Tilting his head, Davydd looks to Fiona. "Sounds familiar doesn't it," he grins. "I'm getting misty with the memories."

     "What would I do without your wisdom and love. I should wander more than forty years in the desert complaining of the heat..."

     "...Enjoy him when he comes to you to show you a part of the universe, to teach you. Please him, because you love him and have faith in him. Please him, because you enjoy it. When you surrender yourself to serve him, you will find yourself freed."

     Maddie shoots Balthazar a look that wavers somewhere between you didn't tell me! and you're a WHAT?. She blushes as the applause and murmur both move around the room with their rhubarbing rumble, and she hastily - very hastily - takes a drink. A large one.

     She smiles at you, in quiet sympathy and affection, her hand lifting from your knee to cradle the top of your head. "You need to let her go," Tanira says gently.

     "You have finally learned that it does no good to argue with me," Agapios grins. "I never thought I would see this day come." When he says it, however, it has two meanings of a two-fold depth. His smile turns from teasing to fond to loving in a manner of moment.

     Hope for the best, and the best is usually revealed. Fear the worst, and the worst always shows itself.

     "Good, cheap coffee - now you're singing my song. Throw in a really good plate of crullers and I'd follow you anywhere," Damien declares with some enthusiasm. "When you start missing Tim Horton's, you know you aren't home, eh?"

     "...I really like him," she murmurs, telling her reflection as much as anyone in the room. "He is so kind, and so gentle. And he tells me things, and I could listen to him for hours more."

     The body disappears, pulled into the darkness by loyal hands, and Iovis Macarelli strides away from his evening's correspondence.

     From the labyrinths of London's shadows to those that exist Between Places, leading lastly to Otherworldly covers of darkness, I began to walk.

     "She offered me a game of chance. If I won, she would grant to me access to a realm beyond my imagining; if she won, she would get me to do with as she saw fit, her slave forever. My soul, essentially. And we played at dice."

     To defeat the darkness, one strikes a light. The poisonous shadows swimming in his blood cannot bear such light; purity is the enemy of poison. Gwilym cannot see, cannot sense it; cannot hear the howls of terror, defiance and finally, defeat as that light shreds away at the dark.

     As you napped, your father stood over you smiling a moment. You look like you've worked hard. You've at least worked hard at looking like you worked hard (he knows the well from which you sprang).

     I do not know how to define it, nor myself in reaction...

     So goes the dictation on a busy, busy night. At the borders of the corrupted kingdom lies a great and untamed wilderness. No kingdoms or queendoms hold sway here, but the loose confederation of subjugated villages, villages that now suddenly find themselves free of their dark burden.

     "Your mother has commanded a battle tonight," he begins, no time for endearments or blandishments now. Ramanthus outspreads his arms, his legs also as he stands. "We are raiding the corrupted kingdom of Winter Diamonds. In a matter of hours."

     "... You call the shadows to you, pluck them like strings, and play a tune -- whatever is to your liking. Will you one night cloak yourself thusly and become invisible to all?" He smiles a little, quizzically. Not confused by your gifts but so curious.

     Duw... I want and I want, and I go on wanting. Io, if ever I could hate you for falling for a man, now's the time. What would you think, to see me here, to know what thoughts are going through my mind? I don't dare put them into words, not even to myself.

     "...You? Completely different. Sleight of hand, hide the heart. You have the concerns and the questions of a master spy. The Thief King. Your brother is the drowning waters that fill the lungs. He daily seeks to avoid drowning. Himself. Others. You..." He narrows his eyes in studying you. "I believe you are in danger of making yourself a figment of everyone's imagination. Including your own."

     For the first time in years, Kit stands alone. He is not flanked by guards, assistants, chatty stars. For a moment, a blissful moment there is just him in this Glade. And in the sound of crickets he detects the laughter of God.

     "I need...to go...Alfonso," Edward begins. Odd shift. "I...I..gotta go."
     The sound of something familiar. And something bad.

     There are some bulls that you cannot nudge into fighting when they do not want to fight, and Edward Meurelle is one such bull.

     "I think," Ian says softly, turning this face to you, "...there is a problem."

     "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."

     "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 love the rebel in you. I should kiss you now, my rebel queen. But before Lord Arundel can think that Davydd is forgoing his dinner to eat his daughter with his eyes (if nothing else), Davydd looks to Fiona's father and takes a bit of the salmon and asparagus. "That is one of the many reasons we love your daughter. It's never a dull day with Fiona Arundel. Another scotch?" he offers.

     You are feeling her... aren't you... her memories, the things she felt and saw. He looks to the plaque, to his words there. To the woman who is truly only memory now. He expects only the jewelry he buried with her remains. Perhaps, even those diamonds have let go of this earth...

     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.

     "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..."

     Andrealphus chokes on his words and weeps, "I did not even speak to him. I failed when I could not save her. When she left, it was my failure. And I could not face you. And then I heard the lightbearer say: See what Love has done today..."

     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.

     It's been a long time since there was a king. Not a king of mere kingdom - someone who could merge with the land, and more than the land. Someone with the power to command souls. Too long, mayhap. I don't know that we're still what we were, when we were, then.

     It is the kingdoms of fairy and dreams dotting the Imaginary Landscape, with the dark oceans of future dreams dotted with heavenly stars and creatures. There, the plains of chaos, roiling midnight blue clouds of Unknown Possibilities -- both Good and Evil -- both unformed and waiting for God... or the dreams of Man... to shape them.

I received your request with some amount of surprise. It is not often that I receive such commissions ~ or, rather, I receive them nightly, but never from the one for whom so much has been made over the years. Is Eros arming himself? That my concoctions should be his arrows both delights and honors me.

     "Oh oes, about the king. He was belched on shore, entangled in the lettuce of the sea and pushed up by the waves onto the sand. Well, he was lucky he came in with the evening tide, or he would have burned up for certain."

     And apple trees would come and go. When the first ones died, their children took over. It's a copse within the garden now. Covered with blossoms in the spring, apples in the autumn, pink leaves turned to brown in the winter. No stone to mark her spot but a plaque engraved with a Welsh poem. The title? To Penelope...

     "The Winter Diamond." Peter shakes his head. "Since it wouldn't be the Summer King - that's the same as the Oak King, the Winter King being the Holly. And there are no others right now that involve seasons as part of their names or titles - not that I can think of, and it hasn't been that long since I hung up my reins."

     "Shall we talk about the hippopotamus in the room, or shall we continue to ignore it and make with more small talk?"

     Penelope sits there, shocked for a moment, then whirls on you, teeth bared in a moment's unrestrained savagery. "You - you - you!" She scrabbles to find something which she might throw at you, leaping from her chair. "I loathe you!"

     She is lost. Rapt in it, visions of long-ago poetry and the skill to summon forth such visions. Perhaps that is why as the hours creep closer to twilight and the sun bit by bit disappears, Penelope fails entirely to notice the horse below's loosening of its reins from the branch, and then its gradual wandering away.

     "If by boring and predictable you mean to say magnanimous and charming, then... yes," he grins at you, his hands unlacing from where they lay upon his stomach to take out his cigarettes again.

     "You must be the sphinx," he says, a lilt not from England or Scotland. "For I have seen men come and go and none of them successful in moving you. Do you have questions that must be answered, or a riddle that must be solved?"

     "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?"

"They say all sorts of things." Penelope closed her book with a snap, rolling her eyes with a put-upon sigh. She glared at the other two girls, shaking her head. "No doubt he is six feet if he is an inch and most virile and charming and debonair. Are you two such twitterpated little creatures? Haven't you heard the song? This is just some highwayman looking to earn a dishonest coin - he's likely never done an honest day's toil in his life! He's doubtless toothless and hairy and old and covered in filth. If I should meet him, I should soon give him a piece of my mind!"

     "You attuned to the Outcast," Madian says dryly, with only that momentary pause to signal his surprise, "and you spoke to him. What did you do, firstly, to make this happen - to, as you say, the best of your abilities?"

      "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."

     "Don't look like I just gave you some bad tasting medicine," the waitress smiles again, with sparkling blue eyes that don't look the least bit reptilian. "Let's call it a brief respite from Purgatory," she drolls, "...and an opportunity," such a word! "...for you to reclaim that which you believe is lost. I believe the word you're looking for is credibility."

     "If you are not here for a book, then I do not know how I, a bookstore owner, may help you. But... tell me what the problem is. Perhaps there is something," Albizzina finally looks up, her dark eyes fixing forward, her lovely olive face tilting, "... I may do for you, Miss Higgins. Would you like a cappuccino?"

      "It is business, not love. You are Italian. You understand this. Do not forget what we are and are not, Paolo. Whatever you pretend for the sake of the children."

     "Notte," the Italian says, lifting his voice so that the person may hear it. "Excuse me... do you need a ride?" He tries it first in English. Has to be a tourist, right?

     "I am well aware of how pleased you are to see me growing fat. You need not think that I will be similarly pleased should you do likewise, no. You must remain hard and hard-working." She sniffs, turning her head away.

     "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."

     Oh well, you say, sitting in the comfy environs of your room, reading over the fucked up details of my life, you are fucking mental Davydd -- everyone knows that. Everyone knows that but you. Only I know it. I've always known it. But then, no one's immune...

     "I...wanted you to know...my real thoughts," Cesare notes, seeming done. "Not the things I may have done or said when I saw you last...first."

     Paolo looks over to the voice to see a familiar face that has not been seen for some time now. He nods a greeting. It is as close to smiling as he gets. "What will happen when we fail?" He looks at you a moment more, then says succinctly: "We will sink..."

     "Behold, the coming of the answering of Dreams! That which is sought will be found; that for which you labour will be fulfilled! But every man and woman turn their eyes to the wayward West, and you will find Truth!"

     "...Tonight...for the Holly King... it was a night of sacrifice. Giving up the present," his dark green eyes settle on you, and he is sad. "... for the promises of the future."

     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.

     You are better than any tenor than I can recall, comes the Latin in your head, said with the lulling tone of a practiced priest. Native tongue, they say, but few can confirm such Truth.

     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 when they have found you, you shall find that while you may have done with Venice, Venice has not yet done with you."

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     That is the name of your husband this night. As the excitement of the early morning fed into the furor of the afternoon and the frenzy of gossip, gossip of orgiastic proportion -- Caligula-like gossip, fitting for the event itself -- and now spills into the torrent, the whirlpools of the evening. Like the Scylla and Charybdis, he churns in epic proportions.

     "You must decide on what this means, gondolier. Anything which I say at this point will seem to you now or later to be intended to guide you for my own dark purposes. Your conclusions must be your own. You have been played false..."

     Apart from the birth of his children, each of them, he cannot pinpoint a happier moment. Not even the knowledge of its...mirage nature, ephemeral and unlasting, can strip it from him tonight.
     Here, in front of all these people, Paolo smiles...

     Albizzina moves to stand before you, she reaches to take your hands. "Blessings on your children, Cosimina. All new children in this City are blessings. Visible and tangible agents of this Hope. That all is not lost. That we may salvage the future. I believe it. If We believe it, it is possible... hmm? Even love between you and Paolo is possible..."

And you, you have dipped yourself in blood and gone to my lair, and here I do nothing but suck you dry.

     "Why do you dwell on how it happened, Paolo? Are you hoping that I will suddenly sigh and rest my head upon your shoulder, gaze into your eyes and say, 'oh, my darling Paolo, how very handsome you are, and I adore you with all of my heart, and if only the sea could rise to cover me so that we could forever be together'? I am not a schoolgirl, and I do not think either of us have very much interest in each other's hearts."

     "I am doing the best that I can," he protests it quickly. Always, the arguments. "Do you think that it is easy for me? I should be twice the man that I am, just to get around." He sighs. "And I feel that with everything and the sea, I am less than half of what I should be." There is frustration there. With this, with Rosalie, with Venice.

     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.

     "I have recalled myself to the Hunt in honour of my cousin, Isabel the Fair, the Queen of the Seven Towers. She has departed this world most unkindly, her death hastened by the malice and planning of others. With me go my brothers; the Wild Hunt shall ride no more."

     And it is alive. Though Yew trees and Blackthorns are there, reminders of Death, Life is everywhere. For without Death there is no understanding of Life; and no Life without Death.

     Think not of what cannot be done
     Think not of what cannot come to pass
     For none of those things exist
     On earth, in dreams, or in the highest heaven

     "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."

     "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."

     Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick.

     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.

     The luito speaks. I listen. Through its strings, it reminds me of songs that I have sung. Things I have done, all the good things. All the righteous things.

     His weeks of counseling have not gone unnoticed. A quiet has settled in the lowest levels of Notre Dame, seeing that St. Etienne - a joke amongst the Malakim and Cherubim who walk the halls - has withstood the drama flamed by the latest arrival.

     I love him, says the look. Yes, this was a Caravaggio that was meant for William to repair. No one could bear more longing for a golden youth than he does his own.

     The crowd parts slightly as a figure, rather stocky with blonde hair, is tossed backwards into the throng. A couple catch the victim, affectionally yelled at as Hock, and push him, unceremoniously, back into the central fray. They move around to complete the circle once more.

     Glass is complex. Lines and mathematic, chaos and error abound even in the most beautiful creations from Murano and Limoges. But they are the most perfect, the most beautiful creations to the trained and untrained eye.

     Beauteous the crowned head that tilts to the voice of the salmon. The water sloshes as he walks within it, becoming in mere moments, a salmon himself. Trying to prove? What makes you say so, Gwydion the Blessed?

     And soon the Toreador are on what talents one may or may not have. Guild, artistes, or poseurs. The world's so drawn along such lines.

     At the top of the staircase, there is a vision in pink. First, the shoes, like a pastel enamel, or perhaps the pink swirl of art glass, they appear.

     A man in his early thirties, Etienne glances up at the sun, stopping near the zoologist and crouching low. He pulls a handkerchief from an inside pocket and offers it.

     He smiles softly, "Well, that's magic for you. ten impossible things before breakfast, and a hundred more once midnights come and gone."

     "This mean anything to you?" It's a simple enough question, but the image held on the page is far from simple... there is a figure of a man amid a myriad of threads or strings.. perhaps even within a web. Some strands are cut. Some are not.

     "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..."

     The woods shivered with a large wind (me) and we stood upon fertile ground of a different ... View of Wales, Cymru. The red-towered castle still there, still symbolic, flowers and green grass everywhere. And there he was, the Oak King himself, bending to kiss the slip of a girl....

     As garden parties go, it went rather well. There was a string quartet set up on the paved stone area in front of the chapel, allowing for those who wanted to get in a waltz to do so at their leisure. But, in general, the gathering was more low key.

     "I am not interested in chandeliers, I am not interested in business. I am interested in you. That is what I asked about and that is what I am interested in."

     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...."

     It's almost like watching one of those nature films, except, of course, that it's not usually coming out of a piano, is it? The budded tips open and spread, the scent of apple blossoms rich and fragrant, the pale pink-and-white easily recognizable, the only part of the piano visible that of the keyboard and tray of it.

     She's shifted gears on him. It takes him a long moment to catch up. Plans? What plans? I seem to have forgotten everything but this pen. Brilliant he may be, attentive, however, is something else.

     "Alright," Raymond says, shaking his head. You are a strange duck. He glances behind himself, then moves around the room slightly, to spend a last bit of time at the chateau in relative peace.

     Yes yes. This is all very nice, my dear, sweet Victoria. But it doesn't help me one whit. You see, I need something to do. I can't kill people. Toying with you is now libel to get me into more trouble than I really want, just now-- don't worry, we'll come back to that at some point.

     "When I saw him, he promised me pay in exchange for trumpeting the end of his Exile. The Oak King's exile is at an end, Your Majesty, Your Highness; three years in Cymru, and at the end, he has emerged."

     So many seasons ago, almost to the day -- it will be to the day, when the feast occurs -- that Tybalt lost himself to the Queen of Summer's charms. Lost himself in a way that no one would ever wish for themselves.

     Lightning strikes a tree just outside the window at the exact same time a freak gust of wind comes in off the river. The sound and the pressure combining to blow the window inwards in a deadly rain of glass and water.

     The kiss is accepted as tenderly as given. Giancarlo smiles weakly and nods, hearing the words from you, but perhaps not yet taking them to heart. Brown eyes still look slightly downcast. "God...does not care for us...does he, Alire?"

     There is a flicker of the willow wand, and Sabine steps back, onto the path after another quick glance around. "I release you," she says in a formal voice. "You may fly, Marshall, to wherever it is you best find yourself."

     "I know what has happened to your Darius, and who was responsible."

     Dodge, feint, counter, spin... and then quiet applause from the corner as a certain red-haired professor steps out of the shadows and into the light. "You're quite good, your highness," Bill offers, as he lightly flips his wand in one hand, as if testing its balance.

     "So, to friends, yes?" He lifts the glass again and turns back to the kitchen. Who would know the enmity that exists beneath the pleasant smiles and genial conversation? Who would know indeed.

     "You...don't like him..." Cesare observes, saying it directly. He smiles though.
     "No, I don't." Nate's honest answer.

     Either she's just randomly telling people, or she seems to think that at least you'll maybe have some clue or sympathy or something as to what's going on. Being nearly as strange as the rest of the people she's met around here if nothing else, "I think he might be even more daft than me."

     Paolo looks to the passengers in glances timed with the stroke of the oar, in rhythm of the motions that make the gondola sail forward. "Ah... so you, too, are bound by a destiny, a fata," Paolo says.

     He remembers the look on her face when her little summoning of a demon actually worked, so many centuries ago. And again when she was first sent to kill her first man. Good times -- good times.

     "I merely wanted to make sure you were well after that ordeal in the Garden." It was rather... well messy. Lowe nods to the older woman as he takes Wendy's order for tea and adds, "A teacup for me as well with a little brandy in the bottom please." See at least he's not drinking a lot.

     The dog's come into sight, two rolling cannonballs of fur and tongues and ears and wide grins, and just two moments behind them is a man reminiscent of Davydd, where he not a bit more golden-haired and an inch shorter and a bit broader. If Davydd's a welsh mountain, then Kelly Morgan's a boulder...

     "I am surprised," he whispers, "...that you have not stolen all of my secrets from me yet, Constanz," he confessing something there. "The time will come, when you will want something from me," he grins, "..and you will ask...when I am in no position to decline." Like almost now.

Ceylon Vanilla
...for the Love of His Excellency, 1661

     Mentioning Valdemort is rather like screaming Macbeth! in a theater. Some names are curses of their own.

     Two gentlemen sit inside a cafe, the windows giving view to a northwestern American city still glistening from the last rainfall. For this moment in time it could be any city on earth, or no place that has ever existed.

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

     "Why," William begins, "... are you here then. At all?" He leans his head on his hand, fingers propped up against his temple. Maybe he has a headache? It is a thoughtful pose, perhaps. And indigo eyes do focus on you. Peer at you. You are a strange creature.

     Open your eyes, and you will see it is no dream. Where you and he have lain has become flowered, purples and blues and pinks. Wild flowers of wild summer. And if you looked at him now, where he lies, he would shine, golden as sunrise in July, his tattoos vibrant as the day they were first made.

     Karoly's gaze is hidden - perhaps she glares daggers, but she does not weep; no tears become visible at the veil's edge.

     In the drawing itself, there's a little shape. Not unlike a small hunchbacked man hiding behind the stone and peeking around with a little winsome grin. Though not so very defined. When the flashes of glamour come through, however, it's nearly blinding.

     "Very well, then I consider our pact sealed." But he sighs slightly, "You know, you really take all the fun out of having a soul bond sometimes. You know that?"

     "Perfectly alright, " The voice is Spanish accented, "It is not possible to win everything that one might want. It was a worthwhile night, none the less."

     I am not toying with you, my dear, I am only delaying you... Karoly, murderess of Johannes Arnaul of Saarbruken. My name is Toreador, and I have come for the blood you owe me...

     "That's not what has you upset, dear Victoria. That's not it at all. What has you upset is that that decision is so far out of your hands, you can't even imagine what it would take to make it come about." Mick watches her evenly.

     It's an echo that quivers, but an echo - caught in the stones, as it were, as if a shell being lifted to one's ear, miles and miles from the shore.

     "I see that you are without entourage today," Sabine resumes in English, voice cool, expression as remote and detached as if she were offering up a comment upon whether or not it might rain. "How ... tragic. Your arms must be quite cold."

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     A spiraling stair. It circles twice more for him than it does for others -- a total of three times. But the trip is worth it. Below, an ever expanding field of rosewood shelves carry the wisdom of ten thousand years of human civilization. Around him the hidden power of glamour. He had found the Baron's court. Now to find the entrance.

     Yes. Well. Nothing makes a better first impression than a pratfall.

     "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.

     "Anything strike you?" comes Raymond's voice from nowhere. He was not in the shop before the staring into the cases. And there was no alerting of his presence. He simply, suddenly, Is.

     The hand belongs to the slender arm that is attached to the slender figure of Albizzina Contato. The proprietress of Libri di Magia e di Mistero is reputed to be a true witch. There are many legends about the bookstore, some more fantastical than others. Some even say that she is hunting for the Doge's lost treasure of gold.

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt.

     The most elaborate and the most exclusive of Carnivale events awaits you all, each of you traveling there. You may see it around the bend of the Canal...

     Little is known about her other than her association with the earlier owner of the castle, her profession as a psychiatrist, that she has only visited the chateaux briefly this fall for a few hours in the span of her ownership, and that she is (unfortunately) American.

     "I will admit," comes the airy voice from on high, "...the punishment was very .... severe. But in a battle of Gods, what may one man do? What also against natural forces? Does Man not call such things cruel? But... are you ...cruel... Earth? Or are you... merely What You Are..."

     "I...don't understand," Julian suddenly cries out, arms around the girl he's come to love. "I don't...understand...what happened?"

     He lifts a hand, he puts it gently to your face and he kisses you once, briefly. "I love you. Find me." And with the trailing touch, his hand falling away, Pharzuph turns to go. Follow me, he pleads. Even as his eyes plead such a case before, he pleas again. Follow me.

     The being outside, man that he is at the moment, peers at the insult-tossing door. Impertinence. Charming. "It is not so much about what you want," comes the very refined accent back to you. Or the door. Who am I speaking with? "I am here to see Jack. He lives here," he says this as if he knows it for absolute fact (which he does).

     "The past must be examined," Sabine remarks, and a gradual progression to lead to the present and future. Under the circumstances - only the Celtic Cross will do."

     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."

     And the Marches exploded in Love...

     "'Ello luv!" comes that high pitch voice, almost lecherous in it's intent. Perched atop your easel in a feat of balance that should be impossible, is a small old man that could not be more than four feet tall, and most likely a few full inches less than that.

     "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.

     I hope this letter finds you well and will find you in Trallwm for my visitation. I am very much looking forward to having the opportunity again to speak with you. The Sisterhood wishes me to convey their greetings, their esteem and their hope that you will join us.

     "Richard Avedon," is all he says, leaning back against a desk. Miranda forgot to mention that yes, jeans are the standout, the man does wear a long-sleeved shirt and a dark blue sportcoat.
     "Come on now," Richard smirks, turning his profile to the side. Make a guess.

     He's walked in Plantagenet's shadow tonight. He's smoked his cigarettes, he sipped his whiskey. Though he and William covered good ground in London, he feels he has been marching on Crusade, his feet in the desert sands, sand in his eyes. His skin feels gritty, even his hair.

     "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 Welsh country side is always such a contrast. Lush green country side surrendering to dreary grey skies at the horizon. It is against this somber backdrop that a crumbling old castle rises up from the emerald green hills.

     Falcon straightens, rubbing your shoulder. "The heart is like that," he whispers, "...blessed and ruined once it has known Divine beauty. Then, it becomes a restless sky hunter."

     He skips, almost, happy in this atmosphere. There is a glamour to the air, a scent of wonder that draws people like this man. Tibalt. Never ask him his full titles, he'll lie for hours.

     "You can move to Europe, if you like. Stay here. Stay in Strathfayr. Stay in Switzerland. I don't care. Just...do something. Choose. If you like it here, stay. Who cares about the rest." Whatever that is.

     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.

     "I have to ask you something, William," Raymond chirps, leaning on the table with an elbow now. "What is it that you have on Victoria Gifford or her Sire?" he smirks. "A boon enormous? You...saved their lives? You helped her gain status, hmm? You can tell me, I will not repeat it."

     The ville itself is full of its inhabitants and those of the smaller, neighboring villages. There is music, laughter, even a little tango in the cobblestone streets nearest the castle walls. Every restaurant is packed -- Orangerie, Trente Ans, Dame Lombarde's -- and the air smells of wine, bread, cheese, and the incense of burning grape leaves.

     Bringing up the rear again is Sebastian. He's fine to be in the back, really. Unnoticed. Invisible. He follows along, still smirking. This is the weirdest interview for a mistress he's ever witnessed...

     "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."

     Oh, God, forever is too long.
     Help us...

     And drags his finger down your chin to the hollow of your throat. And the feeling spirals. Pleasure with a capital P. It fills your entire form. Every cell copulates. Every molecule is hard. Every atom, every electron squirms, orgiastic chemistry.

     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.

     And then from shadows, Davydd comes, popping air punctuated by the march of the Cymri. His aura could light half of Welshpool. If you view it, ever, but certainly now, it'd fill the aviary full of bright white light. And in it, swimming, dragons of blue light in nine locations.

     Another swallow and the matter -- tease or serious -- is dropped. For now. "So, I hear things have been quite ripe around here lately. Fighting, whoring. I'm upset no one sent for me!

     Andrealphus waits. In red and gold he waits. Upon cushions created out of rose and violet petals, with cups formed of the tigerlilies, with lotus blossom lamps and columns of bird of paradise, he waits to hear the words.
     And Love Shall Set You Free...

     And so the day of the Tourney has arrived. With the Saxons at least marginally pacified as of late, Arthur...

     I think sometimes it was a mistake, leaving without him. Maybe I am still used to travelling alone when I am off to experience...well, whatever it is I expect to experience. I should have allowed him to come.

     "Does the earth spend much time beneath the moon and the sun?" Is that humor? The voice issues between the leaves, among the leaves. Airy, whispering. Maybe it is the wind. Maybe it is the tree.

     "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 Christopher 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 love you...
     I don't want to forget...
     I don't want to forget this...

     And all this is saved and stored in his vast memory. Saved for later, and then sent Below when called for. Alexander is exceptionally loyal, for a demon of Secrets. Which isn't actually saying much.

     "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."

     Raymond's palm remains upright in offering, even though his eyes wander the dress. "And no, you did not keep me waiting. No man, upon a sight, could say that his time was lost."

     "Victoria," he says, the name almost purred. A side-effect of being French. "Please, my father was Monsieur Marillet," Raymond teases, hand extending as he comes to his full six-foot height.

     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...

     As if you stay in the Oasis always, living only there, in that place. Seeming as stuck as William, each of you in your own realities. But that is not so, is it. That is not really so.

     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.

     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.

     Alexander finds himself a chore which will give him good vantage of the room. Sweeping it is, again. Easy work, and work that others don't really like to do. But it lets him roam, and listen, and watch.

     "What th--" he starts, leaping from his seat to grab the duffle bag. "What the fuck?" he finally gets out, shaking the bag to and fro until the file comes out. The bag's tossed aside, and Edward stands, flipping through the folder.

     "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.

     Julian closes his eyes. I am unprepared for this. Not this. Not you too.

     "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."

     "Y' do me best if you sing well of us here, an' th' man from over th' sea." He is rather serious about this, and moves around the flames to go.

     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.

     "Here is her name," Soldekai flashes, pages opening, a book from the Library. An image of eyes scrolling. Arundel. Fiona. London.

     Soldekai's eyes drop to the stone upon which he sits. He had not thought of things as you say. That there are others who wish a new home. Who would want to be with him and his Word.

     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.

     Little poet, so sticking out among the fetished and freaky crowd, a brilliant beacon of purity in a most impure world, you are irresistible.

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

     At the water's edge, she stands, looking out into the distance. A breeze has stirred up, casting long strands of hair about her, licking at her form like flames. She, who was there so long ago at his making, is one of two left of three.

     "I have to submit to domination. To have the knowledge of my working on it stripped..." Whatever it is, it is huge.

     "Penance done," Ian whispers, his tongue leading his mouth to yours once more.

     "Actually, I should tell the whole truth. Davydd came home one night, found Vincent coupling with Rose on Davydd's favorite chair. A few week's later, Vincent is involved in a vandalism of Sandrine Jorgensen's flower shop... Sandrine, by this time, Davydd's new lady..." A black eyebrow lifts. "I threw the melting painting in as a bonus."

     "Ragazzi bei, entrambi voi...li avro bisogno ancora, presto. E quello che cosa desiderate?" Ian stirs at the lingering touches across his skin, smiling in comfort.

     "Incroyable," William says, voice carrying as he appears, he grins. Incredible, he says. Unbelievable, he means. "It is good to see you," he says suddenly, warmly in English.

     It was 1942 and it had been two months since I had seen him. Him. That would be Ian Dunross.

     I should not have been surprised, perhaps. This is an extraordinary event. A revelation, a gathering, an exclusive. A social remembering, as we see who is not with us.

     Of course, underneath the tweeds and silks, she's a lot less comfortable.... Was this a good idea? I feel like a circus sideshow freak. Maybe I should've worn the leather instead.

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

The man, lost in thought, rests against the trunk of the tree. His cheek against bark, his fingers travelling along it, as if it were the body of a lover. It is the body of a lover.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls.

     Her dark hair pulled back, slicked back in a bun, she wears a white shirt silken and loose over black leather trousers, high black boots cover her calves and up to her knees. And a prized black bull, one of your beauties no less, is bowed before her. Standing, she faces him, he faces her. Her silk cape is lowered, her right hand extended. There are no swords, no whips. They are not needed.

     Girault must steal a look, still it comes with the air of Platonic, See I Am Only Looking, William -- I Have Eyes. There is nothing outwardly lascivious about it. Are you beautiful? Yes, one of the world's most beautiful.

     "She had me believing her little mirage of learning and civilization. She and this place, it is a lie. It is learning with blindfolds on, the kind of learning that you memorize prayers and call it Enlightenment.

     .... When I came to stop below a hill that marked one end of the valley that had pierced my heart with terror, I looked up toward the crest and saw its shoulders already mantled in rays of that bright planet that shows the road to everyone, whatever our journey...

     The change was subtle, perhaps. Could you discern when she had finally crossed that line between lucidity and her current state? Even when she awoke, she was quiet, reluctant to speak much. But at least she was calm and without incident.

But that's changed.

     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.

     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.

          Creepy eyes. That can't be a good sign. Fuck. We may have to kill her. Like when Old Yeller came down with rabies.

     What should we do, my love. Next, I mean. Well, I know I must call William, but we can't keep her here. We're not a sanitarium...

     Do vampires dream? Certainly. But this one just hasn't done so in a while. But now she is troubled, plagued by a storm brewing. The dark energy within is tightly coiled, ready to spring forth. So far, it's only done so in short bursts. However, her mind has been left splintered, broken, shattered.

     Open the window
     It is close, that voice. Closer than before. More powerful than before. Issuing from your blood, springing up in your mind like a sudden flower.

No more will the Wolfe howl.
I am half of a whole.

     And he rises, arm slipping around her waist. "Maybe you can change my religion." And he grins at himself.

     In more sobriety, then : you had the opportunity to take from her much of herself - of her mind, of her body, of her heart, of her soul. For whatever reasons of your own, you refrained, and for that, I thank you.

     "Holy shit," Davydd thinks to say, and his hand comes up and rubs his unbearded chin. "I see what you mean. Not saying you look bad, you're just very..... puckish. Huh."

     "What will El-Adar mean for you? What do you think it means for Edouard?"

     Shite. You immortal fuck, I forget you can't move. The light is so bright. I can feel it. I can see it with my eyes closed. Now I can't tell if they're opened or closed. There's nothing but light. Shite. And heat. Oh shit, this is what it feels like. I'm going to be a pile of ash on the carpet. The fucking cat's probably going to use me as a sandbox. Fucking cat. Fucking exploding in sunlight vampire curse bullshit.

     Goddess! You're going to consider this?

     Sometimes I don't know if the music I'm hearing is actually playing softly in the background, or maybe in the neighbor's bedroom, or if it's something ringing in my ears. It starts when I speak your name around your tongue and it rolls like the sea. Right over me.

     A glass insect lands upon Damien's shoulder, and looks up at him with a dozen human eyes. Each blink according to some indepedent rhythm, unfettered by the motions of the other eyes. "My Love? I looked for you in your apartment, and couldn't find you. I sought you in the streets of Paris, and you were gone. I found you, though it took me many of your years. Where is this place?"

     Standing at the edge of the awning as the water billows around him and soaks his heavy cloak is a tall figure that seems to have stepped right out of European folk lore, or an American pulp serial.

     She leans her head back and chuckles, finally murmuring aloud, "When I find him, I'm going to duct-tape him down so he can't wander again. Or maybe I'll chain him up and just never let him leave."

     Your vagabond sister: Victoria. Vagabond because since she left the 'new world', she's not yet settled. Never staying in one place for too long, almost stubbornly refusing to stop and relax, Tori continued to travel over the last year or so, seeming to be searching for something.

     "So...we're straight, I think. As straight as two hopelessly crooked things can be," he rumbles, then laughs.

      "Of course it matters," Alire continues. "And you are correct. You are not going to hurt yourself or him. I will not allow it," and the command that comes through is not a Templar's command, certainly not one that Alire would normally assume, but it is a vampire's mantle. That of a prince.

     "M..maybe...maybe...I am not the type of person you need," she whispers, not sure what to say. Maybe I am not like others. Maybe I have failed. Maybe there is something wrong with me.

     "I have dealt with the Past," he says it defiantly, though how can that be true if he is still so affected by it. "I have had my anger. I have had my sorrow. I do not want it anymore... again... I am ... not haunted. Have I not ... put those things to rest?"

     Truth is the sharpest implement of all. It cuts the deepest and the surest. But without it, what are we? Who are we...

     "We light candles to remember." Samuel's expression remains unchanged, that almost kindly smile still focused on his guests, but there is, for a moment, a light that has died behind the shrewd gaze.

     Sandrine just frowns at you, shaking her head. "I have been patient, Davydd," she says, "...and have let you...go on with her about whatever..." hands wave, "...whatever you go on with her about. But, I will not have her thinking that I am...not normal."

     "A very long time ago," Samuel comments, voice quiet, gaze intent. "Hundreds of years - a passage out of history, one might say." He moves forward, footsteps suddenly quick, and holds a hand out over the figure of the boy, hovering between him and the knights. "Shall I change it?" An odd thing to ask...

     Nothing that shall cause him harm, surely. For that I could never do. Even if he turned against me. I should rather be struck down by his hands than to harm him.

     It was once hard to pass along this stretch of road without stopping to look out over the sea, the wonder of the Mediterranean. It was an aquamarine jewel stretching out forever. I would see it in the sunlight, I would wonder how any man could look at it and not find it beautiful. Some in my company found it frightening, others were unaffected by it. But not Michele. Though, he would wonder how far a man might get before being swallowed up by the huge five-headed seadragons.

     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.

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

     "Thank you, O Shiva," the naga whispers, his dark. Only when he thinks he is out of sight, only when he may barely see you between the wide leaves of the mangrove, does he whisper adoration. My love, whom I have so wronged.

     There is something... a sound... like wind in the leaves. Perhaps the hissing of a serpent. Laughter? "Joy and sadness..." The consonants linger. "Well, musician, if you can bring true pleasure to Misfortune Himself, then I will grant you the wish of one secret's revelation..."

     The wind moves through my Most Beloved. Through the cavernous holes I have created, whispering. Through the great leaves, through the canopy that hides the sky. That hides the stars from my eyes. Issuing, ten-thousand scratches upon the soft bark of my mangrove tree, I mark my way even as I make my way. Slow, upward for another evening. Unseen in the branches, though a living city. The hotel windows nearby, clear views of the garden. But the tree, O my Most Beloved, is a protective tangle.

     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.

     O, amice. I cannot get the thought and feel of your blood upon the marble of your gallery out of my mind. I have wandered now these past weeks. I have attended meetings in your stead. I have tried to tend to your business for The Clan. I have expressed regret, sometimes diplomatically, sometimes passionately. But your death, amice, has left a hole in me. And who shall fill it for Antonio?

     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..."

     Through another set of doors, the labyrinthine halls. Until there is peace. Quiet. And simply a feeling of power. It is not until you reach this area that Girault speaks again. "For all that I tease him, amice, he is one of our prime voices. If we were to form a choir, a symphony of Who We Are and Why, the Circle may set the key... but Villon, amice, is the measure..."

     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.

     The orb of invisibility drops, and Christian sits in the seat, as if he has been there for hours. He smiles; the mature world knows his bad habits of walking the Earth unseen and unheard. "Forgive me," he offers, "I did not expect you so soon." Christian sits up and allows the chair to make its normal noise from shifting weight. "I also do not think I have been anywhere so peaceful in a while, Johannes," lines around his eyes forming with the grin,"...you are a lucky man." He informs.

     Contrast. A gathering of saints, then ... Saint Arnaul, protector of Saarbrucken chases away enough of his thoughts to join the century present rather than centuries passed by, and - there are those who would be shocked - answers his own door. There are not many he will do that for, any longer...

     We all have our sorrow. We all have our joys. We have our reasons to smile and our reasons for tears. The Song of Solomon still rings so true. I was once a poet, too. I wrote psalms. But in the ash and in the fire of the birth and death of stars, I have not had a moment to do so since. Not since the time of David of Israel. Strange. Why did I let that go? To whom did I surrender it...

     "That's very good, Flora. I trust you. Now, yes, Huw... I will right the spell and return your... treasure to its original and unblemished state, oh, should I remove the raven spittle? Or shall we leave that on as a complimentary bonus?"

     "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.

     "As for home," another shrug and Dei takes another swallow. "Who knows. Maybe that's not it at all. I guess it's the connection to the people I left behind," he says. He looks into his drink. "The feeling of separation. I guess I'm not cut out for touring..." And he makes a wry smile.

     There's no escape. In a thousand guises, I insinuate myself into a thousand copulations. Dawn into dusk, dusk into dawn. Bed to bed, nation to nation. I forget by not having time to remember. But what happens when the solace becomes so used that it's hollow. Even the solace becomes part of the act. The endless fucking act...

     "All the information's in that there card," she informs Erik, Jared, and Dei in a tone which for her, is amiable to the point of mellowness. "I'm a reporter, I can ask you set questions if you like, or I can make it up as we go, or you can tell me to go get stuffed." Her own accent is London punk, with a hint of something a bit better educated creeping through underneath. "I'm Drancy."

     "I will have what you are having. You look very good, doing very well. You are... beautiful and strong and in the fullness of your Word. I would be proud of you, Julian, except that we are both damned. It is hard to be proud of that..."

     Slender fingers light upon the napkin and draw it toward him, fingers that, curling, lift it. He reads it. He tucks it away. Safely, in a pocket. Andrealphus looks at you through his mortal shell. A mask that he does not move away, but do you know just how transparent it feels? O, what would it be like...
     What would it be like to Love again...

     I cannot escape it. I want to close my eyes. I want to not ... be this....

     "I...I don't understand what has happened to you, alright?" her brows arching. "You are...different. Everything about you is different. And it has only been a few months..." since we got together.

      The eyes reflected in the glass go down along with your hand. "Well... see... it's just not as easy as that, Julian Kane. Andrealphus is missing. He's gone. His temples are empty... no one's seen him in ... "

     "You're a doll," he whispers, "...my doll." Just so you know, Samantha. There is no other as close to my heart as you.
     But I have no heart. That has gone, since The War. Shattered, they say, on the floor of a now-empty citadel. I have no heart...that's what I am told.

     For over an hour, he'd accepted greetings and congratulations, a crowd of beautiful women shielding him from the undesirables. Dressed in violet velvet hip-huggers and violet suede boots, Julian finally emerged from his perch, causing the world to open before him.

     "Tybed, Davydd, ai ti gwneud a gorfoledd cystal fel tristwch er myn hon enaid." The voice is ancient, ageless, trickling out of her from years ago, and oh so familiar, and not just because it's a recognizable voice, of I've heard this before. The words are familiar, personal and informal. I wonder, Davydd, if you have to do with joy as well as sorrow for the sake of this soul.

     With every muscle's motion, no matter how slight, they seem to shift. Celtic, the patterns of interlocking, eternal lines that become the interlocking forms of Celtic dragons. Cobalt. Blue royal. Deep and brilliant. Bright. Brighter than they should be...

     Falling water. It chimes to the senses. He can hear the voices in the water. Soft and lilting, like the sound of his own singing. He can feel the water by the coolness of the air as he passes. He can taste it, as scent captures flavor and spills it upon his tongue.

     A pause and turn, though. Something else he wants to say. "Take care, Davydd," Sebastian says evently. "Two weeks is a long time. Two years, is an eternity. It is best, we all do those two years on the same page." Not a chastisement to you, but a reminder to you all. "Just watch yourself, because others are doing it for you."

     It is not long after the sun decides to slip out of the sky for its nightly rest that the one known to some as the Goth Diva slips out of her hotel room for a night on the town. Still staying at the hotel, as though she is still unsure as to whether or not she will make London her home once more. It has been so long.

     With that...the shadow seems to dissipate behind the image of Soldekai. And instead, the dream version of him remains. It closes, the hand rising again. This time...touching softly.

     "Gwilym!" she beams, hands curled at the rail, "You're here! Ach, lad, it's been a long while!"

     His green eyes look at the whelps. Boys is a good word. Soldekai nods, "Milk might be good," hair on the chest, "...with a whiskey chaser, huh?" And as Yisun turns, so does he. Jonathan. He'd smile if he didn't feel like going nova.

     Violet fire and amethyst flames. These, the eyes of the Faithful Fire. This, the gaze of Urfiel. Piercing, like a sword to the skin. Strong, like the faith of children. Captivating, like a soul in song.

     A hint of humor. Sakir watches the interplay of the three as an outsider would, an interested outsider.

     Wrists turn down instinctively as Sakir notes Edward's gaze. A touch of alarm on his features. "I --" He faulters for a second with the language "-- would enjoy that yes." He then slowly begins to stand, at least to make introductions, while one hand remains on his glass. "Sakir Akalay." Left hand offered to shake. "And I thank you for your offer, though I already have a drink." Strange how fast he changes from faultering over a language to seeming perfect fluency. It must have been surprise.

     Girault pivots. An eyeful of Christian. The rest of the world should be so lucky. "We claim him in the name of Italy and..." Dark eyebrows sweep upward even as his eyes make their own exploration.

     "Stop me... sometime while we are here... tell me No. It will be good for me." He chuckles quietly, half-turning from the glass, and the things it holds to ... others equally nice.

     "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.

     "So, how goes, chicky? Guess all's well in bells now?"

     Effortless. So effortless. Grace and magic and some subatomic communication. Knowing. In an instant, where each will be. And fingers of the justicar moved, and fingers of the Dignatary were poised and waiting. In seconds between seconds. Even to you, such motions are apparitions.

     "The Council did not use you, signora. What do we have to gain by suffering?" Girault settles upon the chair. Yes... the We was intentional.

     Yes, it is a woman singing. But the sound is not that of just any woman singing...
     ...it is the voice of an angel. A dark angel.

     "'K, um..." Edward's French comes, eyes narrowing at the woman, "...this is the part where I ask you who the hell you are and what are you doing here..." the barrel of the Browning shaking violently as Edward tosses his hand lazily in cadence with his voice, "...and whether or not I need to kill you or whatever..."

     "Chinon..." Tori's voice says, almost numbly as she glances around frantically, ice-blue gaze flickering from person to person. Oh gods, don't let him be here already... no... please...

     Your senses are sharp. You must hear the intake of a breath. Hear the sparkling of a fire drawn in. The smell of a pipe. The thump of a samoyed's tail. "It is a good night for a smoke," comes the even, deep voice of Georg the Swiss. It rumbles in his chest as he inhales at his pipe again. "What better way to spend the unending night," as it was once called, "... than smoking on a mountain ... Come... pull up a dog, Meurelle..."

     "It would do good for her... for her to wait, Edward," Girault murmurs. "Patience... is a virtue. It is the only one I practice..."
     "You... should spend time with your Montague..." he adds in a murmur. Girault smiles to you. Before she interferes. Before you present him to her. This, Girault does not say. "It ... would be... time better spent?"

     "Oh, God!" he calls, an open, aching lament. "What in the fucking hell," English now, "...is he doing here...." Edward's head rolls in disgust, hands coming up to cover his eyes. What is with the last two nights ...

     "I will come to your Firenze," Maria laments, "...you must be the only friend Maria has," she sobs.

     "Si, it sounds so. Hmph. You must be a handsome boy for my Eduardo to look at you," almost accusingly, "...well, that is enough, Valan Montague, where is my Eduardo? Get him, please." You can almost hear her fingers snapping...

     But then the grin erupts with laughter behind. "Alright, dammit... stop... now that you found me, Edwina... mind cutting back on the quakin? Sit like a gentlemen... are all of you Brits heathens to a man?"

When I first ran from him, he tormented my mind, telling me there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. How could I hide from a voice inside my own head? He was my constant companion as I ran from Paris. By night, he was a constant monologue, planting doubts and fears in my conscious mind. By day, he fed on my terror as he orchestrated my daymares. Always there, always present, he truly made me believe I could not escape him.

     "A loving hand, a tender thought should all...belie...a giving heart..."

     "Oh!" Marta's finger lifts, "That's it...in yer time, men dinna love men," she's quivering with the sarcasm, "...that's it. That ne'er happen'd! So, yeah, lads," those accusing eyes, "...childer ne'er been with sires before, men ne'er touch'd men before, Will's oft daft an' confus'd..."

     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..."

     The fountain speaks with an audible and inaudible voice. It is ancient. Older than these walls. As your hand touches the white marble, images trickle like water...

     Ice-blue eyes flicker back and forth at the scenery passing by, taking in every tree, every hill, every blade of grass, it seems. To a Toreador who's never set foot in Scotland in her life until now, the passing countryside is a living, breathing portfolio of artwork.

     "I was telling Will," he smiles, "...that you might be too busy, being Seneschal and all, to come visit an old pair like us."

     A surreal image it is, the young man eternally out of time's pocket. He walks forward, letting wet mush soak between his toes. There's something quiet about him, without William around, as if part of himself is missing.

     "Have you thought how you will encourage the mantle of power transfer and solidify your constituency around you?"

     His hand is yet gloved and shakes yours. A firm grip. "You are in Spain... but never when I am there... Is William afraid I will sweep you off your feet and convince you to live in Florence with me?"