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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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?"

"Well, I can't say--" and it's here, when she pokes him in the right spot, does he squeak and squirm, as all men ticklish are wont to do.

She pinches him again in that same place, for it is quite a good one.

"Ack, stop," he says, flailing for her hands as his blush lights up his cheeks again. It's only after a bit of his wiggling does he realize that, yes, they are indeed still on the floor, and he's likely straddling her hips.

For a moment, he's paralyzed. "I, um--we should..." he stammers. Move! The gangly boy rolls off of her skirts and into a rather uncomfortable crouch. He may just bite through his lip.

"What should we, say?" she says.

She sits, she reaches up, and touches her finger to his cheek.

She is Ned Poins. But she is still a woman. Riddle that!

What's he to thee, then? Thy catamite and ganymede?

For his part, Autor battles between fleeing like a bunny rabbit and turning into stone. His heart has settled permanently in his throat, beating like a hummingbird. She's so close but I can't and she's my friend already but do I trust her? and she's right there for the taking but she's Ned is that okay? She smells of apples apples apples...

His breath hitches twice.

Folding his hand around her fingertips, he kisses the air near her knuckles. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "But I'm really not meant to love anyone."

And he says the words because he believes them. He says them because they're true.

"I would not take thy love for aye," she says, still touching him, "but wouldst thou not lend me thy loving for awhile, while I am wearing this new, unaccustomed shape?"

Autor's mouth dries out like an old well. He tries to swallow and can't.

"I--I don't know how?" he says, and kicks himself because she'll offer to teach him, of course.

He drops his gaze to the floor. It's easier that way. "And I wouldn't be able to just... love someone once and forget."

"I'd be offended if thou wouldst forget, as one forgets a breakfast made of porridge," Poins says, and winks.