multiversallogs | It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

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That is interesting and she leans forward, holding his forearm in her hand for a better look (pardon the personal space intrusion, these things happen). Her touch is colder than a human's, but distinctly not the chill of death - more like she just came out of cold water, though she looks as if she must've been here in this warm throng of bodies for some time already.

After a moment, pleased as she thinks she's beginning to understand, she looks up at him. "I'm a fairy," she says, because unlike many, she has no reason any more to make a secret of her own nature and a hundred reasons to all but take out a full page ad in the paper. "Nymph." Naiad. Whatever. She doesn't know the exact species, but she can guess close enough.

He may look a little delighted despite himself; Ilde, you're the first fairy he's ever met, and that's a wonderful thing for someone who spent most of his childhood in forests going through spots of mist in search of trolls. And since she clarified, he responds with, "Isbjørn. Polar bear." There's a little shrug to that, and a smile, before explaining, "I come from Norway."

"You're enormous," she says, looking terribly pleased by it, gesturing expansively to indicate the general size of a polar bear (e.g. 'as big as a fucking house, oh my god', and/or 'much bigger than me', alternatively, 'big enough to ride on, right?'). "What do they feed you in Norway, pedestrians?"

This is less an accusation of terrible beastliness than it is a suggestion that if he ate people he would grow very large, ergo. (Ilde has really had enough to drink, that water bottle is a very good idea.)

What exactly does it say about him that he's not offended? (Like he cares what people think anyway). "Whales, seals and brown cheese." This is a fact. Okay no, there are also berries. Berries are a Serious Matter. A fruitful berry patch is like a river with gold dust back home, and they'll defend it just the same.

"You should come swimming." And see that fairies can shapeshift, too, even if Ilde is not a shapeshifter. (There's a subtle difference between that, and shapeshifting as an ability she possesses due to what is her whole.)

...it's a fairly flippant invitation, a spur of the moment sort of thought; it's always fun when she forgets to censor herself and think through her impulses.

"Polar bears swim, don't they?"

"As good as fish." Not quite true, but well enough. And then, because he's genuinely curious rather than overly cautious, he asks, "Are people used to seeing different types swimming around the river?"

She makes a so-so gesture with one hand (as well as a 'I'll believe that when I see it, buddy' expression with one...face), shrugging. "I surprise people from time to time." Even odds, in this city, whether it's her breasts or her tail that concern the ones who take the time to be surprised by her at all.

Despite his reservations earlier in the day -and he'll still hold on to them, because kidnapping god damn it- this place is starting to grow on him. The only place he's ever been able to truly be himself is out in the icy wilds of Svalbard, trundling around with his ursine cousins. He is pleased with these developments, and looks it.

Maybe it's the beer he's been sipping every now and then while they've been talking, the general joie de vivre of the place, or because he has an interesting sense of humour, but he says, "Fuck, I should just shift and stroll through the streets if they really want a surprise. You can get a piggy-back if you'd like. Polar-back. Whatever."

Ilde's eyes become so huge that- yes, those are her real eyes, to better convey her enthusiasm for the idea of riding a polar bear down the street. "Really?"

You can't take it back now, Asbjoern.

He notices the change in her appearance and he knows, in his big furry heart, he's not getting out of this now, but fuck it. "Why the hell not." If there can be giant ants, there can be bears. "I doubt anyone would say anything."

He's a fucking bear.

"Maybe, 'wow'," she suggests, brightly, with an expression that further suggests she's still picturing it in her head and it's still great.

"I'd like to think so." Not that he's cocky or anything, but he is proud of what he is, despite his naturally developed caution. Basically they are supernatural and awesome, and they should feel awesome.

A philosophy that Ilde can eagerly get on board with. Or on the back of, as the case may - will! - be, because now that he's said it, he is indeed never getting out of it now. She's perfectly willing to interpret a flippant remark as a promise if it suits her.

"I knew you were something big," she adds, a little bit self-congratulatory, as she sips her water. "I could tell."

Such is the nature of wonderful fairy ladies; there is something about Ilde (and Ruby, for that matter) that speaks 'yes, I like you' almost automatically in a way he's never known. Quite likely it's the fact fairies and their descendants really are part of nature, embodiments of something primal and awesome. Similar to himself, although of course different. In a good way.

"I get that. Not really what people are, just this...feeling. And there are more supernatural kinds here than I've ever met." It's a low, almost constant signal that he's steadily getting used to.

Though Ilde's most usual alternative form is rather like a mermaid, she's closer to water in truth than she is to fish, and she likes that about herself; there is a sense of belonging that she was always reaching for before, that nothing else could ever have satisfied, and it's as close to perfect as anything could be.

All the better for befriending strange polar bears.

"I'm making it all up as I go along," she admits easily- it's frustrating, and there are questions she'll never have answered no matter how much she learns now, but she's doing her best and her best hasn't been so bad, she doesn't think. "We don't all come with labels, it's very inconvenient." Interpreting what her senses tell her sometimes feels like Ilde Holmes, Fairy Detective.

He is sympathetic, or perhaps empathetic is a better term (and less patronizing) because he distinctly remembers how rough things were before his kin came for him. It's not the exact same as what Ilde is experiencing, obviously, but he can relate in his own way.

"Well, I'm pretty recognisable. But even when you have a guidebook, that's all it is after a point." Being told and living through something were very different things. Spending the rest of his life in Svalbard hadn't felt completely right for him, even if he relished in the landscape. There was something in him a little too restless and ill content to stay on an island forever. "At least if you're looking for someone similar, you've got a good chance of finding them here."

"There are other fae," she agrees, though she has yet to find any quite like herself - to the best of her knowledge, she and Sonja are the only ones from their world, and she's certain they'd know if it weren't the case. The wealth of variety just among vampires suggests certain things about the specificity of the supernatural from world to world, and she isn't holding her breath to find someone who looks like her without the illusion. "And all sorts of everyone. I met a dragon." Sort of.

Now that is fascinating, and he can't help but imagine some sort of Fáfnir-like wyrm curled up in the city somewhere, waiting. And now it's his turn to ask:

"Really?"

"Dragon...kin? Dragonborn?" What he looks like and the fact he is some kind of dragon: those are memorable details. The finer points of the conversation more easily slip her mind when she's distracted and indulging a hereditary tendency toward 'being a fucking lush'. But suffice to say, we are not dealing with Smaug, here. "Something. He was cranky." Yes, he was.

So far this place is basically his childhood imagination come to life.

(Including the scary bits, Asbjørn, but you will discover that in good time -and who knows, he may be just as captivated by them in a strange way.)

"I don't want to judge everyone on fairy tales, but that sort of makes sense."

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

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