milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is a new(ish) wench inside the bar
Tonight, that's not been seen
Before within this space, and likely
Will not be seen again too soon.

Ned Poins hath known the favour of a god
Upon a feast that suits for suchlike things
And waits to see the outcome of his trick.

Also, fieryTrigon is signed on,
As Poins has not yet found out how
The thing is turned off.-

[[OOC: Thread where Poins is changed still in progress, but I promise we will get there!]]

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"Wait, what?" Autor drops his gaze to the floor to look, which also has the benefit of getting his eyes away from her face... and other places. "Apples?"

Then he realizes that her speech is not what he normally hears, despite being so used to the Elizabethan tongue.

Saints preserve us, he thinks, horrified. Bar has brought Doll Tearsheet to this doorstep.

"Apples," she says, grinning, and peering down upon her breasts.

She can't possibly mean... Autor thinks, jerking his eyes up to her face again. He works his mouth for a bit as he waits for the blood to finish rushing to his head. Well, it looks like she does! No. Not 'looks'. That's a terrible verb.

"Oh, really?" Autor says. He swallows, and is amazed to find this throat is raw. "A goodly pair of apples, rotten at the heart*, no doubt."

*The Merchant of Venice, adapted

Edited 2013-02-17 12:25 (UTC)

"Thou didst not taste them yet, that thou pronoucest them such displeasing things!" she says, giving him a Look.

Alas, for sooth, a Look is the right word...

Despite his blush, Autor smirks. "There's small choice in rotten apples.* Why, if I were to bite into one, it'd likely bite me back, like a viper."

Oh, hells, he thinks. What am I saying? I need to flee this wretched woman before my tongue digs me deeper into this hole!

*Taming of the Shrew

"Didst thou then see the spots upon them, brown with rot?" she says.

I didn't get that good of a look, is the first thing that comes to mind, but Autor's jaw is having trouble unsticking itself. That thought just seals his fate.

He'd like to say some cutting words about withered orchards and how her apples certainly aren't golden, but he has nothing left except gaping. He has to turn away to adjust his face.

She sniggers.

How should I deal with this? he wonders. What would Poins say?

Then he blinks. No, absolutely not. Horrid idea.

"Are you quite finished airing out your unmentionables in public?" he says, sniffling contemptuously as he turns to face her again.

Autor has never had to run away from a woman before. He estimates that she won't be able to catch him.

"Umentionables?" she says. "But I do mention them! And they bear mentioning, and deserve pride. WHich farmer wouldn't treasure the rounded apples of his own fine orchard?"

"One who knows they turn mealy before they get to market?" he says.

"Oh, didst thou touch to see if they were mealy?" she laughs.

And oh, there we go--his blush renews itself with a vengeance. Damn this foul woman! Autor sets his jaw.

"No," he unsure if he should growl at her or not. Due to his indecision, the word sounds more like a raspy squeak. "Why would I want to do such a thing on purpose? I tripped. Surely you saw that, as you meant to catch me."

"And did I?" she smirks.

Color creeps down his neck. "Well, yes? I mean, no! Not properly!"

"Thou art confused, befuddled, and so greatly flustered, my poor friend," she says, mock-pity dripping from her silky voice.

"What manner of man upon encountering such a poxy wench would be otherwise?" he mutters.

"A poxy wench??" she says. "For sooth, thou art exceeding rude unto a stranger who thou metst this minute, by stumbling on her breasts in accidental purpose!"

Edited 2013-02-18 12:37 (UTC)

And now he's giving off the impression of flailing without actually doing so. "And you--you're taking pleasure in winding me up and then down again!"

"I wish thou wouldst come down when I would wind thee widdershins!" she declares. "But lo, methinks thou now art up all time."

Why, hello there, fearsome blush! Where have you been?

Autor's pressurized adrenaline threatens to erupt, making him jittery. He's starting to wish he'd taken a crash course in innuendo with Poins, because clearly this woman is running circles around him with her mouth.

"Why must you wind me widdershins at all?" he asks. He knows it's idiotic, but he's somewhat curious despite the blood pounding in his head at a rhythm of flee, flee, flee.

Had he said that aloud, she would fain die with laughing! Circles with her mouth around him -- oh he'd wish!

"If I do wind thee clockwise, I'd assume, thou art wound up, and ever further up," she says, instead, "so I would wind thee widdershins again to wind thee down ere thou erupt and splatter, at where thou wouldst then not go up no more?"

She giggles.

Edited 2013-02-18 12:57 (UTC)

And there! Another profane thing! Or maybe two? Gah!

Autor is going to have to whip out a quill and paper to keep track of all of them.

"So this winding is considered a mercy? Tch! I'll not have your physician's touches," he says. "I am not inclined to burst today."

"No? Art thou not?" she says, all innocently. "And here I was believing all men were!"

He tilts his head with an expression that is a cross between genuine curiosity and a flat what the devil?

The effect is very much like looking at a confused puppy.