"You've made a right mess of a perfectly evil tower," Aeron says, leaning back with his hands propping him upon on the stone.

     "No matter the temptation," Gwilym murmurs, "I do not want to hurt you, Prospero. Or us. I try to funnel my temptations into what you will not be harmed by, even if exasperation might occasionally make your eyebrows lift at me."

     Hope you allow yourself the odd bit of happiness, even though it's scary. That's all I want for anybody. I just want everyone to be happy. I must be the biggest masochist of all.

     While his steps are definitely in shadow of the prince's more blazing trail, Prospero does not seem to be in a hurry. His motions are purposeful, carrying him forward, propelling him after you. Two quarters of the orange are eaten, and the citrus scents hover around him in his stroll.

     I could cheat. I could cheat so well that I could rob you blind and you would never know it. I have diced with such devils and won, kept my skin and bones intact and lined my purse with money not only from rascals but from reprobates.

     "I feel like Jove," he says, his gaze going up and down and over you again. "I am the boss, yes? Tonight, Jupiter was challenged. So I had to fight. Sometimes, amice, we have to fight like the dogs we are, to see who is the boss. And you know who that is? Me, that is who!"

     "No whining on the astral plane," comes the intonation of his voice. Rhodri looks at you, cocking up an eyebrow. He saves whatever other commentary he may have for later. "What are you drinking?"

     Will the taste of your blood spring to mind? The immediate kiss might be recalled, but what of the piercing shock of the suckled lip as it was taken, tasted? A match to oil, will what started the fire be remembered?

     Suits him fine. You see him look at you with that easy, canary-shit-eating way of his and he smiles, the corners of his mouth ticking upward. "Truth be told?"

     Iowerth smirks. "Worried, Distressed and Confused." His eyebrows arch up and he exhales. It does sort of suit him at the moment...

     At your mention of calling someone, the door flies open, steam pouring out and green eyes sparkle in the hot fog. "Fucking hell, no. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I just want to finish my shower, fucking go shoot someone or start a war or sommat manly activity."

     "Do you think we've thrown a wheel?", Helen peers out the window at the blackness nervously, then looks back to her sisters. "What could be the matter?"

     Oddly enough, numbness worked. What to do with fire in the head? Dunk your head in ice. Brilliant! But you know what works better than a tub of pure ice water? Pure fairy whiskey...

     But he expects it shall cause no ripple whatsoever, this night at the De Ville, his appearance in the sumptuous halls of his own Clan. Why should it? Would they not have to care first, in order for there to be such a thing? And when have they, exactly. He came in a Plantagenet to a Capet party. This he knows. And as long as he is a Plantagenet, it shall be so.

     "...And I started to - hear things. See things. It was - as if I'd been taken outside of myself while still being inside of myself. I saw ... people."

     But then you keep rolling on and it's a good thing she swallowed her wine because when you get to the two men-open marriage-thing, she's stunned. "What?" she hisses in a whisper to you, leaning in.

     Fiona scowls at you. She's just aware enough, dim though the light over the porch is right now, that you're cutting her off. "If you don't appreciate my custom," she says majestically, "I can go drink somewhere else. I'm not drunk!"

     "Hello, Dot? It's Fiona. Look, I'm going to be at Betty's Boobs tonight. I need you to meet me there. I - look, I know I don't ask this usually, but I need you to keep me from doing anything too stupid. I'll be there at eight."

     There's a smirk for your callousness and a roll of his eyes. "Don't hold your breath counting on it, dearie. I'm as like to steal what I want as to wait for it..." And he likely means that. And has likely done just that in his day.

     William exhales, leaning to put the glass aside on the nightstand. Gathered there are Edward's things. The Browning. Cell phone. Silver case of gak. There is a glass, brandy snifter, quarter-filled with blood (his own). A bit of fresh...

     "Shite," A large hand hits the steering wheel and the phone is tossed into the empty passenger's side seat. "Why am I the only one making sense," and now I am talking to myself? Hockley. South? South... somewhere...

     That voice is rich as it is earthy is capped off with a grin, and the fingers that finished the song on the twelve-string start another in the in between. For those who can See, he's a wonder in gold. A loitering fairy king on a chair of oak. Everyone is mesmerized, like the legends of old Tam Lin...

     "Bah, revenge," Davydd rolls out, earthy and low, the sound lingering in his chest, "... you wouldn't," he teases, he challenges, he grins.

     Davydd's voice drifts slightly as he stares openly, feeling the rush and want, the magic, the need that you inspire and the apples that will forever taste of you, your skin, your mouth, your thighs. "... I like the idea of you dripping in the jewels I stole... "

     Your spouse wanders on the parapets tonight, blue and scented smoke trailing his slow stride. It is a way of connecting, disconnecting and imprinting. It is a lord's walk, a prince's walk on the walls, walking among the tower. Below the lights of the ville twinkle and the lights on the Vienne and the bridge that crosses over it.

     "Never fucking mind." She pulls the money for the bar's trouble out of her pocket and tosses it on the table, apparently getting ready to go on her own now, "Who the hell do you think? Davy. Davy, Davy, Davy. It's always bloody well Davy."

     The house was likewise full, the downstairs hall became the second gathering place. Staff and vintners and guests alike converged. There was finally a moment, sometime around one in the morning, when he could find you and suggest to you that you should both slip away for a few minutes...

     An old-fashioned Bacchanal. With attendance by Athens, no less. Under the watchful eyes of Athens, Gaul gives its own tribute to the vine and wine god. Yes, with all the furor of a truly Gallic happening...

     In each vineyard, there are feet crushing grapes, juice that is tasted, wine that will be made from the old-fashioned labor of feet. This wine will be used next year, in hopes for a better harvest than some have seen due to the strange late summer weather.

     Who's the fucking pretty boy, came the cockney crack behind him. Fucking tosser, came the laughter. And Valan turned. There was a little quirk of a smile. He even blew them a kiss.

     Did I jump across for nothing? Are you tired of me already? Are you going to pull that 'I realized I'm not gay' line? This is what you get for sleeping with straight, dead boys, Valan.

     There is a universe in you. Let's take a look.

     William opens his eyes. Slowly. You have stopped? Indigo eyes are a shock of violet and blue -- after so much opium, absinthe, tainted blood -- the colors have separated into separate flames, each roiling, color wavering to create the wave-lengths of Indigo.

      "What is that like?" he asks. "Being in love with your favorite subject? To love a canvas and the person?" A not so simple question, though simply asked.

     Shh. This way. Step. Foyer. Living room. Stairs. Dieu. You'll have to deal with the stairs. Okay, I can do this. I can do this. You can do this, Meurelle. Just one foot at a time. Dieu, you haven't been this fucked in ages. Sheer ages.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     "Guillaume FitzEmpress!" the screeches go. "I know you're here. Hiding." A stop. Boots silent. "Gah, get yer hands off me. Yes, I know I can't come in like this. Yes, I know he's busy. Fuck. I created the word 'busy'." A sigh. "Hey," Edward chirps, "God, you're getting all your oils on my jacket!"

     What else is a Celt to do when heartbroken and brooding but sing? Hell, we invented the lament. No one sorrows like a Welshman. Not even an Irishman...

     He laughs. Rich, the sound and warm. And amused. And delighted. And Knowing. "You should not bait the hook, if you do not want to catch a fish, ne c'est pas?"

     There is a visible exhale from Christian. Among the Justicar, he must indeed be the most sociable. "Sabbat in Paris suggests other forces in Germany. I think this is why Messereich is as he is right now. Well, he is as he is, because he is Ventrue," Christian drolls out. "However, that is of concern, and the organization of Tours and Poitiers. Of that, I am sure Girault will have much comment," he motions to the returning companion.

     Past the entrance to Montemarte itself, there are still old gates marking your entrance -- much as one would expect to see sign-posts in hell, and not so far from sacre coeur, there is a gated mansion, very old. Very steeped in the bohemian legends of Montemarte. La Tanire de L'oie D'or. The Lair of the Golden Goose.

     "It's alright," he says, "...it'll be alright..." Such words, such famous words. But he doesn't stop, and a hand reaches out, lightly moving against a reddened cheek. And he kisses you anyway.

     Consistency is great, if you realize it's being consistent. In Drancy's case, she has no such assurance, and being tossed over a shoulder to make the world go topsy-turvy, well, her world's already gone topsy-turvy - this just makes her anger flare up again. "Put - me - DOWN!" She beats ineffectually on your shoulder, squirming and struggling.

     Show me...
     You who know so much, show me what this life is like...

     When my flesh parts to your mouth, you will see them etched there. The glimpses of things that have yet to be, yet to happen. I am staring at my first view of the ocean and seeing the stars as for the first time. And you are there with me, Eduard. One night, we will have drinks with your friends, and our lips will move with an escapade...

     "Yeah, but..." Edward goes on, "...what if I waited...and something happened to him??" his voice nervous and animated. "What the fuck then? Spend an eternity wishing I'd had done it...and he'd still be alive? They're so fuckin' fragile Will. Anything'll kill them."

     To your right, Edward. There... shadows and the dim light of the bar play against a tall, lean figure. He is shorter than William ... shorter than you. Perhaps six even? And he carries himself ...confident. Approaching, but in a meandering fashion. He is not making a direct approach to you. Rather, he has turned, navigating around a table nearby. A survey around him... as if looking for someone. Looking at you.

     Comforting like a pair of old but familiar shoes -- is that how the saying goes? It is a strange saying, is it not? For is a friend like a pair of old shoes... or should be? But perhaps it is that feeling of... being worn in. Familiar. Known. What's better than a pair of old slippers, formed perfectly to the feet? Or a visit from an old and dear friend...

     "What do you think?" querying you. "I think the trip was... hmm...lovely but I'm doubting it was very restful..."

     "Oh, great!" screams Edward, "That wasn't really even fuckin' necessary." Fucking Plantagenets.

     "She," the man seems hesitant to say, to explain why a broken-off flower would need be given to you, "...she...claims that it was as this...after she took the clothing from...the wash."

I am a wicked man ... I am a wretched man... When Jesus was upon the cross I never was this alone ...

     As people head into the ring, Edward turns to see you and gives you a smile. "Hey there, cos!" he yells, "Whatcha doin?" as if nothing's happened and you're walking towards him down the street.