It's a scene straight out of Ventrue Vogue...
     All the Right People, drinking all the Right drinks, dressed in all the Right clothes. Don't hate them. They were retro before retro was cool.
     The Swank is Ventrue owned and Ventrue operated, a retro Atomic Age salute to post war extravagance, greed and grandeur. The lines are sleek, from walls, to bar to furniture. It's a place where the hip, no matter how old they are (and there are a few who are older than epochs), come to revel in being themselves and partake in the oldest dance between creatures...
     Business networking....
     Older than most around, William sits at the bar, in a black suit with a crisp white shirt (no tie). In front of him, an ashtray (it's vintage, too -- no detail left out) with the butts of several cigarettes littering the goldenrod glass. To the left of that, a half a pour of scotch catching the neon lights behind the bar. His hair is very short, very modern, the thick natural black of it allowing it to stand up as Style demands. His face is clean-shaven, unrestricted in its beauty. Majesty? Not just a little. It hovers around him like the cologne hovers around the bodies of the younger Ventrue men, some of whom are catching his discerning eye tonight.
     But William Plantagenet is not in the mood to flirt. As the music plays softly but audibly in the background, some Latin 50s swing, very Desilou, he lifts his glass of scotch and takes the last swallow. It is replaced with a single look of those indigo eyes and a flick of the ash.
     Normally, he would hold dominion in a booth, calling all the young things to him, receive adoration and adulation and go home at the end of the night with a smile. Tonight, he's more in the mood to be left alone with his scotch and his cigarette before heading back to Kensington Palace (down the street) for the night.
     Maybe after the next drink...

     "-don't quite think he knows what he's talking about, but then, when did he ever? Poor thing. He can't help being challenged on a very ... basic level." It's Rose's voice, rising clearly for a moment above a break in the music. You recognize it, of course; likely so do half the people there.
     Malcolm must be away on business...
     She doesn't seem embarrassed to be overheard, holding a cocktail glass half-filled with some or other clear fluid. Her gown is certainly stylish and white with piquant black and red accents; her hair is blonde at present, worn up in an elegantly simple french roll. She pauses to catch something said to her by one of the trio she's standing with, and then her light, tinkling laughter can be heard, cool and brittle as ice cubes falling into a highball glass.
     "Hardly, darling. It's been ages. You can't possibly think I'd go and retread that again, can you? I do have some taste."

     The full French mouth twists a slight smirk at the sound. I cannot catch a break, mais oui? William gives the butt of his cigarette a flick with his thumbnail, sending ash into the tray. Bringing it to his lips, he takes another pull of the fire and smoke, holding it in momentarily before freeing the ghostly soul of smoke from those lips.
     He turns his eyes toward the sound of Rose's voice, a bland (and slightly amused) look on Michangelic face. A black eyebrow lifts slightly as his mouth forms a smirk. Class, pure and simple. Straightening in his seat, William stamps out his third cigarette with a salute of smoke exhaled a moment later.
     "Rosamude Caermichael," the smooth baritone upon the anglo-welsh name carries a distinct French accent. He does not have to lift his voice to be heard, not in this crowd.
     Ack, think some in the crowd, the beautiful statue is speaking.
     Settling back in the bar seat (they are backed, if brilliantly colored), he cuts a sudden royal figure amid so much youth. You had seen him come in, certainly. Or if you ignored that, somehow, you had to feel it. You have a thing for Power, don't you?
     "You are in need of new gossip, mais oui?" He smiles, that devastating Plantagenet smile. One of his legendary attributes, that smile (that mouth). Glancing to the bartender, he murmurs: Pour her another.

     The cool profile cuts a glance towards you at the sound of her name. "Dear me, I do believe I'm being paged," Rose murmurs, tilting her glass and watching the clear fluid within tilt with it. She looks, as ever, perfect. Not a hair out of place on that aristocratic head. Not a line ruffled or mussed on those expensive garments. Shop off the rack? Oh, my dears, only commoners do that.
     She had seen you, though she had done her best to take no visible note of you. One must put up with a Plantagenet. That does not mean one is obliged to like him. As if at a signal, her little coterie disperses, one taking her glass for her as she turns towards the majestic (and Majestic) figure that you cut. "Guillaume Plantagenet. No more magazine articles this month? Tsk." The painted mouth purses. "Gossip is so overrated. I prefer to keep my finger on the pulse of a community, certainly."
     Despite herself, you have caught her interest. You would not be speaking of gossip if you did not know something. She does not believe that you have a sense of humor; what sense of humor you have is vulgar enough to be ignored. "If you have something to relate," Rose declares coolly, "I am certain that I can give you a bit of my time, of course." She approaches unhurriedly, picking up the glass that's poured for her without even looking at it. She is doing you such a favor. "Do tell," she drawls, glass tapped to her lips, "what is it that you have to relate?"

     "Is it," his voice carries a warmth of humor echoed in the whole of his face. That's funny. "Rossini and his coterie of harpies will be disappointed to hear that. Are things so slow in London, that you have to ...retread?" He's not deaf. He... and everyone else in the bar... heard you. There are no whispers in a vampire bar. Your business becomes everybody's business, isn't that the old saying? Your business is my business?
     "Have a seat," he gestures to the seat beside him. "I am giving you my time," which is apparently more precious, being that he is older than you are. "I do not spread news, I make it," the smile spreads as he lifts his scotch. He gives a small and brief toast to you with it before taking another swallow. There is one swallow left.
     "It has been a slow news month, non... non plus," he says about articles. As if there had been more than one. "I have been in Venice... until recently. You have had the whole island to yourself." He teases you, his expression gives that away if his tone does not. "How have you been?"
     That was said seriously. As if he actually cares. You know better.

     "I retread nothing," Rose answers aloofly, moving to take the offered seat in the same unhurried way. You are giving her time. She is aware of this being of moment, certainly in the eyes of the Court (or at least the eyes of those watching) but that does not mean that she has to like you. She will be as civil as she ever is. "When it is fashionable to retread," she glances to the retro ashtray pointedly, "then one may retread. But some experiences are ... simply not worth repeating."
     She crosses her legs, one hand laid to rest on her knee; the other hand brings up her glass. The cool gaze regards you with veiled suspicion over its rim. "You have been away? Then small wonder that the island has been so peaceful," Rose answers you archly, head tilting to the side as she regards you, bird-like in her perch and with her gaze almost smoldering. She is not trying to seduce you. But she will allow others to think that she is.
     "I? My life is as it ever is," the answer is given to you carelessly. "Built upon my own web, with my own plans securely in place. I suppose that I ought to thank you for asking, but really." The smile is brittle again, the eyes narrowed. What is it that you want? Are you seeking her weaknesses? That you are talking to her at all, that you have called her over, it is ... strange. That she has accepted - well, a public display of hostility wouldn't serve her well, no matter what lies between you and she. She is not likely to lay her soul bare to anyone. Certainly not to you.
     Which will not prevent your artist's eyes from perhaps seeing her as she really is - and that, perhaps, is at the core of her hatred for you, the hatred that remains, borne though it may have been upon your closeness for so long to Davydd (a backed horse that failed to even stay in the race - how boring, darlings). "And you?" The politeness trips off her tongue. "Dear me. Venice. How very ... continental of you, William. I assume you were as boringly predictable there as usual?" A small flash of smile. And for the cut - no actual malice, for once. "But now you are back. For long?"

     "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. "Are you going to count the days?" Humor insinuates itself upon the elongated English, his French mutating it in ways that, quite frankly, improve it. "I am back... we are back," including Ian in that, "... for the duration, but for when business calls me to Italy."
     He does not explain the business. If you wish to know, you will either ask or find out from your own sources. If you care. He does not trouble you with explanation.
     Quiet laughter, softly borne, sounds amid the first breath of smoke, breathed out of your air space like a true gentleman. If you did not hate him so, could you not love him? "Talking with you always warms my heart. Can I not ask about you without there being an agenda?" he wonders with the upraising of an eyebrow.
     "Hmmm," indigo eyes flicker in his innate intensity as he narrows them in a fastened look upon you, "...I suppose not, given our history." That mouth of his spreads in another slight smile. "Which I will not discuss further, mon amie, in the interest of not ...retreading. But just to say this: perhaps it is time, after a century to let bygones be bygones, as the English say."

     You could not have surprised her more if you had suddenly stood up and begun taking off your clothing and offered to have a go on the very expensive bar at which you both sit. Her poise is barely rattled; she has had centuries to perfect it. But there are the miniscule signs which you can see, perhaps invisible to anyone (except perhaps the bartender); the flicker of eyelashes, the slight flaring of her nostrils, the very slight tightening of her hand where it curves around the stem of her glass. Each reaction, checked immediately upon its beginning.
     "That is indeed very ... magnanimous of you." And the more suspicious for its magnanimity. It must be regarded with suspicion. What trap is this? Rose leans back in her seat. She knows that, if you truly wished - you could destroy her. For all the animosity between the two of you, however, she is not a big enough fish for that; and perhaps that frustrates her even more than anything else. "Venice is, I understand, lovely this time of year. Ordinarily I would ask you to inform me when you are to be there so that our paths mightn't cross. However, that question has quite gone from my head for the moment."
     There is a pause; she sips her drink. Ever the lady, even if she fucks other men in Davydd's favorite chair. "Why?"

     "I neither need you as enemy nor friend," he shrugs. No, he is a big fish, and you are not in a position to change that. The Justicars...yes. Anyone less than the Inner Circle themselves? Likely not. William turns his head, exhaling smoke out of your air space again and taking that moment to flick away the ash. "But why carry enmity when it has no purpose or value? The reason we were fighting no longer exists, yes? So, when I ask how you are, Rosamunde, I am asking because I hope that you are well. Ventrue should succeed."
     It is as simple as that.
     He speaks it with such a natural ease. Could it be truth? Indigo eyes fix upon you, unwavering in their attention. He doesn't expect you to whither beneath it. Smiling, William brings the cigarette back to his lips. "Yes, well... I will be sure to give you warning all the same. For old time's sake...mais oui?"
     He says nothing for a short time. It seems long. He watches the ash fall from the cigarette. He can see each burning or charred flake falling separately into the glass dish. "You are still with Mortimer?" he wonders.

     The reason...
     Something has happened. But what? Is Davydd dead? The cool eyes flicker over your form as if to find some hint or answer there. It is not written. You will make her ask, and that, for a moment, makes old hatred flare up again. But it is not voiced, this time; she is a creature politic.
     She does not wither, though neither does she blossom. Her cheeks remain untouched with color, there is no additional coyness to her posture. "For old time's sake," Rose echos lightly, trillingly. "Oh, my dear. Yes, I am still with Mortimer, for the time being." She mimics your words, the way you say it, not as if mocking but as if answering you in the way that she believes that you prefer. The bird-like tilt to her head returns, and she watches you. "We will see," she shrugs indifferently, "for how much longer."
     It is a hint - and as generously offered as she has ever offered you enmity in the past. It may even give you a clue as to ... how well ... or not ... she is doing. "And you?", she adds politely, though with the impression of carelessness. "Do you still paint, William? Other than circles..."

     "I am going to pay you a compliment," William gives you warning. He gives you a moment to brace yourself. "You can do far better than Mortimer. That was a family that never succeeded. Always a knack for picking the losing side. Not that it is any of my business, but... you are an attractive woman, with business acumen and station. Mortimer needs you more than you need him."
     What is he after?
     "My own works? Not so much these nights. I have been restoring works the last few years. Now, in Venice, the Santa Maria Della Salute... cathedral. It is sinking faster than the rest of the city so... I am going to do my best to save it. It seems a ...worthwhile enterprise. Along with being enormously profitable."
     "I would imagine," he begins, his elongated English slowing even further, "...that you have heard Davydd has settled in your City, buying real estate. That must please you," he smirks at that. "I hope you have reached the state of Not Caring. I believe they call it zen..." Smoke curls from his lips, upward like phantoms and he smiles behind the veil of it.

     Shock upon shock, though at least this time you have given her time to prepare for it. She sits there, with eyes slightly narrowed, listening to you. She does not come to an immediate defense of Mortimer. It seems that whatever arrangement they have, it is close to over - or she would make more use of the ears that are no doubt listening. "I will keep that in mind, certainly," Rose answers in that cool tone. Ice bitch. Didn't Davydd wish that at least she'd become frigid?
     She finishes her drink, setting it aside with the comfortable assurance that it shall be refilled.
     What are you after, Plantagenet...
     You've already said that I am of no use or threat to you...
     Yet you are seeking me out...
     "I had heard."
     The three words are picked out in ice. It seems that there is still some ... distaste, that is a polite word for it ... for Davydd. "I had thought to perhaps pay a visit to his little ... mission ... how quaint; one wonders if he fancies himself Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen. He always did have very bourgeois tastes." Zen? Zen is not at this address; but she does not give her spite much airing here, to you. The pale eyes narrow again, a faint twitch. What are you up to, Plantagenet?
     "Saving an entire city. One cannot fault your ambition," Rose tells you politely. "I imagine that you are in no need of backers." With the Dunross' money, no, that cannot be why you are speaking with her, so courteously, so prolongedly. "I am not familiar, very much, with art." It is one of her few honesties. "But it would be a shame to let something of such uniqueness and age and value to the world sink."
     That, at least, is something a Ventrue can agree with. Even if she lacks the soul for artistry.

     "If you wish to lend your resources to the task of saving Venice, you should contact Girault di Medici. It has become his personal mission, even though he is a Florentine. The Ventrue primogen there...Ambrosi di Mari... would no doubt find a cause worthy of your altruism. As for the Della Salute, it is financed, but I thank you for the offer. It will take many teams several years to complete it. The hardest work is of course what I shall be there to do myself, shoring up the foundation. If I am buried beneath tons of marble," he smiles to you, "...do try to shed at least one tear for me. My eternal soul shall not rest if every woman did not grieve for my passing." The smile becomes a grin becomes a laugh at that.
     Yes, he has a sense of humor. "Ah, and the good looking men," he tacks on. For, yes, William has been much more intrigued by the male gender over the last century than the female. "I offer no opinions either way," William speaks of Davydd now. "But find it interesting all the same. It just goes to show you that it is never too late, ne c'est pas?"
     The scotch is done, and two martinis come to replace it. One for you. One for him. His has three olives, and has olive juice swirling within the body of the drink. Yes, he takes his 'dirty'. "Does that make you Katherine Hepburn?" William wonders.

     "I could look into it," Rose murmurs. It is not entirely with interest. Venice is very far away from London, and she has clawed her way to a position, here. To leave would be to risk all - for no certain gain. "I will consider it." More than that - probably not. It isn't in her best interests, or not that she can see.
     You receive a small smile. "Oh, William," Rose coos, "I'm sure that all women everywhere will shed tears, though whether or not of grief and sorrow, I wouldn't dare to say. Have you already picked out your professional mourners, though? Many are available for quite reasonable fees. My own fees are anything but reasonable."
     She is not entirely without humor of her own, You're offered an almost triangular smile, and she takes up her martini, regarding it. "Good-looking men," Rose concedes, "are a virtue, though if they prefer you to me, William, they are of little compelling point to me. And you? Offer no opinions?" One immaculate eyebrow lifts. "How very shocking. What has happened for you to be without opinions?" It is a side attack. What is going on? One must not attack directly, and certainly not in public.
     She sips her martini, then answers your question with an airy wave of her hand. "I accept nothing less than Lauren Bacall. And in any event, I have no interest in starring in further dramas - or slapstick, for that matter."

     "When did you become so wise," William wonders idly. The martini is really just an excuse to have olives without seeming a complete barbarian by sticking his fingers in a jar. He moves them absently around in the gin before lifting The Swank's custom-designed olive spear and sinking a fang into the first olive.
     "I don't know what he's up to," he remarks. It is a simple statement of fact. "But I live far away, in the middle of the highlands," he pauses to completely decimate the olive. It never had a chance. "You are here with your... fingertips on the pulse, yes? I am sure it is noble but far-fetched. He is a dreamer. It is not so bad a thing, hmm? Someone has to do it."
     There are a few of the younger crowd who happen to sit nearby, one of whom is behind the bar, who actually catches sight of the sinking of a fang into the olive. They are both frightened and impressed. The second olive meets the same fate --- certain death.

     "Wise?" And now you do see actual surprise. Compliments upon compliments. What ARE you up to? It is practically buzzing madly at her ears, driving her almost insane with irritation. Rose watches you eat your olives without particular affection or distaste. They're olives. There isn't much to say. "Next time," she offers almost kindly, "just ask them for a dish."
     She closes a hand under her chin, regarding you. "I am here, but I do not interest myself terribly much in Davydd's dreams. He has always had notions and he has never thought them through." I spent too many years fighting with that man. We spent too much time fighting and he never did make a thing of himself. She lowers her voice as if to give you a confidence - but it can't be, surely?
     "William, I do not know what it is that you wish me to say. Do you want a summary? It's Davydd. We were together; I expected him to make something of himself. I presented him with opportunities, which he wasted - I spent my time at court not only for his own benefit," she makes no bones about that, "but my own. And in the end, what did he do? He chased waitresses and complained about my daring to be with any man that wasn't him. And he went nowhere. He wasted years of my time and my energy, and then he had the lack of grace to be upset when I replaced him with something more worth my time. Will we ever be able to walk away from one another as friends? No; the ... 'divorce' was entirely too bitter, and so were the years that led up to it."
     You receive a cold smile that cuts across her face like a knife, the mask of her features as hard and brittle as porcelain. "As for whether what he does now is a bad thing or not - I don't know. He has not consulted me or even asked for my assistance - no doubt he expects that I would withhold it just to be spiteful. He's quite probably right, but who cares?" And the martini glass comes up for a sophisticated sip. "My fingertips may be on the pulse, William, but they've never been on the pulse of Davydd's inner life. I don't think he's ever let any woman in that close. So..."
     An eyebrow goes up again, beautifully poised. "I imagine that I will contact the Florentine, though I do not imagine that they will have much use for my ... particular skills. My interests and attachments are all here, and they are not easily broken - certainly not without a concrete offer. Risks are sometimes necessary in business, but one must protect oneself, William. I have investments that are entirely too cozy for me to be willing to simply," she makes a motion with her other hand, "walk away from. Have you got what you wanted, incidentally?"

     "Olives without a martini are sacrilege, unless they are on a plate with hummus and bread, neither of which I can stomach." He explains it as matter-of-factly as if he were describing why the sky is blue. "As for Davydd... I was not asking for a summary of your past. I was there. I do not need a play-by-play. I ... was simply curious as to your opinion. I know his." Yes, they still speak.
     "Mainly," William notes, "I just wanted to say good evening and to buy you a drink or two. Nothing more, nothing less. I hear the wheels of your brain spinning. Relax, Rose... it's just a drink."
     The third and final olive is given a wash in the alcohol then meets the same fate as the previous two. Perhaps he shall let the young man with whom he has traded glances drink what remains. "I do not think that Girault would wish you to leave London for Venice. Ambrosi di Mari may have other designs for a pretty and enterprising young woman. But... if it is something you wish to put your money toward, if not your time, I know the Doge is taking donations. The Italians are always willing to part you from your money."
     But there is no need to linger if you do not wish. William looks to you through the scented haze of cigarette smoke. "Bonsoir," he murmurs. "And... give Mortimer my regards," he grins. He doesn't mean it, of course.

     "You have my opinion, I think, in that summary, however. You were there." She remembers. Not entirely pleased with the memory, still. Nothing is ever 'just' a drink, in her experience. Never, with Ventrues. Least of all with those who are even her elders. Such as you.
     One has to wonder why such a pretty tart ended up a Ventrue... or why such a ventrue might be as tart as she is. The wheels surely will turn in her head all the faster, with information given.
     "I do not bear you ill will, William." How magnanimous of her, for a change. The pale eyes flick past you, then back to your face. "It is simply that I do not know how easily it is that we have things to say to one another, without first putting to bed," she smirks, "that past for which we were both present. If I haven't done so, then," she shrugs, "that's life, isn't it?" A joke. Neither you nor she are alive, after all.
     She slides from her seat, setting the remains of her martini down - olive still intact. She doesn't care for them, it seems. "I will pass along your good wishes." That is just as insincere. "I think I should leave, however; we've been telling the truth for nearly twenty minutes, William. I wouldn't want us to run out of our supply and have to send away to America for more."

     That seems to amuse him. For that joke, you receive a genuine, warm smile, despite his cold bloodedness. Imagine, going to America for truth. He reaches over to take the olive you left behind. Waste not, want not.
     "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Rosamunde." He leaves it at that. It's not as though he has much left to say. Without the enmity, there really isn't any sort of connection at all besides the most tenuous.
     He returns to nursing his cigarette and he returns to his scotch. And his thoughts. Whatever those may truly be...

Posted by rowan at August 13, 2005 11:08 PM