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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"Wouldst thou call me a thief, heaping insult upon the injury thou already hast given?" she says, wrinkling her nose.

Frowning, Autor stifles the childish impulse to poke her in the nose. "I know you're a rampallian," he says. "Why not a thief as well? Pray, tell me why you have it otherwise? What have you done with the man behind the fiery Trigon?"

"What's he to thee, then?" she asks. "Thy catamite and ganymede?"

Autor raises a brow and flashes a gentle smile.

He crosses his hands behind his back and strolls casually around her, only to lean over her shoulder. "I would strangle someone for him," he says softly, breath curling in her ear.

Then he straightens, grinning. "Now, where is that fustilarian? I assume you've left him dead drunk and naked in a ditch? I doubt he'd pass up a wench like yourself."

"Would he not be so happy, hearing these words speaking of thy immense devotion!" she says, giggling again.

Certainly, Autor thinks, but I don't want him to think of me as someone capable of all that.

He purses his lips. "Strange creature. You still haven't answered my questions. Where is the man?"

"What wouldst thou say, were I to tell thee that he's no longer of this world?" she says.

Autor sucks a breath in through his teeth. He launches forward and seizes her by the forearms. "When you say 'of this world,' do you mean Milliways? Or of Earth?"

She pushes him away, with one quite dainty foot pressing where it would hurt, were she to kick some harder.

"Thou art enamoured of him, silly wretch!" she giggles. "For sooth, why should I tell thee? Thou wouldst not find him now, wherever thou art looking!"

Edited 2013-02-19 21:36 (UTC)

The combination of her words and her foot nearly makes him take another tumble. Livid, he sets his jaw and clenches his fists.

I've never hurt a woman before, he thinks, darkly. He'd only punched a few people who'd hit him first, and even then it wasn't right.

"I'll not ask you again," he grinds out. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"

Edited 2013-02-19 21:41 (UTC)

"Thou shouldst not ask me," she says, tapping her foot against him, "but the one that he went upstairs with, not returning."

She picks up the T-Minus, and reads the messages.

"Eep!" Autor says, jumping back. Once safe, he sighs, releasing the pressure built up in his chest. His eyes ache, as does his head.

"Then how did you get that?" he points out, frowning. "And a trip upstairs with someone does not constitute 'gone from this world'."

Unless they've killed him, he thinks. Unless they've killed him and she knows, and she's just sitting here, rubbing it in.

She scrolls over the screen.

"The other was a heathen god, by name of Loki, with great and magical abilities," she says.

"Loki? The Norse trickster?" Autor says, eyes wide with awe. He nearly smacks his forehead.

"Dass hirnlose arsch!" he shouts. "Er liebt tricks kann aber nicht mit Loki zu konkurrieren! Für alles, was wir wissen, hat er in eine Kakerlake verwandelt."

He stomps his foot. "When did they go?"

"Whatever that strange gibberish may be," she says, sensibly, "wouldst thou not pause to think? Hath not thine friend still answered thee a mere five minutes hence, upon thine own device? Wouldst though not fain consider that, ere that thou curse in witch-words?"

Pause.

"Wouldst thou then know who that god Loki is?"

"It's German," he says, antsy to get upstairs. "It's a language that doesn't exist for you, yet. Believe me, hellbeast, if I could curse you, I would, to the ends of the earth and beyond.

"And yes," he says, blowing air out through his nose. She is right; it wouldn't do to go charging into battle upset and unprepared. And oh! is he unprepared. "I know the legends of the god of mischief."

Then he glances over his T-Minus. Was it him who sent me these? Or is she just a convincing liar? Wouldn't surprise me.

"Thou knowest his legends, doest thou?" she smiles. "Doest thou, truly? Tis him that changes man into a mare, and women into men, and vice versa -- is it not?"

"Yes," Autor says irritably, wearing an expression that clearly states, I do not have time for this scheisse right now. "He birthed Odin's steed, and masqueraded as a she-wolf, among other things. In the Lokasenna, he and Odin both took a woman's shape, and even nursed their offspring."

Stop smiling. He narrows his eyes at her. "What are you getting at?"

His brain is doing that thing, that tickling where he's starting to assemble something together but doesn't yet have the final piece.

Edited 2013-02-19 22:37 (UTC)

She looks at him, eyes dark like Poins', smile wide like Poins', her forehead domed like Poins', and holds Ned Poins' device within her hands, and it obeys her.

Autor's mouth works itself around a most peculiar problem: what to say to a person fit for hell and nothing else?

"You... You roguish, motley-minded bull's pizzle!" he yells, and lunges forward, meaning to tackle her--him--it to the floor.

Regardless of whether or not he succeeds, it only takes a few seconds for relief to break his anger. Then he'll laugh and laugh, until his limbs tremble and tears stream down his cheeks.

Poins, thrown out of her chair and tackled to the ground beneath him, laughs and laughs with him.

"Thou hast declared thy great undying love of me, to me, in anger, suspecting I had done away with me," he laughs, "and then, thou hast fain throttled me in earnest, trying to kill me for no other thing than killing me! This is hilarious, as great as any jest man ever made on purpose!"

Autor does punch him then, gently, at the junction of the shoulder and the collarbone.

"Oh, hang your tongue, you ill-bred ogre," he says, still giggling as he scrubs his reddened face on his sleeves. "I've yet to kill you for conceiving of this horrible trick in the first place."

"I am Ned Poins," she points out, "-- or Nell, as I now needs must be -- and in cahoots with Loki: what then wouldst thou think? It's tricksters squared, and stacked upon each other! Thou wouldst now kill me for not killing me? Fi, feeble is thy love!"

"Tricksters squared indeed," Autor snorts. "No worse a plague on this place could be released.

"And Nell!" he exclaims, sniggering. "A variant on the Grecian Helen, whose face launched a thousand ships?" He shifts, leaning forward to poke her in the cheek. "You're pretty as a woman, Poins, but not that pretty, as surely as my love is feeble."

"Awww," she pouts, poking his side in turn, "wouldst thou not even launch one single Irish hide-boat for my sake? Am I that ugly?"