The drive to the Tate Modern is mercifully short from Knightsbridge. It's just as well, for Edward's introspection has moved beyond palpable to a state of dense fog. He sits in the middle of it, hand extended and curled around his companion's, staring out of the Bentley's window and watching the city pass by.
     Routing through evening traffic perhaps has never been so interminable for him. Harrod's, Fortnum and Mason's, and bits of the royal city provide little more than distraction. Occasionally Edward squeezes the fingers he holds as a sign of presence as much as an attempt to reassure.

     Maybe he should be more nervous...
     Maybe he is nervous...
     Who would know it to look at him? He seems to sit so easily by, fingers (ungloved) sliding against your own. He leans in, but not too heavily -- he doesn't want your suit to wrinkle -- but he speaks quietly at your ear. He tells you it will be alright.
     Maybe he doesn't know any better...
     Maybe it's just as well...
     Valan Montague settles back with a smile curling just at the corners of his mouth, he looks past the window to the London he has come to know. Now, London wants a formal introduction. He has been through several of those -- at least in his mind. How could this be any different?

     The car turns down an alleyway - the Tate's front is unseen - and stops near a loading area where three male figures stand. The driver, a friend of Edward's called Roger, puts the Bentley in park and steps out quickly to open the rear passenger doors for his ferry.

     Edward smiles and whispers, "Je t'aime, ami. J'aurai raison pres de vous." The hand he holds is lifted and kissed.

     Outside stands a man with blondish-red hair, dressed in a grey suit. The two others are in black slacks and sportscoats. They hold their position, with the blonde staring into the car's cabin, a smile drawing upon his lips.

     It looks like a movie. This child of the cinema sees it in ways that you of this Time and Place do not. It lends itself to camera angles, to Kubrik, to Coppolla. In some ways it is strangely deja vu, reminiscent...
      Valan smiles to you, a moment taken before he leaves the Bentley. "Je ne m'inquiete pas parce que je sais qui je suis. Je suis l'homme que vous avez choisi et l'homme qui vous aime." With that, his hands become his own again, they sweep over him as he stands and leaves the sheltered confines of the Bentley.
     Gold-green eyes sparkle in the low light like a cat's. It passes over the environment for a moment -- the alley, the men at the doorway -- and then, with a brush of his hands over his suit jacket, he stands poised. He will let you take the lead.

     The blonde does look terribly satisfied. "I guess you're Valan Montague," he nods, looking up and down. "I'm your primogen. Maybe you've heard of me..." Edmund Mortimer steps forward, nodding as he continues to assess. "I thought I'd see you before the Prince did..."

     And so it starts. From his side of the Bentley, Edward steps out and rises to his height above the car's hood. He twists to see conversation already occurring, and he moves around the rear of the vehicle to join the welcoming committee. Gloved hands work to unbutton his coat, letting a bit of air inside.
     "Edmund," Edward says evenly, eyes averted as he looks to the two next to him. "Marley and Phillips. Nice clothing, gents." There's a bland smile for the pair, and a silent exhaled sigh once Edward does look at Mortimer. Detente.

     The pair glance at Edmund, then Phillips moves towards Edward, extending his hands. "You know the drill, Eddie," he says drolly, preparing to pat Edward down. "I'll keep what I find till you leave..."

     Valan takes a moment for himself. "I am a Montague," the English is spoken -- we are in England afterall, but it is spoken with a decidedly French accent. Mortimer should be able to place it accurately somewhere between Bordeaux and Touraine, with Touraine being the more dominant (being the most recent). He lets the Shakespearean play hover there a moment. There's nothing so obvious as a 'house of capulet' punchline, however.
     The usual small-talk of I have heard a lot about you or So-and-so sends his/her greetings seem a little banal, and likely not wise. Valan quirks up a golden eyebrow and smiles a little. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir." He does not take the bait, however. He supposes there is plenty of time for that. There is only a glance for Edward as the great pat-down begins.

     "Yeah," Edward whispers, opening his topcoat. "Just don't get too excited, eh?" Edward's gaze remains upon the Primogen, his head tilted to the left.

     "Didn't know you were Mayfair, Eddie," Phillips comments on Edward's clothes, even as he reaches in instantly to pull out something. "Can always count on you, boyo," the leather snapping as the gun is jerked out. The 9mm is handed to Marley, who slides it at his back. Phillips begins patting, retrieving a smaller weapon, which is handed off as well.

     "It is a pleasure," Edmund continues, grinning as he takes the stare from Edward. "Should have done that ages ago," Edmund adds, turning to see Edward now. "But, that is the past. We can let bygones be bygones, hmm, Valan?" Edmund returns to looking at the young man. "Welcome to our clan and to London. I hope to see you more regularly now..."
     "Will you be finding accommodations of your own? I hear that you are well liked by Toreador and have many friends," Edmund notes, moving in to accompany Valan to the door. Here, walk with me. "At least it's good to know that you are a friendly sort..."

     Phillips bends, slowly patting down Edward's legs and shoes, checking for any other concealed items. "Can't be too careful, y'know, Eddie..."

     An interesting supposition and question. Valan walks with Edmund, falling into casual step easily, he seems comfortable. "That is what We are. Today and Tonight," he cocks a smile to repeat a Family's tendency. He looks to Mortimer as he walks with him. "Thank you, sir, I like London. Quite a bit. I have grown to love it," a smile again. He smiles readily. "I appreciate the welcome. As for accommodations?"
     He wants to look at Edward, but he does not. He does, however, listen to the great disarming of Meurelle. It would take two men.
     "Oh non, I like where I am." And who I am with. More importantly. He grins. "Very much so, in fact. And I am glad I have met a good crowd. It is hard getting used to a new city, a new language and a new existence all in one moment."

     "I'm sure," the Primogen replies, not looking behind either. "A lot to handle. But you seem to be doing it well -- though I'm certain at some times, it can become tiresome. Toreador are good to start when you are so new, but now that you know your clan, I am sure that you will enjoy spending time with all of us as well."
     By the time, Marley has left the patdown and moved to open the door of the building.
     "Have you decided what you will say to the Prince? I, of course, will be happy to help you. Present, even, if you so wish..."

     "Careful of what? Killer hems?" Edward shakes his head as he steps back from the search. We're done. "Aren't you supposed to do watch at Dock 17A?" Edward stares at him, as if something else is being communicated. "Instead, you're doing patdowns at the Tate?" Tsk. Edward inhales and lets his coat close.

     "You take care of your business, Eddie," Phillips says with a snarl and step up to Edward, "...and I'll take care o' mine. Let's leave it at that then, eh mate?"

     "I would like that," Valan notes, and the young man seems to mean it. He seems to be fairly forthright and damned polite actually. As if any expected anything less. The bait on the Toreador is left on the ground, untouched. "I have met a few of my clan but few of them have been local and none of them of my..." he pauses for an English term, "...peer group?" He smiles, looking to Mortimer again. He knows that Edward is coming up behind him.
     His normal sense of humor is to be laissez-faire and rather flippant, caustic and sarcastic in that 20th and 21st Century way. But he remembers that this gentleman is from a vastly different time. Humor may be lost. Or misconstrued. "I tend to be and to live rather... unscripted?" he tries that term on for size, smiling to Mortimer as they go. "As Edward introduced me to his sire," that answers that question, "... I had assumed he would do the same here..." It is not an answer. At least not a direct one. He is leaving it open for those older than he to decide. Or to fight over. He is just here. The rest, the politics, these things are on other heads.

     Edward's lips slant quickly, his brown eyes widening a little.
     "Now, now, old chum. I'm dressed far too well for a dustup with you." Edward leans in slightly to whisper at Phillips' ear, "Besides, it's easy to talk shite when you're armed to the teeth with my fuckin' pieces. But if you really want it, lose your girl at the door," Marley, "...and I'll let ya try me. And I'll spot you my weapon. You'll fuckin' need it."

     Another car pulls up behind the first. Bently, of course, ivory in this case. The second man steps out of the front to come around the car and let the passenger disembark, offering a gloved hand to step her out of the car.
     The blonde steps out with practiced acceptance of the aid, lifting her skirts the barest inch necessary to navegate the curb before dropping them again. Her own hands are gloved as well, white buckskin thin enough to be thought fabric reaching just below her elbow, matching the white sash that rings the high waistline of the black silk dress she wears. Without the need of overstatement, it is obviously couture. Sleeveless and flawless.
      A smile graces her lips unconsciously as she steps towards the Tate, broadening slightly as she sees who is just entering ahead of her. Or, at least, seeing one of the parties just entering ahead of her. "Good evening." A pause. Of course she wouldn't want to overstep and move past Phillips. Though the nececity of a parusement of her person, in her opinion, is obviously only a formality.

     Unscripted. Mortimer seems to like that word. "Well, that was his sire," Edmund explains neatly, turning Valan into the corridor behind the door, "...but this is the Prince of London. And I am your Primogen. It may go better, when one with rank helps smooth a path."
     "See what I mean?" Edmund says politely, motioning back to the growing altercation outside between Phillips and Edward.

     "You're nothing but a shiny piece of shite, Eddie, always have been, always will be. With your fine clothes. You still stink like the gutters you lie in --"

     But then a lady is nearby. Phillips, his teeth now bared, sees the dress and the gloves. And he's cognizant of his boss just inside the doors.

     The woman's arrival does push into the pendant festivities. Edward remains standing in his spot, his leather gloves still covering his hands. Brown eyes slant askance to see who's arrived, for the ceremony is all too familiar.
     "Rose," Edward mumbles at Phillips. "Good evening." Edward's jaw loosens.

     Eyebrows arch with a delicate refinement at the language as her car pulls away. Hands folded delicately in front of her as she waits for the exchange to be completed without her interruption. Offering her bag to Phillips for parusement, "Phillips, how lovely to see you. It's so nice to have people here to greet us as we come in."
     Her attention goes to Edward at the mention of her name, brows falling neatly into place and her precisely polite smile returning, "Edward. It's been a while since we've had the occasion to see eachother, I hope things are going well for you, of course?" Her tone is brittish. Nothing if not polite, nothing if not cultured.

     For the first time in many moments, Valan glances back. He hasn't wanted to do it, to put Edward in a bad position, as if he had not taught him what he needed to know to stand on his own, he must stand on his own. For both of them, really. But when Mortimer suggests it politely, he looks. But there is no expression, good or bad. Edward's life is his own, and his decisions.
     "Unscripted," Valan murmurs, "...sometimes means you take a chance. Life without it... would be an institution." He doesn't take that bait either. But he does know when to give deference. He nods, smiling, "An introduction would be nice, a smoothing of the way." He wonders to himself: Perhaps I should have worn shoes with tread.

     "Of course," Edward replies, not looking at the woman. Instead, he keeps his gaze on Phillips ahead of him. Make your move. "I was just saying the same thing to Phillips here. It's nice to have such a welcoming committee of your own, on such a night."
     "And you," Edward now turns to see Rose, "...I hope you're well? It has been a while." The week you tossed Davydd out, wasn't it? Taking a step back, Edward smiles and extends his hand to Rose, defusing the situation. "If Phillips doesn't find you toting a semi, we should go inside...."

      Phillips takes the bag and opens it quickly, giving only a cursory look. It's offered back to Rose, saying, "Miss Caermichael..." as he bobs his head. It's good to be nice to the Primogen's rumored woman. No apologies are offered, however, as Phillips stands aside, eyes shooting daggers again at Edward.

     "I thought you'd agree," Edmund replies at Valan's shoulder. "Come in. I think the Prince awaits." With that, he turns to head further into the corridor, to a second set of doors leading to the court proper.

     Edward only then does give a glance to Valan and Edmund. He says nothing, pursing his lips and looking down.

     The bag's taken back with a nod and a smile of politeness before she tucks it under her arm, "Thank you."
      Turning back to Edward once more she extends her own arm, hand down in his in greeting. At the mention of moving indoors, she nods just a bit. I'm ready if you are? "Indeed, I am. I'd heard you were going to be able to join us tonight, it's good to see people one knows having advances." Childer, of course, could be considered to be advancing. That said, she turns to step in, matching her pace if it's met, or not if it isn't.

     Valan glances back to Edward again. Ami...
     But he follows Mortimer, as by formality's sake he's bound to do. Now, he begins to piece things together. Piece things together that he's heard, been told. And now he must walk ahead on his own. Edward cannot help you, Valan Montague. Not with this.
     Valan Montague brushes his hands over his jacket and wishes for a cigarette. And he hopes to God that the prince of the city smokes.

     The walk down one corridor leads only to another. And another. With each hall, the elevation deepens. Another hall. A series of doors. An elevator. Only then does the concrete scenery of a backstage theater begins to give way to something more substantive. A shift in the air. A carpet beneath the feet. Scant lighting and rough, exposed outlets replaced with flickering sconces mimicking flames. Kindred passed in a hallway with doors leading wherever. And soon enough, a doorway blocked by conversing vampires, in various states of elegant gowns, suits, or plain clean casual wear. It is a mix of persons, all staring at the arrival of the Brujah primogen and charge, followed by two others of influence and station.
     Entering the main hall of the Toreador Court indicates that the walk is done. Beyond this room are rooms upon others, but this is the main conflagration, the area where things Begin. The room hearkens back to an older time, something of late baroque, of a Europe steeps in the sumptuousness that returned after the Revolution. Ornate lighting of curved candleabras evoke old as well as goth. For the youngest, it is a movie set come alive, with the carpets and chaises, the sofas and alcoves. A cavernous room with stairs at the edges, leading upwards to a large balcony. From there, the paths are myriad.
     But here, those with keen interest stand or sit around, their gossiping coming to an end as the group enters the room. At first look, the group seems all the same. But a keen eye left, right, and deeper, can see the distinctions. A few Brujah gather here. Toreador there. A mix of misspent youth stand together on a side, a distance away, dressed in leather and plastic. A group of distinguished Ventrue, seeming to plan for a night at the opera are seated in a near sofa (no need to hide in the shadowy room's other shadows). A set of Malkavian titter near something flashing with color. And a set dressed in black and red congregate near a fountain. Tremere. If there are Gangrel, they are the ones with brown hair, a few not so far from a dais with seating, one seat larger than the others.
     Congregated around a tall, thin man of auburn hair are a group of Toreador. One of the Toreador hanger-ons, an athletic man with blondish hair and a white, flowing shirt, looks up and smiles in Valan's direction.

     "Valan!" a girl whispers from the side, waving frantically with a wriggle of fingers. She smiles, Janet does, careful not to seem out of place. She nods her head at Valan, as if giving encouragement.

     Edward looks around the room. His gaze does not seem to look for familiar faces, but more of an investigation of his surroundings. There are those he knows, of course, but there remains no rush for acknowledgements.
     Save for one.
      Near where some Ventrue stand, one comes out, dressed in brown tweeds. Holding a brandy snifter, he lifts it Edward's direction, then bob his head at Rose. Robert LeGrasse is present, even if no one else really notices the bookish technologist.

     "There," Edmund says to Valan, "...are your clansmen," he explains. "Here, just for you, tonight. We heard that you may be here, and so, they have come to show you support. That's what we do..."

     Rose's attention follows the object of the evening's attention for a moment as he walks in with the prince. Tilting her head ever so slightly to the side, appraising. Nobody could expect any less, could they?
     Whatever her judgement is, it's kept silent. And off her features which hold their impassive beautiful look of the treasured porcelain dolls of her youth. After her consideration is given she turns to Edward, smiling once more and perhaps a bit more genuinely, "Thank you for walking me in, I'm sure you have other people to visit with, all things considered." Awkward moment over, you don't have to feel obligated to spend time here.

     "Thanks," Edward says, nodding. "Maybe I'll see you later," he adds, not really sure if that's possible. Unfolding her hand from his arm, Edward gives Rose's hand a brush of a kiss, then lets it go.

      It is like a movie. There are a few children of cinema in this room, he would take a guess -- some of them he knows are. Maybe they should form their own coterie called the Children of Cinema and hold a mini court in an old theater some place. The thought makes him smile.
     He wasn't nervous again until the crowd started to thicken, but as soon as he sees Shelley and Janet, that nervousness passes really. He smiles to Shelley and turns his head slightly toward Janet's whisper. We will have to get a drink later.
     He doesn't linger on her, however. There's a certain performance about this that has to be recognized and addressed and he has a part to play in it.
     When Edmund speaks, Valan gives him his attention. He is a smart boy, as they say. He looks to where Edmund seems to indicate. And he visibly relaxes. There he is, the Hipster, modern and Mod. Valan Montague. Standing in the center of a new universe. And suddenly it feels that way.

     "Hi," Shelley says, coming from the dais. Lucky enough to be in the Prince's own complement. Shelley bobs his head at Edmund, acknowledging the Primogen. "I'll be over there," Shelley says, pointing to a group of Toreador to the side, not at the main dais. "You look great..." he gets out, knowing he has not much time and a Primogen doesn't really care about such smalltalk. Even as he speaks to Valan, Shelley's already moving towards a side spot to watch.

     Seeing Shelley's approach, Edmund twists to nod at the dais area. Things can commence.

     A nod, and uncharacteristically, Rose's brow knits just slightly, "I'd like that." Yet, another surprise of obvious sincerity. However short lived it is, though, as she returns to her earlier politeness with a smile at the kiss on her hand, bringing it back to her side once it's given.
      She turns her steps towards a group of her clansmen, leaning in for continental greetings as appropriate with a glance spared towards Edmund, catching his nod to begin things and quieting again.

     "Great," Valan gets the chance to whisper to Shelley as he passes. He smiles, that smile of the sun that it is. "Merci," a second whisper, barely uttered before things quiet down. Valan looks to the front.
     It takes work not to stand around and gawk like a tourist...

     Behind Shelley, now raising from the dais, is the auburn-haired man. Dressed in fitted black pants and a white shirt, he also wears a triple-buttoned longcoat. A long gone look that's just in time for Toreador season. Rather lanky, the man, clearly the Prince, leaves seating at the dais to walk to the edge of it as the head of the room.
     "We are delighted to see another one in our midst. Welcome, stranger, to our," his hand opens to mean everyone present, "...London."
     The room lifts at the greeting, heads rising and some standing to see better. It is their city, the energy seems to say, each one a piece of what makes London the Camarilla jewel that it is. Not a haven for wolves, demons, and no longer, even, for the Glamorous.
     It is ours.

     Behind Edmund, comes Edward. Silent steps. A breeze of his coat. He says something, not even audible. Words murmured at Edmund's ear, motioned only and not given any air.
     "Go away."
     Nothing for those with preternatural hearing to pick up. Even those who might read lips should have a hard time. Edward's mouth presses against the crown of Edmund's ear, the two words only a movement at his skin.
     No matter what's happened this night.
     No matter what was done outside.
     No matter my quiet.
     You are not welcome in this...

     For his part, Shelley moves aside and takes a seat. He watches things, but then Janet arrives next to him to give him a drink. Both are transfixed to the scene, smiling as others ask them questions about the new arrival.

     This is one of those ... unscripted moments. And rather than crawl into himself, die of embarassment or look shocked, Valan only slightly pivots to the side, hands going into his pockets. He smiles a little. No one will take anything from Blois and Blois takes nothing from no one. How I love him.
     The pivot doesn't last long. Valan looks directly to the prince. He seems to be waiting for a resolution. If it does not come, he'll simply speak for himself.

     The lady's attention is given to the Prince as he opens the court officially. A whisper to one of her clan next to her while her gaze stays forward. A drink is taken from a passing waiter, held easily in one gloved hand as she watches the proceedings.
     Curiosity is present but not expressed at the approach from Edward to his Primogen. Her gaze passing over the exchange casually to move on to the dias again. A sip taken from her glass.

     "Rose," Sebastian de Rancey says, moving to the head of the congregated Ventrue. Around the room, it seems others are shifting, and from the throngs, a distinct structure emerges. The clans are indeed gathered together distinctly, and at the front of each, one who seems to command each. A primogen, and behind him, ranked elders, ancillae, and neonates, each in his place.
     Sebastian takes a drink from his glass, some metal wrapped about crystal. He shakes his head at the scene between Edward and Edmund, then says softly, "Why is that not surprising..."

     Edmund stands for an instant, glancing left and right to see if anyone heard. A low noise comes from his lips as he glances to his side at Valan.
     Instead of answering, Edmund purses his lips again and turns. He grins as his head angles downward, looking nothing like dismissal, and leaves Valan's side.
     "Our clan is delighted, Your Grace, to have another among us..."
     No introduction. No completion of Thierry's opening. A simple statement.
     Edmund Mortimer inhales sharply, taking two steps backwards towards where his clan is gathered.

     At her own Primogen's approach, Rose turns slightly, offering out a hand in greeting silently before he draws her attention to the Brujah again. "How nice to see you, I didn't want to interrupt."
     Her melodic voice is soft, low as not to carry as the official business commences. But one doesn't wish to igrnore one's elders, "Indeed..."
     She sips from her glass, appraising the exchange with her cool blue gaze. The presentation is perhaps not as seemless as one might like. Particularly if one were Ventrue.

     "He is no stranger to you," Edward begins, facing Valan's left shoulder. "He is like all of us," Edward turns forward, "...a childe of The Wanderer, who walks the night Eternal. He is," Edward smiles, "...of my line. Of those childer of Troile, who brought us the splendor and freedom of Carthage, and were there at the founding of the Camarilla. Of those of the courts of France and Spain. Of El-Adar, who sends only her best from her hallowed halls and towering minarets. And he is of those...who fought at Alhambra."
     "He is of the Montagues of Touraine and Bordeaux, from those of Italy. The first son of a family steeped in traditions almost as old as We are. He is well-loved by the Montagues, and now as he is in this life with Us, well-missed."
     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."

     Thierry Tattinger nods gently, then looks at Valan. "Welcome, Valan Montague of Clan Brujah, of El-Adar and of France. Your Sire...speaks highly of you. You are fortunate." Thierry extends his hand, encouraging Valan a bit closer before he continues.

     Robert leans and says softly, "Cheers, Rosamund." Despite his seeming invisibility, Robert LeGrasse is still of some age. He smiles at Rose, taking up a spot at her other shoulder.

      Turning her attention again from the presentaion which obviously holds some interest for her, Rose smiles to Robert as he steps up next to her, "LeGrasse. Good to see you, I haven't gotten to come by to try your recording technology lately. I should have a go at it sometime soon to keep you on your toes."
     A hand is offered out sideways, though her facing never changes from that given the ceremony going on. Voice a quiet murmur.

     Good Christ.
     Edmund Mortimer stands at the side opposite the Ventrue, in the group closest to the scene. He'd roll his eyes, but it would be too obvious to everyone in the room. Instead, he simply holds himself, arms folded across his chest, considering the developing scene. A couple of older Brujah stand with him, and behind them, Magritte Panatiou, the Brujah Justicar's rumored archon, watches.

     Robert takes Rose's hand surreptitiously, giving it a squeeze of a shake. Much more would be a commotion. "Come by anytime," he whispers, letting her hand go and giving the scene his attention again.

     He is, quite literally, a dog of the House of Montague. Those Montagues, a name made famous by a tragic, iambic play, regardless of the fiction in it. Those very Montagues. On his mother's side, it is French -- all French. In their lineage is the Valois. Romeo on one hand, Princes on the other.
     But it is Romeo that most springs to mind, an Italian lover, prone to boldness -- with a group of friends with similar temperament. One of them the most outlandish, and the bravest, of all.
     Valan's smile spread during that speech, turning to a grin to match Edward's, truly as Alhambra is mentioned. How fitting that a story that so occupied his youth should be present again as he becomes Present to the court.
     Fortunate? I am Fortune's fool -- thankfully she has been generous.
     Valan moves forward at the prince's gesture, hands coming out of his pockets. The look is comfortable, not utterly casual. It is a ceremony. For some scripted, for him? What good would memorization do but only make him nervous. The smile lingers, as it is its nature to do, a glance given to Edward. "Very fortunate, and thank you." He could go on -- and in moments he no doubt will -- but when the ceremony is ended.
      He had no idea it was going to be this formal. No wonder you wore a suit, ami!

     Rose nods once more to Robert with a breath of a smile. Most likely at some time in the relatively near future she'll take him up on that invitation.
     The young man front and center is given her attentions once more, and she sips her drink again.

     Edward winks - evident to the Ventrue side of the room - and takes a step back to allow Valan the ability to move forward.

     The Prince nods at the agreement on fortune. "You have an honorable lineage, both Kindred and Kine. Such a lineage is important to know and to honor in return. Tell me, then, a little of your Sire?"
     Thierry's sleeves flutter as he moves down another step off the dais to meet Valan more closely. His words still carry though, despite the nearing. "What did you think, when you came to be Embraced and by such as you have?"

     "Before I was embraced, like many of my mortal generation, I thought I had a pretty fair handle on the universe. Afterall, it was in all the news. I suppose this is not a new story." An existence by evening-news-at-five. Valan glances around the room.
     "My knowledge and experience, however dynamic-seeming, were in truth static. The words in the books were written, read, studied, and set aside. I have come to see that this is not the case at all. And the words of Aquinas, of Hafiz, the philosophy of kings and scholars long thought dead were never so living as they are in his example to me." Even though he will protest it is otherwise.
     "He comes from a line of scholars and warriors, mortal and immortal alike, those who believe it is better to have a firm philosophy than a clutched fist. Of the House of Blois, a storied house who once sat kings on thrones. Of El-Adar, the Oasis of Knowledge and Enlightenment in the midst of the troubles in Malaga and Cadiz," he has at least been educated!
     "He is the embodiment of Brujah's first mandate -- to know, to educate, and to fight ...when Fight is needed. You are right to say that I am fortunate. For my sire has shown me the wonders of El-Adar and he has introduced me to leaders of my New Family," like Girault he refers to it thus, "....to his sire, Infanta Maria, to Alfonso of Castile, Nasr ben Yusuf and Georg of Geneva. He has spent these first three years showing me the universe that he has brought me in to join, and has made certain I have understood the history and the importance and the significance of what We are. Brujah, and the Camarilla as a whole."
     Valan smiles then. "What was I to think of all of this?" He looks to Edward. "To think of my fortune? I have joined the company of learned men and women -- and I am glad to be among them. Immortality aside..."

     For a moment, Thierry stands on the stairs, arms at his side. After a stony moment, he raises a brow and his lips angle. His chestnut hair seems far more like a mane than the locks of a man, and when Thierry raises his head to review the assembled throng, his gaze narrows and his brow furrows in the scan.
     "You shame some of them, Valan Montague. I can see it, and you can feel it, yes? In their presence," Thierry says, almost accusingly, "...I will tell you not to worry. It is not yours to bear, the weight of some's stares, but their own."
     "I trust also, for your words tell of your education, that you are aware of our Laws?"

     Left behind for the moment, Edward watches the scene unfold. He stands in middle of the large room by himself now, but such exposure does not seem to unnerve him. He has not managed to remove his coat or gloves, and sometimes, as Thierry talks, Edward glances about to see the reactions of those nearby.

     The Ventrue lady is stoic. Though, she's nearly always stoic, so that doesn't mean much. She watches as well as listens when Valan gives his answer, following the exposition with a sip from her glass, easily standing with her clan between the two elders. Briefly after the Prince's monologue, she glances at the Brujah. Though if her attentions are given to any in particular is unclear.

     In the midst of the Brujah, the woman with the wiry hair, Magritte, leans over and whispers at the blondish Mortimer.

     Sebastian's eyes narrow at Thierry, but he does nothing else save take a drink from his glass. A man behind him leans to whisper, but Sebastian shakes his blonde hair slightly, intimating that he should remain silent.

     "Your Grace, if I begin to worry what others think of me now, I will be in for a long life," Valan does not grin, but the gold-green eyes do waver in some amount of humor. He becomes serious again as the Prince speaks of Laws.
     "My sire... Edward... has explained them to me, yes. I am aware of them."

     There's a quirk of her pink lips at the response from the childe in that. In approval, amusement, or derision isn't clear. But sometimes Rose can convey all three. In any case, she takes another sip, the barest of glances next to her as her Primogen's head shakes, picking up on his intentions before turning her gaze forward once more.

     "Good," Thierry says with some finality. "You know the joys of This Life and the penalties. The Masquerade is all," Thierry's voice lifts, as if reminding everyone. "For our safety and those that provide our lifeblood." Never forget.
     Hazel eyes return to Valan, standing before him. "Then, be welcome Valan Montague, childe of Edward," more like Eduard, "...Meurelle of Blois, of Infanta Maria Ramirez of El-Adar," he knows her, "...and those who stand behind her to Carthage and to Troile."
      Thierry nods at Valan, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Good man.
      Apparently, the Prince of London is pleasantly surprised.

     First from their spots are Janet and Shelley, as if they'd been waiting for Valan's release. From behind, they come up to the young man, the Prince not even turned away yet. "Ah, Valan!" they both seem to exhale and exclaim simultaneously, their hands coming to rest on Valan as well.

     "I haven't seen one like this in ages," Sebastian finally says, letting the air of Primogenship down. "Christ. They acted as if the damned world spun on this," he laments, finishing his glass of something in a quick swallow. "Gah. I even dressed up," he notes, sending a couple nearby into light Ventrue laughter.

      As the room breathes a collective exhale, Thierry inspects Valan again before lowering his hand from Valan's shoulder. He snorts a smile and then looks past the growing crowd around Valan, to see Edward for a lingering moment.
     To Edward, Thierry Tattinger gives a thin smile and a nod.

     Rose merely smiles at the joke from Sebastian next to her, though it's one of amusement. She doesn't comment on the fact that for a noteable number of people, it did. Sipping from her drink instead she turns to him, a sparkle of humor in her eyes, "It's good to show us that you can when occasion calls for it. Keeps us on our toes."

     There's more laughter - Ventrue? - as Sebastian twists to see Rose. He stares for a moment, as if to say, You are such a bitch, but what comes out is, "Someone needs to keep you all vertical. Might as well be me..."

     The Brujah seem to disperse, those not really allied with Mortimer quickly seeking other friends and social circles. But Magritte remains near the Primogen, and instead of the two moving towards Valan, they brush Edward in the middle of the room, and head towards the Ventrue's edge of the carpet.

     The grin comes only when the touch comes. "Merci," in French given to the one he knows is French. As he is touched from behind, as he hears Janet and Shelley -- his friends, and good friends they are these days -- he turns to them. "Were you nervous?" he says to Shelley, and the gold-green eyes wink.
     Valan was not nervous. What would be the point. Speak the truth and the world will open up for you. Be yourself, be honest and then nothing can be taken away.
     He gives both Shelley and Janet a hug in turn. "We should go out for a drink... tomorrow night..." Valan offers. He watches both Mortimer and the other woman move past Edward without so much as a word. It's probably for the best. "I'll be back," he says to Shelley and Janet.
     He needs to see Edward for a moment.
     At least.

     "I certainly appreciate it. Your efforts to keep us from getting too languid so often self depriving." Rose responds with an unruffled smile. In fact, one could say she was instead amused. Particularly if they didn't catch the briefest flash of ire. But, either way, her attention is given to the approaching group with a turn of her person, smile directed now at the other Primogen and his accompaniment.

     "Well, just a little," Shelley admits, laughing. "Though, what's wrong with drinks now?" Shelley asks, returning the group hug. But as Valan turns to Edward, he gets it. Janet adds, "We can go tomorrow, that's fine. Just call us okay? And we can show you around here, too. Now that you can visit here..."

     Robert only shakes his head as he smiles, saying, "What would we do without Sebastian, eh? Martyr," Robert teases, pushing at Sebastian's elbow. "Can I talk to you a moment?" he finally adds after the chuckles, moving the Ventrue Primogen towards a quieter spot. Oddly enough, the primogen goes with him, a little less annoyed after Robert's comment.

     Edmund's face holds no smiles. "Rose, are you done?" he asks tersely. Ready to depart already. Not even a show of genteel sociability or at least manipulative ability. Edmund comes to stand next to the rather elegant lady, though he tows a rougher one behind. "Magritte's gonna stay and watch what goes on..." he notes for the record. No, she's not coming with us.

      Edward watched the two pass him, rather rigid as he stands. But once they're gone, he relaxes somewhat and looks to the buttons on his coat and the floor beneath his feet. He exhales visible, shoulders of his coat shifting, but there's nothing to do. Edawrd stands and twists to see various people, giving nods to the few who acknowledge him.
      After a moment, he looks down to his gloved hands, wondering whether he should remove them.

     Sending one Primogen off (though that isn't precisely what happened) to receive another, Rose arches an eyebrow curiously at the directive from Edmund. Or, more precisely, at the tone. Temper, temper, darling.
     "I don't have anything specific that can't be done another night, if you're ready to leave." Her glass is set over on a passing waiter's tray now that the drinks are circulating again, half finished as it is. She nods and smiles politely to the other woman who approaches with him, "Lovely to see you again, of course."

     "Sure," Magritte says, chin and nose coming up. Dressed in black leather, boots, and a long black coat, Magritte looks like something from a lesbian biker magazine. Her wiry hair, white as faded blonde, stands out against the darkness of her clothing. Her dislike of Ventrue isn't unknown. Despite the fact that her partner-in-crime appears to be involved with one does not deter her obvious disfavor -- sometimes called hatred -- from showing.

     "I do need a tour. I'm not sure how to get back out," Valan winks. "I'll call you," he says to them both. I love you both, but First things first...
     Your eyes are down, do you miss the approach? "I wasn't sure how I was going to speak after that introduction. All I could think to do was... something I didn't want an audience for." Valan stands in front of you.
     Are you alright, ami?

     Edward's head lifts up, the remnants of his thinking fading from his expression. It's replaced with a smile and brighter eyes. "Well," Edward shrugs, "...you managed alright. I could tell," he grins.
     Edward does an open-mouthed exhale, then twists his lips. "Guess I'm done for the night," he says, looking towards the Prince who has returned to his circle. "Your friends seemed excited," Edward notes, changing the subject. "And you know that now you can come to court, right?"
     "Not that," Edward looks around, "...well, it might be a fun place for you to meet others."

     Edward's given a nod before she says her short goodbyes to the Ventrue left with the scatter. Rose steps over to Edmund, waiting patiently for his arm to be offered with practiced ease. The ire radiating off the other Brujah apparently goes unnoticed, though it's unlikely that that's the case.
     "Did you want me to call for my car? Or shall we take yours?"

     "Mine's there," Edmund grumps, "...we can go." Edmund gives a look towards where Edward and Valan stands, then to the prince and his coterie. Bastards all. Edmund's arm extends naturally, expecting Rose to latch on.
     "Let me know if anything interesting happens," Edmund says to Magritte, who simply nods and moves out of the way for the elegant Ventrue lady.
     "Can you believe it?" Edmund suddenly says. "He didn't even fuckin' mention that it was 3 years. Three years! He let that son-of-a-bitch slide..."
     "I guarantee you, Rose, if it'd been you or me, our asses would have had to present long before that. Long before." A snort and Edmund shakes his head.

     "Shelley was nervous. I suppose I would have been, too... were it not for who we are," You and Me. Who We Are. Not Brujah, though those within earshot might think differently. "Did you want to head back to the house or..."
     He leaves that open. He twists to look around, hand going into his pockets to find his cigarettes. Okay, so he was a little nervous. You change the subject. Something is the matter. But instead of getting into personal business, he looks to Edmund and the blonde attachment. Well, two of them if you count Queen Hecuba there. Valan lifts an eyebrow. "Who's that woman with Mortimer, the woman you walked in..."

     "Davydd's ex. Rosamund Caermichael," Edward says, careful not to turn their direction. "Remember that whole bit when he came to the house that night? She'd tossed his stuff on the lawn? Her."
     "As for going back," Edward straightens, inhaling, "...we don't have to. I think you should be seen with your friends."

     Resting her hand in the offered elbow, Rose nods, "Lovely." As Margritte steps aside she gives the leather covered... and then Edmund continues to speak.
     Despite her placid expression, those who know her with any regularity probably wouldn't have to streach to guess that this outburst doesn't necessarily please her. "Let's just go, darling." Her tone is pacifiying. Schooled with calm to try and illicit it from her companion after his exclamation.

     Magritte just watches, rolling her eyes once Rose tries to calm the Brujah-of-rising-annoyance. She walks off, heading towards a few Toreador.

     "Fine," Edmund replies, walking off towards the entrance with Rose. There's a stolen glance at the pair in the middle of the room, but nothing else is said about them.
     "What do you want to do about dinner?" Edmund asks absently, just making noise as he heads out with Rose on his arm.

     Valan keeps his look brief, turning back to Edward. He lets his eyes widen at that, if briefly. Wow. And now she's with Mortimer. Huh.
     He pushes that out of his mind, clearing it for other, more important things. "I'm sure yours are anxious to talk with you, too," Valan grins. "I think it went well," he murmurs. "I was a little nervous, I admit it. But... everything I said up there... you know it was true." His hand comes out, it takes Edward by the shoulder and gives him a little, playful shake.
     He'd kiss you but he's not sure you're ready to do that in this crowd...
     "I am going to find a drink and light a cigarette. Want to meet up with me on the other side of the room in a bit, or you are welcome to come with..."

     "How about I see you at home," Edward smiles. "It's your night here, hmm? Your friends would like to see you and others too. Maybe you can get an audience with the Prince." It's a game, ami. Unfortunately, you need to play.
     "I will get my things," Edward grumbles, twisting to see the entrance, "...from Phillips." The smile brightens. Yes, that's a good idea. "And perhaps suggest to him that if he wants me unarmed, he should fuckin' ask."
     That's the spirit.
     "And, once you're home," Edward grins, cheering a little, "...you can tell me all about your night in Court."

     Miraculously, Rose doesn't look as though she'd rather melt into the floor. Or even like she'd rather be anywhere else. Her unruffled carriage continues to the door as she chats with Edmund, perhaps in the hopes that as long as he doesn't have to think about the presentation his temper will remain relatively in line, "Oh, I hadn't thought about it particularly. I had something before I came out, I wasn't sure how long we'd be staying."
     That lasts to the door, where she encourages the continued exit out of the court.

      "I will see you at home, ami..."
     He doesn't kiss you here, not full-on in court. But the touch of his hand to your arm is as much of one. It lingers there a moment with a squeeze and then he turns to head back over to where Shelley and Janet are still talking.
     He handled it well, Meurelle. Take a moment for personal pride. Take a moment for love.
     And then go beat Phillips down in the alley.

Posted by rowan at October 19, 2003 11:07 PM