milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

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!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That's possible," Autor says, raising a brow. "You likely have more experience with them than I do, given that I only tripped into you."

"Thou hast tripped, indeed," she scoffs, "and never fallen willingly into the apples, as thou werst stumbling about, seeking for the sound of thy dear friend's T-Minus."

"And I did find it, did I not?" he says, pursing his lips.

Oh, right. I was supposed to be annoyed.

"Thou wouldst not have, had I not held it out before thy very nose!" Poins says.

"I wasn't about to go searching for it in your skirts!" Autor says, incredulous.

"Thou mightst have found much to amuse therein," Poins grins.

Embarrassment wins over amusement this time, though he still chokes on his giggles. "You," he says, pausing for breath, "will be the death of me. Or at least my dignity."

"Thou wouldst not mind a small death, just a lasting one," Poins says. "Thy dignity, however, is a mythic beast I ne'er have seen."

"But you are a lasting death, m'lady," he points out, as sure as the girl's name is Poins, "as rot is to an apple." He's not going to even touch the other bits, because ouch.

"Tis not the lasting one I'd offer thee," Poins smiles. And there are many bits Autor may fain touch, if he but dared to...

And because this is clearly important to Poins, Autor has to retreat into himself, to rifle through all the files in his head to try to figure out what the hell he means.

He quickly defines last--German letzt, 'following all others'--and death--Todesfall, mort, the ending of a life--and then digs deeper.

Wait, could he possibly mean Ovid's Metamorphosis? '...No more deny to those whom constant love and lasting death unite--entomb us in a single sepulchre.'

Or Shakespeare himself? 'Then love-devouring death do what he dare; it is enough I may but call her mine.'*

His head is tilted, his lips are parted, and his brow is furrowed with a not insignificant amount of consternation. In short, Poins is the lucky recipient of Autor's confused puppy look again.

*Romeo and Juliet

Edited 2013-02-21 00:48 (UTC)

She giggles.

"Wilt thou then say, for sooth, thou knowest not what I am speaking of?"

He folds his arms. "Well, small death--la petite mort--means sleep, and lasting death is, well, death," he says, a bit irritated. He can't tell what Poins is referring to and he hates not knowing things. "I can't imagine why you'd give me either of them."

"Sleep??" she laughs, uproariously.

Autor gives her a flat look. "Well? Isn't it? But I'm sure you can tell me what it really means. You're the expert, right?"

"It means the pleasant lassitude that falls upon thee when thou hast done the deed, and used thy pleasure to completion," she explains. "It is like flying, and falling, and then waking to one's senses as if from brief un-being; hence, it is known as little death."

Her smirk is waiting for the next big blush.

Edited 2013-02-21 23:22 (UTC)

And her smirk is well rewarded, as this one is no doubt the biggest one yet. Warmth explodes on his face, tinting his ears and neck dusky rose. Sweat beads at his hairline, and he jams his eyes shut.

Autor's heartbeat thuds in his ears so loudly he's sure she can hear it. He'd say something, but he's already bitten down on his knuckles.

No, that can't be right, he thinks. I can't have been reading it wrong all this time. What else have I missed? Do I want to know?

He'll never be able to read Romeo and Juliet in the same manner again.

Edited 2013-02-22 00:31 (UTC)

"Thou knowest what I speak of, doest thou not?" Poins says, smiling sweetly.

"Of course I do!" Autor says, flustered. "Er."

Does the 'intellectually' even need to be said?

"Thou," Poins says, "art a virgin, there is no denying!"

She says so with great triumph.

"So?" Autor asks, flattering Poins with a blank stare. He's not defensive about this, surprisingly.

"It must be remedied!" Poins says.

"Wait, what?" Autor says, blinking. "Why?"

He huffs. "I don't understand what the big deal is. There are other means of conquest."

"But ne'er a means of pleasure quite like that, and sorry monk the man that passed it up!" Poins says.

"Then sorry monk I may be," Autor says pleasantly, "well-suited for ora et labora, as you yourself declared so long ago."