[ 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

[mechanicalswans]

"Of all the compliments you have ever gotten," he says, "which was your favorite? So I know what I need to measure up to. Though of course I would not say one if it were not true and sincere."

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, right. Of course."

She thinks. "Well, I was once written a sonnet which was, essentially, one big compliment. I mean, I've been written sonnets before, but this one... seemed extraordinary. Something to the effect of seeing his soul mirrored in my shining eyes. Of course, I'm always drawn to the poetic."

[mechanicalswans]

"You must have poetry written to you a lot, then?" he asks. "I can see that you would inspire it... and not just the tragic kind, not directly, though there would probably be a note of tragedy in any romantic poem to you. The unattainable, the far out of any normal man's league."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, yes, these things do happen. I suppose they sense that I'm a goddess and try to capture some of my essence in poetry. But none really do a complete job, pardon my egotism."

[mechanicalswans]

"I think that a god, or goddess, should properly be adored in some form other than their chosen one. Honor them by working in their element, but when giving a particular effort as an offering... well, you would have the same critical eye for poetry that I do for metalsmithing. I prefer my offerings to be in other forms, and I imagine you would also, as far as that goes."

[tragic_mask]

"True. I may accept the poem, but in many ways there will always be a part of me that gets the urge to underline in red pen."

[mechanicalswans]

"Do you have a preferred method of reverence, then?" he asks with a smile. "Personally, I enjoy music, or a good meal, or an entertaining story. The intangible, the impermanent. Once it has been given, it is gone, and cannot be studied later for flaws."

[tragic_mask]

"Well... I like the tangible, actually. Things that can be... touched. Or the act of touching itself. Worship of that sort."

[mechanicalswans]

"You are in luck again, then," he says, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Those happen to be things I am very good at... and you are inspiring me at this very moment. But I'm sure you could tell that."

[tragic_mask]

"Perhaps," she says, unhelpfully.

[mechanicalswans]

"A man likes to be inspired," he says. "He never reaches greater heights, never has cause to do such wonderful things, as when he has a woman to do them for. All great things that have ever been done, have been done with such inspiration as I have right now."

[tragic_mask]

"You're quite the sweet-talker," she says, quite close to him. "But you know that already."

[mechanicalswans]

"I would make a terrible joke about a silver tongue," he says with a chuckle, looking back at her, "but I can assure you, that is one part of me that is not metal at all."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, I can believe that."

[mechanicalswans]

"It would make it very hard to talk, for one thing, if it were metal. And there are many other things it would not be good for."

For instance, running the tip of it along her ear, as he is doing now. If it were metal, it would be cold.

[tragic_mask]

And yet she's shivering slightly-- one of those mysteries of life, it seems.

"Right, well, it's a good thing it's not."

[mechanicalswans]

"A very good thing," he murmurs. "This would not be half so pleasant--I love the way you taste. Like the turning of seasons."

He gives her ear a nibble. Very different from the last woman he had been with, and even more different from his usual companion--he could get used to this.

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, really. Which ones, exactly?" She tilts her head, just a little.

[mechanicalswans]

"I taste autumn most strongly," he says, after a few moments more of savoring. "A bit of a chill in the night air, the smoke from a bonfire... a hint of apple, I think? The darkness where the world of the living and the world of the dead are closest to one another. But summer has not yet gone completely; there is still wheat in your hair, metaphorically, from the harvest."

[tragic_mask]

"Hmm. I'm surprised you didn't taste any icicles. You know, from my bitter cold soul." This is accompanied by a melodramatic hand on the forehead.

[mechanicalswans]

"No," he says contemplatively. "No, I think I have the icicles covered, and you don't taste of winter, but of change. It may be winter later, but for now... transition and mystery."

[tragic_mask]

"You sound like a newspaper horoscope." She laughs. "Ever thought of making money that way? I hear it's a very lucrative business."

[mechanicalswans]

"I prefer to make my predictions more... individualized," he says with a chuckle, giving her an intent look.

"For instance, I can tell you that this week, for you--the beginning of the week, there is a great deal of potential for excitement, but you must avoid women carrying birdcages. If you do encounter one, you will be tired for the rest of the week. On Thursday, I see an unexpected journey, and for the weekend there is a chance for an argument, but if you follow your heart it will all turn out right."

He can make up horoscopes with the best of them.

[tragic_mask]

"Well, clearly I'm going to have to look for women carrying birdcages just so I can make sure to avoid them..."

[mechanicalswans]

"If they see you, it is too late," he says solemnly, before leaning in to nibble at her neck. "I would stay away from pet stores, and from the ballet, just to be safe."