Gale cuts his gaze away, and the warmth leaves his expression. He doesn't become cold so much as blank, like a closed door.
He clears his throat to reply. "No, I'm afraid I won't be answering that question. I apologize." Tara silently moves to his side of the table, butting his chest with her head. Right above her furry head, black tendrils peak out from beneath the neckline of his robe. It looks like perhaps some sort of tattoo. Tara rubs her entire body against Gale, hard enough that it pushes him back in his seat, and he smiles a little, burying his fingers in her fur. "You may ask something else, though, if you like."
He pulls away, she's drawn in more. The unfortunate pattern of relationships in her life. Ah, well. Her posture opens back up and she leans her elbow on the table to prop up her chin again. She isn't the least put off by the sudden rebuff and her smile warms again.
"I suspect everyone does." He turns his smile up to her, though it's a bit rueful now. Though he's a little surprised that she accepted his refusal without argument, he doesn't show it. "And you're still willing to help me find artifacts, even if you don't know what purpose I intend to put them towards?"
She tips her head back, scrunches up her face, pantomimes stroking her chin. Makes quite a show of considering the circumstances. Bit of a ham, really.
"Are you going to use them to maim, torture, and-or murder me?"
And just like that, whether through luck or fate, he has unexpected help in solving his problem. "Well, thank you. Even if you're just doing it for Tara, you have no idea how incredibly grateful I am."
"Well hey, you're — allegedly — a smart guy. You can figure out how to show me."
She leans back in the chair until it tips back on two legs and when she lets it drop back into place with a thud, she's perched on top with her legs criss-crossed.
"Now! Let's talk shop. What kind of artifacts, and how many do ya need?"
Allegedly. That might smart, but his recent choices probably earned that, even though Harley doesn't know it.
He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. Show her? She wants neither money nor his assistance, so what else can he provide in recompense?
"Any artifact imbued with the Weave will suffice. Doesn't matter what it is or what it does. And the timeline... well, that's not exactly a precise science. It partly depends on the power within the item. Something weaker isn't as..." Satiating, but he doesn't say that, instead continuing with, "Useful. But one artifact per week should serve my purposes."
She's too unaccustomed to asking for things to know how to set a price. If she wants something, she takes it. And she's a capricious creature, besides, full of unusual whims and flights of fancy. The cost of her services might change at any moment, if she did choose to charge. The truth, the barest simplest version of it, is that she agrees to help because she just feels like doing so today.
And for Tara's good graces, of course.
"So, anything that does anything." She frowns, and taps her nails on the table. "That's still a little-- Mm. Vague?" Her pretty features twist in dissatisfaction.
"Let me make this clear right away. None of this is on offer." She unstraps the leather bag from her thigh and sets it on the table, then reaches too-deep inside. A bag of holding, then. She withdraws a soft pair of gloves enchanted to improve dexterity, a necklace of warding and a set of sending stones and lines them up next to the bag itself. She fiddles with one of many rings on her fingers and, with another twist of her expression, pulls one off and places it at the end of the line.
There's no shimmer in the air or magical twinkle. One moment she's a darling doll of a clown and the next she's bare faced. The ring is enchanted with a small bit of fey glamour, which she uses to keep her makeup in place. Her features are just as fine without it and it seems like a silly bit of vanity, except...
Without layers of illusory greasepaint and pigment, her skin is not just fair but almost ghastly pale. Dark circles of exhaustion pool under her eyes and bruises in varying stages of healing bloom on one cheek and her throat. The small heart on her cheek stays, no longer painted but tattooed, and perhaps most shocking of all — a word in common tattooed down the angle of her jaw. Rotten.
She doesn't offer an explanation for any of it, of course.
"Which of these is the sort of, hmm, potency you're looking for?"
Gale's eyes snap to the arranged items with the intensity of an alcoholic asked whether he would like whiskey or vodka. The answer is yes, yes, anything, yes but he purses his lips and keeps that to himself.
"Ah, any of these would do well." He hovers his hand over each of the items, but does not touch, though his fingers have a slight tremble. "The bag seems the strongest of the lot, but I should also point out that anything given cannot be returned. The items will be destroyed. Well, it would be more accurate to say they will be divested of their magic. They'll still exist. The gloves, for example, could still keep you warm, but they would lose any magical properties."
Gale folds his hands in his lap again, like they can't be trusted to wander free, and returns his gaze to Harley. It doesn't quite give him a start, but he is surprised and ashamed that her appearance was the second thing he focused on. She doesn't explain, so he doesn't ask.
Harley appreciates that he does not comment on her marked face, so she doesn't comment on the tremor in his hands or the fervor in his eyes.
She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the
gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that,
though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the
Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears
elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would
help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding
too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey
the depth of his feeling.
He should probably lie, but he doesn't. "Not unless it becomes imperative for the safety of me and those in the immediate vicinity," he replies. He can't tell her everything, but he may as well be as honest as he can. "But, with the gloves on hand, that shouldn't be necessary."
She reaches a hand for her bag, then reconsiders when she remembers the way he stared at the magic items before. She folds her hands primly around the tea cup instead.
"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
"I wouldn't say she runs it," Gale answers, but doesn't argue with the notion that he leave the stone with Tara. He understands. He wouldn't trust himself either. "I'm sure she'll be happy to hold onto it for you."
"That's not particularly healthy," he replies, but he has no place to talk. His palid face and the bags under his eyes are no match for hers, but they are there. Two mage hands appear to do the work of pouring her another cup of tea. "But far be it for me to deny a guest."
He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
Gale opens his mouth. Closes it again. Pantomimes a fish on dry land for a moment longer.
Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
She grins at his fish impression, which is truly spot on. He could have a future as a very niche actor, if he likes. And the mean edge is smoothed off her when he rallies and meets her bullshit on her level.
"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an
ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he
remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he
doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books
stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you
feel so inclined."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
approval not high enough, pls insert additional magical items
He clears his throat to reply. "No, I'm afraid I won't be answering that question. I apologize." Tara silently moves to his side of the table, butting his chest with her head. Right above her furry head, black tendrils peak out from beneath the neckline of his robe. It looks like perhaps some sort of tattoo. Tara rubs her entire body against Gale, hard enough that it pushes him back in his seat, and he smiles a little, burying his fingers in her fur. "You may ask something else, though, if you like."
no subject
"Thought so. We both have our limits."
no subject
no subject
She tips her head back, scrunches up her face, pantomimes stroking her chin. Makes quite a show of considering the circumstances. Bit of a ham, really.
"Are you going to use them to maim, torture, and-or murder me?"
no subject
"No, I won't use the items to harm you, or anyone else, in any way. I swear it."
no subject
The most pure and noble of reasons.
no subject
no subject
She leans back in the chair until it tips back on two legs and when she lets it drop back into place with a thud, she's perched on top with her legs criss-crossed.
"Now! Let's talk shop. What kind of artifacts, and how many do ya need?"
no subject
He tilts his head to the side, thoughtful. Show her? She wants neither money nor his assistance, so what else can he provide in recompense?
"Any artifact imbued with the Weave will suffice. Doesn't matter what it is or what it does. And the timeline... well, that's not exactly a precise science. It partly depends on the power within the item. Something weaker isn't as..." Satiating, but he doesn't say that, instead continuing with, "Useful. But one artifact per week should serve my purposes."
no subject
And for Tara's good graces, of course.
"So, anything that does anything." She frowns, and taps her nails on the table. "That's still a little-- Mm. Vague?" Her pretty features twist in dissatisfaction.
"Let me make this clear right away. None of this is on offer." She unstraps the leather bag from her thigh and sets it on the table, then reaches too-deep inside. A bag of holding, then. She withdraws a soft pair of gloves enchanted to improve dexterity, a necklace of warding and a set of sending stones and lines them up next to the bag itself. She fiddles with one of many rings on her fingers and, with another twist of her expression, pulls one off and places it at the end of the line.
There's no shimmer in the air or magical twinkle. One moment she's a darling doll of a clown and the next she's bare faced. The ring is enchanted with a small bit of fey glamour, which she uses to keep her makeup in place. Her features are just as fine without it and it seems like a silly bit of vanity, except...
Without layers of illusory greasepaint and pigment, her skin is not just fair but almost ghastly pale. Dark circles of exhaustion pool under her eyes and bruises in varying stages of healing bloom on one cheek and her throat. The small heart on her cheek stays, no longer painted but tattooed, and perhaps most shocking of all — a word in common tattooed down the angle of her jaw. Rotten.
She doesn't offer an explanation for any of it, of course.
"Which of these is the sort of, hmm, potency you're looking for?"
no subject
"Ah, any of these would do well." He hovers his hand over each of the items, but does not touch, though his fingers have a slight tremble. "The bag seems the strongest of the lot, but I should also point out that anything given cannot be returned. The items will be destroyed. Well, it would be more accurate to say they will be divested of their magic. They'll still exist. The gloves, for example, could still keep you warm, but they would lose any magical properties."
Gale folds his hands in his lap again, like they can't be trusted to wander free, and returns his gaze to Harley. It doesn't quite give him a start, but he is surprised and ashamed that her appearance was the second thing he focused on. She doesn't explain, so he doesn't ask.
no subject
She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
no subject
The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that, though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey the depth of his feeling.
no subject
She finishes her touch ups and slips the pocket mirror away. She leans on her elbow and watches him for long, uncomfortable moments.
"Well," she says eventually. "In your own time, then. If I leave you with a sending stone, are you going to break it?"
no subject
no subject
"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
no subject
no subject
"Mmyeah, she does. Now, how about one more cup before I go, sweetheart? It's tea instead of sleep for me today!"
no subject
no subject
"It's not easy finding a place to metaphorically hang my hat. I don't get lucky every night."
no subject
He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
no subject
She is tired.
She does need a safe place to steal a few hours of rest.
She does not have to be an asshole about this. But she will.
She scoffs in offense and her mouth twists into a tight frown, just to add a button to the performance. "What, you don't think I'm fuckable?"
no subject
Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
no subject
"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
She nods.
"For the gloves. Seems fair enough."
no subject
He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you feel so inclined."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
Aaaaand SCENE