The manicured bailey's grass can be seen -- what's left of it. A section has been cleared of snow, encouraging the drifts to rise higher along the sides. The group shivers outside, two young men and an older one, but they are not going to complain. A rectangular strip ends at one of the young men, who holds a pin, yellow flag fluttering in the crisp breeze. All bundled up, the three are.
     The fourth, however, bends studiously over a tightly held club. Dressed impeccably, he's in wool pants and vest, with a heavy turtleneck underneath. Over it, a heavy brown woolen coat. Practical fashion for the green. Ian's blonde hair wavers as he positions himself and his club, grey eyes looking 14 feet down the strip to Donall holding the pin. Back and forth eyes flicker, then a sudden rise. "Dammit," Ian sighs, looking at the three men, then turns to the older man standing behind with his back, "I changed my mind," in Gaelic, of course, "....give me the long putter." Darn. He laments to the sky, hip and leg stuck out now as he offers the older Moiran his current club, handle first.

     Even beneath the wind and your own cursing, beneath even the sound of clubs shifting to fulfill your request, there is the ...pattering of quick feet. She's moving as fast as she can, at any rate. Red-cheeked, one may guess from the motion, she moves up the green of the bailey and toward you. Bundled tight against the wind and cold, her voice sounds out even as Moiran is in the process of handing you the long putter you requested. "... Does anyone know how to speak Italian?" she calls out, her voice holding a kind of laughter to it. "...There's a visitor... arrived... he's waiting but I can't understand a word he's spoken..."

     The feeling is mutual. Within the main hall of the Keep, where he was shown and given a warm drink, Girault di Medici, son of the infamous Cosimo di Medici remains standing, watching the old woman head out into the cold. That cold! It is more frigid than even the most resilient of Ventrue Women. It was uttering William's name that got him half so far. Would he have been standing outside in all this cold otherwise? God forbid it. He shudders as he shrugs off the remaining chill. A half smile lingers upon his lips as he looks around to the hall. Very grey. How many words for 'grey' is there in Gaelic...

     No one for the Lord, to be sure. Ian switches putters, murmuring only, "Isn't Fraser inside?" he says tersely, moreso because of the need to keep his mouth closed from the breeze. His coat lifts as he smiles at Moiran, then turns to take up the putting position again. "His Italian," the young man says absently as he lines his shot again, "...is impeccable." And who would be visiting anyway? Italian? Visiting? Who would come here anyway? Certainly not a salesman, nor someone for the regular house staff. Ian quirks a second, coming upright again and looking at the old woman. "Is it someone for me?" he quips, rather surprised as logic begins to work out.

     The two young man shake their heads, never having ventured south of Loch Ness. A shrug comes from Moiran behind Ian, once his Lord's turned away, of course.

     "The most I could make of it... He asked for a Gui... but the rest..." You miss the blush. "Twas a bit more than I could understand of that tongue of his. No more could I make of it. Gui... Medic?" Medic? Medici? Dionnach bundles herself up, a look to the others. "Ah, I tried Fraser... but he is yet a-bed... " Dionnach pauses against the wind that follows. "I'll have him continue to wait then... in the hall..." It is a question. "...Until Fraser wakes...?" That too is a question. A quick look to the lads.

     Well, he is a salesman of a fashion. The son of a ... merchant. A ...banker. A redistributor of wealth, his own and others. No need to be specific about it. He lifts his cup of... tea?... Tea and takes a sip of it. As he sips, he wanders. Eyes moving over the large hall. Gaze wandering over the doorways. Wondering which goes where...

     There's a soft curse. Ian nods at the woman's words, murmuring for those to hear, "I'll be there in a second," Scots' tongue thick, "...you'll want to wake Fraser," he comments, grey eyes steeled on the ball. He will do this shot, by God, if you all must turn into popcicles to do it. He'll be so ready for spring matches. There's silence, then, "Don't go into th' room...just have Peter bash on it loudly." An inhale and Ian winds himself back, pulling, then releasing into the tap of the ball. It's audible, and he and his eyes follow through, willing the ball across the icy ground and to the makeshift cup....
     "Loki be damned," Ian sputters, rolling his eyes to the sky and closing them. The young men look down, then wince at each other. A miss. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," the one in brown says over and over, grunting as he turns to hand the old man the club back. Elegant, if profane. From there, he goes on in a language that gets quirks from the three nearby, for it has familiar elements...but isn't the same Gaelic they know.

     The woman says nothing but hastens back to the warm kitchens. Go in to wake Fraser? She'd never! One never knows in what condition he will be found. All Frasers are rascals. To a man! Her steps soften as she departs, and the heavy door closes loudly. Within, she calms her heart and hopes you got off your shot before the loud racket. Oh Dionnach, you old fool...

     Within the hall, Girault settles like the very lord of the manor in one of the chairs near the hearth. Why not. And he finishes his tea, his light-brown eyes lifting. He wonders what holds them here. Here, of all places. In the very far reaches of the empire, as it were.

     He'd take off his gloves now in disgust, but it's too cold. Ian continues his grumbling as he begins to stomp the ice towards the antechamber's bailey-side door. After him, the three rush together, stepping gingerly as to not fall and break something.

     Elegant profanity. This is something Girault knows. At times, he has lived it. Upon entering, can you see him in the chair? Does it allow the view? You feel... age. Younger than you in all respects, but age nonetheless. His hair is long and black. Straight, it cascades against his broad shoulders. Yes, though his father was a business man and, for all intents and purposes, ruler of the city-state of Florence, Tuscany, Girault was more knight than diplomat. But a scholar he was, and an artist. A warrior but more than this. A musician with a voice of velvet. And he is sitting in your chair. One leg folded over another. His features are noble. Aquiline. A sharp and keen handsomeness he has. His mouth is full -- an Italian trait, that. But his complexion is softer, fairer than William's. His eyes are a light cinnamon brown. His form is one of a poet-knight's. Shoulders and chest are broad -- were his arms uncovered, you could see the bulk there, forged from a life of many duels and not a few skirmishes. But his figure is trim at the waist. A fencer's form. He is no taller than you, and he was Embraced in his thirtieth year. There is a grace -- there, it can be seen when he rises...
     He is clothed between eras. His jacket is fur-lined and hardy, but mistake it not.. it is for the sake of Presentation and Elegance, not practicality. It is a black, but in the lighting of the fire it has a burgundy cast. Beneath this, a white silk shirt. It could be of any age from Deco, backwards. His trousers are a fine linen, with an expertly tailored trim to his form. Italian, that. As if he would wear anything else. His hands are yet covered in gloves, and as he turns toward the sound of doors closing from somewhere, he is removing a silver case. Hunting after a cigarette no doubt.

     "It must be an emergency for you to come yourself," Ian says, turning on his anglicized Italian. He will not hide what he is...and it is not of Italy. But it is fluent enough. He smirks as he pulls off his gloves. Boots were already taken from him in the antechamber, replaced with Italian leather more suited for the keep. "Welcome," Ian grins, crossing the warm space, "....it's been a very long time, Sir Girault." A title for all seasons, yes? The older man takes the gloves that Ian offers absently and to the side, and he shuffles off with the wet items. One of the young men follows with the clubs.
     When Ian arrives near the visitor, hand extends with pale grace, "You look well." A turn of his head and there comes a brush of Gaelic to the remaining youth. "Go assist Fraser, please." A bob and the last heads off to the staircase.

     The laughter is boisterous and lives in his eyes. The light brown of them dance with Otherworldly brightness -- you can understand it. "It is of the highest importance. You still have the keys to my villa," comes the smooth Tuscan, and as you extend your hands and grin, both of his hands raise and then extend to you -- that Florentine gesticulation. So much said without a single word spoken. "Lord Dunross... too long... ah..." he breaks into English. "How you say... it is... sight for pained ... no! sore...sore eyes..." A wink follows and the smile is brilliant. Warm, heated naturally.
     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?" The voice is a higher range baritone than William's. It has a velvet quality. Even in his broken English, there is grace. There is beauty. "Speaking of Florence... now that you are back in Europe... " a pause. "...for a while... you will have to honor my city with your presence..." The cigarette, still held in the silver case, is forgotten. He releases your hand after another flash of a smile and the case is pocketed again.

     A silver-yellow brow raises, pale in the golden firelight. They're too close. Ian's smile slants, always the first sign of a blush. He catches it and shakes his head, another motion thrown into the mix. "Your villa was and is spectacular, Sir Girault, one of the most beautiful places that I have been to." Meant genuinely, until Ian realizes in the instant how beautiful it was. His grin turns ribald again and he nods as if to emphasize the sentiment, "Truly...stunningly...appointed."
     He'll allow his smirk to be seen for that one, knowing that a little emotion on the issue for him goes far. A turn and he motions to the seat where you were, "And when I get the chance, I would love to see Florence again...I have not been there in ages," Ian concedes with a stride to his own familiar spot. He plops into it, a lordly bounce following his sigh. And a look to you. You are terribly handsome, he thinks...then thinks better of it. Toreador have a way of Knowing your thoughts. "Well, on a visit with William, of course," comes clarification with that boyish smile.

     Though he can read thoughts -- he would never do so in your manor. It is rude, no? It is like entering a man's bedchamber without knocking. Well... he might do that. As you mention the... appointments, Girault's lips spread in a smile. His dark hair shifting in the breeze that is stirred by his following motion. He sits across from you, a leg crossing over his other as part of the same motion. There is no...lordly sprawl or barbarian loitering. He sits as a prince. Ah, and from that coil of motion and from that smile, it is easy to see why he was called 'The Cat'.
     A chuckle lifts from his throat then, rumbles in his chest like a purr. "Oh... yes... well, though it is easy to ...chastise Spain for her lack of taste -- the Witches have no ... " His hands motion, gesticulating as his smile twists. "... true comprehension of... color and...style. Still, Spain's young men..." He is a man who...shares your interest. Wholly. You can see the shared flicker of that in his eyes. He smiles then, simply. Does that not say it all. "My thanks. Ever, should you wish it... my home there is as your home. Please..." And that is genuine. It is for you. It is for William. Whenever a call is to be made.
     And as you mention William, Girault's eyes glitter and his mouth purses. "Must you bring him...? He sets the city in a roar, it takes me weeks to get it to recover... It is like inviting a bull to Sunday brunch..." The smile is warm. Do you find him handsome? Few would not. But it is... a mutual feeling. There is an electricity of attraction there, is there not? He studies you a moment, and then glances to the fire. Subtle. A courtier of old. "You look well, it is good to see," he begins, looking to you again. "I have heard from Blois... that the move may be... more permanent?" Hands land upon the arms of the chair. "We should conquer Spain..."

     "We should," Ian smiles, hand coming to rest on his cheek as he leans elbow onto the arm of his seat. Blush covered by an easy move. "And as for Muerelle," is Ian the only person who calls him by his name, "...he speaks the truth." Not explained, save, "We miss home." And that, he figures you can understand. Catching himself looking at your hair, Ian coughs and glances towards the kitchen doors. "Slow they are today," he murmurs thoughtfully, "...I wonder if something is happening?" But even as it's said, the answer reveals itself. "Oh...they had to wake William to greet you," he remembers. "He will be thrilled to see you, I am certain."
     Continental grace, he thinks. Perhaps it was from you that he thought to get Dunross' polish. A taste for Italian linen and shoes. Remembering himself, Ian crosses his own legs, looking more the 19th century landowner than the Prince. You have a look Maciavelli would love. Eyes to the kitchen door, he asks, "Shall we get you something warmer?" a wondering query. Someone is being called.

     "Ah," and he makes a wave of his hand, "... what would we do with it... it is full of Spaniards..." So sayeth the Florentine. Perhaps a little remaining bitterness toward the people of Ferdinand. Upon an exhale, there is that still warm and brilliant smile. Quick to his lips. As lilting there as the Italian upon his tongue. "Slow! They are probably frozen... I should have to walk around this country surrounded by your...men in those...what they call them... kilts!" suddenly remembering. And the idea pleases him. He doesn't finish his sentence but only quirks a brow at the image. And then to you. Perhaps he wonders what you would look like in a kilt.
     "I am fine.. well... brandy. If you have it I will have some of it in the name of old courtesy and old friends." Chuckling, he finishes his tea. Ah, it was there on the small table near the chair. There is laughter as you mention waking William. "Goddess help them... well, it will be good to see him. And ... I think, Ian..." he calls you by your name even as his eyes lift to you. Light brown sparkling there. And Maciavelli did love him. His long black hair drapes forward over his shoulders as he leans in. "...it is more that your home, Our Europe, missed the two of you. We must talk some sense into France before it is too late. That is what I am hoping Guillaume and you shall do. Yes?"
     He smiles broadly then. "Do not let me speak of politics... this is a pleasant visit. It has been so long since I have had this pleasant discourse..." His eyes lift to the door. As if expecting you... and your ways... to call a servant in...

     And then one o' the house enters, already assuming the need. Warm drinks are brought. And warm cakes to go with them. How are they to know he will not eat them?

     "Brandy it is," Ian affirms over cascading fingers. He sits up as someone enters, peering to make sure brandy was one of the tray items. And so it is. "I do not know what we can do about France, but after a rest," he turns attention to you again, "...and I am sure the requisite rumors," he smiles, "...no doubt we shall be brought into the thick of things." The idea does not displease him. These politics, Ian understands. There was a faint blink as you said his name, it rolling from your tongue in a discomfiting manner. "But you are right," service brought to him, "...we should speak not of such things...yet. There will be enough time."
     A nod of thanks to the servant, and soon Ian is looking at you over a warm drink. "I swear, Sir Girault," safer appellation with title attached, "...your villa would make me want to move to Spain..."

     O! Delight! You can see it in his eyes. The brightness that lifts to them. The humor. The Knowing. The pleasure. Well, and thoughts of pleasure. His hand lifts slightly. "Lord Dunross," he says after, "my villa in Cadiz would make me want to move to Spain and endure... the baggage that comes with it," meaning the Tremere. And the Sabbat. Although, if he had to pick...
     His smile softens and his countenance is suffuse with warmth. "I know Guillaume prefers the warmer climes. You are welcome to it. You have but to ask. I will, of course, visit." He pauses, tilting his head and his long hair is a silken sheen as he does so. The smile of The Cat twists somewhat. Slanting. "My staff there is... ah, very excellent and discrete young men. Franco told me but this... that Guillaume was thinking of ... borrowing my musicians!" He laughs, his face brightening in it. "I hear from Isabella he will be having to staff his castle again. Perhaps I should... let Augustino and Felipe... experience France for a while. I am considering... moving them to Florence anyway...ah! Brandy! My many thanks, Lord Dunross..."
     A pause as the brandy is set down. And poured. Light brown eyes shift to you. "Your own lands, your estate here. It is very impressive. I have never been to Scotland in the winter...my curiosity has been sated!" He chuckles. "Ah, but this..." a gesture to the hall and to the keep at large, "...this is very well maintained. I never could bear the upkeep on castles... it is constant work, is it not?"

     "It is," Ian affirms with a smile. Topic shift. And where is William? "But everyone here has spent most of their lives here, and so for them, it is their home, their father's home..." and a finger waves to continue the cycle. "We make renovations, gentle modernities behind the ruse of antiquity," Ian's voice falls to a shrug. You know how it is, yes? A taste of his drink and he settles deeper into his seat. His home is not so obviously filled as yours, but here and there are points of personal privilege. Like the server...Fitzsimmons first, now an Italian. His month's been overflowing. But after a bow, he departs the room, having only noted his interest in the visitor with a bit of eye contact...while his back was given to his Lord, of course.
     Ian chimes in, "So, really, might you tell me what brings you north? I am glad you...are impressed," he smirks at the politeness, "...but I am worried. Truth, Sir Girault," he smiles, "...you cannot have wished to come so far north at this time of year, hmm? Though your Alps may be colder, this is true..."

     Where is your William? You know he is awake. You can feel him, with something of....warmth with it. Ah, a bath? Cleaning after the exertion of the previous night. It will not be long. Perhaps there is something between he and Girault -- perhaps Girault has suggested that he...take his time. But your William is slow to get going until he showers. This you know. And being so far north, he is still getting used to it.

     "Ah, the visit... yes!" Girault smiles. The pull of lips is smooth. The Cat returns. And the look is lingering. But just before it reaches a leer, he glances elsewhere. A sip of brandy and he half-closes his eyes. "Excellent," he murmurs to the brandy. And then again, with the intake of a breath, "Once I heard that William had left America... Blois... you know he has his own way of...embellishing." He smiles. "I like this about him. He is a true bard... in that respect."
     He clears his throat slightly and looks to you. His expression is serious, but yet warm. "I wanted to hear of it myself... We... cannot always choose our relatives, Lord Dunross. And so... I take care of my friends. Gui has been... remarkably quiet..." He smiles to that. You know your William. The Son of Henry is usually not quite so close-lipped.
     There is a stirring above. Girault's eyes lift to the sound and then return to you. His smile slants. "Ah! He is coming... and I did not even flirt." He exhales. "I am getting old, Dunross..." Getting old? The Seventh Generation Medici is old.

     He's quiet smiles as you speak, chiming only at the notion of 'getting'. "Getting?" Ian begins, then slants at the approaching sound. "Seems he does approach," Ian confirms, smile remaining though a growing warmth creeps across his features. Happiness. Finally, he awakens. "I'll let you both get reacquainted," he offers, standing in anticipation of departing for a time.

     A sudden lift of color touches his cheek. But is it accidental? Is it natural? Or is it for you? He rises, legs unfolding and his motion the height of grace. "Lord Dunross, it would be ... my pleasure for you to remain... " He bends his head, a half-bow of respect. Girault lifts his gaze. They hold a grin. And a fire. Oh, William is far luckier than he deserves. Pity you cannot read his thoughts. Or, can you by that look?
     He straightens. Fingers yet coiled around the glass, nails chime against the glass. And now he is not so worried about staring. He revels in the moment. Before William enters. His smile slants. "You will stay?" A black brow lifts. And hope resides in his look.

     The scent of leather and cinnamon. The pulse of something against the air. Like a second fire to the electricity that is already... reflecting between the parties in this room. "I was told an interpreter was needed?" comes the languid pull of William's voice. Full and rich. Deeper than Girault's own. Upon it resides humor and something else. You feel that...something else landing upon you. He has yet to see you this morning. This evening. "I interrupted a fine dream...it had better be worth it..."

     A familiar look, but one Ian has not seen in a long time. A vampire's look. Brow flinches and grey eyes lower before he turns to greet the voice. His own fingers tap against the glass, a timbre of embarrassed blush. Waved away it is in a bright smile for the Lord Fraser. "There you are," Ian voice strides forth, dismissing the Look with sound, at least, "...I was wondering if you were becoming a new man upstairs." Feet follow his voice as he puts to use the nervous agitation with motion. There. All better. Moved away from the spot and the moment. Hand lands at your arm, and he leans to place a kiss at your cheek, nose at your ear. Help.
     Revitalized with the touch, he smiles and falls back to angle so that he might see you both. "Yes, an interpreter was needed...I arrived and saved the evening." Your friend is here--see?, his extended arm seems to say, motioning at Girault.

     When he was told of the Italian in the great hall, his first thought was not of Girault. His first thought was of Guillermo. Remember Guillermo? When you returned to Chinon for the first time in half a century, Guillermo was there. A late nephew to this Medici. A ghoul of William's, but he serves two masters at times. But though indigo eyes turned to the risen Girault, William turns to you first. His smile is warm, sensuous -- the pull of his lips holds warmth. And desire in the shadows of that fullness. He leans in, closing his eyes, and the kiss that is returned is to your mouth. Tugging slightly. He makes not pretense before Girault.
     "Merci," William murmurs to you, his hand covering yours and he lifts his dark eyes to Girault then. "What are you doing out of Florence, Prince Medici... I was expecting your little nephew..." William half-turns, his attention wavering again to you. You are staying, yes? It is not wholly different from the look Medici has given you.

     "Well," Ian smiles, "I should take a few minutes and see what is going on in the kitchen." To you, he notes, "They are a bit slow this evening, it seems." A polite smile is given to Girault as he looks at him again, finally answering his question, "You will forgive me a few while I see about my home, yes? I will..." he peers between you both, brow furrowing...then again, "....not be so long."
     Just enough to compose himself as the authority here...feeling like prey is not his way. He licks the lip that you pulled, glancing quickly left and right before extracting himself. "I shall return..." he offers, giving a stiff nod and practiced smile.

     Ah, there was no doubt to authority. Girault bows and smiles, the warmth and amity beating back the other... more lascivious look. He will apologize later. He is nothing if not polite...
     There is a nod from William and a look. He will wonder on it later. The slowness or the energy? But with a smile to you, he turns to Girault. Rapid Italian begins. What are you doing here? How is it you are not frozen solid? How is Florence? How is your mother? And so on. The catch-up begins. Punctuated by business.

Posted by rowan at January 15, 2000 11:28 AM