Of course, underneath the tweeds and silks, she's a lot less comfortable.... Was this a good idea? I feel like a circus sideshow freak. Maybe I should've worn the leather instead.

No more will the Wolfe howl.
I am half of a whole.

     And he rises, arm slipping around her waist. "Maybe you can change my religion." And he grins at himself.

     If a raven can really look like a drowned rat, then this raven achieves it, royal girth or no. He's as big as a hawk, really. A true rook. As you speak, he tilts his head at you, rocks back and forth on his taloned -- quite formidable at that -- and then he hops down...

      "Tell him I am here and ease his worried heart," Galadriel all but sings out. "And tell him that... for Heaven's sake," a ribald twist of his mouth at the pun, "... he should join me here and pull up a carpet..."

     "I don't mind being asked, but unless there is going to be some sort of action, I really must insist that you make up your mind. I was in the middle of a dinner party. Do you know how long it takes to have a white dragon actually answer an RSVP? No, I should think not.

     In more sobriety, then : you had the opportunity to take from her much of herself - of her mind, of her body, of her heart, of her soul. For whatever reasons of your own, you refrained, and for that, I thank you.

     Arms go wide, green eyes -- Cymru green -- go wide as well. And so too the smile. A triad reaction, how fitting. "Mad Peter!" he exclaims, the whiskey, brandy, scotch and mead -- yes, mead -- getting the best of him for a moment. "Boyos, look there... my old soothsayer, messenger of The Lady...go greet a friend..."

     He's a small man, topping five feet only by perhaps four inches, and his storm-grey eyes crinkle as he regards the Norman. "It has been a few years, hasn't it, lord."

     "Holy shit," Davydd thinks to say, and his hand comes up and rubs his unbearded chin. "I see what you mean. Not saying you look bad, you're just very..... puckish. Huh."

     Shite. You immortal fuck, I forget you can't move. The light is so bright. I can feel it. I can see it with my eyes closed. Now I can't tell if they're opened or closed. There's nothing but light. Shite. And heat. Oh shit, this is what it feels like. I'm going to be a pile of ash on the carpet. The fucking cat's probably going to use me as a sandbox. Fucking cat. Fucking exploding in sunlight vampire curse bullshit.

     So this is goodbye, then. And hello. And all I may do is wait... wait and see... I thought my destiny was done eight hundred years ago. Thwarted by the Roman, I thought. But maybe that was all just a long preparation...

     Sometimes I don't know if the music I'm hearing is actually playing softly in the background, or maybe in the neighbor's bedroom, or if it's something ringing in my ears. It starts when I speak your name around your tongue and it rolls like the sea. Right over me.

     Standing at the edge of the awning as the water billows around him and soaks his heavy cloak is a tall figure that seems to have stepped right out of European folk lore, or an American pulp serial.

     She's been crying, and her eyes have that slight hint of puffiness - but the most recent tears were enough ago that maybe it could just pass as exhaustion. Maybe.

     She's been considering it for days, now. Weeks. Something like that - some sort of human time scale which is meaningless, and logically, she knows to be meaningless, to him

     Somewhere not too far away, wandering about in the inclement season, is a well-dressed man, vestments suited for the weather, with a long overcoat of heavy wool, beneath this a white turtleneck of handwoven knit, wool taken from the backs of Welsh sheep and made specifically for him.

     The song, well - it grants insight, in part, perhaps, but there's hesitation paired with it. No jumping to hasty conclusions, here. When the song morphs, she smiles faintly, though a troubled expression still holds on her face. Maybe, maybe tonight, she'll tell him.

     "So...we're straight, I think. As straight as two hopelessly crooked things can be," he rumbles, then laughs.

     What else is a Celt to do when heartbroken and brooding but sing? Hell, we invented the lament. No one sorrows like a Welshman. Not even an Irishman...

     William inclines his head again, his eyes drifting over you. "You wish to see. You fear what you may see. Tell me... is the price of seeing more costly than the price of being blind?"

     Ships passing in the night, I think they call it. Maybe you will signal with flare. Maybe ships will come together with cannons, broadside encounters, or maybe the captains will merely lift their hands and wave. We never know, we can only make the waves lift, the wind shift and hold the clouds for a moment at bay...

     The paper's folded a few times, shoved into a pocket, and she climbs onto the ledge, poised there for a moment with a quick glance around. And then ...