François hovered near the drinks, his third or fourth glass of unwatered Marcheford wine firmly in hand. Or eighth? It was so hard to keep track, and he never liked to, anyway. After he'd been mobbed by some exceedingly foolhardy women (foolhardy because they ignored both the danger of his reputation and of Pippa's retaliation), he had retreated into the shadows to watch, and get drunk enough to enjoy the festivities.

It took a lot, but then, he'd always had to deaden his better judgment in order to enjoy himself. There may have been some who thought François truly amoral, but this couldn't have been further from the truth. The intensity of his vices was matched only by the intensity of his aborted virtues. He took another drink, his eyes following Duke Alden's current dance partner. Why this twinge of jealousy? He knew what it was, but the Duke was his friend, and François knew very well that he...

Maybe it was Alden's innocence. Something about the man was soft and floppy, even childish, and François felt the strange ache of protective, and possessive, love in regards to his friend. That Marchioness... His eyes narrowed, and he drained his goblet in one go, then held it out for a servant to refill. He would talk to her about what she'd done. But later--later--when drunkenness had whetted the bitter edge of his anger.

Someone was approaching; the man in the peacock feathers. Lord Michaels, the King's friend, and apparently a bit of a provocateur. François found such blunt mockery as that Lord Michaels displayed a little gauche--he preferred the insults that took a moment to hit home--but at least they appeared to be on the same side in the melee of courtly life. He nodded to the man as he approached, and moved from the shadows. The opals on his doublet hit the light, and glinted.

"My Lord," he said coolly, inclining his head.

Mal, a notorious drinker himself, had gone through quite a few goblets on his own. Perhaps he wasn't exactly pacing the Lord Villon, but in all fairness, he was trying to maintain a modicum of restraint and self-control, if only for Ambrose's sake. Normally he wouldn't have cared, but it was a special day for his friend, and given how important it was to him--doubly so since Mal was now one of Ambrose's advisers--he was trying to behave himself to an at least unabusive degree. He normally wasn't nearly as over-the-top as he usually displayed to Ambrose; such behaviors were more being played up for the King's (and his own) sake than anything else. In reality he was a fair bit more savvy then he might at first seem.

The one loudest and taken for the dumbest is usually the least suspected of shrewdness, or so his thought pattern went. He was far more intelligent then he let on, which he was confident Ambrose knew given how well they seemed to get along. Playing dumb, however, had its advantages, especially for someone as enigmatic and 'morally foggy' as Mal.

As he passed through the current crowd with a slow, swaggering gait borne from confidence both in oneself and one's safety from one's ruler--a confidence he intentionally amplified in his movement, but not so much that it was obvious he was trying to look like a swaggering ass...well, not too much of one--he noticed a man materialize at his side. His greeting had been cool, and Mal didn't particularly know the man but immediately sensed something deeper then a passing greeting in his approach.

He gave a pleasant smile to the man, who seemed vaguely familiar but clearly not someone he'd properly met, and inclined his head as he took a deep swig from his goblet.

"Greetings, My Lord. How fare you on this monumentally momentous eve?" There was just enough humor in his voice that it could be taken either as mildly mocking or just having a good time, all in how the other man chose to take it. Mal might have been an ass, but he wasn't a dumb ass. He left it just ambiguous enough to help judge this man's character based on his response. Either way he had a very strange feeling that this conversation might turn out to be more then passing pleasantries.

"Monumentally momentous--" His memory twitched and stirred to life, and he recalled the name of the king's latest adviser. "--Lord Malcom Michaels; were you born alliterating your ems, or is it a cultivated habit?" François gave a half-smile and raised his glass in a silent toast. "I am the Lord François Villon. It's a pleasure to meet another friend to the King... not..." He leaned a little closer to the peacock-bedecked lord. "Not that I believe we'll meet many of his enemies here tonight. Allegiance, of course, is an entirely different breed of bird than is friendship. I daresay it is a carrion-bird."

His gaze traveled with apparent vagueness over Malcom's headdress, and he let his smile widen a little--almost into what one might call friendliness. Of course, there tended to be something fundamentally unfriendly about François. The human skull he wore for a mask likely did not help.

"Masks," he said, as though it were a logical followup to his last, admittedly opaque, remarks. "I think that the masks we wear on occasions like these serve more to unmask us of those we wear every day than anything else. You're dressed as a self-conscious peacockish dandy, by which I suppose that beneath it you're calculating and matter-of-fact, but beneath that?" He raised his eyebrows, but the gesture was invisible to Malcom. "Well, I'll venture to guess that beneath that there is something in you that wishes to be a peacockish dandy. Now, I myself am wearing a human skull. You'll find one inside, too." He raised a hand and rapped on his head, a little comically. "Well, no. Really I came as Hades, with my--" He'd almost said wife.

"Excuse me." François paused to massage his temples with one long-fingered hand, the other still clutching his goblet of wine. "I'm going on and on and making no sense at all. I must not be drunk enough."

At François' reply, Mal grinned and shrugged lightly.

"Call it a force of habit. A curse earned from my parents who named me, in so doing maimed me with this social stigma...a long-lasting love of alliteration." He raised his glass in response, and when the man made his cutting remark, Mal didn't even blink, his own grin still steadfastly in place as he responded in kind.

"It is indeed a pleasure, Lord Villon, and I would classify myself as both, for your reference, though admittedly the 'friend' classification comes first. You are truly not far off...my allegiance, much like a carrion-bird, will stay with the King until it is of no further use to hold such. Whether that time is decided by him or me remains to be seen, I suppose." He did not miss the pseudo-friendly smile that appeared on François' face. The man did have a rather dry sense of humor, that much was clear by both word and appearance, his mask simply an imitation of what lie beneath the 'mask' of flesh and skin that comprised his face.

"I know naught of what you speak, Lord Villion, for I am indeed a peacockish dandy, and little else. I may have my wits about me, but they usually only function more out of amusement then out of any real sense of self-preservation or self-progression, for indeed I have a tendency to say and act far too boldly for my own good; enough so that the king would be well placed in beheading me were it not for the favor I curry with him for being so outlandishly over-the-top." He shrugged, swigging his goblet a bit more then previous as he heard François speak before barking out with smooth laughter.

"Then by all means, don't let me stop you..." he downed what was left within his own before snagging a passing by servant and exchanging his goblet for two more, before turning to look at the Lord Villon pointedly. He looked at François, then glanced at his glass pointedly, as though to say 'why is it still there with liquid in it?' Through use of good-natured peer-pressure he tried to get François to finish what was in his--probably not so difficult a task, in retrospect--before passing off the fresh one to him.

"So, tell me a bit more about yourself, Lord Villon. I am, of course, eager to learn all the more about those who title themselves as friend to His Majesty Ambrose."

François raised his eyebrows, invisibly behind his mask. Malcom was an easygoing sort. He tossed back the remainder of his wineglass and took the next offered, then raised it in a toast.

"To His Majesty, why not?" He touched his goblet to the other man's; they vibrated like bells.

"I know something about saying what you shouldn't," François confided, relaxing in Malcom's presence. He took a long sip of his refreshed drink. "But then, Ambrose likes that, doesn't he. He's very aware of the king behind the mask and the man behind the king, and he needs... he needs people like us." His mouth tugged downward as he regarded Malcom, and he thought that this man did not likely have precisely the same kind of relationship with the king he did. Of course not, unless Ambrose was an exceptional liar.

And perhaps he was. Almost certainly they all were, but it was hardly his place to be jealous. Almost unconsciously, he looked for Pippa; she was dancing with Alden. Forcing his eyes back to Malcom, he made himself smile, and took another delicate sip of his drink. His head spun with gauzy tendrils of elation--he was well past pleasantly numb and on his way toward vertigo.

"I'm just a man, Lord Michaels. Much like you, I'm sure. I'm from Soleil, but I can't go back--there was an incident. I tend to make a practice of angering as many people as possible, but it's only because almost no one likes to look at the mirror I hold... I like to think I'm one of the better fencers around... I've got a young son, called Adam." For a moment, his face softened, and he looked down into his glass. "And I really think that apart from him, my life has no meaning. And yourself?" He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable with the admission he'd just made, though it reassured him that his usual sardonic tone had likely concealed the truth in his words.

As glasses touched, Mal took a healthy swig from his, enjoying the delicious taste and the trail of fiery kisses the alcohol peppered along his throat to his stomach. As François continued to speak, Mal let an eyebrow quirk slightly, curious at the downward tug at the man's mouth, but saying nothing of it as he spoke his reply with an easy grin.

"Indeed. With the pomp and circumstance of the court he needs people who understands just as he does, that the joke is really everyone else and their desire and need to play this sycophantic game." As François took another drink so did Mal, enjoying the flavor before swallowing as he met the man's gaze unwaveringly, even as he launched into his story of himself.

"I never claimed you to be anything but a man, Lord Villon. As for Soleil...your name did seem a bit odd for an Adesian at that, I noticed. Ah yes, Soleil. The land of dandies far more peacockish than I, if you can imagine...but of course you can, for it was once your home." He heard the man speak further of self and family, and nodded in acknowledgment. He himself wasn't sure he could ever accept a bastard child, though it would not surprise him if he had a few of his own running about. He probably couldn't accept a bastard, and the mere thought of marriage sent a cold chill down his spine, as though the very bones were clutched by the icy cold hand of death personified...so there was a very real chance that the Michaels line might well end with Mal.

"Myself? Not much to say. I come from a boring family in Pemberton, came to the palace on a whim to give a gift to the King and just wound up never leaving by happenstance. Aside from my allegiance to His Majesty--which isn't worth much, depending on how you look at it--my own life is, essentially, meaningless...and that's quite how I prefer it. I too am rather skilled with a sword, and thanks to my footwork I'm also quite handy on the dance floor as well. However none of that can top my master skill. Drinking and generally making a fool of myself as I point and laugh at everyone who tries so vainly to play the shell game that seems to describe this society to a tee," he chuckled, his voice light despite his scathing words, and took another swig.

How the Lord Villon replied to that little expulsion of depressingly truthful fact would likely set the tone for how the pair would get along in the future...all that remained to be seen was how the man would respond.

A cruder and less well-spoken version of myself, was François's rueful conclusion, as he looked over his companion. With the added drawback that he isn't me.

François found himself in a fraught relationship to the mirror others held for him. Though in principle his narcissism dictated he enjoy even those fractured semblants he found at large, it always irked him to see such a cartoonish distillation as he found in fellow sots and bon vivants. They never failed to expose the fundemental hopelessness of supposed freedom.

But though he was a hypocrite, he wasn't above recognizing it.

"Everyone's life is meaningless," he said at length, thoughtfully, and raised his empty glass. A passing servant refilled it and cast François a frightened glance before hastening away. "If you rely on a mystical force to grant meaning, of course--I don't. But if you take the image of God and remake it for Man, it's quickly clear that meaning is what we make of emptiness. You can choose to make emptiness of your meanin--or say you do. I don't think, though, that you really believe in meaninglessness. No one who knows how to laugh in God's face does--and trust me when I say all laughter is in the face of our dour Savior." François took a long drink, waiting for Malcom's reply, aware that if this man were, against all evidence, a devout Catholic, he was doomed. It was an unlikely enough prospect that he didn't feel more than a vague tickling of unease. The drink quelled even that.

Wordplay was not Mal's forte, but blunt directness. It wasn't to say he couldn't show care with his words, but he simply chose not to. Tact was for those who cared what other people thought. One didn't say the things Mal did and care how it was received. That François did made him quite hypocritical, but at least he seemed aware of his hypocrisy. That was something, at least.

"Perhaps," Mal replied in response to François' observation of life, "But--if such a thing is possible--mine is moreso then most. You speak of laughing in God's face, but that is assuming that there is a face to laugh at. Should God be watching over us as so many believe, then he either is a merciless being, or has quite the sick sense of humor. My meaninglessness doesn't come from an unearthly force, it comes from my own choice to live a life without direct purpose short of my own hedonistic tendencies." He sipped on his own drink, watching François with little more then vague amusement. Interesting fellow, this one. He wondered idly how much further down the path of sin such a man would go with more alcohol in him. Not in a perverse way, just a simply curious way. How much less 'God-fearing' would the man get with more liquid courage?

"Tell me this, Lord Villon. If we laugh in the face of the savior, and he doesn't find our laughter amusing, do ones such as us find our encore performances sending us to Hell? Those that laugh in the face of God are probably encouraged so by the Devil, so mayhaps our actions might please the Devil. However, given that his very nature is acts of sin, and we enjoy them so, would our true Hell not be to be sent to Heaven?"

"It's very lucky," François said, flashing Mal a smile, "that I believe I'm destined for neither." He tapped his mask. "No coincidence I'm dressed as Hades. My beliefs are all Greek."

He let the silence lengthen, wondering if Mal would interpret that comment correctly. He sipped his wine again, draining it to the dregs, and licked his lips.

"It takes courage to be commit the greatest sin," he said at last, his eyes not on Malcom now, but on the King. He avoided the sight of Pippa, dancing with Alden still. "And that is one thing about which Christians and pagans agree. Augustine once wrote that the worst sin of all is to sin for the purpose of sinning, for the purpose of disobeying God--for disobeying what the Greeks would call ourselves, our nature. I think it's better cast as freedom for the sake of freedom. You and I think hedonism is freedom, but Plato will tell us one of his happy immortal Truths." His tone turned wry. "Our desires are a prison too, the only true prison."

Another pause. François looked away from Ambrose, back to Mal.

"Not that it means I enjoy them any less. All it means is that the quest for freedom is doomed from the beginning--cheers." He raised his empty glass in an ironical toast.

At François' reply, Mal let out a snort as he took a bit deeper of a swig then before. Multiple meanings could be read into François' words, but for now as a matter of course Mal chose to take it at face value given that he didn't know François well enough to make a judgment on if it was any deeper then the surface.

"Sinning for the sake of sinning..." He chuckled softly and shook his head. "Wouldn't go that far. I sin for the enjoyment of sinning from the base pleasure I derive. The fact that what I do is a sin is merely a byproduct. The goal is not to sin. The goal is to receive pleasure for the acts I commit." He chuckled and shrugged, shaking his head slowly.

"I don't think hedonism is freedom. I think it's enjoyable. I don't look past the surface of what is, I merely enjoy it for all the shallow, dirty pleasure I can get and don't try to ." Some people overextended their search for meaning in acts who's very purpose is their surface value.

"I never once quested for freedom. I'm fine being in a cage so long as it's a gilded one. Besides...it's been my experience that its usually safer inside a cage then outside. Cheers," he called back, raising the bit left in his glass to swig down to the bottom.

"Safer." There was an edge to François's voice. "Have you ever been in prison, Malcom?" He handed off his goblet to a passing servant, and realized he'd reached the level of drunkenness that brought with it his customary surly quest for violence. "Freedom isn't something you can scorn until you've lost it. Your happy hedonism requires freedom."

His tone didn't change much, merely slid into silky quiet. He cupped his elbows in his hands and watched Malcom.

"I can have my way with kings and courtiers. We should be friends, you and I. We're both friends to Ambrose. But I won't play your game or live in your world--your cage. Men who care about nothing are dangerous. The only thing more dangerous are men who care only for one thing. God." He almost spat the word. "Pleasure. Themselves." It was nearly opaque to him where his words were coming from, or to whom, exactly, they were directed--to himself, or to his interlocutor. His anger, however, was a surety.