9/1/99 8:46:40 PM

What once was a home has been completely gutted out to make room for this small theater. Walls were removed, a performance area was put in, and the inside no longer bears any resemblance to the old house it used to be. The four outer walls which still remain are lined with alternating wall sconces and comedy/tragedy masks. The candles in the sconces, upon closer inspection, turn out to be fake, with a small lightbulb on the top to imitate candle flames. Other candelabras can be seen around the room, their candles matching the ones in the sconces; though they look realistic with wax seeming to drip downwards towards the floor from them.

Carpet was replaced with black tiles and the walls have been painted an off-white. The hard-wood platform stage has been moved to rest up against one of the walls. And upon that stage rests a black grand piano by itself. Other than the stage, some track-lights and spotlights, and some velvet curtains decorating the outer walls, a seating area is the only other feature within the theater. Tables and chairs are spread out around the edge of the room, allowing for space in the center of the room for dancing, socializing, etc. Wraith-like waitresses flit about the room, just like at the Inferno, carrying glasses of wine, brandy, and other substances around to guests.

"Thank you for telling me what I think," Ian chuckles, rather amused now. "You tend to do that regularly." He grins some more and crosses his ankles as he stands at the piano. "Many people need families," he explains, "...why would you be any different? Just because I appear to be someone who does not, why would you immediately then think that I expect everyone to think as I do?" Bringing up his comment earlier. "Perhaps," he explains, "...if you ceased preempting others' actions and reactions, you might find yourself easier ingratiated, Lara Guest..." and something catches his attention as he turns to the door.

"And I'm sure," Ian turns back to Lara, "...that you have those around you who consider you family. What else do you want? Or are you saying that you have found no peer group of your own?"

Lara sighs softly, shrugging like a child being scolded, head hanging. "I don't really have any peers." she says, then gives a soft, self-mocking laugh, "The littlest one, I guess that's me."

"Think harder," is all that Ian says, standing non-plussed. "Who are your peers? Have you sought them out? What have been the results?"

That something would be hard to miss. It encroaches upon the room, pressing inward and filling, even before he can be seen. That...feeling. Electric, it holds a dark burn, born of more ancient fires. He can be heard thereafter, particularly to the more...observant and sensitive. Soft, steps that would be to most others quite silent, sound to sensitive ears. Something with it, like the soft brush of leather to leather. William can be seen soon after. Striking, immediately. The waifs bearing trays about the room all feel it. And yes...a brandy is on its way. Already a raven brow is lifting. Already a smile is curling upon full lips. Already a kind of ...dark amusement in the eyes of the prince. "I don't either. I'm quite unmatched," comes the languid voice, nearly quipping. Only Ian would hear Henry II in that. "Ah...where have I left my humility this morning..."

Lara gets pink-cheeked again. Bad enough to be maudlin' in front of Ian, but now William too? She falls silent, managing a soft, "Hello." without meeting the Prince's gaze.

"Not at the valet parking," comes Ian's voice dryly. Despite William's arrival, Ian's gaze is firmly upon Lara. "I trust your evening is well, Prince William," he offers evenly, little emotion there.

"Good evening, Lara," he says to the woman present, and also as she spoke first. As William nears the piano, brandy in hand, he looks to Ian. Even though the gaze is not returned. There, his gaze fastens for a moment. Dark, but expressing a good deal of warmth. "Why, Lord Dunross of Scotland, my evening thus far is going very well..." The brandy is set upon the piano's side bridge, where it shall sit steady through some sonata. He can't resist it. Even as he settles there upon the bench there comes a ...tinkling of the keys. Bending his head, black hair drapes forward in a half-veil to his eyes. And yes, the beard yet remains as it was the other night. Several days into the growing, but no further. It is by no means full. "I think I left my humility in 1177 AD..." He was 12. That also marked the year he lost his virginity for those of you keeping score at home. "Am I interrupting?" Of course he is. What vampire prince doesn't? But still he looks to his hands as a soft tune begins. It is Baroque. It would sound better on a harpsichord.

Lara shakes her head. What's she supposed to do? Tell the truth? "Of course not. We were just...talking." She watching William begin to play. "I didn't know we had to learn to play the piano too." she tries to joke, deciding that she doesn't think it's funny as soon as it's out of her mouth.

The witching hour comes, sending the working class to bed, while true partygoers are just beginning to get started.

"No, no," Ian says, sighing faintly as the baroque notes rise. "I've already done that," he remarks ruefully as he motions to the piano, small grin tugging thereafter. But even in that, his gaze remains upon Lara. "We were having a discussion on...needs." Voice lifting and tossed at William, "You wouldn't know about those, would you, Prince William? Perhaps you could give your sage advice on the differences between those you need, those you want, those who are outside of your circle...and you remain non-existent or invisible to? What if...you felt that..." he shrugs, "...one of the Ravnos, if we had any, was ignoring you...on a personal level?"

Lara looks at Ian with confusion, then asks quietly, "Are you making fun of me?"

He sighs, "Lara," Ian shaking his head, "why would I ever," the pronoun seeming regal, "...need to make fun of you?" He glances at William finally, a pointed stare. Going back to Lara, his hands drop as he continues to lean against the piano. "No, I am not," Ian says directly, frustration light upon his voice. "I have no need to humiliate childer," the age apparent upon him.

Now Ian's frustrated...and could use an intermediary....

His fingers land gently on the keys, a song paused. Yes, he can play the piano. And anything resembling a guitar. He lifts his gaze, indigo brilliant. Blue-violet that is at one both dark and bright. A raven brow lifts first to Lara. And then there is that smile. Damnable. Quietly devastating. He can do a great many things, but he will let the Mystery of just-what remain. His gaze, as it so often does, returns to Ian. This during his reply -- and Lara's mention of ...making fun. "I have a great many needs. Different for every era I have lived in. Well," the smile becomes a slant of a grin, "...some have remained the same, non?" His gaze returns to Lara. "I have also wanted a great many things. Two in particular." But he does not reveal those either. "As for...being troubled by ...individuals on a personal level? Never. I do not make myself a slave to perceptions of others. If I did," there comes a smirk upon sensuous lips, "I would not get out of bed every morning. I make the Harpies chatter with real distinction..." There is a wry bit of humor there. William looks to Lara again, music now no more than a hum of lingering vibration on the air. Blending with his own...presence. "He is not making fun...or making light of you, Lara. Pay attention...he is giving a very valuable lesson. Do not take offense, but ... making fun of childer is hardly the sport of ancient Ventrue. Myself included." Fingers are deft upon the keys of the piano again. "Except perhaps for Ui. But then, there are exceptions to every rule..."

Lara quietly says, "I didn't ask to be insulting. I just...I can never tell."

Ian nods, "I do like making fun of Ui," boyish expression on his face as it tosses side to side in consideration. Yeah, he does like making fun of Ui. But Ui is also Ventrue...and had best learn early before meeting any others. Ah well. Gaze returns to Lara after William returns to playing. "There are those whose perceptions you care about. Those are those perhaps that you wish to call family. Others' perceptions should be less concern of yours. If they are not, will you spend your life worrying about being a part of theirs? You have peers in the city, Lara Guest. My recommendation is for you to find them. He shrugs as if this is rolling water. "And no, I did not think you were insulting, Lara, I thought you were being self-pitying. But remember this," he says gently, "I am too old...to need to vent upon childer, Lara Guest. There are others who serve that function for me." You might take that either way you wish...either he has better things to do...or you're not worthy of such energy. Either way, whatever drives Ian Dunross, has nothing to do with a need to belittle you. He leans back and motions behind him, "Take Plantagenet. That's more my speed." If he has to be difficult with someone. Yes. That was humor.

That brings laughter, smooth and throaty both. It is coupled with a broad grin that reveals the vipers that in his humor have slightly distended. Here, unmasked. A terrible beauty -- but beautiful nonetheless. "Isn't there an old adage about tormenting a Lion with a stick?" William is untroubled by being the brunt of Ian's humor. He rather relishes it, in fact. It is there, gleaming in his dark eyes. Lips curl yet in a grin. A grin that says it all. Yes, he likes the banter. It reminds him of home. "For my part, I worry not what others think of me...but for a handful whose opinion actually matters. There...are circles of influence around me. Some...are only on the outside rims, like the fringe planets around a star. Others..." He leaves that lie. There are a very select few in William's own Inner Circle. A very few. He looks to Ian then, Knowing resting in his eyes. The smile remains.

Lara listens quietly, "I understand." she says. "Thank you." and falls silent once more, looking down at her hands. The hem of her t-shirt is a wreck by now, twisted and pulled horribly out of shape.

"No need for thanks, Lara," Ian sighs again. "It's a conversation, a discussion. If you disagree, then speak up..." he goes on, twisting around to see William's drink. "You didn't get me one," he murmurs to him.

Lara looks at Ian ruefully. "I just can't seem to do anything right with you. I'm frustrated. I don't know what to say or what not to say. I don't know how to take anything you say. So I just...don't say anything. It's safer."

Without further word, William offers his own glass to Ian. "Yes, I did..." he quietly counters. His mouth is tugged by the slight slant of a smile again. He looks to Lara, then in between them both. "Be assertive, childe," he says, giving his only guidance. "There's nothing so frustrating is trying to have a conversation with someone who is afraid to speak. He's not going to bite you..." To that, William chuckles. No, Lara...you're quite safe from that one. "Come now...he is not evil...that's my job..."

Grey eyes linger upon Lara even after she finishes. A twist and he takes the glass from William with a soft, "Thank you." Looking back at her with glass in hand, he confirms, "No, I am not going to bite you. Yes, if I think you are incorrect, I will disagree with you. If I have a suggestion for you, I will speak it. You began this evening saying you wished to belong. But to what? To a peer group? To a family? How is this defined? Each time, I have provided you fodder for a definition...and I still wait to hear from you about what you want...."

Lara shrugs and sighs, "What do I want? I want Michael back. I want to paint forever without having to worry about money or people knowing I'm alive or not. I want to feel welcome when I walk into a room. I want to think that people are sorry to see me leave a room. I want to be in love. I want to be loved. I want an unending supply of the most perfect paints ever. I want a bottomless trough of silken sculpting clay. I want to watch a sunrise or a sunset. I want to see a rainbow again. I want to be hundreds of years old so I'll be able to ask someone who is only 25 years old to define everything they want in life when they've only barely started that thing that we call life." She sighs. "That's what I want.

William's gaze strays from you both now. His attention moving back to his fingers, back to the keys that move beneath them. But softly, just a whisper of song -- as if it were being played far away. Not Baroque. This is more from the Romantic Period of the 1800s? Some slow sonata. Perhaps it is Beethoven? But it is not Moonlight. It is not melancholy. It is merely longing. The longer portion of his black hair hides his gaze from both of you. Though he does not sing -- and he has a nice voice as well, his mother insisted on it in her deal with God...or the Devil, whichever -- his lips move with the words that are not uttered. Mouthing them as he plays something from memory. Ah, it is Ode to Joy played very slowly and very softly.

"Unfortunately," Ian says gently, not sympathetically, "...there are things on that list of yours that are impossible, Lara Guest. I can only say that is the Way of Things." Not I'm sorry, not you poor dear. "I cannot control your perceptions of the world, or how you think people see you or are affected by you. What I can control, and what you can learn to control, is how you project your unease and youth upon those around you. Or, in some cases, how not to project your unease with life around you. Perhaps, you receive the reception you do, based on what you put out to the Universe." Something karmic.

"Though perhaps your entrance into this world did not hold much in the way of ...choice for you...how you deem to live in it is wholly up to you," the prince says at last. "You can learn to love Evening and Night and the wonders of the firmament and universe around and above you. Or...you can surrender to a true darkness," At last, William looks up, serious for perhaps the first time since his entry, "...and for all your longing to see Daylight you blind yourself to the very joy you seek...."

Lara is silent, finally saying, "I'm a painter, not an actor...or a courtier. I'm not practiced at presenting a face that isn't true." She looks to William, "I don't understand." She seems to be saying that a lot tonight. It's got to be frustrating.

"No one said anything about being untrue," Ian notes. "You never heard that, and that is not what I suggested. I suggested that you learn how to control your feelings so that they do not interrupt you from interacting with others, to keep you from getting what you want, or make others uneasy with your own unease. No one said deny feelings or lie. We are talking about learning about yourself."

"And I was never without a double-life," William says in soft countering. "But from crib to this piano bench and the near nine centuries in between...I have had to learn. And re-learn. And...re-learn." There is an indigo glance to Ian. Ian can vouch for him on that. "It is...what we have talked of before. What is it you wish to do with this ...opportunity you have...and who is it...you wish to be..." The music is stilled, a hum left upon the air. A note pendulous. Unplayed. There is a nod to Ian. Exactly. Thereafter, William's attention returns to Lara. "By putting too much attention on what you are not or cannot do ...you blind yourself to your own power. It is there within you. Michael could not take it from you, not even by killing you. Finding that...center of Yourself...and moving from that. Deciding who you let share it. Deciding how to present it. This is all in your hands. Focus on the rainbows you can no longer see, and the sun you can no longer bathe in...will only blind you to the other things waiting for you. You will wake in a thousand years and see it...right in front of your face..." Another flicker of indigo to Ian. "And you will wonder what you did for so long in your own self-ascribed darkness."

William seems to be talking from some experience here. So the languid baritone sounds. And though his expression is placid, not rippled seemingly by emotion, there is something about his demeanor that indicates the voice of Experience.

And that appears to be the topic of conversation. Ian is as still as William as his gaze lingers upon the young woman, both waiting for some light to flicker.

Lara looks back and forth, then finally just 'oh's. When she's happy, she's told she's not serious enough. When she's serious, she's told that she's dwelling on the past. She's frustrated and tired of it all.

"Enough of philosophy," says the prince at last. He has given his ton of wisdom for the night. The rest is, as all else, up to the young Toreador. She will learn as she may...or may not. That, too, is up to her. William looks to Ian as he rises from the piano. "I was not intending on lecturing like Plato's pet. I came looking for you..." That he says to Ian. A glance to Lara. "Perhaps you should learn to play the piano..." He does not say why. She can figure that out for herself. As he rises, the energy rises with him. Something kinetic. Electric. Compelling. He looks to Ian. Waiting for him to finish his brandy, perhaps.

Lara rises from the table she leans against, "Perhaps. After I learn the many other things I have to learn." She glances back and forth, "You'll be leaving, then?"

There's no light. At least not one seen by Ian. As William rises, he seems to join the motion swirling about. The glass is quickly finished and then left upon the piano. "The piano...is a kind instrument," he says softly. "It holds a world of wonder in it." He pauses, then says, "Perhaps we should never understand each other, Lara Guest. In truth, as We are, it is not needed. I'm sure, as time passes, you will find kinship within your Own," Toreador, "...and with those in your peer group. And even, as Existence lengthens, you will find Love. It does occasionally happen, even for those Undead." He nods at the question, "There is no reason to stay, Lara. There is no conversation any longer and I do not tend to speak to the wind. I'd rather sit in silence and enjoy the night. If you have commentary or wish to continue the conversation, we can. But with an 'oh' for response," Ian simply shrugs.

"That is both the blessing and the curse of this life," William says, already in languid motion. Half-turning, he looks to Lara. "You have...Time to learn." There is a paradox in that. And an absolute Truth.

Ian grins, "Ah, Time. Friend to all." He chuckles at that, brushing at his shirt.

Lara sketches a slight bow to Ian, "Of course. My apologies for being such a dullard in conversation. I'll work on that as well." She's not being sarcastic or angry, "I hope that you both have a good evening, and any number of good evenings." She looks to William. "I'll have the rest of the supplies you bought for your lessons sent to your studio so they don't go to waste."

"Use them...I can buy more..." And he will not dignify the rest of that with further reply. He has offered something...of himself to a girl he hardly knows, who is not in his Inner Circle, and has little chance -- or perhaps even desire -- to be within the embrace of those Most Loved by such an old prince. Prince by birth, unlike so many immortals who achieved it only in their second life. Perhaps in a few hundred years, if she is still alive, she will...realize what she did not hear. And it will be as he said. She will wonder, perhaps then, why she did not hear it before. And then...she will learn. William looks lastly to Ian, and a decision is made. He is heading toward the door of the theater.

"No one said you were a dullard," Ian adds, clearly done now. "Silent does not mean dullard," comes his voice, slower than preternatural steps that guide him down the stage and to the floor. "Good evening, Lara. And thank you for the compliment on my playing." He exhales at the bottom of the stairs and follows the Prince towards the doors. If the deeply personal information has been missed, he'll not clarify. Frustration leads nowhere, and certainly not to any growth or knowledge.

Archer and 15th Street North The northern end of downtown contains buildings that have, for the most part, been carefully maintained and refurbished from past times. The art gallery, while not as large as those in other cities, has been carefully cut out of swirling marble. While slightly weathered with age, the two large stone statues that guard its vaulted entrance are considered cultural landmarks of New Port. Other buildings show a mixture of that type of architecture and the massive steel and glass buildings further south. During the day, the streets are clogged with cars, and horns often blare. Sidewalks are busily traveled, as people rush from place to place. At night, the pace slows considerably, but the well lit area is far from vacant.

Ian smiles and nods. "By your Desire..." As the car door opens, Ian stands aside to let you duck within...

He has grown quite accustomed to being driven again. He has not had the Centurion out in more than a month. Another...subtle...sign of change. William enters the Jaguar limousine, leaning forward to give direction to the driver.

The face of night. The vision of the city spills inward. Beyond the glass of many windows reigns an evening dappled with the false stars of downtown lights. Life and Death pantomime below.

The arched windows stretch from near floor to ceiling. Closely spaced, they have a cathedral-like quality to them, nearly Gothic in design. Occupying the whole of the wall opposite the entrance and again to the right of the entrance, they provide a breathtaking view of the city far below and form the corner of this building's top floor. Two of the windows are placed edge to edge--they open out onto a small balcony.

The room itself is vast, all the more so being sparsely furnished. The floor is of smooth cement. The walls are crowded with pictures, each one striking. So real. There is a long oak table to the left of the entrance, once used for dining and now for designing. It is covered with sketches, the blueprints of masterpieces. Most original, some reproductions. There are unused easels stacked up along the corner between that wall and the adjacent wall of windows, and another corner is occupied by supplies. Paints, canvas, strips of wood for frames. It is an artistic chaos. But does not all Creation begin that way? The vast center area of the entire penthouse is left open for such creation. There is only one sitting area in all the entire floor, and it is tucked in the far right corner...near where a wall of windows begins.

He was here...perhaps just before coming to find you. The curtains to the windows are drawn back, letting the view of the bay, the city and a few stars in. Paintings are on the walls. His favorite -- the one of you. He looks up at it, even as he holds the door open for you. Courteous and chivalrous to a fault, this one. "Would you care for another drink?" William softly asks, dark eyes tending back to you. You...who are his focal point. "I have Norman brandy..." apples and honey, "...and I have a bit of Glenlivet..." Pronouncing that oddly, as he is bound to with that accent of his.

"No, no," Ian murmurs, fingers at his lips and tugging. While he likes up here, the pictures still give him unease...especially the one of himself. He never looks at it. Passing by you, he paces a little before beginning to unbutton his shirt. "Do you think that I am incomprehensible?" Looking back over the few years could give anyone pause.

There is soft laughter. Warm. And upon his expression, though yet it retains that peace of confidence about it, there is an open understanding and knowing. And affection. "Non...not to those with ears," he mutters in ending. "Talking to that girl is like talking to a brick wall." A pause. "Or John." John, as pictured above -- the eternal butt of his brother's jokes eight centuries after the last inspiration. He closes the door behind you and leans against it with a sigh. He does not wonder why you do not look at the pictures. He knows. That which you will not say, he yet can feel. Such is the bond between you. "There is such...open wisdom," William continues, the languid baritone mulling upon each syllable. Each word of old French. "...in what you say. In what you offer. And I...learned but lately too." Or re-learned. He knew it once. Then forgot. Then remembered. Then knew again. Such is the way and cycle of an old life.

Back to you, he tosses shirt aside. "If you did not understand for so long, then it is a legitimate question, Will..." he turning around to face you. "Maybe my wisdom comes with some string that I have not identified."

"It is not with the speaker or the teacher...as we have seen all too clearly tonight. Those who have told themselves they are blind and deaf...will be blind and deaf. You can speak infinite Truth. They will not hear you. With me..." William sighs. "There was so much more...wrapped into it. Pride. Being a man of my era. Stubborn and willful. The cotton in my ears was packed in by my own fingers. The darkness smudged on my eyes by my own hands. I called it a thousand things -- but it had only one name. Fear." Incredibly incisive. But, that is what your William is known for in the circles where he allows himself to be known. Though you may not have a drink, he himself heads for the bottle of Norman brandy. The comfortable chairs are close at hand.

"Well," he sighs, bending to remove his shoes, "...it is something to think about." They thud lightly onto the floor as Ian takes up a spot on a nearby sofa. He groans upon settling, one foot under him and head tossed back. "I think I'd rather have us have passionate lovemaking, but I think I would be thinking about this too much," and he smiles.

That brings a smile. And a lightness to the mood that had begun to settle in remembered things. Those things best left to the Past and not recalled so often. The smile lingers upon his lips. Sensuous in form and in the curve of that smile. Could he become more beautiful? Or does he merely seem more so? Perhaps it is the smile that brings life to his aspect. That makes the mortal-like color seem more alive. It dances in the darkness of his eyes. Blue-violet, electric morning glory color. The smile transforms into a broad and loving grin. Vipers just seen, just the very edges of them visible. "We still have time for that, the night is young...even if we are not..." He chuckles to that, the sound clinging to his throat, resonating in that broad and uncovered chest of his. He removes his shirt and tosses the silk aside as he settles into one of the large and comfortable armchairs. There is room enough for two. You can see him leaving room for you. "You can be subtle. It is one of your...great strengths. Sometimes for the young, perhaps too subtle. You make them think. And the young do not like to do this. I...I am not very subtle," he murmurs after, lifting the glass of Normandy brandy to his Norman lips.

"Yeah, well," Ian mumbles. A lot of good subtlety does him. He pushes off his spot and saunters towards you. Hand runs through his hair and socked feet scratch lightly upon the floor. The seat gives a whisper exhale as he plops next to you with legs across your own. Half-facing. "And I like that you're unsubtle," he admits, "...most of the time." Grin forming.

Now the grin come fully. Both smooth and full of heat. He is a son of Midsummer. Only seeming more so by the year. And as you land both with him and against him, his arms begin to circle around you. William bends his head, slightly tilting it. Black hair drapes forward. When you grin, his sun rises. Can you feel it work its magic upon him? "I never had the patience..." It is not entirely true. To be a fifth son of a powerful king, with powerful older brothers and a powerful mother -- William had to be subtle to live. But sometimes his lack of subtlety did pay off for him. With him, it is a tidal kind of thing. It comes and goes. "You are so handsome," he whispers as you are near him. So easy it is to change subjects with you sitting so close. "I am fortunate to have such a fair husband, with such a keen mind. Good lord, where would I be without you, Dunross?" Dead.

"Perhaps in Paradise?" Ian's voice lilts, saying it as if it's a desired thing. With the wistfulness of believers. But then he smirks, shrugging a little. "Who can say? But...I am glad to be with you, Will Plantagenet." And he leans in, pauses, then smiles for a kiss.

Me? In Paradise? You can see the silent laughter at that pass over his gaze. Not likely, that. But he gives no voice to it, the pull of the kiss and its anticipation quite claims him. Such devotion. Such longing. You knew, you had to know, that the longing in the piano's voice was his own. Every moment parted is too long these days. The ache never leaves him. Even when he is with you. "I can say," he murmurs at your mouth. "I would be Lost," and then he closes his eyes, his mouth tugging at your own. The kissing will start slow and savoring. They usually end up being covering, claiming and consuming. Does the beard still tickle a little? Does it scratch at all? The few days worth of growth -- three or so -- shall never be more than that. Even as he shall never be more than twenty-four summers in appearance.

It does tickle and scratch. But Ian loves it. After the pulling kiss, he nuzzles your cheeks, relishing the feel again. "So," he whispers, most of the evening suddenly gone from him, "...what is it you do in this bachelor pad..."

"Most nights...I stare out of the window and long to make love to you on the balcony," comes his voice at your ear. A stroke of hair against your cheek, like a thousand small fingers, follows. His own nuzzle, returned. "Or on the table..." he adds afterwards. A hush of baritone. "I am a married man...and happily so. So...when I am here, the room is crowded with thoughts of my husband..."

"The balcony?" Ian glances that direction, pushing off of your lap. "Make sure...we don't fall asleep..."