milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Puck does so loathe this season.

But in spite of his bitter sentiment, one must do what one can to eke some enjoyment out of the winter months. In that spirit, once the sun set and the stars came out tonight, Puck made his way out of doors for the first time in many, many weeks.

What he is doing now might be referred to as skating on the frozen lake. That is, if anyone could identify anything on his feet that resembled skates.

Or shoes.

What can be identified is a series of flickering lights, purest white, which bob about him as he goes, now at his feet and now framing his face. They might be lantern-lights, or very large fireflies.

(The smart money, of course, is that they aren't either one.)

[ooc: open 'til it scrolls, kids.]

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"And to dance, it would seem," she notes.

"I should scarce be worth my salt," Puck says, with a quick smile, "an I could not be about two things at once."

She smiles again, swift as his. "You do remind me of someone."

"Ah?"

The lights bustle inquisitively around Puck's shoulders.

"And who might that be?"

"A very old friend," she tells him. "A trickster. Though I can't think why, given how perfectly free of mischief you are."

Puck laughs, sounding surprised and curious in about equal measure.

"'Tis strange," he says, "how many a trickster grace our fair establishment. Yet as far as I know, our paths have yet to cross."

A beat, and he looks at Kali more seriously.

(Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest Steppe of India?)

"Our paths, at any rate."

"Yours and who else's?" Polite; for clarification.

"Have crossed, or have not?"

Puck looks owlishly at her.

"For I can say you sooner the former than the latter, not yet knowing those whose paths I have not yet crossed."

She gives him a flat, raised-eyebrows look.

"Whose did you mean?"

... Puck pauses a moment.

"Yours," he says, quite politely.

"And mine, lady. Despite opportunity."

There, was that so hard?

"Well." Smiling again. "And what do you call yourself, then?"

"I call myself blessed," Puck replies, cheerily, "or cursed, depending on the weather. But fair or foul, I am the wand'ring Robin all the same. Robin Goodfellow, if you would know."

"...Robin Goodfellow," she repeats, and her smile widens.

That's a name she's heard before, oh yes.

"Your reputation precedes you."

"I rue that I am so oft running 'ahind it," Puck sighs.

A tilt of his head.

"As yours does you, lady. Though we have, I believe, yet to be properly introduced."

Another nod, this one deeper.

"Kali," she tells him.

Puck pauses, nods-- as if he had been only almost certain-- and drops a bow, quick and smooth and somehow not very much like a mortal courtier's.

"'Tis an unlooked for pleasure." He straightens, and the lights arrange themselves busily about his neck, as if they were a chain that lay over his chest; they hold that position but a moment before bouncing off again down to the ground.

"Do you find this place is to your liking?"

(And what, she wonders briefly, is that business with the lights supposed to mean?)

"I like it well enough, so far." Pleasant. "And you?"

(It might mean that even when he intends otherwise, he can never, never resist.)

"Oh," he says, "I like it well enough, thus far. But perhaps in another five year I shall say you different."

"Well, anyplace does get dull after long enough."

As does anybody. Dull, or just irritating.

Puck laughs.

"And yet I suspect this one may prove otherwise."

"Oh?" Curious. "Why is that?"

Puck glances around, across the lake and towards the black tree line, briefly up to the stars, and down again to Kali.

"Many a thing may befall you in this place, lady," he says, "as the dear Bar, saints know, has her savors both for sweet and sour. But I have never known her yet to favor 'dull.'"

"Really."

She begins to smile.

"I knew there was a reason I liked this place."

Puck laughs, and the sound of it crackles like somebody stepping on autumn leaves.

"Mayhap it shall serve you well, in such endeavors as you choose."

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