Roen

Oh honey You don't have to try so hard To hurt me Don't worry I been thinking bout you too What do we do Your heart is where my head should be The dissonance is killing me It breaks my heart It breaks my heart

Rolling his shoulders indolently, Roen let Octavia shift the subject away from rumors and chose instead to focus on themselves, for the time being. He didn't mind shelving the conversation for later. "Of course I can cook for myself," he told her in response to her gentle ribbing. Turning his head, Roen leveled the weight of semi-playful scrutiny on Octavia. "I heard no complaints when last I served you a meal." He let that settle between them, his eyebrows furrowing and his lips pursing to ward off a knowing, incongruous smirk. Then his gaze was slipping away. Oh, melancholic though he was, it was not in the man to resist bait and gentle ribbing. More than that though, he could not resist talking about his son. There was a pride in him for the newborn that superseded much, if not most other things in his life. Pride, ambition, the rare and perfect passions that fueled him, these things had diminished over the years, of course, but nowhere nearly as much as they did so now, in part because of his son. Philippe dominated his world for the time being, and Roen loved him for the distraction and sense of fulfillment the young boy gave and offered. "I'll let you see him, if he's awake." Roen promised sincerely, guiding Octavia up the length of a street and across it, navigating their way through. The Summer Isles were a strange place, most unlike anywhere else in the world. As the evening set in, more and more people took to the streets; shops started opening, conversations were struck up with neighbors. Verily, it seemed the entire capital was coming to life. He did not comment on this, but he knew why: the city kept hours with the Orisian Queen and her husband; they were the creatures of the night. He hurried Octavia along. "Purpose and a home, huh..," he drawled. He turned her towards a gated homestead, though the bars were open and inviting. He led her through the threshold where the manse lay beyond, its lanterns being lit by a porter. He discretely withdrew his hand from Octavia's back, though he walked beside her, close and intimate, friendly as they were. She was a rare one in his life, a new acquaintance but kindly to him, and understanding. He had spoken to her much of his life, more than he had with anyone else in recent memory, and had found her observations both comforting and enlightening. They made a strange pair of acquaintances, the supposed devil and demon. "And you think to find them here, on the Summer Isles?" He shook his head slowly as they approached the doors of his home, which opened seemingly of their own accord. Molly was beyond, one of his maids, alongside a guard, who saluted albeit briefly before he went on his way. It seemed Roen and Octavia had interrupted a conversation. Molly curtsied, then likewise walked away. Roen did not mind. "Well, my home is your home, Octavia." He said, all nonchalance in spite of the startling sentiment. "You may stay as long as you wish." He looked at her, speculative. "I can't say I have a purpose for you, though. At least, not one quite just yet..," he trailed off. "But you can stay until you find one, or after. Ah," he exclaimed, glancing away and around. "I should have asked Molly where Philippe was." He shook his head and sighed, rubbing his eyes. There were dark circles beneath, as there usually were. "Are you hungry, Octavia? Thirsty?"

For a long, quiet moment, Roen stood before Kassandra with a fracturing smile. It fell from his face piece by piece, falling somewhere between a frown and a scowl. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Le'or." He finally said, low and smooth and full of the half-starved effort of the cordial and gentlemanly kind. He knew his lines, this theater actor, even if he did not feel them as honestly as he should have. He knew how to be polite, even while his heart knocked painfully in his chest. Turning aside and gesturing, he invited Kassandra to follow him with a curl of his fingers. It was the accent that hurt him, if he had to be honest with himself. That he would have called her a gypsy was a given, and he'd have never thought twice about it; but that she rolled her 'R's so distinctly, it wounded him. He had known another gypsy so accented, had known her well and true and long, and missed her when she passed from the world, as all friends and acquaintances of the old and the powerful did. It was a slight stab and an old wound, and he handled it properly and carefully before setting it alongside the other myriad aches and hurts he carried with him throughout the years. Rather, he set his mind towards being the Gentleman Sage and host to a new and already well-loved guest. As they walked along the cobblestone path together, he spoke with quiet wit and sincere candor to his companion. "There is an expression where I come from. A proverb, if you will." The smile that had turned so brittle now blossomed again, like fresh warmth from embers dusted of ash. He liked his wit and impressive repertoire of trivial facts, and loved little more than to share it with young and old souls alike. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers," he quoted, the merry sound of a chuckle lurking beneath his somber tones, ready to burble up, "for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." It did come out, then. The chuckle, the dry laugh so full of self-satisfaction. One could not live in so abject isolation if they did not at least like themselves, and Roen enjoyed his own company a great deal, it seemed. Leaning closer towards Kassandra, his already low voice dropped into a conspirator whisper. He was warm, this man. Too warm, as if stricken with fever. He was not flushed, however. "I think they meant to say you can never be sure who shows up at your door, so it would be best to treat them all kindly, lest they curse or destroy you. Angels were good for that sort of thing." His smile turning somewhat sly and mischievous, Roen leaned away to assume a more proper walking of his companion, but by that time they had already reached the manse's wide double-doors, which opened on hinges both quiet and well-maintained. Beyond was the grand foyer, an edifice of pale white-yellow marble floors, Ionic columns and vaulted ceilings that disappeared into gloomy shadows. Within were waiting staff - a swarthy-skinned man with a balding pate, a freckled youth with sandy-blonde hair, and a dark-skinned, middle-aged porter who smelled of coconut oil and spicy colonge - who looked at their lord and his guest expectantly. Roen introduced them all in turn. "This is Kevan, Gareth, and Donovan. Gentleman, this is Miss Kassandra Le'or. She is going to be our guest for the evening." The men dipped their chins and curled their arms beneath their sternums, bowing briefly. Unbuttoning the cuff-links at his wrist, little platinum bas-reliefs of a dragon wrapped around a pawn - Roen walked through the foyer, gesturing again for Kassandra to follow him. "Prepare the guest suite for Miss Le'or, Donovan." Roen turned his head, glancing over his shoulder to take a long, lingering look at his guest. He pursed his lips speculatively, heeding her from head to heel and back up again, his gaze untoward, perhaps even unpleasantly so, then he frowned. "I'm sorry, that was rude. They're for you to freshen up in." Then he smiled, quick as sin to draw unhappiness away. "Our cook has retired for the evening and, mm, we've all had our supper. But I'm sure if we're quiet and discrete, our good chef Andre wouldn't mind if we picked through his larder for some leftovers. Are you hungry, Miss Le'or?" The manse was, sufficiently put, large. Not robust or thrilling, but lavish and accommodating. Kevan and Gareth had long since abandoned them, chiefly to help Donovan prepared the guest suite for Kassandra, which they set about doing with a lady in mind. That meant new sheets, hot water, and the other odds and ends, should the guest opt to spend the night in the villa, as many guests were wont to do when taken with their Lord's hospitality. He was not niggardly, their Lord, and was frequently starved of companionship beyond that of his servants and staff. So starved that he preferred to play host himself, which he seemed very keen on doing, now. The kitchen, one of several in the household, was a private affair with a center island, more for quiet gatherings than that large gatherings Roen held in the dining room when he supped proper with the household. This was the Nocturnal Fast, the place where staff, Lord and princeling would go for late-night eatings beyond judgement or incrimination. It was also where Andre stashed the select foodstuffs and a smaller larder, which the staff and Roen included keenly raided every so often. Roen fixed his sleeves and bared his arms, and looked less an Orisian Noble and more -- well, nothing, really. Just a man, green-eyed and eccentric by all means. As he took out a cutting board and grabbed a sharp knife out of a block, he queried his guest absently, making light conversation and nurturing her ears while he sought to nurture her belly. "What brings a traveling gypsy to the Summer Isles, Miss Le'or?" He asked, setting the knife down and going for the larder. The door opened, cool air coming out and rolling across the floor like gossamer smoke. "Oh, do you want some fruit? A meat platter, perhaps?" He glanced over the larder door, his smile more of a smirk, his eyes a tad more wicked. "Or would you care to nevermind your figure, and have a dessert, instead? I've something of a sweet tooth, and Andre caters to it relentlessly..," he trailed off, peering back into the larder again.

I play with myself all the time, there’s no shame in it.

No it's never on the day you leave You can tell how it's gonna be To watch a girl become a ghost before your eyes You wish you'd given her one more kiss To put away for a night like this But never, never on the day you leave So maybe it'd be better off to write her And leave a little note right there beside her That says maybe we're not perfect But I'll be damned if I ever leave Damned if I ever leave

Think of what you're saying before you speak. These days I can go without enemies. We're killing off the option to make amends. Oh darling, sometimes there's no such thing as more than friends Let's save what we can before it ends. Nobody loves me like you Nobody loves me like you Settling is the sign of a dying man; Comfort in exchange for the promise land Waiting for the other to break open Oh baby, sometimes there's no such thing as more than friends Let's save what we can before it ends

I'll make the most of all the sadness You'll be a bitch because you can You try to hit me, just hurt me So you leave me feeling dirty 'Cause you can't understand We're goin' down And you can see it too We're goin' down And you know that we're doomed My dear, we're slow dancing in a burnin' room

'Rumors?' Roen asked, his deep tenor subdued by curiosity. He had never made it a point to hide his identity, here on the Summer Isles. He was himself, irrespective of sobriquet or title. Where he lived and decided to stay was subject to public record, taxes, so and and so forth. He loved the Summer Isles, much as he had loved their sovereign ruler, though their relationship was oft as turbulent as the seas themselves. What piqued his interest was that people, and he used that term loosely, deigned to mention it at all. He had not set foot in the Black City since.. well, he couldn't readily recall. Not since Philippe was born, he hazarded a guess, and that was a year ago, or near enough to make little difference. He had never loved the Black City, and had left it in the capable hands of a steward while he himself took to managing Orisia. That had lasted all but a few months until -- Roen looked away, flinching at a recollection. His mind had wandered. Raising a hand and flicking his wrist in nonchalant negligence, Roen waved the matter aside. He did not want to discuss why he was in Orisia, at least not now, or with Octavia. He did not want to talk about rumors, at least the ones concerning him. The genuine shine she shot his way was returned by one slightly warmer of his own, her brightness reflected back. 'Well, the Summer Isles are a wonderful place to visit,' he hedged, looping an arm around Octavia and settling the pads of his calloused fingertips on the small of her back to provide her with gentle urging. He started walking the demoness don the beach, his eyes likewise albeit briefly scanning the horizon first, then the beach, one last time. He looked back to her. 'And an even nicer place to live. Guests are always welcome in my home, especially you, Octavia. My chef is extraordinary, or so everyone tells me. Perhaps he'll make you something special, if you ask extra nicely.' He smiled wider at this, and for a moment looked little and less like the weary soul, and more the vigorous man he had been. A flicker of the old fire, flaring beneath the ash. He was teasing her. 'You'll have to see my son,' he said a few quiet moments after, his soft, deep tenor suffused with nothing less than robust and abundant pride. There was little in this world Roen found pleasure in anymore; the wine tasted foul, fruit was no longer cherished, and sweet-cakes, his favorite indulgence, no longer but appealed. But Philippe had a way of granting his father some measure of peace. And he was growing older, day by day, and rowdier, too. The temperament of his father, no doubt, though at times Roen wished for otherwise. Roen combed a finger through his hair, brushing aside wayward strands worked loose from his ponytail. 'He has a taste for redheads, the boy. I don't know where he gets it from.' He laughed, Roen. He actually laughed, a deep and throaty chuckle that rumbled in his chest. 'I'm sure he would love you, though..,' trailing off, he urged Octavia off the beach and onto the paved cobblestones, bare feet and all. The capital was a clean place, largely in part of the efforts of it's municipal body. Roen had always enjoyed that about the city, its cleanliness. The harbors weren't filled with refuse, the streets were regularly maintained, and it just smelled of -- well, the sea, really. Just the sea, and flowers, and orange blossoms. It smelled like home. But the streets, those were fine to walk on. A bit dusty, perhaps, and a bit too warm from baking in the sun, but perfectly fine to tread, which they did, as others did this close to the beach. 'I don't live far,' he told her, encouragingly. 'But how are you? Forgive a man his poor manners, that should have been the first thing I asked you. Are you well?'

The same brain that brings me ecstacy Is the same pain that gets the best of me And the one I love the most just said to me A broken heart is all I'll ever be

If I could have the thread linked, I’ll give it a look-at. I’ve done nothing particularly noteworthy on Valucre, but I’ve had the opportunity and privilege to participate in several events that I felt were just wonderful. Fete Ghede comes to mind, as well as the Masquerade in Orisia. So, I guess I’m proud of being an avid participant?

Philippe had no intention of sitting at his father's right hand. While it may have been the place of the lord's son to sit beside his father during meals, Roen's son was lacking in the social gracious, being just a toddler, and while the mahogany chair looked appealing and very comfortable, the little prince was much happier to sit in his lord father's lap. He sat there now, happy and burbling to his father while they supped with those staff whose duties were finished and were on the last hours of their respective shifts. This, too, was Roen and Philippe's habit, sitting down with members of their household staff and guard to eat, drink, and talk of things both great and small. There was fish baked in clay pots, a roasted cornish hen, freshly baked loaves of brown bread, cooked onions in gravy, as much butter and salt as any table would need, and other courses which Roen neither had the time nor inclination to look over. The staff was happy to enjoy the evening meal at his table, and that was enough. He watched them in between feeding his son, indulging himself through proxy in their animated talks, idle gossip, and gentle teases. He liked them, these people. He liked them as he liked all Orisians, native or otherwise. The Summer Isles were a world apart from Valucre, and bred a manner of person wholly apart from mainland Genesaris or far off distant Terrenus. 'Oh, you're a messy boy..,' Roen chided Philippe, though not unkindly. The little prince had stolen a spoon and, in a fit of artistry, smeared cranberry sauce across himself, the linen table cloth, and not a little on his father's waistcoat. Taking the spoon away was a bit of a struggle followed suite by a bit of a cry, but Roen soothed his son with quiet words and the idle bounce of his knee, which rocked Philippe up and down until his temper cooled. It was strange, what was passed down. How easy going, Philippe could be. How fierce his temper could be, so easily roused. Roen sighed in a good nature and smiled sadly. The little prince was done and contented with his meal, and leaned back against his father, safe and secure with a strong arm wrapped around him. As for Roen, well, he did not eat, or at least ate very little. His appetites, much like his passions, had waned in the intervening months since his family of three had turned into a family of two. 'Excuse me,' he said at last, as the sound of cutlery dimmed and conversation grew. 'Thank you all, but Philippe says I must carry him to bed, now.' Drowsy, dosing where he sat, Philippe had said no such thing, but the sentiment was true enough. 'Goodnight. I will see you all tomorrow, get home safe.' Some raised their glasses to their employer, but most just smiled and nodded as Roen rose from his seat with Philippe his arms and left the dining room and its laughter behind. 'Let's get you washed up and tucked in, hm?' Roen asked quietly, letting the boy rest against his shoulder. It was a quick walk to the nursery, where a pair of nannies were waiting. This, too, was ritual. Roen was many things, and though he tried his utmost to be a good father, the task was raw and new to him, and he had not a woman's - or mother's - touch to see the rearing of his son smoothly. These two, a mother and daughter, with a little babe of her own, were brought on to help him. He did not leave Philippe entirely in their care, though. He went with them and observed, making idle chatter as they cleaned the baby, dressed him, and tucked him into his crib. Roen was leaning against it and covering the little prince when there came a knock at the door. A guard had come and exchanged a quiet word with the younger nanny, who whispered something to her mother. Both glanced Roen's way as he was turning to see. The guard stepped in, his hand twitching with a half-salute, more habit than necessity. Roen smiled thinly. 'Yes?' He asked, eyebrows lifting. A tardiness of one of the guards for the overnight, Roen guessed. Pierre, probably, on account of his clingy wife, or Justinian, who displayed a remarkable penchant for forgetting the hour of his shift, regardless of how many times the captain of the guard threatened to tan his hide over it. Roen was already considering having pay docked when the guard explained that there was someone loitering near the property, presumably seeking entry. Young, dark of hair, fair of complexion. Roen's smile turned brittle and icy, and his stomach twisted. He leaned more heavily on the crib and looked away, glancing at his son. No, no, it couldn't -- she wouldn't. Would she? She was flighty, whimsical. She hadn't meant it. She was reconsidering it. Dread fell upon Roen like a cold mantle, though his heart beat faster. 'Where is she now?' He asked, without looking up. 'Just outside, sir. Shall we --' Roen raised a hand, cutting him off. 'No, no. I'll handle it. It's nothing, probably just a lost soul. Everything's fine. Return to your post.' The guard saluted again, though this time sharply. He was young, but was trained. It was in the crispness of his uniform and the definition in his gestures. Absently, Roen approved, though his mind soon turned to the matter of the unannounced guest. Bidding Philippe a fond farewell and trusting the two women with caring for him, should the toddler wake, Roen left the nursery behind with a sense of purpose and length of stride unseen or unheard of in these halls for weeks. Life returned to the villa's lord; it granted him color, vigor, and not alittle spryness, for anxiety was a double-edged blade and lent excitement to the unknown with the hopeful. He took his waistcoat off, though. It was stained, and he did not want to look unpresentable. Passing mirrors, the Orisian Noble passed a hand through his hair, rubbed his face, and lamented that he had not chosen to shave after all. Still, it was not enough to deter him. He left through the main foyer and closed the door behind him before walking the cobblestone pathway down towards the gates that led onto the property proper. It was a modest estate in comparison with most others in the capital, but not without its charm. With an acre and a half of property, there was enough room for some private gardens and a luxurious fountain, though sadly not enough for a hedge maze, which Roen had desperately wanted but could neither afford in both monetary and spatial ways. Regardless. He approached the woman at the gates, the heavy iron bars swung inward, inviting all for entry. That was his prerogative. There were no enchantments laid on the villa, no wards of prophylactic measures that might bar or disturb those who came onto the grounds. The villa and its property were open to any and all to come and go as they pleased, without difficulty or injunction. Mundanely, this also meant the gates were never closed, night or day. Roen's manse was open to all, and -- and she was not who he was hoping for, or expecting. As Roen drew closer, he realized immediately that this fair-faced girl was too tall to be his lady, though he had the grace and courtesy to not allow his disappointment to show on his face. He should have known better. Drawing in a smooth, deep breath and donning the mask of the Gentleman Sage, Roen tucked a hand into his pocket and set the other on his hip as he drew near under the cover of night and a slitted moon, it and the stars all the light any needed to see on a clear Orisian night. He was unarmed, without a tail and without his power laying heavy over him like a shroud, but the scent remained, that vague aroma of peat and spice, citrus and quenching iron, and blood and smoke. All of these scents, yet none of them, radiating off of him as the subtle fragrance of seductive hell itself, both inviting and repulsive. Then, with his deep and measured tenor, he called out. 'Hello there.' Crisp, clean, with the diction of a practiced orator, he had a handsome voice if not a handsome face, Roen. 'Looking for something? Or -- someone? You've wandered onto my property. Young girls give my guards apoplexy in the evening, I'm sad to say.' He said, smiling just a bit wider, though it did not quite reach his eyes. They looked at her casually, not unkind or disinterested, but just -- normally. They might as well have met in the middle of the street. 'Ah, forgive me, my manners. I am Roen..,' he trailed off. He had no surname. For a second, he was seized by a wild and totally inappropriate desire to name himself a Du'Grace, and almost but not quite laughed out loud, but he controlled himself fiercely. Philippe had that luxury through the matrilineal union - Roen did not. '.. and this is my home. Would you like to come in?'

Rosie, come down and get the door for me I'm drunk again, remember when we used to be? Rosie, I know you said no more for me But that was all before this dream that just came to me Don't leave me here under the January rain, come let me in Take my heart by the hand and lead me back to your room (back to your room) And sing me your tune (sing me your tune) Rosie, you don't have to hide his things I'm fine with all the sorrow that tomorrow brings Whoa-oh-oh, Rosie, don't you know my love is true? 'Perdon' and 'lo siento', see, I learned those words for you