The evening settled in with a coolness to compliment the warmth of the day's heat. Clear skies lent plenty of stars to decorate the pitch blackness of the heaven's above the large expanse of stone that made up Bram within the mountainside. With Nicolae tending to little Gregori and keeping company with his brother Mikhail took it upon himself to visit the elaborate gardens that his brother had tended to and expanded upon.

Statues of stone warriors guarded the entryway that had a stone walkway to lead one from the main galley into the rose garden. Six feet of brush encircled the open area from prying eyes that may wander about the rest of the grounds. Blown glass lanterns suspended and drifted here and there to provide a warm lighting that offset the moon's bluish cast, even if those of the family did not need such a thing.

It would be here that Mikhail found himself, surrounded by his brother's beloved 'children'. With a slow curl to alabaster lips he lifted his chin and gave a reach to touch upon the young one's mind in an invitation of sorts. It has been too long.

Beneath a wholly different span of stars, struck down with heat induced lethargy (and with not a little alcohol to dull his senses) the mind touch infiltrated Mesteno?s languid daze with as much of a jolt as a strident alarm clock might have. He sat up so sharply in the fresh straw that his neck protested, abdominal muscles locked tight and a curse on his lips.

The reply came after a pause, as if the recipient doubted he'd truly felt it stirring his mind to wakefulness. It was welcoming, perhaps a touch sheepish, and the invitation was accepted with no great deal of thought given to whether it was proper to arrive in a state that was not entirely sober. Mikhail had seen him addled with inebriation often enough that it surely shouldn't be shocking.

Expecting the customary portal to be spun out of the gloom without warning, he forced some coordination into limbs which had grown no less coltish with age, and absently passed a palm over rumpled linen shirt and frayed denim to rid himself of the customary debris of a clean stable yard.

The amusement filtered through that reaching even as it crossed over the alabaster set of features. ~Has it been so long you have forgotten my touch, pulcher?~

The affectionate teasing came with the agreement even as the sudden appearance of the very same portal twisted and writhed into life beside him. While the ridding of stable remnants was done by the youngling, tendrils of that vortex gave a reaching for the Sadist. The customary mode of transportation may very well finish the sobering once he stepped through. With a backstepping, Mikhail finished the connection between here and there with another opening in the gardens before him to allow the Sadist room to step through.

The reply, returned with an equal measure of amusement was not particularly eloquent - a grunt that suggested Mesteno had taken the tease good naturedly. And perhaps it was not the portal which succeeded in driving out the soporific effects of the liqueur (though doubtless it contributed) but the coolness of the night air in Bram itself. It was like a sudden infusion of clarity, and he inhaled it sharply as he stepped out through the aperture and into the gardens, nose full of the ripeness of blooming roses. A moment to steady his feet, to shake off any lingering disorientation, and he sought out Mikhail with eyes no less sharp for the alcohol.

"I didn't know you were a gardener in your spare time," he remarked, no slur or unsteadiness to his voice at least.

Even as the young one stepped through a low rumbling of a chuckle escaped Mikhail's throat. A muted sound that soon rose to a quiet laugh at the quip. A sensation one would remember, the way the sound danced along the senses. "That, cher, would be mon frer, not myself."

Dressed in muted tones of burgundy and black, the mix of leather and silk hid most of alabaster flesh from view. The buckled boots stopped just over the knees while leather breeches laced along outer legs to the hip. The silk shirt remained untied at the throat to let the cool air kiss skin, and twice layered rows of lace at each wrist covered his hands to the base of his fingers. "It is high time you paid a visit, petit." The teasing continued while he took a step forward and the vortex behind the Sadist closed in upon itself. A reach of one hand lent long, glass tipped fingers to be in reach of copper strands-and a bit of straw to be pulled from them. With a smirk, he flicked it aside and into the brush. Now.... the young one is given permission for the customary greeting. Sans straw.

Who could forget Mikhail's laugh? Even in Rhy'Din, it was not a common quality to be able to tickle a man's nerves with nothing more than a velvet rumbled sound. For a moment he stood observing with the upswept wing of an eyebrow arched just so, as if he doubted him, as if he were imagining Mikhail with a trowel and a pair of gardening gloves, serenely divesting the flower beds of troublesome weeds, but the notion was too laughable, and he flashed the Carpathian a reckless grin, not in the least dulled by the Marnier.

He might not have come through the portal strawless, but at least he didn't carry with him any unclean scents. Nothing more than blood and metal, leather and a sharp tang like the baked earth of the desert; something not his own, smokeless fire and the scorch of the sun. He watched the straw flutter-spin to the ground, and moved to embrace the White Death with an easy affection he offered to only a handful of men and women, his wiry arms like steel bands, the hard lines of him as much bone as muscle. He was never comfortable to be close to for long.

"I meant to come back with good news, to tell you I'd had some success after the last time I came," he admitted, chin tucked near a shoulder for the moment he squeezed, before losing the Eldest, "but it hasn't happened yet. You can reprimand me now," he chuckled wryly. "You look good...happy." An idle observation.

The slight difference of the norm would be noted; blood and leather were to him the norm-it was that tang that set off the difference. Caught even before the embrace easily shared between them, one long fingered hand lifted to wrap against the back of the youngling's neck in the embrace shared.

"The simple fact that you are here is enough good news, cher.." The squeeze brought about another curling to the sensual line of lips before the laxing of the grip soon had Mesteno out of the warmth of the embrace. The chill that permeated The Eldest missing this evening. Oceanic blues were amused from behind curls-the midnight blue strands free this evening to fall about the calves and surround his frame. "Oui.. I am, merci." His hand slid from Mesteno's neck and with a gesture that went in the direction of the path and to a small circlet of stone that had a pond of sorts in the midst of it. There would be a fountain bubbling away with stone benches surrounding it. "You feel healthier than the norm..though impish as usual." He would direct a stroll in that direction. "Tell me what news you do have, oui?" Mesteno may divulge as they walk.

The chill was such a characteristic that he noticed its absence at once - but then, it was at its most fierce when Mikhail was angry, and he appeared anything but that. The gesture saw him turn to wander the unexplored path towards the pond with a stride unhurried, a natural matching of it's length to the taller man's (he was leggy enough for this to be easy) and his thumbs rooting themselves in the frayed belt loops at the waist of his jeans.

"There was a time when you frequently weren't," he reminded, still unaccustomed to this natural warmth to his old friend, "I'm glad that's changed. And news? I owe the man who slipped his skin my life." Now there was a bitter confession, spilled on a sigh bereft of humour and weighty with auto-admonition. "I've agitated the undead, made an enemy out of chaos and somehow found a lover who isn't blonde and winged and a psychopath."

The pace was certainly unhurried. Hands moved behind him, folding into one another at the span of his lower back while they walked. "Oui, there were many years of such," seemingly amicable in his agreement with the reminder. Oceanic blues shifted toward his young friend, still moving at the unhurried pace toward the stone benches and pond they surrounded. "The undead tend to become agitated for little reason. I do hope that you have not given them reason to find you." A winged brow arched slightly before he glanced toward the approaching destination. "Chaos is an easy enemy and one that tends to forget in time. Do see you survive to see it come to pass, oui?"

His hands released the folding to have one reach out and touch upon Mesteno's lower back with a nod toward one bench they were nearing. "Who is this non-winged, non-blonde and non-psychopathic lover you've found, hm?" If the youngling wished, they may seat themselves upon the bench before them. "You've rid yourself of that one, then." Approval there in the mindset if not the tone of voice.

Given reason? His lips flattened mildly as if he'd some compunction over his actions, but he kept nothing from Mikhail, gave his confession with insouciance.

"I might have. I helped his quarry make a get-away. I guess that wasn't very polite of me." But nothing worthy of being ashamed of. "I'm not worried about it, really. You know how I am, any good reason to tangle with trouble. The chaos may be more of a problem if he's taken offence. I hid quarry from him too." A common theme, the Sadist playing hero, which was an odd thing indeed.

That gentle touch ushered him without protest towards the bench, and he lowered himself with some alarming sounding crunches from his joints, before slouching, no question of proper posture there, and stretching his limbs long, sprawling and gangly. "Aye, Tanziel is gone. It was a losing battle. And my lover's name is Sam." Mikhail had known a Sam once, or at least a Sammy, but there was no side-long glance or shared smile to suggest they were one and the same. "He's blunt and surly and uncivilised and perfectly unapologetic about it."

"As long as there is a plan of sorts in case both find offence, I shall leave your penchant for that trouble yours." Mesteno may love trouble, but the talent to find himself out of it (for the most part) the Sadist had as well.

Once Mesteno settled into his sprawling slouch Mikhail gathered the mass of ringlets from behind him so that he may sit as well. There would be no slouching from the Eldest. When he slacked in posture, it was to sprawl in a particular chair only. The name given did bring about a faint flattening along sensual lips, though the hint of it would be gone at the description given.

"He sounds distinctly familiar." The affectionate tease from The Eldest would be given yet again. "I would like to meet this surly, unrepentant lover of yours. When the time suits, of course." With a stretch of long legs before him one crossed over the other at the ankle. Oceanic blues did lift as well toward a lit series of windows at the eastern wall before rounding to find the youth seated beside him. "Though it may have to wait until things settle here a bit more."

Familiar? For a handful of seconds there was some trace of befuddlement there, stamped into the lean lines of his tawny skinned face, but the dawning of Mikhail's meaning saw it wiped out like footprints on a beach by incoming tides, and he laughed, lazy and relaxed, head tipped against the back of the bench and his eyes drawn to the surface of the pond, and the gentle stirrings of night air against it.

"He'd like to meet you too. I've told him of you. I should warn you his social skills are a little lacklustre, but it's part of his charm." He spoke of him without the barest hint of embarrassment, even when he added quietly, "you'll understand me when I say this - and these are his words, I'm stealing them 'cause it's true, but he echoes in my bones, Mikhail. In a couple of months he was more to me than any of the others."

But, sentimental talk was something he could not maintain indefinitely, and he saw chance for diversion in the Carpathian's words. "Settle here? Something has happened to un-settle you?"

"We will find a time to meet elsewhere; there are no strangers allowed at Bram-no matter the soul." Mesteno would understand full well of Mikhail's protective nature of what was his. There is no offence meant in that statement. While the youngling spoke of Sam, oceanic blues studied Mesteno's expressions intently. Before he would answer the questions posed by him, Mikhail allowed a faint smile to curl along lips. "With that statement, cher, I will give him a small bit of leeway in his lacklustre mannerisms." He did not sigh while a hand lifted to dance along shorn jawline-the now customary goatee removed to leave behind smooth alabaster in its wake.

"The Council of Nine has called the Hunter away." His hand moved to use the glass like nails of index and middle finger to slip a ringlet behind his ear. "Darius is at the moment on the hunt. There has been another Elder that turned. For the time being, Nicolae has been charged in mon frer's care while he is gone." Oceanic blues narrowed faintly before a turn of his head brought them to Mesteno once more.

Sam might not be the run of the mill cattle that the Dubrinsky family could be so critical of, but Mesteno still couldn't help feeling mildly relieved that he'd be given the benefit of the doubt, rather than judged upon first impressions.

A glance aside had those oceanic eyes met by a pair gently reflective in the semi-gloom of the lamp lit rose garden, focus becoming suddenly intent at the news. He could well imagine how Gregori might have reacted at Darius being called away. The 'Council of Nine' had never before been mentioned to him, and his curiosity now piqued, he sat up, twisting half-about to brace a forearm along the back of the bench, one leg tucked beneath him. "But Darius can handle it, right? This Council, they wouldn't send him out to deal with it otherwise." And yet an Elder...poor Gregori.

While the young one shifted so did Mikhail. Pulling the crossed legs apart to shift to face Mesteno a bit more on the bench, one hand flattened against the span of his thigh while he regarded the youth.

"The Council of Nine sends the Hunter after any Elder that turns-be it that the Hunter can handle it or no. Should Darius fail, the task would be set upon the next in rank. As it stands, he is the highest-so he is called first." Full lips pursed in a minute fashion for a brief moment while Mikhail considered his words. "The Nine are the heads of each bloodline. Eight for each of our lineage, one for the Hunters. When there is war, or a turned Elder, they convene to set the task of either eliminating the turned or set upon a course of action during the time of war. There is no refusal of the call. Gregori, should Darius fail, may very well not survive his death in tact-if at all."

There were more of those webs involved than he let on, but the young one did not need to understand the full scope of things just yet.

Mesteno knew full well that, whilst Gregori hadn't the sadistic streak of his older brother, there would be a hell of a fall-out should Darius not survive. Nicolae would have a difficult job being in charge of his care. Frowning darkly, he searched Mikhail's face for some reassurance that he thought the Hunter would succeed, concern clearly etched upon his face. "The Elder that turned... how much of him do you know? This is all new to me - you know how I am, I feel like I've a hundred questions all ready to escape at once. And can no one aid Darius?" Surely there couldn't be any harm in tipping the scales in his favour?

Calling such a thing "difficult" would be mild. While Mesteno studied alabaster features Mikhail took the opportunity to lean back against the bench in something that could be close to a slouch of his own.

"It was not a choice we made lightly, pulcher." The murmur escaped Mikhail with a tip of his head so that oceanic blues could return the study given to him. Another bit of information the youngling did not have previously. "The Elder I know very well, he is second in line to one that sits on the Council itself. He will not be so easy to put down- his powers lie in the same vein as Nicolae's; he is of the fire line."

The faintest breath of a smile graced pale lips at what Mesteno stated. "I know you quite well, cherie-as well as your inquisitive nature." With a slight twist of his torso he allowed an arm to drape over the back of the bench to near mirror Mesteno's positioning. "The Hunter must be able to do his duty, petit. Though, there are no rules in aide however such a thing has not been done since the making of the Council. The Hunter either finishes the task or does not. Darius is...unique to the line. The others had been always of the human bloodlines-enhanced naturally. Darius has been turned in other ways-he is no longer human. have faith in his capabilities, though there will always be the one that is stronger, or faster. I hope that this time is not the case."

Mesteno understood tradition, and respected the freedom of those who chose to follow it, but he was perhaps less scrupulous, and might not have left anything to chance had he been in Gregori's shoes.

"At least he'll have some knowledge of what he's facing, if he's aware of what Nicolae can do," he murmured thoughtfully, but the idea of a human against an Elder seemed enormously unfair. He could only be reassured by hearing that Darius was not mundanely 'man' now, though he kept the obvious question, the 'what' that he'd become, trapped behind his tongue. Mikhail had not offered it. There would be good cause for that, or he would mention it when he needed to.

"If the First amongst the Hunters can't take the Elder out, what're the chances his underlings will? Where comes the point that the Council chooses other tactics? And is there anything I can do?"

The Dubrinskys were family. That he would aid them in any way he could was something they were welcome to take for granted.

This time Mikhail did indeed take a deep breath into lungs to let it seep past slightly parted lips soon after. "That he does, quite well. Darius, at first, had been instructed to follow both mon Dragoste and I prior to his induction into the family and the return of Gregori." His arm twisted so that the backs of long fingers could have the line of Mikhail's cheek and jaw rest upon them. "Should the First fail, two of his understudies would be sent in his place. The next step would be that the Council would send the Ninth- the head of the Hunter's line in their stead. They have never had to do such a thing in their history. I would, if it came about that Darius failed, suggest sending mon frer to have his revenge in lieu of the second and third Hunters." The twisting to pale, full lips held a mix of wry humor and perhaps a bit of sadism. "I do not think, in that state of mind, mon frer would fail. I, personally, would not wish to be in the path of destruction Gregori would put upon him."

A slight lift of a winged raven brow came about with the offer of aide. The breath taken into lungs gave Mikhail a moment to mull the possibilities over while the pad of his thumb grazed the line of his jaw. There would be, after a few moments, a slight and quick narrowing of oceanic blues. "You still have the jar, oui?"