milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

There isn't anything odd about the businessman who quietly walks into the bar and closes the door behind him.

Oh, true: he walks with a limp, but that is not so unusual, here. The limp necessitates a cane, but that is not so very strange. Certainly he dresses well, in a tailored suit with crisp lines and rich, jeweled colors glinting at throat and pocket, but that is not so remarkable, either. When he smiles, it's just possible to catch a glance of light of a gold tooth, yes, but there is nothing of particular note about either smile or tooth.

(There may be a certain curve to the smile that conveys something like satisfaction, but is that really anything to be surprised by?)

He does breathe deep, like a man waking from long sleep, and close his eyes, and open them again with a mild smile, and his shoulders, crooked from long, long years of walking with the black cane, do straighten, briefly, but none of these things are especially odd.

"Well, now," he says, to nobody in particular, each word coming slow and amused. "Isn't that curious."

It takes him a little while to make his way, leg stiff and steps reluctant, to a comfortable looking chair, but make it he does, before crooking a finger at a waitrat and inspecting it, hands folding over the head of his cane.

Not her style - goodness, no, not with her flair for the dramatic - but something he can appreciate, regardless.

[Tiny tag: Mr. Gold]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Milliways is very interesting," agrees Medusa from nearby. The small Gorgon is sitting on a table (on, not at, because when you have a 12-foot wingspan - of gold feathers, for the record - sitting and chairs can be interesting), head bowed as she spins thread using a spindle.

The movements of her hands are accompanied by jingling - the jingling of the bracelets on her wrists - and a quiet, contended hissing. There are green-black snakes are tumbled through her blue-black braids, after all.

[ooc: not on for long, but I could not resist. :D? ]

It's the motion he remembers.

Keeping the correct tension in the straw - just so. Deft flicks of the wrist to wind thread in golden loops around the spindle.

Why spin?

Well. For the pleasure of it, of course.

"So it seems." His smile is cordial. Mild.

"That's quite an unusual skill, these days. Though perhaps not quite so extinct here as it so sadly is among my acquaintances."

She smiles. It's a bright, darting smile that lights up her supernaturally pretty face, even if she keeps her gaze directed downwards.

"It's common where I am from," she says, voice musical and clear. "But I'm from the past for many people here." She shrugs, an interesting gesture given her wings. "And it's something to do, as well. I can't imagine not spinning."

It's methodical, and you produce something useful that can be beautiful.

Then she crinkles her nose. "But I suppose most people in the future just buy their clothes." She's made what she's wearing - the loose light skirts, the backless blouse - and dyed them as well.

"Oh, I believe that, my dear. I do."

Her smile doesn't hold any interest for him, but her hands do. More accurately, what she holds. He watches the thread, the motions, the gestures, expression blank before his eyes snap up to meet hers and a smile spreads slow across his face.

It's nearly warm, even, and his soft voice is nothing but conversational.

"I admit I find something appealing in the precision that such purchases allow. When there are resources readily available, of course."

He has a certain fondness for his suit. Fine lines and exquisite tailoring are nothing to sniff at, and a man needs his little quirks.

Life is too short.

No meeting of gaze here; she keeps her eyes down for a very good reason.

"I suppose," she says. "I've only bought a few things here. My village is not really one for fancy tailors and shops."

"I suppose not," he agrees, glancing along the lines of her wings.

His smile widens.

"But then, I seriously doubt any of our tailors would be able to create something at all comfortable or flattering for your particular physique."

She laughs, the sound like a desert flute.

"It's not that hard, really. My wings don't exactly need a cover," she says, her wings half unfurling for emphasis before folding up again. "But I don't think human tailors would take well to a gorgon walking through their door."

Beat.

"Or three of them, given my sisters would sulk until they got something, too."

Medusa might be known as the Queen of Gorgons, but when your subjects are two in number, and have been with you since you were all born, 'ruling' does tend to happen as such.

(And still, her brown hands move and twist with the grace of years, centuries, millennia of doing this same movement again and again.)

There's a faint twitch of his fingers.

(He misses the sound of the wheel, the calm of control, the feel of gold thread thin as straw through his fingers.)

"No, I don't think they would. It might put something of a cramp on their ability to work."

Being turned to stone will do that.

"I've always admired people who can make something for themselves. Whether it be clothes, or a kingdom. It shows a certain lack of restraint. In the best possible way, of course."

He never was fond of forced dependence.

Amused, "Of course. It can also be practicality, though. I mean, not a kingdom. A kingdom is-" She crinkles her nose, disdainful as only one who chooses what trappings of civilization she uses can be. "But clothes and rugs, they are practical. At least for my people. Cities mess things up."

She's not a fan of cities, even when she can go into them with her wings and snakes hidden.

"A lady of substance."

He's amused, too, a flickering smile lining his face. "And taste." The disdain in her voice only makes his smile widen.

"Sadly, I earn my living by benefiting from the material desires of others. So I can agree with you in spirit, but not in practice."

She shrugs - with her wings, not her shoulders - and her right wing slightly unfurls and flicks.

If her hands weren't busy, she might have flicked her wrist instead.

"Material things can be useful," she says. "And shiny." She doesn't have to wear those bangles, after all, but gorgons really are part bird it seems. "We don't make everything after all."

A brief pause as her snakes twist this way and that, hissing a little more thoughtfully.

"You are a...trader?"

"In a manner of speaking."

His eyes rest briefly on those bangles before flicking to the snakes, studying the way they weave and twine with mild interest.

"Let's say I help people find things they want, or need. Like you, for example."

He holds out a hand, gesturing towards the spindle.

"Say you wanted some fine wool or dyed silk to spin, well --" He shrugs, smiling easily. "I'd know just where to find some. For a small price, of course, but I wouldn't be much of a businessman if I simply gave things away."

He has an interesting way to hunt, this man with the smooth voice and tastesmells of oil and polish and wood. Some of the snakes are peering at him, tasting the air around him with flickering tongues.

"Mmmm," Medusa says. "But what kind of small price?"

He peers back, unfazed, curious.

There's grace here, but danger, too, oh yes, and he always has had a liking for beautiful, deadly things.

"Well, it depends on how hard the item in question is to come by, how rare it is ... and what you're willing to offer in exchange."

That gets an oddly elegant snort.

"Spoken like a true trader. But what would you count as a 'small price'?"

That gets another gentle smile, though his eyes are keen.

"You can hardly expect me to know what you own of value, my dear. Though, let's see, off the top of my head, for wool -- easy enough to come by, in high demand with equally high availability -- something small. One of your bangles, perhaps -- nothing more than a trinket, surely. But silk?"

He makes a thoughtful frown, leans back, deliberating.

"The best quality comes at a higher price. And unless you were to trade in dollars and cents..."

Doubtful.

"We would have to barter. Which would make it your turn."

"Gold is not a universal coin in your world?"

Interesting.

"I have a number of objects of value...a number of objects that would actually have a higher price in your time than in mine. I think the word is...'antiques'?"

She grins, mischievous.

"My sister and I collect things. Hoard, maybe. I always thought my cousin based the magpies off us."

He lifts a hand from where it's been folded on his cane, presses it to his chest.

"How fortuitous. I'm something of a collector myself."

He chuckles as he shakes his head, hand falling back to its accustomed place.

"Gold? Well, it's usable, certainly. But hardly my first choice. It's so unwieldy. Old-fashioned, you might say, though I admit I have a certain fondness for its simplicity."

"A collector. That explains the nature of your coin and goods, then. You like the chase of it. Yes?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only