WhenIslainMetDamienIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | When Islain met Damien OOC: General reminder / warning-- PG 13 content follows Damien signed for his vallet to help the groundskeeper in preparing the coach while he selected several items from his wardrobe. After a short time at his writing desk, and a few short instructions to Turlough, he motioned for his vallet to carry several things into the coach and climbed inside. It was neither a phaeton nor a luxury box on wheels, but the carriage did have tolerably good springs. Still, it was as much a testament to Damien's nerves as his deft hand that he would shave himself with a straight razor amidst the rocking motions. When he stepped out of the carriage, he was not just shaven but had changed into a long-sleeved white dress shirt with black bow tie, formal dress trousers, and a black cummerbund*, but no jacket, wig, or obvious weapons. His hair was tied back by a simple black ribbon. Under one arm he carried a Magnum bottle wrapped in a black towel. He knew the way through the city to Silver Dance, knew where to find what he sought, but hadn't been there in some time... The Deigan Baths were deserted at this time of night, as were the smooth, curving streets upon which their marble edifice gleamed. The street lamps were lit, casting flickering shadows upon the pale fluted columns and causing their vaguely rainbow sparks to glimmer. Past the small courtyard that faced the street, the green stone path led up to the entrance to the baths, which had been considered one of the wonders of Amber City during Oberon's reign, but which now, in the wake of the Mandor Edicts, had become something of a curiosity. A light burned in the entrance hall, warm and inviting. As he approached, one of the double-doors swung open. There was a woman standing there, alone, looking almost vulnerable, but not quite, for she could not rid herself of her coldness, and so the impression was of a statue of a sweet or vulnerable goddess - Persephone, perhaps. She was a little over medium height, slender, stately. Her bare arms were particularly graceful, her long curls cascaded across her smooth, naked back. The gown she wore was of a pure white, and tied loosely around her neck, falling in graceful folds to the floor. She was, for the moment, oddly devoid of other adornment. Damien's footfalls clicked confidently, and then fell silent. He paused and studied her as he would the sculpture she so resembled. His face was composed, his back rod-straight, but there was a certain flame of... intensity, or intent, in his eyes. She nodded to him, but she did not speak, her full red lips curving in the barest whisper of a smile, and then she turned and began to walk down the beautifully, intricately tiled hallway toward a cloud of steam and the scent of jasmine and vanilla. Damien mirrored her Mona Lisa smile, returned her nod, and once she had turned, moved to follow. They had both remained silent, but Damien gave no sign of discomfort at the silence. His pace was measured-- martial, but his stride matched hers such that her every silent step was accomplanied by the 'click' of his own. When they reached the doorway, he saw that it led to a room tiled in pale green and blue, with one large pool and one smaller, round one, and there was a door through which some of the steam was emanating. Islain let her gown slip from her shoulders and walked into the larger pool, and she kept walking until she was up to her neck, before she turned and smiled again. Damien removed his shoes without looking away from Islain's smooth skin. "An old-fashioned, magicless means of blocking eavesdropping," she offered. There was a sharp pop, and the splash of foam, and Damien had uncorked the magnum. It made a faint clinking noise as he set it down on the tiles besides the pool, along with one glass which had been enfolded in the dark hand towel which waited to one side. "We all have secrets to keep..." Damien said with a mysterious smile as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and revealed one. Islain smiled, bobbed under the water and up again, and ran her long hands through her dark waves. "Come in," she said. "I won't bite you. I think you and I understand one another - better perhaps than any of this idealist children could ever understand either of us." With a few deft turns of the wrist, his shirt was neatly folded and over the arm of a waiting chair. His valet would, no doubt, have been scandalized that Damien still knew how to handle clothing if he weren't also a... peculiar sort. He laughed, then replied, "Bites are the least of my concern... though my time in the Navy does give me a certain reticence about voluntarily climbing into a body of water deeper than my knees." "As for understanding and idealism--" Damien began, looking down at Islain, as he turned his wrists to unfasten his trousers, "we, the three of us, know the rules of the game we play. It isn't, never has been, a question of... Idealism," he said, punctuating the end of his sentence by stepping out of his trousers, "but one of commitment." Nude but for his socks and their garders, he folded his trousers and placed them beside his shirt. Islain let her eyes run over his form once, then returned them to his eyes. "The three of us? Which invisible comrade do we allow in to ghost into our conversation? Or did you invite a guest?" "Oh, we're very much alone... I meant the three of us of our generation who served Eric, who broke our fast with Gerard..." Damien said, a touch of melancholia in his voice, his eyes on hers, as he absently removed socks and garders with dexterous toes. "The champagne is from Earth. I'd been saving it for Corwin's corronation... best to try some before it loses its chill," he said before taking a pair of steps to the edge and diving over Islain into the water. Though she could have done better, it was a fine dive with little splash. He soon resurfaced and turned to face her. |
