His boat is harbored at the docks, the sails relaxed and anchor weighed. No sentries guard the ship -- it is the same since its first appearance. It is the high king's ship, and it has quite an appetite. But the high king isn't the one known as it's captain these days. No, not since a boy king to be strode up on deck in boots far too big and a sword dragging the ground.
     Seasons come, and seasons go. There have been eighteen seasons now in the space of a few months of time on the material realm. And the boy's grown into the boots, and the sword's been exchanged for a host of...
     ...books?
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig sits in the library of his mother's castle, the very picture of his father. Had his father never seen a mortal day. His hair is a rich copper, putting the rhudd in the Rhudd Draig, and it is cut in modern layers that could be found on London streets (maybe he's been sneaking out...maybe), and his clothes are an eclectic mix of anachronistic and modernistic. He wears an ornate and large captain's coat, looking like a young Captain Morgan in fact, with his Docs propped up on the edge of the windowsill.
     He reads in the daylight, a book over his lap and a glass of wine on its way. Yes! On its way! Held by a blushing, breathless maiden for whom he's just made the day. They grow so fast, these children...
     A corner of Iowerth's mouth twitches as if he can sense the coming annoyance. Why do they bother?

     "Hello, pretty flower."
     And that would be the other princeling. He's grown fast as well, though a different sort of fast. Thieving hands go to maidenly hips, and stealthy lips brush across a blushing cheek. He lifts a hand and quite steals away that glass for his very own - yes, without even thinking twice, he does so. "Go fetch another for my brother, hm?" Gwilym grins at the lass, patting her rear and then moving to lean up against the table with a deft angling of his agile frame. It is in such ways he makes himself known - silent, stealthy until the last possible moment, when he makes the big reveal. It's his showiness which will get him hanged - or so some remark with disapproval. What does he care? He doesn't.
     His clothes are the colours of night-time. Black, mostly, but with dark-hued greys and blues streaked in. A long-sleeved shirt with high collar, tight over his dexterity, a pair of black jeans filched from his father's mortal closet. Barefoot for now, for silence's sake, and with white-blonde hair so like his mother's save for a touch, a hint of flame streaked underneath falling into his determinedly mischievous gaze.
     "You're going to make yourself blind, all this reading. Aren't you bored yet? You should come trawling through the red light district with me, tonight."

     "You are going to give her a complex," Iowerth notes dryly, turning a page. "Building up her hopes like that," he rolls his head against his shoulder to look at you. "She will be crying in her pillow, forlorn. And when she throws herself off of a tower, she will only have you to blame."
     For a moment, he seems to be serious. So little gives the contrary away, apart from the twitch of a corner of his mouth and the upswing of his fiery eyebrows as he looks back to the book. "Not everyone is blessed with the ability to woo and court women like picking lint off of one's clothes, Gwilym. But I am hopeful that one day you will read a book. Did you see the one I fastened to your bed's roof?"
     The look is blithe and regal. And full of shit. Jade green eyes leap in brightness flickering as he looks up from the written word to the wooing lord. "I refuse to pay the District's exorbitant rates. And that's just for the price of ale. Aren't you bored with all of that?"
     He swings down his booted heels and closes his book, turning to you and folding his arms across his chest. Eyebrows crook upward and then he grins. "I mean... dice, women, women, beer, women and dice. There's only so much dice a man can play..."

     "Blasphemer." Gwilym's mischief shows in the tug at the corners of his mouth. Such angelic expression with such sin behind it. He hops up onto the table, settling crosslegged among the books. "Yes, I found the book. It's the best windowstop I've ever used. I had to leave it behind, unfortunately, but both I and Lady Amanue thank you for your aid."
     To the topic of the serving girl, he simply waves his wine - your wine. "Pah. She's got no more interest in me than in you, really; she'll pout, and then she'll go chase someone equally as unattainable. Mother's captain of the guard, for example. Or someone more attainable, if she gets tired of it." He sips his wine, giving you a look as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
     "As for gambling - who said I was inviting you on a tour of the public side of the district, brother mine?" Gwilym lifts his eyes heavenwards, and again angels ought to be singing paeans in his saintly honour. "Really. You misjudge me." The grin he then gives is a thing of the devil. "I was thinking you might like to see how the other half live."

     The Other Half. There is a doubting look. The look that doubts only because it knows. He knows the trouble you breed and what, undoubtedly, awaits him. He knows that he is going to say yes, and he will tell himself he is going to make sure you don't hurt yourself. In truth, it is as much that his brain cannot conceive of not having such curiosity.
     Despite himself.
     Iowerth exhales, a mighty sigh coined from his father's own mouth. "I am going to regret this, in fact I won't even put it in the future tense, I regret it now. But... alright... I will go out with you. And I can't believe you used it as a window stop. It was your grandda's you know. He'll be furious."
     And then lightning cracks in Iowerth's laugh-tugged smile. Devious. "Ah well, it can't be helped." He rises, "I'm sure he'll understand." Really. As he stands, he's an inch shorter than his brother, though neither are small young men. Youth only hints at what Life may yet bring.
     "Am I overdressed?" He smirks and shrugs off the captain's coat. Meticulously, he takes it up, folds it over and sets it on the chair, letting its heavy brocade and fabrics rest heavily over the wood.

     "Pah. I'll get it back from her - in fact, maybe we'll swing by her place tonight." Gwilym waves a hand airily, dismissing the very notion of his grandfather's wrath. "At the very worst? He'll be relieved to know it fell in service to a good cause - getting his grandson in with a lady of excellent birth. And I do mean in."
     The corners of his mouth lift and spread as you give in - as he knew you would, really. He clasps his hands behind his head, stretching. "Grandda's got other things on his mind, anyway. You know as well as I do by the time he shows up again, it might be days - or weeks. I'll get the book back from her, assuming her father hasn't found me out. If so, well - it isn't as if she were a virgin, much as he might try to protest otherwise. I gave her a reference to one of the higher-class brothels; she's been pouting about her papa not giving her funds enough. She tried to slap me at first, but then she was intrigued; I could tell by how she fell into my arms."
     Gwilym rises to his feet, looking you up and down critically. "A bit darker, perhaps, if you're wanting to go with me by the shadow road. It's the road I love best, you know; and I'd prefer you know a bit more of it than you do. In case there's ever a need - for your sake or mine, brother dear." He smirks, not anticipating that there would ever be such a need; with such powerful parentage, who would dare?

     "Dark roads and dark seas are mine, I know them well enough," he answers dryly, blithe look returning. Iowerth looks down at himself. Black Docs, black leathers... ah well, fine, the shirt is white. Smirking at you, his fingers touch the hem of his shirt. Inky blackness begins to spread as if the shirt were being dipped in dye at this very moment.
     "Better... yes, I suppose it is. And you have a rather broad notion of lady... a brothel, really," he grunts. A shake of his head. No, such girls are not for him. There are whispers, in fact, that girls aren't much his speed. In fact, most are quite certain that Iowerth Rhudd Draig remains a virgin. This is, of course, a bold-faced lie, as you know yourself. But he prefers older women. Women of power and standing and station, most of whom are married.
     Naturally.
     "How was she? Apart from free, willing and of loose moral character and fiber," Iowerth tacks on with a dismissive wave. Yes, all that can be assumed. He gestures with that hand for you to lead the way.

     "Yes, well. I obviously was referring to my roads, of course." He gives you a droll look, brushing his hands down along himself, smoothing out the mishmash of colours to a uniform charcoal grey with a black stripe diagonal across his heart.
     "I am not the one to give the title to her; it's hers by right of her father," Gwilym laughs, mischief in his eyes. "But she was rather delightful, yes. Willing and wiggling and lithe and loud, and, really, when all one intends is to pass an idle hour, what more does one need? I wasn't looking for intense discussion or argument; the only parts of us which needed to meet were specific and graphic, and our minds never needed enter into it."
     Insert Tab A into Slot B. Agitate vigorously...
     He leads the way not to the door but to the window. "Coming, Iowerth?", Gwilym inquires lazily as he steps up onto the sill. "Do you still remember how to fall like a leaf rather than a rock?"

     "I think I can manage, yes," he says with a roll of his eyes. He laughs (he is capable) and waits for you to hop out. "Move, you great git..." he rattles with a shove.
     "Don't all your roads lead to beds? How many roads are there?" Smartass. Suddenly the sill is crowded with your brother occupying the other side. "What have you been up to?"
     You, wanting to give him a tour. You must be up to something. You are you, after all.

     "How many beds are there?"
     It's the obvious retort. Gwilym grins to you, a flash of white teeth, a flash of eyes as green as yours (though a different green). And he leaps off the sill. And changes...
     To a leaf...
     A sheet of paper...
     A tumbling feather...
     And back to a man, landing lightly on now booted feet in the courtyard far below. He sidesteps out of where you're likely to land, and waits until you do. "What have I been up to?" Gwilym holds a hand to his heart. "I'm crushed. Truly, tragically crushed. My own brother - my only twin - thinks that I'm up to something."
     "I'll tell mother on you, you know..."

     From burgeoning man, to floating leaf, from floating leaf to the puff off a falcon's breast, to seedling lastly sprung from its mother-father tree, Iowerth glides, spins and finally settles beside you. "I know you, is why," he whispers.
     "You'll never tell," he whispers through a grin. "Besides, she'd never believe you." He's the one with the good marks in school. He's the one who reads and eschews the offers of breathless maidens. He's no "Good Time Charlie". He's a bit too much like her for that.
     "Lead on, MacDuff," he quotes Macbeth with a waggle of his eyebrows. "I can't wait to see it... whatever it is..."

     "Fine. I'll tell your da and mine," your brother retorts under his breath, with an answering, troublesome grin. But he's not one to pursue a joke past its still being funny; Gwilym turns away, gesturing to the shadows between hedges and walls. "This way."
     This way leads through shadows, and where there are shadows, he's found leylines and paths of power...
     The shadows twist as he crosses them, as you cross with him, becoming not the shadows of the palace but the shadows of an alley. A new trick, learned with patience and cunning, and oh, doesn't he just look proud of himself - pleased as punch. No wonder noone's caught him sneaking in and out. "My roads," Gwilym says offhandedly, as if it's nothing to be proud of - even if he is so very, "lead anywhere I've been. So, the way I see it, it's my duty to go anywhere I want."
     The shadows shimmer and writhe at the edges of your vision, the prince of them still holding them tame in his grasp. He waggles a hand, giving them a bit of a shake, sending a squealing rat skittering across the alley. "Go on, you ruddy reject from a Christian metaphor."

     Vines of shadows...
     He followed you along the narrow path of darkness. Shadows, yes, and maybe the dreams of shadows too. "Nice trick," Iowerth whispers. And there is admiration in his voice for his crafty double.
     It's a different sort of darkness, isn't it? He starts to think it but he is very careful with his thoughts. He holds them to himself for now, jade green eyes showing only that he's thinking. And you usually know what that means. The same thing it means when you're caught smiling.
     "And handy. Anywhere you've been. Of course, now it leads to bedroom closets I suppose." Eyes twinkle in merriment. "But one day..." The spy's road. A hand comes out and clasps your shoulder, giving it a tussle and shake and a clap to close off the endearment.
     Iowerth watches the rat skitter away and he starts to look for others. Rats. A hazard of the sea-faring life. He gives a kick for good measure, then makes sure to check his pockets.
     This is an alley...
     "So does this lead anywhere or are we just here for the aesthetics..."

     "Bedroom closets, and under beds," your unlikely and unalike twin agrees, lips twisting with his mischief. "Back alleys and back doors. Anywhere and everywhere, just so long as," Gwilym lifts a hand, taps his temple, "I remember."
     To steal his memory would be to steal far more than just a purse...
     It may yet happen...
     He begins to stride along the alley. "This is what I call my between place," Gwilym explains with a sidelong glance to you. "It isn't real, but everywhere leads from here. Rats always seem able to find it. People, less so - though occasionally I've had some stray gutter-wretch stumble in, flailing drunk, and get stuck here. Never for long, and they always find a way out, not knowing who it is who's helped them," such an angel's look again, "and I'm pleased to say that they never find their way here twice. If and when they do, I'll need to find or make somewhere else for my base."
     He doesn't offer to share how he made this place. Perhaps it's just that he's waiting for you to ask; or perhaps it's that it isn't something he'll share, even with you. Gwilym leads down to a door, painted green, and knocks three times. "The mistress of this abode," he comments, "has a dark pair of eyes which look out at the world without warmth. But she favors me, for some reason. I thought I'd introduce you."

     "A place between places," Iowerth notes, eyebrows wandering slowly upward. "How do you maintain it?" For that is more the issue, even, than the creation. You are moving on before you give any explanations, and your brother is right behind you.
     "She sounds lovely," he notes dryly. "But what about this between place. Is it between shadows, in the shadows...divinity is in the details, brawd." Brawd - brother. You've knocked and surely she'll answer. But now his brain is working over time. Hypotheses and theories abounding.
     If only he had a book handy to jot some of them down...
     "She's not going to look through my soul, is she?" Iowerth suddenly wonders. "I'm not sure she'll find anything..."

     "It's a forgotten place. A place where noone goes - not a dream of a place, just a real place which men have forgotten about, discarded as no longer belonging anywhere. It belongs to our mother as much as it does to anyone, but I doubt even she knows about it." Gwilym waits at that door patiently, giving you a brief, slanting grin, sharp at the edges. "What happens when people move things around in a city? Things get built over, around and through, and sometimes, there's left over bits which noone remembers. This is one such."
     He knocks on the door again, whistling softly under his breath, a mockingbird's note. It's echoed, and he looks satisfied. "She's coming. She doesn't trundle in souls, brawd, but in hearts. And I'm quite sure yours is as safe as mine is, so why worry? She's a sweet thing, but she doesn't have much patience with my flirtations; just ask her what you want to know, and either she'll answer or she won't. I've found her insights ... odd. Intriguing. But ultimately? Useful."
     And the door is opened, lit by a single candle. A robed lizard with a red rill along the back of its head looks at you and your brother with bulging eyes. "Ah, Master Torob," Gwilym greets immediately, with a flourishing bow. "Is herself to home? My brother and I come a-courting, you see..."

     "What I want to know?" Iowerth suddenly says, fiery eyebrows knitting. Glancing to the door, he leans in to you and lowers his voice. "What do you mean What I want to know? About what?"
     And the door opens and Iowerth pivots. His face is full of annoyed consternation, having been brought to a divination without a bottle of wine or a specific question to ask. It's like showing up to a costume party without a costume.
     Or, better said, the other way around...
     But the consternation quickly fade for blithe acceptance of the fact that his damn brother is marching him onto another damn adventure without having divulged a damn thing. As usual. So, Iowerth decides to take it all with a martini and a smile. So to speak.
     The expression of the more thoughtful of the two princes wears a rather bland look, raising an eyebrow at the robed lizard. Having been around so many dragons in his youth, he is quite in tune with the more reptilian energies (it may explain more about his personality).
     Iowerth bows his head with much less of a flourish than his brother. It is a tilt of his head, but his eyes are still engaged with the subject.

     "She is." The lizard bobs its head once, quickly, throat throbbing. "In, in. Boys. In." It scurries back out of the way, bowing slightly, bulging eyes never leaving the two.
     Gwilym strides in confidently, apparently needing no further introduction. "Thanks, Torob. Good to see you as ever. How's the monster flies been this season? Let me know if you need another shipment." He winks as he passes, not slowing his pace any.
     Inside, things are dark and prone to decay. Everything seems on the verge of falling apart, save for the very center of the walkway - crumbling stone walls lit by dank torches that give off a musty odor, a line of white tiles marking the way down the middle. Gwilym glances over his shoulder to his brother. "By the way - stay on the white tiles. Much better if you do."
     And again, no explanation, the git. Though he does murmur, "Anything you want to know. Or I want to know. Or whoever goes to see her, if she's in a good enough mood for it. She's usually in a good mood when I see her. Ah, lovely lady!"
     The walkway's opened up to a sort of throne room. There's a dais with shallow steps, and a gilt-edged throne. Bits of gilt are missing. The woman seated upon it wears a black robe, her face shrouded by its hood so that only a dainty nose and feminine, sensitive lips are visible - no expression noticeable. She's curled, one hand to either arm of the chair, leaning more to the left than to the right or center. Her voice holds no inflection. "You had to bring someone else with you, I see. No longer content to gamble with your own life alone, highness?"

     "My dear lady, if you are accustomed to my brother, then you must mean that question rhetorically," Iowerth's own voice utters as he follows his brother up the white-tiled road to Oblivion. He glances to his feet as he walks, his eyes lifting to you. Yes, they are twins. But the sons of two fathers.
     Destruction. Decay. Darkness. These are the things of his father's kingdom... are they not. He walks unafraid.
     Iowerth looks to his brother. What have you gotten yourself into... and why are you bringing me with you? His mouth twists a dark smirk. His father's shadows live and breathe in the curve and curl of his flesh. His red hair shifts as he bends in a bow to the woman.

     "My brother speaks for himself, and would try to thrash me if I even dreamed of thinking otherwise," Gwilym grins, planting a hand on his hip. "Lady Death, allow me to present to you my earnest and more sobriety-minded sibling, Prince Iowerth. If he chooses to bargain with you, I imagine he will."
     "If it were not for our bargain, prince of shadows," the cloaked woman mutters, "I would not treaty with you at all. However, our original bargain still stands." One hand twitches irritably, then lifts to point to Iowerth. "You. Come closer. I will not harm you, but I wish to taste the air about you. Do you bring me questions, son of the Dragon?"

     Iowerth steps closer, a glance to his brother. "The questions I have, my lady, seem to be more for my brother than you. I do not wish to waste your time with other questions that might well suit other men." I am not other men, his face and body echoes as he stands before you.
     All of eighteen...
     "How does the air taste? We'll start with that question for now." Green eyes slant to his brother as Iowerth turns his head slightly to the side. You are going to tell me, my brother, everything. You do realize that.
     Iowerth then turns his full attention to the woman, waiting her reaction to whatever flavor physical or spiritual he might have. Perhaps she'll catch whiff of the perfume of his last encounter. Lady Alwyn, a visiting emissary's wife.

     The glimmering look the spy prince gives says We'll see about that and maybe, maybe not. Strawberry blond hair's swept back from his eyes with a black-gloved hand, and his arms are then folded over his chest. Gwilym's smirking - yes, that's a smirk. No question about it...
     "You taste unseasoned as of yet. When you understand pain, you will be more to my liking," the woman says indifferently. "As of now? Callow youth. I have no interest in your heart - it holds no savor. It is insubstantial, as the air around jasmine."
     Ouch...
     Gwilym casts a raised eyebrow at his brother, then at the lady. "Well, princess, if you're done savaging my brother with the sharper edge of your tongue," he says easily, "I think we'll be going; I wasn't intending to stay for tea today, but merely, taking the shortcut. Iowerth, you about done, here?" You should be, his raised eyebrow suggests.
     "I want no company of yours, kings' sons. In time, all spend time in my domain, save those who have no sensitivity. If that is you - then so be it. I do not think that it will be so." The woman reclines back upon her throne, a faint, malicious little smile curving her lips. "Begone, then, the both of you, if you are quite done here..."

     I am going to sodding kill you...
     Many an Edward has said this to many a William in the past. This won't be the last time this Edward says it to this William, to be sure. "My Lady, I am... sorry that my ...youth is of no interest to you."
     Though really, what substance did you expect to find in an eighteen year old? Isn't your pleasure then really your fault?
     Her malicious tone does not seem to trouble him at all. He does not lack for courage. Along with the ...jasmine of his youth, and the lavender of his last woman's perfume, is the clove of his own arrogance. He is eighteen.
     All over...
     Iowerth nods to her, more a nod than a bow, and he motions to his brother. Yes... let's go. I have to kill you. Might as well do it before the end of happy hour at mum's pubs.

     "Until next time our paths cross, Lady Death," Gwilym says cheerfully. Yes, yes, you have to kill me now. We both know you won't. You might blacken my eye, or try to - you might even succeed, but that's part of the fun, isn't it? It doesn't stop you from following me into trouble...
     He bows courteously to the figure on the throne, then turns his attention back to the white tiles. They lead past the throne and the dais, past a line of crumbling stands on which there are jars of pickled meats swimming in brine and oil and other things. Up a flight of stairs and out again into the light - a dank alleyway, with a cellar door behind and ahead, the main thoroughfare of the red light district. "There," Gwilym declares as proudly as if he'd built the district himself, "just outside Mistress Octavia's. Dear lady, that. Let's go raid her wine cellar, shall we?"

     As soon as you are both in the alley, your brother's hands are on you and he's aiming for the alley wall. "What are you up to, Gwilym?" Iowerth hisses. "This is madness."
     To say that Iowerth is pissed is an understatement.
     "Don't ... ever lead me into a chamber like that again without telling me beforehand." Those green eyes are sharp in color, glinting like a comet off the waters of the dark green seas. His grip starts to loosen, just slightly. What is the bargain you have made, brawd? What have you given, what have you done?
     Iowerth shoves you against the bricks then lets you go, his quick temper abating. Sudden storm that he is. "I can't believe you... wait, no...I can. You are either brilliant or dense. Or both. All of the drinks are on you tonight. And you're going to show me everything. Full disclosure, Gwilym."

     The sharper, emerald green eyes glint in wicked amusement, even as the wall meets his leathered back. He's laughing. Can't you just hate him? Gwilym laughs, holding up both hands as if to ward you away. But all he does is wave them at you.
     "Given? Nothing. It's her that owes me, brother. Calm yourself," he flashes that white grin. He finds this hilarious. "When aren't the drinks all on me? Come on."
     He waits a moment, to make sure there isn't another assault in the offing; then he pushes off the stone with a low chuckle, sweeping his hair back from his eyes. "Mistress Octavia's, or the Pink Slipper. Decisions, decisions - well, I'm not out to shock you too much. Mistress Octavia's it is, then." He sets off for the aforementioned brothel, slipping in through a side door and holding it for his twin.
     I really don't see why you're so worked up, brawd. You treaty with older women all the time ...

     "Shock me..." Iowerth crows incredulously. "Fine," he huffs, "...go right ahead with the Queen of the Damned in there if you must but if it leads to your ruin, don't come crying to me to bail you out." He says it. He doesn't mean it. He'd be the first one there.
     And he hates that you know it as well as you do...
     "I... treaty with older women," your twin continues, "... but they're not icy fingered death maidens sittin' in a dark room with cowls," he inherited this ability to rant and rave from his father, "...you must be mental..."
     Iowerth is full of vim and vigor, vinegar and piss from the Beast of Chaos himself. Well, there's one fewer of those these days -- one his father killed on the very day of his birth. That might explain sommat. He pushes into the brothel and is smirking. "Just so long as she owes you, brawd... Never the other way around..."

     "Bah," Gwilym waves his brother's ranting away as easily as if it were nothing. "You don't know what you're missing. Besides, it isn't as if I've shagged her," his eyes widen and he looks to the room with a sudden grin. "Not when there's so many lovelier ladies to shag. Hello, dearie," he moves to a pink-haired bit of fluff, his hands going to her waist as he lifts her to buss her soundly. "My Peach, you still are. My brother and I aren't here," he winks, "so don't go telling anyone otherwise, hm? A table for the two of us, and a couple of charming companions." He gives her a slap on the behind as she scampers past, getting a squeal and a giggle in return.
     "Don't worry, brawd," he grins, "I'll take both companions. I've two knees, after all. I wouldn't want to trouble you - I'm too kind, no, really." He strides to a table, hooking a chair with a booted foot and dragging it out for himself, dropping heavily. "I gambled with her, Iowerth. Found her sitting there in the dark, same as you saw her, and we played at dice. But," he smirks, "she liked the smell of me better, for some reason. Unseasoned youth. Ha!"

     "Fuck you," Iowerth lilts. "Unseasoned, my ass. I've sailed seas she's not even imagined." And then he looks to you pointedly. "Even you. Pain is the seasoning. Where does she get her witticisms? Greeting cards in London?"
     He takes a seat at the table, boots on the surface and fingers lacing on the finery at his stomach. "What could I possibly care about how she finds my smell at any rate? Truly. And take all the strumpets you wish," Iowerth smirks. "They're mother's lackeys. I prefer her not to know everything I do..."
     The Captain begins to calm down from his earlier tempest's raging (it takes a while). Finally, the bland expression returns. He's looking for his beer....

     "I prefer mother concentrate on what I do with the girls," Gwilym retorts, "than get too caught up in what else I do. We're men, aren't we? What's she going to do, put a chastity belt on me? She knows as well as anyone I'd pick the lock and laugh at her."
     He leans back, lifting a hand to snatch a tray away from a passing waitress. So deft the movement, she carries on for a full moment before realizing her burden's been lifted by a grinning rogue prince. "Here, brawd - on me, as you said." Gwilym winks. "Anyway, she's after a specific pain. Why she thinks you haven't felt it," he shrugs, "I don't know. She feeds on heartbreak, and she wanted to dice with me for my own heart. Obviously, I won."
     Which can't be the whole of the story, now, can it? But he's sliding a pint in front of you and picking up his own pint. "London. Mmm. I want to go roaming. Think we can slip mother's leash long enough?"

     "Well, she is barking up the wrong tree. I do not expect to suffer heartbreak. I do not expect to love. I am not the sort who...well... like you, for instance, who falls in love with everyone he sees, high or low, young or old."
     Iowerth chuckles, finally laughter. It lights him up -- the ladies tell him he should do it more often, his mother included. "I mean... me... ha... in love? Heartbreak!"
     Swinging his feet off the table, Iowerth goes for his pint. He takes a healthy swallow and then sets it aside. His captain's sword hangs low. And as he is wont to say...that ain't all. "I love my mother. Therefore, I want her blissfully unaware. I'm a good son." He tips his chin. "Unlike you."
     Leash? Speak for yourself!
     "Since when has slipping away ever been a problem for us?" Iowerth smiles and takes another long swallow. "This brothel appears to be strangely lacking in women..."

     "We're here during the changing of the guard," Gwilym grins, sprawling back and lifting his pint. "Octavia's seeing the afternoon shift off and taking her cut, while the next shift's getting dressed - or undressed, as the case may be. She hasn't got the space for the girls to live here, after all."
     He takes a long pull at his pint, coming away with foam on his lips. "Ahhh," he sighs. "As for love - I look forward, brawd, truly I do, to the day when you do fall. I'll be there to pick you up, of course, but not until I've had a good, hard laugh at your expense. Your day will come - look at our fathers. At least I've never gotten /that/ bad!"
     He shudders, Gwilym does, at the very notion of mimicking them. "Besotted, they are, with our mother. I love mother, but I'll never be that far gone for any girl." He grins suddenly. "Want to go upstairs and surprise the girls while they're changing? We can be quiet as mice..."

     Iowerth grins, waggling his fiery brows. "Or actual mice..."
     He is a little devil, your brother. But then, so are you. Rising, he finishes his beer in a swallow and sets the pint down with a solid thud. Besotted, I'll be sure to quote you..." He barks a Davidian laugh and punches you on the arm.

     One pint follows another, with an echoing thud, and then where there was a man there's only a grey-furred mouse with suspiciously bright, emerald green eyes. One closes in a wink, and then the rodent dashes from the seat down to the floor, skirting the baseboards.
     It's nothing I haven't said in front of them when they're kissing. Now come on, you'll miss all the fun...
     Quick as a wink - as his own green-eyed wink - Gwilym darts into a crack in the wall and is swallowed up by the brothel's walls. Last one there has to pay for the drinks... Yes, just like his father, he cheats.
     Why would you expect otherwise?

Posted by rowan at March 12, 2006 12:07 PM