2258/The Elves of Manhattan

The Elves of Manhattan
Date of Scene:	28 June 2020
Location:	Columbia University
Synopsis:	A greeting and a movie.
Cast of Characters:	Kurt Wagner, Meggan Puceanu

---

Kurt Wagner has posed:
New York City in the summer might not exactly be the most pleasant of places to be. It's hot and it's crowded. That's no different this particular evening. But there is certainly no lack of things to do. But really it isn't a Broadway show, or a world-class museum, or some sporting event that has drawn one Kurt Wagner out of the upstate mansion where he both resides and works. No, word reached him through the grapevine -- or in more modern parlance, social media -- that a familiar face happened to be in town. If that isn't worth a trip into town, what is?

He might not be a long distance teleporter like some of his fellow mutants but he can still cover a large amount of ground in a very short amount of time. It significantly reduces the time to get into the city. Of course Columbia isn't exactly a small campus and their are any number of locations where the object of his search might be on this given evening. The smart thing? Try reaching out over social media to see if she might want to meet. But that's hardly dashing or adventurous, now is it? No, instead the fuzzy blue elf begins to *bamf* about campus, no doubt shocking any number of people as he appears, occasionally offers a brief apology if he happens to interrupt anyone -- and then is on his way again with only an inky black cloud rapidly disipating in his wake and a hint of brimestone in the air.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A hot night is doubly hot compared to the typical temperatures in the Lake District where Meggan hails from. Humidity definitely packs a whallop and requires shedding down to comfortable layers. Or no layers at all, and Meggan drowses on a step in a long, loose dress pooling around her ankles. Her phone is cradled in her hand, resting against her leg, because some kind of distraction deserves to be admired. The chirping of crickets and endless stars are a world away, but someone practicing Leonard Cohen songs on their violin on the green of Columbia accounts for her enjoying herself.

The latest post actually catches the silhouette of the young Korean man against a floodlit sweep of trees, right down to a few twinkling lights caught hazily at the edge. She listens keenly to the chords coaxed out under the bow, her empathy for once let off the chain a little more. It's safe here, fewer people around to pick up on and be washed away by. Music to soothe the beast's heart and the savage soul, which is a bit of a truth. She isn't immediately aware of those ink clouds, not until they come within earshot.

Kurt is distinctive enough to note up close, but he probably spots her first, golden hair flooded over the rough stone and her pointed ears perfectly visible. Though on the off-chance she succeeds at it, she sits straight up like he prodded her with an electric fork.

Kurt Wagner has posed:
A city like New York is never truly dark, not like it is where humanity hasn't built up their cities, haven't made buildings stretching up, reaching for the heavens. Even the dark alleys and seedier streets are not dark in the true sense. There is always a haze of light hanging over places like this, no matter how faint that might be. Humans don't much care for the night, for the most part.

Kurt, however, is not human. He is practically built for the dark, for the shadows that play throughout the city after the sun goes down. From the way his deep indigo fur all but disappears into the night to those brilliant yellow eyes that seem to absorb every last bit of ambient light, lighting up the world for him as if it were still day. He might prefer the more social nature of the day's light, the way that it brings people out, together. But the dark is an old friend too.

For a moment he pauses as he arrives, as he spots the woman perches on the steps nearby, studying those features from a short distance away just to make sure before bamfing away again, continuing his unlikely hunt through the nearby streets. In truth, he expected to cave. He is not a big social media person, not one for the online world much at all. An old soul in many ways. But he didn't really expect to find her like this, certainly not so readily. Did not expect it, but grateful enough that his gambit played out as he'd hoped.

"Meggan?" he calls out quietly, treading closer, close enough to step into the very edge of a pool of illumination, the orange glow of an overhead lightly illuminating those faintly demonic features that are softened by the grin that curves over his lips.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Humanity doesn't like the dark. They build their walls high and the lights bright, their fires hot and their stories warm to keep out the night. Best to remember the wolves prowling in the distance, or flashing-eyed lions and hyenas cohabitating on the savannah. New York is a testimony to a collective fear of shutting their eyes fully. Night indeed isn't an old friend but a barely tolerated neighbour in need of a good scorching.

Pity the stars do not burn so bright as they could out here. The violinist celebrating the night makes up for it though, for the joyful practice paints a different kind of constellation where A# and B major ply a warm crescendo. He doesn't mind the audience he gains out of Meggan or any of his fellow students, sitting on a simple bench while maintaining his form. A few notes aren't pitch perfect, and he compensates for a weary dip of his chin after surmounting Stravinsky to scoot into Khachaturian. The blonde follows along with the playful dipped notes of the violin, a retort and a response in the same successive bars. Lively music to carry the evening on, painting a swirling pageant of golds and greens to her untrained ears.

A duel possibly to Kurt, structured circling and the occasional wavering thrust of a sudden note. All beautiful footwork and controlled poise with an element of the masquerade, brave and bold. Her undimmed fascination follows the violinist until snagged by her name. A common enough one in America as in Britain, but so few people say it in that particular way. Familiarity breeds a blink in eyes turned almost grey in the light, seeping in with wide curiosity. Her phone slides off her leg, threatening to tumble onto the steps. Her hand arrests the tumble only so long, and the impulse of surprise melts away like so much dew.

A smile dawns huge and unfettered, pivoting off of surprise. She slides her feet to the ground, sandals scraping on the concrete, supporting a hasty bounce up to standing again. The vibrant mango-red skirt bobs and flutters around her, so light that it sways, and she curls her fingers to squash her hand against her mouth. "Kurt? What are you doing here?" Not the accusatory type of question, the how-is-this-possible in a good way tone comes up. "Did you go to the screening of Chinatown too?"

Kurt Wagner has posed:
Music is not one of the gifts that Kurt Wagner can lay claim to. Perhaps it is an issue that his hands are not really designed to play human-made instruments, lacking the appropriate digets for the most part. More likely his gifts simply lay elsewhere. And while he is far from tone-deaf and has a reasonably pleasant voice, no one is ever likely to mistake his singing for wonderous. Enthusiastic, perhaps, but hardly scintilating. Nor is he an encylopedia for composers and musicians, able to recognize any song in a matter of a handful of bars. But he knows what he likes, and how it makes him feel. Perhaps that is enough.

Certainly the performance of the young musician is pleasant enough, and if it is not pitch perfect none of that matters to Kurt. He is not one to really seek perfection in anything he, or others do. Enjoyment, satisfaction, those are to be sought and treasured, Perfection, to him, is an unattainable illusion. It is not something that he craves.

His grin somehow manages to broaden even further as it becomes clear that his initial impulse was corect, that it is indeed a familiar face from his time overseas -- two years in merry old England and the continent of his birth. Too rarely does he see some of his friends and while a couple of years may not seem a longtime, it is certainly more then enough to create bonds that linger, that are worth seeking out and renewing.

"Ahhhh, had I known that there was one I surely would have made a point to do so," he confesses with a slow shake of his head. He might not have a gift for music, but cinema? That is where his heart dwells in truth. Daring heroics, brilliant adventures, wonderous romance -- all played out on the silver screen to capture his imagination, to set his heart to racing, to lift his spirits. Of course, all of those things are even better with a good soundtrack so perhaps he is not entirely a lost cause of the music front.

"But no. I must admit I am no great follower of social media, but I did see that you had posted that you were here in New York and I realized it had been far too long since we spoke," he says, yellow eyes glinting merrily from where he lingers, close, but not seeking to intrude amongst those few gathered to listen to the musical stylings so close by. "I would have called or emailed or... tweeted? But I am old fashioned and I do love to surprise. So I decided to see if I could just... find you," he says, voice full of merriment. "And here you are!"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
They are fit company. Meggan has no particular skill with instruments, for they belong generally to a different upbringing, a better class. Not to say that her family lacked them, but the lessons in anything more than humming along to a song or beating out rhythm with her fingers probably faded into the background. Pianos don't travel well. Rural areas can hardly service fancy band instruments. So it goes.

The violinist has not a care in the world working through his repertoire, abandoning any pretense of formality to delve further into the next movement. More modern, this one, with its scintillating notes picked out in blowing runs of radiant movement. His bow dips and pulls across the strings, fingers stippling details to add to the interest. It's late and he has acquired a small audience at a respectful distance, so that will be enough.

The blonde holds out her hands to her sides, trying not to sway or move her feet to the ebullient reel. That's hard enough to do when ont punchdrunk on a reunion, but they have that much. A good tip of her head sends a sheet of blonde hair spilling past her shoulder and into the abyss. "It was good. Strange, but good. I eat up those movies, where everyone looks so elegant and sounds serious. As good or better than the real noir ones, but don't tell anyone I said that. Jack Nicholson might have swayed me." Away falls her hand to her chest, not giving up too much of that. Cinema they absolutely share in common, Kurt's affection for it probably the same as her fascination for all those places unknown, heroes unnamed, drama unleashed found.

His failure to check social media has her shaking her head again, laughing. "You know the world happens there too. So many people to talk to and learn from and listen to, all in a better pace than out here. It's easier, but I have to do face-to-face too." The brief moment of losing herself in thought starts the slide, mischief glinting back, and without much thinking it's easy for her eyes to turn an unnatural shade of sunflower yellow in turn. "Surprise is good. The best things, sometimes, come unexpectedly. You did find me, does that call for a prize?"

Kurt Wagner has posed:
Given his druthers, Kurt will almost always choose to go with the lively, the cheerful and that certainly extends to music as well. Oh, there is a time and place for the dramatic and powerful, for the mournful dirges and scores that hit like rhythmic hammer blows. But it is hard for him not to prefer the ones that tug at his feet, that make him want to move simply for the joy of motion. The swift changes of the violinist manage to do exactly that and he too finds himself tapping a foot, shifting in place, urged on to motion and holding back, if only barely.

"It is a favorite," Kurt conceeds in turn. His tastes might run to the golden age of Hollywood. To Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks. To sword fights and valiant heroes pitting themselves against dastardly villains. Of maidens saved and true love. But a classic is a classic and a good story will get him everytime, no matter the era in question. "As much as I enjoy a good Noir film I think I can agree to keep your secret," he promises, that impish grin still playing over his dark features.

He, of course, is familiar with how the features of the blonde woman can shift and change so it is shock to see eyes very much like his own peer back at him and he bows his head ever so slightly, hardly abashed, even if playing the role for a brief moment. "Ahhhh, so I have been told. One of these days I shall truly take it to heart, I promise," he offers up lightly before a soft laugh sounds out of those shadows, edging around that pool of light towards her, skirting the orange glow. Caught between shadow and light. Very fitting for the fuzzy blue elf. "You raise a valid point," he agrees playfully. "I did not come seeking any prize, but then I must confess I did not expect to actually manage to find you," he admits, amusement still tinting his words. "Perhaps I can claim a measure of your time, then, as my reward? An hour or two to catch up," he suggests.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Who is to complain about the likes of Errol Flynn or a succession of capable, bright women from Bacall to Hepburn and Lamarr? A time of thrilling stories and things not based on glitzy sets or fancy CGI? The devil in the details will probably find them perusing old film libraries for something to watch. Just wait. "It is very good. Before that they did a special Italian run: the Italian Job, Roman Holiday, La Dolce Vita? And soon enough, Sunset Boulevard, Leave Her To Heaven, and something else old." Seeing that as a source of mischievous delight, Meggan speaks of plans by some group or another to stage various movies around the campus. She taps the corner of her eye. "Noir is very good but sometimes in smaller doses. I watch too much for my classes, anyway. Sometimes settling in with my assignments, and then it's three in the morning and the movie is over, and I am not done."

A blink and her unequivocally bright grin lifts higher. She probably doesn't quite realize the shifting aspect of her appearance so much, unless attention is called. Kurt choosing to do so or not makes all the difference in the world, and the lowered guard remains as it is. "My time is not a prize, is it? I give that freely unless taken up by my classes. We can make it better then. Look all around though, I never thought to be here. London was big and wild enough, but this is... This is really something more." Hard to find the words, and she struggles to fit the greater patch of opinions and feelings into a salient, pithy statement. "It's all very exciting but wholly unfair of me to talk only about myself. You have to tell me how /you/ are!"

Kurt Wagner has posed:
He can still enjoy modern movies of course, creations of CGI or not. A good story is still a good story and movie magic is always to be appreciated. But, there is a certain lack of... majesty. A certain lack of romance to have every last thing laid out, gaps filled in by computers rather then by craft. Still wonderful in it's own way of course. Just not the same. Naturally, appreciating differences is something that Kurt rather excels at. He would have to, naturally enough.

"And I missed it? Were there alerts sent out across the social media that you love so much? If so I can certainly see how very wrong I have been in neglecting it," he offers up lightly before laughing softly again. "I fear I have let myself become too distracted as of late, if I am not keeping track of such showings. I reside quite a distance away, as far as these things go, but it is but a small matter for me to make it into the city. I really have no excuse," he conceeds. "Perhaps now that I have someone else who can appreciate such fine art nearby I can be less negligent and gain the blessing of both fine cinema and company. Two birds, as they say, with one stone," he suggests with a sly smile.

Others might find such shifting disturbing, others entirely engaging. For Kurt, neither predominates. Sometiems it simply a matter of accepting. Of embracing, without comment or judgement to the good or the bad. It is. And that is really all that matters. "I think you give too little credit to the value of your time and company frauline," he teases playfully. "But all teasing aside, it is wonderful to see you again. And on this side of the ocean. It was lovely to come home of course," -- and that mansion in Westchester truly has become home, as impossible as he once might have found that to believe -- "But I certainly do miss London. It was a reprieve, when I badly needed one," he says with a soft smile. "And the company was most outstanding," he adds, some of the mischief creeping back into his grin. "But yes, you must let me treat you to something to drink and we can regale one another with our tales!"