A flurry of snow heralds Gerard's entrance to the diner tis fine and - well, not /actually/ sunny...actually sort of chilly and gloomy and depressing but - this fine morning. His light tenor, pleasant and flexible without being anything out of the usual, precedes him through the door as well: "--les lilas sont flouris. Et ma joli Colombe, qui chante jour et nuit--"

At the moment, the table's covered by a rather extensive and impressive house of cards. Tarot cards, apparently. A pair of brown hands are visible from behind it, just starting to settle a new pair on the top of the structure as the draft from the door comes by and causes a pause. Then a face from around the side, curious, taking Gerard in with an up-and-down appraisal, and then a broad, brilliant grin. "G'morning, gorgeous," the dark young man greets cheerfully, "...was startin' to think I'd already met everyone 'round here."

"Eef you stay here, I sink you will," Gerard says. Hands in pockets, he strolls over to the counter and finds a selection of sweet, dark breads and pale unsalted butter. He inhales rapturously. "Ah, c'est comme le paradis." He rummages through his pockets and finds a small bag which he drops into the offering basket, and then loads a plate. He turns back to the industrious stranger. "Qu'est-ce que c'est, zat you build? C'est merveillieux, mais...so much work for somesing so--vulnerable, n'est-ce pas?"

Serendipity settles the two cards in place carefully, and steps away from the table, eyeing his structure critically. "It's a house of cards," he replies simply, although at this point it's a big big for that descriptor. "...Possibly a city of cards," he decides, as that becomes clear, and grins at Gerard again. "...anyway, if there wasn't a danger of it collapsing any time, it wouldn't be fun. Metaphor for life, yeah?" He winks, and sweeps an oddly formal and unusually flamboyant bow. "Serendipity Jones, at your service."

Gerard sweeps an elegant bow to Serendipity and sits down at the next table over. "Gerard Luc Delacroix," he says. He eyes the city of cards critically. "Any breeze, or any touch, ze whole sing falls down. Life continues whezzer eet is asked to or not, m'sieur."

Serendipity grins slightly more crookedly, and shakes his head. "Not =yours=," he points out. "Or mine, or whatever. Life as a whole, sure, but that's not the =point=." He brushes a few strands of hair from his face. "Pleased to meet you, Gerard Luc Delacroix."

"Et vous," Gerard says, a touch grimly. Perhaps he doesn't like being told how fragile his life is. People can be funny about things like that. In any case, the act of spreading sweet butter on the thick slices of brown bread, still warm from the oven seems to soothe him. "You 'ave been in zis place for long? I mean ze town," he adds hastily.

Serendipity seems oddly cheerful about the whole concept of his own ephemerality. He studies the 'city' with satisfaction. "Mmm, couple months, I think. Several weeks anyway. 'bout you? Don't sound local, no offense. Dig the accent." He steps up ont the seat of a chair, with both feet.

Gerard considers. "A leetle more zan a year, I sink." He stops buttering his bread, an odd look crossing his face. "'dieu," he mutters, looking taken-aback. He looks up and around the diner rather wonderingly.

Serendipity arches a brow at Gerard. "What?" he asks, lightly, "...it's a cyclone." He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly through pursed lips, sending a stream of air out and at the fragile structure, which teeters, wobbles, and bit by bit, collapses, gaining momentum as it goes. Ren laughs, and hops back off the chair, gathering up the fallen cards from the table. "So, what've you found t' keep you occupied 'round here, for a year?"

Gerard watches the cards fall somewhat bleakly, as though it were an actual life falling to pieces. "I work," he says with a sigh, eventually. "M'sieur le smiss is very kind." They are words he has said a thousand times, and he is transparently weary of them. "'e permits zat I stay wiss 'im so long as I do ze work 'e request around ze forge." If ever anyone looked unsuited to a life of physical labor at a blacksmith's forge, it is Gerard at this present moment. "I 'ave a problem m'sieur helps me wiss, so I stay."

Serendipity shuffles the cards, and perches himself on the edge of the table, taking in Gerard's expression... and takes pity on the other man, perhaps, setting up a few cards into a much smaller house, the beginnings of a big one, and flashing him a little sideways smile. If there was any point to be made there, it is; he collects them again absently, eyeing Gerard with some surprise. "You're working for a smith?" The arms get a brief stare. "No offense, beautiful, but you're not exactly built for beating iron, far's I can tell."

"Oh, no," Gerard says hastily. "No beating. M'sieur Maker does ze beating." He stops, and flushes abruptly scarlet. "Of ze iron. Me, I scrub pot metal, gazzer wood, sings like zat. Sings I do not 'ave to know 'ow to do, because I do not know 'ow to do any of it, n'est-ce pas?"

Serendipity arches a brow, noting that flush. "Only of the iron?" he teases, and pulls the chair he'd been standing on closer with his toes, setting both feet on the seat so he can rest his elbow on his knee, chin on his palm, the other arm resting loosely across his thigh. "...Like the shirt, by the way. So you help with the chores about the forge, and what's he helping you out with?"

"My sword," Gerard says. And then, in quick correction, "Swords. I 'ave swords, somesing is wrong wiss zem, zey will not leave me alone. M'sieur Maker is good wiss swords, so 'e say 'e will help."

Serendipity grins, quite evidently amused. "Yer sword, huh? I =see=. Well, hey, you ever wanna show =me= your sword, people've claimed I was good with 'em too," he offers airily, still teasing. "No, but what's with them not leaving you alone? Do they keep turning up when you try to lose 'em, or what?"

Gerard, bewildered by the first half of this response, sits bolt upright at the second. "Oui, exactement. You know swords like zis? And if people take zem, ze people get 'urt. And eef I don't take zem, /I/ get 'urt. And I did not want zem! I only stole zem because zey look valuable. And now I cannot sell zem, or give zem away or, mon dieu, leave zem in a ditch. C'est insupportable! Once, I trick a man into stealing zem - I find 'im on ze road out of town, dead!" He calms down a trifle and sits back again. "Je m'excuse. But vraiment, it is too much. So, when m'sieur say he can peut-etre aid me, I say of course yes, sank you. Even if it is for scrubbing. And staying here. Which...." he hesitates and concludes in an oddly subdued voice, "is not so very bad."

Serendipity listens well -- attentive, intrigued, all that kind of thing. "Oh, man. Yeah, that sucks. Bein' on that end of it, anyway. Heh. So... can't sell 'em, can't leave 'em behind, can't get 'em stolen. Huh. Who the hell'd you snag 'em from?"

Gerard shrugs. "Some fat, unpleasant man in Lisbon," he says dismissively. "'e was dead, so I go through his house before everysing gets taken. Zere was money, ozzer sings. And zen, under ze bed, swords. Seven, but two are enorme, I cannot carry zem, so I leave zem behind. I sink I sell zem ze next day. Now eet is two, zree years and still I have zem." He looks utterly disgusted.

"Five swords?" Ren sounds a little startled. "That's gotta be inconvenient. D'you at least know how to use 'em and all? I mean, shouldn't be so bad if they're at least useful, right?"

Gerard looks surprised. "Me? What do I know about swords? I am magician, n'est-ce pas? And, how you say, vender, per'aps. I never use a sword in my life. 'Dieu. I am no fighter."

Serendipity shrugs. "So learn," he suggests, and grins again. "Maybe you got 'em for a reason. Maybe Coyote thinks you got a lesson you need. Or someone else, hell if I know. But if you knew how to use 'em, maybe they'd be a positive thing." He looks at Gerard's hands before inquiring, "...what kinda magician are you?"

"Monsieur," Gerard says sincerely, picking up his buttered bread finally. "Eef one is able to fight wiss a sword, inevitably, zere will be someone wiss a sword 'o wishes to fight, n'est-ce pas?" He brings the bread to his mouth, starts to take a bite, and then frowns, and picks a gleaming yellow glass jewel from inside the bread. He looks at it in perplexity, and sets it down on his plate. "Me, I prefer to run away." He again lifts the bread and has almost actually gotten a mouthful when again he stops, frowns more deeply, picks out a shiny sliver of emerald green, sets it down, and peers at his bread. Finally he shrugs. "I wrap ze swords in cloth and carry zem on my back," he explains, starting to take a bite once again, but has no better luck this time. "Mon dieu!" he says, exasperated. The facetted piece of purple glass he removes from the food this time is far too large to have fit in the slice of bread invisibly, but there is no denying the evidence of the eyes, when it is so clearly pulled out of it. "But zis cannot be," he says, and he rips the piece of bread in half over his plate, causing a gold coin to fall with a clatter. He puts the bread down and picks up the shining treasures, looking up at Ren. "Does zis always 'appen?" he asks, mystified. "Does eet 'appen to you?" He tosses the coin into the air experimentally, catches it, and begins to juggle the tiny objects in a colorful circle. Then he opens his hand, lets each item drop neatly in, and closes his hand around them. When he opens it, there is a small handful of raisins - much like the raisins sitting on the counter by the bread, in fact - and the little toy jewels are nowhere to be seen. "Ah," the young frenchman says, satisfied. "Zat is better." He sprinkles the raisins atop his piece of bread and butter, and at last takes a large and contented mouthful.

Serendipity watches, grin widening as things continue, and lets the frenchman say his pieces. "Ah," he replies knowingly,"THAT kind of magician. =Very= nice. You must be amazing with your hands. And yeah, as my mama useta say, he who fights and runs away, lives to do other things that're more fun. But you got swords, people're bound to assume you know what t'do with 'em, yeah? Better to know and run away than no know when they manage to catch up, right?"

"I know what to do, m'sieur," Gerard says, wide-eyed. "Talk very fast and duck very much."

Serendipity smirks. "Works for me, granted. But I'm not carryin' a buncha swords around." He shrugs, but doesn't seem particularly put out. "So do you always dress so snappy, or did you just know you were gonna meet me today?"

"You?" Gerard says, confused. He glances down at his outfit and colors faintly. "I...it is pleasant, sometimes, to wear ze good cloes, n'est-ce pas?" he asks, perhaps a touch evasively.

"Me," Ren confirms, batting his lashes at Gerard playfully, and whispers behind his hand, "Psst... I'm flirting with you. Just so's you know. I'm subtle like that." He grins again, sitting up a little. "Yeah, it's nice gettin' dressed up sometimes. Been a while since I did that. Hm."

Gerard chokes on a piece of his bread, tries to respond, and inhales the bread again. By the time he has cleared his throat he bright red and his eyes are watering. "Excuse me?" he manages weakly.

"I said it's been a while since I got dressed up," Serendipity replies, absolutely brimming over with wide-eyed innocence. "Not much reason to track down some nice stuff and flaunt it lately, y'know? Why -- what'd you think I said?"

Gerard clears his throat and tries breathing a few times. "I--nossing." He wipes his eyes with a handkerchief produced from nowhere and returned to same. He inhales, blinks a few times and says formally, "I beg your pardon."

Serendipity grins -- can't help it. "Hey, no problem. I give pardon away free. Save the begging for other things. D'you need something to drink?"

Gerard starts to shake his head, and then says suddenly, "Yes! Zat is a very good idea. I go get somesing to drink." He pushes back his chair and rises just a little too quickly for good manners. "Eet has been very pleasant making your acquaintance, m'sieur," he adds with excellent manners and no sincerity, and he makes for the door."

Serendipity turns his head to follow the exit, with some startlement. "...aww. I =was= offering t' get you one. Nice meetin' you, though," he replies, and =he= actually sounds sincere. "...g'luck with the swords."

Gerard waves cheerfully. "Merci beaucoup," he says, with all the great good humor of the suddenly reprieved.