1541/Fairy House Guest

Fairy House Guest
Date of Scene:	06 May 2020
Location:	Clea's apartment at the Dakota
Synopsis:	Clea's guest, Glamour, shares her tales of.. not... quite heroics and pint sized frustrations.
Cast of Characters:	Glamour, Clea

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Glamour has posed:
In the approaching two months that Clea has known Glamour since putting an end to her miniature 'reign of terorr', such as it was, she has had a fairy house guest.

Right now, the softly-blue-glowing, six inch tall faerue islaying on the back of the sofa in the center, a giant piece of popcorn (just the one!) sitting next to her as she entertains herself with a movie. Clea, of course, had left the telvision on for her and it's presently on one of the many and myried movie channels. More specifically, the one that Clea left it on when she left for her own business and Glamour wasn't going to go out in an attempt at 'heroing'.

The one piece of popcorn is really all she needs.

Clea has posed:
In fairness, attempting to terrorize Clea takes actual work for the most part. Given who she overthrew, small matters might be overlooked as minor bouts of mischief. Not that she tolerates the escalation beyond that, but her temperament far prefers rewarding positive behaviour and reinforcing how she would like things to be. Her apartment in the Dakota isn't large, to be sure. The artists living in the famed building from its inception cared more about location and expression than vast sprawls of estate, like the Millionaires' Row and the foreign billionaires so obsessed about having their towers of wealth and power looming over Central Park. For an interdimensional royal with potent magical powers, this might be a step down. Hardly. It has pretty houseplants to soften the view, many of them chosen for their intricate variegated leaves, coloured petals, or attractive shape. It has its share of acquisitions from overseas to always be interesting, Tibetan prayer bowl on a shelf or a gorgeously woven textile used as an accent piece -- or the comfiest of blankets, if one is only six inches tall. Other bric-a-brac is more intriguing, like the ancient, chipped sculpture of a winged goddess probably from somewhere in the Near East, or the abundant fruit that /always/ shows up. Always. It's fresh and flavourful, if not always perfect in appearance. Glamour has her opportunities for those, as tiny slivers of red mango or thimblefuls of breadfruit are frequently left in preparations when she makes her own meals. And, for the most part, other small efforts to make her petite guest comfortable occur with renough regularity.

The television does respond to voice commands, being top of the line and technically outside almost anything available on the market. Blessings, as it were. A piped voice asking to watch HBO or Hallmark is just as possible. She herself prefers classics -- actual good ones, not only black and white movies. Trashy sci-fi marathons aren't really the thing of a girl who can speak to them a bit better than some. Still, the array of a comedy are provided.

Mischief to amuse the mischievous?

Glamour has posed:
It's been no small (ha!) point of frustration for Glamour that her reduced size has made much of modern life unlivable and unavigatable for her, so these small (again ha!) concessions to her tiny problem are well adored by her. Still, *popcorn* is a good thing, but eventually, her attention wanders from the movei. It's a bit like having a fly -- a glowing blue fly of some size -- zipping around one's apartment. The flutter of gossamer, flexible dragonfly things is audible as she does laps around the apartment to entertain herself. Invest igating things, certainlky, like Tibetan prayer bowls and goregously woven textiles. After Clea's previous displays of power, terrorizing her in any way is the furthest thing from her agenda anyway. She's kind of terrifying in and of herself.

"Oi. To think my life would be reduced to this," peeps the fairy. "The flight is fun, at least," she adds, alighting on a shelf and illumating it with her presence. She's an excellent nightlight.

Clea has posed:
The world is unfair to those outside a 5'5" to 6'0" window. Ask anyone tall or any child how it feels to constantly use a stool. Those with disabilities feel it further, but to be enormous or tiny? These are inconceivable in a world of swishing automatic doors and giant cutlery, buttons and knobs and twitchy electronics unable to register iddy-biddy voices, but somehow dogs. Right, because the barking dog just asked Siri or Lex to turn on the smart-stove at 400' instead of 'turn on station 40.'

Popcorn is a good thing. Buttery or kettle corn, dusted in powdered cheese or simply plain, it does a tiny body good. Clea tends in her way to favour foods that are more natural than processed, albeit she doesn't /really/ have to eat any of them. A small ramekin of creme brulee in the fridge, however, might be a horrible taunt for a faerie with a high metabolic rate. Look, it's living sugar, just waiting for her to fall in. Or what about those tarts with the fresh strawberries and raspberries on top, probably plucked from a fancy grocer? Mmmm.

Investigate all she likes, there /are/ traces of magic. Of course, the friendly 'misbehaviour' wisp that pops up and turns colours to warn of misbehaviour. The wards around the place, lending privacy. Not a great deal, though, that screams 'I could flatten you with a shout' except for Clea herself. She's a goddamn bonfire in a dark forest, or a lighthouse on the dark night of a mostly non-magical population, standing out for miles. Literally miles to some mystics. Thus when she comes home, it's not hard for a sensitive to know. Still! Her apartment is sunny and comfy, above all things. Good for someone who wants to fly or sleep in a sash of silk woven around the ceiling. It's a bit of an obstacle course on the bookshelves, but it counts.

The television bursts with laughter at the prat fall errors of another unsuspecting person, tumbling over a sofa and landing at a delirious angle. Queue startled couple-that-hides-being-a-couple running out from the kitchen and oops, there is the boss they hide it from.

Excellent light, excellent lamp, and then what? The melody of the elevator chimes outside, and with it, Clea's invariable bright presence is probably soon enough known.

Glamour has posed:
The worst part is that she doesn't actually need to eat! Instead, Glamour can just... eat. Like a proper faerie. Gluttons, one and all.

The wisps are given flat looks. She's used to their presence, but well, she dare not test her host's boundaries. She's been polite enough to let her get on with her notions of 'superheroics', after all. What else is one to dop when they're suddenly bequeathed all the power of several fae and no idea of how to use it?

This is something they've discussed before, after all.

The chime of the elevator distracts her from thoughts of food and movie and she positions herself to spin in circles while waiting for the door to inevitably open.

" "HI CLEA," she pipes up upon her arrival, once she's through the door. "I was wondering when you'd get back. I can only watch so many movies in a day before even I go completely batty." A pause. She spins around, getting a look at her own wings, "I suppose 'batty' is an inappropriate description at this point."

Clea has posed:
Eat, eat, eat. Creatures of sin! And so much sin in New York, from tiramisu to pizza slices to noodles of every variety. Just about every culture that exists has a presence here, and short of baked termites, everyone can have a go.

There are no footsteps up the stairs from the last floor, for the lady in question... she floats. Constantly, unless tethered to earth. Any wonder she's fond of a faerie? Those dragonfly wings are not necessary for the big one to float, otherwise she wouldn't ever fit through a door -- or she might knock someone over completely. Oops, bad in a populated center. Still, though, the fires of her inner being are hard to ignore unless suppressed, and for once Clea can let her hair down a little.

Through the door, then, the spin of air setting up little whorls and gyres.

The piped cheer is one that she greets in kind: "Hello!" The English she speaks sounds more English English rather than American accent. "Hello, my shining friend! How are you? I am sorry to take so long. How has the day treated you?"

Glamour has posed:
If you'd asked her a few months ago if she ever dreamed she'd be hanging out with someone like Clea, the person she was then would've laughed at them. This person, however, is just grateful to have actual, physical company that isn't weirded out by her presence. Oh, sure, she can make herself large *temporarily*, but it isn't exactly the same thing.

A little spin in the air that sends up a plume of dust around her, sparkling in the interior lighting. She always glows. And she always sparkles. Best nightlight.

"It would be better if I wasn't a fairy but, you know, beggars can't be choosers, I guess. How are you doing? Any trouble from, what'd you call him again... the dread doormat?"

Clea has posed:
Pale blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders in waves, pushed back off her face. Clea has slightly anachronistic tastes in hairstyle, at least; she looks like a siren from another age, currently about the late 60s, but far more up to date in everything else. That her hair turns into perfect waves and curls is just proof she is not human. Human hair days are frizz and fuss, but not her. Oh well, it makes up for being banished by the average cleric or wizard. Right?

Sparkles and dust dances in the air, and the petite figure flying off leads the sorceress in. She shuts the door behind her, not even bothering to lock it. The day's activities apparently include pastries, because she sets the box aside. Tea rests in the same reusable bag, a hissing shimmer in a wrapped paper bag with a tight seal to keep the loose leaf fresh. "Making the most of opportunities as they come, which led me into a corner of the city I have yet to be. Morningside Heights, have you heard of it? Many young people there. I am told there is an excellent school for studies." Columbia, of course, but she still needs to take in so much! "I have seen so many people coming and going. It's quite remarkable to watch, and everyone was rather friendly by the city's standards. I have never asked, were you native to New York and I tell you things you already know?" Her brows lift, a worried circle made of her lips. It's polite, of course, to inquire.

Nonetheless, she pulls off her coat and reveals the fluttering skirt and simple black top of her attire, hanging up the garment she really doesn't need except to avoid being rained on. "No trouble from him, no. That was last week, and they were dealt with handily. Concerning; he usually sends overwhelming force. No such troubles for you, I should wonder? You do not need anything yet?" It's understood she can't really flutter out to the store and seize an apple or something.

Glamour has posed:
"I mean, what could I need?" says Glamour, lifting her shoulders in a hapless shurg after she finishes her last mid-air twirl. Her voice is what one would expect a faerie's to be: a little high pitched and sounding just a *tiny* bit like bells. It's all Disney's fault, really, but she isn't aboput to come out and *say* that. Rather, she listens to what Clea has to say and then hovers, wings fluttering away tirelessly of their own accord as she bobs and sways slightly in the air.

"Wasn't a native, no. So much to do and see. I'm a transplant. My family's back on the *other* coast and I have no idea how I'm even going to deal with that right now. We're out of touch but that's not gonna be forever. I mean, right now I'm not even a missing person... I think. I have no idea if I am actually. I should look into that, come to think of it." She's been a bit preoccipied to consider that. Who can blame her? A hand goes to her chin.

Clea has posed:
"Clothing? Books? A mana decanter, alcohol, a very small projected monitor connected to a computer?" Clea answers almost back to back with options. "Perhaps a very small broom?" Glamour is going to smack her fo rthat one, but it's rare she shows such clear and easy humour. "I would think a great many things could be part of your regular existence. You have no need for a car or a bicycle, but there may be others that you enjoy. Paints, for art? Or a canvas, paper? I know that many different kinds of art supplies are available." She herself paints; see, easel. It's not that she is brilliant at it, she's not, but it gives frequent enjoyment.

Watching the fae flit back and forth in her belling chime and brightness hastens her to consider, watchful for any risks like, say, an excited spider. A big rat. Though in the event of a rat, it would probably be a toasted rat the moment she spots it. "We could go to a park, if you so like. There are many in the city. Wooded or urban, if you prefer? I fear that for sake of your parents, and your family, there may be /some/ difficulties, yes. Transparently you are not quite the same in appearance as you were, and it might shock them to know about it. Would letters be an idea first? Perhaps you can send them messages, prepare them for it. Ease into the news, so they understand it's not the end of the world. Have you considered how you might broach it? Perhaps it is worth considering." Her smile lifts all the same.

Glamour has posed:
"I mean, my shrinking stuff doesn't last that long and I don't want to rely on your charity forever." She is fairly sure that she'd be unable to see some subtext, at some point, if she tried. She combs her fingersd through her hair. "I look *nothing* like I used to. Absolutely nothing. I'm not sure how that'd work. 'Hey mom! Hey dad! I'm a tiny little fairy now! No, I'm so not ready for that. I'm not even... I mean, I'll make sure they get SOME kind of mesages so they know I'm not pushing up daises... note, try pushing up a daisy... Anywaaaaay!" She flutters closer to Clea's face. "Riding a bike I'm gonna miss but I somehow think I don't need exercise the same way I used to." She spins towards the easel.

Clea has posed:
"Is it charity to do the right thing? Though understandable, you crave your independence and wish to stand on your own feet. I do not begrudge you that," says Clea. She glides through the apartment, comfortable in her own placement. Light follows her wherever she goes, dragged into her vicinity and buried into her hair, absorbed totally as a glimmering shine that leans pearl rather than brilliant fire. For now, of course. Anyone with sensitivity to magic probably gets migraines even when she shields, and when she does not, it's a painful state of affairs. "You look quite different, true. Though do you sound the same? Other than your voice being a different octave on account of being smaller. These can be overcome temporarily though, something you can achieve by reaching out." The ideas come and go, offered like dishes at a feast that her guest can certainly say no to with a wave of a hand or an indication the empathic sorceress might pick up on. Glamour flitting about deserves her focus. She grants it readily with a smile. "Riding a very small bike would be quite the feat to get the engineering right. Something small and mobile on that scale would be rather magnificent. However, your mount against the rats of the city could be a better selection, if you have to pick another means of locomotion."

Glamour has posed:
"N...no. I don't. My voice is... definitely a bit more..." She grinds her teeth a moment. It's clearly something she hates to say, "...bell like. And way more like... Ugh." She throiws her hands up for a moment. "To be honest, I don't look ANYTHING the same." She looks down. "Also, I've really got to do something about my clothing situation. It's not good. It's bad enough when I size up that I have to illusion my hero costume which... let's be honest: it's not...totally...going well." So many ideas, so many offered. She isn't sure what to say to them.

Finally, she lands on an end table and stand there in the shade of the lamp upon it.

"Ugh. Rats... and cats. A cat grabbed me the other day and I'm really thankful I'm incredibly durable."

"... I met a vampire," she adds.

Clea has posed:
"Chiming and resonant. Fluting. Clear," Clea supplies other adjectives from a stock of them. It is meant to be kind. "Let us begin where you would like me to listen, and where you want my help. Is that something you are comfortable with?" She leans back against the counter, her hands balanced on it at her sides. This is a comfortable position that allows her to balance easily. Not that ever being in contact with the ground is hard; floating comes more naturally than breathing. A smile for Glamour; it is sure, certain. Not mocking. "I do not want to put words in your mouth or offer the wrong kind of support. This sounds like a good experience, though, meeting a vampire. Was he or she nice to you, or rather hungry?"

Glamour has posed:
The adjectives all fit, but of course, she looks not exactly one hundred percent comfortable with all of them. It's the resemblance to Tinker Bell that's terribly galling, really.

She drops down onto the edge of the end table so that her feet can dangle. It's not terribly impressive. Her wings keep fluttering, though, all the time. "It's so weird being so small," she adds after a moment,

"..uh, well. She was feeding, I guess. I thought she was hurting the guy." OH no.

"She threw me into a wall. I knew vampires were strong, but not that strong, and I managed to get the girl away from her, but she kinda kicked my ass." She looks rather sheepish about the whole affair. "I guess I shouldn't have rushed in?"

Clea has posed:
Tinker Bell indeed. It's not an easy thing, being tiny, bell-like, and green. At least she is not embodying Kermit the Frog.

Clea does not pour herself any tea. She could, and there is fruit to cut, but she is unrushed. Watching Glamour with that intense purpose might suggest she watches nothing else. The world itself is less important.

"Vampires often have superior physiology, alas. During their feeding, they can be most unpredictable. You put yourself at risk but the girl you saved may be grateful for your intervention. Pushing off one is very difficult." See, proof she knows odd things. But her smile is there. "Your heart was in the right place. You did your best to protect something or someone else. That is worthy of something, isn't it? Did you get away from the wall okay? It did not hurt you too much, did it?"

Glamour has posed:
"...yeah, okay so she told me that the girl -- excuse me, it was a girl, -- she was feeding on was consensual and it was all good. I didn't trust her, so I got her oiut of there, but... that was after she put me into a wall like it was nothing. Nothing I couldn't heal up from. Was it, though? Did I miss something I should have seen in that? I don't know." She shakes her head on the matter of her heart. She's trying, at least, but she has no idea what she's doing anymore.

"...then I saw this guy chasing a little monster into the allleys too a while later. He said it was a gremlin and that it was deemed 'unnecessary'. I was gonna stop him but he sorta... killed it because it was dangerous. But like.. calling something unnecssary for existing seemed kinda... kinda... racist?" She puts a hand to the back of her head. "Does that even work with gremlins?"

Okay, so... the super heroing...

... it's not going so well so far.

Clea has posed:
"Certain beings require food from other sources than fruits, meat, and such." Glamour is technically looking at one. Clea looks concerned but her tone is still mild, and the shadows haven't gone running for their corners. So, then, all must be well. She isn't too bothered, surely. Being that they're safely inside the Dakota and Glamour clearly is not broken or injured in an obvious fashion. Thus, calm can prevail.

She shakes her head, still. "Not being there, I could not tell you. Maybe the girl agreed. Maybe she did not not understanding what it was. You reacted how most of us would. We would intervene. You were lucky to not be hurt, to heal. Pain is unfortunately a good teacher, but you must know that it can be quite cruel too. Do take care of yourself, though, and try not to be too injured. It would sadden me to see you bleeding or bruised."

Earnest words, though it's hard to wrap her head around the concept Glamour gets at. Until something clicks. "It upset you the man attacked the gremlin because it was dangerous, and nothing more. Racism could work. That might be seen as a matter of bias. To assume one thing is always bad regardless. A vampire for example. Most would say they are terrible, they take life from others, they must be killed. Yet I doubt all of them are bad. To attack them and eradicate them on sight, when they are a sentient species, is /highly/ dangerous thinking."

Glamour has posed:
She listens to those words, dwelling on them a moment.

"I'm trying," she admits. "I don't seem to stay hurt for long?" She claps her hands together and sends up a plume of fairy dust when she does.

This brings a sigh. It would be very audible if she was larger. Isntead, there's merely the impression of a resigned sigh.

"It's funny, you know. Here I am, making assumptions about a vampire while thinking someoine else might be being racist towards a gremlin, and that's not even getting into the car... accident with the Squirrel Girl."

Oh no.

Yes, her superheroics have... not been going well.

She's trying, okay?!

"You're right, though. I *was* lucky. I won't be tangling with that one again!" Maybe other vampires, though.

Clea has posed:
"A... Squirrel Girl? She is a girl who is a squirrel?"

Clea might have to find time to parse this one. It's a bit tricky to figure out.

Her nose wrinkles a little. "Please, tell me this young lady is all right? The car accident? Did you cause it by distracting her? Cars can be dangerous, this is a sad truth. Especially for shining, bright Tinkerbellish objects.

"My dear. I'm going to make some tea and put out some fruit for you. I fear all this healing is going to take a toll on your body, if it has not already. You are trying, though. I give you much credit for that. Would you like an orange, a peach maybe? The strawberries aren't quite ripe." She pauses, then looks over ehr shoulder while turning, forgetting her survey of the kitchen. "I should also ask. I intended to go to dinner with my paramour. Would you like to meet him?"

Glamour has posed:
There is a pause from her. A momentary pause. "She's all right," she managed to say. "The driver, too, is fine. His car is not. She thought he needed help so I joined in and we sort of... totalled his car. But he's some kind of Wall Street guy so it's safe to say he prrrrrrobably deserves worse?" She bats her eyelashes, looking hopeful.

A pause. "Gosh, an orange would be lovely and also, sure. If it's not a... what's the word..."

Clea has posed:
"Bother? Never a trouble. You would be wise to meet him sooner or later," Clea replies. She fetches up a Cara Cara orange, simply the finest and rolls it lightly between her palms to loosen up the pith and the peel. Dropping the fruit to the cutting board, she pulls a knife out and quarters the orange into segments. Then much, much smaller segments that someone as petite in stature as Glamour is can enjoy.

Her worried look fades some. "Oh, good. You are fine, and the driver came out? I am sorry to hear about the loss of his vehicle. Sometimes people take that badly. I am sure you would be careful and if it's in pursuit of saving him, cars can be replaced but people cannot."

Glamour has posed:
She'd respond but well there's orange bits and she is enjoying them. The path to a fae's appreciation is definitely through their stomach. She's all over it. It's gonna take her a bit.