The Stage
     The Tate, subterranean chambers.
     The walk down one corridor leads only to another. And another. With each hall, the elevation deepens. Another hall. A series of doors. An elevator. Only then does the concrete scenery of a backstage theater begins to give way to something more substantive. A shift in the air. A carpet beneath the feet. Scant lighting and rough, exposed outlets replaced with flickering sconces mimicking flames. Kindred passed in a hallway with doors leading wherever. And soon enough, a doorway blocked by conversing vampires, in various states of elegant gowns, suits, or plain clean casual wear. It is a mix of persons, all staring at the arrival of the Brujah primogen and charge, followed by two others of influence and station.
     Entering the main hall of the Toreador Court indicates that the walk is done. Beyond this room are rooms upon others, but this is the main conflagration, the area where things Begin. The room hearkens back to an older time, something of late baroque, of a Europe steeps in the sumptuousness that returned after the Revolution. Ornate lighting of curved candelabras evoke old as well as goth. For the youngest, it is a movie set come alive, with the carpets and chaises, the sofas and alcoves. A cavernous room with stairs at the edges, leading upwards to a large balcony. From there, the paths are myriad.
     But here, those with keen interest stand or sit around, their gossiping coming to an end as the group enters the room. At first look, the group seems all the same. But a keen eye left, right, and deeper, can see the distinctions. A few Brujah gather here. Toreador there. A mix of misspent youth stand together on a side, a distance away, dressed in leather and plastic. A group of distinguished Ventrue, seeming to plan for a night at the opera are seated in a near sofa (no need to hide in the shadowy room's other shadows). A set of Malkavian titter near something flashing with color. And a set dressed in black and red congregate near a fountain. Tremere. If there are Gangrel, they are the ones with brown hair, a few not so far from a dais with seating, one seat larger than the others.
     The Players
     Tonight, Edmund Mortimer -- the Distinguished Edmund Mortimer, Brujah Primogen. Ashleigh Pennington-Vries, Toreador Primogen. As always, the social butterfly of Saville Row, Sebastian deRancey. Valentine the Florentine, Chief Harpy of the Court of London. Keeling "I Never Miss A Good Martini" Smart, of The Chantry Most Secure. Juliet deMontrachet, the beautiful and industrious owner of Juliet's Bower, South Waterfront's most illustrious restaurant. Rosamund Caermichael (with Edmund Mortimer).
     Others
     A dog of the House of Montague is here tonight, a Romeo among Romeo's in his suit and with his amaretto and cigarette. He smiles, that golden childe of Edward, with his growing coterie of Toreador and Brujah friends. Stylish, the definition of Haute Couture. Or 'hot' couture. As the case may be...

     It's one of those nights. The several lower floors beneath the Tate swarm, indeed, but the main high room remains sparse, save the required quorum for necessary work. The prince himself is not in attendance - his retinue and council suffice tonight - preferring to stay, they say, in one of the more private salons in the midst of a stakes game.
     Ah, to have an invite to those!
     The main chamber instead is anchored by the Brujah Primogen this evening, along with the prince's secretary, Rapunzel, and the seneschal, Devon Tarpin. An American, even. There is paperwork and blessings given, markings done into a book by the dutiful Rapunzel. Over her shoulder, Devon watches, then nods at a pair of young men, nattily dressed. The pair head off after allowance, likely part of Devon's security staff.

     Oh, but does the Primogen look bored.
     Edmund Mortimer sits in the central chair on the dais, a set of papers in front of him. Ever so often he glances up and leans back, watching the room go by, but at the moment, a young woman - not his rumored ally, Rosamund, - explains something to the Elder.

     If the others are misspent youth, then is Hansl a spent youth? He's been to Saville Row to replace some of his clothing; his luggage made it intact, but didn't stay terribly intact for some reason. As such, today he's in a dark grey suit with white dress shirt, black polished boots on his feet. A rose is tucked into his boutonniere, glowing crimson with a small bee tucked in among the petals. The bee is artificial; the flower, quite real. A trite touch, perhaps, but - traditional.
     He is not so stiff as he was in Paris, though by Parisian standards, he's still quite stiff. Pick out the German in the room. Where's Waldo. Which one of these people is not like the rest. It's more subtle than if he were in a gorilla suit, at least...
     But he can relax now, right? He's more of a 'known quantity' now. Introduced. And so on, and so forth. Hansl dips his chin in a nod over at Valan and his companions. Shakespeare is well represented tonight, among the tragedians; Romeo, and Hamlet. Which leaves Greydon in which role, precisely? As Edmund would not manage to be a Mercutio or even a failed Iago. "I will go pay my compliments," he murmurs to Greydon. "If you are so willing, ja?"

     For his part Keeling is simply enjoying a drink and pleasant conversation. The suit is dark, the martini is dry, and the women are plentiful. He does not seem to be having the same difficulties... or boredoms... of the officiating Administrator General tonight. No, indeed, outside of the collective hive of The Chantry, Mr. Smart is quite the active social commentator. He twills an olive and smiles.
     Smart, indeed...

     Valan Montague returns Hansl's nod with the tilting of his head and the wandering of his smile. Golden eyes are flecked with green, but the green of mortality has long since been pushed to the rims of those eyes. He lifts the cordial and sips, handing it afterwards to an attractive woman. Perhaps it is her drink that he had merely absconded.

     Although Greydon is no stranger to court, he does not often arrive with someone in tow. Least of all a neonate of the Rose at his side; so this is already an unusual evening for him. He is a proper English gentleman, of course, which means he has a proper three-piece pinstripe suit of a deep, steel grey. It fits to him quite well; and though dull, the Lord Grey really should be dressed appropriately.
     In the aftermath of the mostly dull administrative details, Greydon gives a slight nod and a chuckle, "It's half-expected of me as well." he murmurs to the youth, and then idly makes his way over towards Edmund, "So, I may as well introduce you to him." A quiet little sigh.
     One hand slips into his pocket, and with a confidant step, he leads the Toreador over to his Primogen's side, "Edmund." he offers, before nodding his head-- the proper respect shown in it, of course. Propriety is important.

     The attendant, dressed in a fine white gown, looks up as the Primogen is addressed. She comes to a halt in her instruction, waiting on further instruction.
     Edmund looks up, his brown-blonde hair falling into his face. He pushes his back, narrowing his gaze for an instant before his eyes relax in acknowledgment. "Trevelyan," name said in what might be interpreted as disappointedly, "...good evening." Politeness maybe doesn't become him. "What can I do for you?" Can't you see that I am presently busy?
     Well, not too busy to take a second look at the young man suddenly there. Where did he come from? Oh, yes. Rumor does work in certain circles. Every arrival into the Tate is announced before being announced.
     But since someone else is there, Edmund somewhat gives his attention by putting the pen down. More of a channel it is...the young woman is likely the ink of the night.

     Heels together, though without audible click, Hansl bows slightly at the waist. "Sir." He straightens after a momentary pause - that nod to propriety - and his hands go ever so politely behind his back. Pale blond hair does not quite ruffle into his eyes; instead, it hovers, making him look probably more foppish than he actually is. The scar on his left cheek is perhaps the only thing to undo that softer appearance.
     He says nothing else; acknowledgment, lack of introduction as just yet. Hansl is comfortable enough, for whatever reason; calm enough. Confident enough. His expression is bland, politely attentive. No drill sergeant could ask for more (though probably would).

     Keeling Smart smiles in interruption of someone else's observation, eyebrows lifting in a What's This? expression. But at the state of affairs there is a kind of quiet chuckle. It is more a physical manifestation than an audible one, much as the click of his heels.
     Is he a 'friend of Dorothy'?

     Valan Montague leans in to one of his surrounding social network (friends or no must yet be seen, proven out through Time). I will never get used to the formality. It is like dressing up for church or seeing the headmaster. But this is the view of someone born in 1984.

     Janet, hearing Valan, blinks and runs his direction. "Valan!" she screams - well to vampire ears, that decibel was unnecessary - and puts a a hand out. "Has it been...what...a week?" she laughs, apparently delighted to see her friend.

     Valan laughs quietly, in comparison to Janet, and he rises from one of the salon chairs, something from two centuries ago. He is in bordeaux and black, a nice suit, and quite expensive. An arm comes out for an embrace and he is smiling as he hugs. "It is good to see you, too. I think a group of us are going to go out in a bit. You are coming?" His English is getting quite good after nearly six years.

     Greydon doesn't show any real response to his beloved Primogen's difficulty with politeness, and instead chuckles softly, "Yes, Good evening. Such an exceedingly interesting Court tonight, wasn't it?" There's a hint of sarcasm there, before he steps aside a bit and gestures towards Hansl.
     "May I introduce Hansl, childe of the lamented Johann Arnaul." And then, his hand slips back down into the pocket where it rested and he gives a vague shrug, "My guest, for the foreseeable future, as he has agreed to a .. commission." And, I am being polite to you, you old goat, out of some semblance of respect that I can't remember why I bother with.
     The screech by the young lady draws a long look from Greydon for a moment, with an arched brow.

     Hansl winces just faintly, one hand lifting to his ear. He's got sensitive eardrums - well, had. He's pretty sure one of them just burst. His hand again drops to his side, and he again bows very slightly to Edmund. "Good evening." He's being careful to stick to English, though his German accent is certainly noticeable; as is, of course, his exceedingly German appearance. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."
     He is polite - but then, he's always polite, isn't he? He isn't sweating bullets, though, for once. One eyebrow lifts, and he offers a hand. Not expecting it to be taken - but then, from the look of this fellow, not offering it would be a slight, and offering it, well, is an invitation to be snubbed. So he'll offer it. He is, after all, the 'churchly' sort... having been born in in the nineteen-teens or so.

     Edmund Mortimer's eyes sidle over to the visitor. Unnecessarily, Edmund exhales softly, but clearly. An erasing breath. "A commission." Is that what it's called now. His head bobs up and down before Edmund reaches for his quill, as it were. "I understand your sire is lately lamented," said as the pen's waved at the hand. Not necessary, desired, or required. "I am..." Edmund's steel-blue eyes look up, "...sorry to hear of it. I understand he was well-regarded."
     "I am sure," Edmund looks to his paper, "...the Guild is expecting you?" Come now...Toreador with Toreador. "The Guild Lord himself," the Prince, "...may expect to see your work...or something," the pen waving as Edmund's brow furrows. That's what you all do, yes?

     "Of course, dah-link!" Janet gives to Valan, disappearing in his tall embrace. Such are the bodies of fencers. "Where to? Oh, you know, I talked to Shelley. He wants us to come to Paris - I think I may go."

     It is Hansl that is on the fire, so Greydon doesn't interject as his Primogen speaks to the boy. Silence and waiting doesn't bother him, really. Patience is one of those things he has learned very well: especially after having to deal with that Primogen for the last few decades.

     "How is he?" Valan warmly wonders. "I would like to see him. I will see if I have any conflicts. When are you thinking of going?" He reaches out his hand and he is given another glass of something to drink. This time it is wine. A bordeaux for this son of Bordeaux. "It is spring. It is probably time for a short vacation to Paris."

     Keeling Smart turns from the Brujah tête-à-tête in the center of the room and returns to the wonder of the martini. No need to encourage anyone's vanity... unless it is his own...

     "Whenever," Janet goes on, "...this week, next?" she suggests. "I mean...would you really go?" She didn't expect that, obviously.

     Hansl seems unperturbed; undisturbed by this treatment, his hands again intertwined behind his back. "Ja, a commission. My preferred artform is that of painting, and I intend to do Lord Trevelyan in oils, initially. At present we are still in the preliminary stages of modeling and form capture," he agrees easily, verbose as always when it comes to his beloved Art. He lowers his gaze not at all. "I thank you for your condolences. I appreciate the many honours done to my sire's memory, and hope to live up to his worthy reputation."
     Where the hell did he learn how to talk without the rod up his ass? "I would be more than happy to present my work to the Guild Lord, and can only hope that in some small measure my works will be found of interest. I have a portfolio ready, should it be requested," Hansl continues evenly, a hint of boyish smile puckering the scar on his cheek, "but I would not wish to bore you unnecessarily, mein herr. I know that the way of Art is not of equal interest to all, particularly to those not of the Rose. Should you have an interest, however, do send word care of Lord Trevelyan, ja?"

     "I will have to speak with Edward. I do not think he will mind, but maybe not so soon as next week. For a week or two, I can't see where he would care." No more than this, despite everyone's attempt to persuade him otherwise. "Hopefully," the smile slants and gold eyes glint, "... he will come with me..."
     Hansl speaks and for a moment, Valan turns his attention to him. Did he just tell the Brujah primogen that he was looking at Trevelyan's "form" and staying with him while he does. Why doesn't he just say what everyone now knows: I am sucking Greydon Trevalyan's cock...

     Edmund starts, his gaze snapping to Hansl before him. If something sharp was to be said, what comes is: "Lord Trevelyan is a worthy artistic project. There will be much interest, I am sure. Once you capture his form, in making progress in your Art, you should of course let the Guild in on it."
     "And no...suddenly, I am so not so bored...what was your name again? Full name, that is, if you have one?"

     Janet turns too, a mirror of Valan - if shorter, dark-haired, and female. Her dark brows arch thinly above her green eyes, and her green, off-shouldered gown sweeps at her feet. "Well, um..." she stumbles a moment, not sure what her little vampire ears heard, "...sure, if Edward agrees. We should..." she goes back to Valan, "...make some plans. Call Shelley..."

     Oh, dear. Greydon is not the sort to blush, even if he could; but internally, there is a mental sigh as the particular wording of the boy and its.. alternate meanings.. aren't very hard for him to pick up on. He gives a soft chuckle, and casts Hansl a vaguely amused look.
     "Yes, well, the Guild is more then welcome to visit the portraits as they wish. I welcome visitors, after all. I'm confidant Hansl here will make a worthy addition to the portraits of Treveylan's long ago passed." murmurs Greydon, lifting his hand up to run through his dark hair. At Edmund's renewed interest, he simply arches a brow with vague curiosity.
     Oh, dear.

     "I am Hansl Arnaul," the German youth answers in that calm voice. "Childe of Johann Arnaul, now gone to the Final Rest, formerly known as the Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken, a Primogen of the clan of the Rose. I have that honour, sir, though I fear my own fame is scant." He bows, then straightens again. To his own Germanic mind, the double entendres in what he says are - simply not present. He has but one meaning behind his words; no velvet thrust of hidden meanings. But really, who comes to court without an agenda?
     If anything, he's probably thinking more about sucking Greydon Trevelyan's cock than about staying in this hotbed of politics. Let's be fair.

     Valan turns his attention, or let's say half of it, to Janet. "Ah...mais oui, I will talk to him ...maybe tonight." He chuckles suddenly, and the eyes of the Montague simmer with something more than warmth. "Maybe not. But... I will call you, I promise. And I will call Shelley, too...once I know."

     There's a nod from the Primogen, his hand adjusting the lapel of his dark suit. A kindness to the decorum of the court. "Saarbrucken," he says softly. That was the place. Lips purse and a slight noise escapes as attention's given back to Greydon. "Your problem, Trevelyan," Edmund says by way of acknowledgment. He doesn't want to hear anything about it.
     "Enjoy your...artwork," last word said without a double meaning. All euphemism meant, if distaste in it. The girl is waved at by the top of the pen, signaling a return to what he was doing previously.
     "Trevelyan," oh, one more thing of course, "...I'd like an update soon." The Tremere can't control all the campuses and higher-education schools around the city.

     "Alright," Janet nods, "...just...let me know. So...where are we going?"

     The instrument of writing steps forward, her pale skin a shade darker than her gown. The onyx jewels at her throat gleam slightly, and she takes up her position next to Edmund, extending a slightly-opened wrist to him in preparation for his attendance.

     "Some place new," Valan laments softly, a smile tracing his lips. "I am bored of our usual haunts. Suggestions?" He glances to those around him.

     Keeling Smart rises from his seat, glass in hand, and he heads to another section of the Tate's court quarters. Maybe it is not too late to join in the high stakes game in the card parlors...

     "New?" Devon looks up from his work with Rapunzel. "There is no place new," in his distinctly Virginian accent. "Recycle, recycle, recycle..." he smirks, shaking his head at the younger sort.

     Valan grins, "I admit new is a strange concept for most. But for me...there are still some things that remain unseen..." He is only six, after all. A total of thirty-two years on this earth. "I'm sure the novelty will wear off..."
     This, as with anything...
     There is a wink in Devon's direction and Valan unwinds himself from Janet. "Maybe we should go to Kensington Palace," he is amused at the thought. "And swim in the champagne pools. I might be able to get us in..."

     A shrug is offered by our Lord Treveylan, before Mortimer's last comment brings a vague sigh and a wrinkling of his nose, "Ah, that." he replies, standing a bit taller. He crosses his arms over his chest, and says in a guarded tone of voice, "There's been certain things in the way, with someone trying to muscle in where they don't belong. But we can discuss that, and your update, later." As in, privately.
     Greydon's eyes glance about, giving Hansl a vague sort of nod, before turning his attention back to Edmund.

     "Two nights...make sure you are on my calendar," Edmund states, reaching across himself to dip his pen in his associate.
     "If," Edmund looks down at his document, "...you can spare yourself from Art."

     "Kensington?" Janet pauses. "I...never been there. Well, not on the property anyway," she frowns, skeptical of the whole thing. "Isn't that...some Ventrue thing? I thought King William's daughter lived there..."
     "The fountains are champagne?"

     Valan laughs, taking out his cigarettes and lighter as he heads for the exit. "Aren't the pools of all Ventrue filled with champagne?" Or maybe it is just William and Ian's that are. "Venez... we'll find something...yes? Leave it to me..."

     There's laughter coming from down the hall, a throaty bit of sound and snippets of odd formed languages. For the trained ear, it's two Celts at the end of a conversation: one Welsh, the other Irish. One of the games is seeing a changing of the guard, so to speak.
     The Prince likely remains at the high stakes table, but some of the smart money is getting out while the gettin' is good. Among them, Davydd ap Owain. He appears in the main rooms of the court, heading for a drink with a flash of a fanged grin. "Merci, dearie," he murmurs to the girl what walks the trays about.
     The one walking with him, that'd be the Irishman, gives his arm a pat and heads for the door. Davydd tips his chin up in a farewell nod: "Don't spend it all in one place. He'd be so disappointed..."

     "Alriiiiiight," Janet drawls out, her Mayfair tones audible. She laughs and puts an arm into Valan's, leaving her other hand free to wave at someone else encouragingly to join. "That's it...trust Valan!" she explains, ready to follow him out into the night.

     "I shall make myself available," Hansl answers Edmund evenly, "and speak with your secretary. Art will, I am sure, understand." He bows slightly again, with that ghostly silent heel click, and steps back and away. "Gut nicht, herr." The German is deliberately, there, and he turns to offer a faint nod to Greydon. After all.

     One eyebrow lifts silently. Art. So that's what they're calling it these days. Hansl seems, if anything, faintly amused beneath that stoic Germanic surface - who would have thought it possible? He bows slightly again, with that ghostly silent heel click, and steps back and away. "Gut nicht, herr." He offers a faint nod to Greydon, pausing a moment before moving his way to find a drink. He has a certain thirst - a sudden taste, a taint upon his tongue which needs must be removed.

     "Art is not my burden, Edward. Nor my concern. " replies Greydon, his tone bland even as he gives Edmund a slight nod of his head, "Theft, of late, is... And, of course, coddling the young minds of the future and guiding them, and helping them grow.." A faint smirk is offered, and a nod, "Two days, then." And then, our Lord Treveylan is turning to let eyes sweep out through the rest of court.
     A nod to Davydd across the room, of course. Ahh, at least there are some interesting Ventrue about. They may take his mind away from brooding about Eddie, or saying something he really shouldn't.

     Theft. Well, is all his expression offers. He will not ask, The Primogen. Instead, he frowns a half-nod at the notion of helping the youths, yadda. The task of admin has returned to his attention, and eyes remain upon the document. If there was an agreement to meet later, followed by a dismissal, this was it.

     There's no love lost between Edmund Mortimer and Davydd ap Owain. And that's an understatement. On top of the whole Brujah - Ventrue imbroglio is the 12th Century Marcher Lord vs. Welsh Prince thing. Oh, and the fact that they have both fucked the same woman, though Mortimer has the dubious honor of still fucking her.
     Davydd's lighting up and drinking a scotch, grinning sudden lightning to Trevelyan. How do you talk to him with a straight face? Fuck me, I couldn't do it. He exhales fire and smoke. "You know, I should have something better to do than watch Mortimer fill out paperwork and lose money to Tattinger, but for the life of me," the Cymri's voice drawls in humor to the Ventrue around him, "... I can't imagine what it would be...the sign of old age, surely. Say, Trevelyan... are you in a hurry?"

     Ah. Champagne. The breakfast of champions, even if not of vampires. Hansl snags himself a glass of it, eyes it dubiously as golden bubbles trail upwards from the bottom. For a moment, it looks like it's even odds he'll put the glass back on the tray - but then he turns, gaze as alert as any wolfhound's as he looks to see where Greydon has gone to. What new things are now presented?

     As fascinating as old Eddie's paperwork is, and considering how very much Greydon is sure he can learn from it in how to be a true Brujah elder, he doesn't seem to mind Davydd's distraction in the least. He offers the Ventrue a grin, and wanders nearer, a friendly nod then tossed at the other Ventrue nearby. He loves them Ventrue, yes he does. Only not in the sticky way.
     Usually.
     Treveylan looks over to seek out Hansl, reaching a hand out to gesture the boy over, "Not in the least. I should introduce my guest: Hansl Arnaul. A future prodigy for the Rose. Or some such." He grins a bit, letting one hand slip down into one of his pockets.

     "Let's see... Arnaul... Arnaul..." Davydd's forest green eyes roll up as if having to recall if he's heard the name before or met the young, Teutonic gentleman. His free hand's coming out to shake Trevelyan's hand in a familiar greeting, his cigarette stuck between his lips and held there as he puffs on it. His other hand is busy with the scotch.
     Davydd's look is one of assessment, grand humor, and casual disregard for the sanctity of Edmund's paperwork. "Arnaul... that'd be that German lot. Sorry to hear about your sire. But look at it this way," having finished with Trevelyan's hand, Davydd's reaching for Hansl's. "Most are better off dead. I know mine was," he cracks a laugh after that.
     Yes, most are quite happy that Mithras is dead. Davydd first among them.
     "Welcome to London. So have you gotten the business portion of your visit out of the way? About as exciting as watching paint dry," he drawls out, including Edmund's officiating for the evening. A broad smile slants across his face as he lets go of the Toreador's hand, remembering that he is an Artiste. "Oh...sorry on that. Nothing personal. I'm sure it's all quite interesting."

     Heels together again, Hansl offers a brief bow; it isn't until he straightens that Davydd is presented with a hand to be shaken. Habit. "How do you do, mein herr?" He's a bit stiff all of a sudden; but then, he was attached to his sire. Some would say by a collar and leash. Teutonic rectitude greets Welsh breeziness with uplifted eyebrows. "I am sure that there are those who mourn my sire's passing, and those who do not. All of us who die are, after all, unmourned by some, our passing met without sorrow. One might say that it is a sign of an existence led unchallenged. I find I prefer a less restful existence, these nights."
     A long speech, for him; his gaze strays to the Brujah elder, then back to Davydd, his own expression remaining stolidly grave. "My thanks for the welcome." His hand and its mate join behind his back. "It is not the drying portion of painting which is fascinating, I assure you, sir."
     Welsh. No name mentioned. He has no idea who he is talking to, and for a moment, his thoughts flash to blank panic before the calm blue ocean thought resurfaces and regains control. Treat everyone as if they are important, Hansl...
     "It is, however, painting which brings me to your island. Bitte, forgive me my impudence and ignorance," Hansl says carefully, tiptoeing delicately amid potential broken glass and landmines, "but might I have the great pleasure, even honour, of a name to put with your face? You are correct, however, that I am from Germany. I could do better to strip myself naked, paint myself red and white, and masquerade as a barber's pole than to pretend otherwise."

     "Ah, how inconsiderate of me."
     Greydon gives a nod to the Ventrue near them, and he murmurs, "May I present to you, the legendary but slightly overrated Davydd ap Owain, who actually had a Sire who was likely more prestigious then even yours. Perhaps less lamented, though." A faint grin is offered.
     "For my part, I find the painting itself to be somewhat tedious, but my skill lends itself more towards stick-figures then anything of real interest. Alas." Greydon feigns a long-suffering sigh, even as a hand lifts up to run through his dark hair.
     The grin turns a bit wicked for a moment, "... Then again, if you choose to strip naked, and then paint yourself red and white-- Well. I would never choose to stand in the way of your hobbies, Hansl."
     "So, Davydd; Did you have mischief in mind, or simple company, when you inquired of my schedule?"

     He's not even sure what to do for a minute. The thought of a German... any German...naked. He swallows like he got some acid in his throat, then chuckles, following it with a swallow of the scotch. "Slightly overrated, bah," Davydd murrs out in a voice very like a legendary dragon's. He gives Hansl's hand a shake and lets it go. "Pay him no mind," he murmurs to Hansl. "He's just jealous of me. English lords never could abide a free man..."
     With a grin, he glances to Trevelyan. "Aye well," back to the topic of sires. "Prestige was a funny thing in ancient Persia, I hear. So, a more cheery topic..." Patricide as small talk, really Davydd: "... what would you both like to drink? I hope you're not attending court sober. That'd be a fucking shame...and, no, nothing specific. Just wanted to spare you the further administrative minutia..."
     Dark green eyes spare a glance for Edmund. His lips can't help but purse a little, but he doesn't give him much attention. "We can head to the pub if you'd rather," one of his several in town.

     Hansl reddens very slightly, but tells Greydon with relative aplomb, "I promise you, my lord, my hobbies do not include ... barber poles. However, I am painting you at the moment, and I find that sufficiently engaging to avert the need for other diversions." Surely there's no double meaning in that. A faint heel-click; he turns to the Welshman.
     "A ... free man?" Hansl looks faintly bewildered. "As opposed to what, mein herr? And I admit, I am not in much of a mood for champagne." His glass is eyed again, then held out away from his side for someone to take or not. "Lord Grey?"

     As interesting as the thought of Hansl and poles are, Greydon doesn't linger on that or respond to it. As well, he allows Davydd to explain the importance of freedom. "Ah, for the favor of my salvation, I am in your debt. A pub sounds-- mmn, far more preferable, for I admit that I am sober yet."
     Sober, always, really. Greydon is boring that way.

     Davydd is astonished. To have to explain freedom...
     But then he realizes that he's speaking to an Englishman and a German. They wouldn't know freedom if it popped them on the ass and called them 'daddy'.
     The second bit of astonishment is that anyone...anyone would come to court sober. Good lord.
     Davydd grins and gives Hansl a healthy pat on the arm (the man doesn't know his own strength). "Best not discussed in mixed company. I'll explain it over beer. I'll even buy the first round, I'm feeling magnanimous. Trevelyan..." He starts to say something, then just grins and shakes his head.
     The great red-headed Welsh mountainous git turns about and heads for the door with a March of Mars. It's just the way he walks. The man should be wearing Ares' own armor...

     He braces himself for that pat with Germanic resolution, offering the redhaired man a cautious nod. "...Mixed company?" Hansl gives Greydon a look - half asking for translation and half 'what have you gotten me into this time?' But he is in relatively good humour.
     Better humour than many who have faced Edmund Mortimer for the first time, no doubt.
     He bows slightly, waiting for his host to precede him. He'll take up the tail. His only armour is his suit - that and the aura of blank incomprehension which Hansl projects so well...

     The problem with having a pet Toreador visit you from Paris, is that he doesn't quite know you well enough to make all the correct decisions.
     For instance, the opportunity presents itself for a bit of a walk, you are supposed to walk at least to the side, so that Greydon can slip back a bit and look at the aforementioned Toreador's ass.
     It's a really nice ass, after all.
     However, at the moment, they are escaping Mortimer's grasp, and that's a far more important thing then correcting the boy. So, Greydon chuckles softly, and says, "Ah, your hospitality is astounding, I shall have to take you up on it."
     And then he flashes Hansl a grin-- one that likely isn't going to make him feel ally he better about what he's gotten into, too. Alas.

Posted by rowan at March 19, 2006 01:17 PM