Meeting with Auntie Vi...
Meeting with Auntie Vi…
Location: Vialle's Art Studio/Sitting Room in the Royal Palace of Amber
Date: August 27th, 14 (OOC Year 2017)
Summary: Veronica and Iolion visit Vialle in the Palace. It starts to go bad and then they make up and get to know each other better with a wordless conversation of passion.
Characters: Iolion, Veronica, and Vialle
NPCs: an unnamed palace staff member who escorts Veronica to Vialle's room, unnamed members of Random's Extraordinarii

The art studio is a strange place for someone dressed for a party to be, isn't it? A table is set in the center of the room, bedecked with pots of paint, brushes set out just so, interestingly amorphous blobs that still hint at incipient shapes even shrouded as they are by draped cloth. At the moment, the table is silent and still without even the faintest breath of movement near it.

Hints of faint perfume waft past the table, past the light that shines down on it inconsequentially. Beyond, Vi stands near the windows that see out into the palace gardens. Another woman might be looking out, hands clasped before her. Judging by the wafting of the sheer curtain before her, the window is open a crack. Perhaps the perfume is the scent from the flowers blooming without tinging the air.


Iolion, for his part, is doing his best to not appear nervous as he sits in a chair near the easel. He's looking over at the door with enough regularity to make one think his easy calm is a facade over roiling emotions. As far as false fronts go it's a very good one - - he's well-trained in presenting only what he wishes to - - but… still, fundamentally false. "She'll be here soon, Aunt Vi, I'm sure of it," he says, probably more to reassure himself than Vi. Still, he doesn't explain the most obvious thing, which is - - why didn't they arrive together?


An invitation to the Palace isn't something anyone can ignore so naturally Veronica had no intention of doing so. After putting on a dress of black, floral patterned, Mon-lace with a square neckline and long sleeves that reach all the way to her wrists and extends down to mid-shin. It contrasts against the pale skin which can be seen though the lace where a silk black skirt and matching top with spaghetti straps worn beneath it keep the lacy dress from being completely scandalous while also blending into the lace worn above it; she completes the ensemble with a pair of black leather boots that rise up to just beneath her knees, covering her legs from that point down. Once dressed she walks from Chantris Manor to the Palace and enters unquestioned by flashing Flora's ring she is wearing on a chain around her neck.

She accepts an escort simply to help her find Vialle's rooms and then allows the page to return to their duties as she brushes any wrinkles from the dress. Then she knocks and waits for admittance.


Vialle tilts her head to one side as she becomes aware of Iolion's movements, "I am sure that she will come, nephew." Turning away from the window, she walks back toward the chairs. There is a small table set next to the cluster but she bypasses it by stepping slightly to one side, then angling back. The fingertips of one hand brush the curved edge of the table in what might appear to be an absent-minded brush. Then she does the same with the chair, her hand finding the top of the back and sweeping down the side before she sits. Her smile softens a little as she hears something from without. Waiting for the knock to sound, she shadows Iolion a smile, "Would you care to get the door?" Presumably instead of shouting across the room for the young woman to 'come in'.


Iolion gives no answer, but the sound of him rising to his feet is answer enough. He straightens his attire briefly, pulls on his sleeves to ensure they're at the proper length, ensures his gig line is aligned, before crossing over the floor with crisp, precise strides, his hard-soled boots rapping lightly as he moves. He walks to the door, opens it, and - - for just a moment - - is taken aback, in a positive way, by the vision that greets him. "You never dress up this way for me, but for a blind woman you will?" he asks in a good-humored voice. There's a moment of uncertainty as he decides what to do next, but ultimately just steps aside from the door. "Please. Enter."


Veronica smiles at Iolion when he opens the door and rests her hand on his arm for a moment, seemingly both to feel the texture of the fabric of the shirt - - at which she nods approvingly - - and as a gesture of familiarity towards the man within it. "Thank you," she says to him and then, addressing Vialle, she says, "I'm unsure how to address you, ma'am, but thank you for the invitation."


Vialle rises just after Iolion heads for the door. The beading on her dress sways softly with the movement, making her the center of an ever changing pattern of colored light as the sun's slanting rays catch the beads and throw refractions everywhere. Listening to the exchange, she chuckles softly at her nephew's reaction. Stepping a little forward, she extends a hand, then softens it to gesture toward the chairs, "Do come in and be at home. Ah, that. I suppose it depends. I am Vialle to my friends, Lady Vialle otherwise and Lady Ambassador if it is formal. Vialle is fine. But now, please answer for me? What do you wish to be called?"


"I just call her 'Aunt Vi'," Iolion tells Veronica en passant as he moves back over to his chair by the easel. "Veronica, this is my Aunt Vialle, who would be your great-great-aunt, if we're being technical, we being two generations separate despite only a few years. Aunt Vi, this is Veronica, whom I've mentioned to you. Veronica, Aunt Vi asked me to arrange for the two of you to meet; thank you for coming."


Veronica curtsies belatedly and says, "Please, feel free to call me Veronica, although I believe formally I'm Lady Veronica Nayelenor Chantris or 'of Chantris'… I'm not certain on the proper naming structure for me to be completely honest, Lady Vialle," to the ambassador. She turns a smile to Iolion and says, "You are welcome," to him as she momentarily touches his hand before saying, "That is a beautiful dress you are wearing, Lady Vialle," to the blind woman as she returns her gaze to her.


Vialle says, "Ah, that is right. You are a niece. Aunt Vi or Aunt Vialle is also fine." One hand lifts, half waving the formality aside beneath a warm smile, "Thank you. Judging from Iolion's reaction to yours, it must be lovely." There is a faint touch of mirth or humor in her tone, "Shall we sit?" There are enough chairs set out for several. The table has a selection of coffee or tea things, scones with lemon curd or whipped butter, fruits cut into bite-sized bits. "I am very glad that you came as well, Veronica."


Iolion is perhaps unusually subdued: normally an amiable, oft-smiling performer, it's rather like someone's dialed down his normal levels of cheer. He's not glum, per se, nor even guarded: more like someone dealing with considerable uncertainty and doing a commendable job of feigning normalcy through it. He moves over towards the table, pulling out a chair for his aunt without needing to be asked - - after all, it's only proper manners.


Veronica's feelings are chaotic and muddled beneath a veneer of calm that anyone adept at sensing others feelings will be aware of. Amid the mix is affection for Iolion and nervousness as well - - whether due to her feelings for her or meeting a (former) queen that is unclear even to an empath.

She approaches a chair but stops short of sitting and says, "I'm not sure if this is proper or not, but if you care to feel the lace you are welcome to do so, Lady Vialle." She obviously is not yet comfortable enough yet to drop some level of formality here.


Vialle hears the movement in the room and waits for the sounds to sort of settle before she moves to accept the chair that Iolion holds for her. Curling down into it, she aims a smile over one shoulder in the hopes that he will see it. "Thank you." Turning a bit, she could be studying the young woman off to that side, if only her eyes would focus on something other than the middle distance or that flickering sparkle of reflected light on the crystal over there. But that does not last and her eyes drift again, "I would love to feel the lace, Veronica. But…" She hesitates, then banishes her sudden uncertainty. "Yes, I would love to feel it. Thank you." Her hands lift from where they lay clasped in her lap and extend twoard the young woman's voice.


Iolion continues to be quiet, but useful. With his aunt seated, he next holds out a chair for Veronica. Needless to say she's busy having her lace examined, but he seems content to stand there waiting. Sometimes being overlooked is a comfort, and this seems to be one such time.


Veronica lifts the outer lace skirt and extends it towards the blind woman's hand without stretching the fabric excessively. Once Vialle has had a chance to feel the pattern and releases the lace the Mon woman lowers herself into the chair Iolion is holding for her with a soft, "Thank you," said to him.

"I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable, but my work is dear to me and knowing it you can know be better," she says to her many times great aunt. "While I didn't weave it personally I designed the pattern after all," she adds with a smile.


Vialle takes a bit of time with the lace, for such an intricate, delicate weave offers immense opportunities for pleasure and discovery for someone who sees the world tactilely. When she has finished and released it, Vialle follows Veronica's progress to the chair with a very thoughtful look about her. "Thank you. It is lovely. I cannot remember when I last felt anything quite like that. I think that I must now insist that Random come visit you to pick out a shawl or something for me. Though I fear that I might hide away with it to feel it for hours at a time." Her lips quirk up into a sudden smile, "Uncomfortable? Oh, not at all. No. I hesitated because…" And she does so again, pausing over something clearly important to her, "Well… I see exactly that way. By touch. I was wondering if you both would allow me to see what you look like sometime." Though her gaze does not track, her attention turns to Iolion at that as well, for the request is personal but aimed at each of them.


Iolion perks up at this request, looking over towards Vi as she speaks. "You ever only needed but ask," he asks in a turn of phrase so broken it must've required advanced studies just to compose. "You know I'd not deny you that for the world, Aunt Vi." With that said, he reaches out for the teapot. By occupying himself with a cup of the stuff, he manages to avoid the need to speak more.


"Of course you may, Vialle," Veronica says unhesitatingly and then offers, "Should I move closer for you to do so now?"


Vialle shadows a smile toward Iolion, the nod of appreciation clear and warm, "Thank you, nephew. It is a bit awkward to ask, honestly. So many people dislike to be touched." Turning a bit toward Veronica's voice her smile warms a bit more but whether that is due to the acceptance or dropping the 'lady' will never be known for sure. "Thank you as well, Veronica. If you are comfortable with now, that would be a kindness." Turning in her chair, she waits while Veronica rises and moves to kneel in front of her newly shifted position. Vialle again waits until the other woman has settled before she lifts her hands.

Her hands move gently, fingers curled inward a bit so that the first touch of skin to skin is managed without the complication of fingernails or sharp fingertips. The brush is gentle, assessing, and firms only after she is certain of contour and distance. Then her fingertips extend and her hands turn. Using only the pads on the final joint, Vialle sketches and glides over Veronica's face. First the brow, with gentle attention paid to the way the hair sits. Concentration radiates through her as she builds a mental image. Down her fingers trace, along the ridges of the woman's eyebrows, then delicately along the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones. Down along her cheeks and up along her jawline to her ears. Each is touched, the shape explored. It much feel peculiar, really, though she does not linger there. Three fingers find her cheeks and glide downward again. Lastly, she brushes Veronica's lips with delicate fingers and move down to her chin.

Fianlly, the touch falls away to settle in her lap, "Well. You are a lovely woman, Veronica. Thank you. Would you mind if I sculpt your bust now that I have a sense of you?"


For Iolion, he's doing his best to not notice the touches. Admittedly, it's for a purely practical purpose, absent any carnal or romantic dimension, but … still: there's no point in lingering on it and putting himself further through a wringer. He occupies himself with the ritual of adding sugar and milk to his tea, fussing with it until he gets it just right - - and likely thanking his lucky stars for the distraction.


Veronica smiles partway thought Vialle's examination of her cheeks and lips, apparently having met blind people before and realizing that feeling such changes can be helpful. After the examination is over she returns to the seat she vacated. She again smiles as she is asked about the sculpting. "Of course you may," she says softly. Then, having been aware of Iolion's reaction, she says, "Are you pretending to be uncomfortable with intimate physical contact, Iolion," as she lays her hand lightly on his wrist in a quiet way of telling her she's over the upset she'd expressed a week past.


Vialle says, "Thank you, Veronica." She pauses at the query, turning her attention to her nephew, then studying the emotional play between the two. As she listens, one hand strays forward over the table's surface until she finds a plate. Lifting her touch along the outer, upswept edge, she finds a small scone filled with fresh strawberries and hints of lemon curd. This is claimed and placed unerringly on her own plate. After that she stills so as not to interrupt the exchange."


For his part, Iolion doesn't seem to have noticed the touch to his wrist; either he's entirely unruffled or he's a fine actor in the middle of portraying a boringly well-composed man. He hears her jibe, clearly, but doesn't respond do it; to give attention to light barbs of wit just digs them in deeper. "You know my reasons," is all he answers, his tone mild, as he takes a sip of his tea. "Perhaps you ought ask Aunt Vi about her sculptures and paintings? She's quite an accomplished artist. You might find some common spirit in her."


Veronica nods to Iolion but doesn't speak for a moment. When she does there is a tenor to her voice that wasn't there before - - due to her honed sense of empathy Vialle can tell that the young woman is nervous about something, holding something back - - "I'll do that," she says in response to the advice.


Vialle inhales slowly as she sits up just a bit straighter, though her posture was fine before that movement. Her focus drifts between the two as she gauges the way they speak and the emotional undercurrents. Her hands ease forward again, this time seeking and finding a tea cup and saucer, the faint clink of porcelain shifting over porcelain speaking of the former and the warmth radiating from the later clueing her in. Drawing both to her, she runs a finger over the cup, assessing the volume of liquid it would be able to hold. Setting the tip of her finger just below the upper edge she repeats the performance with her other hand over the teapot. When she has a mental picture of where the spout lies in relation to the cup itself, she lifts the pot to pour a careful stream into the cup. Gauging the depth of the liquid by the rising heat against the porcelain, she stops the flow and sets the pot down with careful attention. "We can talk about art another time, Veronica. Any time, actually. You are both welcome any time you wish to come." Centering the cup and saucer in front of her, she shifts the scone off to one side. "I think that there is something that you two wish to talk about but neither of you wants to bring up. Would it help if I swear an oath not to discuss anything that comes up in this room with any but the two of you?"


"I don't think there's anything for me to say, Aunt Vi," Iolion answers Vialle, his tone comfortable and at ease. "What I wished to say, what honor demanded be said, I said; and I'm comfortable she knows my mind. Beyond that - - beyond that, I wish to be silent."


Veronica closes her eyes and sighs. She starts to stand but stops before ending contact with the seat of the chair. "I'm sorry," she says to Vialle before turning her attention to Iolion and says, "I do not quite know your mind, actually. I know your emotions… you've declared your love for me. But…" she pauses and shrugs before asking, "Have you considered that I don't know what you want from me?" and clarifies by saying, "You went from 'dutifully not going there' for your mother's sake to 'Veronica I love you' practically overnight after all."


Vialle sets her teacup down with a clink that is only a little sharp. "Excuse me?" Her smile is warm with a gentle touch to it though it fades away in only a moment. "Please forgive me. I handled this badly. My dear nephew, I am not very good with social interactions. This you must understand of me. While diplomacy is a kind of social interaction, the stakes are rarely as high as they are in interpersonal interactions. In Rebma, physical perfection is a sign of the God's favor. As a blind woman, I was shunned and so have only my experiences with Random to draw from. I expect things to work out beautifully, because they did for me, you see? We did not have any of the complications and… attendant difficulties that you two face." Her hands extend then, one toward each, tea and cakes forgotten. Luckily, the table is small enough that she can manage to avoid knocking a plate of crumpets or small sandwiches to the floor. When she speaks again, she focuses on Veronica, "I think that Iolion has made his position on his emotions clear. Is it possible that you have not made your own clear to him?"


"No." The word is simple, clear, cold as a new razor: not harsh, just … cold, and directed at Vialle. "Aunt Vi, I'm grateful for what you're trying to do here, but it's just not working. And I'm tired of pretending that everything's okay, when it's clearly not." Then, towards Veronica: "You're writing entire new volumes in how not to handle this. When someone says they're in love with you, you don't get surprised and say you're confused. It's love. It's supposed to be confusing. You don't hear this from someone and then have your first words be, 'You are dear to me also, Iolion'. I didn't tell you that you were dear to me, I told you I was in love with you. When you finally got around to saying the L-word you immediately chased it with, 'you are, as I said, dear to me.' And what did I do? I took it on the fucking chin. I kept my composure, wished you well, said goodbye with a bit of well-chosen verse, and walked away. The way you're supposed to. And you got angry at me. And now? Here? Now you're saying, well, you don't know what I want from you. Really? You don't know what I want from you? How about the courage to take a fucking chance? How about putting it together and realizing that I already answered your question. I already told you! I didn't go from 'mustn't' to 'yes' overnight, I went from 'thinking about things very hard' to 'yes' overnight, and that's how decisions get made. And I keep on thinking the reason why you want me to explain myself - - to justify myself - - is because you're hoping to talk me out of it! Because you're too fucking scared to own whatever it is you're feeling! Blood of the Unicorn, I can handle it if you say 'sorry, Iolion, but no'. But I can't handle turning what should be the simplest thing in the world - - loving someone - - into an inquest. I'm not going to sit for it. The problem isn't that you don't know what I want, Veronica. The problem is you can't make a decision."


Veronica closes her eyes again and breathes deeply to calm the emotions that are coursing through her. After a few moment she begins speaking. "I was raised to defend, Iolion. I had a charge who I was to protect at all costs. I was also to protect myself at any cost but her," she pauses here and takes a breath again. "I don't know if you understand what that meant… I had to keep myself untouchable… not physically… sex was not only allowed but encouraged - - sex can be a weapon after all - - but love… entanglements… those were treacherous dangers…"

Veronica finally opens her eyes, because she stands and takes a few steps from the chair. She looks like she wants to pace, but instead simply stands, looking away from Iolion for the time being. "I've been attracted to you since I met you all those years ago," she continues, "And then it's been ups and downs since then. My training screamed at me to distance myself but my feelings said no. Then… then it was safe, you said that Dee said no and that was final… perhaps you said otherwise after but… I don't recall it emotionally. Next I knew you were saying you loved me. Yes, I was surprise. I feel back to defensive and dodged. You… I wanted time but I know most women use that as a line so I evaded…" She stops for a moment then looks at Iolion and says, "It wasn't a decision that I couldn't make. So… if you'd like I'll say no and we can part ways as much as family is able to," her expression as she says this is resolute but clearly pained also.


Vialle rises slowly as Veronica finishes speaking. She has one hand up toward Iolion in a gentle, 'wait' gesture. Speaking toward Veronica, she begins firmly, "Veronica. I believe that what Iolion wants to hear is what your heart wishes to say, not what your head wants. When you asked if that is what he wanted to hear, that 'no', what happened within. Did you feel an upswelling of relief or pain?"
Iolion pages: In his defense, he *did* tell her (in the brandy scene) that his feelings were changing. :) "In light of all the obstacles, I hope you feel flattered by how close I am to saying 'to hell with all that'."


"No, Aunt Vi," Iolion repeats, this time more forcefully. His voice is still a razor blade; now it's threatening to cut. "Just… no."

For a few seconds, all he does is arrange his plate, putting everything in proper order. It's the act of one who's departing, but is doing so with a measure of civility. "Listen to her," he tells Vi with the strange, almost clinical calmness of someone who's in the opening act of grief. "She's spilling out … justifications. Reasons. Explanations. For why she didn't make a decision, hasn't made a decision. Won't make a decision. Just listen. 'If you'd like I'll say no.' Putting the onus on me. Even here, now, she's … leaving me on a meathook. Won't make her own choice."

Perhaps the surest sign of how compromised his mind is comes from how fractured his words have become: the man famed for eloquence and hyperbaton, reduced to mere sentence fragments. "I'm tired," he finally says as he rises to his feet. "I'm tired of her cruelty. The fact she thinks of herself as a nice person, and thinks this is all my fault, and she's being so considerate, does not make it kindness. It's intolerable cruelty."


Veronica stares at Iolion in disbelief. This can be heard in her voice as she asks, "Cruel?" She shakes her head as she says, "I didn't…" which can be heard in her voice before she interrupts herself. She then softly says, "And I never claimed to be nice Iolion," almost at a whisper.


Vialle winces at Iolion's words but shakes her head and addresses him more directly, "Oh, yes, Nephew-mine. I am doing this and I want you to listen. No. I want you to hear what I am saying." While her tone remains considered and considerate, steel enters it gradually until she could be speaking to Gerard, "That is not what is happening. It is, beyond a doubt what you are hearing, seeing perhaps, but not what is happening. I asked to meet Veronica in part because I felt that communication was not happening and now? I know that it isn't. You are asking for absolutes from someone not equipped to give them. Iolion, please believe that I am not taking anyone's part in this. I am going to tell you a few things. Then…" She turns her body toward Veronica, "Then I am going to tell you a few things. And finally? I am going to leave this room, but I do not want either of you to do so until you have actually talked. Not about literature or cooking or art, but about what matters. What makes you you. As your elder, though not your 'boss' as it were, I wish to insist."

Turning to Iolion, not really giving him time to reply, she begins, "Veronica is not asnwering your question for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to the following. First, she is confused about her own feelings. She, like me, has never been taught how to handle love. She just admitted as much. Second, she does not know what love feels like so has no idea if that is what she feels. Third, she is afraid. Afraid of being in love and of hurting you. So, she has no reference from which to judge how she feels. No way to interpret her own feelings and, therefore no way to tell you what she is experiencing. It is as though you are speaking in a foreign tongue and expecting Sherlockian comprehension and Shakespearian phrasing from someone struggling with a toddler's vocabulary."

Turning to Veronica then, she speaks with the same focus, the same directness, "Now, Niece-mine, it is your turn to hear me. Iolion has grown up to understand emotions with a clinician's clarity. He knows when they are real and when they are feigned based on a variety of cues too numerous and amorphous to mention. He has been doing that kind of in-depth analysis his entire life. He knows what he feels and does not speak until he does know. So, he does not know what to do with emotions that are muddied and uncertain. He cannot deal with that momentary hesitation born of fear or uncertainty. He might even see it as deceipt1. He certainly sees it as wishy washiness either due to weakness of will or wit. He needs to know whether you love him. To him that is as simple as asking you if you want butter on your scones or not. Tea or coffee. Love or lack. He needs to hear how you feel without equivocation or uncertainty. He is ready and willing to buck the Family for you but he can't do that without you beside him."

Finally she pauses to breath, "So. You two need to learn how to talk to each other. Iolion, as you love her, give Veronica time to figure this out. Give her lessons in how to sort the true emotions from the false and how to shed fear. Veronica, accept those lessons. Learn how to know yourself well enough to know what you feel. What you wish to share and with whom. It may end up that you two do love each other and believe me, that is worth whatever time it takes to get there. Then again, you may end up discovering that you do not love each other. Just for goodness sake, be patient with each other. Do not assume the worst. Ask. Answer. Be honest. Even if it is brutally so. Iolion can take it if you are. Veronica can't. Be gentle with her. Hold hands for a minimum of five minutes to see if you can get beyond the initial 'holy crap what am I feeling' fluster to get to the kernel of an answer to that question. Ultimately? This?" She gestures toward Iolion, then toward Veronica, "This is semantics." Turning, she heads for the door, "Stay as long as you like. Stay the night if it helps. Please come talk to me after you have spent time talking."


There exists no pain like love unacknowledged and unrequited. It's something that most people nod along with when it's mentioned, but those who have truly felt it know it goes beyond the emotional. It's not just the feeling of a heart left incomplete and unfinished, but the body screams in its own anguish, too, as muscles held too tight for too long wail like a banshee's keening. It's an excellent first approximation of hell, and as Iolion stands there with his hand on the door, the only thing he wants to do is crawl away from its gates.

Vi's speech isn't even heard, doesn't percolate into his conscious mind. He's past that now, so deep into his own stress the voices of others sound more like the warbling of a muted horn than anything human. But, perhaps it reaches him on some other level: he stands there, watching his own hand, some part of him wondering /why won't it move/, as another deeper part - - older part - - the passions of Oberon, the dark gift of his grandfather's he's spent a life controlling - - surges to the forefront like a tidal wave.

I want to go the rational, thinking part of the man says. But the deeper, more feral mind, the thing that only understands life at its most primitive, refuses. It screams inchoately at him: it has no words, but insists he notice that Veronica is lost, in pain, and has no idea how to make her own peace with her emotions.

Not my problem anymore the man lies. The animal calls him out on it immediately.

I won't the man insists. The animal rages, beats at his mind, until the loudest thing Iolion has ever heard in his life is the taiko drum of his heartbeat in his ears, drowning out the world.

The beast surges, grabbing Iolion by the brainstem. It can't speak, being only an animal, but animals know love, too - - and the animal is screaming at the man that if he turns away from her in her pain, then he's - - there are no words: it is a horror beyond the beast's imagining.

She can't be reached the man refuses. The feral thing in desperation screams its outrage, and in the stress of the crisis it manages to finally speak two words to the man:

BY YOU.

In less time than it takes to blink, Iolion-the-man steps aside. The Blood of Oberon is now running this show. Odds are good no one notices when the conversion happens. The handoff is not a flashy thing. But in an instant, Iolion lifts one leg to slam at the steel-banded heavy oaken door so hard that it ruptures several staves in the door and bends a hinge. The impact's so fierce he goes abruptly in a not-door direction, and - -

- - he did that because sprinting just wasn't fast enough. When he hits ground he's moving at a full sprint, no time needed for acceleration, and Oberon's children can run as fast as most galloping horses. This is not something which should ever be done indoors, of course, momentum being such a harsh mistress, but the beast insists, and it's running the show. He slams into Veronica hard enough to leave her sore for a few days afterwards, enveloping her in his arms, his mouth on hers for a kiss that's purely emotional, that not a single shred of thought enters into, two tongues crushing against each other in an act she didn't know she needed and he couldn't forget - -

- - and he keeps moving with her, fast, forty miles an hour, until they slam into the back of the studio hard enough to leave a body-sized imprint in the wall. By the time they've fallen to the drop cloth beneath his hands are on her wrists, holding her down in a most primitive form of affection, his mouth biting down hard on her neck. There is no poetry here, only passion. Only raw, feral need. Only things that exist beyond language and cannot be reasoned with, bargained with, or understood.

Love cannot be reasoned with, bargained with, or understood.

It can only be /experienced/. It can only be lived. It can only be done. Love is a verb, not a noun; a state of doing, not a state of being. Veronica has been trying to rationalize its noun-ness, to understand it as a thing.

Iolion is instead showing a persuasive argument that she's coming at it all wrong. And there in a tangle of limbs and feral passions, rolling around in the paint and turning a drop cloth into an orgasmic Pollack, well.

Perhaps he has finally reached eloquence.
<OOC> Veronica thinks it failed to break the buffer. :)
Iolion pages: I hope that pose is okay. I tried to keep it tasteful.
<OOC> Veronica had a minor situation crop up that she had to resolve while the typing was going on, has read and is typing now. :)
Long distance to Iolion: Veronica will assume it is okay to include your keeping her on her feet in her response. :)
Iolion pages: For as long as it took them to hit the wall and bounce to the ground, yes. :)
You paged Iolion with 'if she presses back after a few minutes (needs to breath) is he going to fight back or accept it? :)'.
Iolion pages: I think the Beast understands the goal is to make her cum into unconsciousness, not *choke* her into unconsciousness. :)


The lack of Oberon's Blood doesn't make Veronica frail. She responds to his onslaught by pulling him into her arms as she accepts his embrace, her hands reaching up behind his head as the kiss is welcomed and returned in kind. It's almost a language of its own their contact, her fingers though his hair, the play of tongue against tongue. After a couple of long, moments of little more than stifled moans Veronica tries to disengage just enough to be able to catch her breath which is followed by a softly spoken, "Iolion," with an unspoken subtext meant to remind him that they are not in The Souk but in Amber, and in his Aunt's studio /with her present/ on top of that.


Vialle feels the conversation within Iolion though she cannot, dares not interrupt. It will sort itself out, it will. She can feel when the argument comes to a… ahem… to a head and her hair on her head and the beads on her gown are ruffled as he zooms past her. An image of a roadrunner, legs swirling in a blurred circle of motion builds in her mind's eye, though she will likely never speak of it. Then she hears the impact and concern grows… until it vanishes on feeling Veronica's response. Half smiling to herself, she allows that what is happening is certainly a form of communication, it is. Yup. Her hand sweeps the door for it is past time for her to leave. The hinge is bent, the door cracked, the knob forced utterly into the door jam. Well, that's not going to open is it. She puts her shoulder to it, pushing against it. No luck.

There are shouts barely heard on the other side as the Extraordinarii Random assigned to her figure that something nefarious is going on in there. The shouts turn to pounding on the door, none of which can possibly be helpful. Vi lifts her voice, first to the Extraordinarii, "It's fine. An excess of passion is all. Ask Random to trump me, please?" Then she calls to the pair behind her, "Um. You are welcome to use that room." Her hand lifts and she points to a bedroom off the studio. Yes, Random did design this room, thanks. Or Flora did but Random did insist on a few amenities. A bar with excellent booze is one. A bedroom where he can be ravaged by his wife is another.


«Fade To Black as the scene is OOCly advanced an hour»


An hour after Vialle departed finds the pair tangled in the drop cloth and each other's arms and legs. An easel has been broken and at least one of the velvet chairs is overturned. Veronica is still catching her breath and is playing her fingers though Iolion's dark hair as she asks, "Do you think anyone /didn't/ hear?" with a hint of laughter in her voice.


He sits up slowly, still covered in paint; a discarded jacket, now completely useless for anything except a modern art exhibit, is picked up and draped gently over her. She's lighter than he is, after all, and feels the cold more than he. "With luck, Random will get blamed," he answers in a tone of quiet mirth. "I would say I'm sorry about that, but - - there are things in life you can't be taught, you can only learn. The heart isn't about talking, it's about doing. The more you talk about the heart the weirder everything gets. The more you act with your heart the clearer everything gets."


Veronica nods, the motion drawing attention to the smear of paint across her cleavage. "I'll try to remember that," she says with a smile. "We should discuss each other's past at some point but… not right now," she says before laying her head on his shoulder.


"Why?" he asks softly, kissing her temple as he draws her in close. "Veronica, the best thing I ever did with my past was escape into my future. I'm not going to be defined by it. I don't want to look back on it. Especially when I have right now. You spend too much time looking at the past … you can forget to look around you. And my present is seeming kind of nice right now. And I want to notice that. You. There's some stuff we need to talk about, sure, but … for right now? Let's just enjoy the now."

/It's just a now, a now I prefer
Not the future, and not the past
So put the chairs to one side
And let us dance - -
It's a strange kind of peace
It's a kind of peace./

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