She can get into the talk of art. It helps her to distract herself from how you look, sleepy or otherwise. Distract herself from her own imagination, the urges it inspires in her. The things she wants to do, such as plopping herself down in your lap, sleepy as you are. She is trying very hard not to think about that.

     A hand comes up, tugs lightly at your hair, and she sighs, going quiet. Love is a son of a bitch. Remind me, if I ever run into that fat diapered freak that's Cupid, to kick him in the balls...

     "...I can't go on pretending to be Saint Peter to make all of you love me, or forgive me, or need me. I'm collapsing under the strain of it..."

     She's suddenly shy, taking the paper back and setting it aside. "I have a lot of faith. I mean, it's not religious faith; I don't know how you'd explain it. It's not religion, though. I just, I do believe there's something more to the universe than atoms..."

     She bends her head to peer blankly at the papers, golden hair falling in a veil before her eyes. "Thank you," she says quietly. "I'll ... see you in the morning, then."

     "...I was High King there for a while, but all things must pass, yeah? Besides, the real work's back in the Other-Other-World."

     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.

     "Now, I am an engineer. I have built many buildings, castles, cathedrals. But I do not know how to reconstruct this friendship. This family. It's broken. So... he has made a new one." Frowning, he shakes his head. "Maybe that is all we can do. Make new families, and leave the rubble where it lies."

     You made me order it, watch it, regret it. You made me kill you. And I can't forgive you.

     In the quiet space of one's soul, there is no place for hammering. Though the London nightscape glitters past the windows and walls of a small apartment, and an Indian kitchen cooks up delights whose flavors permeate even concrete, in this small bedroom, in this quiet space of his soul, Davydd lingers with only one.

     The earth is in a constant state of reincarnation. Everything but me is changing. The bud becomes the flower becomes the leaf. I am the same width, the same weight, the same density as I was eight-hundred and twenty-eight years ago. Even an English Oak would have grown, would have changed in all that time.

     ...But I will be your escape when you need it. That's what Black Jacks do best...

     "My phone rang all night. Fairies, vampires, wolves, shivering nuns -- you name it, they rang me."

     "It's a good deal more goddamned interesting than cricket..."

     The sun rises, the sun sets. Rhodri is with you during your days; Davydd, your nights. With the trading off, it is beginning to seem as if each husband were simply different aspects of the same Man. Never existing at the same place, at the same time.

     "Would I be happier in knowledge or ignorance? Let's ask Adam, shall we? I believe that is the quintessential question of the universe, my brother. For now, give me the illusion of ignorance. If you are still seeing him in a year, then... come confess, my door will be open for you as always."

     Amice, my heart is like a fig left to dry in the sun. It is shriveled and small. You could serve it like pesto on a cracker, it is nothing. Flavorful but then gone in an instant. And yet, in it is pumping new blood, humming with the power that is in your blood. I feel something. I do not know what it is. But I feel it like pleasure and I feel it like pain. It is a confusion, a puzzle. What is it, what is it -- it beats with that question.

     "In these heels? The bull'd catch up with me and then where'd I be?" Fiona angles her face up to kiss you emphatically, a hand going up to your cheek.

     A guitar pick rolls and flips, finger to finger, leaping, effortlessly leaping, faster. And faster. It is a blur of motion, faster and faster until it becomes a streak of red and blue hovering above his hand like an aura. The pick, a guitar. Are you playing me, shadow-lord?

     There is something on the air that runs from him to you. Without calling you by name, it invites you. Charisma backed with something else, indefinable.

     "Hmm? Oh... no... we're not just about sex." Course not, baby. I love you for your mind. "I like watching telly with you as well as shagging." He says it so seriously, it must be true!

     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?

     "The last time, I ended up tied to the bed with my own necktie, you six months pregnant and ... wait a minute," he chuckles, "...that was a fan-fucking-tastic night. Alright, you drive a hard bargain. I'll sleep with you...but I want to be respected in the morning..."

     "I want an old fashioned car, a cerise Cadillac, long enough to put a bowling alley in the back. I want an old fashioned house, with an old fashioned fence and an old fashioned millionaire..."

     It's in the heart of London; the irony appealed to him, inasmuch as anything has been appealing to him of late. Where does the man who's lost his heart go but to the city whose heart is stone cold uncaring?

     Taking his pack off the table and shoving cigarettes back into his jacket, Davydd narrows his eyes. "Llew, good on ya lad. I'll see you. Ah... and if you see the boys..." a pointed look, that, "... tell them..." Davydd pauses a moment. "...they should come up for air."

     After the call, brief as it was, came to an end, your captain showed himself again. Lift that pillow, tote that blanket! What had been efficient tidying before, following several hours of complete and utterly decadent dismantling, now had to be the very spic of the span.

     "It's not about being nice," he grumbles, "...it's about honesty...and about discretion. And knowingly allowing a potential corruption. That'll look nice, right next to all of my other wise decisions in the last few hundred years."

     "You are important to me, Io," he says quietly. "Y' are, oes? But ... I need to learn this, this thing. You - are going to go off in other directions. I've been ... using you for balance, all my life. And now ..." You have gone off in another direction. And my equilibrium is suffering.

     "... And he's cloaked himself in shadows. Shadows take a toll on him. Maybe," she sighs again, "maybe we were wrong to raise you two so much over there. It would have been different, here. But - I was selfish."

     The metallic steel crash of strings rattles through the amplifier in the flat above Black Jack Davy's. It's an hour past noon and Iowerth and his ... companion ... are out for the day. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is taking advantage of the opportunity to break the silence in a noisy fucker sort of way.

     "The realtor told me the previous occupant was ...quite artistic. He said the whole ship's painted rather fantastical, with blinking Christmas lights strung up year round." His mouth cuts a wry slant. "I'm not sure about that."

     I am the sea and the dreams that move them. I am the storm and the center of the storm. I need someone to stand with me, against the waves. To swim to me out in the middle of the ocean. When I stretch out my hand in my father's raging challenges, will yours be there to clasp it?

     He crosses to one of the other tables, sitting on the edge of it, letting his legs swing. "I'm scouting for an apartment over one of the little clubs. Music in the evening, cheap vodka, easy women - all the things mother'd warn me against. I don't plan on avoiding you, Io, I just ... I don't know. I have - things to figure out."

     You are leaving me...

     The perpetual gargoyle, Edward sits upon a ledge, smoking the last of his current case of cigarettes. Soon it will be time for another, and he'll have to leave his perch to find the nearest corner store for a top up. The other option is simply to go home, and he's not really sure he's up for it at this instant.

     "My father was a canon, so I'm a son of a gun." Justyn receives a wicked smile, and Ramses lets his feet drop as he leans forward. "Solidly middle class and I ran with crowds above my station in life. I killed my father with disappointment by being so dissipated as to become a poet. Or maybe I'm lying through my teeth. You'll never know, and what does it matter? I'm who I am now."

     That's the look on his face as you come at him with a sword. He can disarm you -- he's not worried about that -- but he doesn't want you to hurt yourself. "Now, sweetheart... put the sword away and let's talk about this rationally..."

     I'm lost, and I don't know how to find myself again...

     If this is the seduction, if this is the information you wish, my spy... you will have it. More than you need.

     "Ah," Edward says, not really responsive. "So 'whatever it was,'" Edward says, "...was complete and utter bullshit, then? Fuck if you're not as bad as any woman, Valan."

     "Why can't you just take something, for once in your life, at face fucking value?" Davydd remarks, amused and exasperated all at once. "I mean, how often do I," he's grinning now, "...apologize for anything?"

     "I'm telling you," Edward laments, plucking his bottom lip with two fingers, "...there's too many in London." Undead, that is. He sighs, shaking his head at the state and shape of things.

     "I do need you," Alire admits with a smile and some coloration. Though, it occurs to him that the globe is only one-way. You cannot see him. He begins to roll out of the shirt. "I feel the separation of our worlds when I go where you may not..."

     Those'll stick with him for a while. Every imagined contortion, every fantastical arrangement of bodies he could have imagined were on display, made just by two. Hanging from a special silk sling, a cocoon from the ceiling on hooks. All that was missing in that... fucking circus was a trained dog, a clown and a couple of musically inclined monkeys!

     "What makes you think I am wild? Those who know me would laugh to hear you say that." His lips make a twist as he holds still -- all but his mouth and eyebrows. You'll have to forgive him that much expression at least. "Edward Drago," Iowerth adds, anglicizing his name. "Or Captain Drago if you prefer."

     He is honorable, and capable, and so what need have he to blush?...Perhaps the arrival of his mentor, a man of great faith, great will, who really isn't supposed to see him flirt.

     The electric flamenco stops and Rhodri unjacks, slides the guitar around the back and comes over. "No one pays attention to the ramblings of the lead singer," the lilt and drag of the un-English displays itself. Not Irish. Not Scottish. Something Other.

     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 acknowledgement. He doesn't want to hear anything about it.

     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."

     "It was an ... interesting image. He burned as a dark sun. I ... would not trust him with my soul, I do not think, if I had one. But it made me wish to paint. Not him, perhaps. But to paint."

     There are eddies in the dancing throng of The Odeon, noticeable only to those who can feel as well as they can see. The charge on the air is tight, electric, openly sexual. And at the center of it is a golden Caligula.

     "I have known for some time that only a man would move me. You, Greydon, have moved me; to you, I respond. Your words hold me spellbound, and your touch enslaves me. As an individual, removed from my sense of self, I wish to study under you; with you, as the object of my study and as my instructor. I wish to work with you. As a man..."

     Relax...
     Relax, hell, you don't know...

     "I do not have to brag to tell someone to fuck off," Valan chuckles. "I simply say... fuck off. It is less work." A cigarette is in his mouth and it is lit. His lighter and the pack are stowed away along with his gear. He zips up the red and white bag -- Francais Nationale -- and hoists it on his shoulder, puffing out a bit of scented smoke.

     Al'alim taps away the brown and grey ash, "I do not think you sound foolish. Young," he grins at your call on that. "Not yet lacking hope in self or in others. If you can hold onto such feelings, then... who knows," another shrug, "...you may be the better philosopher..."

And when it comes to all night living
I know what I'm giving
I've got it all down to a tee
and it's free...

     The rare few plan to be a harpy or become The Harpy because they know the true path - poise first, influence second, power follows. Only then will the crowd point and say - That is the one you need to talk to. That is the one you should impress.

     Now, the corgi is rigged to the contraption just like a horse would be, and he trots as proudly as if he were the queen's own prized arabian, decked out in Christmas (alright, Yule bells) and grinning madly.

     In an inherited ap Owain motion, Rhodri saves the beer from the sudden motion of you on his lap, his one arm cradling you as his other spreads out to hold the Guinness at a safe distance. He chuckles, "Well, I guess it was a bit foolish to think he'd be right back."

     It'll be a long journey, ap Owain, but you've made those before. You can't protest your feelings and expect things to change. Well, they'll change sure enough but in time. In time.

     And you are in a low time now, yes? So how could I ever think to leave you for something as trivial as swordplay and politics...

     "Veuillez attendre son excellence, Prince de Paris. Trente secondes," the male voice says evenly, professionally, and with an expectation of compliance.

     Davydd both chuckles and sobs to hear that. Turning his head to his friend, he gives a vipered grin, his eyes creasing in the corners. "Now that's the William I know and love," comes the croak of his voice. "On my ass to the end of time."

      "You are...the best thing to happen to me. The only thing good that has happened..." he looks slightly sadder, "...to me. I am...at your debt, Samantha. Eternally."

     There is a new story in the images that sail at you. A man with a face of terrible beauty when angered pours himself a drink in the back of a limousine. The bulletproof glass installed as a modification to the old limousine holds up to the throwing of a glass as his temper erupts. His scotch-stained hands go to his head as he sits forward.

     "Ah, sensibility," Davydd croons. "Such language," comes the mock scold. As you look him up and down, your gaze raking over him much as he'd imagine you'd rake your fingers though the devil's own coals, he stands there, open to your look, unabashedly himself, drinking his scotch.

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily."

     "Venetian. From Venice. Your parents ... met there." One eyebrow raises quizzically. "And, of course, your parents met by some startling, astounding series of coincidences that made for a hell of a story in the retelling, didn't they."

     "They can teach the apes of India to type Shakespeare," William waxes on as he smiles, his head tilting back to see you, "and I can pour a scotch. The wonders of modern science." He winks and he waits for the other evening salutation -- a kiss. "For ill or fair," he says quietly.

     "You are really improving. Perhaps we should take a trip to Tokyo some time. You can study the masters of Eastern Art, and I can have tea waiting for you." William smiles to think of it. "I can be your samurai, waiting. You? The emperor, of course."

     "What the fuck did you do to your hair, boyo?" Davydd rattles out, standing and heading for the stew. He shakes his head at his son. "What was wrong with the color I gave you, by virtue of my stunning genes..."

     Are you on crack?
     Davydd peers at you, saying nothing amid your... cascade of words, as many as there are raindrops and about as random.

     "But our future is out there," Edward's head rolls to the sky again, "...somewhere. Sometime." It's not here yet. He doesn't know what it is, but it does not lie with London.

     "...I have unfinished business with Rosamund. And... I am going to see her to close the book on it. I want you to hear that from me, not her. I won't be fucking her."

     There is no greater rejuvenating power than that of blood. And yours, so magical, moves though him as powerfully as the act of taking it affects you.

     The white fringe lowers as she looks down to begin picking loose the plastic seal on the bottle. "Open it and find out. Or maybe Miss White," her, "will kill Captain Crimson," you, "with a bottle in the living room..."

     I still love you. Fiona brings things round to what she suspects might be the best thing to say first, to get it out of the way. We're still getting married. And I don't think Davydd is going to try to kill you.

     You seem to have something to say and he's waiting to hear it, the sound of the other shoe dropping. "I don't want you to wait a hundred years in solitude," Davydd shakes his head slightly, tapping away the ash again.

     "Oh, and one other thing," Fiona adds, leaning back so that she can see your face, read all the expressions written there, see your eyes and the worlds that lie behind them. "Yes..."

     "...It is time for Avalon to return to those who need it most. This body is theirs, I give it to them. With it my soul. With it, my being. For this land and I are indivisible. I am Avalon..."

     "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest."

     You give him license to ask and he goes quiet. He seems to mull over his question as he looks at his biscuit. He takes a bite of it and washes it down with cooler (though still very warm) cocoa. "Are you happy, Fiona?"

     It is a plate of crow, son, that's what's on the plate, the fork's in your hands, and you're the one eating it, Llywelyn.

     This is a William you haven't seen in a while. Not since he retired in fact. It has been a brutal two nights. For everyone. "Well... I'm not angry," he murmurs. "I don't know what I am..." he says suddenly. "...Afraid, I guess. Worried."

     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...

     William looks from the sky to his friend again, this time his gaze remains there. "If you cannot remain in Our World, and we ... cannot go to yours... shall there be a middle country? Will Earth do, Davydd?"

     "If Heaven is near Southwark," Soldekai smiles, still hovering near the bed. He smiles as he watches, taking delight in the scene.

     "It did take me longer than it should to realize that though I have been consigned to darkness I do not need to remain in it. In the end, the curse is only as good as the belief one puts in it. Same as faith..."

     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...

     "Who is he? Or was he?" Her eyes go wide. "That Hugh fellow? Or the blonde? Or that bloke, the rich one... the one with the castle," she snaps her finger, "Mr. Big...."

     Perspective... there's a splinter of it here, after all...

     "I was glad you could make it though. I wasn't sure if you'd want to or not." Again, honesty. What's gotten into Rose some might ask. Or, it could be that she's also at least a little curious to see if Davydd warned you off after the coffee encounter.

I'm a breather... a receiver and I don't know where I stand not since someone informed me that my house was built on sand... And its not the earth beneath me, just some concept of the land...

     It's like a fireplace throwing off sparks, in some ways, isn't it? The magic in the song is as real as the song itself, rolling through the room, even if most of the room can't sense it.

     Claridge's. Resort of the rich and famous. And apparently the great powers of the undead. Is there anyone actually Alive in this building? He has to wonder.

     But beneath the fashionable black layers, hats, and scarves, there must remain glamour. Can Caine's childer do without it? For when they stream darkly into the lowest levels beneath the Tate Modern, they reveal their True Selves.

     "I have missed having a woman on my lap. Long has this playboy," a wink flickers indigo, "...been without a bunny. I have had nothing but hare," men, "... for years now. I will say I do not miss the drama," eyes widen a touch as he grins, "...but I do miss the blushing, giggling, perfumerie of it all."

     "Something's going on, William. There are two here... who really aren't here."

     "Fear'll do that," Davydd smiles and the sun comes with it for those who can see it. For all others, it merely warms and brightens his face.

      And now there is no doubt in her mind that she is not safe with either group of men. "Shite," she curses on a breath, then spins on her heel to run, jabbing frantically at her cellphone's faceplate.

Guillaume: [Nods.] There is no fairytale in this, Montague. The only happy ending is the one walking here with you. I got to live, you see. Though, incidental to my own story, at times, my fate and destiny not my own, I am the only one with the happy ending...

     "Alright news," Ian nods, smirking for the close interruption. "I am much like Midas," Ian observes, "...though saddled with the electrons of this age." He sets the PDA down near his leg. "How is young Montague?"

     Enter VALAN MONTAGUE, the Hip, Young Man About Town. Waiting on the Tower Bridge is the Duke of Normandy, GUILLAUME d'ANGEVIN, clothed in a dark suit with an equally dark overcoat.

     "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."

     And there he is, an Old Man with Coffee. Her Old Flame. The man she couldn't live with or without for fifty years, or was it a century? Sommat like that. It's probably too late to leave. Setting his cup down, he gives his paper a snap and smoothes it out from the wind.
     Yeah, that's the reason...

     The Last Gunfighter. You stand in the street like a post modern John Wayne. The cigarette. The tough guy attitude. You are attitude in spades, oui? The cupping of the flame spills golden light on his golden face and golden hair. His suave Hipster's gear no match for the Cowboy.

     "A fortunate man indeed." Idly it draws a hand up, regarding it stark light of the street, turning rings and bracelets in the streetlamp's glare. "There are many who yearn for such a life. Many who dream of dreamless lives."

     Edward grins at the young man beside him, nodding his head. He gives a shrug and looks back to the Prince hovering over the dais. "He is no stranger, this one," Edward affirms. "He is Valan Montague. A Brujah," Edward says with some pride, "...of a rare line, and We all are honored by his very presence among you now."

     He'd successfully waved away this night for three years, and despite all his bravado and influence, he couldn't make the night disappear for his love's benefit. And it upsets him.

     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.

     A celestial gift.
     "I do not do this so often," Sentinel, "...but I was glad for this task. It is..." she smiles, sitting down, "...the stuff of Dreams." Himself, literally.

     Aloud, again, she recites a cellphone number, and she sits seiza, closing her eyes. Emotion rushes forth to fill a void, and then, Fiona Arundel, known to some as Drancy of no other name, watches candles burn out to blackness.

     "In less than a year and a day, you will find him. You will find Answers, though they won't be the ones you are expecting." His words filling the space of those crawling moments, before the coin falls the scant foot to the table.

     In other words, Kit Marlowe aka Galadriel Cherub of Dreams and Sentinel of Aspirations is on vacation. A stay at home sort of holiday, with an iced latte, overlooking Gabriel's Wharfside, his boat, and all of London's teaming tourist traffic.

     "I don't suppose you know a fellow called Dei, do you? I was told he might be here - otherwise, I admit, I wouldn't be, myself."

     It's been a while now since he stepped onto the scene here. When he first came in, his English was atrocious, his blood was new, but he was good, very good. Good with epee. Better with saber. Edward Meurelle's childe...

     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 one more in the club, now, than there was a moment before. The vertigo and emptiness shifts to a momentary feeling of claustrophobia, then flees entirely.

     "I feel..."
      That was no tap, it was a punch...
     "...violated..."

     The white cotton suit. A suit tailored for warmer climes, its light colouring and weight making it almost entirely unsuitable for London. And yet this man seems comfortable in it, not noticing how out of place he seems.

     "I just thought I would pay you a visit... Many are concerned about your Patron." Another drag form his cigarette before adding, "Andrealphus." As if he needed that explained to him.

     It makes him smile. For the first time since being on this planet and in the material realm, he can honestly say that he is very, very happy.

     "There's a French revue opening off West End, not the actual West End, but close. Anyway, an open audition for singer/dancers for an actual stage act, Julian. I've always wanted to do that, and well... I auditioned."

     "Always nice to see help in town," Salem says, her blondish hair piled on her head. She pushes up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Have you gotten settled? I will admit...I'm a little surprised, but no less grateful."

     London. Is everyone going there? What is going on anyway? Well, you may know. A front of a battle only beginning to make itself known. Kit. Going to London.

     She kind of looks like a cross between the Mongolian Jennifer Lopez and a slightly shorter version of Tia Carrere smashed together. "Uh-huh," Yisun drags out. She points at him and peers. "Mare's milk with a beer back, right?"

     Huh. Phantasmagoria. Yisun quirks a look between the waitress and Jonathan. "I'm new to town. So... this place is hot?" Hot. Get it? I have become so droll...

     Yisun stands and smiles, her hand coming out. "Yisun Inkhe," she says, natural and native Mongolian accent on Mongolian syllables and then: "Pleasure to meet you," English accent having a war with something almost ...American.

     Dearest Emily. Herein is a goddess from the sands of dead Aegyptus. She spread her wings, in centuries past, to protect her King. Let her now wrap you in her aegis of feathers.

     Lord Andrealphus, I try. I promise. But, Lilim? Here?

     Annabelle Deschamps' arrival in town always makes for an interesting time, and always causes ripples.

     He looks at you in the mirror for a moment, then says, "You alright?" He's going out in a while. A planned recon meeting to check out heroin dealers who may have supernatural backers. Edward smiles a little, continuing to tuck in his shirt.

     Here, she is known as Alexandra Salem, Planner for the City of Westminster and Greater London. An urban architect of the highest caliber...and one of David's oldest and most faithful servants. Rumors abound that she is the next Archangel, and her greatest calling card is the civilized human world as we know it.

     If a raven can really look like a drowned rat, then this raven achieves it, royal girth or no. He's as big as a hawk, really. A true rook. As you speak, he tilts his head at you, rocks back and forth on his taloned -- quite formidable at that -- and then he hops down...

     "Melodrama, at your age," he murmurs, shrugging his jacket into place, smirking. "As if anyone should pity you." As if you pity yourself. William gets the joke.

     "I did hear that you were asked to speak with me. Is there anything you ... would like to say, Edward?"

     William inclines his head again, his eyes drifting over you. "You wish to see. You fear what you may see. Tell me... is the price of seeing more costly than the price of being blind?"

     The paper's folded a few times, shoved into a pocket, and she climbs onto the ledge, poised there for a moment with a quick glance around. And then ...

     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?"

     "Mary," Davydd sings out, staring through the lights to his favorite waitress. "Mary had a little beer, it's head was white as snow..." The crowd roars and the band behind him, chuckling, begins plucking out the children's tune. "...and everywhere that Mary went, the Guinness was sure to go..."

     His eyes are almond shaped, slightly slanted, and dark. A shade deeper than night. And he stands some seven feet tall one's eyes may think. In vestments made of shadows and earth, fur. Fox, both grey and red. Wolf at the edges of his cloak. There are talismans of fairy metal, and of claw and tooth and bone.

     I want to be with you, Huw the Hunter... even if it's frightened me, even if your strength is more than mine, or perhaps because of it. I want to be greedy, and know you with all my senses. I don't know if this is because of Chinon and its master, or something Dei started but didn't finish - demon or no - or an offshoot of having met Davydd. Or perhaps, what you said to me, yourself... 'To not love because of him, just lets him win...'

     A thrumming in the back of the head, fluttering, follows the clocks. A ripple in the floorboards, imperceptible to most. The sound of something rushing forward at incredible speed.

     ...And then, holding out the package, the slender smile turns to an almost grin. "Ventrue Express..."

     "I love you," Sandrine murmurs, closing her eyes to enjoy your lips at her skin.

     Julian's face cracks its present placidity, a smile angling at his masculine features. "Needing. Wanting assistance." He nods in familarity with such terms. Lavender eyes look at you again, sorting out negotiable items. Julian begins at your head, with its curl, and works his way down, pausing occasionally.

     The threads illuminate one of the white washed walls, something like stucco only not, and the heretofore random peelings and cracks in the wall become a crackling smile. "Put a kettle on, Karoly, prop your feet. Tell me, how have you been. What have you been up to..."

     The spear gleams. It is not made of gold but seems gold. Not made of bronze but seems bronze. Not made of earth but is as easy to hold as one hewn from the wood of her trees. "When London is ours," Michael intones, "... embed this in the center of the city." And the lines of battle will move forward at your command. You are the standard bearer now.

     "Holy --" Edward doesn't finish the rest. "Um," he suddenly stands, eyes wide open, "...no..." already, he's tumbling past your legs and the table, moving towards the foyer. "No, no, I got it...just..." he twists to see you, hands out, "...just stay there. No," he blinks, turning to look in the mirror above the table in the foyer, "...stand. That's better," he nods, running a hand over his hair.

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

     The kiss begins softly, Edward's eyes closing. Upon the white linen, his fingers touch your hand, seeking them out among the remains of your meal. It is gentle, but pulling as the chair wills him back to its cushions. There. Edward's eyes open, wondering what shall you think of it. I am falling in love with you, it said. I want you beside me. Stay...a while. He breathes then, brow furrowing a little as his own thoughts resound in his brain. I hear it...can you?

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression.

     "Ah well... it could have been a worse ending. She could have done worse than William Plantagenet giving her Last Rites, Davydd Llewelyn staking her breast and Edward Meurelle of Blois landing the striking blow..."

     Her skin is so pale. She moves past you but her eyes are caught by something else. A feeling? Copper hair glistens and the bob flips with the turn of her head. Just as a yellow light passes by in a stream. She sees the back of a head familiar. A strong arm circles around her small waist, and she turns. Can you hear them, Edward?

     "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.