Alas that such tranquil surfaces so often belied that which lay beneath.
Seated at the head of the grand oak table in the dining room, von Krolock’s eyes were half-closed as he surveyed his guests. To his right, Dawn Summers was seated and to his left, Vittorio, the Immortal. The younger Miss Summers and William were flanking Herbert, who was looking across the table at the elder Miss Summers.
The last guest was the young witch, who was currently extolling the wonder of his library, something which – under any other circumstance – would have been a source of delightful indulgence, her giddiness amusing.
However, faced by the emotional barrage of six overwrought beings, his head felt as it had when Herbert had snared a drummer boy from the Imperial army nearly two centuries earlier. He had though the throbbing in his temples would never cease.
His chin cupped in one hand, he watched the conversation, involving himself as little as possible, words passed from one to the other like unwanted scrap and handed on as quickly as possible.
“So… uh… Spike…”
Looking up from the breadstick he had been using, to trace patterns in his blood, the youngest of the vampires looked startled. “Red?”
The witch beamed at him. “So… you’re alive, huh?”
“Tell me something,” Herbert’s voice bluntly interrupted what reply William might have made, his grey eyes fixed on the Slayer. “Can you begin to imagine why your… lover chooses to call my father ‘excellency’?”
Looking from Herbert to the quietly-chuckling Vittorio, the Slayer looked vaguely bemused. “I guess because it’s his title?” she said.
“Oh, I suppose that may be part of it,” Herbert made a grand gesture with one hand. “Admittedly, I can hardly speak for my father’s manner, but I’m sure it covers much, much more.”
“Herbert.” Von Krolock sighed.
“No, Eccellenza,” Vittorio raised his hand mildly. “Your son is right.”
The unfortunate William had chosen a terrible moment to sip some of the wine, spluttering rudely and hastily covering his mouth with one hand.
Ignoring William’s hasty attempt to mop up the patina of wine he had spattered across the table, von Krolock’s lips twitched slightly. “It is generous of you to say so, Vittorio,” he murmured.
Vittorio bowed his head elegantly. “I speak only the truth,” he murmured and to one who knew him so well, the lingering affection from their brief and passionate affair laced every word. “Linguist, poet, sorcerer, alchemy… was there any field you did not excel in, mio signore?”
“I have had some time to practise,” von Krolock murmured, unable to deny that there, among many reasons, had he been drawn to the handsome immortal. For someone to turn Herbert’s words against him was skill indeed.
Resuming his petulant pouting, Herbert folded his arms over his chest.
Re: Snipplet of 'dinner'.
Alas that such tranquil surfaces so often belied that which lay beneath.
Seated at the head of the grand oak table in the dining room, von Krolock’s eyes were half-closed as he surveyed his guests. To his right, Dawn Summers was seated and to his left, Vittorio, the Immortal. The younger Miss Summers and William were flanking Herbert, who was looking across the table at the elder Miss Summers.
The last guest was the young witch, who was currently extolling the wonder of his library, something which – under any other circumstance – would have been a source of delightful indulgence, her giddiness amusing.
However, faced by the emotional barrage of six overwrought beings, his head felt as it had when Herbert had snared a drummer boy from the Imperial army nearly two centuries earlier. He had though the throbbing in his temples would never cease.
His chin cupped in one hand, he watched the conversation, involving himself as little as possible, words passed from one to the other like unwanted scrap and handed on as quickly as possible.
“So… uh… Spike…”
Looking up from the breadstick he had been using, to trace patterns in his blood, the youngest of the vampires looked startled. “Red?”
The witch beamed at him. “So… you’re alive, huh?”
“Tell me something,” Herbert’s voice bluntly interrupted what reply William might have made, his grey eyes fixed on the Slayer. “Can you begin to imagine why your… lover chooses to call my father ‘excellency’?”
Looking from Herbert to the quietly-chuckling Vittorio, the Slayer looked vaguely bemused. “I guess because it’s his title?” she said.
“Oh, I suppose that may be part of it,” Herbert made a grand gesture with one hand. “Admittedly, I can hardly speak for my father’s manner, but I’m sure it covers much, much more.”
“Herbert.” Von Krolock sighed.
“No, Eccellenza,” Vittorio raised his hand mildly. “Your son is right.”
The unfortunate William had chosen a terrible moment to sip some of the wine, spluttering rudely and hastily covering his mouth with one hand.
Ignoring William’s hasty attempt to mop up the patina of wine he had spattered across the table, von Krolock’s lips twitched slightly. “It is generous of you to say so, Vittorio,” he murmured.
Vittorio bowed his head elegantly. “I speak only the truth,” he murmured and to one who knew him so well, the lingering affection from their brief and passionate affair laced every word. “Linguist, poet, sorcerer, alchemy… was there any field you did not excel in, mio signore?”
“I have had some time to practise,” von Krolock murmured, unable to deny that there, among many reasons, had he been drawn to the handsome immortal. For someone to turn Herbert’s words against him was skill indeed.
Resuming his petulant pouting, Herbert folded his arms over his chest.