The sun has set. Most of England won't notice much difference; it's been a grey and overcast sort of day, the threat of rain hovering like the specter of taxes throughout the city of London. The light that's died away, died long before the sun actually lowered itself below the rim of the world.
     Hansl is awake; if one can term it awake. He's been in a bit of a trance since just after sunset, staring intently at his sketchpads, working first with pencil, then with charcoal, until by now his fingers are smudged and blackened. His shirt gapes open at the neck, his hair, rumpled and threatening to become truly unruly. There's a smudge of charcoal on his cheek where in absentminded thought he's rubbed it. Studies. Sketches. Motion captured, life frozen on a page. The subject of his study? Greydon, of course...
     But now, he's finished reviewing his sketches - for a few minutes, at least, he breaks his concentration, rising, wiping his hands on a damp cloth until most of the charcoal's gone. Soundless footsteps find their way from drawing table to drawing room, the sketchpad set down. And he takes the time to stretch. "...sehr gut, sehr ..."

     There isn't enough hours in the night; no matter how many years of nights there are, sometimes it just seems as though time is slipping away before the sun returns once again to the sky. Busy, busy...
     Greydon finds himself discussing in a firm, cool voice, matters of business with the men that are always found on the first floor of the estate. Servants, some bound by blood, others by money. "That will not do, Brandon." he says to the man, who nods back to our Lord.
     "Call your brother in Spain. See if he can lay his hands on any..." And then his voice trails off, as a pair of men carefully carry in the create which was delivered. Hm? A brow is arched, curiosity...
     ... and surprise, when Greydon reaches the box and sees to whom it is addressed. The boy is already receiving packages, here? A vague gesture upstairs, and a murmured command, "The lounge."
     And up he goes, to find the busy german boy...

     Hansl's reaction would probably be just as surprised, really. But at the moment, he is ... how would one put it ... happily oblivious. He leans over the table, carefully removing sheet after sheet of paper, laying them out in order, taking a red pen. One hand braces himself as he leans forward. "Hmm... ahh... ja." Carefully, he makes a little red x next to one of the sketches, then another.
     Then he straightens, rubbing at the back of his head when some sixth sense (or, more likely, simply a shadow of approach) notifies him that he is not alone, and he turns. "...Gut nicht?"

     In case we havn't mentioned, Greydon likes his suits. Especially when he's 'working'; a gentleman always comes to work dressed appropriately, even if that means just walking downstairs to the office. At the moment, we have a loose linen shirt that hasn't been fully buttoned up set under a -- gasp -- tweed, grayish-brown jacket. One hand in his pocket, as he leans against the door and watches Hansl until the boy turns...
     Greydon smiles faintly, and cocks his head back behind him, "What were you expecting? You should probably let Brandon know if you order something; no packages get into the estate that isn't checked over outside. Just in case. Either way, your package is in the lounge."
     A hand reaches out, urging the boy up and over, before gesturing beyond.

     "I did not order anything." Now he's confused. Hansl leaves the sketches where they've been laid, setting down his other tools and picking up the cloth and absently scrubbing at his hands. "And the clothing has already arrived from the tailors, I believe, ja? But... ja, I will keep it in mind."
     He moves from the table, confusion and a hint of consternation in the blue of his eyes, the quirk of his forehead, of his mouth. Wie gehts? Hansl shakes his head slightly, raising his eyebrows very high, then lengthens his stride in answer to the summons, in answer to his own curiosity - heading to the lounge with a slanting grin aimed at the English lord. Let's go see what this is about...
     "Well. It does not look like a bomb. Or anything dangerous or unsettling."
     How little he knows. But that is Hansl's initial verdict as he glances down at the package, cloth draped for the time being over his shoulder like a burping cloth. He reaches into his pocket for a pen knife, clicking open the blade and dragging it against twine and paper neatly. The envelope is extracted - opened - the letter unfolded - read. "...Oh. /Oh/. I ... see."
     And the German nudges the crate lightly away after that initial glance inside, lowering the letter as colour floods into his face quite unbidden. Hansl clears his throat, pressing his lips inwards in bombastic suppression of other reaction. Inhale. Exhale, slowly. "A ... gift from someone else whom I have painted, lord Grey." He glances down to the letter again, then clears his throat again.
     Damnation, why can't he stop blushing...

     It's really only the most idle curiosity that brings Greydon in to observe Hansl opening his gift; he can't fathom actually caring about whatever is there, in the least. He settles over in a chair, and removes a cellphone from within his jacket... Autodial, a familiar number, an associate...
     At least, that is what our Lord Grey -intended- on doing. Working, getting back to being busy. And then this little change comes over Hansl. And he arches one brow.
     ... one brow which remains persistently arched, even as Hansl turns ever so red. And appears to fight to remain the stoic German that he pretends to be.
     ... one brow that continues to remain, persistently arched, and without any other remarks at all.
     Hansl has Greydon's undivided attention. Greydon, though? Doesn't say anything more then, "Hmm?" It's one of those tones which show one is carefully guarding it from sounding like anything.

     "Ahem." Hansl clears his throat again, then sets the letter down verrrrry gently, next to the crate. "A gift, my lord." Well, yes. That had been already established. He reaches into the crate, past packing foam and paper, to lift out a golden-filled bottle.
     "He says that it is a payment for the portrait which I did of him," Hansl says carefully, cradling the bottle, looking down at it. Handmade brandy. Hand-bottled. And as potent as anything this side of the Marches, no doubt. "He hopes I will pay him a visit, should I find myself in Venice again. We have had drinks before, it is true. In Paris - I suppose that is why he has chosen to gift me with brandy."

     For some reason, the care that Hansl sets that note down,.. It irritates our Lord here. He purses his lips and is silent for a lingering moment. He pushes up off of the chair and walks over behind Hansl, reaching a hand out to trace a line over the label. "A princely gift." he says, tone perfectly even. Guarded.
     "You appear to have good taste in models; this one has gone quite a ways to express his desire for another... Sitting." A vague gesture towards the note, "A poet at heart, hmm?"
     He's not grabbing things, reading notes, being all jealous and insufferable. He's simply there, the powerfully physical presence that one as martially inclined as he tends to give off.
     "Odd that your benefactor would send this here."

     "I ... do not believe that he intends to sit for me again, nein." Hansl glances up, confused, setting the bottle down with extraordinary care. As if it might break at a glance. "He and his sire have, however, been very kind to me whenever our paths have crossed."
     He reaches into the crate, taking another bottle, examining the hand-crafted label with an artist's eye; then he glances up, over at Greydon. "We are not closely acquainted, you realize," Hansl tries to explain, feeling the colour again rising into his face. "I ... do not remember when our paths first crossed, but I am certain it was simply at one of the events at the Parisian court. We ran into one another several times since then - Paris, Venice, ja? But not so very many."
     Mein gott, can I get my foot any further in...
     The German youth sets the bottle down next to its companion. Four bottles in all. "...I am sure that his offered hospitality is simply complimentary, nothing more, my lord. Perhaps, however, you are acquainted with him? I mean - while he offers his hospitality, and - I am not certain what he means by my being in his living room again; I have never been in his living room, though he was in mine." Hansl needs to stop blushing one of these nights. "That is - ah, when I was sketching him. Really, we are not very well acquainted. But do you know him?"

     Eyes flicker down towards the note, so carefully laid. All this blushing, all these statements, they make his curiosity unbearable. The frown starts as he gazes down the first paragraph, and it only settles more firmly in place by the end.
     "William."
     The voice is even, if just a touch growly, "I should have known, what with the blush that has settled and refuses to be denied; Guillaume leaves these behind as trademarks. I do not quite think that anything he offers is simply complimentary, but you are right..."
     Greydon turns and heads back over to his chair, settling down, "I do not believe he intends to sit for you again. Yes. I know him."

     "Ahh?" Hansl's eyes go very wide as he looks over at Greydon. He can't help sounding like the male German equivalent of a Japanese schoolgirl under the circumstances (and isn't that just brain-breaking). He stammers, stutters, skids to a verbal halt, then tries again. "Er... I believe you may misunderstand the exact nature of the relationship between myself and Herr Guillaume."
     He has a knack, occasionally, for understatement, too! As well as for unintended double entendre. He moves cautiously towards Greydon, then aborts the gesture. "...I am uncertain how to put your mind at ease, lord Grey. - Would it please you better if I were to pour you some of this brandy?"

     "William is... Hm." murmurs Greydon with a vague shrug of his shoulder, "A .. force of nature, yes? At least, that is how it seems from time to time; he is a storm which sweeps through Europe, leaving behind such ruins..." He gives a faint smirk, and then reaches into his pocket to pull out his cellphone once again.
     "You've received a gift; we may as well call William and thank him, don't you think?" Beep.
     Ring, ring.

     It takes a moment for the Exchange, even with these most modern phones and cellular connections. But you pass from unsecured open air to secured air, from a path walked by all to a private drive of universe. From London to Venice, first class.
     It rings only twice before it is answered. A London number -- London numbers are always answered by him personally. "Bonsoir," he offers warmly. That languid baritone of his voice has a slight echo tonight -- a single phone in a huge, marble structure.
     But vampiric ears can pick up other environmental sounds: men in the background speaking rapid Italian. William's voice echoes that Italian, the accent of the Aquitaine lost when he does so. We will talk about it later. Let's break for a few, yes?
     "Sorry," he returns to the phone, "Oui?"

     Hansl subsides, looking a bit confused. Well - a force of nature. "I suppose I can see that, ja," he murmurs, moving to collect glasses nonetheless. Phone call? Well - why not? "I do not have his number, but -" Ah. But Greydon does. The youth subsides again, and busies himself with the opening of a bottle...

     "William, you old rake." says our Lord Trevelyan into the phone, his voice sounding slightly teasing, though his eyes watch Hansl as the neonate moves. He doesn't look as pleasant as his voice sounds, "An angel-- fallen, of course-- just fluttered to my ear and told me the news, that you have tied yourself into a Cathedral in Venice, and await either the drowning to come or divine retribution for all of your terrible sins... and I just had to call to send you my best wishes. Mmn, oh-- it's Greydon Treveylan, of course."
     One hand goes tap-tap-tappity against the arm of his chair. Yes, we continue to watch Hansl, yes we do.

     The tone, its owner and the name conspire upon the smile that is not visible but is certainly audible in his own reply. "Have the angels grown that bored that they are reduced to glorified delivery men? Ah wait... they were always glorified delivery men in the Good Book. How are you? This is a surprise..."
     It actually isn't that much of a surprise, but one says that in conversations as a way of saying I wasn't really expecting the call this minute but hello anyway.
     "As for Venezia, it is true, I am here through the summer, reinforcing marble and pumping catacombs full of water. I should build an ark if I were smart. How are things in London?" For William presumes the call is likely on matters Britannic in nature...

     As opposed to matters Germanic. Hansl seems not particularly put out; his blush has somewhat receded by now, and with a careful, meticulous hand he pours brandy from the newly opened bottle into the two glasses. He is listening to the conversation; rather difficult, really, to avoid doing so. "My lord," he murmurs, bringing over the newly filled glass, holding it out to Greydon and then placing it within easy but not dangerous reach.
     It is not so surprising, really, that you two know one another. Being so tied to England, as I am not...
     Hansl takes up his own glass, turning politely, to give the conversation its space. A minute sip of brandy is savored, allowed to roll across his tongue; tasted, held, inhaled. Why should pleasure entirely wait on the abatement of this conversation?

     Before Greydon fetches his glass, he crooks a finger and gives a firm nod to the boy, urging him over. Closer, said the spider to the fly...
     "When you are done, you really must come home for a visit; it's so dreadfully warm there, I expect. Not like our London, hmm? You are, as ever, welcome to visit my home.. and I'm sure that when you come, Hansl will be more then happy to share this princely gift you gave him. As ever, you do nothing in half measures, do you?" speaks Greydon into the phone, and his voice-- still friendly-- takes on a certain edge to it.
     "I must admit, I'm deeply fascinated how you found out he was here of all places, so quickly. He hasn't even been fully presented to Court, yet."
     The brandy is lifted, and he holds it beneath his nose, tasting its aroma for a lingering moment...

     "It is not so hard to find Hansl of Saarbruken. All you have to do is listen for the gasps of Arnaul in the same hushed tones as old Sicilian women use for Santa Teresa. Or any saint for that matter," the roll of French upon English so elongates it that it loses any proper Anglo-Saxon cadence.
     It is tugged further by the throat-held laughter. It cannot help but be warm. It is his nature.
     "...Right over the Channel and straight...and amazingly enough... to where you are. A belated Christmas gift that became a belated New Year's gift that became well... a surprise." He pauses and the grin spreads smoothly though it cannot be seen. "Why, Trevelyan, you sound a bit upset..."
     Yes, ami, what could ever be the issue?
     "You do not like brandy? Ah, you English, who could ever understand you. And... oui... four bottles, the fruit stone pressed by my own windmill no less." Chinon and its working windmill tower mill. A fabulous thing, that, and well worth the price to reconstruct it.
     "Half measures," William tsks. "I cannot believe you just said that to me. If something is worth doing, it is worth doing all the way. Now...what do you really mean to say..."

     He is hardly going to hold himself back; he moves forward willingly, even if he is the fly walking so willingly, so trustingly into the spider's web. And Hansl leans down, against Greydon's shoulder, listening in silence, eyebrows slanting upwards in question.
     Ja, mein herr? Jawohl...
     He listens to the conversation without true perturbation; a slight flush for the mention of his sire, and little else. There is no real overt reaction that the youth has, for this discussion. Hansl is aware of the currents that lie beneath the surface - but what they are, he is uncertain. William's final question is one he could ask, in all innocence - but would not...

     "To that, you are quite right, old man." replies Greydon into the phone, chuckling softly, "If something is worth doing, it is worth doing all the way. It is not so amazing, though; Hansl has agreed to ...a commission."
     Greydon sets the brandy down, and shifts, reaching an arm out to snag about Hansl's waist and tug him into the elder's lap, before continuing, "I enjoy the smell, and a bit of the taste, yes. Unlike some, though, the drink has never quite affected me since I working on my tan. Here, I'm sure our mutual.. friend, wishes to express his appreciation."
     The phone is offered to Hansl, and so that hand may lift the brandy once again.

     "Have a few glasses and then tell me that with a straight face and an even voice. The plum is pretty deadly, and a personal favorite. Hansl should have a foundation for his bar, yes?" Yes. "So... good. I am glad they arrived in one piece. And him, too." By that one might gather that William got an earful of Hansl's departure at some point. He does not elaborate.
     The laughter sounds again, too smooth for anyone's good even his own. "Mutual friend. You know I sent the bottles there just to fuck with you. Stop acting like I humped your sofa... sure... put him on. I would like to say hello..."

     "I am not your sofa!"
     That just - slips out, and the German youth turns about ten shades of red all at once, right there on Greydon's lap. "Wir sind nie vertraut gewesen! Ich malte ihn, ich sog nicht seinen Hahn!" He's lapsed from English, sputtering a bit, setting down his brandy rather than wasting it. With difficulty, he gets himself back under control - just in time for the phone to be offered to him. How awkward.
     "Er... ah, gut nicht to you." Hansl's voice is stiff; polite, beleaguered, not unfriendly, but perhaps a bit harassed. "I hope that you are doing well."

     "No, you did not. You were wise, yes? Beyond your years," William confirms with a grin. "I hope you forgive me. When I learned you were in London and... from there where you have been spending some of your time... I could not help myself. At this point, I do not even bother trying."
     He finds the effort as futile as everyone else...
     "You are doing well there? Getting settled?" Take that as you will. "You will be sure to let me know if you need anything. Ah... a workspace? You know the Abbey has artist studios for use if you need. Though," his smile spreads upon the warm tone of his voice, "...I am sure that Trevelyan has things well in hand. Enjoy the brandy, but be careful. It is more potent than it seems."
     But then it would be, coming from him...

     The outburst catches Greydon by surprise, and he laughs softly, tightening his arm about Hansl's waist to hold him there, "You are no sofa." he agrees.
     The brandy forgotten, a hand slips to Hansl's stomach, and then beneath his shirt to settle there. Since his minor bout of jealousy has been satisfied, he may as well punish the boy a little for putting him through it. "I don't speak german, you know."
     And then he simply offers a small smile, hearing only Hansl's half, since alas, his ears do not have the potency of the Toreador's...

     If the floor would just open up and swallow him...
     But no, life isn't that kind, is it? Hansl is sitting almost at attention, despite where he is sitting. There's a minute catch of breath for the touch of hands to his skin. "Ah... I do not know how wise I am, mein herr," the German says into the telephone. He is suddenly distracted. "I am not angry, however. And I hope that you have not taken offense at my ... outburst." He's red as a fire engine, now.
     "I am doing well," Hansl agrees, still with that peculiarly distracted note to his voice. "Lord Trevelyan is a most kind and gracious host. I have only just begun to work upon him. His portrait," he clarifies hurriedly. "Your package arrived while I was sorting through some life sketches."
     He could go on all night about art - but he won't. He leans back against his lover, giving the Englishman an accusing stare. "Danke schon; I may take you up on that offer, as it may come in handy. And I will keep that in mind, about the brandy's potency; I have seen your taste in brandy before. Bitte, let us know when you and your other are returning to England? It would be my pleasure to host a dinner for you, if I am so permitted."

     "It will be sometime in the autumn," William confirms quietly. "I will be sure to contact you. You are thinking of staying in London then, full time..." It is both a question and an assumption. You seem to be making yourself comfortable there...
     If Hansl Arnaul could ever be said to be 'comfortable'.
     "No need to apologize to me," William chuckles. "I am the one sending presents to you at another man's home. I am the one, yes? Who should apologize." He grins audibly. "But... I will not. I had too much fun. So... I will let you go, hmm? Back to your work." He knows better.
     "Tell Trevelyan that I will take up his invitation...and yours...when I return to England. That will give you six months or so to prepare. It should be plenty of time," comes the humorous drawl. "Take care, Hansl de Londres," Hansl of London. "A bientot, oui?" See you later. "I must go back to work or I will be here all night and disappoint mio esposo..."

     As Hansl speaks to the legendary William, Greydon distracts himself by seizing one of the boy's hands and lifting it, laying a faint kiss upon one of his palms, before he suckles there. The hint of fangs are offered...
     "Permitted?" he offers quietly, so as to not have it heard on the other side, "For as long as you remain here, you may play host to my honored guests if it pleases you. Better your hand then the brutish way that I would treat them..." A faint grin is lifted up, the accusing stare passing through...
     It wasn't long ago that he was angry, jealous-- such strange emotions, especially over something as simple as a lover. And yet, now? He's amused, pleased...

     The phone is rung off with a final round of farewells, and Hansl turns slightly on the English lord's lap, blue eyes seeking out green. "Your humour seems much improved, my Grey Lord," he says quietly, setting the phone aside with his free hand. His other hand lifts, a fingertip touching the other man's lips, then falling.
     Jealousy ... and now, pleasure ...
     "It would please me to be able to offer them hospitality," Hansl admits, "but I would not presume to use your home to do so. That would be untoward of me, considering - all things. Should I speak further on this topic, my lord? Or do you need my assurances?" Now he is curious. Now he is adamant - reluctant, and yet, inquisitive.
     Will we talk...

     "It is a curious thing." murmurs Greydon, letting a hand come up to trail softly along the boy's neck, until it cups his face, a thumb caressing over Hansl's lips...
     ..."There have been lovers, of course. I am not a creature prone to abandoning passion. Some humans that amuse enough to keep them for a short time, before setting them free or bonding them into service..."
     He leans forward, lips against Hansl's jaw, fangs felt there. A nick, faint, but a droplet of blood before his tongue sweeps it away. "And then those vampires who were of interest."
     "But, never that, not since I became this that I am; never such a ..human.. emotion as jealousy, such as was inspired at the thought of the infamous William courting my Hansl here, in my own home, from across the seas... Your blush, so exquisite; a rose that blooms as I knew you would. For him."
     Greydon chuckles softly, "There was a surge-- powerful-- an anger, a desire. Something I did not think possible, Handsome Hansl."

     He doesn't speak right away, eyes hooding with undisguised, unfeigned pleasure. Hansl tilts his head into the touch to his face, a faint smile parting his lips, fangs slightly extended now.
     "I have taken no lovers before you."
     It sounds wrong, doesn't it? It can't possibly be true. But then the German youth is clarifying, eyes opened, gaze focused. "There are those whom I have taken. Been intimate with, in a sense. Those I have usually called 'meals'. There are those who, before you, demanded I service them - politics, those of the courts whom it would have been a mistake to insult. Duty - my emotions have moved me to desire several times, but only in you has it found this fruition."
     Both hands lift, tousling suddenly through Greydon's hair. "I have never been intimate with William. I sketched him; I have shared drinks with him. He has flirted with me, but it is plain to see where his heart lies, and I? I know where mine does. It is not and has never lain in France."
     Clear blue eyes focus, that faint smile beneath. "England has my heart and my bones. The honorable Lord Trevelyan holds my heart and my bones. It is to him that I consign my fate. It is strange," Hansl admits, "for me as well. To feel. To desire. To love. But I give it that name, whether or not you do, Greydon. Love. I do not know how I would react, if I saw you with another. I do not think that I would be pleased."
     "But I do not require you define what you feel as I do..."

     "For as long as you remain."
     Greydon tilts Hansl's head to the side, his lips soft upon the young man's neck, his arms held tightly about him. That surge of jealousy, that anger and fear that another could swoop in and steal the boy away-- it has affected him...
     "... There will be no other, save for food. That is the only desire you can not quench, the bloodlust."
     Fangs are felt there, upon Hansl's neck, trailing along the soft skin. So fragile, so tender. The blood within, the power of it; he can smell it, feel it. His tongue trails along Hansl's neck, breath spilling against the moist skin...
     "You need not assure me of yourself and he; as he said, he just wanted to fuck with me." Greydon chuckles softly, another soft kiss.
     "My Hansl."
     And then, he bites. It is not the faint touch that has been done before; now, his fangs sink deeply into Hansl's flesh, letting the august blood that was Arnaul's gift flow. He drinks of his lover. Hansl asked permission before doing such before... Greydon, of course, would not.

     His hands remain in the other man's hair for a long moment before slowly his fingers slip down; to trickle against the back of his neck, settling then on his shoulders. "Food is ... food," Hansl shrugs. One does not get jealous over food. Unless a meal becomes something more - but until then? It's food. Who gets jealous of a Whopper or Big Mac?
     He sighs at the trail of those fangs, those lips, the highlighting of the nuances of his vulnerability, his fragility, and his head tips back in invitation. Permission. An introduction to touch which then becomes a stifled gasp, eyelashes fluttering wildly as canids slice through skin so easily. Shocking, this surprise. Even as he succumbs to the pleasure of the Kiss...
     There is no heart to pump the blood to the surface; no heart that beats, but a heart that is lifeless, still, despite everything. But there is blood. Blood that is flavoured of cold Germanic tribes of the North...
     Blood that swims with power...
     He lived so short a time, as mortals count time, even - not even twenty years had passed when he passed from the sun's warming touch. When his life was taken, not by Allied forces but by a Knight Hospitaler. A servant of God unyielding. Mercy is not something which a Crusader understands, truly...
     What vision is this, that swims in the blood? Of sunlight on mountains, white peaks lined with evergreens, a dark, deep forest in the belly of which, the heart of which howls the wolf. Forlorn that sound, fit to chill the blood of children and adults alike. And from that great depth - from within that chilled heart, a mystery which moved forward to strike a returning Knight.
     From that night forward...
     And all nights since...
     Sunlight has been their bane...

     Centuries ago, Greydon was taken... taken against his will, in struggle, with pain... A random moment, a random thought; there was no purpose to it, no higher meaning... And from that moment, the hunger has ever reigned...
     The blood of humans is hot, full of life, vitality,.. And yet, it is so fragile. This... This blood that Greydon sups upon, there is a deeper power in it that pulls him in.. He grips tighter to Hansl, almost painfully, consuming what is taken, letting the preternatural life of it imbue him, as the resonance of Hansl's pass flows within..
     And then it breaks, and Greydon groans deeply, tongue flicking out to seal the wounds that were made. He lifts his hands up to cup the boy's head, so gentle, and his emerald eyes stare intently into the boy's own. He is always 'the boy', internally... Neonate, young... And yet, he is more. The elder's eyes speak of this.
     "You are... my Hansl." he murmurs. Nothing else.

     And less than a century past, he himself was taken. Stalked unawares for many nights; the Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken watching the German soldier. Until he was finally given the choice : submit, or die. And he chose - as he always has chosen, as he still chooses...
     To survive...
     It is the undercurrent of strength. Though he bends, he does not truly break; though he falters, he flags, in the end, he carries on. He survives. He overcomes what he must, does what he must, and continues on...
     Blue eyes open slowly to meet emerald. Hansl lifts his hands again, one to rest against Greydon's shoulder, the other against the nape of his neck, fingers almost nerveless.
     "Yes," Hansl answers simply. "I made my choice, my lord Grey. My choice was made and my word given before ever I set foot on this soil. For once ... I have been impetuous. For you."

     It is that strength which drives Greydon on...
     A lesser one would break, would shatter...
     But a lesser one would not feel arms tighten about him, and rise, lifting the young man so easily into the air.
     A lesser one would not feel lips upon his own, a hungry kiss, full of desire, full of passion...
     Hansl is not a lesser creature, and Greydon takes him to the bedroom now to show him this..
     "Come, my Hansl, my beautiful boy."

Posted by rowan at March 12, 2006 01:03 PM