[ with weyland in nyc ]

[tragic_mask]

They step through the door, and find themselves on the cracked sidewalk outside of a lively bar. A sign glows: "Blue Owl."

It's nighttime, but the city still glows with all kinds of light, and shakes with the noise of honking, shouting, music, the clinking of glasses, all blending together into the cacophony and symphony of the city.

Melpomene looks around. "Well, we're back... Right where I started."

Comments

[tragic_mask]

"To see if they really want what they're asking you for?"

She pauses. "What are some of the things they ask for, and why do you like or dislike their requests?"

[mechanicalswans]

"You have to understand, I can make anything," he says. "Anything beautiful but nonmagical of metal, given the metal, and anything magical given the right supplies. In the old days it was often an enchanted blade so that an unskilled girl or young man could protect themselves while rescuing a loved one from wrongful imprisonment; if it's for a selfless cause, I suppose I am still a romantic. But many more, especially these days, want things for themselves."

He shakes his head. "They may want complete power over some other person, or the ability to look through some magic mirror and kill others from afar, or eternal youth, something they really shouldn't have. Some of these people are monstrous. So I ask them for things that are either almost impossible to get to, like the elbow of Saint Sebastian or something; very difficult to find, like a gallon of water from some river overseas only vaguely defined; or something that would stop most sane people, like a body part of a loved one. I tell them it must be given voluntarily, and... they aren't."

[tragic_mask]

"Ah," she says slowly, taking it in.

[mechanicalswans]

"I have to take their commissions," he says with a shrug. "I have no choice about that. That's the only freedom I do have in the matter, the gathering of materials."

[tragic_mask]

"You have no say in the matter? Even I have some degree of freedom over who I inspire..."

[mechanicalswans]

"In the old days, they were more respectful, more humble, and wouldn't ask for such terrible things, not as often anyway. But even then, I had to do it. They would leave their horses to be shod--to this day I dread shoeing horses. The price I pay, I suppose, for being the way I am. Does it bother you?"

[tragic_mask]

"It's just different, that's all."

She takes a sip of tequila.

[mechanicalswans]

"They say variety keeps things from getting dull," he says, and sips his drink. "I could spend a very long time exploring our differences, seeing what matches and cherishing what doesn't."

[tragic_mask]

"Here's to variety," she says, raising her glass. "Differences can be good. I'm sure we have many."

[mechanicalswans]

He clinks his glass lightly against hers, before taking another sip. "A great many. I'm enjoying every one I've found so far."

[tragic_mask]

"And for good cause, I'm sure," she says, taking a sip as well.

[mechanicalswans]

"You shine," he says simply. "Very brightly. It is a pleasure to bask in your glow... give me your feet."

He pats his knee.

[tragic_mask]

She blinks at him a moment, then swings her legs delicately over onto his lap.

"And you keep things interesting," she murmurs. "Which I mean in the best way possible."

[mechanicalswans]

"Live each day like it could be your last," he says, and downs the rest of his drink, then sets the glass aside.

If her shoes weren't already off, he will remedy that now, and start in on a gentle but thorough foot massage. He may not do the kind with oil, as he doesn't like the feel of it on the metal, but he knows what he is doing.

[tragic_mask]

Clearly, as her feet are sending her very good messages. Her eyes close, and she just enjoys the sensation.

[mechanicalswans]

"You have the sort of feet that were made for dancing barefoot in meadows on warm summer evenings," he says quietly. "I like that."

[tragic_mask]

"Well," she says, eyes still closed, "I have done quite a lot of that in my time."

[mechanicalswans]

"But not often, not anymore?" he asks. "We shall have to remedy that, either way. I haven't got such good barefoot feet, myself, but if you're willing to overlook that..."

[tragic_mask]

"I'll try to stare straight ahead." She smiles. "Anyway, the point isn't if one has pretty feet, but if one dances like one means it."

[mechanicalswans]

"Are there still... there are, I hope? The music festivals in the park, whether here or outside the city. I enjoy live music, and it seems to me you would be the perfect one to enjoy it with."

[tragic_mask]

"There often are, during the summer. Hard not to find something like that around here. That's why I love this city."

[mechanicalswans]

"The next one, then, where the music appeals to you... what sort of music do you like? Not just sad songs, I hope, though there are many that are beautiful."

[tragic_mask]

"Mostly," she admits. "They call more to me than the upbeat, meaningless sort."

[mechanicalswans]

"Do you have a favorite, though?" he asks. "I myself have a fondness for opera, but also for electronic music. Either the sweeping and passionate or the cold and detached."

The foot-massage is slowly drifting into a calf-massage.

[tragic_mask]

"I'm really a lyrics sort of person, actually," she says. "And you know... you have very warm hands."