has never been a superstitious man, for all that he has always been first and foremost an artist, for all that his origins were among the humblest. Farmers, no matter how prosperous, are not lords; they are not titled. They are not even merchants, no matter how much money they might amass. His past, shrouded in disinterested secrecy, was that of the callow bumpkin among the sons of privilege. And now...
     Now he has retained that part of himself, that kernel of identity, no matter that it does not get recognized as such. Caught forever at being still a boy, with a boy's urges, a boy's clear and puzzled eyes, looking at a world that he was not truly born into; one that he has not yet figured out how to step into. That process of becoming.
     Call...
     It was a command, and he is so very susceptible to commands. That it is a command he wishes to obey confuses him only the more, but the call was made, invitation given - as was expected. And directions. The Rue de Payennes, the seventh Arrondissement of Paris, located near Veme. A building with wrought iron gates and its own courtyard, six floors of flats with yellow lamps that glow like mellow eyes of iris flowers. It is Parisian; very. Perhaps his Germanic self feels the more out of place, or perhaps his Toreador nature compels him to be there, in such beauty, the city note for the country boy.
     Hansl is waiting outside, his cellphone in his hand, flipped open and examined, flipped shut again. Over and over and over again, himself unaware of how he must look; the lanky figure in dark grey trousers and the severely tailored aquamarine shirt, the ruffled, slightly spiked, immaculately groomed hair. He does not look as though he was born; he looks as though he was made. Only the slanting scar on his cheek to render it less than magazine-perfect, tainting the boyish face with that hint of hurt...

     The number that appeared upon Greydon's phone did not surprise him, but it did cause a slight quirk of his brow and something of a grin. After he accepted, he spent some time deciding precisely what image to be show, and in the end he settled upon a silken shirt of the palest blue under a rich black sportscoat, the french cuffs at the end flaring out with a touch of extravagance. When in Rome? Well, Paris, but in the end, the meaning is the same.
     A swift instruction to hold is given to Greydon's driver as the car pulls up to the nearby intersection, his eyes taking note of the young man and his nervous little habit, and he can't help but find it amusing and pleasing at the same time. The moment passes though, and soon his car pulls up and he emerges, carrying a briefcase at his side. The car is, incidentally, just a car; an expensive town-car, but he's not pretentious enough to go fetch a limo to come to a handsome young Toreador's apartment.
     As he emerges and takes a step towards the german boy, he doesn't immediately speak; he simply smiles and allows his green eyes to flicker over him slowly.

     He shouldn't be surprised; he knew, after all, that the Brujah was coming. He spent a little time in frantic pursuit of information, the past night; but information comes almost always slowly at court. The difficulty of the Toreador court is that there are so many distractions, so many bright and glittering toys; there are those who are focused, but aligning their focus to one's own is a time-consuming task, particularly for a German among Parisians. And at the end of the night, he was no better off than when he'd begun.
     He looks up as the car slides to a halt, a jerk of head and shoulders as he straightens, and the phone is dropped into a pocket. The briefcase gets a flicker of those ice blue eyes on its own, perplexity momentarily visible in the crease of his forehead, the questioning pucker of his lips; but for a moment, and then gone, as he straightens with military instinct, as Hansl offers greeting.
     "Herr Trevelyan. Danke for coming. Shall we go inside?"
     Brief words, uttered with German directness, Germanic discomfort, his hands first folded behind his back, then one hand coming forward in offered further greeting. Or perhaps to offer a hand with the briefcase.

     As Greydon gets out, a vague gesture is made and the driver pulls out and drives off down the road, leaving the Brujah here in the dangerous lair of the enemy. Then again, how dangerous can a German Neonate be in the middle of Paris? Perhaps he doesn't consider the threat too severe, because he simply smiles a bit more and reaches out his hand to fold around Hansl's firmly, stepping in closer and leaning down to brush his lips upon each of the young man's cheeks. This is Paris, after all, but throughout this the soft and yet impossibly tight grip doesn't really loosen, "Yes, let's; unless the art that you have so spoken of is of the variety that may irritate the local police? I have never been one for the more modern play with spraypaints, but if you truly wish..."
     Yes, Greydon's tone is teasing, but this having been said he does let go of Hansl's hand. It would be prudent perhaps to take a step back again now that he is not there to lean in and give the cheeky-kisskiss greeting, but he doesn't. Its more interesting that way.

     The contact startles him, and his grip tightens for it. There's that involuntary tensing of his shoulders, the bow-flex and release, the brief widening of his eyes as he again straightens up so hurriedly. "Ah ... nein, I do not work with aerosol." Hansl looks momentarily shell-shocked; the combination of the kiss - from an Englishman, no less! How unexpected; and the idea of him working with spraypaint combine to leave him gaping, even if not gasping. "I - will go and unlock the way, then." Perhaps Greydon did not back away, but the German is, mired in his own thoughts already.
     Johann would have been displeased at my handling of this. But he would not - he is not here. He is dead. And before him - my life before was wiped away when he took me. Follow my path, he said, or choose the grave. I chose his path, until he took me from it.
     He turns, moving past the gate; it will lock again once closed. Into the building, unlocked first by keys and then number pad, up to the third floor of the building. The stairs are polished, well-maintained, with a bannister - wide enough for two to pass each other, if they turn sideways, perhaps. It is even reasonably but discreetly lit. Upstairs, there is only one door to the floor. It is a house which has been converted.
     Villon has bid me linger in the heart of the carnival. But it is no place for me; I cannot be audience, they do not care for audience, save those who take pleasure in ... being watched. And though they think me otherwise because I am a German, I find no taste for participating as an actor in their commedia, their tragedian's screenplay...
     "Bitte," Hansl murmurs, swinging the door open so that the visiting Englishman may precede him. "I apologize for that which is out of place." His turmoil of thought is shown only in the energy of his movements, the precision of them; he is graceful when he is in motion. It is only when he stands still that there is the faint appearance of gawkiness, combined with soldierly stoicism. As for out of place? There is little to /be/ out of place; a living room of sorts - sofa long enough for him to stretch out on, covered in a soft suede-like material, bottle-green with a gold wooden frame, the wooden floor covered with a large oriental rug in pale soft pink and gold and green. There is no television, but there is, perhaps surprisingly, a laptop set up where a television might go, with a screensaver currently running. There is a bar, with sealed bottles arranged along its top artistically. The tiny kitchen has been ignored, save perhaps for the icemaker.
     There are two rooms which adjoin, the doors open. The bedroom is kept militarily correct - no clothing hanging in the open at all, the bed has been made. He has been lax with himself, and there are no hospital corners - but it has been made. And the studio? It is disorderly only in descant, sketches pinned up to the walls and in loose piles on surfaces where he may refer to them easily. There is a drawing board, there is a small table, there is an adjustable chair, and there is a camera and tripod - Nikon. There is also an easel, though nothing on the easel at present, and several boxes of supplies arranged meticulously. And Hansl? Hansl follows, closing the door and clicking its locks with absentminded recollection.
     "May I offer you refreshment? A drink, perhaps. I have a modest collection I keep handy."

     The englishman strides into the room and moves over towards a table, settling his briefcase down upon it before his hands slip down into his pockets and he allows his green eyes to take in the surroundings. "Ah, the first surprise of this evening. You do not surround yourself with glamours; You are here for a purpose, and you fulfill your purpose while you are here. Admirably, I assume. But that is such a focused life; and coming to this place and looking around, I wonder if you allow deviation from the path that unfolds before you. Do you have another place, perhaps, where you may close your eyes and let peace settle over you? A place where you relax and are a deeper self, without that path? A haven, a retreat where there are no demands upon you?"
     The mercurial Lord Grey idly wanders over towards the young Toreador, tilting his head to the side as he regards him and awaits the response, "Cognac, if you have it. I enjoy the taste upon my tongue, though you need only pour a little as I do not drink unless it is necessary for show."

     Another blink. The question is not what he expected. But then, he has no idea what he was in fact expecting; and so, it goes unremarked upon, even behind the ivory brow. "I have quarters below Versailles," Hansl admits guardedly. The phone is taken out of his pocket; glanced at, turned off, set aside. The call he was anticipating is done with, he has no further need of distractions from pursuit of art this night. "I cannot describe them as a haven in the sense you mean it, Lord Trevelyan."
     The whirling controlled chaos of the Paris court, with Villon the eternal puppetmaster - no; peaceful is not an apt description. It is Diversion made real; where nothing ever stays the same and yet always it is the same, upon display. He has no use for it, a fact which has more than once nearly caused him trouble. He has learned to guard not only his tongue, but his expressions, there...
     "I have cognac, ja," Hansl agrees quietly, and he moves to the sideboard, the cabinet opened. There are many bottles. Some where there when he arrived; more turn up periodically, delivered by hopefuls. He has gained enough grace to send notes of acknowledgment and thanks, wariness of debt and of other attempts leaving it at that. But this is France; Cognac originates in France. All along the banks of the Charente down to the Atlantic coast. And this bottle - Courvoisier, from the Collection Erte, filled with an exceptionally rare blend of the best Grande Champagne cognacs -- some dating back to 1892 -- the year of Erte's birth. The bottle is treated reverentially; with more reverence than was the giver. A delicate amount is poured, gently, into two fat-bellied cognac glasses.
     "I do not know of what you speak," Hansl paraphrases, replacing the bottle as he allows the liqueur to breathe. "I spend my time with my work, ja? If I am accomplishing what I ought, then I am fulfilling myself. Is that not deep enough?" He is so very German, hein? He quirks a faint, puzzled smile as he lifts the glasses, bringing one forward to be accepted. "At the moment, I confess, I have only a few projects of mein own. Most, I work to restore, or upon commission. I have recently put together a portfolio - sent, by coincidence, to your homeland, mein herr."

     Greydon takes the offered glass, lifting it up and taking in the fragrance for a lingering moment, while his green eyes remain intently upon the German Toreador. He tilts his head to the side, his lips quirking into an amused little grin, "Exquisite." he compliments, although there is some chance that perhaps it is not the cognac he is speaking of. Then again, he does lift it up and allow a bit of it to roll onto his tongue, savoring this for a time before he swallows.
     "Even a bibliophile needs time away from his library, at times.. Work, this is profound; this is a purpose that gives you reason to take the next step. But what of other things, the flesh that grows about the skeleton of your life that your work sets in place? Those things that give you reason to enjoy that next step. I do not mean insult.." he waves a hand around the apartment, "I only remark that it is so very-- utilitarian. Not all relax at home; some prefer to find a stream and settle against a tree, and feel the wind upon their skin, and its song whispered through the leaves above... Others, particularly in my the younger ones of my family, why-- they find their relaxation and peace in the exhilaration of battle."

     The Toreador goes momentarily very still as he listens, graceful fingers curved against the smooth belly of the glass. "When I was a soldier," Hansl says simply, "I was a very poor soldier."
     He has no illusions. He tried; he walked on that path, and upon that path he was broken. Both in life and in unlife, it was a measure to which he could not aspire. Though this recognition is a new thing, born from recent trials, he has had to accept it, and it is no longer broken shards of glass shoved into a gut wound. It simply ... is. Truth. Harsh. But there.
     He settles back against the countertop, leaning slowly as he lifts his glass, nostrils flaring as he inhales the scent. It brings the faintest flush to his cheeks, eyelids drooping in appreciation, followed by the rolling taste of the liqueur. Sharp, then smooth, flowing into his mouth, seeping between his teeth. It relaxes him visibly and most immediately, and he has to run his tongue over his teeth to keep his fangs from lengthening in pleasured reaction.
     "I take no insult, mein herr," Hansl agrees, voice quiet, almost meditative. The drink does not yet make him voluble. Perhaps it is only exquisite brandy which provokes him thus. "But nein - it is perhaps contrary to my nature. I know of what you speak, in theory alone. Before I came to this existence, I lived in the country. Well. Not this country, ja?" He laughs a little, self-conscious; one hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. "But time to relax - such as you say, Lord Trevelyan - it comes after work is finished. If work is not finished, then that rest has not been earned. If I do not work, then I hear myself whisper to myself - what of this, Hansl? You have not yet achieved, Hansl. When will you finish, Hansl, if not today? And I return to my work." He lifts one shoulder and lets it fall, rueful. "A battle, perhaps? But only against myself."

     The visitor to this monastic abode seems to take as much pleasure from the aroma that drifts from the alcohol as the sip, but he does incline his head and murmur, "I do admit, I look forward to seeing what it is that you are driven to; in my experience, a man can be judged rather well by his taste in drink, even if we have moved beyond the need.. Taste, I have found, is persistent across one's life. Or it is a fluke, at times. I hope we do not find you to be in the latter group."
     Greydon is silent a moment, eyes watchful and intent upon the other, and a faint grin rising up, "Although discipline I respect very well; I was born to command, and taught to know discipline and honor. But it is unfortunate if you let passion fall to the side... Does your passion come out through your discipline? When you paint, do you ravish the canvas, or do you bleed your soul out onto it?"
     He pushes forward, wandering over towards the other one, "The most important battles are always with ourselves; but they are also often the least satisfying. Too often one battle simple leads to another just out of your reach, and it is a war that never ends."

     i can sense it
     something important
     is about to happen
     it's coming up
     A portent upon the tip of his tongue, ice eyes with that hint of confusion as words are translated from one language to another to another and then back. "I do not judge my own work. that ... is forbidden to me. I am a harsh critic." Hansl answers the first questions first, literally, placing truth on his tongue as his shield. He has no other, save his glass - and his glass is emptied, set aside hurriedly as he straightens a little as he is approached. "If you like, I will show you my works. You may judge where I cannot."
     An offer made to only a very few, did he but know it...
     Hansl tilts his head to the side, one hand resting against the polished wood, fingers curling underneath its edge. "When I lived, the world was torn by war. My sire told me once that the hour of our unmaking and rebirth shapes us - that we carry the imprint of that before us wherever after we go. I do not know if this is true. I am still young. I will be candid with you, sir; I do not know. Will you," and it is a bold leap, with candid eyes, this inquiry, "enlighten me? You are more educated and experienced than I."

     The warrior-scholar lifts his glass, taking another sip of the bitterly sweet drink before setting it aside and reaching out to touch to Hansl's chin, pulling his attention away from where he hides against the wood so that the ice blue eyes can meet his own green. "Your sire was a wise man; but I think perhaps there is deeper weight upon these words then even he should intend, though I can not pretend to speak with him."
     He purses his lips for a moment, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side, "In that moment when we die, when all that we were before dies with us, and something new blossoms inside; we are changed. The hour of that change and the path that has led to it sets the stage for what will be the new act in our grand play. This is true."
     A brief moment of silence, and Lord Grey lets his hand fall away once again, "But at the same time; once you step away from your sire and come to understand that he is not the whole of your world, then you become the conductor of your symphony. It may take time for you to learn this new thing, to see the ultimate freedom of an endless night, and to learn just how you want to let the music of your life flow around you... But it is yours, now. Even if it takes hundreds of years to finally achieve; the stage can be changed, and there are those who become something completely unlike what they were, in this new performance. It is up to you."
     Greydon then takes a step back, and gestures for the other to slip past him, though he does not give a great deal of room for it to be done, "Let us see what depth you possess."

     The touch startles him, but does not panic him; he blinks as his face is turned, a hint of surprise that stills his tongue. Hansl listens, silent, considering the words for what they mean without distraction by their form, by the touch upon his skin, weighing them.
     "I have been told that my duty is all," Hansl answers, not stolidly but with that measured consideration. "Pardon; had been. That remains, of course, an element in our existence, such as it may be. Loyalty to Camarilla. Loyalty to clan. Loyalty to whichever prince or service we find ourselves, ja? It has ... taken time, to unwind myself from the unswerving depth to which I had committed myself, under my sire. To this day..."
     He can't quite bring himself to say it; that perhaps Johann Arnaul was not perfect. Perhaps not right. To verbalize it - he has barely begun to be able to think it. "I think that, perhaps, the path that my sire trod was ... not one which I could follow," Hansl allows quietly. "My imperfection, perhaps. My failing. But not everyone may be a soldier, a knight, ja? I have tried, and in the end, could not live up to what he expected - my one regret, not that I failed, but that I failed him."
     A quirk of sensitive lips, and he ducks his head. "I speak too much," he apologizes. "But ja - let us go and reveal my shallowness, hein?" A sense of humour, albeit at his own expense. "You will be dismayed, I am sure." The German straightens with a hint of awkwardness, a thoughtful frown in his eyes as he slides slowly past Grey, a flickering glance to the other man as he turns to his studio. "Bitte. Make yourself comfortable; I will arrange." And he begins pulling artwork out, laying them out with care.

     Turning to follow the young man, Greydon slips his hands down into his pockets, walking with a certain casual stride to him, "Loyalty is paramount, that much is true." he murmurs, wandering in and glancing around before he decides to settle upon the chaise, reclining in with a sort of masculine grace. This is someone who is used to being comfortable, without seeming all foppish in his giving into the comfort. "I am a man who believes not as much in loyalty as in honor; they are similar things, but the latter is a deeper ideal that spreads through one's entire existence. This path was not the one my sire set me on; and I am no failure for choosing it."
     There is a silent moment, and Greydon allows his hand to slide through his short, light brown hair before he chuckles softly, "In truth, it was another who showed me that I could choose my own path, that this life was my own to find my own place in. To this day, honor holds me in his debt, but it is not the cold demands of steel that weigh me down, but the content warmth of association that bind us together." There is then a nod, and a gesture, and adds idly, an amused smirk finally touching his lips, "I will steel myself in readiness for the dismay."

     The sketches are everywhere. The ones he deems worthy of closer inspection are on the walls, taped carefully into place. Some are colour; some are not. Many of the sketches are black ink, rough sketches, capturing movements. In a handful of lines, a girl picks flowers, hair waving in a breeze. Over there, a boy of sixteen sits on a bench, reading a book underneath a tree's spreading branches. A pastel shows a river undulating under a bridge, a man of thirty leaning on the railing contemplatively - rough sketches, unfinished works of meditation and repose. Thought.
     There are others - finished, unfinished, cast aside. Nothing has been thrown away, or if it has, it has been disposed of entirely. The table is littered with it, the drawing board holding half-finished sketches of a drunken bacchanalia - one in modern garb, while the poses have been kept, transferred for one in the garb of the ancient Romans.
     The half-finished sketches are ignored, though, as he instead moves to the back of the room. He opens a cabinet, taking canvases out with great care from their racks. The German begins placing them against the lower walls quietly, speaking as he does. "I have come face to face with a crisis of faith. What I placed my belief in has passed; his time on this earth come to a sudden end. What I am now, I do not know - I am blinded by this. I have found nothing which moves me as I was, though I have sought, and," he shrugs, embarrassed, "I come face to face again and again with my weakness."
     There is a painting; a memory of sunset, seen perhaps from a safe distance through a window, or from memory alone. A sunset backed by white-tipped mountains, heavy blue shadows crawling towards the town which nestles in the foothills. In the foreground, children play amidst bracken and lost grasses. To the close examination, the shards they play with are wreckage of an old battleground; the shrapnel and spent casings of a war some decades past. Their eyes are absorbed in their play. The soil holds a reddish hue.
     The painting to its left is something almost borrowed from the Romantics - a reinterpretation, perhaps, of one of those works. A river runs through a dark green wood, moss and lichen growing on rocks. Nothing has been disturbed; noone has passed by. But a beautiful youth clings to a rock in the middle of the rushing river, his cheek to the stone as if he sleeps. One hand is flung out to hold the edge of the rock in a loose grip; the water swirls almost at his feet, ink-black and perilous.
     The third painting is a portrait of a woman - one of the celebrated Toreadors of Villon's court. In her day, a famous beauty; her beauty has not faded now, but there is the suggestion of hauteur, and beneath it, a desperate insecurity. The lines at the corners of her mouth are slightly pinched, her hands closing a bit too tightly around her Pomeranian, whose eyes bulge. It does not cross into caricature. Words scroll behind her, woven into the shadows and the folds of crimson drapes : 'even those whose beauty time does not erode are not untouched by fickle time's grasp'. Next to it, a less ... controversial version of the same painting exists, the pinched lines smoothed, the shadows saying nothing which shadows would not.
     "I must apologize," Hansl murmurs as he sets the last painting in place. "I do not have very many completed works, at present. I have found myself a bit stuck - a bit frustrated. Though I still have intentions." The final painting is of Venice - a deserted piazza, filled with snow, three figures quietly assembling a snow tableaux of 'statues', their hair and clothes brushed, dusted by the snow. The close eye will recognise Hansl himself, as well as William and Ian - a scene drawn, apparently, at least somewhat from life. Or from a very active imagination.
     "Your sire, perhaps? Or another debt?" Hansl inquires delicately as he straightens and turns, then looks embarrassed. "Ah; forgive me. It is rude of me, ja, to ask such personal questions."

     Greydon rises up, and makes his way slowly over to the various pieces of art, his hands slipping back into his pockets. He is very silent as they are revealed, his green eyes intent as they take in each one for a lingering moment. Though he is by blood a brute, he is by education a cultured man, and so he allows each piece to speak to him and sing when it will.
     To the first, the sun rising and the children playing, he murmurs, "The Imperishable Dawn." with a note of wistful longing to his voice.
     To the second, Greydon arches a brow slightly and offers a small smile, "In peace and despair, inevitably alone." he murmurs, and then turns to the third.
     At this, he has to give a prompt chuckle, soft and amused, "Vanity in vain." he says simply, and finally he looks to the last, giving a wry little grin and saying, "I expect this one is the only of the pair you would show to her, hmm?" Oddly, the last one receives no strange little statement. And that, he explains, "Authors often title their works; but often they do not. And either way, when I allow my eyes to take in what is written there, I look within and see what my soul says to me... For true art is a mingling of thought from one to the other; It does not matter what you say. It matters, I believe, what I hear, what sings within me, what you inspire to exist where there was before nothing. And therefore, it seems only fitting to title that emotion, that inner song."
     Finally he looks at the last work, that of Venice, and he looks a little bit surprise, amusement flashing into his features, "The white play of friends." And then he finally turns and focuses his attention upon Hansl, and says, "Hmm? You have shown a bit of your soul; a personal question would not offend. I have discharged any debt I would owe the one who made me; he is gone now, even from my thoughts. No, my mentor was another."

     He is silent while the works are appraised, considered, and he has again come to a parade rest. At attention, feet together, hands behind his back; stomach in, chest out, chin up. He listens to the comments, but says nothing, only the occasional faint flicker of eyelashes, the faint hint of colour to suggest that he hears, that he comprehends what he hears. He faces judgment with a soldier's stance, no matter his underlying Self, still.
     "I would not show, nein," Hansl agrees quietly. "I found her frustrating; but then, I find all women frustrating. I do not understand them; I do not understand the workings of their brains. They seem, to me, entirely different from men. Impenetrably so." He breaks his stance, moving slowly towards the chaise, towards the artist's chair; it is the chair, though, that he sinks upon, arms against his thighs as he leans forward. "But in her desperation, I did find that I pitied her. I could hurt her, with that," he gestures to the not-quite-caricature, "by showing her weaknesses to her enemies. I ... am very bad at politics, perhaps. I found I did not wish it on her. Though she would undoubtedly destroy me, if she thought me in her way - perhaps if it becomes necessary. Until then, I need not reveal it to the eyes of the court."
     Mercy, but tempered by survival instinct. He is not soft...
     "My work is very callow." Hansl says it dispassionately. "I am still learning; I lack depth, at present. I am not treading new ground. I think that my portfolio is a little better, but not, perhaps, very; or I may," he spreads his hands, "be fooling myself. It held more of a modernist's touch. I do not know." And the topic changes, and with it, his glance goes to the other man. "I do not know that I have a soul to show, mein herr. Is it folly to think that I might, with our being ostensibly so damned?"

     Our Lord Grey does not go back over to sit, instead he stands before the paintings and allows his eyes to drift between them as the other speaks, but the reply comes easily enough, "I think that you have a soul, Hansl. Your very words provet; mercy, temperance, prudence. Are these not virtues of a soul? And your work shows glimmer of it, though yes-- it is but a hint of what potential I think you possess."
     He lets one hand slip out of his pocket, to go up and run through his hair, and a chuckle then comes, "As to the matter of our damnation; this is a discussion I had often when I was young. Consider this: There are those who are made by choice, told of the gift and accepting it; and those who are made by force, the curse laid upon an unwilling heart. It is both blessing and curse, what we are; and it seems highly lacking in divine grace to damn one for what can be forced upon them."
     Greydon then turns, and walks slowly over towards the Hansl where he sits, "Consider, instead, that we are simply different, that we have our own set of rules that we are judged by. This is not without precedent. The Jews, the Chosen People? They have hundreds of laws they must follow.. And yet, the gentiles I was once told by a jewish friend of mine that they had but to obey the ten commandments and all was well. Then, there is the Christians; the Law of Love alone brings salvation. Does it not seem that God judges each in its own way, by the nature of the being? He sees your soul; and I assure you, you have one."

     He looks deeply troubled by this, as if the words spoken have left him shaken on some profound and disturbing level. "That is not what I have been taught." The pale golden eyebrows draw together in perplexity rather than denial. Arnaul...
     When a Templar calls, what is to be done but answer that bidding? At the end of strong hands, the sword-point showing in wolfhound's eyes of ice. Follow me, he said, or die. And I went - frightened and afraid, but I went. To my death, but also to continue to live, though not unaltered...
     "I choose now what I have ever chosen, Lord Trevelyan," Hansl says the words quietly, straightening as he is approached, watching the other man with a glint of fascination. "I choose to continue to exist. It - would be wrong," he decides suddenly, a hint of passion in his voice, "to throw away what I have; it was dearly bought. Whether or not I have a soul? I ... do not know where I will be, in a week. Two weeks. Two years. Two hundred years - but there is potential, ja?"
     Colour rises slowly to his face; it is unbidden, not artifice. His only artifice is that which exists on paper, in pigment, through the camera's lens. It is his window and it is his vulnerability, this seeming inability to dissemble. "I am not a man of education," Hansl whispers, voice humble. "I must turn to others to know of such ideas, such grand designs. The most difficult task I ever face is in putting my brush down - because then I must proclaim a work finished, and ready to stand judgment. I ..."
     "I am not yet finished." He stands up slowly, one arm going over his chest, the other hand propped under his chin. "And so, I am not yet ready to stand judgment - damned or redeemed. If I am to be redeemed, it is through others' eyes that I must find my salvation, mein herr. Through my art. Through such as you."

     Greydon allows his steps to carry him over towards the young man, one of his hands coming up to allow knuckles to touch lightly to the flushed skin of his face, a faint smile rising onto his lips. "You choose well, Hansl. To live, to feel the passions of life, and the callings of our endless night, that is required for us to find our purpose. Some consider it so much easier to rage into the night and seek their own destruction; but that is not a salvation. There is one thing I know: Salvation is never captured by those who do not fight for it."
     He chuckles softly, giving a slow shake of his head, "There is much potential. Then again, perhaps I am but a foolish idealist who sees potential in everything around me, but in you I see a special spark that you may cling to, and let grow. Who can know where we will find ourselves? We can only make plans, and strive for what we want, to take it when we can or wait for it when we can not. Even the eldest of us can not know where life will be even a year from now.. But, you? I know at least one place you will be. You will find yourself to London, for such invitations are not common and I am certain you will not slight me by not accepting?" An amused grin is offered, "You may call me Greydon, here or there. Or would you prefer to have that as a wall to protect you from me? Titles, formalities, they are such convenient boundaries; such insurmountable obstacles."

     Words, words, words. Why do they strike so to the heart of him? He is German, not Danish. But the comparison to Hamlet has been made before, and stuck. The fair, golden head; the troubled look, the sensitive features, the tendency, above all, to brood. Even he is not unaware of it. And now?
     This is not in the script...
     "I ... thank you," the English is chosen with such care, his skin feeling warmer in comparison to the hand touching his face, thanks to the blush, to the hint of human spark still caught in his unliving flesh. "It is very kind of you. You have complimented me highly." Hansl pauses, struggling for coherence, cohesion. It is not that his English is so very poor. It is that he does not know, in truth, how to answer this offer, and the lurking hesitation, the caution against giving offense, against a misspeech... "In truth, I can deny you nothing, after such pretty words. If you prefer to be addressed so, I will try to remember."
     He will slip; he knows this. Perhaps the English lord knows it, or senses it, as well. Formality is the wall, indeed, which he retreats behind, when he is confused or endangered - that Germanic inclination. The walls have swayed, once or twice, though not yet fully dropped.
     Hansl parts his lips, licks them, then speaks as steadily as he may, eyes closing. "I will inquire in the proper channels about making the journey. I exist upon the sufferance of my elders, after all." Something said; something yet unsaid. He is so stiff; not able to withdraw, not able to seclude himself now even behind the security of titles. All he may do is close his eyes and try to forge his way through. "I am interested in seeing your collection."

     "So is the nature of the young; the world is a dangerous place, where whim can lead to destruction, and yet... You are looked upon by your elders, watched by them. This is known to me." murmurs Greydon softly, and now with the young man's eyes closed he can not see that he is stepping in, although soon the presence, the nearness may make it all the more obvious. The voice now comes from a space very, very near; so much that the breath can be felt against the Toreador's face.
     "I do not expect you will find it difficult to obtain the permission needed. You will be my guest, and I am not without my sway, but even that I do not expect to be necessary. I doubt that you are anything but capable of achieving an end you wish; or you would not have received the compliment nor the offer. Why are you so very tense, hmm? Why do you mimic a statue of Michelangelo, beautiful and yet so very hard and still, I wonder?"

     How can any Toreador fail to respond to such? Words indeed, and that aura - of power, of command. Hansl is perhaps more susceptible than most, in certain ways, under the right conditions. The only defense he has is that he is within his own domain, his own domicile; and that is pitiful and poor protection indeed.
     He does not tremble; does not stir, growing even quieter and all the more still beneath that touch, under Greydon's breath. He becomes as marble as he stands accused of, unmoving for a long span of seconds. His voice is soft, a reed played by the lightest of breezes, yet clear to one so close, one so perceptive. "Forgive me if I speak too plainly..."
     It begins with those words, ribboning upwards in a low roll of syllables. One hand finds the opposite hand's wrist, clasping with something leftover of the schoolboy, the farmer's son. Has the soldier ever been so absent? Perhaps once. "Again, you compliment me highly. I ... hope to make myself worthy of this golden image of me which you seem to hold. I do not know what to say; twice, our paths crossed, seemingly once by accident. And you spoke - said things which - affected me deeply, my lord."
     The words are deliberately chosen, with some emphasis upon these last three; and he is continuing, eyes still closed - voluntarily blind. "You say things which tease at my brain. I feel that I should understand them better, but in no matter which language, I find myself failing, caught in my own frustration and futility. You are accorded an elder, and an elder's status. From my own clan, I have come to accept passing, sliding interest. But your interest both flatters and alarms me. How should I know how to respond to you? I do not know what response is appropriate. I know only that I must respond - and I wish to accord you both respect of your status and the respect I feel. I fear a misstep."
     He opens his eyes, and they are still blue; but the ice has somewhat thawed, his jaw working with the struggle to speak, to answer as completely as he might. Carefully, cautiously Hansl lifts his hand to very lightly touch Greydon's, the intent to drop his hand again at once. "I will come to England, either way, as early as I am permitted... if my lack of English and Englishness has not led you to rescind your invitation."

     "Do you suspect that I come here to Paris to find my countrymen, and finding a German among them I would somehow be offended that he is too not English?" inquires Greydon, his voice teasingly soft, laughter in the words although there is no laughter there, "I am at the cusp; that place where some consider me elder, and others ancillae... To both of these, though, you are a mere neonate. This is true. And yet, for all the esteem I hold for many of the Ventrue, and for all the nobility of my blood even before my embrace, I am Brujah, and it is within me the capacity to take life much easier then some. We are creatures of deep, consuming passion. In this, we often have something in common with you. And though I require -respect-, I need not servitude nor constant declarations of station and status. At Court, that is different; Here? I come to you, your home."
     There is then a separation, as the older one pulls away, but that hand which lightly touched his is grasped.. His skin is cool, but not so cold as many who are dead, but it is like soft steel in its strength as it wraps around the other's wrist and pulls him. Bones can be so easily crushed under the grip of that strength, but this is not his intent. He turns away, and tugs Hansl insistently along with him, out of the little studio.
     "Respond as you feel, from the heart, not from the mind. But come, I would show you something."

     At Court, render unto the Court that which is the Court's. Villon's puppets all smile and nod so emptily, so prettily. His feet are awkward in their dance, there. Hansl nods slowly, acknowledging this. Acknowledging a truth, or more than one, where it is spoken. "You came..." For reasons as yet not truly puzzled out.
     And his hand is seized, and the tug is something which he reacts to as sharply as if it had been a command. With alacrity, the German moves to follow, to keep up. With such strength on his wrist, how would he dare do otherwise? Even if that strength is masked for now by velvet. He is again bewildered, puzzled - lost. Farmboy, not soldier - art student, youth, Toreador. "...Show me?" Vas is das? It comes out so plaintively.
     His confusion is almost, but not quite complete...

     The steady steps of Lord Trevelyan take the pair to the counter where his briefcase was set, and the young Toreador is deposited against it, with Greydon to the side and just behind him. One hand rests upon Hansl's waist, his arm behind him almost seeming like a bar, binding him here in the place where he was put. Greydon's other hand reaches out and unsnaps the briefcase, opening it to reveal... Nothing of very much interest, in truth. There are some latex gloves to the side, a pair of which are reached out and offered to the boy, with his soft and yet insistent voice commanding, "Put them on."
     And then, once this is done, the dark silk which is wrapped laying within the center of the case is pulled aside carefully, gently, and an ancient book is resting there. Old does not even begin to describe it; nearly a thousand years this volume has endured, and although it is withered in some ways, there is a certain profound sense of timelessness that must be felt in its presence. Softly, reverently, Greydon murmurs, "Gently, open it; the manuscript I spoke of."
     When the book is first opened, an exquisite flash of color will be seen dancing upon its vellum pages... The gleam of gold and silver leaf, the carefully inscribed rainbow in the images. Biblical images, recognizable images, but made with careful, meticulous care.

     If his confusion had not been so evident before, now it most certainly is; Hansl's lips are parted, eyebrows drawn upwards and together. It is as well that he does not need to breathe. Slowly, he takes the gloves; slowly, he obeys the command, mouth closing with suddenness as he realizes his embarrassing (and embarrassed) state.
     i don't know my future after this weekend...
     and i don't want to
     His features smooth out, relax. Ah, here is familiar ground again. A world which he knows and has been a part of. Hansl dips his head in a small nod, and with the tenderness borne of experience, the artist parts the pages of the book. "Miniare," he breathes, gloved fingertip hovering above the illustrations. For a moment, his focus narrows; becomes the book and only a little anything more. But even priceless works of art, it seems, cannot entirely distract him from his new binding, the colour remaining to taint the pale northern skin. The blue of his eyes remains, flickering from book to man and back.
     "I have done this before," Hansl murmurs, head tipped down as he looks again to the book, the illustrations. "With the finest of tools, laid gold flecks in place. Reconstruction only, of a piece of mein vater's. It - was educational." With gentle hands, he holds the manuscript's pages steady; then, just as gently, with infinite tenderness, he eases the book closed once more. "Danke," he murmurs. "You did not - you were not required to share this, with me." He blinks, face still tipped downwards, eyes hidden.

     One of Greydon's hands reaches out to spread the silken wrapping once more over the book, before reaching up and closing the briefcase securely. While one hand remains at Hansl's waist, keeping him where he is, the other reaches out to wrap around the boy's wrist, fingers coming up beneath the latex and sliding forward, pushing it up over his hand... The finger grazes upon the young Toreador's palm, a nail teasing the soft skin. This is, though simple, not a touch which can be mistaken as innocent.
     "Have you? Then you understand the great effort and care that each page takes, and the dedication.. I wonder sometimes if the monks which illuminated this manuscript did it out of simple devotion to their oaths, or if they truly felt for their work... Is this art? Art needs passion. There are some people who draw, paint and such, and they do it only.. because they must. They do not pour themselves into it. Is that art, do you think, Hansl? I am a collector.. a man who appreciates but does not create, so perhaps an artist's opinion can tell?" He is so near, and his voice so quiet, adding almost as an afterthought, "I do some things because I am required to; and other things because I choose to. Coming here was my choice; bringing this was my choice."

     No...
     There is nothing innocent about this...
     He wasn't fool enough to think that this was innocent. An elder does not make an appearance in a public feeding ground to randomly give his private number... does not make himself available to dance attendant on a neonate's art... does not bring his priceless works...
     Not without there being some purpose behind it...
     Hansl bites his lower lip at the touch, his other hand coming up to rub carefully at his eyes, trying to keep the instinctive presence of fangs at bay. He looks up at the English lord, then back down at where his hand, his waist are caught. And he makes no effort to free himself. He is not a butterfly caught in a spider's web; he does not pretend that he is.
     "I copied ten pages of a manuscript in my sire's collection, using the methods by which they had originally been created," Hansl breathes out. "...It took me three years. He waited until they were complete - and then he took the work I'd done, and threw them onto the fire." There is no anger, no grief, no self-pity in his voice. A stoic note, but also a simple admission - simple words, small words, but complex in meaning. He lifts his gaze back to Greydon's green eyes, staring for a long moment, then blinking. "A reminder that I am not perfect. A lesson. I can tell you what he told me, or I can tell you what I thought then... what I think now."
     He looks down again at his hand where it's held, letting golden hair flutter against his eyebrows. "He said that it was important to remember for whom the work is created. Render the glory unto God which is God's; let no hubris of the artist interfere with the art. He believed himself damned ... but chose to serve that Creator nonetheless, damned or not. He was ... a product of an age I have never understood." And he looks up again, examining the other man's face with an acute consciousness that bespeaks of acknowledged vulnerability.
     "I believe that if the art is good... if the art is true... then there can be no separation between the art and the artist. The works which I have done that I believe in the most, that I may say are mine, they touch me, and I touch them. I feel them, even after I have put away my brushes, shaken the last muddied water from the bristles." The sensitive mouth quirks, and Hansl sighs, a low sound, precursor to a moan. Again, the Toreador bites his lip, but he doesn't turn away his gaze this time as he looks up. "...What else do you choose to do?"

     "Your sire was a great man; wise and profound, and his loss diminished us all.. But the wisdom of one need not necessarily be right for all. There are many paths, many truths, and I have found in my life that there are very few absolutes." murmurs Greydon in a deep, low voice, the first glove having been cast aside before once more he takes hold of the young man's hand. This time, he pulls away, but only to urge him so he may lean back against the table and his hands find to the other glove and peel it off as well.
     The latex having been shed, Greydon steps in closer to the Toreador once again, looming over him with a calm, casual demeanor to him; but it is not cool, and instead there is a certain warmth in his eyes and small smile. "I think that you are correct, on your estimation. A piece of you is poured into the art, and it is forever linked, forever a part of you. But there is another piece to this puzzle; to the one who gazes upon it, who receives your gift of art, a piece of them is forever trapped within as well. There is something profoundly spiritual, something innately sexual, over the act of the artist opening themselves up in this way to be plundered by the ones that they reveal their hidden depths to."
     Greydon lifts a hand up, tracing it lightly over Hansl's brow, brushing his golden locks aside as he asks, "I would choose to do many things. What if I said you were one of them?"

     He is not thinking of his sire right now.
     Arnaul is all but forgotten; though he had Hansl for decades, what are decades to creatures who may well number their years in centuries or even longer? Hansl's gaze is caught, not wavering from the Brujah's. He does not act, but there is no doubt that there is reaction in his gaze. Heat is there, trapped in the ice; glaciers melting where they have traveled, cracking as under extremes of pressure. There are so many possible responses; some coy, some aggressive. Argumentative, passive, angry, accepting - but for him, there is only one answer possible.
     we just met
     and i know i'm a bit too intimate
     but something is coming up
     and we're both included
     "I would wonder at your choice," Hansl answers truthfully, closing one hand; not into a fist, but to rub his fingers over his palm, where it's been touched, as if to shift his reaction to the touch into one more socially acceptable - more contained. "I will not lie to you. You would," there's a quick breath of laughter, "see through a lie; I would not waste your time." With the inevitable, he abruptly seems to relax, gaze suddenly clearing. He waits a moment, as if to see what will be done, what reaction this gains, then says, very quietly, as if sharing a shameful secret, "We have met twice, Lord Trevelyan... Greydon. Both times, you have held my attention captive, whether I wished it or not to be so held. I ... find myself weak. Tempted. I do not wish to fight you. We have already agreed that I cannot predict the future, ja? So..."
     A light and sensitive touch is laid upon the Englishman's wrist where his hand holds back golden hair. Hansl holds his head up as if by Herculean effort, speaking rapidly, getting the words out before he can be interrupted - or before he loses his nerve. "...I believe it wiser to admit the truth than attempt to play at the game politic. You could have me if you chose to take me. And more than that, I do not know what to say, so I will be silent instead." But he does not drop his gaze, does not blink, looking on as if transfixed. At least it is a quiet transfiguration.

     A faint smile touches Greydon's lips, and only that in the pause where a response is sought, before the young man continues on. "I appreciate your candor." he murmurs, his hand sliding down from the artist's brow to slip about his neck, kneading there with his powerful touch. "There are so many games in the world, especially in ours; so many empty dances of intrigue, and these things are of so little true interest." The position of his hand shifts, so that his fingers wrap ever so lightly about Hansl's neck and the fingers then trace into the small hairs at the back.. The touch is ever so light, and yet how difficult would it be for that grip to tighten and snap the slight neck that is there?
     "You suspect that I am here to use you, do you not? That there is some hidden motivation, or that perhaps my interest in your art was all a ruse, and that this was instead some elaborate seduction?" A faint smile touches to his lips, amused, his fingers continue to knead ever so gently, "Or is it simply that in the Court of Love, a young german neonate is free of the attention sof others? We are both, you and I, away from what we are familiar with, here. Homes, sanctuary, safety. As to the question of my choice?"
     He lets his hand only then fall down, only to slide over his shoulder and squeeze there. "An interesting face, which revealed an interesting mind, which hinted at an interesting depth.. What is so surprising about this?"

     In a touch, he is all but undone. Hansl's eyes roll back and his jaw goes heavy at the kneading touch to the nape of his neck, lips parting soundlessly in exquisite pleasure. His head slips forward sharply as the touch lightens again, and if he were not braced, he would have stumbled. That touch, which keeps his eyes mostly closed, also renders him temporarily mute.
     "Nicht frei." Not free. Hansl shivers, shoulders sliding back even as he drops his face forward again. "There are ... expectations. Many. Which I have not," a faint shrug, indicative of both stoicism and underlying distaste, "indulged in. It ... I will not speak of it." He closes his mouth with an almost audible snap, then looks up through his eyelashes, lips again parting, as if he is fighting for balance - for control of himself. Perhaps in a sense he is.
     "I cannot see you clearly," Hansl whispers, closing his eyes as they roll back again, then reopening them with a fluttering blink. It is hard, maintaining focus on anything other than sensation right now. It is hard to want to focus. "I ... suspect, ja. There are many things hidden. I have learned not to believe too deeply in chance encounters... but I know that random things can happen. It is a very old world."
     The hand falls, and it is blessing and curse - a momentary glance upwards, the faintest suggestion of a pout. You stopped, that look accuses reproachfully. And he closes his eyes. "It is surprising how much I want you," Hansl answers plainly, lifting a hand to his forehead as he admits it. I have a headache. A Brujah-induced, Brujah-shaped headache. "Is it the nature of your clan, this turmoil you inspire, Lord Trevelyan? Or is this mein own reaction alone?"

     The falling of Lord Treveylan's hands is but a temporary thing, as soon they settle upon the German's waist and tighten there... it is with such incredible ease that suddenly the boy finds himself lifted, even as Greydon steps forward, their bodies touching briefly before the young Toreador finds himself settled on the table, legs parted and the Brujah there between them. There is a faint grin of amusement on his lips, and his green eyes are aflame, albeit a tempered, controlled flame.. for the present. "It is in our nature to be passionate. To the young, this so often is channeled into rage; but as we age, we learn to redirect this inner fire which so consumes us into other avenues. We learn to control ourselves, but even then, we are a burning clan... as utterly inappropriate the word 'burn' is when speaking of our kind."
     He leans in closer to the other one, his hands remaining on his waist even after the boy has been placed where his elder wants him, and Greydon then continues, "But if I inspire this turmoil in you, then that is perhaps in my nature, if not my clan... Or, as it is that the artist gives to the audience a piece of themselves, and the audience responds and does the same.. So is at times the dance between two individuals who wander across each other in some chance encounter."
     At that point, Greydon has to laugh softly, and shake his head, "I assure you, I did not fly from London to find and seduce someone I had never met, so you have no need to worry over dark intentions and manipulations."

     It does not entirely catch him by surprise, but neither is it an unwelcome turn of events. Hansl lifts his head as if drugged, taking a deep breath in order to speak, to be prepared to give speech, one hand lifting to Greydon's chest. He has been here before; not here, specifically. Of a matter of course, it has been him in the position of strength; him, doing the lifting, the placing, the seducing, baring a youthful throat so that his fangs might find the sweetest spot even as bodies grow ever closer.
     How strange, how disorienting, to have the positions reversed...
     "If..." Hansl swallows words down as thickly as caramel, then runs his tongue over his teeth, glance darting up to those intent green eyes. It is intimidating, being the subject of such scrutiny. He pauses, tongue still caught between his teeth, against his left canine. "...If I were to confide in you... would you think me weaker for it?" His hand curls against the silk covering Greydon's chest, and with legs still opened, he leans forward towards the other man. He rubs his fingertip slowly over the buttons of the other man's shirt, feeling the coolness, the hardness, sliding again to silk with a shiver, a shifting for the change from one texture to another. "I am in danger of running out of words," he adds in a hush. "Sie sind leistungsfahig und Zwingen..."

     The Brujah's hands squeeze to the other's waist, before slipping up and finding their way beneath his shirt, although they do not probe far.. Only that hint of contact, skin to skin, as he is urged on by Hansl's own exploration of texture. "I am not here seeking strength." he murmurs, leaning forward to allow his breath to be felt near to the younger one's lips, teasing, so near to a kiss and yet.. he pulls back a bit so that he may gaze into the Toreador's brilliant blue eyes and continue speaking, "But that does not mean I find you weak, either. If you were weak, I do not think you would be alive today; and weakness does not arouse me as you have. So."
     Higher does a hand drift, tracing up along Hansl's side to his rubs, the touch tauntingly light. "Confide what you will. On my honor, I will never repeat it to another. I do not speak German, though; so if you wish to confide, do so in english, french or italian.. Otherwise, the words will do little good, what few words you have left to give..."

     His self-proclaimed weakness has nothing to do with clan, now. This is a more personal weakness; a more personal need. "I have lacked inspiration... since I became reconciled to my sire's death." Hansl speaks as quietly, as plainly as he ever has, lips curving at the touch of hands against his skin. There is almost another pout as Greydon pulls back, as his touch remains so teasingly almost absent. "I was empty of meaning. For an artist - a difficult thing to be."
     He admits it. His near decline into no more than poseur; so far a fall for so young an artiste. Here and now, he admits it, though to no other. "I explored it, and I explored my surroundings." A fingertip prods at a button slowly, watching with unnatural absorption as it pops free of its placket. The fingertip travels upwards, intent clear; he has no intention of stopping at just one. "The works I showed you tonight... all but one? They are empty. Meaningless. There is only one of those which I would keep at all, and even that one... I have my doubts."
     He is confining himself to English, now; watching the elder, desire, longing undisguised in blue eyes. His eyes cannot be described as frigid, now. There is nothing of ice in them. Hansl leans so slowly forward, downwards, to rub his cheek against where the opened button hangs. "You ... have inspired me. In two hours, you have touched me more than in twenty months, since my uncommissioned portrait. I am an artist; nothing compels me more than inspiration. No audience may compare to you."
     He sighs, the sound lingering in the back of his throat as he straightens so slowly, letting his head fall back on his neck, face turned upwards, throat exposed. Hansl closes his eyes, opening his mouth for a moment of silence before he again speaks. "I cannot ignore inspiration. It is my weakness, and so, you become my weakness. What would you ask?"

     Though our Lord Grey is ever so near, he is oblivious to the pout, or perhaps he simply enjoys it and wants it to continue. Either way, a hand comes up to tug open the buttons of his shirt, and although there is skin revealed, his eyes do not trail from the Toreador's face... Although that neck, the neck draws him though it is forbidden to even truly consider, but the glorious taste, the beat of the rich, eternal blood... He leans forward, his lips pressing against Hansl's neck as his fingers go farther down, and he kisses softly against it, his tongue felt for a moment before once again he pulls away..
     This time, as he speaks, the glint of his fangs can be seen, "A compliment as no other, to be declared an artist's inspiration... but it is a compliment to you as well, for if you did not capture my attention and hold it as securely as you do, there would be nothing to inspire."
     Only then do his eyes drift down, drinking in the sight of the revealed skin as his hand reaches the bottom of the boy's shirt, and the other tightens at his waist firmly at the desire that the vision brings, "As to your work; if the boy upon the rock is one that you do not love, one that you would cast aside, then so be it.. then I would ask to take it from you instead. As to other questions? Is it not obvious what I want?"

     Dizzying, to be undressed with this deja vu, placed where one has placed so many others. Intoxicating, to have his throat caressed as he has caressed so many others in that prelude to sating of multiple appetites. The dim drumbeat of a ghostly pulse, mimicry of life though not true life; that faint, false warmth which is far dwarfed within. His breath hisses between his teeth, eyes narrowing to slits at the touch, at the glimpse of fangs, and for one moment, he shivers.
     Despite the shallow pucker of the scar on his face, the revealed skin beneath shows no similar scars. He is pale as snow save for that faint flush of youth, of health, of vigor which continues to cling to him as if in mockery. The stiff collar of his shirt juts up where it's opened, and Hansl sways forward against the hand that holds him in place. "It is the only piece that I understand," Hansl admits, straightening, his hands lifting to tug with a brief show of impatience at Greydon's shirt. "The only one that ... but it does not matter. If you wish it, then it is yours." His breath again is inhaled quickly, sharply, and he runs his tongue over his teeth again, in abortive effort to keep his own fangs from making their appearance. One fang scrapes against his lower lip, quite deliberately, and he stares at the English lord as a drop of blood slowly rises to fill the shallow scratch.
     "What you want, is yours for the taking, my Lord Grey. I pay respect to both wisdom and strength."

     The elder's hands go to Hansl's waist, sliding ever so lightly up his chest until they reach his shoulders, the shirt pushed off and then a much less light touch settling onto his shoulders. His grip is tight, firm as his hands knead into him, and he murmurs in a deep, almost dark sounding voice, "Of your works, it is the one that spoke most to me; it is the one that called to me, made demands of me... More then your succulent body and enticing soul, it is that work which commands this desire..."
     Greydon pulls the boy towards him, and he finally gives in to that teasing, his lips pressing against the other's, and though the heat is less then there may be in a mortal man, the passion is perhaps greater. A hungry kiss, one that consumes and demands. His arms wrap around the Toreador's waist, a grip like steel that is soft and yet unyielding, pressing their bodies close.
     All too soon it breaks, and against Hansl's lips the Lord Trevelyan whispers, "Tomorrow evening, I will step onto a plane, and I will fly once more home. Know this, and know that you have one last opportunity to turn me aside, one last chance to say that you will not submit to what I want of you. Consider carefully; there will be no turning back from the path you choose from this moment."

     It's been said that Clan Brujah leaves all it touches in a state of devastation at the slightest whim, that members of the clan are little more than servants of chaos and disorder. Hansl is learning some notion of what it means to be the undivided subject of that whim. The German shudders at that tight grasp, leaning in to the kiss as if his existence depended upon it. As perhaps it could; how close to the surface is the lurking monster, in moments of passion? Hansl does not know. It is an unknown danger; it is an added enticement that keeps his attention shrunk down to that singular focus of kiss, touch, taste, scent.
     The breaking of the kiss leaves him blinking, stunned, and again, he almost pouts; he is clearly so disused to being the object of the pursuit. Oft times he allows himself to be pursued, but only so that in the end he is the predator, both for sex and for food. Meaningless. One does not treat cattle as if they were people. But in those encounters, he is not the one upon the table, not the one of whom is made the demands, not given the low-voiced warnings and plainly spoken forbidden promises...
     Hansl shudders, bringing both hands up together to grasp again at Greydon's shirt. He licks his lips, sucking slowly at his lower lip, at the shallow cut already healing over now, tasting himself and the lingering taste of the kiss. "I deny my art nothing," he grinds the words out, staccato, sharp, Germanic accent making the syllables a demand that is not matched by the frangible light behind the blue eyes. His voice softens, and quietly, he surrenders his words, his meaning, letting his hands slide from the Brujah elder's shirt down to bounce against his own thigh. "Und so ... I deny you nothing. I cannot. Demand what you will of me; I will grant it, or break in the trying."
     He lifts his chin proudly, nostrils flaring. There is the fine etching of fear, paranoia, worry - consternation in his eyes, and his jaw tenses as he swallows. But he says nothing of these, letting his words stand on their own as Hansl waits for their inevitable result.

     Oh, there is such pleasure to be found in that expression; that worry and desire all mixed up in one.. The submission that can only be truly made when one understands the dark depths of what they are given themselves over to. Born to rule, taught to command from his earliest moments, Greydon lives to command as a Ventrue does, and yet there is within him the burning fire and passion of the Brujah, a Clan known for a lack of control, for giving into the deepest of impulses... And here, Greydon finds a Toreador accepting of this. What does he do?
     With such casual ease his arms tighten about the boy and lift him up, holding him to his body and pulling back, carrying him away, towards his bedroom. It is as if he were lifting a leaf, so slight is the burden when faced with his strength. And as he walks, his head tilts up to claim those lips for his own once again, his tongue lashing out and playing with the others, tracing over his teeth ever so carefully, for he is aware that in passion the vampire emerges and fangs may come. His own do, that is certain; and if there is to be a little blood between them, that is to be expected. So long as it is just drops, and not the depth of swallows, there is no danger.
     Soon, they are falling, falling not only in desire and passion, but falling down onto the Toreador's bed, with the powerful body of Greydon holding him there and pressing into him. The kiss is broken again, and the green of his eyes seek out the German's own blues as he speaks, "So beautiful."

     He has had to give over some of his spartan training, with this need to hunt, with the presence of occasional models in his studio. The bedroom is still meticulously ordered, the bed made automatically upon rising. But the sheets are soft, the blankets thick. The window is blacked out, of course, and the walls bare of artwork; nothing to distract him from other purposes. A mirror with ornate frame hangs on the wall, a closet standing slightly ajar with clothing ready to be worn. There is little else; this, and the bed. He had no notion that he would be occupying his bed in company tonight.
     Noone would have accused Hansl of the deepest of intellectual inclination before. Now, what intelligence he has is fleeing, chased by wolves not of the North but a singular English wolf. "Du ist," he mutters, breathes out against Grey's mouth. You are... Too many things, apparently, to be spoken, when there are kisses to be given, touches to be granted.
     Being pinned is uncomfortable and yet exciting, and he shudders again, as if suddenly very cold, teeth almost chattering as his gaze is caught and held. "Marred beauty only," Hansl whispers, hands lifting to touch hesitantly to Greydon's hair, his shoulder, following the line of his spine. Sensitive fingers, attempting to learn by feel the shape of the man beneath his clothes. Strip away the soldier, and the artist remains; strip away the artist, and find yet lurking the shy uncertainty of the farmboy. "You ... are a conqueror."

     There is a low sound, one deep within Greydon's throat; a sound which seems to share certain things in common with both a moan and a growl, although it is neither, but something unique to the predator as it has found its prey. He rises up, pulling at his shirt and shrugging out of it, as his eyes gaze down along the young man's body beneath him, even as his hips grind forward into Hansl's own. "Conqueror. Lord... Predator."
     And then he is leaning back down, urging the boy's head to the side so that the elder may lavish upon his neck, tongue tracing upon his skin, the sharp feel of his teeth tracing over the soft, soft flesh.. It would be so easy to bite into him and drink deeply, but he doesn't, he simply allows them to grind.. Hands slide down between them, tugging open the young man's pants insistently, urging them open, pushing them down.
     "What are you?" is asked in a husky voice into the Toreador's ear, before his teeth carefully nip at him.

     Hansl gives voice to a hoarse, guttural sound in the back of his throat at the feeling of Greydon's hips bearing down against his own. His fangs are by now fully extended; between arousal and habit, there is nothing which would prevent the glint of white enamel in dim lighting now. His thoughts are blurred; swimming in past and present dreams and wishes and fantasies and forebodings. Nothing which is said does anything to clear his head.
     "Ja," Hansl whispers, voice tight in his throat as he's touched, his head settling back on the pillow, arching so that there is that easy access to his throat. As with wolves, as with vampires; is there any greater gesture of trust, of submission - of desire? That he is being exposed is almost consequential; the true exposure was done long before clothes were being removed. Charcoal grey trousers, black silk briefs which do nothing to hide his state - only restrain it.
     His palms smooth over Greydon's back, bluntly trimmed fingernails dragging against the newly uncovered skin. Hansl wets his lips with a flicker of his tongue, a moan escaping him at the nip to his ear - and to the words, the question which he is asked. As before, there is only a single answer he can give. What are you...
     "Yours. Yours, by right of conquest, my lord..."

     Words. What effect do words really have upon people in times of passion? What do words matter when bodies are so pressed together, when desire flames within them and the world beyond has no meaning? It may seem as though words have no place here, and yet the words spoken by Hansl strike into Greydon and call to him, strike out and wrap around him and demand that he respond...
     Greydon rises up off of the boy, leaving him there, alone and cool without another to warm him, his hands pulling at what remains of his clothing as he leaves, tugging it down and tossing it aside. Then he stands for a moment, gazing at the naked boy so vulnerable upon the bed, his eyes drinking in every inch of his flesh, taking in the signs of his desire and smiling slightly. "By right of conquest." he murmurs, and then his hands go to his pants, pulling them open and then a moment later he too his fully naked, and in that instant he is again pressed down against the boy, nothing protecting them from each other. His hands graze over Hansl's form, gliding down to his thighs, to his legs, and guiding them around him.
     "Mine." he repeats, voice husky, deep and demanding as they grind against each other.

     "Gott..." It is moaned out, but it is no prayer. It is not god he is calling upon, no matter what word he uses. Hansl pouts a little as he's left, that edge of panic in his eyes, transmitted to parted lips as Greydon rises. But he isn't being abandoned; his fangs curve against his lower lip as he slowly untenses, watching with that uncomfortable flutter in the pit of his stomach. When did he become so susceptible? When did he become so easily led, so easy to seduce? It is unexpected. And that, perhaps, is why it excites him so very much.
     it takes courage to enjoy it
     the hardcore and the gentle...
     He is trembling, nerves and desire and something between fear and need tearing him apart. His head lifts from the pillow, as if he's about to rise from the bed - and then he is being pressed down again, without the distraction, the protection of clothing to shield him from direct nakedness, direct strength. Thoughts die away with another moan. At least those thoughts died in a pleasurable state.
     "Bitte... please," Hansl stumbles from German to English. Language at a time like this? His brain is barely functioning at all; after all, aren't vampires even more required than the living to channel blood down below at times like this? His legs circle smoothly around Greydon's waist, his hips rutting upwards, his hands tracing those powerful arms. "Please... I want you." And despite himself, and it makes him blush shockingly, he's pouting again, that lower lip jutting out at the elder, hips rocking back and forth in little, insistent thrusts. He barely recognizes himself in this moment...

     As their hips press together, will and passion driving blood to that core where passion may be felt, Greydon gives a low groan within his throat. His lips seek out to Hansl's, claiming them in a hard, hungry kiss.. The sharpness of his half-extended fangs felt there, a flash of pain perhaps felt as they slice past the boy's tender lips, the faint wound sealing a moment later in the embrace of their kiss.
     Lost, lost... Who is the conquerer, and who is the conquered? What is the difference when both can think of nothing but giving into what they want? What they need.
     Greydon's hands grip firmly to the young Toreador's ass, squeezing there and slipping down to feel at his innermost place, pressing against it even as he breaks the kiss and murmurs in a deep, dangerously low voice, "I must have you. Where is your lube?" He's sure it's there; none as beautiful as this boy needs go hungry when he can use his body to feed, and so near his bed what is needed must be available. If not? Well.. There is no turning back, now.

     Pain? What is a little pain, in the midst of this kind of desire? Hansl is lost, so irrevocably, hopelessly lost in this kiss. There is nothing left; he is being shattered and remade in these moments. And he had thought he knew something of passion...
     The German boy squirms as he's touched, at that promise and threat. A whimper escapes from the back of his throat, and he squirms underneath the Brujah holding him pinned and vulnerable. One hand lifts from Greydon's arm to the headboard, to one carved niche in the wood which serves as a shelf. Desire is a flame that cannot be hidden in the blue of his eyes right now; so willingly he hands over the small jar, even as he squirms again, shuddering in his excitement. No turning back, no.
     Hansl has committed himself with the unthinkable - a careless word. But he has the gift or curse of sincerity; and right now? There can be no doubting the sincerity of a naked boy squirming in bed. "Please," he whispers again, voice thick with need. "Please, my lord. I want to feel you. Possess me..."

     Earlier, Greydon urged Hansl to use his familiar name, and at the time, he meant it.. It was a time when there was not elder and neonate, there was not a desire for station and status to get in the way... And yet, here, and now, the fact that the young man seems incapable of referring to him as anything but the master,... it only drives him on.
     The bottle is taken, and the cool liquid spread over the Brujah's sex, even as he murmurs, "Oh yes, Hansl." he breathes, gazing into his eyes as he lifts the young man's legs, "You are mine, body and soul, give yourself unto me tonight."
     As he presses forward, his body making demands of the young Toreador's own, hard and burning from willful passion, Greydon's lips seek to the others again for another kiss. His is not a slow conquest; and though he is not brutal, he does not wait and allow there to be any question that this is not taking.. It is not about sharing, about lovemaking and sweet union, but it is instead his powerful and commanding presence driving into the younger one's body, steadily until they are fully united...
     And then, he groans, ancient instinct making him gasp for air though it is not needed, the strength of his arms holding to Hansl's waist, pulling them nearer. "My beautiful rose." he whispers out in a deep, husky voice, ".. Taken, stolen away..."

     It is as he said. To demand of him, and he would grant it, or break in the effort. That the elder was the conqueror. And himself...
     The conquered prize...
     It renders old things new again, this passionate desire, this unyielding need. The need to submit; the need to be mastered. How often has he fed in this fashion, breaking some beautiful young thing upon the hardness of his own body, fangs elongated to glide through tender youthful flesh? How many times has sweet, red blood flowed even as he gave vent to his passions, feeding two appetites (three, if one counts the Art) at once?
     But no matter how great the longing, few are the times when he has been the one bent upon the bed, filled instead of filling, taken instead of taking...
     Words do nothing to dampen his ardor; rather, they inflame him further, breath rasping out of him. He keeps drawing breath to speak, only to lose his breath again as words become again the furthest thing from his mind. Don't think. Feel. Hansl moans again as he is taken so remorselessly, shuddering a little though he tries so hard to hold so very still, his core muscles twitching and trembling, sending little tremors outwards from that epicenter. His lips part for the kiss thirstily, hands catching where they may in little touches, gripping here, stroking there, falling again to ball into fists in the bedclothes.
     And then he is pulled nearer yet, and words are spoken which seem to demand an answer, on some level; somewhere that he must respond, though he has no conscious words to offer. Hansl gulps air in, holding it for a moment, trying not to tense even as he tries to stop shuddering; tries to remember English words instead of German, instead of French, instead of Italian. He still thinks in German. "Ihr. Ihr, stieg Ihr Preis. Sie haben mich erobert." A deep breath, and he regains enough control to remember : English, Hansl, not German; and he tries again, fangs flashing for a moment as he opens his mouth with a strangled sob.
     "Yours. Your rose, your prize. You - have conquered me... my lord... Lord Grey..." It is as much as he can gasp out, his eyes rolling back in his head again; this closeness, being so filled. His senses are being immersed. Contact alone would be sufficient, but that deep voice jangles on his nerves, sending all his thoughts askew, the scent of blood and sex upon the air, the taste of it tangible. The beautiful male body pressing against him, filling him - there is no room for self-doubt. No room for anything but his conqueror.

     Such sweet, sweet submission; such delicate desire that could be broken with such ease. The body beneath him could be broken and left to ruin, and at some deep level, the passion demands such, calls out to conquer with such ruinous power that nothing again could ever touch it.
     And yet, Greydon holds back those deeper urges, holds in check the depth of the need as he always does, and instead he presses into the vulnerable body, feeling the sensation ripple through him as he groans so deeply against Hansl's mouth. His hands slide against the young man's body, feeling over the firm form before they find his wrists and lift them up, pinning them against the bed above his head as if to further accentuate the helplessness of his situation. There is no hope of even struggling against that hold.
     Bodies slide together; flesh striking into flesh, each movement stronger then the last, the rising pulse of desire pulling Lord Grey along... the fragile rose consumed and mastered with every stroke.. His eyes are open, half-lidded and yet watchful of the Toreador's face as his lips pull away, watching every expression as he slams down into the young man. Words? There is a time for words, and there is a time for action.
     Now is a time for action. Only one word escapes his lips: "Hansl." and with it is such a powerful command, accentuated with the power of his conquest, enough to force the boy's body higher up on the bed if he were not so securely held in place.
     .... "Hansl." is groaned again, Greydon's entire being poured into the consummation of this union...

     He is unaccustomed to being the weak one. And yet, it is a weakness he craves, desires to give in to. That is now made evident - to himself, to Greydon, to the uncaring, blank painted walls. The boy cries out as his hands are pinned, a flash of recognition moving in his eyes. Oh, yes. He knows what is being done. And there is no thought of resistance - not true resistance, only resistance for form's sake, a squirming struggle that he knows he won't win, that he doesn't, in fact, want to win. He wants to feel himself overpowered, overmastered. That the struggle is futile - that the struggle fails even to make an impression against Greydon's unnatural strength - it is only the more enticing, the more exciting.
     His lips are parted, and it's as well that he doesn't need to breathe. Hansl's only able to make small sounds, little whimpering, mewling animal sounds that echo with every thrust. He is very nearly out of his mind himself, right now. The sound of his name on his elder's lips makes him moan, muscles tensing, clamping down sharply at the feeling. He can't help himself - and for the first time perhaps ever, he has no desire to recall himself to self-control, to the exertion of his own frustrated will. "Ja," he whispers, then groans, a heated, low growl as he subsides against the pillows, trickling air out of his lungs with the murmur of a name. "Greydon Trevelyan ... hat mich erobert..."

     The dominance established, the willing submission accepted, Greydon consumes and feeds upon Hansl in a very real way, although not in the way that the monster inside cries out for. It is not blood but helplessness, acceptance and desire, and these are the things that the elder takes deep into him even as he his body works in powerful strokes into the younger one. His eyes watch the boy's face, to drink in the sight of it all, but then his lips seek down to kiss him, hard and demanding.. At other times, the mouth descends onto Hansl's neck, his shoulder, and though there is the faint, sharp hint of fangs upon the flesh, there is no penetration.. He's too busy penetrating elsewhere.
     Eventually those wrists are freed, and Greydon's hands go down to grasp at the boy's waist, pulling him up and working their bodies together with his arms as much as with his hips; it is as would be expected of a Brujah elder, a long and powerful affair, one that would likely leave a mortal whimpering and aching long into the next day.. or the day after. In the end, when he decides it is time, his hand seeks to the young man and he strokes what pleasure may be had from him, and the full force of his passion is unleashed within after Hansl's own inevitable cries push him over the edge into such glorious oblivion.
     Collapsing on top of the Toreador, this Brujah feels a need to breath heavily, if for only the remembered instinct of a body long devoid of such needs.. But even that, it is a hollow imitation of true gasping, more the movement of the chest then anything else... But he savors the aftermath the same as he ever did, for though the drive and need for sex may not be there, the pleasure of the act remains and there is a deeper drive at work in this pairing.. Not feeding, but taking.

     Taken...
     He has ever responded to power. His body, and his heart; the essence of himself - his soul, damned or not - dances in attendance upon such power, such claiming, a shadow to its flame. It is as much a product of his mortal existence as immortal; a culmination of his state of being. In his face, there is such yearning, such desire, such fulfillment of bone-deep, substantial need.
     He can't stop trembling.
     He can't stop shaking.
     He can't stop the little guttural moans, little cries and whimpers which signal how deep his pleasure, how deeply he is affected - how deeply he is being taken. Possessed. Conquered. Broken. That he enjoys it, that his pleasure is attended to, demanded of him, only makes it better. And worse. And that touch upon his sex all but unmakes him. Gone is any memory in that moment of white noise.
     No sire...
     No past...
     No achievement, but no failure, either...
     Nothing but that overwhelming, spine-cracking need being at last given in to, at last filled.
     He is still shuddering, even as he his again pinned beneath, weakened arms going around Greydon's shoulders as if to hold him tightly, cling to him. "Seien Sie mein Felsen," the Toreador whispers, unaware of words escaping him at all. Hansl closes his eyes so tightly, as tightly as his arms are limp, his hands sliding over the Brujah's skin. "Grey..."

     Time... Even for an immortal who has seen centuries, seen nations rise and fall, there are moments when time seems to slow down even more, instances where eternity is felt in a single mote of thought and feeling.
     Greydon lets a hand lift up to slide around Hansl's neck, kneading the back of it with his fingers gently even as he holds the boy in gentle security, as he did earlier in the evening. Softly he whispers, "You wondered at the choice.. do you still? There are choices which take such turmoil to work through, to decide... and choices which are as easy as he desire to feed.. You are such as that, a choice which so easy as to be an obvious answer.. How could I not walk past your rose and not pluck it?"
     The hand trails along down then, caressing over the young man's side, gently kneading into each line, each muscle, each curve... Simply learning the contours of the body he just mastered, for there wasn't a great deal of time at feeling the details in the heat of the passion.

Posted by rowan at February 11, 2006 04:06 PM