Back Home?-No Event-BYOA

[grimholdkeeper]

After a quiet night in his room, Balthazar wakes in a labyrinth of clutter and dust, sprawled across a threadbare red velvet divan. The smell of the place, and the feel, is so utterly familiar he sits bolt upright. Home? Home! Delight and relief are immediately replaced by a vague sense of regret. He can't quite remember where he thought he

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[of_florence]

Ezio thought that he was walking into his room. The Hotel gives him a headache sometimes, the very Borgia colors nearly assaulting, and it is a good day when he can crawl into his bed without some sort of unintended molestation.

Listen to him. How Frederico would laugh. Too much of a good thing, Ezio...

Except his room is dark when he pushes aside the door and instead of the normal empty swing there is weight, a quiet scream of metal hinges that stands the hair up on the back of his neck. His boots find the click of hardwood under heel instead of plush carpet and not even assassin reflexes can catch the door as it slams shut behind him, wrenched from gloved fingertips. Ezio stares at the meshing. He stares at the cement steps behind the meshing, knowing he had not just climbed them.

"Shit," he murmurs, turning to the room that is not his. Shelves full of books, odd items, piles of stacked junk. A veritable maze of knackery. Leonardo would be tickled but it hardly puts Ezio at ease. The place smells old, like the tombs beneath Monteriggioni-- and not without the death, he thinks. This is a place that has seen much despite its air of carelessness.

Ezio curls the fingers of his right hand at his side to feel the press of the leather vambrance against his forearm and walks softly toward the aisles of books and the middle of the room. The click of his heels is gone. Even his clothing seems to hang still despite his forward motion.

[grimholdkeeper]

There's some interesting stuff about, mounted on walls, stacked on the floor, piled on shelves. It's hard to tell if there's any real organization or deliberate order, but despite the extreme clutter, there's no filth, no vermin, very little dust. In one glass case, jewelry, figures, and poppets are laid out. In another, there are pistols, crossbows, and daggers ranging from obviously ceremonial pieces to one or two that look quite functional and very lethal. Even on the bookshelves there are a few unusual pieces of bric-a-brac. A taxidermied snake. An astrolabe. A porcelain doll with yellow eyes.

As the stranger rounds a corner in the shelves, there's a delicate, dry cough off to his left. Balthazar heard the entrance, and, unsettled by his inability to sense the stranger's intent, took up a defensive position behind a low, 19th century clerk's desk. He's very tense, blue eyes piercing, but there's no particular indication he's going to be aggressive, and the hands that rest on the edge of the desk are empty, if decorated with rings. "Can I help you with something? Maybe you can tell me what the hell's going on."

[of_florence]

Ezio steps carefully, placing his feet with a precise care that is as natural to him as breathing-- he doesn't stalk, doesn't even walk so much as he glides from one shelf to the next, examining. He looks a little of everywhere at once and doesn't touch a thing. The dolls are given as much attention as the snake, and the case with the blades a little more. He doesn't need them-- he is empty handed but never empty-handed-- but their quality is noted. The pistol especially, since he's never seen anything quite its match.

The cough turns his head at the end of the aisle. Despite the light in the room, Ezio's beaked hood keeps most of his upper face in shadow as he looks at the man; hands empty, spread, body tenser than any man expecting a vistor. And his face--

Leonardo??

There's nothing that betrays the sudden, chest-tightening thought except a slight upward tilt of his chin that pulls the shadows on his face upward to the bridge of his nose. But the voice is wrong, far gruffer and pointed than anything his artist friend has ever used... still the resembalence is striking enough to hurt slightly.

All of that in a heartbeat and then Ezio shakes his head. "I'm sorry to find that I cannot. Is this place not yours?" By all rights, the man looks a part of the surroundings, a little odd, a little unkempt, and perhaps not at all what he appears.

[grimholdkeeper]

Balthazar studies the visitor in turn, interest softening his usual wary severity. That's quite an outfit. Elegant, but clearly functional. It's also a style of clothing that he hasn't seen worn outside the theater for several centuries. And, hell, he gets attached to older styles of clothing, too--hence the battered leather longcoat and the mishmash of clothing from the earlier part of the 20th century currently on him--but it's not exactly low-profile.

"Hmm. I believe you, although you're the most visually unusual guest I can recall seeing in years. Yes, this place is mine. I think. My shop, only it's more of a museum these days." He comes out from behind the desk, calmer now. "Usually, though, I have a better grasp on what's going on outside and around it. Was it dark out when you came in?"

He comes just a bit closer, looking him over still, then offers a handclasp. "Balthazar Blake. If you mean me no harm, I mean you none."

[of_florence]

Ezio hardly minds the scrutiny, if only because despite the Brotherhood's best efforts there is still much of him that savors attention. It makes him rash-- a bad thing for an assassin to be, but he is quickly becoming the best regardless... and the combination of the two does nothing to help his natural cockiness. Perhaps some of that is being born a Florentine nobleman; an easy excuse for bad behavior.

But the truth is that Ezio is looking just as carefully. The shape of the man's clothes and the way his demeanor lightens. The way he walks and how he holds his arms. And lastly, his aura. The color is new to Ezio, a very light blue bordering on white-- and nothing that would stop him from clasping the man's hand. His own palm is hard worn, callused and warm with a good grip that has nothing to prove.

"Good to know, my friend. I am Ezio Auditore. As for what is outside..." Ezio certainly doesn't understand sorcery, which is how he sees the Hotel. So who is to say that this isn't someplace completely outside of it? And usually men dislike when strangers talk about things that aren't to be believed. "Nighttime, the last I checked." Not a lie, precisely. "An interesting shop you have. It has character."

[grimholdkeeper]

Balthazar's a wary man, not always sociable, and willing to put up a fight in his own, or someone else's, defense. Still, his moral code is stringent, and he clings to it doggedly. He may give an impression of weary endurance; he's certainly older than he looks. His handclasp is firm, strong hands with some calluses under the fingerless gloves, but sensitive fingertips. Also there's the rings, one on every finger.

He notes that his guest hasn't exactly declared intentions of nonviolence. Still, he doesn't seem to have aggressive intentions, and he's definitely no Morganian. "Thank you," he responds to the compliment, smiling wryly. "It's usually open by appointment only, but since I can't seem to get out, I might as well accept the unexpected company. Can I offer you tea or coffee?"

[of_florence]

"You have coffee here?" There's slight surprise in Ezio's voice, followed by a warm smile as he finally drags his hood down from his face to give Balthazar a nod. "That would be wonderful, thank you very much." Coffee is a delicacy at home, available only when the ships from the tropics come in.

Without the hood Ezio looks younger than his mannerisms might imply and there is a happy, mischievous smile to his dark eyes just now as he scans the shelves and items close at hand. "I wish Leonardo could see this. My friend-- he is a painter, an inventor-- you would never get him to leave." Ezio pulls his eyes from the store at large to return attention to Balthazar, finally letting the aura of the man slip away. Whatever the lighter color signifies, Ezio cannot think it an ill omen. "You look like him." And for a moment the edge softens off his smile.

[grimholdkeeper]

It's a younger face than he expected from the voice and bearing. Also unfamiliar, which confirms his assumption that the stranger is no sorcerer. "I always have coffee. It's not always good coffee. But I think what I've got right now should be acceptable."

He moves past his guest unhurriedly, noting the way he looks over the inventory. He raises an eyebrow at the mention of an inventor and painter named Leonardo. That, coupled with the style of Ezio's dress, makes him wonder. He doubles back to a nearby glass case full of older books, and slides open the door, crouching and reaching within. What he pulls out is a folio of sketches, published nearly two hundred years after Leonardo's death, but still an antique to his perspective (if not quite as antique as himself). He sets it on the counter and beckons his guest over. "Not this Leonardo, surely?"

He opens the book carefully to a drawing labeled (in French) as a preparatory sketch for The Virgin of the Rocks.

[of_florence]

"Even bad coffee has its charm," Ezio says with a half a smile, "and is surely the reason God invented milk."

He follows Balthazar as the man walks, taking in everything with sharp eyes. He still wonders about the pistol in the case-- compared to the small weapon built into his vambrance, it is nothing short of miraculous and Ezio can only imagine the type of damage it might do, despite the fact that it is far too conspicuous for him to ever truly care to use. There seem to be many conspicuous things in this shop of Balthazar's and as far as Ezio is concerned, a conspicuous man is often a dangerous man. Perhaps not dangerous to him... but dangerous all the same.

The assassin pulls his eyes from the rest of the leather bound spines in the glass case and looks down at the sketch. His eyebrows raise slightly. In truth he is rather indifferent to Leonardo's paintings-- his own eye for art is far more function over form-- but this sketch he remembers quite well, as Leonardo had thrown a fit over it. "La Madonna," he murmurs, reaching out to touch the corner of the parchment. "Leonardo said he could not get Gabriel the way he wanted him to be and so gave gave up the contract with the chapel. They gave it to Giacomo del Maino, not that the man has the talent to match."

Ezio glances at Balthazar. "How did you come to have this?"

[grimholdkeeper]

Balthazar is only dangerous to select individuals, but he's certainly hit the point in his life he feels no wish to hide any longer. His worst nemeses are trapped; others will come in time, but his need to find is greater than his need to not be found.

"I never met the man," he studies Ezio thoughtfully. There's no lie in the stranger's eyes (not that intuition is always reliable in these cases), nor insanity. It's not out of the question that the man should be wandering in time. Such things happen in Balthazar's world, and given the odd events already occurring around him, it doesn't seem like much of a stretch. "You're fortunate to have known him. To know him, rather. Did you say I look like him?"

That's a funny thought, and kind of indirectly flattering. In Leonardo's time, Balthazar was in hiding, first in Andalusia and later in Africa and across the sea, licking wounds dealt by the Inquisition. The man was clearly a genius. It's occurred to the sorcerer more than once that he might have missed the Prime Merlinian. Leonardo is one individual he'd believe could have been heir to that lineage of power.

But then, had Leonardo been raised a sorcerer-soldier, the world might have lost a magnificent artist and thinker to the shadows of history.

He shakes his head. "We're...in a strange situation. That might take a lengthy explanation. But this book was published in 1708. Maybe we should have our coffee and discuss this slowly."

((I have a craft show to prepare for this weekend, so I might not be regularly available again until Sunday afternoon/evening. I'm really liking this thread, though. Thank you for tagging!))

[of_florence]

"Yes," Ezio says-- and carefully, now. "You both have a certain... absent carelessness about you." He pauses, and then snorts. "And you wear your hair the same."

The rest; the rest is given silent consideration. Ezio looks at the sketch. He had seen the stages of the drawing, the works and reworks, he could close his eyes and summon up the lines of frustration on Leonardo's face as he pushed the canvas away in disgust. To have it here...

"1708?" The date draws Ezio's eyebrows toward each other. The hotel-- it's a shade, a nightmare outside of the confines of this warm place where a friend would have surely felt at home. Here the date is jarring. "It is--" he pauses. Is it?

Ezio looks at Balthazar, studies the man's face. He sets aside the slight resembalance that wants to put him at ease and truly looks. The aura. The intention. He doesn't think the man is lying, no. He's known lies well enough to smell them before they leave lips. And there is too much gravity in Balthazar's eyes to think him crazy.

So there is a nod. "I do enjoy a good story. Especially one that takes place long after I should be dead and buried, I think." He glances once more at La Madonna delle Rocce. "Please. Lead the way."

[[Ah, have fun! The pleasure is all mine; I eagerly await your reply. Have a wonderful weekend. :)]]

[grimholdkeeper]

He blinks, then laughs softly. "That's tactful, thank you. Most people say 'scruffy'." Running a hand through his tangled locks, he adds sheepishly. "I just don't have the time to get it cut often."

He falls silent, watching Ezio's face as he scans the image, and when he questions the date, he nods compassionately. "Not what you expected to hear? I'm surprised, too, and I'm afraid I have no explanation yet. As far as I'm aware, the year should be 1994. But I'm being a poor host."

The book is replaced carefully in the spot from whence it was taken, then he gives a little nod of his head toward the staircase and leads onward. The door to the second story is unlocked, and when he opens it, the interior is very different in appearance from the shop they've just left. The walls are painted tan, with little decoration save a few framed photos and newspaper clippings. The furniture is 19th and 20th century and thus may look strange to Ezio's eyes, but it's not the overdone opulence of the hotel, either. The kitchen is visible through a doorway, and this is where Balthazar heads, opening a cabinet to get out the coffee. The percolator, and several other shiny appliances, sits on the counter.

The windows up here, too, are pitch black, and Balthazar's eyes stray to the one over the kitchen sink nervously as he gets out the coffee filters.

((It went very well! Thanks for your patience.))

[of_florence]

Ezio can make allowance for scruffery when it comes in the wake of genius-- or spending long nights in the service of others. Leonardo never asks for anything in return and it is more than once that Ezio has felt that he has taken advantadge of a friend. He wonders, briefly, if Balthazar is that sort of man as well.

After the pronouncement of the date, however, Ezio forgets to ask.

He follows Balthazar in silence, his brain spinning slightly on loosened tracks. Nearly the year two thousand? He doesn't believe it-- won't, believe it-- until they go far enough to pass by furniture and stranger things that not even Leonardo could have dreamed of. It brings the memories of the hotel back. The bathrooms attached to every room, the lights without flame. Ezio looks for the lights here. He reaches out and pushes up the facuet like a man in a daze. He turns it off. On again and then turns to Balthazar. "This is not right," he says softly over the running water. "This..."

He follows the flick of other man's eyes to the window and he doesn't need to know the place to know that darkness is never so complete. "There was una locando," Ezio mumurs with a shake of his head. An inn-- the hotel, though he doesn't have a word for it. "And a door. Your door."

[[Lovely :) Welcome back.]]

[grimholdkeeper]

Balthazar would not call himself a genius, although a technical measurement of his IQ might or might not find the classification applicable. He is, however, fundamentally dedicated to serving others.

He's forgotten to keep an eye on the other man's reactions as they advance up the stairs. Of course the microwave and refrigerator look strange to the eyes of a Renaissance contemporary. Balthazar's gotten used to the advancement of technology and modern conveniences, and he's distracted by the problem visible through the window. He watches Ezio turn the faucet on and off distractedly, but until he speaks it doesn't occur to him that this all must be a bit of a shock. And it isn't until he thinks of that that it occurs to him to wonder how he knew what to do with the faucet in that case.

"I'm sorry," he says slowly, "this must all seem very disorienting."

He does speak the language. The last time he spent any time in Italy was during the plague in the early 1600s. The vocabulary and pronunciation are roughly comparable, and the word strikes a chord. This is important. He frowns darkly for a long moment; it's not directed at Ezio specifically. "You came from there to here? This...I was dreaming. I thought it was a dream. It was...very, very red."

The frown melts into a questioning gaze, and this time it is directed at his guest. Are they talking about the same place? Because if they are, that would seem to indicate it wasn't a dream at all.

[of_florence]

The frown is significant. Ezio watches the creases in Balthazar's face deepen and slowly turns to shut off the water-- just as he does in the Hotel. For a moment he straightarms himself over the lip of the counter and his bangs cover eyes as he closes them.

A dream. A red dream. But how often can two men say that they've dreamed of the same thing? "Si," he finally offers. "Rosso." Ezio opens his eyes and turns to find Balthazar waiting on him, questions unspoken in the air between them.

"Your shop was so... and you..." He pauses. It's not often that he finds himself with his tongue in knots but surrounded by objects he cannot name and a situation he cannot begin to ascribe to reality, well. Perhaps even the sharpest tongues will dull from time to time. "A few days ago I woke in a red room. Today I tried to step back into that room and found myself in your shop instead. I would say it magic if I didn't know better-- but what, then? What if not a dream?"

[grimholdkeeper]

Red, and gold, and warm. Balthazar rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortably reminded of the heavy scent of wood smoke and jasmine and sex. "I thought I dreamed I was in a fight, and losing. But when my opponent tried to strike the final blow, I wasn't hurt or killed. Instead, I found myself in a room with red walls...erotic tapestries..."

He refocuses on his task, pouring coffee into the filter slowly, then slotting it into the proper place on the percolator. "There were many people there. Men and women."

Another glance at the darkened window. He releases a long, shaky sigh. "There's magic, and then there's magic. Whatever's trapped us in here, it's beyond my power to contend with easily. If the hotel wasn't a dream, and it seems unlikely we'd dream the same place, this may be the illusion."

And suddenly he's in motion, patting the pockets of his coat anxiously, as if he's just realized the most important thing in the world should be found in one of them.