He has begun to hum, the last of the smoke sung out, the cigarette stamped to extinction and his hand curls around the glass. "Grazzi, Cristiano," he murmurs, and if either of you are acquainted with opera, you might note that it is 'The Flower Song' from Carmen. "Hmmm... live long enough and even those things that once changed go back to the way they once were. That is the nature of time, but I do not mind it," Girault says. He leans toward both of you, lifting his drink to his lips. "And I... I still ... do whatever it is that I do," he grins. And just what IS that, dear amice?
     Sipping the absinthe, Girault settles back into the chair and furs, closing his eyes. His smoothened face seems porcelain in the lighting. "La fleur que tu m'avais jetee, dans ma prison m'etait restee...fletrie et seche, cette fleur...gardait toujours sa douce odeur..." That voice. He seems to do so little but sound so clear. It seems to leap from his lips and his throat, so effortlessly...
     And just as soon as it begins, it ends. Into a sip of absinthe. "I can no longer feel my skin. And you have a mouse in the house, Christian... I can hear it upstairs in the attic, feathering its nest." Maybe this should be my last glass...

     Leaning forward, the German accepts the glass with a sketched salute. "Danke, Christian," the Teutonic knight's accent makes brusque work of the syllables. "By all means, go on. I will, I think, avoid the usual haunts. Tell me, is there perhaps any place a bit ... more opened, as it were? Perhaps someplace we may take over for a night and," his smile grows wolfish, the hint of fangs at the corners again. "Show ourselves..."
     His attention is caught by the fragment of song - without recognition, it is obvious and admitted, for Arnaul's knowledge of opera is primarily concentrated on Wagner - but not without appreciation. "Mice and rats and ... perhaps this is enough of the green fairy's caresses." A final sip, and he sets his own glass down, hand resting along his thigh as if lazily in reach of a sword.

     "Anywhere," Christian says, striding over to retake his seat. His tongue circles the rim of his own glass, and despite his company, he seems to be of full faculties. "Anywhere you like. Sur la Mer, Cordury's, the room still above the Faculty Club, La Mansion du Pre..." the hand waves. "Maybe we will decide," he settles in, "...after you have seen Villon. I mean, we must know whether or not he'll let you stay in the City at all..." he grins at Arnaul, nodding sagely along.
     A sigh. Christian turns his attention to Girault. "I am sure I have rats," he states, eyeing his friend head to toe. Poor man. "You should finish that glass so I might make you another," he smirks, turning his own drink up at his lips.

     "Who said anything about rats," flares the Italian, lifting in its lilting cadence, seconded by laughter. "I heard one little mouse, light of step, I think, with a partial limp." Tip of his tongue flicks the edge of his glass and sugar is sweet to the soul. Girault sits up, his motions quite quick, and quite fluid. Though he seems, and is, impaired, perhaps it is only so far as he wishes to be impaired. Who knows. He does not stumble, he does not slur. In fact, now... he cannot sit still...
     With a spreading smile, Girault rises, one shirt still on him -- not colored only in white and red, his best colors, they suit him amazingly -- and he swirls the ermine around him, and there is still enough to drag the floor like a cape as he walks. And yes... drinks. "I will finish it... but, do not rush me... I wish to savor it...and we should see Villon first, I am thinking," he says, wandering around the room. "He will appreciate the gesture... and they can visit," he says to Christian, I may not stay for all of it, "...while I review his latest treasure that I'm just certain he will have to show me. But enough talk of what we may do... we have gone around and around this. We should talk of ... substance now... it has been so long since we have had this much time together. And the world... the world is much different now..."

     "Then it is decided. I will see Villon, and ... whatever Villon has to say to me might be said." Clearly, Arnaul doubts the depth of such discussions, as opposed to vague political maneuverings and threats. He sips at his latest drink with a vagueness which suggests that he's lost count.
     "I am not certain which substance you would speak of, but by all means - toss one into the ring, and gladly will I attempt it." He slowly slides down again in his seat, folding his arm over his stomach with a lazy glide, staring around the room. Vapor trails seem to follow at the edges of his vision, which makes Girault's movements have a colourful grace beyond his usual.

     Actually, Christian is curious as well. "Is that the absinthe talking," he wonders, "...or do you have some topic or individuals in particular in mind?" He crosses his legs and sinks too, mostly for comfort's sake and ease of setting glass on folded arms. "Or shall we now get into the politic we have so deftly avoided here and in Saarbrucken?"

     Politic. It is a dirty word, and one that makes Girault twist his lips. "You are right, we have avoided it." He sips at the green liquid and pauses his pacing. He is silent a moment and then he takes another sip, he waves his hand, a shake of his head and black-burgundy curls brush against his shoulders. "No, no... I had nothing in particular. It was just a segue. I had... nothing else to offer on that topic."
     He shifts the fur upon his shoulders, draping it such that he need not hold it to keep it with him, and both hands hold his glass to his chest. "I think I am going to step outside just a moment... I need to... get a little bit of air." Or maybe someone is jabbering at him. Hard to say. "I will be right back," he assures you both, and with a smile, begins to slink his way out of the salon....

     Christian watches Girault walk off, keeping eyes upon him a long moment. "So, what do you think?" he asks finally. Not that he needed to wait for Girault to be out of earshot -- the man is hearing mice nesting. "Personally, if we need to review a few topics concerning political mattes, I am of the opinion that we wait until we are less poisoned," Christian smirks.

     He watches Girault's departure with slightly furrowed brow, then turns to Christian with a shake of pale hair. "The poison will release its grip all too soon," Arnaul sighs. "It is ... unpleasant to think of, but it is a fact of our existences, nein? Politics tonight, or politics tomorrow. It will still be politics."

     Quite true. Christian nods at that, his hair falling at his cheeks like closing drapes. With the black still fitting him, he looks more the role of monsignor than anything else. "I am not sure that he," head tilting to the door's opening, "...is too interested tonight. Maybe you and I should review a few elements before you see Villon. I would hate for you to be woefully unprepared," he smirks.

     A wry grimace. "By all means, prepare me, mein freund. What pitfalls and snares is Villon digging, that I might fall in?" Arnaul is, even on vacation, a workaholic - nervy German, Saint or otherwise. He shifts, pulling himself upright as if on marionette's strings.

     I feel as though I am going to explode ... ah... see? I am much better. As soon as you both sense that voice -- and at the same time, presumably -- Girault materializes, settling again upon the chair, and he now wearing the ermine coat. His glass is nearly empty. But though his eyes are glassy bright, his look is suddenly quite direct. "Nevermind me... I am more in a mood to listen, I must admit..."
     And so he does. And shall, quite avidly. Rare it is, indeed, that the Dignitary mouth his own political intentions or even opinions... he listens. That is his renown. His ability to listen...
     Girault rests his chin on an open palm and looks between you both. His glass of absinthe is balanced upon a velveted thigh...

     There is a visible exhale from Christian. Among the Justicar, he must indeed be the most sociable. "Sabbat in Paris suggests other forces in Germany. I think this is why Messereich is as he is right now. Well, he is as he is, because he is Ventrue," Christian drolls out. "However, that is of concern, and the organization of Tours and Poitiers. Of that, I am sure Girault will have much comment," he motions to the returning companion.
     "There is activity East, and as always, the annoyance of the Americas. And here...well, there are the old Lines, the old Courts. They are...forever with us." As long as those beings remain, we carry their baggage.
     "Where would you like to begin?" he asks. "What interests you most?"

     And where Germans and warfare are concerned... It is a temptation to the weary Primogen of Saarbrucken, to ignore all of it as uninteresting. But none have that leisure. "As ever," he smiles faintly, "that which is most likely to affect myself, and my own prized jewel. That would be primarily Messereich's activities, and the movements of the Courts closest to us. The spiders in the centers of their webs..." Arnaul pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, massaging lightly.

     "Messereich is as he is right now for a variety of reasons," Girault murmurs. This is not said with the usual Toreador disdain toward Ventrue at large, and the Justicar in particular, but a simple matter-of-fact statement. "Tours and Poitiers have not helped anyone's headaches, si." Guillaume: it is the 21st Century. You can now pick up a phone and talk to people. But you move to your own purpose. It is why I love you, and why you frustrate me sometimes to no end.
     But the rest he defers to Christian to explain. He is so... colorful... so dramatic... with him, news is a theatre piece. Girault tips up his glass to drink....

     "Messereich is not impressed with...our claims to Poitiers and Tours. This is no secret. Now that Plantagenet has ceased forcing both cities to yield to him, we are actively making claims. But that is secondary on the list...there are some old problems rising in Ventrue, and Messereich must deal with them. Some of them involve Alexandra of Navarre and her failed dealings with the Scotsman, Ian Dunross. We half expected Ventrue to dispense with Navarre...and that we would have to take Navarre from invading Brujah," Christian sighs and shrugs, "...but it did not fall. Messereich managed that. I think he has made some arrangement between Alexandra and Dunross to settle this feud. It was," he looks at Girault, "...a potential coup for us. Putting ourselves at such a crossroads between France and Spain, into Navarre, but, that looks as if it will not happen. And so, Messereich continues to try and keep both Tours and Poitiers. It looks as if the Circle will allow Poitiers, but not Tours. And so, we will have a Toreador Prince in Tours, finally." After centuries.
     "When Navarre," Christian settles in, drink still on his forearms, "...did not keep the gate closed through her land, keeping out the Sabbat, there was an arrangement made to ensure she did not fail again. While the Sabbat incursion was removed in Navarre, we think that it was part of a reconnaissance mission in Paris. Indeed, Edward of Blois," that Brujah friend of Villon, "...confirmed it in Paris. He has been involved with sorting things here for Villon. But that was over a year ago. Since, we have had a few sightings of them. It consumes Villon, and I suspect, he will attempt to make it your problem as well...there are supply routes to the individuals still here that appear to move through Alsace...and nearer Frankfurt and the Schwarzenwald." Your area. And that is why Messerich is busy.
     "There were unconfirmed stories of routes from Italia, but we have seen to those. Those would have supported the efforts south in Navarre."
     Christian sits for a moment, head tilted askance. "If you could deny the supply routes from Germany," he adds, "...well, I am sure that is on Villon's mind. Even if it is untrue, I am certain he would like nothing more to set fire beneath you," he smiles.

     "Mmm." From the German, it's more of a discontented rumble than a sigh of content. "He may attempt." And if terms do not seem favourable, why, then, Villon will be left in the cold. Willing to work with, Saarbrucken may be, but Arnaul and Saarbrucken yield to noone. "I still have some small ... influences," he admits. He outlasted the various power struggles that rocked Germany through both World Wars, after all. Some deals and dealings have remained steady for centuries enough to puzzle and frustrate even Ventrue and Tremere delegates.

     "But," finger comes up, "...if there is some...hazy support in the forest," Christian shakes his head. He can't imagine what that might be. "Who would care about supplying or giving harbor to Sabbat in Deutschland?" Of course, you Germans are known for a tight ship. "As for points further East, Tremere are closing those."
     There is a nod for Arnaul's words. "I know you will see to things," Christian adds. "Hence, we are discussing it. I want you to know."
     "Other issues that might relate to you directly..." he muses, thinking. "I think in terms of Us," Clan, to him, "...but I cannot think of things directly pertinent. There are, of course, related things among Others that may have meaning, but no direct relevance. I understand that Brujah are coming to defense of some of the Spaniards," long Toreador history there, "...in their relations with the Tremere." That brings a smirk, but is nothing new.

     "I think all parties are in agreement," so says the Dignitary in his usual manner of diplomacy, "...upon at least one thing: the sabbat should be routed and are being routed. But it is slow business -- we all know this, and this has not changed. But now, we are starting to see the fruit from several centuries pruning. We have the momentum. And while we will respectfully disagree with Messereich on matters of Tours and how central France should be organized," Girault makes a wave upon that point. "...the balance we are trying to arrange will benefit us all in the end. And isn't that what it is all about..."
     He sips at the absinthe now, the colors of the room swirling madly around him. He is the calm center, however, of the spiraling beauty that he, you and the room at-large radiate. "But in specific, yes... I believe Christian is exactly correct on the point of Germany, Messereich and how you, dear friend, fit into this now. But then," Girault smiles beatificaly. "... we expect Christian to be right. He is good at it. And he enjoys it." A pause. "As for Plantagenet," there's a sidelong look to Christian, "...he is now out of France. It will allow for... the dust to settle in old Poitou..." He says nothing of the Gypsy of Navarre.

     Settling his emptied glass down, Johannes runs his fingers through his hair until it becomes a bird's nest of flax. "I have no intentions of giving Villon right of way through or over Saarbrucken. Now, more than ever, undue concessions would be seen as weakness. If he wishes to press the advantage with the trade agreements he has proposed from time to time - that, I will accept. The Deutschmark is strong, the Euro ... not so strong, and it would be to our advantage to make such trades." Our meaning his own, Saarbrucken's, and the Clan's, all at once.
     "However," he continues, ignoring the fact that his hair looks rumpled enough to qualify almost as unsightly, "If he is hoping that I will cede way - to Messereich or others, or even to allow him free access to my avenues of information and supply ... I think he will find I have not lost my good German steel. For the Rose, gentlemen."

     Well. Christian stifles a laugh and lifts his well-nursed drink. "To you," Christian smiles. "Know that whatever you will need, I am happy to supply." Be sure of that. He smiles and takes a long taste of his absinthe, blinking a few times when he sets it back on his arms. "He will use the rumored supply lines and the Ventrue pressure as a means of getting you to cede, as you say. But do not. I trust that you can handle the situation with the outside influences, without needing Paris to bully you into it." A chuckles, and Christian closes his eyes, letting his head fall upon the sofa cushion behind him.
     "Now whether your Prince knows, I will leave to you. Maybe he has not sought to share this with your council, but at least now, you are aware."

     There is amusement, but Girault keeps his own council at the moment. The edges of his lips lift, creating a curling smile, archaic. Mona Lisa has nothing on him. "France has become interesting again, but... I must admit I am looking forward to returning to Italy. It rains here too much. But... I hear it good for the wine, so," he shrugs a little. "Still... I will feel better when things are a little more settled. I am tired of arguing."
     The absinthe is finished and he does not reach for nor request nor rise to fix another. His hands fold against his bare stomach. "But, it makes for interesting times, still. It keeps the body young, as they say..."

     "My body is young enough," Arnaul says dryly, "It is my mind which lacks youth." He rises, stretching. "I have no doubt that 'my' Prince thinks himself a very clever fellow, ja, with his schemes and windmills. I will keep it in mind, but hein, we dispose of Villon first thing tomorrow, ja? And when he is disposed, we ... move on from there." To more enjoyable pastimes, it is hoped.

     "Exactly," Christian grins. "And after Villion, we will enjoy a deserved holiday." His brown hair and swimmer's build helps keep Christian looking eternally young and eternally fit. And the immortality doesn't hurt either. "So," he finishes off his last bit of absinthe, "...welcome. And now, maybe we should let you rest and become familiar with the Goose, hmm?" An inside joke, if ever there was one. It must be. "Here," he glances down a hall, "...someone will take you to your apartments. Your wardrobe will be there and you will have a valet, if you need anything." There's a nod to Girault, as if to say, alright, enough for one night.

     He rises with a smile, an easy look of affection that is equally easy. He reaches out with his hands to Arnaul. "I will bid you good night here, amice, and I will see you later. Again... I must say how much I have treasured this, old friend..." A clasp of hands. That is not the usual way that Girault bids hello or goodbye -- Plantagenet himself is usually given the standard hug-and-kiss greeting of the touchy feely Medici. But, such would be more than a German could bear, no?
     Girault releases Arnaul's hands, turning to look to Christian. The smile is given to him as well. An acceptance to the nod. He gathers the fur around himself and turns, setting his empty glass aside...

     On cue, an older gentleman appears from the corridor, his feet clucking against the marble. He stands patiently in the archway.

     Familiar with the Goose? Again, the lanky German's brow furrows, inasmuch as he is capable of critical thinking as opposed to poetic flights. Johannes nods, though, at the thought of rest. The dawn approaches all too quickly, after all. "It has been more than merely pleasant," he agrees, the boyish grin returning with only a flash of still ill-controlled fang, from the absinthe, as he returns the pressure briefly. "Wehr nicht, then, I think. While I can yet walk..."

     "Gute nacht. Es ist ausgezeichnete zu hier sagen," Christian says, finally standing too. He thought better of it, but Girault's rise forces him into politeness. "Vigner," he motions with a hand, "...will take you." He smiles at the disheveled nature of it all, giving a half-wave that ends somewhere mid-air.

Posted by rowan at May 22, 2003 08:24 PM