Morning.
The a.m. Eastern Standard Time where it was no later than exactly 10:05:47 in the morning because every fraction of a second was accounted for.
There in the dining room of the Red Clover hotel was a beautiful and frightening sight. What might clearly, to all evidence, be a gentry here at glance could be an embrace of doom for us all. Basil Utridge was not tall, and did not need to be. All 5'4" of him seemed to fill the room even sitting still: motes of planets and stars hung in the gravitational field of his personality ticking around him in suspended orbit keeping the time of the cosmos. As if he needed some sort of encouragement to be believe that he was the center of the god-blessed universe, though as a member of the Pantheon it could be a living metaphor. Still, that was not healthy if someone else wanted to breathe the air in the room today, was it? Did one have the right to breathe freely without someone's ego squashing them? Perhaps elsewhere in rooms he was not in. Still the natty dresser sat perfectly still reading the finance section of the paper and enjoining his continental breakfast and coffee as much as he would ever be able to enjoy anything in an imperfect world.
"Odd," he began without looking up, "I was expecting a surprise in three minutes. You are early."
...What the hell was he talking about?
Yes, what? Maybe the stranger in the doorway? If Dross counts as a stranger. Tall and thin, the Darkling wears a long, thin coat in Payne’s grey with the sleeves rolled up over a white shirt, collar open, black trousers, and black boots. What does he make of this overwhelming person? There's little expression on that sharp-featured face, but he _is _staring. Quite openly. His blue eyes pick up the glint and spin of those celestial motes and reflect them back into the room as he watches that comfortable sip of coffee.
When Basil addresses him, Dross steps inside. "Then there are at least two surprises," he answers. He speaks quietly but clearly. Doesn't seem to question why Basil might have expected him-- for someone with as much Wyrd rolling off him as this stranger, perhaps that question answers itself.
Dark skin melted into a smile like a stir of cream into morning coffee. There was nothing rushed as any Chronomancer worth their second hand plans ahead. Still the greeting was surprisingly warm and pleasant, but the Chatelaine do tend to do that even if one may want to throw a brick at them one might put a lace doily around it at least as it's thoughtful and polite and manners always count. Always; and Basil seemed to be keeping score of all of the points which worked to Dross' favour as the pale glow of polished brass eyes looked at his visitor; tiny inlaid clock faces of irises ticked slowly. A gesture was given to the seat across from him and there seemed to be a judgement of Dross as he moved through the room. There would be disappointment and unrest in the realm of man if there wasn't as thousands all went into shock at once were a member of the Pantheon not being a creepy, pretentious git like that. "You are Dross. I have heard much much much of you from Tristan. You'll be joining me for a cup of coffee?" It sounded like a question. It was not a question. It wasn't a demand because he knew that look and knew that Dross would sit and would be joining him, but hey, there was no reason to be a total dick about it.
(Disturbing thought: They stay this way become persons, plural, somewhere, give tithes to this sort of shit. That should be the thought that keeps one up at night.)
"Much, much, much?" repeats Dross. That makes one fine eyebrow go up for a moment. But other than that, he seems not to mind the way that Basil takes hold of the situation or instructs him what to do. Perhaps Dross is accustomed to as much? If anything, though his expression isn't easy to read, he may even appreciate the fulsome richness of Basil's voice and gesture. Regardless: he moves into the room without any fuss, soft-footed. There's not much in this room for the slight breeze that follows him around to disturb, though the table cloth sways a little at his approach.
Before taking the seat indicated to him, Dross pauses by Basil and holds a hand out to him-- to take, or not. Pale gaze moving slowly over his host, from the expensive dark shoes to the long, perfectly manicured dreads, taking in every detail. Pausing to linger on the brass clockwork eyes. "And you are Basil," he says.
Closer the mantle around this (were we sure he wasn't Gentry?)Fairest was a small carpeting of Morning Glories crawling up his chair. Like him they were beautiful until one realized how very invasive a species plant it was putting its fingers into absolutely everything and just won't roll over and die at a frost to give the garden peace of him. At the observation of who he was he almost purred like a sated panther, but it was not to be. He did love to be discussed, even by, and sometimes especially by, his enemies and critics. "I /am/" Could he sound more pleased? Holy shit it's like Dross told him he's won something. Satisfied he poked a button on his phone. Modern version of alert to the help without one of those rude as hell tiny bells that only upset everyone. "I have been curious and looking forward to this. Tristan informs me you're not deplorable at all... That's a nice change for me. If you don't believe me take into account I /am/ a financier in Vermont. The math is yours. Please, request whatever you wish. Presently you are my guest." Five minutes from now who knows but presently it was so.
Basil didn't seem to get up for anyone but once closer took the hand. He was business, entirely and thoroughly business without the glad-handing or need to impress. It was a handshake there to collaborate and build an idea. Oh welcome to engaging with Business Spring. Well, at least he wasn't an air-headed tart. It could be worse and no one like getting the dead fish when they come to call. Still the emphasis was on sitting and making one's self comfortable.
That makes Dross laugh. A short, sudden burst of sound, before he lets Basil's hand fall again, circles the table, and drops into the seat Basil had pointed out for him. "I don't know that I've ever had such a positive review," he says. "Not deplorable." The morning glories growing up and over that chair seem to draw his eye. A tendency with him: no matter where Basil is looking or what he's doing in the moment, Dross keeps his gaze fixed steadily on his Fairest host, watching him closely. There's an almost tangible feeling to that blue gaze. "What is it that you find deplorable?"
As far as a request, Dross says simply, "I'd like Tristan to live. Whether that's within your grant..." He glances then at the door, where presumably, anyone responding to that bell will come in. "Or were you only asking how I take my coffee?" Looking over the table at the plate and cup of coffee in front of Basil, watching the other man's hands, his face. "Which is black. As you surely know."
Basil rolled a hand idly in the air and he relied to the query of Tristan's well being, "Clearly it is." As his brother was hale and hearty as Basil clearly wished this so. Or Tristan and basil were far too good at what they did, were trying to destroy one another in some ultra subtle cosmic battle and were too evenly matched to gain an upper hand of. Could be both! There were rumors out there of some fantastic duel and no one but the two know the outcome of. As to the coffee, Basil grinned and chuckled with a relaxed amusement, "I am not the one you need to worry about knowing these things. I'm not the help." But the waiter showed; college student perhaps and eager to please. looking professional, or trying to, but lacking any experience with serviceable drudgery to make it look natural. Basil seemed to pay this no mind. But requests were made and carried off to the kitchen and Basil thought about it. How does one say 'most everything' to what he finds deplorable and not sound, eh, trite and bitchy? Well damn. So much for honesty then!
"Complacency, mostly. Complacency breeds tardiness, and an entire lack of caring and thus is the mother of all ruin. Any fruit from that bitch's loins need not be at our table." Our now was it? Basil sat back and observed nodding to the kid who had 'Stephen' written in neat letters on his name badge when provisions were returned and only then did Basil resume drinking his coffee now that he was not alone to do so. One didn't consume in front of a guest, only in front of those unwelcome. "You have that look about you. You are in your element." The Spring, once Satrap, squint. He meant Autumn but had far too much grace to call him out aloud. "You don't seem... brooding in some hoodie lurking in the shrubbery, 'lurlurlur' thinking he's some 'Billy Badass' trying to impress people that really don't matter for the paltry change of their soul, nor one that lurks in libraries to hide from the 'big scary world'. So what is it with you? What is this...quest that drives you into the warm bosom of the dark?" Perhaps it was some affect of his dark skin in contrast, or the light, but something in the faint constellations that hung like languid dust motes glint and those teeth of his shone white. This was curiosity.
Clearly it is. Oddly enough, Dross seems to accept this statement. Or at least: he does not contest it. What's to contest, in the face of that wide, white grin, brighter almost than the glow of late morning coming through the windows? The Darkling resettles himself in his seat, gaze winked away to 'STEPHEN' for a moment when the waiter brings his coffee. Hot, black, and pouring with steam. He places his hands around the coffee cup: long and fine-boned, with just a hint, now and then, of a slight tremor in those slender fingers. As yet, he does not drink the coffee; simply holds his hands there, perhaps letting them warm as he peers over the table at Basil. Yes, are those constellations brighter? The light from faraway stars ever shifting...
At that flash of curiosity, Dross keeps looking back over the table at Basil, pale eyes reflecting the brilliance of that grin; that changing landscape of dust motes and stars; the clockwork shine of those brass eyes. No need to ask about Basil's affiliation, with morning glories crawling out from all around him and covering his chair with their fine vines and bright blooms. "Desire has its ghosts, too.".
"Desire is its own damnation; the greatest poison, and we drink of it daily. Funny," He sat up letting one foot rest under his chair while the other stretched out. "Tristan and I spoke of this the other day on that very lack of difference. Perhaps opposite sides of a coin for a reason. Perhaps no difference at all?" He arched an eyebrow and licked his lower lip in idle thought. In theory it could be imagined he was tasting the conversation for Dross's want of knowledge, theory and possible perspective. It didn't quite work like that, but maybe for Chatelaine it did. "It is the fear to want and not get. It is also the desire to want what we are afraid to want, afraid to have. Taboo practice, forbidden knowledge, the thirst for the body, mind and soul to want what it doesn't have as nature abhors a vacuum, but yet not //quite// knowing if that will end in its destruction. That mote of too much and we never know where that line of demarcation //is// but god DAMN do we all crave it." He squint and warmed a smile to Dross. "I'm not entirely certain they are much different at all. It all falls into the well in the end whether we approach from the easterly or westerly side of it. It all... meets. And thus, do we. I am so very glad you are joining me for breakfast, Dross." Now is the time on Sprockets where concern is entirely warrented.
What might that taste like? Looking at Dross, almost expressionless, absolutely still in his chair on the other side of the table, almost as if posed, it's hard to imagine. He appears to be listening intently-- but does he agree? Disagree? There's no sign on that thin, sharp face as Basil speaks. But when the Fairest smiles and comes to the end of his words, a strange gleam comes into that blue gaze. The barest hint of... what? Is it amusement? The table between them, that distance, seems narrower, suddenly. "Everything contains its opposite," he tells Basil. Turns the coffee cup in his grasp back and forth a few times. Easterly-- westerly. Watching the shine of that smile.
Basil watched Dross with that same canniness he observed Wall Street with. His eyes squint just a hair watching him. Yes. Yes he got it. Gooooood. Dross' addition was met with a raised cup and a nod and silence. Basil felt absolutely no need explaining what Dross already knew. Quality be praised good company actually made the Kona taste better. Who knew. Somewhere in the back of his mind he made a mental note to get Tristan something nice for this present of Dross' time before him. Fine fine, Tristan lives another day.
He would have anyways, but Basil loved tasking credit for this and no one could prove much that it wasn't his doing.
Some days it's good to be a god. Never on Thursdays, but some days.
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