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[white_flowers]

Her allegiance may be no longer given to the Dark, but she knows very well when Twelfth Night falls.

Of course she does.

And, despite the fact that she has been content (at least as content as a creature like her can be, any more) with her activities elsewhere for some time, on this night, she sees no reason to forgo the amusement that she might enjoy from making a visit to a certain bar.

Blodwen walks into Milliways and shuts the front door behind her. Her dress is the color of old blood long-dried, and her brown hair is covered by a thin veil of grey gauze, which as she turns is seen to cover part of her face, as well.

Not her eyes, though. Those bright ice-blue chips of diamond shine coldly as she looks around the room.

She smiles, and takes a seat at a table, watching with avid interest as the waitrats dash to and fro.

[OOC: Note on appearances; note on abilities and weaknesses.]

Comments

[foxglove_eyes]

Lamia knows that color well, really, though she prefers to take life through... other means.

She studies the woman's profile, as she stares over the bar. (Looking never hurt anybody, right?)

[white_flowers]

(Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not. Who can say?)

Eventually, her glance is distracted from the rats, and she turns to looking over the room instead, at which point she spots the other woman.

Blodwen smiles at her.

"Hello, dear."

[foxglove_eyes]

Her head tilts.

"Good evening."

And, after a moment: "I don't believe I've seen you here before."

[white_flowers]

"Oh, I am in and out, from time to time," she says.

"And you? For certain it is that I have not seen you, either."

[creator_raven]

Her view of the waitrats is suddenly obscured by a waterfall.

A red waterfall.

A very bright red waterfall that glitters.

(Hint: nothing about it is anything like rubies.)

And above the deluge rings high, wild laughter.

Some things are inevitable.

Or perhaps it is unmistakable.

Or both.

[white_flowers]

Perhaps it is both, at that.

For whatever reason, she does not react, not at first -- and then she holds out one hand, letting the scarlet glitter fill her palm and cascade down.

Blodwen tilts her head, studying it.

Softly, she begins to laugh.



Bit by bit, tiny piece by tiny piece, the glitter begins to transform into dust at an excruciatingly slow pace.

It does not matter.

She has time.

[vojvode]

In the dead of winter, deep in the Carpathian mountains, the turning of the seasons is a palpable thing. The men rush home from their fields and shops, the women hurry the children inside, and the doors are thrown shut, barred and blessed against the coming threat.

The wind shifts, the air grows bitter cold, and the night breathes.

Standing on the craggy shore of the lake, he feels her walk through the door. His head lifts, and his gaze turns towards the structure in the distance.

Somewhere an old woman crosses herself and utters a prayer, the well-worn beads of her rosary clicking through her gnarled fingers.

[white_flowers]

In the bar, the rats continue their scurrying, giving her a wide berth save when they absolutely must attend her.

She does not mind. Such clever vermin as they are entertaining, to say the least.

So many things are.

[vojvode]

He lifts a hand and turns, his chest rising as he inhales deeply.

The wind rises, coming like a loyal hound at his call. The icy blast shears up the lake, kicking up a chop across the surface of the water, white caps breaking along the rocky shore. The trees bend their heads in reverence, their limbs thrashing and coiling.

The storm hits the back of the bar like a hammer on an anvil. The back door blows open, scattering dust and debris, making the patrons clutch their drinks and their collars closer.

[white_flowers]

Her head turns unerringly toward the door. Blodwen contemplates the swirls of dust and scattered trash unblinking, with sudden interest.


After a few seconds, she smiles, rises from her seat, and starts toward the lake.

[student_of_impossibility]

Nearby, there's a boy in a rough work tunic of Roman make, with a not-fully-healed scar on his cheek. He has a wealth of dark curls and hands a little too large for his size (he'll grow a lot one day), but surprisingly well-formed. His features are oddly delicate for a boy who clearly lives roughly--appearing perhaps twelve or thirteen, he's a truly beautiful child.

It is only reinforced by his vibrant grass-green eyes.

At the moment, however, he's trying to balance a plate with some s'mores on it and a mug of hot cocoa--the latter of which he promptly drops from a slightly weakened hand.

"Crows," he complains. "Er..." He looks around, clearly not sure if he should be cleaning up after himself.

[white_flowers]

"Better than ravens, to be sure," she advises, glancing up -- and then looking suddenly concerned.

"My goodness, dear, do you need help?"

She's already moving toward him, reaching out as if to take the plate.

[student_of_impossibility]

"We don't really have ravens," he says absently, kneeling to try to collect some of the shards--and promptly cutting himself.

"Ow. Aunt Isana will be so irritated with me," he says mostly to himself, then looks up to smile at her, bright and charming and self-deprecatingly wry.

It's a smile which will silently earn him the friendship and loyalty of powerful and dangerous people in his life.

"It's nothing, ma'am; I'll just clean it up after I eat, and it's only the plate, now. I can get more cocoa once I'm sitting." As he speaks, though, a waitrat comes over with a note and starts cleaning once handing it to Tavi. "No, please, don't--"

He breaks off, reading the note. "...Not you, too," he mutters with a sigh.

[mistressmaryquitecontrary]

Mary is watching.

She's not doing anything that anyone could object to. Her homework is spread in front of her. To all intents and purposes, she looks perfectly demure.

Except for the double-barreled death glare, of course.

[white_flowers]

Eventually Blodwen's glance falls on her, and oh, but her smile is sweet as poisoned fruit.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

It's-- entirely possible that Puck is aware of the bar and its patrons tonight with a much keener attention than is usual, even for him.

(And anyway, the gaze between these two could probably curdle cream.)

"It is no wonder you still despise me so, little mistress," Puck smirks, appearing beside Mary's table.

"The ceaseless bitter clutchings of your heart are truly a marvel."

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

"My."

The voice from the rafters above her head is dry.

"How utterly unanticipated."

[white_flowers]

"Only by the foolish, perhaps."

There is laughter in her voice.

She does not look up.

[puckishly.livejournal.com]

Which is all well; Puck is ready to disappear at a moment's notice.

"Oh, mistress," he laughs back.

"You'll treat me with no kindness even now?"

[necessary_child]

"Noswaith dda, Mrs Rowlands," says the devil politely.

He has long been bored of the bar, but another chess match might provide something entertaining.

[white_flowers]

"Noswaith dda," she replies, smiling. "And how are you this evening, dear?"

[necessary_child]

"As ever, Mrs Rowlands," he says, with a return of her smile. "And yourself?"

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

The exact date and its consequences are not something Wellard would think of, today.

No, his thoughts are merely on a new book, a cup of tea, and perhaps for sitting and listening to the normal comings and goings of people in the bar while he enjoys those simple things.




Wellard did know she was back.

But actually seeing Blodwen is something else compared to simply knowing of her return.


Across the room, he pauses, and quietly studies her.

[white_flowers]

It doesn't take long; no indeed, not very long at all.

Her eyebrows rise a fraction, and light gleams flatly from the diamond-hard blue eyes as she studies him with surprise evident... and interest, as well.

"Why, Henry Wellard ... how you have changed!"

[politestpirate.livejournal.com]

The smart thing to do would be to simply walk away. (And Wellard knows that there are quite a few of his friends that would argue for him to do this.)

However-


There are things he needs to know.

(And it would be rude, as well.)

Wellard raises an eyebrow, and inclines his head slightly to her. "I would say you have as well, Mrs Rowlands. But then again, its been quite a while since you and I have seen each other."