Traces of macadam suggest the historical existence of a road here. Weeds, grasses, and, in a few spots, trees have grown up and long since broken asphalt and concrete to gravel. Someone has laid down gravel and sawdust to improve the way for carts and automobiles on the flattest sections of the dilapidated roadway. The road wobbles northward through a massive thicket of dark pine trees, and a narrow, grassy, dirt road stretches westward.
A weathered sign faces northbound travellers and proclaims, "WELCOME TO THE TOWNSHIP OF." The name below this has been effaced at some point in the sign's history, but circumstances and age have removed part of this impromptu paint job, revealing the faded word, "Vienna."
Just beyond this is a new black print on white background sign, brightly decorated with cheerful, if inaccurate, green ivy stencilled around the edge. The legend reads, "Welcome to HAVEN."
You step onto a cracked but clean tile floor that was probably once red, but is now a faded salmon pink. A large, rectangular communal table seating about 10 takes up the middle of the floor, with mismatched smaller tables arranged near the large front windows. The long counter in front of the kitchen door sports plates of fragrant bread, cookies, and muffins and bowls of fresh wild fruits. A small, rattling fridge in the corner holds a selection of juices and cold spring water in reused bottles and jars. Atop the refrigerator is a can for cash donations; next to it is a box for barter payments. Scrawled on the box in black marker are the words "Pay what you can, when you can."
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt is tucked into them at the waist; the collar of it's left mostly unlaced, the ends of the cord hanging down. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
He fits in the background, this young man. He's fairly tall (about 6 feet 2 inches worth), and rather stocky, but he can and does observe events without intruding on them. His hair is rusty-red, darkly so, and relatively long. It is, however, tied back in a ponytail, to at least attempt to keep it out of his eyes. Most of the time, he succeeds in this endeavor. Occasionally, he fails, somewhat to his irritation. His face, in keeping with his frame, is a bit broad. His eyes are blue, and there are already laugh lines around them.
He wears dark blue pants, with a considerable number of pockets, a slightly lighter blue shirt, a vest, and a jacket.
Unruly black hair, long enough to nearly reach the girl's waist, falls in tangles around a gypsy's face. Both the shade of the girl's skin and the cast of her features speak of a Mediterranean heritage: her nose is a little long, her cheekbones high, her complexion a mild olivine tan. Her eyes are not dark, but a peculiar shade of hazel-green. She is of a middling height for a woman, perhaps five and a half feet, lithe and lean, all whipcord muscle with barely an ounce of softness.
She wears a simple tunic of undyed, soft-tanned deerskin: a single hide with a hole in the center for the neck, belted at the waist with some sort of woven fiber; it hangs in a ragged, uneven fall that barely covers her thighs.
This is a woman in the summer of life, clean-limbed and sturdy, with glossy black hair caught in a heavy braid that swings to her hips. Though she is short, she is built neither thin nor girlish -- indeed her small frame manifests all the lush curves of a temple carving. Her pale eyes are almost bronze in hue, and several shades lighter than the cinnamon brown of her skin. Some dark red stain, perhaps henna, darkens the last joint of each finger and toe and forms a small teardrop shape in the center of her smooth brow; apart from this she wears no jewelry, and is dressed only in a simple length of cotton, draped sari-like about her. There is something in her even gaze and the set of her shoulders and chin that suggests this woman has not known fear for a long time, if she has ever know it at all.
Sean is a moderately tall man, standing just over six feet with an average build and an easygoing smile. His strong jaw is softened by dark stubble and his pale blue eyes are sharp and observant. Short-cropped, black-brown hair with the faintest suggestion of a widow's peak and modest cheekbones combine nicely with his other features, and his skin has been lightly tanned by numerous spells outdoors.
His clothes have seen a good deal of use but are still holding up. A dark green, button-up, long-sleeved flannel shirt has a few obvious repairs, particularly along the arms, and it's tucked into plain beige pants that have the look of city manufacturing. He's wearing sturdy brown hiking boots that are newer than the rest of his attire, and the middle finger on his left hand sports a ring of Celtic design in white and rose gold.
Well, look at this city boy. He's middling-tall, with the sort of skinny-yet-flabby physique that comes of never exercising or eating right; although his limbs are lanky, he's got a bit of an overhang in the belly region. His looks are plain, nothing special to them at all except an interestingly aristocratic nose, long and thin. His complexion is fair--no, it's pale, desperately pale, almost albino, although there is some natural color. Apparently he doesn't get a lot of sun. His eyes are a confused dark gray-blue-hazel, and intently wary, often flicking to the source of a sudden sound or movement. They're often veiled by his hair, which is a mop of Beatles-esque proportions, ugly in a way that went out of style during the Long Night. Also in the way of bad fashion statements, he has jaw-length sideburns which widen at their ends, although he's otherwise clean-shaven. It's a look that hasn't been in vogue for a century or so. His hair, eyebrows, and sideburns are all a uniform shade of absolute black; it does not flatter him.
If it wasn't already painfully obvious that he's fresh from a big city, his clothes cinch the deal. Loose gray corduroy pants, long enough to bunch over the tops of sneakers, a long-sleeved thin blue cotton shirt of the pullover variety, and over that, a battered red-and-black flannel shirt, unbuttoned. Despite the light clothing, the chill of the season doesn't seem to bother him.
The sun's just set, recently enough that the world's still bathed in a soft twilight glow -- night, to be sure, but not yet the black of the wee hours. All wise travelers have already found themselves a berth for the night... which only goes to imply that whoever the faintly approaching hoofbeats belong to is not, in fact, a wise traveler. Especially since the hoofbeats appear to be approaching at a run. A look in their direction might let one make out the figure of a smallish dark man on a largish pale horse, shrunken by distance but rapidly enlarging.
Sean comes walking along the road after another day of rounds to the local homesteads, looking a bit weary but no less happy for the work. He's humming to himself softly, his heavy winter cloak wrapped tight and his mid-sized satchel held close to his side. He glances behind him at the approaching figure on horseback and without missing a beat steps off the road proper to make sure he doesn't get run down.
Dirty, tired, and with a large bulging sack slung over his shoulder, Rowan emerges from the woods, onto the track. He's tired enough not to really have noticed the sound of the horse.
As the horse gets closer, it becomes more clearly a Rather Nice horse -- strong, well-bred, with nice leather tack decorated with delicate silver tracing. There's an initial worked into one side of the saddle -- an A. The man atop comes into clearer view, too, and flashes a bright, confident smile as he notices the others on the road. His legs are very slightly too short for the stirrups, toes pressed into them. "Whoa," he orders the horse, pulling back on the reins a little. The horse ignores him. A touch of the confidence ebbs. "Whoa!" he tries again, with little effect. The reins get a major yank, the third time. "STOP, already!"
Sean allows the man and his lovely but unobliging mount some extra room, calling out to Rowan, "Watch it behind ya Rowan!" His accent's clearly Scottish in origin, with just enough of a burr to make it obvious without rendering his speech unintelligible.
Muzzily, Rowan looks up. "Oh. Shit," he mutters, and drops his bag with a thud. He whistles sharply to the horse and then finally moves himself, into a bush.
Tristan stumbles out from behind a tree, looks around wildly, echoes Rowan, "Oh shit," when seeing the runaway horse, and stumbles back off the road with all the grace of a drunken beached manatee.
The horse rears, but still shows no sign of agreeing to stop. The man's eyes widen, and he ends up rather inelegantly hugging his mount's neck by the time its hooves are back on the ground. For all of this inelegant horsemanship, when he gives up and swings a leg over the horse's back, jupming off, he somehow manages to land on his feet. The horse only goes faster without its load. The former rider watches after it a moment, dusting off his coat. "...oh, well," he remarks cheerfully, "easy come, easy go." He turns to the others, the smile flashing back into place. "So, this would be Haven, huh?"
Rowan scrambles out of the bush. "You, uh, want I should catch it? I can, after all..."
"This is, in fact, Haven." Sean steps back on the road and watches the horse flee. "If nothing else, I imagine one of the Perunka will fetch it soon enough." He looks over where he thought he saw Tristan, and asks, "Tristan, didya survive the incident?"
Tristan flails himself back onto the road, clawing his twig-infested hair out of his eyes. "Gah fuck. What? Yeah, piece of cake, doc."
Serendipity watches after the horse a moment again at Rowan's off, then back down the way he came, apparently considering. "...nah, thanks. He'll come back. Or not. Actually..." A thoughtful pause, and one corner of the grin quirks up a little, like a kid getting away with something. "Nah, it's fine. So! Hi, nice to meet you all, Serendipty Jones, at your service," he announces, sweeping a needlessly flamboyant bow. "Who wants to buy me a drink first?"
Sean arches his eyebrows. "Well buying a drink won't really be necessary, I dinna think, if yer lacking for funds." He steps a bit closer and offers his free hand. "Sean Bremerton."
Rowan regards Serendipity evenly. "Rowan. Congreve. Why you lookin' for Haven?"
Tristan beams toothily at Serendipity. "I'm Tristan."
Serendipity accepts Sean's hand, and pumps it in a friendly (and reasonably energetic) manner. "Like I said, niceta meetcha all. And I wasn't, really, but since I found it, what the hell."
Rowan says, "Riiiight. Well, you wanna drink, or you wanna just shake hands?"
Tristan stuffs his hands in his pockets, tipping his head back to squint at the dark sky. He looks back down to scan the forest, then back at the other men, his expression, when nobody is looking at him, sharpening, then relaxing back into an amiable half-grin.
"If you've a mind to it, there's a Diner a bit up the road here that has plenty of offerings, even this time of th'day." Sean hitches his satchel again and indicates the Diner with a tip of his dead, beginning to walk towards the town proper.
Serendipity beams at Rowan, and steps over to him, hooking an arm into his. "I thought you'd never ask. Lead on toward the life-giving beverages, my newest dearest chum," he replies cheerfully, and starts to follow Sean, with seemingly every attention to pull Rowan along. Not that he could possibly do so without cooperation.
Rowan follows slowly enough to be considered a drag on the other man.
Tristan trails along behind, head cocked, hands in pockets.
Sean sets his satchel down on a nearby table and drapes his cloak over it before slowly heading towards the kitchen, tea first and foremost in his agenda. "Tea, anyone?"
Serendipity glances about as he enters, taking the place in. "Looks like a nice little town," he comments, abandoning Rowan in order to get a better look at some of the things about in the room. He glances at Sean, blinking once at the offer. Tea? Oh well. "Sure."
Tristan drifts in and arranges himself in the optimal position to hold up the wall of the Diner; it's old, you never know. He folds his arms across his chest and loiters, looking alert.
Rowan says, dryly, as he hops onto the counter, "Got some dandelion wine, too, if you want."
Safi sits crosslegged on the kitchen floor, bending over the book in her lap--straightening at the sound of voices. When Sean comes in, she beams at him. "Doctor! Hello..."
"Some lovely mint chammomile a local put together before the end of the harvest. Perfect after a long day on the road." Sean goes into the kitchen to light the stove, and after spying Safi on the floor he says, "Ah, Miss Safi! Oidhche mhath, how's your day been?"
Safi offers him a faint smile. "O. K.," she says, with that not-quite colloquial sound of a foreigner new to the slang. "It was a beautiful day outside..."
Serendipity beams at Rowan again. "Knew I liked you," he replies, with a little inclination of his head, and promptly gets distracted by the female voice from the kitchen. He leans to get a look at the source of it. "Hello, beautiful," he offers as greeting, "...we're not related at all, right?"
Rowan mutters, "That's one of us," and fetches some of Sashenka's "guaranteed to stun a horse at 50 paces" dandelion wine. He pours a small glass of it and sets it down near Serendipity.
When Serendipity leans over, his attention on Safi, Tristan rolls his eyes expressively at Sean.
Safi tips her head to get a better look past the doctor; her brow furrows slightly as she studies the stranger. "I would not know..." For a moment that odd, leaf-bright gaze seems to focus elsewhere, /through/ him perhaps, as if searching his being.
Sean grins at the young woman. "Beautiful if you like it blustery and cold, aye." He fetches up the tea kettle and pulls down a glass jar of dried chamomile flower heads and mint from a shelf. He answers Tristan's look with a faint snort.
Serendipity grins at Safi, and shrugs, "Well, probably far enough away, then." He takes a step over, the better to be seen, and sweeps another of those bows for her benefit. "Serendipity Jones, at your service. =Very= pleased to meet you, Miss...?" He straightens and accepts the drink while he awaits the reply, with an aside of 'Thanks,' to Rowan. But no actual drinking yet.
Rowan disappears into the cot room.
Safi blinks, and closes the book; her page is marked with a dried wisp of grass. She's at a slight disadvantage, sitting on the floor--and so the girl rocks back slightly and rolls up smoothly to her feet. A broad smile comes to her features, unrestrained like a child's. "Safi," she says. "My name is Safi."
Tristan remains leaning against the wall, looking politely uninterested.
Sean goes about the business of preparing tea. He fills the tea kettle and sets it to boil, then gets out a pot and puts a good deal of the chamomile and mint into a steeper. "Would ya like some tea, Miss Safi?" he asks as he fetches down a cup for himself.
Serendipity smiles back at Safi, and inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Safi," he repeats. "...lovely name. You can call me Ren, if you like," he offers, and pulls out a chair from the table in the main room, indicating it with a tilt of his head. "Join us in a drink?" Oh, so he =does= remember there are other people in the room.
Safi looks over her shoulder to the doctor. "Please, yes." She grins to the Scot, as she steps around him in a kitchen-space dance to rescue her book from the floor. "Do not step on George-Gordon-Lord-Byron."
Tristan snorts in barely repressed laughter, and turns it into an unconvincing cough.
"Oh, dinna worry, the laird a' Rochdale has naught ta fear from my feet," Sean assures Safi with a grin.
Serendipity pulls out a second chair and drops into it, managing to look far more comfortable than he has a right to. The wine finally gets a taste -- not exactly a tentative one, either. One hopes cyanide isn't a major ingredient.
Tristan smirks faintly to himself and slips back outside, into the cold night. Somehow it's hard to realize that he's leaving, and when he's gone it's easy to forget he was ever there.
Safi seems to understand the gesture with the chair, then, and she comes out to sit down. There are a few dry leaves and seed pods riding in her hair, along with the inevitable evergreen needles.
Sean emerges from the kitchen with a steeping pot of tea and three cups on a tray. "There's sugar and cream in the kitchen, for those who want it," he says, heading towards the table with his satchel and cloak. He sets the tray down and begins pouring out cups for those present, whether or not they want them.
Safi grins to Sean, over her shoulder, as he pours. "Thank you," she says quietly. The volume of poems is placed on the table, under the protection of one hand.
Serendipity closes his eyes a moment after the sip (well, swallow), and goes very still for a second or two before shaking his head and breaking into a grin again. "Nice. Thank you, Tall-Ginger-and-Handsome," he calls back over his shoulder to where Rowan disappeared within the confines of the kitchen, and takes another sip -- smaller, this time. He reaches over idly with his free hand to remove a couple seedpods from Safi's hair.
Safi starts away slightly, giving him a wary look--and then when his intention is clear, she allows the gesture, watching Sean and the newcomer over the rim of her cup. "Where do you come from?" she asks.
Sean offers a cup to first Safi, then Serendipity. "So then, what have ya learned from the laird, Miss Safi? Any spirits flying o'er mount and main?" Once he's poured his own serving he seats himself in a chair.
The kitchen doorway is occupied for a moment, but it is not Rowan returning. Sazabhadri glides soundlessly up to the counter from somewhere in the back, chewing undaintily on some of yesterday's baking. She pauses to regard the new faces with equal parts curiosity and suspicion.
Serendipity accepts the offered tea, setting it aside for, presumably, the second liquid course, and removes another leaf from Safi's hair. At her question, he gives the opposite wall a thoughtful look and replies, gesturing vaguely, "...that way, I think. Everywhere and nowhere, depending how you look at it." The sound of someone in the kitchen doorway gets his attention just as he goes for another drink of his wine, and the sight of said person delays it for a moment, the better to flash her a stunningly bright grin. "...whatever you guys are putting in the water 'round here, they need to use it everywhere."
Safi looks over her shoulder. "Sazabhadri!" Her smile lights up the green eyes and dusky face. "Would you like some tea?"
"Ah, Miss Sazabhadri, welcome to our tea and poetry meeting." Sean gestures to the tea pot and Safi's well-guarded book. "We have the Laird a' Rochdale in our residence, and mint-chamomile."
Safi blinks at him in wide-eyed almost-alarm, and her hand scoots the book closer to her--as if she's afriad they might tell her to read, or take it away, or something.
Sazabhadri ignores Serendipity's grin completely, her eye's sliding first to Safi and then to Sean at the double-invitation. "Very well," she replies, her voice low and smooth. She stares unblinkingly at Serendipity as she moves to take a chair near Safi. "And where, pray, is 'Rochdale'?" Her accent hits the 'R' hard, but holds back the 'ch' like caught breath.
Serendipity stares back, the grin subsiding to a fainter near-smirk, and arches a brow slightly, proceeding with that drink he'd been about to take. Nothing to say, just now. Lord Byron may not be exactly his area of expertise.
Sean blows the steam off his tea and narrows his eyes slightly. "It's in Manchester, if I remember properly. Named for the River Roch, of course. It's the home of Laird Byron, infamous poet and Scot." He grins slyly sets aside his own cup of tea so he can pour one for Sazabhadri.
Safi's brow furrows. "Scot? I thought he is English... the book says..."
Sazabhadri tilts her head back, the better to look down her long nose. "Poets... can have their uses," she allows, grudgingly.
"It's on his mother's side, she was a Gordon. He grew up in Aberdeen as a ma'er of fact." The tone of Sean's voice says this pretty much explains everything that might have been wrong (or right?) with Byron, right there.
Safi blinks at Sean. "Ze mozzer? Oh... Gordon, yes. I remember."
"Gordon," Sazabhadri intones, the 'r' sounding like many ds string rapidly together. "From Aberdeen." She looks into her teacup as if it holds the mystery of why this conversation is happening.
Sean takes up his own cup of tea again and sips from it. "So then, Serendipity, will ya be staying at the Farm this evenin'?"
Sazabhadri's head pivots to stare at Serendipity again.
Serendipity looks content to drink, listen, and pay very close attention to all three of his companions... silently. The ladies get a little more of said attention than Sean does, but not a whole lot -- especially after the man actually addresses him. "Sure," he replies agreeably, "...where's the Farm, and does it take lodgers, or is that a hayloft kinda thing?"
Safi's attention shifts alertly to Sean; she does not speak, large eyes watching everything over the rim of her cup.
Sean nods and gestures vaguely at the front door. "I can show ya there, if ya like, it's just down the road. Nothing tricky to reachin' it. They'll ask ya to do some work for the right to sleep safe and warm in a cot." A corner of his mouth turns up in a half-smile. "The haylofts are only if you really want one."
Sazabhadri merely blinks once, slowly. She continues to watch Serendipity, with a stalker's attention.
Serendipity grins easily back at Sean, moving on from the last dregs of his dandelion wine to the by now lukewarm cup of tea before him. "They've got their charms," he replies, "...but a cot'll do fine. Sounds good to me. Thanks. ...What kinda work're you needing, 'round here?"
"I understand there is a unicorn infestation," Sazabhadri drawls, her eyes sliding to Sean. "Perhaps an exterminator...?"
Safi glances to Sazabhadri in shock. "Does that ex- word mean what I think? Why do you say zis?" She is appalled, perhaps even angry.
"What sort *don't* we need, is more like." Sean looks askance at the two women and puts on a diplomatic face. "I've not met any of them, so I wouldn't know, but I hear tell we've a few. Can't speak to their motives, so maybe we dinna need to cast them all out *just* yet."
"Unicorn infestation, huh?" Serendipity asks, looking not =entirely= sure whether to believe this. "...What're they doing, hypnotizing all the local virgins?"
Sazabhadri's bronze eyes flicker toward Safi and the corner of her full mouth twitches up. She answers the newcomer, "I am told they have been 'accosting' people with their unwanted... advances." Pause. "Repeatedly."
Safi blinks, her eyes widening. "But all the unicorns I've met have been good spirits!" She seems shocked and dismayed by this news.
Sean, mid-sip, almost chokes on his tea. "Oh, have they?" he manages after a moment. "Now that's not very nice of them, how can a local possibly expect to compete with a unicorn?"
Serendipity looks, for a moment, much in agreement with Sean, nodding to the first part of his comment -- but the second induces a moment of consideration. "...hands," he replies firmly, though still half lost in thought. "Opposable thumbs, that's our ace in the hole. And we're less likely to gore 'em in the stomach by accident."
Sazabhadri's eyelids sink to half-mast. "'Good' is such a negotiable concept," she replies to Safi. Serendipity's remarks elicit the flicker of an eyebrow.
Safi's brow furrows in confusion. "But-- you mean mating? How would one of them--?" The light joking seems to be at least a mile over her dark leaf-strewn head.
Sean leans back in his chair and nods sagely at Serendipity. "Hm, true enough, true. I suppose I'll have to bank on those two features from now on." He gives Safi an apologetic look. "But if they are spirits, maybe they can change their form to something more...agreeable." He shifts his glance back to Serendipity. "In which case, we're *really* out of luck."
Serendipity quirks an eyebrow briefly at Saza in return, accompanied by a decided upward turn in the opposite corner of his lips. For a second, it's very nearly a challenge, albeit a playful one. Then he nods to Sean, woeful. "Might just be. We'd have to get creative. ...luckily, I'm a creative kinda guy." Fleeting 1000-watt grin.
Safi frowns down at the table. "I suppose it would be natural for zem to mate with the Perunka," she murmurs. A glance to Sean, and she says, "You mean zey have taken human shape? I think zey would be powerful enough, yes..."
"Relying on luck may be your only chance," Sazabhadri observes drily. "If you lack superior tactics--" she glances at Serendipity, "--and physical ability."
"Creativity is always a good thing to have when you're in a town small and given to oddities such as this." Sean pours himself a last bit of tea before preparing to go. He nods at Safi. "I don't ken much about spirits myself, but, I suppose it's possible they can take various forms to suit their needs."
Safi glances to Sazabhadri innocently. "The ability is easy enough to learn, is it not?" She is utterly ignorant of the subtleties--and, oddly, seems to feel no need to masquerade, to hide such things beneath polite conversation. "I can't imagine anyone having trouble with what comes by instinct." Her attention shifts to Serendipity, then, and she explains, "Even the... stranger things, I would have thought of eventually."
Serendipity meets Sazabhadri's eyes and replies smoothly, "Don't worry too much there about the tactics and ability; I'm sure we're amply endowed to meet the challenge." He glances over at Sean, gaze flicking down for a fraction of a second and back up before he adds, "'course, I can only speak for myself with assurance at present..."
Sean arches one eyebrow at Serendipity. "I've not had any complaints, but I'm also spoken for, and that tends to fend people off from the get-go." He takes a long drink, finishing the cup in a single swallow.
"Your endowments," Sazabhadri purrs, "are no worry of mine, I assure you, ah, Serendipity. May I call you 'Dip'?" Without waiting for a reply, she turns to Sean. "Are you? May I ask who your mate is?" she asks, with apparently genuine interest.
Safi returns her attention to her tea, a strange hurt expression on her face, her brow furrowed slightly. She is as legible as an open book.
Serendipity smirks at Sazabhadri, and sips his tea. "Nah, but you can call me Ren," he replies, "...and you're right -- don't need to worry at all." He looks interested enough in finding out the answer to her other question, but tosses in one of his own -- to Safi, with a rather more gently teasing smile. "It's not you, is it?"
Sean clears his throat, sensitive to the scrutiny he's now under, and he gives Ren a narrow look. "She's a mathan, one of the Nitakk-Ita. Back in Alba, though, in the north country. I havena seen her in some time now." He absently spins his ring and glances between the three of them.
Sazabhadri inclines her head to Sean. "One of the Bear-folk." She arches a dark brow. "You must be stronger than you look." To Safi she finally replies, "There is more to mating than the simple act of coupling, child, although that, too, can have its uses."
Safi shakes her head minutely at Ren's inquiry, and then glances up, narrowing her eyes at Sazabhadri. "I am not a child," she says tartly, "and I know very well, thank you. Many things. As I said, most of them, one would think of eventually, without being taught." Her jaw is tight, but a confusion colors her hurt and anger--as if she doesn't quite understand where the feelings come from.
"See, that's where the creativity comes in," Serendipity remarks to Safi, "...some people aren't very imaginative when it comes to thinking of things. =Any= things. So hey, points to you." Quick grin, and he settles back into his seat, teacup in hand, studying Sean for a moment. "Bear-folk, huh? ...are you family to 'em?"
"I think Miss Sazabhadri might have other things in mind, Miss Safi, but I'll let her speak for herself." For his own part, Sean grins at Sazabhadri, a teasing light in his eyes. "She's always been a bit careful with me, of course." He slowly rises from his chair, stretching a little. "Ah, no, no relating to them. I'm as human and mortal as it gets. I'd happily talk all your ears off about her but I must be getting back to the Farm for some sleep, so ask me later if ya dare when I'm not half-way to an eight hour coma."
"Of course, Safi," Sazabhadri agrees, unfortunately in precisely the insincere tone one tends to assume with children, although she seems to mean well. Her eyelids lower again, and she watches Sean speculatively as he moves to leave.
"Thank you for the tea, Doctor," Safi murmurs, barely suppressing a certain fierceness in her tone. She rises from her chair, the animal grace even more apparent as she moves to collect the man's empty cup. She takes both to the kitchen, without a word; the water runs briefly.
Serendipity drains the remnants of his tea, and stacks both his now empty cups as he stands, giving Saza a little half-bow. "Guess I'll be taking my leave, then, too. But I'm sure I'll see you 'round... dream sweet." The smile's faint, but still there, and there's no avoidance of eye contact. That said, he scoops his cups up and follows Safi into the kitchen, leaning against the sink beside her as she runs the water. "G'night, beautiful. You dream sweet too, mm? I will." He gives her a wink, and leans in to rinse the cups out.
Safi nods minutely, glancing to him in puzzlement. "You are staying at ze farm? Or here?"
Sean murmurs a low, "You're welcome," to Safi as she passes. He smiles briefly at Sazabhadri, shrugging into his cloak, then hefts his satchel. "Off we are then, Mr. Jones, unless ya think ya can navigate to the Farm in the dark."
The bread rolls Sazabhadri emerged from the kitchen with have long since been consumed, and so she rises and drifts toward the counter to see what else may be about. The conversation over and the gathering breaking up, it seems the Diner's lingering occupants may now be safely ignored.
"Farm, I think," Serendipity replies, as if the details of these things didn't matter very much. "...well, unless you'd like to me to stay somewhere else." Another grin. Sean will just have to wait a few seconds.
Safi shakes her head minutely. "I live in ze woods," she says quietly. "So I do not have a house, or a roof. Zere is... a cot, here, unless Rowan is sleeping zere.
Safi keeps her attention on the washing up. "Walk safe, Ren," she says quietly.
Serendipity finishes rinsing out the cups, and removes one of the remaining twigs from Safi's hair. "Mm -- I'll do my best. Promise to take care of me if I twist an ankle?" He sets the cups down, and takes one of her hands from beneath the water, lifting it to plant a kiss on the back of it, co-incident with another little bow. "See you soon, Safi." He releases her hand, and heads back to meet up with his guide-to-be.
Safi is too startled to take her hand away--or perhaps she isn't expecting him to do such a thing. Frowning, she watches him walk out. Then she lets out a breath, and turns back to the sink to finish the dishes.
Sean gives Ren an amused look from his place by the door as the other rejoins him, but his farewell is for the women, his voice raised so it's just loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. "Beannachd leibh to ya Miss Safi, Miss Sazabhadri." He steps out the door and into the cold Wint night.
Serendipity returns the look with all innocence, and strolls out into the night after Sean, humming quietly to himself.