Winter seldom relinquishes its grasp quickly in Britain, but it's been an early spring, and with spring comes tourists to Welshpool - both to see the lovely sights of the 'quaint' little village, and also to see the gardens of Powis Castle, one of Britain's proclaimed national treasures. However, the gardens aren't quite open - yet - and as such, the flow of tourists has only just barely begun - the merest trickle.
     Perhaps that explains the appearance of Fiona Arundel in Welshpool's village green, though she doesn't seem to be behaving very ... well, tourist-y. Clad in a cherry-red turtleneck paired with white linen slacks, the long blonde hair pulled back from her face in a single ponytail that captures small belled and baubled braids, she doesn't appear either in a hurry or to be taking in the scenic vista - or even exclaiming over the quaintness of it all.
     Instead, at the moment, she's got a small notebook in one hand as she perches on the edge of one of the benches outside the train station, and seems to be trying to remember something of paramount importance. "Tuesday - or was it the thirteenth, Wednesday? Still, it should be all right, but I hope the chemist's is open late tonight. Ah well - suppose it'll all come out in the wash..."

     As in any good town square, there is an inn and pub. Coming out of the door of the small stone building, a colorful girl seems to be glancing into a bakery bag for something or another, or perhaps she's counting or smelling or something. Either way, she seems very intent on whatever it is as she crosses the cobbled road to the green itself.
     For once her hair is left to its own devices. And from the mop of black curls that it's tangled itself into it's plain to see why she doesn't do that often. Though, somehow, it's still lovely. The bouncy chaos of it offsetting the simplicity of her features. Her overalls are anything but simplistic anymore, having seen some long use in front of many an easel, colors painted and splattered and wiped all about the poor things. Blues, greens, magentas, yellows, any color that can be thought of is represented in some way. The white short sleeved shirt underneath, however, is pristine. Which can only mean one thing. She hasn't got out painting in it yet.
     "Now, you stay in that bag until at least mid morning. I'll not have you gone before we even get to the hill again, it simply wouldn't do." Or, she could be talking to the scones.

     Standing with a small sigh paired with a frown, Fiona sweeps her ponytail back over her shoulder as she turns, looking around herself as if to figure out which direction is which. The colourful motley which is the pain-splattered set of coveralls causes her eyes to widen - but entirely aside from colours, there's the fact that there simply isn't anyone else about for her to ask questions of - and so she heads in that direction, poised to intercept.
     Fiona pauses slightly - but considering how many things she's ended up talking to which were out of the ordinary, she's hardly in a position to remark upon it. "Nos da," she greets, with a pleasant, slightly quizzical smile. "Sorry if I'm interrupting, but I don't suppose I could trouble you for some directions...?"

     Wendy pauses with raised ebony eyebrows, slightly surprised perhaps that anyone is talking to her at all. First she seems to stare at the scones a moment, as though making sure it wasn't them. Which, of course is absurd. Scones don't talk. And so she glances up, smiling as she sees the other woman near her and steps the meter over towards her, "Oh, hey."
     "No, not interrupting at all. I was just talking with my breakfast." She closes the bag as though that explains everything. Which, perhaps it does. "Where do you need directions to? I don't know every place around here, but I can try. Or we can go in and ask Peg at the inn. She knows where everything lies around here."

     "What, the opposite of veganism? You'll eat anything which has a face or can talk back to you?" Fiona's eyebrows arch upwards quizzically, but she's hardly going to directly call anyone on it; she flips the pad closed and tucks it under her arm, blinking once or twice. "And hello - didn't recognize you at first. Hope you're keeping well."
     Not that talking to scones would seem to indicate wellness, but.
     "I'm trying to find the chemist's shop - need to pick up a few basics and sundries. Shampoo, conditioner, the usuals - you know. I'm all out, and didn't think to pick more up when I was in London last. So, ah. How have you been?"

     She laughs at that, shaking her head, "No, silly." Opening the bag again, she points it out towards you, showing the baked confections inside, "Just scones. Not that all I eat are scones. You know what I mean." She stops as though she realizes she's just making less and less sense of things.
     "Chemist? Ah... No? But we can find it." She stops and looks around the square and starts pointing at buildings, "That's the bookshop, that's the butcher... there's the bakery... and the inn of course." She frowns slightly, pointing at a couple other buildings before coming to the last one on the square, facing towards one of the other streets, "Maybe that one? We can go check at least."
     At the question after herself she nods, "Oh, good, thanks. Weather's been lovely. You?"

     "I haven't been staying in the village," Fiona half-apologizes, half-explains, "so I don't really know my way around. But oes, finding it sounds like a good idea, thanks - if nothing else, getting my bearings soon would help."
     She shifts her angle, turning to peer at the buildings being pointed out to her, and nods contemplatively. "Sure, that looks as good a direction as any. I should've asked Marti or one of the others, but I didn't even think to. So," she adds casually, taking a step towards the opposite side of the square, "are you always conversational with your breakfast, or do scones rate a special exception? And yes, the weather has been lovely. I'm so glad that spring's come at last!"

     "I've thought about staying in the village, but Mum would get mad. Specially during the week." Wendy says easily, "So, I just leave early on mornings and go back at night instead. It's only a couple hours drive each way."
     "Only when it's been rowdy." She answers easily. "Last weekend, I got scones to take with me painting, and by the time I got there they'd somehow all gotten eaten. I thought I'd give them a lecture this time and see if that helped." There's a hint of a grin, that broadens into a larger one as she leans closer, "Mostly I was just talking to myself."
     She crosses over the street after checking for carts and autos, getting to the door of the shop, "Well, this is it, but they don't open for a couple hours yet." She shrugs, "Sorry." Leaning forward she puts a hand on the glass, squinting under it to look through the doorway, "Oh, hey, they have a soda fountain."

     "Well, as long as you don't mind the drive, I suppose. I've only driven once in the past couple of years - I don't own a car. I mainly stick with trains, as I quite like trains. I like looking out the window, and that's a bad thing to be doing while behind the wheel." Fiona grins, adjusting the position of her notebook so that the spiral edge doesn't dig into her armpit quite so much.
     Glancing up at the sky for a moment as if to assess the threat of rain, she then shakes her head. "Scones and fairycakes have a way of not listening when you speak to them - they apply themselves directly to your hips. Actually, I thought perhaps you had a kitten in the bag - I've been thinking of getting a kitten," her smile grows a touch wider and more mischievous, "to drive a couple of corgis wild, partly, among others. But I probably oughtn't."
     "I talk to myself sometimes," Fiona admits, moving to the door and then peering through. "Oh, well, I suppose I can wait - I washed my hair with borrowed shampoo this morning, so that now I don't recognize the smell of myself. - Oh, have they? The old-fashioned kind, or a newer one?"

     "Old one." Wendy answers first, "With the big wooden handles. And spinning stools. We should try it when they open later."
     Chuckling she shakes her head, "No, no kittens in the bag." Grinning again she steps back from the window, tucking the scones under an arm, "Bwci and Rhyddid would adore a kitten to chase through the hall up the lovely velvet curtains I'm sure." She adds, "I think they get bored all day inside."
     At the mention of waiting, she raises her eyebrows, inquiring, "Want to come painting with me? I've got extra if you want to try yourself. And plenty of scones."

     "Wouldn't they?" Fiona grins, despite herself. "Though it'd have to be a kitten with some spirit to chase them back and give as good as it got. That's very important." She gives the window one last peer, then steps back wistfully. "I wonder if they're any good at strawberry-vanilla floats..." She does tend to like her sweets, doesn't she.
     Turning, she folds her arms over her chest, quirking up both eyebrows. "Are you sure? I mean, I suppose, though artwork isn't my usual forte - did the usual amount of nature and life drawing at school, but I'm hardly a budding Rembrandt or Lord Leighton." One hand comes up to absently sweep stray strands of her hair away from her eyes with a batting motion - damned invisible strands! "Though I'll rarely turn down scones, I admit. Black-currant?"

     "Oh, nearly all kittens have spirit." Wendy says, starting to walk down the cobbled road again towards, most likely, a well used blue boxy car parked on the lane, "If you really want to rile them you should get a farm kitten. They're generally half wild. And pounce at anything. Chubby little corgi tails included. Perhaps in particular, really. And get the runt, they're more tenacious than anything."
     She gets keys out of her pocket, "I'll ask at the farm next to the house if they've got any if you like, they have a slew of cats, always dropping litters in the barn. I used to get threatened about bringing them home randomly."
     "And 'course I'm sure. Wouldn't have said so otherwise." She smiles, "I brought my pencils too, just in case, if you'd rather." You know, random things jumping into paintings again could crop up. "And I'm not sure, I told her to surprise me as long as there was plenty of honey for them. Normally there's one in there, if I have, it's yours."

     There's a chuckle and Fiona nods a bit, sliding one hand into her pocket. "I should really clear it with Davydd before bringing home any strays, though. The man's been very tolerant of some of my quirks, but I'm not sure that they'd extend to bringing home small fluffy creatures - though I admit, the look on his face -would- be a sight and a half." She's visualizing it already, and having difficulty keeping her expression at all straight.
     Glancing to the car without approbation or approval - it's a car, and she just typically hasn't much opinion of cars one way or the other, Fiona massages the side of her head in absent inattention. "Pencils? Well, sure. pencils or paints - I'm really fairly okay with whatever's convenient." And things popping into drawings has her curiosity more roused than not, anyway, even if it's a curiosity tempered by caution. "Oh, I have a weakness for currants," she admits with a sudden grin. "Though more for honey, so I'll be fine, either way. You'll let me split the cost with you, at least?"

     Waving the hand with the keys in it, Wendy shakes her head at the notion of cost, "Peg always gives me extras. I bring them back doodles every couple times I've come out, so when I ask for three she gives me five. And like you said, they jump right on your backside even if you tell them not to. Better to share the danger with someone else."
     She unlocks the passenger door in the middle of the road before going round to her side and undoing it, tossing the bag over the seat into the back, "Sides, I don't generally have company when I'm out. Which I'm starting to think is leading me to speak to my breakfast." She grins at that as she sits down, closing the door behind herself.

     "Well, of course. I'm not going anywhere - he'd have to put up with it unless he got rid of me, too, and I don't think he'd do so. Still - I should probably ask first. He's got loads of breakables." Fiona grins wryly as she eyes the road, then slides quickly into the passenger seat, buckling herself in.
     After readjusting the strap so that there's less of a pronounced valley effect, she glances over to the driver side. "Well, anything which helps keep one out of an institution, I suppose - you've any milk with you, by the by? And where are we going?"

     "I bet he'd be smitten with the little thing as soon as you brought it in. He's a big softie." Wendy says with a grin, "But, it would be polite. I'm sure there are plenty of people around here who have them too where you could go pick one out."
     She starts up the car with a bit of a grumble, it's obviously lived in though not dirty. No food wrappers or cans tossed about, just things from life. Some fliers from art galleries, a few bits of rock on the floorboards in the back. "I've got a thermos of tea? No milk, though, I'm afraid." She shrugs, "I wasn't sure. Any place you've wanted to see? I'm not in the middle of anything, usually I just drive until the mood strikes and stop and set up."

     "Oh, I've nothing really in mind," Fiona agrees, "so wherever you think. Just not for hours and hours, as I do need to get back in due course - stop in at the chemist's and then head back to Powis."
     Tipping her head back, if she's surprised at Wendy's lack of surprise, she's keeping it to herself and settling herself in contemplation of the ceiling of the vehicle. "And yes," she adds, softening, "he's a darling that way. I might bring one home - I don't know. The old 'kitten or baby' thing, ending in 'baby goth', no doubt. I'll give it some thought."

     "Kitten or baby thing?" Wendy asks as she pulls out onto the lane. She's a safe enough driver, not stellar by any means, but cautious enough to look as alleys cross over while she heads back towards one of the country roads outside the village.
     "And sure, we don't have to go far." She says as the space around them opens up, houses drawing apart from each other, and finally giving way to more fields than anything else. Flowers already starting to bloom in riots along the rises and crevices.

     "Old joke - a girl can't decide if she wants a kitten or a baby more," Fiona explains, not apparently perturbed by anything approaching 'reasonable' driving. "So she goes to pet shops, and she goes to baby shops - you know, where they sell things for young children and for infants. And she buys a black studded leather collar, and she buys a fairy princess dress, and she purchases a squeaky chew toy, and also a pacifier. And her friend asks her boyfriend which did she finally decide on - baby or kitten? 'Neither - baby goth. She's off to pull one at the club tonight.'"
     Well, it was funny to her, anyway, veteran of the clubs that she is. She chuckles to herself, then glances to the roads, unsurprised by the sight of the flowers. The overnight explosion has been receiving considerable comment, after all; her face reddens for a moment, and she asks casually, "So did that fellow ever catch up with you again?"

     If it wasn't for the fact that Wendy's rolled down her window to enjoy the spring air, one might actually have seen the joke go over her head and tug her hair back. She listens, and nods a little, but has either never been on the goth club scene, or really just doesn't get it at all. "Oh."
     Her face is confused for a minute before the question comes over to her. "Ah... well, yeah. I met up with him a few weeks ago at the pub." She gnaws on her lip a little and glances out the window. What to paint, what to paint. "Oh hey, look at that."
     She points with a finger over the steering wheel as she holds on, a old country stone bridge coming up as the road goes forwards to a brook. She starts to slow down, angling off to the side of the road into the low grass on what amounts to a shoulder.

     "Oh? Well, hope it went well - you seemed pretty uneasy about him." Fiona glances back out the window again, then blinks, peering at the bridge. "Well, that's picturesque, I suppose."
     Better on the shoulder than into the ditch and the brook. She holds on, still with a relative air of unconcern. "Works for me, I imagine."

     "He's... Very odd." Wendy says as she shuts the car off, now that it's far enough away from the road not to get clipped but close enough to get back on easily. "I wrote him, said I was coming and he could meet me if he wanted. So, I'm at the inn, having tea, and he shows up, sits down, has some brandy and asks me if I want to go hunt strange little tree men with him."
     She opens her door and gets out, opening the back door to take out her easel case and the bag of scones, apparently containing everything that she needs within it for the moment, "And then, when I politely decline, he says something about me hiding my head in the sand and stalks off."
     Either she's just randomly telling people, or she seems to think that at least you'll maybe have some clue or sympathy or something as to what's going on. Being nearly as strange as the rest of the people she's met around here if nothing else, "I think he might be even more daft than me."

     "Strange ... little ... tree men," Fiona echoes, blinking slowly and remaining in the car for a moment. Then she shakes her head. "Some girls have all the luck, I suppose? I've never been invited to hunt strange little tree men. I don't know what I'd say. Did he describe these strange little tree men? I mean, are they Oompa-Loompas?"
     Well, what pops into your mind when you hear 'strange little tree men'?
     Climbing out of the car at last, she shrugs her head slightly as she closes the door behind her. "Mind you, my own relationships tend to be a little bit left of centre, I suppose you could say. I don't know - maybe you should take him up on it. It'd certainly give you something to talk about at your next dinner engagement."
     Considering some of the 'dates' she's been on ... hunting 'strange little tree men' is almost normal.

     "Oh, I know exactly what he was referring to." Wendy says with a frustrated sigh, setting her things down in the shade of one of the trees off the road and moving over to the trunk of the car, keys in hand as though she's going to get something, "And I can't imagine why he'd want me to go with him, he's... boorish. He has relatively no social skills at all."
     She lifts the trunk up and mimic's his slightly accented proper voice, "Miss Merrick, I was just wondering, do you know the meaning of...?" Rolling her eyes she lets out a loud grumpy sigh, "And I don't know why he won't just use his real name rather than that crazy nickname, wherever he got it from. Looooovaaaah. It means lion, you know."
     Coming out from under the blue shelter of the car, she pulls a couple canvases with her, bringing them around to the other side with her. The intent, it seems, is to show their contents to her companion before going over to the things she's set out already.

     "No, I don't know, but maybe his parents were being cute," Fiona offers casually, pushing her hair back from her face as she moves round the side of the vehicle. "So what was he referring to, then?" She doesn't appear to know, at least.
     Propping her elbows on the edge of the boot, clear of the lid, she arches up her eyebrows. "Well, obviously he wants you to - I don't know what his motives are. Have you come right out and asked him? Though fencing can be fun too, I suppose. - Oh, what's those?"

     She shakes her head, "His name's actually D... D... Oh, I don't remember. He won't tell me though." Wendy frowns, "I think I read it somewhere a long time ago when I was looking into castles, or something, it's one of those things where you know it's right there on the tip of your tongue, if you could only just figure it out."
     Turning one of the canvases around, it's apparently already been painted on some time ago, well dried and sealed, "That's what he's talking about."
     The image is stunning. The walls in the background are obviously Powys to anyone who's been there. One of the beds around the side, as a matter of fact. The amazing part, however, is the subject of the painting. A large treelike creature that seems to have been anthropomorphized into a humanoid of some kind or another towers up one side, its head reaching up to the sills of the second story windows of the castle. And next to him, brilliant and noble, is Lowe. Only it isn't, Lowe, exactly. It's a knight, in full regalia with a broad jeweled sword, facing off bravely with the creature.
     However, it almost couldn't be the same person, for instead of the skulking dower expression that he wears, his form is strong and forthright, nearly glowing with energy. And, in fact, if one were to look beyond the face of the image itself, it would move. Much like her earlier paintings glow, except in this case it animates itself for a short stretch of action, Lowe lunging forward with his sword to pierce the leg of the wooden thing.

     "A long time ago, mm?" Fiona nods slowly, though a bit casually, as she leans up against the car. "I know how that is - the memory's a strange thing. Sometimes it's almost as if you're remembering something from someone else, instead of your own, the way time plays tricks on the mind."
     She tilts her head to one side, casting her glance over the canvas, eyes widening for a moment. "Very fanciful," she says after a moment. "So is that how you see him? It's not much like him from when I saw him." She props her chin on her hands, eyes narrowed for a moment in contemplation. "I don't know. You showed this one to him?"

     She leans the other blank canvases against the side of the car and sits down on the road in front of you, sighing, "No, not like that, it's like... Have you ever run into a cousin? Or someone? Where you knew that when you were a child you'd known their name, but you couldn't remember it? Only, I must've read it because we've never met. -That- I'd remember."
     She looks over at the painting with a frown, "No, not precisely. I saw him that way. Once. And of course not, he'd probably try and make me pay him for it since I put him in it at all. Though, I suppose I should just give it to him, it gives me the heebie jeebies." She wrinkles her nose, scratching the palm of her right hand absently, "Not like I'd want to go see one of those things again anyway. It was nearly as rude as he is."

     "Well, maybe you did meet and don't remember for some other reason - cold medications," suggests Fiona absently, with a slight shake of her head. "And why would he make you pay him? There's no agent fee for fictional works of this sort unless he posed for it. You could always invite him to sue you, but I don't recommend it; I'm being sued right now and it's not a picnic." She grimaces, then moves back to the picture.
     "See ... I'm sorry, what?" She blinks mildly, holding up one hand. "See one of these? As in the picture? And it was rude to you?" One eyebrow arches upwards. Did she hear that correctly?

     Wendy sighs a little, putting her hands in her lap, still sitting in the dirt on the road, though she doesn't seem to mind at all. It certainly won't hurt her overalls. "I was painting, minding my own business. That one that Llewellyn has of the castle, I don't know if it's up or not. He said he was going to hang it in the hall or something, anyway."
     She brings herself back to the point, "I had permission to be there, and I was quite happily keeping to myself. When he shows up." Lowe, obviously from her tone, "And asks me if I've seen Llewellyn. Which, I hadn't. Then he starts asking me what I was doing there. And being generally nosey. And wanting to know if I'd seen any strange little old men around or smelly children or sommat."

     "I don't know - I haven't actually really looked in the hall," Fiona admits absently, straightening up. "I'll ask Davydd about it when I get home. We've both been sort of busy, and the castle's crammed with stuff, it's distracting."
     She blinks as the tale continues. "What business is it of his anyway, whether or not you'd seen Davydd, and so on? ...Smelly children? What? You know, he does sound awfully rude. I wonder why he's being so rude to you? He's been essentially utterly disinterested in me, you know - hasn't had more than three words to say to me."

     "I know!" Wendy says in agreement, holding her hand up emphatically, "He has been, completely. I think he was bringing him something, or wanted to ask him a question. I didn't ask, I didn't feel it was my concern."
     "So, I tell him first off I haven't been bothering the other people at the castle there on a perfectly nice winter day having a look around the grounds. It's none of my concern. And, if I had, why should I tell him anyway? Though, thinking about it maybe he would've gone and harassed them instead."
     "And then, up behind me comes this little old man thing. Starts talking about how I'm going to be tasty with this weird voice of his. And Lowe just attacks him. He was carrying around a bloody sword in a car rug, and pulls it out after handing me the rug and the scabbard to stand there and hold like a coat rack."

     "Well, if I run into him, perhaps I'll give him the third degree about what he wants with Davydd," Fiona says with some asperity, then subsides, smiling. "He'd probably have harassed them, from what you describe - or, I don't know, maybe he's just interested in harassing you. Maybe he's sweet on you and doesn't know how to admit it - rather like a first former."
     She blinks, then, mildly. "Oh. So he always carries a sword around in a rug, does he? Um. Well ... you know, at least he - well, I don't know what to say. What happened next?"

     "The bloody thing jumped on my easel. Right on top of it, sitting there, calling me a peach." Wendy points up as though there were an easel in front of her, illustrating it being just slightly higher than her head, "So, I hit him and knocked him off, since I had a scabbard conveniently. And -he- goes off about how whatever it is isn't allowed to say my name. As if he's got some kind of claim on it."

     "Then, Lowe starts glowing, or something, and faces the creature. And it starts to grow, and grow, and get bigger until it's got this... scaly bark hide and is taller than the windows on the castle." Wendy continues, raising her hand as she describes it, "And it used some kind of vines in the meantime to pick Lowe up, throw him into the wall, and pull his sword away, tossing it off in the bed with the bushes."

     "And none of this strikes you at all as unusual, or ... something which might imply that possibly there's something 'else' going on." Fiona doesn't quite voice it as a question; rather, it's a statement, said slowly and measuredly. "Though I suppose it's sweet that he wanted to protect you from the ... thing."

     "It's completely fucking insane!" Wendy says, eyebrows raising, "But that, I'm afraid, isn't even the craziest part."
     "Lowe jumps up, gets his sword back, somehow, I'm not entirely sure, I was preoccupied. And he stabs it through the leg, so it falls over. And I, insane person that I am, grab a bloody planting spike out of the ground, about yay long." She gestures with her hands to just short of a meter, "And run it through the chest while he's got it down."

     Nodding slowly, Fiona straightens up, putting both hands on the small of her back and leaning back slightly to readjust her spine. "Okay. So, essentially, a mythological - or at least a fabulous - creature comes up behind you, greets you by name, and indicates he's going to have you for dinner, and not in the 'would seven o'clock be all right' sense. A different bloke, who to date has been exceptionally rude, sullen and cranky to and around you suddenly turns into the protective white knight and attacks the thing, defending if not your honour then at least your virtue."
     Summarizing is a useful tool at times. She begins pacing back and forth absently, long hair swaying against her hips as she goes. "You, of course, not being the trepid maiden in need of complete and utter rescue, helped him help you - and at the same time, you're giving him odd looks for inviting you to go hunting little tree people?" She turns with a quizzical expression on her face. "Granted, if it's not your cup of tea, I wouldn't go, but I'm not entirely sure if I'm misunderstanding or if you're just ... worried that people will think you're mad. What do you think of it all?"

     "Well, Lowe said my name first, so it probably just heard him." She says easily. "And I think he probably brought it there in the first place. Or was hunting it or something. So it was kind of his obligation to do something. But that's not the end."
     "It's pinned to the ground. And he spouts off some Gaelic about how Morgaine's kiss is cold or sommat, and his sword catches on fire. Blue and flaming as day, and he runs it through the thing's heart. It freezes, he tells me it's probably pretty brittle. And I pull the bloody spike out of the ground and stab it right square through it's noggin." She gestures to the middle of her forehead as she describes it, seeming not quite to be entirely sure that she wasn't just a moron all the way around, "And it shatters into mulch."
     She holds up her hand, gesturing as though that's not the best part yet, "And he says to me, 'Go look at your painting, and where'd you learn to do that?' Like, 'Oh, you ride horses? Where'd you learn to do that then?' Nothing odd, or are you all right, or my what a strange neighborhood."

     "Well, obviously, to him this isn't unusual," Fiona points out contemplatively. "Mind you, it's not what I'd call normal, either, but ... I've seen a few odd things by now, over the past few years. Though I don't tend to get attacked, much - typically whenever I've been in danger of attack, someone else's noticed and - done something about it. Usually the most inconvenient thing possible, mind you, but I suppose it's better than getting hurt. Or killed. Or eaten."
     She tugs one turtleneck-cuff straight in readjustment, looking back to the painting. "Granted, it hasn't been things like that. I tend to run into the ones with more of a sense of humour - Lowe doesn't seem to have much of one. So what do you think, though? Do you think that you're going mad or someone's doped your food whenever he's around? Or do you think that possibly what most people would view as a rational explanation ... mightn't be entirely in the cards, as they say? Mind you - I'm not saying what you should or shouldn't think. I'm just curious."

     "I haven't the foggiest." She says with a sigh, sagging a little now that she's done telling the story. "I'd probably think I made it all up except that pole burned the bloody hell out of my hand." She holds out her right hand for inspection, a rebar like coiled scar running across her palm about three centimeters wide, as though she'd been holding a hot poker, "And he obviously remembers the same thing, or he wouldn't be asking me about it now."
     "And I don't like it at all. I have no idea if these things are just sitting around here waiting for some poor artist to show up to eat on. Or he brought it to show off, or I just happened to be there or... what."

     Fiona nods slowly as she listens to all this, glancing to the scar curiously. "Huh. That's funny. And yeah, it makes sense he wouldn't be nagging you about it if he didn't remember it to nag." She turns to lean back against the side of the car, folding her arms over her chest.
     "Well ... the way I see it is as follows," she begins cautiously. "Obviously, not finding things out isn't doing you much good. So, you've got to know more than you do now - which isn't easy, since most people will think you're barking mad. But there are obviously some options open to you, and the most sensible thing to do is to try and find out what you can. He seems willing to try and tell you things - of course, you're right to be suspicious. In my experience, typically people don't want to tell you anything, they'll be closemouthed and run away. Finding an exception that actually knows anything to tell seems almost mind-boggling. So ... he's either legit, or he's not."

     Wendy brings her hand back and sighs a bit, "Yeah, you're right. He wouldn't hurt me intentionally." She says that as though she's sure it's a fact somehow, "And I don't really think he brought whatever it was there to me to show off or something like that. But he is such an -ass- about everything. When he's not being condescending he's trying to tell me what to do. And he's constantly superior."
     "I have my own run down castle, thank-you-very-much. And I didn't run it down. So I don't know what he's on his horse about."

     "So put him in his place?" Fiona tilts her head quizzically to one side. "I mean ... I don't know. You know him better than I do - but he's male, he's got some sort of connection to you, and from what you're saying, he's not going to hurt you or run away from you or leave you to fend for yourself. That pretty much indicates that you've got all the cards, if you ask me."
     Pausing for a moment, she then frowns. "Of course, there -are- things he could do which don't involve hurting you, so maybe you don't want to go that route. But still - demand to know what he knows. Go for the throat. It took me years to get to where I am now - but I didn't get here by shying away, either. - Does everyone I know have a castle, these days?"

     "Well, they are all over the place here." Wendy says easily, "And it's not like I own mine." That makes sense to her perfectly. But, as strange statements for her go, it's not a very odd one.
     "And he does seem to ignore me unless I run into him somewhere or tell him I'm going to be there. Which is frequent enough that it could be less a coincidence, but it's hard to tell."
     She looks up, "Besides, -you've- been more help so far than he has. Killing things aside. At least you don't act like it's all perfectly normal and I should just not worry about it. Oh, and you don't boss me."

     "Ah, just renting, then," Fiona inquires drolly, "at five hundred a month? Or is this part of 'adopt our national landscape' month?" She shakes her head, setting the issue aside. There's plenty else to be addressed, after all. "So he ignores you - he nonetheless is obviously not indifferent to you, or he wouldn't talk to you. I mean, I've met him before - but he doesn't turn up where I am, and he's had nothing to say to me. But then - I don't know that I'd have much to say to him, at this point. Nothing he'd want to hear, certainly."
     There's a pause as she taps her chin. "The problem is - well, I don't think you're mad, I've seen too much weird shite lately to think you're mad - but I don't really know all that much yet, either. As for bossing you," she snorts, "I hate to be ordered about. I'll give suggestions, certainly, but unless it's a case of 'get away from there NOW or you'll die', I don't like to give orders. I doubt you'll see me kill anything, though." She ponders. "Well. Maybe wasps. I dislike wasps immensely."

     "Well, he apparently needs someone to go out hunting things with him if you want to give it a go." Wendy says, re killing things, "It certainly wasn't something I'd go out looking for. At least I don't think I would, anyway. I'd rather be painting. Or... not killing things and having my hand blistered."
     "I suppose I could try talking to him. He drives me batty, and it gets harder and harder for me to be polite to him about it, but I don't think he's trying to be mean. Most of the time, at any rate. Just irksome." She frowns and rubs her hand again, "Maybe I'll write him a note and tell him I'll be down next time and we can get a lunch or something. Someplace not his poor dilapidated castle but where he doesn't feel obligated to be cryptic. Not that anybody around here -doesn't- think he's a loon."

     There's a faintly humourous chuckle from Fiona, and she shakes her head. "I'll leave killing things to the boys until I know more about it, thanks - you have reason to trust Lowe. I don't." Especially when he's going to definitely be wielding sharp pointy objects that might or might not burst into flame.
     "Tell you what," she continues, "why don't you set it up to meet him again - see how it goes? If you want, I'll try to come along, though I can't guarantee my availability - just, send word to Powis if you don't want to call, because I'm no longer where I was." In any sense of the word. "But why bother being polite? If he's spoiling for a fight - give him one. Only," she smiles faintly, "not on his terms."

     She grins a little and gets up out of the dirt on the road, picking up the canvases to take to the spot she picked out under the tree, "Well, sometimes I'm probably less than polite already. Not that he doesn't deserve it." Wendy shakes her head, "I don't understand that either. I never have trouble getting on with people. Even rude people at the house I'm fine with. I just take a diplomatic approach, pretend they've some strange alien background that causes them to ask strange questions, and move on."
     Sitting down in the grass next to the painting box and easel combo she brought over, she opens the case and takes out a sketch pad and a box of pencils, setting it out for you if you like. Getting her box of paints and palate after. "It's just queer all the way 'round."

     "Well, it's going to be queer until you either get used to it," Fiona observes, "or distance yourself from it. That's just the way it works - whether it's weird stuff like this or dealing with any foreign culture, really. But so far, he's not trying to kill you, and in his odd sort of way, seems to want to help you. While it could just be he wants to sell you into white slavery, it doesn't sound like it so far..."
     She settles onto the grass, picking up the pad and pencils and settling them on her lap. "Have you had anything else odd happen? I mean, not that this isn't enough - but in the interests of collecting data, it's probably a good idea to examine everything. Anything, for that matter, which hasn't directly involved that fellow? Maybe we can at least find out if he's the key to it or not."

     Closing the box again and latching it she turns it over to muck around with the sliding stand on the back, extending it so that the box itself acts as the easel backing and stands up on legs in the grass as she thinks, "Well, there was the fellow who kept popping into my sketches at Stonehenge. That was odd. And when it moved. That was even more odd. And if you hadn't seen it I would've thought I'd just made it up."
     She picks up a canvas and sets it on the stand, already primed and ready to be painted on. "I can't think of anything else though, really. That I'd think was out of place at least, I don't know about other people." Her shoulders shrug, "You said strange things happened to you though?"

     "Just a few," Fiona agrees with a slight shrug. "Bleeding trees, I got kidnapped once, saw someone turn from a cat to a person... let myself be hunted on a wager through London, once, by ... well, let's not talk about that." She prims up her lips for a moment in an almost librarian-like fashion. "But no, you didn't just make it up; so really, you get to decide, in a way, what you want to do about it."
     She finally flips open the pad, picking up a pencil and fiddling with it for a moment. "The odd stuff's out there - I don't know how easy it is to just turn it off. I tried at one point, but not very hard - once I knew it was out there, I ... couldn't really shut it out, either. Fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, in a way."

     She sits down again on the ground and starts putting paints on her palate. Small amounts of all the colors in the box are set apart from each other, leaving the large area in the middle with its dried paint free of new shades for the moment. In the middle large portions of white and black, the two largest tubes, are squirted out with a wet squishy noise.
     Her nose wrinkles at your list of things, "That sounds scary, really. Kidnapped? And hunted? And bleeding trees?" She sticks her tongue out briefly in a disgusted expression at that idea. "At least I've only got trees trying to eat me and infrequently moving pictures." She stands again, taking a water bottle covered in paint out of the grass with a strange contraption on it that it seems hooks over the arm of the easel with a clip. "Oh, and a brooding handsome man who can't take care of his castle giving me cryptic commentary on things."

     There's a low chuckle from the woman with the sketch pad, and she shakes her head with a jingling of bells. "It wasn't very much fun," Fiona agrees. "I spent a lot of time scared and angry. I'm still not exactly confident of my knowledge or ability, but ... I'm less scared. I know more than I did, which helps. It helps to not be alone in it - when you feel like you don't have help, and no one who is willing to help you is someone you can relate to, well, then you're really buggered up, aren't you?"
     Glancing back over her shoulder, Fiona shrugs. "I don't know what's up with Lowe. I can try asking around, but ... I don't exactly have a guide to 'Who's Who In The World of the Weird', either. So hasn't he told you anything? Or is he basically refusing to until you do it on his terms, or ... what? What -do- you think of all of this, anyway?"

     "Well, I wasn't entirely sure what to do about hacking up a tree thing in the palace gardens." Wendy says, brush coming off the stand in front of the canvas and dipped in the narrow neck of the water bottle to get the bristles wet. "I could've gone to talk to him about it, but he'd been so bossy."
     Blue and white mix together in ratios over a few seconds until they are the perfect shade of the sky. And when the top of the canvas is covered, it's almost as though it disappears into the light itself, like she's painting it out of existence. "And I guess I was hoping it'd just go away. Or that it was all him. Or... I dunno. And no, I can tell you everything he's told me. If I make any money off of painting his castle he wants a some. He got his name on the rave circuit, which is one of the stupidest lines I've ever heard. He used to know a Gwendolyn. And Llewellyn told me they're friends. That's it." She keeps drawing the brush through paint and making the top of the white block fade away, "Oh, and that he's got a friend on Oslo."
     "Well... I mean... I can't figure out what to think." She stops painting in the sky and turns back towards you a bit, her expression thoughtful, curls getting picked up by the breeze every now and again and rearranged, "There's a part of me I guess that thinks it's all just made up. Like I'm in a game of make-believe or something. And then... I'm not surprised? That's weird, probably."

     "Some people always hope for, on some level, always know that there's more to the world than conventional wisdom suggests," Fiona remarks, absently sketching a few lines onto the paper. "Whether or not it's true. Obviously, if you really want to, you can likely choose not to accept what's happening, find a way to ... make it go away. I don't recommend it, myself - truth is important to me. If I know something's out there, I've got to find out what the real deal is. But that doesn't work for everybody. So first you need to decide ... in a way, which world you want to live in. You can live in both, but not if you're not willing to acknowledge the new stuff; you'll only make yourself and everybody around you unhappy."
     She glances down to the pad blankly. Where did that come from? "Anyway," she continues, "I can ask Davydd about it, but I don't know how much he'll actually know - Davydd's friends with an awful lot of people. The man makes friends the way you or I might have breakfast, I sometimes think. Though," she smiles faintly, "he and I aren't friends, as it happens. As for Lowe - well, maybe he knows something about you, or something related to you; if you want, for a lark, ask him about an Isabel. If the name means nothing to him, then I'm entirely off base anyway, like as not - and then we can pick a different strategy. Of course, for all I know, he knows all about all sorts of things." She shrugs, slightly. "But the first step is to ... decide which you want : this world, that world, or both. I'm a have your cake and eat it too sort, myself."

     Nodding briefly, Wendy turns back to finish with the sky, tilting her head slightly to look at it as though she's deciding if she likes it or not. "I don't think I want to make it go away... But I want it to make some kind of sense, at least. Do I need to be worried about tree things jumping out about me all over the place, for example. Or was it a strange isolated incident like... getting a free entree with purchase." She turns over her shoulder again, "Oh, I forgot about the scones. Help yourself."
     The brush goes into the water and is shaken around, turning the clear liquid a cloudy blue lighter than the sky behind it, "He's very friendly, certainly, which I imagine gets people to like him right off. Or, at least he was to me anyway." She draws the brush along the lip of the bottle and takes a touch of black and more white and mixes it in with green, starting to draw in hills. Almost as though now the painting matches with the horizon, turning into a window of blue and green spaces. "But he knows something or other, or he wouldn't be so persistent. Or maybe he fancies me, I suppose, but it seems an odd way to fancy someone."

     Fiona blinks slowly. "Well, I'm sure that you must be confused. But ... err, what?" She looks a bit confused herself. "He was friendly and knows something so is being persistent because he fancies you? Are we talking about Davydd or Lowe?" She nods, reaching for the scones slowly, fumbling the bag open.
     "If I had to make a guess, I'd say that while Lowe didn't bring that... thing with him, it was likely watching the area for signs of him, and when it saw you, decided a meal on the hoof was better than no meal at all. Still, it does seem very strange that it would attack you there, of all places." She frowns for a moment, glancing up at the sky. "Really, if I were you, I'd just go to that run-down castle of his and demand some answers. If the answers you get make sense or not, you can then judge from there - but until you've got that information, there isn't an awful lot you can do. And I don't know anything about what's going on with you; it doesn't sound precisely like what I've had happen to me, though there's ... some overlap. I don't know of how much direct use my experience will be in this."

     "Oh, Lowe. Llewellyn doesn't fancy me. Or at least I certainly don't think so." Wendy says easily, rinsing out her brush again in the water. The painting gets another hard look. Almost as though it's not quite behaving for her, though it seems to pass. She leaves it in the bottle, sitting down and moving her palate out of the way as she reaches over for the scone bag, "But he might not. I've never been very good with boys. Whatever age they are."
     "But yours is going better now? Whatever... it is and all." She pulls one of the biscuits out and breaks off a corner, nibbling on it a moment before she finishes it in one bite. Poking the top of the bag open a bit more, she fishes out some small honey packets, offering one over while she chews.

     "If Davydd fancies you, he's going to be in for some severe injury," Fiona mutters, more to herself than anything, though not as if she's terribly angry. "I don't know - maybe Lowe does. There's really only one way to be sure, and even that won't tell you for certain - just come right out and ask him if he does or not. But that's going to be my answer for everything, I suspect - ask him, and then measure the answer you get."
     She takes one of the scones, accepting the honey packet as well, squeezing honey over the baked treat carefully. "Mine's going a bit better. I don't have, apparently, anyone trying to kill me. My life's a lot stabler than it was - well, I'm unemployed, but you know, I'd been seriously considering quitting anyway. I wasn't awfully happy, and the job was a symptom of my trying to ... sort things out and get away from it all. I don't need to do that anymore. There's still a lot I don't know, of course. - So, what're you going to do?"

     "Oh, he'd just make something up even if I did ask him I'm sure." She says easily, opening one of the packets herself and spreading some over the end of the scone, "And honestly, that I'm not sure if I want to know. If he did, he'd probably assume that I did back since I asked. Or come out and ask me first. And... So far I think he's a little off. Okay, a lot off." She bites off the end of the scone daintily and chews it for a moment before going on, "But I think I will talk to him. Someplace other than the castle, though, I haven't decided if I like it or not. Which is odd, normally I like them right off. I think I don't like it, really. At all."
     She tilts her head a bit thinking about that, as though it's only just struck her. "No... I don't like it. It's... I dunno, but I don't."
     She pulls a flower out of the grass and twirls it between two of her fingers, "What're you going to do? Find another job? Or do something freelance? Or just not worry about it for a bit?" She takes another bite of her scone, sticking the flower behind her ear to take up the honey packet again and spread more over the next bite, getting the treat half finished.

     "Men, what can you do," Fiona murmurs with a small smile and a shake of her head. "Though agreed, meeting him on neutral territory sounds like a good idea - somewhere not ... charged, I guess you could say. Why not arrange a meeting with him in front of the bakery? If he can resist good fresh-baked desserts, then you'll know he's evil and to have nothing further to do with him."
     Tilting her head curiously, she looks up from her scone. "What's with the castle? Creepy vibes? And no, I'm just not going to worry about it for a while. It's not about the money, anyway - but I've got to talk it out first, we'd been discussing some potential plans, and ... well, I don't know. I'll have to check on things. I don't see much point in worrying about it, I was furiously upset at first - still a bit worried about other stuff, but ... life is busy and rather full, right now."

     "No, it's not creepy. Most of the people in Welshpool seem to think it is, which I don't get. It's a lovely castle. Except that he let it fall down. But other than that, architecturally speaking it's very nice. For a ruin." She takes another bite, considering over the honey and bread. The packet, apparently, is empty. And so she puts it on the ground next to the bag as she chews, trying to put into words whatever it is that she's feeling. "I just... Well. I hate it, actually."
     That seems to startle her too. Standing up after popping the last bit of scone into her mouth, she wipes her hands off on her jeans and goes over to get her brush out of the water, nodding, "Yeh. I... hate it. Like... Like that girl in high school who used to get everybody to call me 'Wacky Wendy'. Or those people on tele who talk about how girls shouldn't do football." She pauses again, looking back with even more confusion than she showed when she was describing the tree creature attacking her at Powys, "But, I like castles. I mean, I always like castles. I've never -not- liked a castle before."

     Fiona nods slowly. "Well, seeing as so far you don't seem utterly irrational, just a bit ... um. Under the circumstances, I'd say that given as the other things you mention hating there's a logical and known reason for it, there's likely something you're picking up on with regards to this castle which is why you hate it. What, I don't know - from the sound of it, you've got the answers to that, not me."
     She takes a bite of scone, setting the rest down. "Mmph. Anyway, the real thing at this point is going to be getting you some answers. I don't know anything about this castle; have you tried doing research on its history, maybe? If nothing else, the ability to throw information at Lowe the next time he starts sneering..."

     "Oh, I know all kinds of things about it. It's almost as old as mine. Built back when the clans were still battling it out with relative regularity." Wendy says easily, dipping her brush into the grey to start painting in the base of the bridge. "It was the precursor to Powys. More strategic for the time it was built, but less later on which is why I'd assume it was left to fall down the way it has been. And it used to be quite defensible. I have a list of the wars it was in someplace. There's a cave under it, some people wanted to excavate it but the owners of the property wouldn't let them. They thought there was early evidence of settlement or some such."
     She rinses the brush out and goes back to the green, putting in the other side of the hill so that there's a blue space. Presumably what will eventually become the stream. "And more details on bits about construction in that period, but nothing interesting. I somehow don't think he'll care much that I know that." She pauses again, looking back, "You know, I liked it when I was checking it out to come up and do sketches. It seemed like a nice little quaint village castle. And I even liked it just fine when I was drawing it. It wasn't until after I saw him in it."

     "It wasn't ... okay, I'm a bit confused," Fiona answers, holding up one hand, then wiping it off on her jeans. "Until you saw him in it? Could you elaborate a little bit, please?"

     She sticks her brush back in the water again, not having finished the green bits yet, but apparently more interested in this little discussion instead. "I always do a little research on castles before I come up to paint them. Look at photos, histories, that kind of thing. I've got dozens of books so it's not terribly difficult. People like it better if you have some idea of what you're painting when you come to talk to them about it. Shows respect and all. Plus, I just like it, normally I know most of what I'm going to before I even decide where I'm going. I just browse over it again to refresh and all."
     "So, I came across his and thought it'd fit in with that period that I'm doing. Kind of match up nicely with Dienfwyr. So up I come. Find the place easy enough, everybody's willing to tell you all kinds of spooky tales about it. And I sketched it out up on the hill before I came down to give it a knock and see if anybody was home."

     "Fair enough," Fiona agrees. "I see where you're coming from. I'm just curious - so, anyway, go on." She settles back, finishing brushing crumbs from her hands, then picking up the sketchpad again. "What happened then?"

     "So he comes out. Actually, he came out before I got down to knock, now that I think about it, didn't come down the drive much at all, but he was out the door before I got there. Weird enough, maybe he was just going for dinner or somethin. Anyway." She waves a hand dismissing the whole question, "He came out to be glowry and rude and I thought I knew him from someplace. He didn't think so. Told me that bit about the raver scene and his name. The whole bit about the giving him a cut of the drawings. Took the sketch I'd done for him, and I left."
     She shrugs a little, "I hadn't really thought about the castle specifically again until just now, but... Yeh, I really don't like it at all anymore."

     "Bad associations with him, maybe," Fiona suggests. "But ... you thought you knew him? What about that? I mean, he said he didn't think so - but he could've been lying, after all. They do that. So what happened the next time you ran into him?"

     "Well, I don't hate -him-, I just find him annoying. He pisses me off, more than anything else." Wendy says easily, "And yeah, he looked... familiar or something. Nearest I can figure I might've seen him in Caermarthen at a gallery in passing or something. I don't think he was lying, he's really bad at it, actually. Does this bit with his eyebrows."
     "And the next time I saw him was at Powys with the tree thing. And the owning my name." She shrugs, "You were there the time after that, and then I met up with him at the pub. So, there's only the four times. He just always comes up in conversation around here, more than anything."

     "Remind me to watch his eyebrows next time I talk to him, if I ever do again," Fiona murmurs with a small grin. "Well, that's two more times than I've met him - I met him the once with you, and once when I was in France - Davydd was there that time, too. He and I sort of ended up being inadvertent solidarity against strange people - I think that was the first time Davydd actually felt sorry for me, though I'm not entirely sure why. I left in a bit of a hurry, I think - I don't really remember."

     Wendy grins a bit and goes back to get her brush again, shaking it around in the water before pulling it back to get another color and add in more detail. The image is starting to take shape, though it's not finished yet. "Well, I can understand why some people would think he's pretentious. I think he's pretentious. And sometimes that gets mixed up with creepy. He just doesn't know how to talk to people, I'm guessing. He couldn't be all bad if Llewellyn likes him though. I mean, they're neighbors, but he got a bit defensive on his behalf when I was talking about him last time I was up there."
     Darker black lines are added in, shadows under the bridge taking shape in blobs against the blue. A tree starts to slide in between brush strokes and rinsings. "I don't like acrylics as much as watercolours." She says absently, frowning a little at the painting, "I can never quite get them to behave the way I want. Maybe I'm trying to use them the same way or somethin." She shakes the brush in the water, which is now a strange dark brown shade, and steps back a little.

     "Davydd is very loyal and caring in an awful lot of ways," Fiona answers, glancing down at the pad for a long moment. "I don't know what the situation is, with Lowe - he doesn't seem to want to talk to most people. I could try talking to him for you if you like, but I suspect that wouldn't work awfully well. For one thing," she smiles faintly, "I don't even know where he lives, let alone his phone number. Though he did invite me to come by for a visit once I got back from France. Judging by his reception to me the other day, though... well, I doubt he was sincere."
     She glances up, looking over at the painting. "I don't know how they work, really. I worked more with pastels than acrylics or oils, though I did some watercolours." She makes a slight face. "Terribly refined, don't you know."

     "He's just down the road, it's not hard to find. You could ask in town and they'd point you over with whispers and tell you not to go down the hill." Wendy says, stepping back in and doing some more on the piece, "And I think I can manage, I should probably do it myself in any case. I don't even know what I'm going to ask him yet anyway. Other than why he uses that name of all things. I suppose it's not so bad as made up names go, really. He could've tried to be one of those loons who calls themself Pendragon."
     The flowers start to go in on the hills now that they've dried, and suddenly, it's finished. Or, at least it seems to be finished. Wendy puts the brush in the bottle and leaves it, standing back again and giving it a queer look, "Okay, some of those flowers aren't there. Nice enough flowers and all, but I don't know why I'd stick them in like that." What might be more to the point to ask would be why Davydd and Lowe are dressed like lords in the stream fighting a troll beast under the bridge. But... they're not really there... and then they are... like an after image, superimposed over the tranquil landscape underneath.

     There's a blink as Fiona straightens to look over at the picture. "Um," she says intelligently. "Ah. Well. that's ... an interesting sort of picture. I like what you've done with the ... armor." That sounds impossibly lame, and she knows it, to judge by her expression. "...I think you should talk to Lowe. Soon."

     Her eyebrows go up at that, looking back over to the painting as though you must be seeing something totally different than she is. Which, likely, is true. "Um... it's a bridge... and flowers... Not the best bridge I've ever seen. Or painted really. But at least it's not a three way bridge?" She tries to make a joke maybe, since your expression is so odd, and she isn't entirely inclined to disbelieve that you're right and she's wrong.
     She looks over at your sketchpad to see what you're doing. Maybe there's something on there that makes it make sense instead. Or at least a clue.

     On the sketchpad in Fiona's lap there's a picture forming in pencil of a man. He's garbed in what looks like leather, his hair long and wavy, inclined towards curls. He appears to be asleep on his side, curved protectively around a polished bow which has seen some use in the past, features obscured by one arm pulled over his eyes.
     "That's ... not what I'm seeing," Fiona says slowly, still staring at the conglomerate of wet paint. "I mean - maybe I'm going nuts or someone sprinkled pixy dust on my scone before I ate it - you never know - but ... here, try this. Try - squinting at it, with your eyes half-closed, and taking a step back, then looking at it properly."

     Wendy wipes her slightly painted fingers off on her overalls, stepping back even more so she's next to where you're sitting. Position can be everything with a painting after all. She squints at it, tilts her head, blinks a little and looks again. Frowning, she shakes her head, "It's a bridge?"
     She sighs and tries again, "You're the second person to do that, though. Well, Llewellyn was kind of surprised by the one I did of his castle, but I thought he just figured I wasn't any good."
     She closes her eyes, and tries again, squinting even harder, turning a bit, and opening them again. Though, it doesn't seem to be having much effect by what she's doing.

     "Surprised in what way? I mean ... I'll talk to him about it when I get home if you like." Fiona frowns at the painting one last time, then looks back up. "I don't know what to tell you - I don't know why I see this and you don't. But it's ... a bridge, yes. There's just more to it than just a bridge."

     She frowns, apparently quitting for the moment and rubbing her temples a little as though she was concentrating so hard it's starting to give her a headache. "Well, he was... mesmerized? He stared at it a while. Kind of like I'd brought in a Rembrandt or some such. And then he said nobody else had captured it the way I had, so I figured he just meant that he liked it a lot. It was one of my better ones, I took a couple days on it, normally I just spend an afternoon."
     "And Lowe looked like he couldn't be more surprised if I'd broad-sided him with a large heavy post upside his noggin. He quit talking in the middle of a sentence and didn't quite get back where he was going again. But, it was the same painting, I figured he thought I was only okay, since he just had a sketch to go by before." She frowns, "Then he tried to get me to look at it again after the fighting was over with. But I was more concerned about my hand. And leaving."

     "Well - I'd say that obviously there's something the three of us see in these paintings, quite literally, that you're not. If I were you, I'd be more interested in finding out -why- you're putting it in and yet not seeing it - when we so clearly do. Though I shouldn't speak for Davydd; he might, after all, have been being completely literal." Fiona smiles faintly, giving her head a small shake. "So what do you want to do about it?"

     Wendy sighs, "I suppose I'll just have to go talk to him. Which I'd already decided to do. So... the same thing. I mean, if you can't explain it, and I can't explain it, and we know he seems to have seen something... Maybe he can explain it." She frowns, "Or maybe it's all his fault."
     Picking up her palate from the grass again, she sighs, "It's probably not. But, anyway, it's a plan?" She starts to pack up the rest of her things, setting the painting off to the side face up to dry without touching the face as the image solidifies a little more over the top as though it's drying at the same time, less fuzzy around the edges. And going into the back seat to finish all that business on its own where she doesn't have to look at it.

Posted by rowan at March 22, 2004 11:41 PM