taxonomites | [location: Central | closed thread to: Bagoas]

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[location: Central | closed thread to: Bagoas]

Of all the hours in the day, the ones Horst misses the most are in the early afternoon. Ever a social creature, in his youth, he'd usually bypassed most of the unpleasantly early morning hours by sleeping through them, unless he happened to be working a day job at the time and had to show up at an unfashionable seven or eight or nine o'clock to earn his daily bread. He'd liked to sleep in until lunchtime, given his druthers -- and once that was done, there was no better time than the sunny midafternoon to make social calls and go on all manner of adventures with one's friends.

Now, robbed of the better part of his social calendar, particularly on a long summer day like this, it's difficult for Horst to arrange to run into anyone without seeming overly inappropriate. The beginning of his day is rarely much earlier than 10:30, and that assumes he bestirs himself to shower and dress as soon as the sun's finished its nightly set. When it's important, though, you make concessions to inappropriateness in order to see someone, and you make sure you get up early. So tonight, Horst is up by nine-thirty and dressed by ten, wearing his sharpest clothes, looking healthy and smelling faintly of something like apricot or plum.

He slips out of the house while Johannes is busy with the dishes and won't notice, disabling his location on the Taxon map once he's out the door. Johannes is a magician of no small ability, and could certainly scry Horst's location if he wanted to, but Horst doubts he'll bother. He doesn't have enough blood to go scrying for things willy-nilly, does he? Besides, if he magically spied on Horst every time Horst went off to do something Johannes wasn't interested in, his brother would have no time left in the day to do anything he was interested in. It's fair to say they both enjoy a good amount of time apart.

Horst makes his way uptown at good speed, watching the other names on Taxon's map on his tablet, looking to see that one name in particular is still where it was when he left the house. It roughly is.

This part of town isn't one Horst has frequented much yet. He doesn't think any of Taxon's captives live on this street, though it's a nice enough area. Ivy grows up and down a few brick-lined causeways, and there's an open plaza just down the way where several late summer flowers all seem to be coming into bloom. That's where Horst heads, because he can hear the soft chiming of bells and see the silvery shimmer of jewelry-adorned movement, and that means he's come to the right place.

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In the long-since dwindled light of the day, in this strangely assembled town, it is perhaps not so strange to hear such sounds ringing through the open air. Not only that: the ground is dotted with cups sheltering flickering candlelight from the wind, like distant cousins to the flowers, in closer relation to the stars.

Moving between them is a veiled figure whose limbs show through back-lit fabric. Its feet and hands are bare save for the bracelets to which the candles lend a warm glow; in those same hands rest a cup each holding a bare flame. One second the figure is a mirage, a shadow, only to reappear as this or that candle see fit to illuminate.

Of course it is a show. It is an elaborate, painstakingly slow act with only one outward purpose: to attract the eye like a flower the bee. Bagoas' limbs move with a fluidity that seems effortless but is anything but. The slow pace alone would require such precision as to shame most contemporary dancers, and the candles add another dimension.

Such is his talent, that he guides the eye like a lamb where he wants it, and all the while the man watching thinks himself his own shepherd. Here the flickering hint of a dimple, here the curve of a bared hip and the glint of his chiming belt, here the rolling of his lower belly.

And so the dance continues. Light, and dark. Lamb and shepherd and wolf, perhaps.

Bagoas of Susa is beauty and grace incarnate, and watching him dance is alluring in a way that has nothing to do with Horst's vampiric nature. Johannes, of course, wouldn't have found this remotely distracting; Johannes is doggedly single-minded and immune to these sorts of temptations of the flesh. Some things don't even slightly run in the family.

Although he came here intending to have a conversation, Horst finds himself instead drawn into the temptation of playing another little game with the mysterious seemingly-young man. He folds his hands behind his back and begins to circle around Bagoas appraisingly, where he'd meant to just stop and chat. Instead, he finds he wants to test the dancer's mettle, offering him the challenge of having to reorient his performance to a constantly moving audience.

Horst offers a sly smile, but he doesn't say hello, doesn't interrupt the music of Bagoas's soft bells. He lets him dance. Why disrupt an artist at his work, when it's so very nice to be treated to a private performance?

Ah, an audience - and as captivating a one at that, as Bagoas' aim is to captivate. He gives a secret, knowing smile in return, and comes to a slow, artful stop as his one-man audience begins his casual appraisal. Only his head moves, turning first to the one shoulder, eyes demurely downcast, then the other that he may follow Horst's progress.

Then he springs back into action, spinning where he stands, one hand each turned to the earth and the sky. It is not only he that dances, but the twin orbs that glow in the dark. Here and there they wink out of existence, hidden and revealed by the twisting of his arms and wrists.

Here and there their eyes meet, and Bagoas misses not a single step despite the dangers of long flowing fabrics and a smattering of partially covered candles on the ground.

This is indeed a fun little dance -- Bagoas fluttering and flickering like a shiny bit of ribbon in the candlelight, Horst changing direction every so often just to keep things fresh -- and Horst suspects Bagoas is at a level where he could keep up this performance well into the night, if he needed to. Eventually, though, fun must cede to business, and so Horst slows and slows until he's arrived at a full stop, watching his dance partner now with one hand folded beneath his chin. He'll hold his applause for after Bagoas has ceased as well.

"You have a well-honed talent," he offers as a compliment. "Deserving of a larger audience than this one, I fear."

And, as always when in unspoken agreement on the roles he and his audience shall play, Bagoas prefers coming to a memorable end. He ends with a swivel of his hips, half turning on his heel to be fully facing his most recent acquaintance - and with a final bit of flair (known far and wide as 'showing off'), his ribcage lifts, his belly lowers as if completely separate entities - and shik shak shok, his belt chimes the end.

Let it never be said that Bagoas of Susa is modest in all things.

Nevertheless, his performance is over; the spell is broken, and taking its place is a brilliant smile. "Thank you kindly," he says, lifting one of the cups to his lips so as to give the flickering candlelight a puff of air. Time to sleep, little tea candles, until next his fancy strikes.

Slitting his eyes Horst's way, his smile takes on a more knowing quality - a personal amusement from the past, perhaps - and he ducks his head in polite acceptance of such observation.

"I am beyond content having an audience of one, my lord, if it be half as appreciative as yourself."

One can have such a giving exchange between two pairs of eyes, but something niggles at the back of Bagoas' head. He has been happened upon too many times not to see the difference here. The question is rather how to broach the topic, and how to gauge the context properly. Their last (and first) encounter didn't exactly end on a pleasing note.

More's the pity, and it serves as incentive to make sure this meeting does (even if he dislikes feeling indebted to someone with a passion, he can disregard those impulses like any true professional). "It is good to see you again..." He averts his eye, going from one candle holder to the next.

"I would say I hope it is not by clement happenstance, but I should not speak out of turn."

Horst considers lying. Not because he intends to carry out the farce, certainly, but because it would draw out the game a bit longer in its current form, and Horst really has missed this game. The company he keeps of late is not the flirting kind.

In the interest of his cause, however, he opts for straightforwardness instead. "I wish I could say I asked no more than the pleasure of your dancing. I fear I come in need of a favor. Will you permit me to plead my case?"

A glint of teeth is Horst's reward, there and gone again in the remaining flicker of candles. "Naturally," says the eunuch possessing of so many roles: the one of subtle scheming, intrigue for the sake of diplomacy, being one of his favourites.

"Please," he adds, gesturing to one of the iron-wrought benches by the fountain at the middle of the plaza. Once there, he arranges himself as artfully as ever, beyond delighted to be taking part of something with his particular skill set in mind.

"You have my undivided attention."

Unquestionably, the proper thing to do when being granted an audience from a possible ally would be to make a formal go of the presentation, keeping to one's feet and carefully enumerating the points of one's argument in the way of a lawyer presenting a court case. Bagoas has taken his seat, and Horst has the floor to speak. That's how Johannes would probably handle it: like a lawyer.

Horst, though, is no lawyer. He slides down onto the other side of the bench and twists so he can face Bagoas directly, resting one arm against the wrought-iron backing. This is much more like two friends having an intimate chat -- which he suspects is what Bagoas intended anyway.

"Forgive me if I speak out of turn," he says, with a little quirk of the lips that indicates he knows exactly when he's speaking out of turn and when he isn't, "But recent events, tragic as they were, have given me certain impressions about the membership of our little community, such as it is. I'd hoped that what I saw at the meeting in spring was a little less representative of how well the people here cooperate, but..." He gives a frown and a shrug like a repairman delivering an expensive bill. "People here are depressed, unmotivated, and self-involved. Understandable, given the circumstances -- but unhelpful for any purpose whatsoever. Would you agree? You have a longer tenure here than I do."

Bagoas, were he privy to the reasoning behind Horst's actions, would be inclined to agree that a more formal approach be more appropriate - were he a man. Seeing as he is a eunuch, his roles are indeed varied, but inherently different to those of a man. His distinct set of roles, set apart from the many other variations if his kins, all revolve around the concept of pleasing. In one way or another, he is to entertain the senses, he is to captivate and beguile, he is to smooth ruffled feathers and forge bonds between men without their knowing.

Right here, in this moment, all of those things and many more translate into his bent knees and once the man is seated, his subtle mimicry of Horst's lines.

He meets Horst's eye, and takes his meaning spoken and otherwise. 'Speak out of turn', why yes. Bagoas would be the first to proclaim his outrage should Horst overstep his boundaries... But that is an aside. Once his ally-in-the-making has put forth his initial argument and issued query, Bagoas leans ever so slightly forward.

His painted eyebrows rise and fall in the space of a measured breath. A shrug of its own kind, echoing Horst's sentiment. "In my former life I lived quite happily in the shadow of a great man, and I learned many things I did not know prior. One such lesson is the need for vision."

Bagoas averts his eyes briefly, but when he renews his focus his eyes meet Horst's directly. "But for one man's vision to give fruit, he must convince peer and enemy both the rightness of his cause. I think, it is in that we have failed in the past. Some have made attempts, of course, but a leader must first learn to follow, or he won't be any good to anyone."

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[location: Central | closed thread to: Bagoas]

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