open: don't let the wine go to your brains

[untamedantinous]

It shouldn’t be this hard to prepare for a meeting. He’s done it countless times before. However, this time, it somehow is difficult. He’s never really had to set things up at times like this; and he knows as well as anyone else that he is not the best at social niceties. Granted, this meeting is in a much more well-appointed cafe than any he had ever been accustomed to holding space in in Paris. At least they have the benefit of a larger space. Consequently, Enjolras has spent much of the day of the eighth of Menestheus preparing, a little uncertain of how to plan a social gathering that is not immediately centered around planning a revolution. He is trying his best, at least.

Most of the tables and chairs have been pushed a bit more to the center of the room; the couch is arranged off to the opposite side. There are even various pillows scattered about, should anyone choose to sit on the floor. Arranged on a few of the larger tables and the counter there is a modest spread of food: of course, some of Laertes and Galahad’s pastries; but Enjolras has also procured what amounts to a few charcuterie platters: sliced sausages and meats, a selection of (mostly French) cheese, and various sliced loaves of bread and crackers are laid out for perusal, and spreads to go along with them. In an effort to provide multiple options of entertainment, Grantaire has set up a table somewhat near the food, with an assortment of wines and liqueurs. Off to one side, there are a few pots of brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and whatever else anyone might like to add to their beverage of choice. If anyone is drawn to the liquor cabinet, they will find three cups filled with various pieces of paper sitting atop it.

Enjolras himself is lingering on the couch with a glass of wine and some bread. He’s not sure how many people were even informed about this gathering, though he had done his best to advertise. If no one arrives then perhaps he will try again another time; but at least a few in attendance other than himself and Grantaire would certainly be welcome.

Comments

[forgethertoo]

"Everything has a weakness, even so-called gods. Since this is all hypothetical, my answer is that hypothetically, the weakness of these... gods? Shall we call them that? -- is us." Aornis already knows what she would do to take down these gods or spirits, but unfortunately (or fortunately), it's nothing she can speak out loud to Claudius. That isn't what she wants, after all. She'd much prefer their full cooperation.

[wickedwit]

"Oh, that is fascinating," Claudius says in full appreciation. "How so? Hypothetically."

[forgethertoo]

"Please," she says, with a brittle smile. "You're intelligent enough. You can extrapolate."

[wickedwit]

Claudius thinks in silence through his own theories, the ones first fomented with Crowley. He’s gone along with the idea that the mansion is a tyrant — a gaoler, certainly, holding the key to worlds beyond — but it’s not a danger to those inside it. They’re all someone’s favorite character. The challenges the mansion sends them are meant to be overcome, like the waves of zombies which were never a threat, but a chance for every fighter to combine their strength and cunning against a common foe. The stuff of stories, for distant spirits to watch and applaud. Despite all his desperate curses that day, Claudius is convinced now they wouldn’t let him die.

But if he held the knife to his own throat, threatened to end his story here, and rob them of their entertainments, what would they do then? What if he didn’t wait for an answer? They’d lose one of their favorites.

If you want to strike at someone’s heart, strike someone dear to them. “I see,” Claudius says. “No need to elaborate. You said it clearly. We are their weakness.”

[forgethertoo]

Aornis can pinpoint the moment he has the realization and she arches an eyebrow at his response. "Precisely. Now are you going to tell me why we're going through this thought exercise?" It's all hypothetical, of course. But hypothetically, she has seen enough to believe that the gods or spirits of this place may be behind her. Up until a point. She's willing to test what that point might be.

[wickedwit]

“Well, you know how I would deal with a despot. Poison him in the garden for his estate. I’d like to know as much about you as you do about me. But if you asked me why I’d like to …” He smiles. “I’d say it’s because you fascinate me.”

[forgethertoo]

"Surely there's nothing fascinating about an average British woman with a corporate job who spends her weekends partying in Paris and Mallorca," Aornis says, quite dryly. "I'm quite typical, I assure you. If there was a book written about me, I'd be a fraction of the celebrity that you are."

[wickedwit]

"You're biased by the narrative. I wasn't always a poisoner king -- I was a prototypically Danish diplomat, attending masques in Illyria and Navarre. You could be so much more, or," with a provocative headtilt, "perhaps you always have been."

[forgethertoo]

Aornis gives him a mild smile, though she knows that he saw a slightly different side of her in this conversation, one that she surprisingly isn't going to take away. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."

[wickedwit]

“Then I’ll leave you to mull. It’s been an absolute pleasure, Aornis,” he says, rising from his seat. “Do keep in touch.”

[forgethertoo]

"Until next time," she tells him.