5782/Tipple of Choice for the Extraordinary

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Tipple of Choice for the Extraordinary
Date of Scene: 29 March 2021
Location: The Empire Club - Lounge
Synopsis: A little booze and a lot of talking about demons and magic.
Cast of Characters: Meggan Puceanu, Anthony Druid, Amora

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Empire Club attracts Brits of all kinds, and their close cousins. True fact. The Jamaican businessman in the corner and the svelte Indian professor ensconced at a table with companionship in books speckle different remnants of imperial history while a relic of a much older and forgotten tradition currently mixes drinks at the bar. Meggan really should be in class, but pulling a double unfortunately nets too good a set of tips to pass up. Columbia can wait; she, however, can't when it comes to buying groceries. Thus the laughing blonde girl is thoroughly prepared for the jetlagged and those with a much different schedule.

Though she's also a whiz with the coffee machine and mixing those kinds of drinks, side-benefit of her elemental nature. Helps to know when the water is just boiled and the grind of beans is just right, even if it's technically cheating.

Thus, another cuppa sent out. Another sip from her tea in a travel cup, the steel kind with the spill proof lid. Forget about her homework, which is easy to do. For a moment, the place is comfortably mellow and quiet, none of the exalted sounds of the Beeb or someone's scream from the Map Room. Too quiet.

For a child of the natural world, and one of the Tuatha, this just won't /do/. Or she's spent too much time around the filthy street warlock to be patient, calm, and wait. Take your pick.

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid hasn't been back to the Isles in quite a bit, so it's always good to find a place to remind him of home on these far away colonial shores. He's sartorially splendid in a custom-fit suit, from London tailors, of course, his measurements kept on file. He has a Celtic green tie, taking off a trilby hat and passing it off at the coat check, revealing his bald head.

His psychic awareness is fully in effect, easily finding the telltale magical aura of the particular waitress. Intriguing. "Young lady, a menu and a cider, if you please. The hard kind," he says with a smile.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Druids and fae, oh my.

Not that the pointy ears are displayed, but the moonlit-threaded golden hair is telling enough to not belong to Galadriel, but her younger, prettier cousin. Meggan swirls a spoon around in a cup, convincing the orange blossom honey poured in there to dissolve a little more into the citrus blend atop it. Nothing you'd want to pour into a cup of tea; the liquor in it would be too much of a potent kick. That's the breaks of a daytime shift. Her gaze shifts before Anthony even fully finishes descending the stairs, those leaf-green eyes curiously awaiting his arrival. Another quality of an exceptional place with exceptional service; the staff at least know when to start mixing something up. Bartending comes naturally enough, her smile a disarming and genuinely bright thing. "Now if everyone dressed as sharp like that, New York wouldn't have a reputation for being grim as Gotham," she draws out the vowels a little as she speaks. It's a confluence of Celtic tongues; distinguishably Welsh, Scots Gaelic, Irish Gaelic, even a touch of Manx's preposterous tongue in there. Shades of dead and dying Brythonic languages, preserved by the fae scion. "Dry or sweet, which do you prefer? The menu comes on paper today if that won't be a problem." She fetches up the latter, printed off on good linen-shot paper for the hell of it, and slides it over.

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid smiles, "Dry," he says, taking a seat at the bar easily, "I find that being a bit dapper tends to make me feel lighter on my feet. And if some errant paparazzi takes a photo of me walking the street, I would prefer to make a good impression than be caught in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt."

"What an intriguing accent you have, my dear. Such lyrical tones are rarely, if ever heard, on this side of the pond. I can only wonder how one of your stripe has managed to find herself so very far away from merry Avalon's shores," he says, "Not that it's any of my business, of course. We all have our secrets."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Dry? Lilley's Select it is." It doesn't take Meg long to pivot behind the great sweep of the bar and seek out newfound glories, or rather, the joys of a long swoop of refrigerated compartments. Cider is discovered with a reckless ease, door slid back and the bottle in question procured. She plunks it onto the countertop and seeks out the bottle opener ever at the ready, flipping the crimped metal top into the air. No fanfare like a Japanese steakhouse; alas, such things really aren't necessary. Catching the cap is easy, which she drops into a collection to recycle by the night's end when Julian is no doubt seeing to everyone's liquid needs. "Do people actually wear sweatpants willingly? I thought them the province of the sick or the elderly, though I suppose the latter usually goes with the sick. Pensioners have a pass on those and white trainers, but no one else does." She wrinkles her nose, though the tone is purely mirthful instead of anything else. The corner of her mouth rises higher as she puts down a glass. "Forgive the wait or the commentary if it's not wanted. The cider needs to breathe a little. Comes out of Somerset, right in the Mendip Hills, so precisely the kind of pick-me-up when spring takes so long to land here. Do you regularly get accosted by photographers? I can't imagine... well, no, that's not true. I know exactly what it's like." A grim tone doesn't even come close. "Much worse round London, granted, the paps are utterly abominable chasing down their targets. I swear they go through the rubbish bins and stalk people coming out of the showers." Dangerous when the shower can take personal offense to that one, too.

Her aura's a bundle of oddities, his harder to perceive for her, but not the other way around. One would have to be blind to miss the stark beacon of light it represents, shot by the vibrant blues of someone rather content, the sparks of warm honey curling like spring-time around the edges. Energetic and idealistic, she's all but branded with Ostara's grace or Freya's sunny incandescence by some tone or another. "It's not so far, when distance is all relative. You'd be shocked to know how close our two countries are." So not BA economy class, that. Her fingertips dance across the bar in pursuit of a flat mat to set in front of him, emblazoned with Thistly Cross out of Scottish pride. "How is it that you tiptoed your way here? And my departure wasn't any secret. Go look online, I think something like two million people watched the main video with Roxxon trying to erase me on the spot."

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid smiles, "Yanks tend to have a preference for comfort over style, at least quite a few of them. I cannot entirely blame them and yet I cling to the tweeds and feel utterly naked without at least a tie cinched around my throat. I blame it on boarding school - the uniform becomes like a second skin," he says.
"Photographers aren't so m uch trouble around New York, thankfully. They tend to have a more lax approach to celebrity. Any trip to London or Los Angeles, however, I'm absolutely mobbed. I may not be the sexiest celebrity, but I do have a certain weight of influence, it seems, for which I can't help but be pleased."

"Ah, that sounds quite unpleasant. I'm sorry you had to go through such a thing. I'm not always up to date on all the viral videos and such. I have assistants for that sort of thing, who show me any pertinent media. I came her originally, I suppose, for academic purposes, having found work at a small university, unknowing that my mystic talents would blossom enough for me to become one of the fabled Avengers, albeit in a reserve capacity."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Tweeds are acceptable, though you must find them smothering in the summer?" A mote of doubt. Since temperature is no object, Meggan only has the doom and bane of all society to go off: Internet memes and videos. Such is what TV streamed or pirated can teach her, anyway, but she trusts them enough. Pouring out the dry cider once she gauges it sufficiently bubbly but not overtly so, she tips it into the glass with a deft hand. The rusty gold liquid produces a strong apple aroma, sparkling bright with the prospect of a springtime day bottled up in the curved glass. "New Yorkers react more blasé than Angelinos? I never would have guessed. Count me gobsmacked, I would have thought they were so used to celebrities out there. Can't throw a rock without being smacked into someone working for the entertainment industry, innit?" A bit of the Liverpudlian slides in for all she's a Cumbrian, without an ounce of Yorkshire anywhere, only the Celtic overlap.

"Think nothing of it, the cause was fair and I do not regret supporting ocean cleanup. Least I can do. Seems of late my advocacy to try to promote greener living falls on deaf ears, though I ought to be glad the whole business in Hawai'i didn't damage my image much." She waves her hand to dismiss the notion, since fighting a giant kaiju thing is certainly noteworthy. "How do you like working with the Avengers? I briefly met War Machine, though he was occupied blowing up said sea monster."

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid smiles, "Well, I might cheat a bit. I do have a few gifts up my sleeve. Given the Druidic penchant for heavy woolen robes, probably not surprising there were a number of simple cantrips to keep one cool in the high summer. As for the Angelinos, I suspect their enthusiasm for celebrity comes from it being an essential part of their livelihood - the gossip media is all based out of the valley and they are the great leech attached to the side of Hollywood and its ilk. Makes me all the more glad I insisted on keeping our studios in the East coast," he says.

"You should be quite proud of your work to protect the environment, rightfully so. Frankly, I sometimes worry about our heroic efforts often being so tied to corporate life. Tony Stark is a good man, no doubt, but companies tend to get a mind of their own, concerned with profit over morality all too often," He sighs. "But my work with the Avengers has been very rewarding. I'm pleased to offer them counseling and assistance as my schedule permits and they have all noble and wise, in my experience. Well, perhaps not Hawkeye," He teases.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
It's still fresh in the day when the average person in the club is very much avoiding work, doing work, or jetlagged from a bounce over the Pond. Lightly trafficked and still cozy enough to have conversations, the place eases into the coming afternoon quite well. Meg pulls her shift at the bar while speaking with the most druidic of doctors, rather than strange ones. Occasionally interrupted by a request for a drink, she pours out more tea and coffee than anything alcoholic. "Wool is most underrated. I am surprised it hasn't made more of a comeback. Expense, perhaps?" They are very much bound up in a conversation of celebrity, clothing, fashionable mores, and unfortunate orchestrated abductions captured on social media. Most prominent being the not-pointy-eared elemental right there, but others should show up.

"Too kind, but I am one person among many trying to change bad habits since the Industrial Revolution. People plain won't listen or make a change when they are comfortable. How do you tell them it's better to endure the challenges now to have something tomorrow?" A question as old as it is weathered, and she shakes her head to him, the grim turn of the conversation softened by her laying out a cup of tea for another person to collect at the bar's end. No, it doesn't come to them. "Corporate ties can be good, but not the only solution, I hope. Else we have a hard time convincing shareholders to stop putting profit ahead of best for the common good. How often does it happen?" He's left to answer what she cannot. "Hawkeye, noble? I thought he was the hero of the people, Purple Robin Hood."

Amora has posed:
"Sweatpants and shirt? By Odin, what came upon you to utter such words together?" Give to Amora to filter certain words going about the lounge. She has been about for a small while now, over at one booth and using her magicks to keep a rather discreet profile. Discreet to the company she was keeping, of a rather notorious top 0.001% billionaires that she has been uh .., entertaining. For what are a few billions in the way of love? Yet her attention is fleeting, and she does get bored easily. Bored enough that the talk going called for her attention, specially as she spots two familiar faces.

So while her company is considering his choices in life back at the booth she is now striding closer. She is dressed in a rather long dress of a shimmering green, it appearing to reflect the surrounding light, shoulders bare to reveal porcelain skin, high heels which appear made of encrusted emeralds and that teltale tiara of the Enchantress.

"Is anyone in need of smiting for having chosen such abhorrent dress style?" Yes, she looks around, perhaps seeking for the trespasser. As for what she would do? Disintegration is an option.

"But good evening, Glorianna." then a glance to the man with her, "And a good evening to you as well, Dr. Phil." still looking to discover the man's true name.

"You work with the Avengers?" A brow is arched at Anthony. Well, well. Now that's getting interesting.

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid smiles, "I think expense is part of it, especially for any fine wool. Sheepherding is not nearly so common here in the states as it is in other parts of the world, as well, which likely means a great deal of importation to cause pricing to rise," he says.

At Amora's arrival, he cannot help but both be amused and, well, stunned, as most are when looking the way of the Enchantress. "While I do hate to be particular, my name is Dr. Druid, not Dr. Phil. The rapscallion Phillip does bear a certain resemblance to me, but he has a twang whilst I have an accent. Also, I am a licensed psychologist and he...is not anymore. For reasons," he says. "And yes, I am proud to have the honor of serving amongst the Avengers. I do more consulting and personal counseling than direct superheroism, but I do pit myself against the forces of evil now and again, as you yourself well know, goddess."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sweatpants and T-shirts are not to be borne unless someone is desperate, the survivor of a disaster. So spaketh Amora, and so it must be. Meg certainly wouldn't disagree, though at smiting, her eyebrows creep a little higher in golden abandon. "I should hope we haven't found anyone with distasteful sartorial choices. We actually have a dress code and it would be my job to enforce it." Her lips purse on the thought. "Granted the standards can be somewhat telling but tossing out someone on their ear... not too likely, at any rate."

She breaks into a smile, fingertips fanned across one of the drink menus. The golden Asgardian goddess receives it by hand, good paper and elegant printed script for the various concoctions of the day. "What might you prefer?" No milady, my lady, Enchantress lady or other variations thereof. It's hard to break the habit, but nonetheless, the burning beacon of brightness tries. Happiness spun, as it were.

"Is wool so dear? I thought Wyoming was nothing but sheep. Was that Oregon? One of those states. Something not quite New Zealand or Wales." Bah! Nonetheless, she allows the good doctor his moment of staring because frankly she is too, true to her nature and undoubtedly marked as at least somewhat Ljosalf -- light elf of Alfheim -- to someone or another's brand of beholding. The mercurial elements of her heritage, however, make reading such utterly and truly vexatious. Her aura is the kind to flip over because it can, always bright, but speckled with a fire flash of springtime flowers and showers impressed by a gleam of the sea caught from the top of a green-crisped down. "You are much more courteous than most of his peers. Doctor Phil is a complete hoax peddling his remedies to a wide audience while being compensated handsomely for lying. He rather deserves to be stripped of the money, don't you think? Maybe head dunked in a trough. I'm old-fashioned." No, not really, not in the least. "Consulting and counseling sound rather respectable. I shouldn't think it a bad thing."

Amora has posed:
Amora is always pleased when others seem to stunned, or admire her beauty, attention-seeker that she is. So she at least smiles at Anthony's expression towards her, a rather promising smile, but also so full of terrible consequence. "Dr. Druid. That does explain it. I had one of my assistants show me pictures of this Dr. Phil show, he looked nothing like you." she says, step bringing her to be close to the counter, elegant hands resting on the edge of it before she takes the drink menu given by Meggan. Not that she looks at it. She already knows what she wants. She always does. "Glorianna, at the danger of starting to become dreadfully predictable, could I have one of your specially prepared Cosmopolitans?"

"But yes, it was quite the valorous work you did during our fight against Itztlacoliuhqui." yes, she pronounces the name in full and correctly. No mention of the Anthony/Julio collision. She keeps their honor intact.

"And dress code is indeed music to my ears. I knew there was a reason I came here so often." a grin granted back to Meggan. As for the talk about sheep she arches a golden brow. "Well, at least they use the sheep for the right purposes at this age and time." she comments. Not that she explains further about -that-.

Her eyes then turn back to study Meggan more intently, taking in the aura about her, thoughtful and curious. "You have quite the curious aura about you." she announces, "Very appropriate to the arrival of the season." yet her tone is speculative, perhaps wondering what lies underneath.

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid splays his hands, "I confess, the economics and complexities of the fabric trade are a bit beyond my realms of expertise. I already have my hands full with mysticism and psychology," he says with a smile. "And yes, I do take a bit of pride in being courteous. Manners are always a worthwhile pursuit, even when so much of the rest of the world is lacking in them. Perhaps even more so. Again, I think a good old fashioned English education probably inculcated such in me all too well."

"And I was honored to fight in that battle, even if the ending was a bit ignominious on my part. But my pride matters not so long as the goal is achieved. I'm sure the young man meant me no harm in knocking me out of the sky, it was a mere side effect. I hope that my efforts at least helped keep the monstrosity distracted while the rest of you were at work."

As to Meggan's aura, he simply smiles, "I would never inquire too deeply into the genealogy of the fair folk. Suffice to say, the young lady is well bred and leave well enough. But, then, I have not your pedigree, either, fair Amora."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The fabric trade! Meggan stifles a laugh imperfectly, the quiver of her shoulders and waves of glistening silver sheen on golden hair all evincing amusement. The man is given the chance to forfeit the topic, since her own roaming interests diverge widely from anything too serious. "Better than talking about that poor freighter, isn't it? To think they crammed a skyscraper in a trench."

The sublime brilliance of Amora getting a picture of Doctor Phil and failing to reconcile the two is finally not lost on her, considering her experience with television. The laughter does ring true then, warm and kind, rather than adversely struck by ambient cruelty and mockery. Oh, she's capable if need be in the same way Amora could probably be a shop girl somewhere and do well. Or possibly end up brutally fired. Everyone has hidden talents and depths. Unsurprisingly she turns her attention away with torn regrets and difficulty from the beacon of beauty that is Amora - - and her own predilections taken into account, she can be just as, if not more, poleaxed than Druid himself.

Price to pay for all those gifts, after all. "Naturally. I think this might be the time, something more tart?" Because... why not. She plucks a raspberry coulis and Porters Tropical from a shelf, caught up in the whirlwind dance with a sinuous ease while on her tiptoes. "Courtesy is a gift to the world, never doubt it. People saying please, thank you, and no thank you make matters so much better. If that's old-fashioned, more's the pity."

Ironic for a girl of apparently barely legal drinking age. Probably just legal, by American standards. Joke's on them, of course.

"Oh, you do so add something to the place, darling Enchantress. You elevate the bar sufficiently between you both that it is remarkably lovely." Her sigh simmers with amusement, even as she glances between the two of them and smiles a little. "It's spring. The Earth awakens and so do I. The whole lilacs springing up in my footsteps was a bit awkward, but that seems to have ceased for now. I expect the butterflies will be a problem next month."

Amora has posed:
"The English were always too good mannered. Sometimes at their own expense." A brief roll of Amora's eyes, "... all that was left for them to do was extend a red carpet for the viking occupation. Yet they learned eventually." but then she lifting a finger. "Yet I agree. There is a certain power in showing politeness at all times no matter the circumstances. Never go down to the rabble's level, lest you become one of them." says the o-so-noble Enchantress.

"I never know what that young man means. He is quite the wildcard in the little band that gathered to take that avatar down." She says, crystal blue gaze now resting on Anthony, "Though you should not discount your efforts during the battle. Everyone had a role to play during it. Speaking of, you were there when Santos was killed, were you not?" She questions. Some of the details of that night were hazy for her.

Meggan's laughter, turns her attention back to the girl, watching her go through the process of preparing that drink. It was a bit of a fascination for the old Enchantress the way those drinks were prepared. Almost as if it was an art in and of itself. "Thank you, Glorianna. You flatter me too much.." She even gets a little color to sprout on her cheeks. As if she wasn't used to getting compliments all the time! "Spring is the season of renewal, of rebirth. There is always something new to pursue at these times. I do hope you get to fully enjoy it." the corner of her mouth curling up into a delightfully wicked smile.

Anthony Druid has posed:
Anthony Druid smiles, "Both of you ladies are lovely beyond all expression. Frankly, I'm surprised you're wasting time chatting with an old scholar like me, as I'm sure there are nubile and fervent young gentleman practically chomping at any opportunity to get even a whiff of your perfume," he says.

"There are those who say I am in my autumn and perhaps it's so, but I don't feel entirely bereft of life, especially in your company. That is to say, I don't know why you pay me any mind, but I'm certainly not about to complain about it," he says with a wink.

"I confess my own memory is hazy about the latter portions of the conflict you mention, my...circumstances being what they were at the time. Do you feel there are still unanswered questions? Should there be further investigation?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Are you frequently subject to reinvention and rebirth? I know it's the popular time to do it," Meggan asks. Her movements are certain as she plops a small dram of the raspberry liquid in the martini shaker, and then a rather generous splash of the Tropical libation. The heady scent of citrus and pineapple joins the tonic, a sprinkling of lemon dominant through the light squeeze from one of those precut fruits. A moment of scrutiny tells her the balance at a fundamental level before she pours any of the liquor in, which means going right back to the raspberry and wiggling a little drizzle to add to it. Alas, it's not green! But the sunrise brightness remains a fixture as she picks up the lid, pops it on the shaker, and then demonstrates why dancing was deemed illegal in many countries and still is.

Music? Tuatha don't need no stinkin' music. The rhythmic shift of her hips leads to a rapid swirl that's all a throwback to Romanisch culture in the north, playfully rattling the infusion until it practically simmers. "Nubile? That's not something I hear about men so often. No, not so much that though I don't mind." Her smile says everything while saying nothing at all.

Just look to the aura and the answers are sketched there in the briefest arc of flame-scorch in a darker shred, a glamour-struck radiance flashing vermillion and settling back when the thoughts turn. "Everyone's seasons shift. They forget they can be winter many times in a day, a month, a year." A smile for them both is fearless, even if puzzled when talking about Santos, but she wasn't there.

Amora has posed:
"Ah, old is all in the mind, Dr. Druid. You did not seem old at all when facing down against that avatar." A laugh as Amora remembers that occasion, fingertips drumming on the counter while she occasionally casts a look at Meggan while she goes about getting the drink ready. "As for questions.. Some." she lifting a finger, "The main one being that apparently there was -another- demon swindling both our suspects and using the power they were trading. It was quite well done." that tone said as if she would had done the same given the opportunity. But she is no demon! Even if she has been called one many times in the past...

"So pursuing that demon might be of interest to those keen in keeping a demon out of Midgard." And she says it so casually too. It's certainly not her problem to get rid of the creature though!

As for Meggan's questions.. "Many, many times, Glorianna. All through the ages I have had to reinvent myself. One should never stagnate for too long in the same place, or doing the same thing. Last thing one should be is boring. But you know well what I talk of." a twinkle in her eye. "And you seem to follow such. Or perhaps not follow but instead herald that change, mmm?" elbow turning to rest on the counter.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"How rotten. Demons on demons." Meggan shakes her head as she pours the drink for Amora, and then places it down on a neat drink mat. Doctor Druid's mat she takes to recycle, his glass to be washed. All in the business of keeping things tidy and ppropriate, for there will be endless rounds of requests and no one else is loading the dishwasher right now but her. The joys of pulling a double shift compound when earlier Meggan takes care of tired Meggan later in the day.

"Trading of power between any sort of company is bad enough. Demons? That doesn't spell anything good. I wouldn't sleep comfortably until I knew where it was, myself." She frowns for a moment, but only a moment, since nothing too serious ever gouges her. Or at least where meets the eye, but the equivalent of slapping on some fresh paint hides old wounds well.

She laughs as she pours a cup of tea for another diner, as it's a popular request. Food is handled by another waitress, not her. "I disdain boredom, but maybe that's because I move from one thing to the next so quickly. Everything is very interesting. Too interesting, how can I ever choose one thing? I understand, I think, a bit of the worry about stagnation. It would be just awful to get stuck in one mode and never very interested in much after that. It's like pulling your hat down to see nothing beyond your nose, no matter how beautiful it is. Some of those people live back home. Some live here. I can't even begin to fathom why they are the way they are."

Amora has posed:
The Asgardian takes her drink on elegant fingers when it's served, lifting it up in a mix of toast and thanks to Meggan before tipping it to her throat. Just a sip. She is no savage that drinks it all in a gulp like some. She savors it. It's pretty much how she goes through life too. No need to hurry, just take the time and enjoy.. "There's worse than demons." she comments, "Some can even be reasonable." a very -few- some. "I can't say the same about soooo many others." she exhaling as if remembering past ordeals. Really, some people are just too attached to their principles and values.

"Just like me." She then says about finding everything interesting. "All is fleeting, attention moves from shiny to shiny. But I have found that with it all being interesting sometimes it all starts to feel .., mundane." she turning her nose a bit. "It is good to find those that shine a bit above the norm from time to time." eyes on Meggan while she says that, amusement flickering in her gaze.

"Though to some it can also be seen as a lack of commitment, never wanting to pursue one thing to the end. All is balance in the end. And such a precarious one at that." and she clearly doesn't hide the imbalance in her.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The toast is welcome with a dip of her head and reaching for the tea cup she has to the side. Lifting it up gives her an opportunity at least to return the fond greeting of sorts. Tea is plain, and it suits her well, but it isn't anything like the libation that Amora herself carries. That lemon and raspberry tartness has a slippery tropical undertone. All warmth and golden breathtaking citrus goodness, there, as a cosmo should be.

"Just like you? I would think it like comparing myself to a rose rather than being a primula." She shakes her head slightly. Nope, not going there; there's pride and there's folly and she knows where the balance is in between.

Her fingertips skim along a cloth and she wipes up the bar in the process. "I think my great trouble is focus. What to do. The world offers so much, I can't do it all. How do you manage?"

Amora has posed:
Amora certainly makes sure to savor the drink, tongue slipping out as she takes some remnant liquid off ruby lips, a moment spent with her eyes closed. It does remind her of warmer shores indeed. And other times. But quick enough her cintillating laughter, "Primulas are fitting. They are some of the first to herald Spring after all." give it to Amora to know about flowers. But is that unexpected? Certainly not. "Though considering what we were just talking of, perhaps you are simply in that change into becoming a rose. I for one shall consider with great curiosity your blooming."

Drink returns to the counter, pale fingertips still about the base of the glass, finger tapping against it. That last question seems to be on where she focus, lips jerking slightly to the side as if considering it.

"The world offers much, yes." There was no denying it. Even her, so focused in *herself* had found Midgard intriguing. Of course that a lot of her time had been spent stealing secrets from other wizards, or engaged in mischief. But still, she was most likely one of those Asgardians that was more knowledgeable about human nature, and all it's darkness and light. "Yet not all is worthy to be pursued. Specially for those who wield power such as we do. But you are still in the process of accepting your own worth, and your own nature. Perhaps that is what is missing, accept yourself. And then you will see there is so much .., mundane aspects of yourself that you can discard. Food for thought." she lifts her glass. "Or in this case, drink."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The presence of such combinations of sweet and tart, smooth and sharp, define very much. That no doubt has something to do with the prospects of appealing to a notoriously picky palate, as so many discerning drinkers are. "Primulas are modest little things, very pretty and very golden. You know they're not even out here. A few crocuses, a couple narcissi. I miss the flowers." The elemental could sigh, but what is the point? "I do not know if I am any sort of rose. I know they can be showy and very much beloved, and gardens of them overflowing with scent and colour do make me happy. If you've not been to the botanical gardens, I warmly recommend them. Not quite Kew, but they're fabulous in another way."

She falls silent, for the rapport of bartender to patron is listening more often than not. That calls upon her to attend to Amora's words, but that's so deviously easy. Dangers of being a goddess of beauty and other trials, like love and besotment and whatever else a love goddess does. Look magnificent in green?

"I do accept myself, for the most part. This is how I /want/ to look, not how someone makes me. That still happens." Her teeth worry into her lip. "But not like when I was young. I've decided it is my present state and so it is. That does not make it much easier to know what to do with it all, I'll admit."

Amora has posed:
"See. Exactly what I was saying. Too modest." That smile on Amora's face as if Meggan has just confirmed what she said. But then again, most likely *anything* Meggan said after it she'd just use as confirmation. For a Goddess is never wrong! .. Or something. "And the point is..., why miss *all* the flowers? Only a few are worth it. Those with real beauty. The rest, just as with people.., is simply riff-raff." she is not perhaps the nicest of Asgardians.

Those last words do seem to perk Amora's curiosity though, always a dangerous thing. "What was it like when you were young, then?" She asks, head canting to the side along with a loose strand of golden hair. One that she perhaps seems to not notice. Or maybe simply not care. "There is much about you that I still do not know. And .., I am curious."

Glass is again raised to her lips for a sip, "You should take one of these for yourself." She suggests, "Accompany me."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Goddesses are never wrong... though there's a thought brewing in the back of Meggan's mind, she pinches it off before it blossoms. No, that would be trouble as she glides over to the sink and pours water. "Why miss all the flowers? I know there are beautiful ones out there I hardly know the names of. It means not being satisfied with a single choice? Is that the key to happiness, adaptability?" Her thoughts swirl in thoughtful currents like the dish soap squirted into the basin for hot water to form, where she sets a few coffee and tea cups to soak before they're released to the rest of the world.

Suds and a girl who never gets dishpan hands, it's a dream of 1951 London. Not choking to death on the dark fog matches too. Her opinions are smothered while Amora speaks of riff-raff, though she calmly inclines her head to acknowledge hearing. No judgment; a woman like that is a woman unto herself, a rare and wild province of hidden gardens and knowledge-laced forests, not to be attained by just glancing ot the sky.

"What was it like? I could spin you a tale and you wouldn't think much of me for it I imagine. No secret, though. Your assistants could find it." Thus; telling the tale herself. She smiles as she rubs the dishes with a rag, moving elegantly between the mugs and glasses. "It's supposed to be the other way around. I ask you what it was like to grow up, wherever you are from. How you came here, what you think of it. The bartender? Never the interesting one."

No malice there, only amusement. A shotglass comes down and she dries off her hands before pouring whatever remains in the mixer into it. "It's only for the taste, you know. The other affects never work right." A hint of a smile widens, a magnolia blossom coming out. Then she lightly taps her finger to her lips. "I grew up among the Romanischal, the Travellers, in the wild country of England and Scotland and Wales. Whatever remains of it, anyhow, after three thousand years of cultivation. We were from the Lake District, where it isn't all park and tourists. Free to ramble between lake, dell and beach to my heart's content, with precious little but a good Internet connection. My parents barely made do. Those folk receive scorn and racism even now from the Brits, as foreigners and thieves and the like. Never mind they've been there for centuries, it doesn't make a difference. They'd see us and look down on us, and that sometimes would turn me into whatever they scorned. Hard thing to do to a child."

Amora has posed:
"Happiness is such an overrated word.." Amora comments, gesturing with one elegant hand, motions used as she exposes her thoughts, "Most people don't even know what those words mean, to achieve happiness. It feels *too* much like an ending of things. Death and happiness go well together." she muses, "Where what matters is raw pursuit, the passion, the fire. Happiness feels tame compared to those." so sayeth Amora.

As Meggan starts to go abut the tale she seems to listen. But is she truly listening or simply hearing? For someone as trained as Amora any could be possible. Yet there is a genuine look to the woman's gaze while she follows the story, a very faint smile gracing her lips.

"The Roma have always been gracious hosts. That much at least I do give them. It is not something I can say of many others." So many that do not respect the old ways. It almost makes her sigh. But she stays herself. "Children are most often a product of what surrounds them." even in Asgard, "Of what is expected of them. Yet .., you appear to have taken quite the steps to create a path to yourself." a beat, "How did that transition happen?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Satisfaction. Achievement. Growth. The feeling of accomplishment for doing something, being proud of your work, and using that as room to keep improving. Life is not static and it never has been. Happiness is not tame compared to pursuit, it /is/ the joy of pursuit and the fires of getting it. Of enjoying it. Of reaching out and taking the fire, to find you are transformed by that, and it never ceases. I don't..." Her thoughts careen a little into the nadir, and she stops herself, sipping the drin in a go. Raspberry and lemon kick their sweet-tart kisses across the palate, a lover's nip to go with it all.

"They are, and they took me in. Foundling, just to be that extra bit cliche. Good folk who raised me as their own until they were lost. Mind you, they never judged me on the way I looked. That was always others." Her shoulders roll, memory fading, and she gazes up at Amora through the slanting gold of her lashes. "Children can be a product of what surrounds them, but I mean it literally. A circle of posh chavs rolling in like they owned the place saw some dirty-kneed waif and I /was/ that dirty-kneed waif, no matter if I'd washed up and wore my best sundress not ten minutes before." Her finger sketches a circle. "To make the point, I've been a mermaid because they expected me to be one and so I was. It's always been so though when did I decide to look like this? Round about... twelve? Refined it a bit but that's when I knew what would let me pass in Britain and it largely worked." A twist of her lips isn't a smile. "Close enough to what I think /I/ should be. In the end, what we resemble is all in the eye of the beholder. Don't think too hard of the thing with eyeball stalks, please."

Amora has posed:
As Meggan speaks more and more about satisfaction and growth the smile on Amora's face grows larger, almost as if she expected the talk to go there. A nod is given but she doesn't press further for the woman to finish that line of thought, leaving it rest and simply listening.

"A Foundling, that does explain it. And indeed, it's as I said, the Roma are never missing where it comes to following the old ways.."

Speaking about the eye of the beholder brings Amora to raise an eyebrow though. Because she has strong opinions about -that-. "It's not always in the eye of the beholder to see who we are, Glorianna. Not at all." she should know! "Manipulating perception, showing what they want to see. You know it well, the same way I do. What do *they* know about what is beautiful..?" a roll of her eyes given. She doesn't think too highly about Midgard's tastes.

And of course that telling her not to think much about beholders has her thinking on it. "Disgusting little things, and rather violent. But being a large ball with eyes often doesn't do much to improve their mood."

"But it still leaves me with the question of how you look /underneath/. Everyone has a true form, even you. Perhaps I will simply have to peel until I find it." she suggests with a faint touch of a smirk coming to ruby lips.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Good, pop culture princess and goddess of the human things know about beholders. One popping up unfortunately seeking directions would probably end up skewered, spitefully stabbed, screamed at, run over, and blasted twenty ways before it rolled to a stop. "You know, I'm glad they aren't real. But being a big ball of eyes with a mouth..." She shakes her head.

"Ugh." How do you make anything like that nice?

She gestures at the bottles laid out. "I don't know, sparkly? What do /you/ look like in all your magnificence when you pull back the patina of slight humanity? I can see from here you glow green."

Amora has posed:
"Of course you can see that I glow green.." Amora doesn't even try to deny it, "It's the color of my aura, of my magic. But do you truly think that is how I look underneath?" a twinkle of mischief before she lets out a soft laugh. Fingers wrap about her drink again and she takes it to her lips, draining what's left of it.

"Think about it. And if you are still curious later on we can always ..., explore." And of course that she puts that little dangerous edge to her tone, as she often does in conversations such as this.

"But for now it is time for me to take my leave. I do have a small journey to prepare." A touch of a sigh reaching lips, resigned. But her new blade would serve her well. "Do take care of yourself, I am sure I will be seeing you soon."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"There are other impressions in there. It's easier to see than it used to be though I do not think that is exactly you. Your thoughts and your emotions play differently, don't they? Every person at their heart, if they resembled what they thought they were, might not have the same face. Maybe Captain America would. I've never met him. But you can imagine, he might have the same general features and just change the uniform?" The question floats there in the air from the scion of the Tuatha de Danaan, for whom the world is a strange and sparkling vision. Always that, blinding that.

"Oh, there's no question. I would explore. Just say when." Amora's not going to have to wait for that confirmation even as she taps her fingers in a merry little rill on the counter. "Be well, Lady."