The winter storm has finally calmed enough that going outside is now an option. Still, the wind blows. It merely does not howl. And the snow has ceased for the time being. It shall, at least, be more hospitable than yesterday...
     And now that the storm has calmed, the true activity is happening within the Great Hall. There, a healthy fire burns in the hearth, and near to its light and to its warmth are several gathered. Seated in the comfortable chairs. Watching the end of a Great Contest. The end of a chess-battle nears, and Scotland is beating -- quite handedly in fact -- his Norman opponent, representing England and France. And if there is one thing a Scot loves apart from whiskey, it is beating the English and French. And with a d'Angevin in the hall -- you get two, laddie, for the price of one...
     William and Ian are seated across from one another. One golden with the firelight, the other more darkly complected is bronzed by it. Concentration and Chagrin are in array -- and the battlefield has been a bit bloody.
     The lost Normans stand shoulder to shoulder upon Ian's side of the table. And near them, standing, is a handsome man, sandy-blonde hair and hazel-eyed. You might remember him as your pilot -- Henry Fitzsimmons. For his part, William is settled back fully within the embrace of his chair. Half smiling, half frowning. He does so hate to lose. His three-night beard giving him not only a natural regality but adds sensuality to a mouth that does not need the assistance. And his dark eyes are glittering. Battle-face on, the beautiful knight sits. Arms folded against his chest. Damn.

     His eternal rival sits placidly across from the Angevin, fingers moving his richly hued Queen. It is a magnificent set of brilliant marble. Each figure is carved exquisitely, shapes and forms unlike even most thematic chess sets. At pale fingertips, Ian lifts the form of a woman, but not a queenly such. She is in robes, arms extended, but her hair flows freely, and around her form twines holly and leaves. Near Ian's lift is a standing keep, not unlike the one you all sit in. Square and crinellated, the lines of stone can be seen, etched into the green marble.
     At the center of this motion is a man, dressed perhaps more traditionally. A King, if there was one, ornately crowned. Up close, keen eye could see the Angevin heraldry that adorns him. But tonight, such runes will not save the foreign conqueror. He is outdone this night by a Goddess and her Consort, by an angling priest and old keeps, by young men with spears and bows, and wild horses with their manes free. The richly appointed knights, the ruling Bishop, and the Aquitaine Queen all sit by Ian's arm, mesmerized at their removal from the playing field. Only their King needs join them.

     "Tarmeste," comes Ian's murmur, eyes searching the blasted field. Left and right he observes, making sure that what he says is indeed true. And it is. Only then does he look up at the arrival and the Angevin. One has to get one's wins somehow, even if they are a thousand years late.

     Victoria doesn't make any comment for the moment, instead crossing through the hall to stop next to the board behind Ian so that she can look over the pieces from that vantage point. Not wanting to break concentration, she doesn't say anything but examines the pieces where they sit in their places on the board, perhaps recognizing the marble in spirit and perhaps not, but visibly impressed by the handiwork either way.
     Holding her hands behind her with the coat at her back she tilts her head to one side to look at the moves on the board independent of the tiny sculptures, her expression not betraying any notice of anything in particular or not.

     Those lips... give a twitch. Framed by the dark hair -- never shall the beard be full, always in this state of Beginning -- every twitch is noticeable. Those lips, that once tore through several royal houses like dinner bread, now but quirk a vanquished smile. Indigo lifts and William's gaze lands on the victor. He does not have to say the hated word of 'yield', for the field is so thoroughly won only the marble squares could conceivably cry for mercy. But, let it never be said that d'Angevin does not go until the very last swing of it all.
     Langue d'Oc falls from his mouth, his tongue setting old French -- very old French -- on fire. But, with a chuckle. William exhales, hands lifting to cover his eyes a moment -- oh, the horror! -- and when fingers part, his gaze is next to Victoria. "Morning, My Lady... come, kiss the wound..." His hands lowering, William settles back in his chair again. Laughter smooth and warm. "I cannot believe it... such a loss," he mourns, "...and a woman here to view my shame..." The grin is broad. Wicked. Damnable. "Ah well, at least I still have France and Ireland..." Indigo flickers in a wink to Ian and Victoria alike.

     The Irishman in attendance -- that would be Fitzsimmons -- smirks. "Lovely. Ass..." And with a laugh he then looks up to Victoria as well. "Dr. Gifford," he says with a nod and an Irish twinkle to his eyes.

     "You can keep France," Ian says, "...Ireland is next." A smile is given to Fitzsimmons, then his grey gaze turns to the woman in question. "Good evening, but I wouldn't kiss him if I were you. He knows not when to stop." Said in all seriousness. Hands turn to pour more drink from a small stone pot into a stone cup, but there's a slanted smile for tonight's loser and his face-paced Old French.

     An elbow rests upon the arm of the chair, and William's chin rests against the side of his palm after. He'll have to take a moment to heal from such a ...well, there's no other way to say it... whipping. The smile is warm and slants.

     With a light raise of her eyebrows, Victoria regards William in return over Ian's head in his seat. "Well, I'm afraid that my husband might have issue with it as well, so instead I'm afraid that I shall have to offer you my deepest condolences on your disappointing setback and leave it at that for the moment." She grins a bit and nods to Henry, "Good evening. Did you enjoy watching the battle of minds?" She gestures towards the chess board, "The pieces are lovely, I don't remember seeing them here in the hall before."

     "Fraser," Ian smirks at William, "...created them with his own artistic hand." Putting pot down, Ian reaches to pick up the Celtic goddess. "A thing of beauty," he whispers, holding it at the base eventually for everyone to view. No queen upon this island, and not in this keep, if he has anything to say about it. Other hand reaches up to filch one of the pawns, smooth and green. This one holds a bow.

     There is laughter for the remark on Ireland, that again from Fitzsimmons. He finishes his scotch and casts Ian a grin. "Ireland would rather watch you beat France again. It's so much fun, who could be satisfied with only one round?" Hazel eyes shift to Victoria again and he smiles. "It's always entertaining to watch the Fraser ego be checked. It restores one's faith in god." But a hand reaches out and gives William a square pat on the broad shoulder. The teasing will end. Eventually. For now Henry turns toward a refill of his scotch.

     There is laughter likewise in the indigo gaze. But humbled? Truly? Never. He is Henry's son -- he is not capable of true humility. William grins quietly now, and upon that beautiful countenance there comes a certain... plotting look. Ian knows it well enough. And by now, Victoria, you too should be familiar with it. It softens only when the chess set is mentioned. "I carved it for Ian's birthday, from the marble you gave me for mine," comes the languid baritone of his voice, now Anglo-French in accent. A drawl of Langue d'Oc, with a lilt of Gaelic. An odd combination to be sure, but one that serves him well.
     The Normans are carved in black, and if you look closely you will see Richard the Lionhearted, and even the likeness of his brother, William. Eleanor and Henry both are carved. The pawns are all Norman Lions. Fashioned of the green Italian marble, the Scottish field. With its hunters and hawks, its griffins and towers. Its highlanders. All highly detailed. William smiles to Victoria. "Lord Fraser may be bad at chess, but he knows a thing or two about Italian marble." Fraser, the name that has replaced Fitzroy. In mixed company.

     "Going out?" Ian quips suddenly, apropos of nothing. Observant boy. However, it sounds more like a fatherly voice, eyes averted and on something else while he pointedly asks about your business. Ah, that tea again. The pieces are set down once more and he picks up the old stone cup and sits back in his seat.

     Bringing the coat back around in front of her again so that it isn't even partially hidden behind her, Victoria nods, "I was thinking about it. The keep is lovely, I just am starting to get a little cabin fever I think. I was going to take a walk around outside, providing that there aren't any objections of course."

     As Ian speaks, William quietly begins returning the Normans to the field of battle. His voice lifts, a snippet of a troubadour's song. "Aquest' amours me fer tan gen..." Rich baritone and smooth, and the Langue d'Oc, his native dialect, has a natural lyricism. The rest falls into humming. "We should go out," he murmurs after, looking from Victoria to Ian. English, suddenly. Lips pull into a curving smile. His voice mulls and is held in his throat. Ah, the sound of mischief. Even Henry hears it and looks up. Hazel eyes catching the light.

     "Absolutely none," Ian notes, figuring you are now used to the January temperatures, "...but I should send a pair with you, just in case." No one goes outside alone around here, it seems. He sips, then quirks a brow, "Actually..." he glances to the fireplace, "...now that I am done teaching," grey eyes flicker at William, "...I should get in a green." And before the sentence is finished, a pair enter from the servants' doors upon hasty feet. Ian takes a deep draw of his cup and then begins to rise.

     "Ah, teaching! God in heaven!" The Angevin cry. His father would be proud. With a smirk, William rises. Full lordly from the chair that held him. The smirk turns to a quiet grin. "Someone ... is full of victory. This cannot last... I will get no rest..." Gesticulating, his hands make a wave. In Europe, William seems as he is. Thoroughly European.

     There's no comment from Ian about William's rest as he passes Fitzsimmons and pats him on the shoulder. "Fancy a green?" he asks, English rather good this night. Must have had a recent business call. To the two who arrived, he says, "We are going out...and bring the bag." The code is translated and the two dash back towards the doors, more than likely to see to things.

     Victoria laughs and shakes her head, "I think, in my professional opinion of course, that you should both come with me. Otherwise there may be more war on the board which could intrude on domestic tranquillity for all." She glances back to the others over her shoulder and then to the group before her, not knowing what the bag is but figuring that it will be something interesting.

     "Tsk," Ian clicks, moving around the seating to an open area, "...it is the constant challenge that allows domestic tranquillity, yes? Healthy competition," he rambles on, waving a hand, "...getting out energies and aggressions, facing and dismissing long-standing contentions," the young man waxes, "...sport and gaming are essential to tamer...living." If this is representative of it, it is not so bad. Certainly not the vibe of New Port, right? Ian brushes at his wool sweater, then standing as if looking into a mirror, he quiets to fold his turtleneck into neat rolls.

     In the walls, there's the sound of doors opening and shutting and feet running. Popping from a door are the two young men, carrying long coats, gloves, boots, and hats. A third accompanies, carrying a black golf bag of the trendier sort. They pant as they approach, setting things down and holding coats open for their respective owners.

     The young lady grins a little and nods in agreement. "Yes, but this way I get you to go outside with me since I'm not going to be able to spend time with you nearly as often anymore and so I need to take advantage of what I can now."

     Mutterings in Occitan come from the old knight. But edged with humor. The grin remains upon his mouth. His expression warmed by it. And the swirl of energy around him hums against the air as he rises. He is clothed in leather but his long coat rests nearby. This, he pulls on. Like a king's mantle it seems on him. Gloves are pulled on. "Without competition, I would get bored. When bored, I tend to...hmm...how shall we say it, amours? Ah yes," and William grins to Victoria, "...burn cities and sack villages..." The rest is conquered by the chuckle that leaves him, rumbles in his chest where it is held.
     In truth, William is delighted by such things. Though his words spoke of woe, it was a mockery. Contests are the quickest... well, the second quickest... way to his heart. He moves past Ian, a gloved hand skimming against him. The very height of discretion. And he moves toward the north door -- this leads eventually to the castle's bailey and even its gardens.

     Henry smiles warmly to Ian, grinning to the pat on the arm. "I would fancy that. It's been too long... may I borrow your club, I've left mine in London. I wasn't expecting to get in a shot..." There is a smile to William and also to Victoria. He looks to you all. "I'll be out in a moment. I have to fetch my coat." His own accent is decidedly Irish. And then the handsome pilot turns about to head to one of the towers, and to the bedroom appointed to him.

     "Ah," Ian grins. Well spoken, Confucius, is the tone. He chuckles and turns to an angle so that the long brown coat might be put on him. A practical cut. Then, brow quirks, "You never wanted to spend time with me before..." then he smirks, "...so why now? Especially...when you never have to see me again." There's a nod to Fitzsimmons, but Ian soon puts steel grey look to the young woman once more. "I would think that you enjoy the solitude of the Keep." There's a wicked smirk that follows, wondering if his truth will be challenged.
     Settling coat upon his shoulders and taking gloves, Ian goes on to William as he walks off, "And yes, there are other more...basic reasons for the constant activity," he smiles, soon to follow him as he too turns about, "...like saving lives...keeping some out of trouble. Planned extracurricular activities..."

     Still grinning, Victoria puts on her own coat and fastens it, "You seem to forget that I'm actually a city girl, and so if things go on for too long this quietly I'm likely to believe that the world is over. Not that I don't like the occasional vacation, but I am afraid that I'm much more used to high activity." She glances over to the door that the bag fetching is going on beyond, "So what planned extracurricular activities are we bringing a bag along for?"

     The two young men finish seeing to Ian, lacing boots around his feet. One moves to William, checking on him.

     Laughter, a quiet ease of sound that, though soft, echoes here off the stone. "My mouth must be occupied and my hands full. Else the world is not safe, it is not safe." William waits, gentlemanly, at the door. A hand upon the iron mechanism. He shall gallantly open it, once the two of you come along.
     To the challenge, William says nothing. He knows the joke. "Scotland's contribution to the world of sports. Golf. Serious game, lass..." A chuckle is held in his throat. "And even though I excel... ah, merci," he says to the servant as he nears, "... at activities involving long sticks... it requires... such patience." As if he had none? It is self-directed humor, to be sure. William stands by the door, not halting the servant's task.

     "That didn't address my point," Ian smiles, not so unfamiliar with the verbal dance. "Unless you are saying, any activity with me, is better than no activity at all, yes?" Pale brow falls only when his feet appear to be done. He looks down, blonde hair falling into his face. "That's good," he notes, uprooting himself and heading towards the door to the large bailey outside. "And that," he motions with brown leather gloves to the bag, "...contains my putters." Well, doh, of course! "Carry on," Ian charges, striding gainly towards the exit and towards William's door.

     The three servants scramble, picking up the clubs and assorting their own coats and hats as the entourage makes its way to the snowdrifts and breezes outside. One moves gingerly, holding a pin with a flag...

     With a smoothening grin, cast to you both, the knight opens the heavy oaken door with a flourish...

     You sense Victoria raises an eyebrow silently as she follows behind Ian as if to say, Golf?
     Victoria slides her gloves on and follows out behind the entourage with Ian, then putting on her scarf. "I see. I'm afraid it's not a sport I've ever taken up myself, though I've heard that it's quite relaxing." She slides her hands down into her pockets and smiles, "However, since I was just going to walk anyway, I'll be able to see how it works."

     Outside, the snow has stopped for now. But the night breeze moves quickly across the inner courtyard, affectionately known as The Bailey. Cold is still cold. The yard is covered in a sweet layer of white that reflects blindingly at the moon's caress. A beautiful placidity -- harshly interrupted by a group of eight servants, frantically shoveling faster than any group has a right to. Granted, someone has to keep some of the pathways available for use, but their movement is better than most machines. They appear to be clearing a fifteen foot path of snow, straight, not so far from the doorway. Iced ground is underfoot, and the young man with the pin walks down the cleared aisle to check...and take up a position at the far end.
     Around the central yard, the walls of the castle rise. To the right is the tall keep, some six stories that rises high into the dark sky. To the left, a house of servants' quarters, Whitehall residence, and ahead, the large front of Sutherland's Hall. Each are connected by a thick defensive wall that stands blacker than even the night itself.

     Stark he is against so much white. Black leather coat ending at his ankles. Dark lord, indeed. And he moves with expert steps upon the snow and ice. Black hair drapes forward and as his quiet laughter ends, the breath of it yet lingers, frozen, on the air. Lord William he seems. Lord William he looks. "Relaxing? Ah, not the way Dunross plays it..." he murmurs. A hand gives Ian's shoulder a squeeze before he moves to the side. Trodding on unswept snow. Stark. Black against the white of it. And though his countenance is angelic, one may see quite clearly that the snow is far more pure than he.

     "It's always relaxing," Ian counters, taking up a position at the head of the strip. The young man with the bag comes behind him to stand, while Ian angles into a putting stance, looking down the cleared aisle. When done, everyone bobs and runs off, leaving the man at the pin to bend and set up a small contraption to catch a rolling ball.

     Tilting her head to the side slightly, causing her hair in its tie to slip over her shoulder, she looks at the odd arrangement while Ian sets things up to play, also looking around the outside of the keep not having had a chance to do so very clearly before. "I thought you were supposed to play the game on some sort of course?"

     "You are," Ian murmurs, exhaling as he extends hand into the darkness behind him and expecting a club to appear. "But one does green practice, one does fairway practice...you isolate your game and work on it," he says matter-of-factly, smiling when a handle is set into his glove. Clearing his throat, he looks back down the cleared aisle, then asks, "So, Victoria, what will you do first when you get home?"

     William chuckles quietly. "I'd hold your pin, laird," he quips with loving warmth to Ian. "But I'm afraid you'd aim..." For him. As Ian speaks, William moves among the snow, content to be in the drifts of it and to watch Ian from this distance. His arms fold against his chest, trapping warmth most likely, and he watches and listens to you two. Idly playing with the snow.

     A blushing smirk pulls at Ian's lips, and he lifts his eyes to look at William through his lashes. "Shh, I am setting up the shot," he whispers, then glances at Victoria with a smile.

     Leaning down to idly scoop up some of the fluffy white flakes that have collected outside the stone walls, Victoria paces just a bit and grins at William's comment, "Well, the first thing I shall do is go with you to the meeting that I believe will be soon to follow our return to the city, I would think. Correct?"

     "Correct," Ian agrees, "...presumably so." Looking down his club, then out to the young man, Ian adjusts his feet and grip around the club, making tweaks to his posture. "Have you thought how you will encourage the mantle of power transfer and solidify your constituency around you?"

     Indigo eyes -- can you see them in this darkness? -- in them they held a sparkle to the blush. Something passing between the two. Here, there is little in the way of... officious distance. They are as they seem. Intimate. Even when standing several feet apart. William's smile is now constant. Slight but warm. He listens. And then looks to the snow. Good packing snow, that. Perfect for launching. A raven brow lifts, and William begins to ...meander about it.

     As if his admonition was anything. It was a chance to look at you through lashes. The way Ian likes to see you best...

     As if he thought it was anything else. It is how he likes to see you looking at him. The air is alive with it. A sudden flare of electricity, of the current of it. He is walking in cold snow, but warmed by thoughts of a heated bower. So well you know him, you know even that.

     Pressing the snow between her hands Victoria thinks for a moment in response to Ian's question, "Well, part of it of course will depend on what Gabriel wants to do with things in the city and if he wishes to make any changes immediately, especially pertaining to the former compact." She glances over to where William is now that he's started moving and changes her direction just slightly in her pacing, "But the first thing there will probably be to meet with the other Ventrue in the city and find out what their concerns are in the transition so that I can represent them in the council." This is of course assuming that there are other Ventrue.

     "Council is not about representation, it is not a democracy," Ian says, "...you represent the power of the Clan by virtue of your arrival. Your Clan's issues are not the Council's issues," he stops and looks up, "...until your Clan contradicts Council plans. You are the final spot for Clan representation. Nothing...leaves the Clan, Victoria. Nothing. You...are the resolver of things. Not the Council."
     Whatever was going on with the putting is ended before a shot is taken. Ian comes upright, staring at the young woman. "It is not a place to hash out Clan problems, Clan situations should /never/ be in a Council meeting. Do you know why?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

     Black sheen of hair drapes forward in the prince's sudden bend. And the sweep of fingers captures snow. Idly, his hands begin to pack it. Idly, as if to ...give his hands something to do. He did mention that he needed to be...occupied. He listens with an attentive ear to the discussion, but there is no Angevin Philosophy bubbling forth from those sensuous lips tonight. Not enough brandy or blood has passed them. This night, anyway. William strolls about the white-that-would-be the bailey green, casting a grin to one of the servants standing by.

     "Of course it isn't, that's not what I meant. If we look weak to the Council as a Clan, especially now, the chances are that our interests will be degraded and taken advantage of by those who have been waiting for a chance to do so. With you and William leaving what's most likely going to happen is the vipers will slither out of the rushes to strike at the weak areas of control to see what happens to them."
     Somehow the snow manages to become rounded in Victoria's hands while she munches along on the ground, "Which is what I was meaning about finding out about what the concerns of the others are. If they see areas which they think are particularly weak and cause them concern then I can pay particular attention to things that would effect them in meetings."

     William, you can feel him think it..it's not my problem, it's not my problem. But still, the bile rises as he watches Victoria, and at the same time, annoyance that her naivete should piss him off.

     "The others have no say. The minute you give them say... you lose.." That is the simplest way to put it, and it is carried on a smooth tone. "That several Clans allowed the Ventrue to run them... speaks not merely of the Ventrue's strength, but of the weakness of the others. Give them a voice in the Clan, and you tip your hand." But there is no philosophy there. William tilts his head toward the sky, hands packing the snow in his grasp into a ball.

     He stands there, still looking. The dismay becomes clear when he shakes his head and goes back to his game. "Proceed as you will, Victoria," Ian murmurs flatly, hands refocusing on his grip, his bend steepening. "I will just be there to help transition and to make sure that my words are understood by me, concerning the transfer."

     The young man with the pin stands stiffly, waiting on something to occur. He looks up at the night sky for a moment, taking a breather from his vigilance.

     Noting the slightly veiled disapproval, Victoria turns to look at Ian again, halfway facing her back towards William briefly, "I take it that you would go on another course?" She glances down at the ball and the man holding it up, though not really as curious as she was before, "What would you recommend instead then?" Ever the apt pupil, her tone is one of curiosity more than anything else, having at least enough brains to admit that she doesn't understand everything fully. At least to the two of you.

     For his part, William remains half-aloof to it all. He has said his peace. He has been heard. He seems satisfied with this much. He moves to where the servants stand, and with a slight wave of his hand he motions to the one holding the pin. Even as he moves forward. He shall hold it afterall. He drops his perfectly compacted snowball to the ground. It shatters on the stone at his feet.

     Talk about concession. Ian says, "You are not Me, Victoria," something regal in that. "You do not act or affect upon the world as I do, perhaps...you cannot simply have individuals fear your boundaries...Clan and Council, as expected directives." He glances at William, a faint nod there, and then Ian once more drops his stance. The two young men visibly droop.
     A sigh and Ian replies gentler, withdrawing energy to himself, "Look," gloved hand coming up, "...Gabriel and the others will do exactly as you say. But that is not the reason for the division. You /must/ establish yourself as The Ventrue, as the alpha and omega for all things Ventrue. It is about substantiating your own Authority," words said with weight, "...about defining solutions. In fact, the real issue...is that you do not want your younger Ventrue going to others for solutions...if they feel they can, or if it is easier. You do not represent them in Council, Victoria. Their situations end with you," gloved finger pointing.
     "The Council does not care about individuals. It is power-brokering body, not a resolution-dispute center for anyone who has a complaint. Your Primogen is your last Court." He cocks his head, club dangling from fingers. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

     Victoria nods as she takes in what Ian is saying, continuing to absently fidget with the snow, "I think so." Dusting off one of her hands on the side of her leg she drops the tight ball into one of the piles of snow, "I think that I'm bound to do things differently than you do, but I think that either way what you're saying applies. There are many ways to go about it though, I think, it's just a matter of finding the one that works best for me." She sits down on the exposed edge of a rock and thinks for a moment while she watches the group around the green.

     "Your Clan must know that they get no remedy...unless they see you. You are All-Seeing, All-Knowing. And if they try to go around you," Ian clarifies, "...they will still find you. No Primogen will assist them, because You are the Alpha and the Omega. And any Primogen that does..." he smirks, "...you will know has ulterior motives...as you have established what you mean to your Clan. In that stead, you are the end points of two different directions. If a stream builds from one side," he motions left, "...from childer, through you," he points right, "...to Council, you nullify your meaning. Why even have you there? Why bother? They can get solutions from everyone, thereby diminishing your power, and reducing you to no status, no clout. Your title is empty. You give childer access to remedies other than you, you destroy your base. You give the Council access to running your childer, you destroy your base. You are worthless," he concludes. "Thoughts?"

     "Do you remember... Victoria... how I... seemed when Ui was presented to me...?" The smooth baritone lifts from where William holds the pin. He's still waiting on the shot. A raven brow lifts and he half-turns his head to Victoria. "I am your Alpha...and your Omega," he recites. "I am your beginning and your end. That is the authority you will now bear. The Modern Prince does not rule his 'territory' as a king does his country. He is only as strong as You allow him to be." A small smile shows itself.
     "Usually. I... am not the standard ...? by which others are measured." A look to Ian. "Nor is Lord Dunross there...you see, in truth the Counselors are... stronger than the prince who stands as their target. You must treat it with respect. It is not... democratic. You are... Prime Minister now," he murmurs, making an analogy. "You run the show. The prince is your puppet. Play him..." He looks to Ian then, smiling. "My hand is getting tired, Laird," he speaks.

     He is settling, having felt you speak to him. There is an ebbing flow as Ian glances to you again, his blink speaking volumes. You are right. Thanks...love...
     Ah. Ian smiles and turns to take position a fourth time. "Sorry, Gwilym," he waves towards the pin, clutching the club again. At least his feet are still in the right line. "This is not democracy. There are several Ministers, some more equal than others. And a King," he taps the ball, watching it roll, "...who holds the constitutional monarchy, and is still trying to wrench the Ministers into his line...when they all already run areas....and he..." Ian rises, eye on the line, "...wants the power they hold."

     The one called Gwilym is all smooth smile as the put is on its way. Half way to the pin, he lifts the standard and his indigo eyes lower to the ball and its journey. Will it... will it...?

     Victoria nods in response to the comments from both of you as her eyes travel back and forth between the speakers, "That makes sense." She pauses for a moment and continues speaking, "Perhaps I should use that mysterious quality that you were saying everyone seems to think I have, William. If they don't know what to make of me then the should tread lightly at first to gauge it, and I can determine what I want them to think about me."

     Ice is a bitch. Especially when it is no longer smooth from shovels and feet. The ball's timbre jiggles, but with the speed, it soon finds its mark...and hits the side of the catch at the pin.

     "It is something in your favor... " William remarks quietly. His voice catches in the expectation of the ball dropping in. Holding the pin aloft so it is not in the way, he looks to Victoria again. "Even if you think they may be onto you, do not let them know it. What they do not know is always in your favor." There is a quiet smile as he inclines his head. "Keep them on their toes, and yes... determine... You Determine," emphasis given there, "what they think and how they feel about you. That... is control..." He looks to Ian and falls silent. Returning the task to the true master of it.

     "You Determine," Ian repeats, mantra there. "If you believe all roads must meet you, then they will." He grins at the shot, nodding approvingly as he goes on, "Ventrue...is the Irresistible Force /and/ the Immovable Object. Force is Solidity."
     "Well, Motion is Solidity," Ian clarifies, keeping his metaphors straight. "Huh," he smirks, "I thought it would be wide right."

     "Well shot, Laird," comes the familiar languid baritone. William half-bows his head, and then bends in a sweep to fetch the ball.

     "Well, we're the backbone of the whole system afterall." This is said almost absently but she truly means it, not simply rote recitation in response to a statement. Nodding a bit again, she scoops up more snow, "I will remember that though, as the leader of Clan Ventrue it only makes sense that I would be the one that was responsible for solving the problems that arise. It isn't as though half of the city distrusts Gabriel as it is, I've got that much to work with out of the box."

     "Exactly," Ian says, winking at William. "Thank you, Sir." To Victoria, he turns fully now, "You have much to work with. Your taciturn nature is a start...witness myself. Gabriel is his own issue. Your clan is smart. Your transition should be well-placed. And yes, you will often be the real solution to most things. That is the position you wish to be in, even if it can be a dangerous one."

     The ball is tossed and caught in a gloved hand. And quick the smile that quirks upward after. William places the pin back in its place and strides slowly toward the one he calls, affectionately, Laird. The long leather coat stirs the snow at his feet. The mantle of a king, this. Not one who would have ruled in Constitutional Monarchies, but in a time of Divine Right. When kings were descended of gods. And that is in him. Inseparable. The smile spreads warmly, and his features are made more beautiful by it. "Gabriel has a self-loathing and a self-doubt that usually provides sufficient leeway. He will be watching his back, not because he needs to ... but because he can't help himself." He leans in toward Ian, "My turn?" A gloved hand reaches for the long implement.

     A skeptical smirk and then Ian offers the club in exchange for the pin. "Of course," he says with a smile, stepping over the head of the putting line to walk to the pin area. "I hate to hold myself up as model," Ian chuckles towards the young woman, brushing something invisible off his chest, "...but..." he smirks and wiggles his eyebrows.

     Victoria laughs and shakes her head, "Well, I'm sure you do, but in any case you're not a bad one to follow. I must say, all in all, I've got three fairly good patterns to look at as examples for how to do things differently, but effectively. I will just need to mold them into one that's my own in the process is all."

     "True," Ian says, walking down the path of ice, "...but mine is best, of course. Tried and tested." For over a thousand years, no less. Has he ever mentioned that? Oh well.

     "Lord Dunross did... invent the role of Prime Minister... if for not other reason than to nettle my Angevin nature..." And now William's brows lift-and-lower quickly. And then Ian is gifted with a wink. With another bending sweep, the ball is set upon the ...snow and ice. A skeptical look is given to the putter and then William takes his own stance. "Fourth wall to the left," William casually mutters, as if calling his shot. "Dieu," William chuckles, lifting his gaze momentarily and showing his broad and slanting grin, "do not use me as an example... lord help you should you try..." He is joking. Is he not? He looks to Ian. "Steel yourself, Laird.. you know my wild aim..." And he settles, getting into position. His form is... well, it is ...well-done. Well-appointed. The grip is good. He's been practicing. But they don't call him The Slicer for naught.

     Raising her eyebrows again, Victoria grins, "I see. Well I shan't take any of your advice then since you wish me not to." She watches as he sets up for his shot across the snow, "But just remember that you told me not to later on when I do something that you don't like."

     "You'd better correct that," Ian calls from the end of the ice. He laughs a little and pulls at his coat, hand holding pin in place. "And you'd better not hit me!" he shouts as an afterthought, "I am too young to be injured by wild balls." And he squints his face, wriggling his nose at the double entendre left in the wind.

     There is a quiet chuckle, held in his throat. "Ah, Victoria. I will not be checking on your work. I will be..." William pauses to give the ball a hopeful tap. "...living... damn!" The ball does, of course, bounce on a very unfortunate gathering of ice and it does, indeed, veer off course. "Give me a horse and a spool of thread -- I can thread a needle. Put a golfclub in my hand and I transform to the village idiot. Not even an idiot savant!" William looks to Victoria, smirking. Sensuous mouth downturned slightly.
     "I will be living the good life. La dolce vita... I will not think about Oregon and its rain when I am lying about in the Riviera." He grins then and looks to Ian. "I can't help the wild balls, amours... my apologies..." And all meanings are intended.

     Victoria laughs and shakes her head, "I'm afraid that I still don't see the attraction of that game, but that's alright. As long as you both enjoy it then it serves its purpose." Packing the new handful of snow between both gloves she nods, "I'm sure that you will have a fabulous time though, in any case."

     "This is our home," Ian says loudly to be heard. The word is said strongly, with conviction. "Who we are is defined by this soil, Victoria. And...we are ready for the time." He walks over and picks up the stopped ball, heading back to you both. Change of topic. "Now...that you've seen our...home," Ian wonders, "...and you have seen us...perhaps in ways you did not the first two years, what do you think, hmm? I recall once being called," he comes to a stop by William, "...oh what was it...lacking compassion? Expecting people to do as I say, not as I do? Or was it just generally being an all around ogre, haughty fuck, and asshole?" Such language.
     He waves his gloved hand, ball in it, "I so forget sometimes," Ian sighs, grinning as he nudges William with an elbow. But he catches his hand at the corner of his eye, and spots the snow. And as as-you-may as he can be, Ian simply flicks the snow at Victoria's face.

     "Haughty fuck and asshole," William remarks casually, as if recalling former conversations. And then he blithely smiles. Wretch. Indigo flickers as William glances to Victoria, "I can't repeat what they called me...What was it, amours," he says more softly, Ian being nearby. "Ah yes...the Angevin Whore..." He laughs, then clears his throat. "But while they were busy guarding their lovers' beds, I stole two cities... " Ah, the lessons learned from that. William nods to a servant and holds the golfclub forth. He's done with his humiliation for the moment. So vulnerable now... his body open. Such a broad and tall target...

     She had been expecting it from William for some time, but not from Ian, and so Victoria is squarely splattered. With a laugh she shakes the dripping ice off her nose and uses her handy armament that she had already been preparing to return fire to Ian instead, hurling it rather deliberately. "I most certainly didn't say anything of the sort. Out loud anyway." She gives an angelic grin and steps behind the rock tha she has been perched on, getting ready to duck if necessary.

     As if he has not noticed all the snowball making. Ian steps aside in the blink of an eye, watching the snow fly helplessly past. "You have to do better than that," Ian chuckles, a brown streak as he moves with preternatural motions behind one of the higher snowbanks where the shoveled snow was tossed. He blinks and points at William, "You had better be on my team, or you will regret it..." and he sinks behind the snow.

     Victoria laughs again, ducking to make another arsenal, "I thought you said that competition was healthy? Keeping the relationship going and all that?"

     "Yes, especially competition against an agreed upon enemy," Ian calls over the pile, "...that is the best form of domestic harmony...what do you think I am...stupid?"
     He may threaten, but Ian's emotion is anything but. It will be a long night, to be sure.

     Uh-oh. The servant nearly grins as he takes the golfclub from Lord Fraser. He motions to the others and they move out of the... upcoming fray, taking positions near the doorway. William laughs, eyes half-closing. Such a luxurious look. "You know... when you threaten me... I find that terribly sexy..."
     William turns as he moves to yet another bank. "I will be sure to aim low, Victoria. So that I do not overblush that lovely face with ...constant pelting..." Oh, how the ego is quick to swell again. Gloved hands scoop up snow and begin to pack the snow. Though behind a neighboring bank, William may yet turn his head and see his spouse. "My heart and hands are yours as ever..." speaking a quiet and seemingly heartfelt vow.

     "I see how this is going to go. Undeservingly attacked and ganged up on in a foreign country over the holidays." She grins and does duck behind the rock, "I shall have to maintain some semblance of dignity through it all somehow."

     "If your husband really loved you," Ian calls, voice heavy with pathos, "...he would be here to support and defend you and your name. But he is not? Where is he, hmm?" Did he mention his role as Ventrue Interrogator? He might have neglected to mention that one. There's a smile at William as Ian seems to not prepare any snow for throwing. He's so much better as an administrator. "What sort of man is that?" he questions.

     Victoria grinning in return, Victoria lobs one snowball over her rock to drop over the top of the snowbank, "A warm one, I would imagine. He said something about being wise enough to stay inside in the middle of a snowstorm under fluffy blankets."

     "He's warm in bed... I would say he is a smart man..." William laughs, a brilliance to it. He looks to Ian, and then rises from his crouch somewhat and tosses a snowball. A beautiful arch. He threw spears for a living -- did he mention that? "Happy New Year from France! With love!" William twists and grins at the toss. Well done that. But will it hit its Female mark?

     "That should tell you your priority," Ian states, "...give up now...and I will not have to resort to having my army pummel you into submission!" How many times has that been said?

Posted by rowan at January 16, 2000 04:33 PM