Someone's noticed Robbie, in particular his 19th century dress, sheaf of papers, and apparently scholarly pursuits.
It's amazing to Kendra Saunders that someone can walk in here as if it's normal. She's still new, see.
His clothing is arresting because it doesn't seem to be an affectation, like that of a certain Gentleman Ghost she knows. It's also arresting because Kendra well remembers the 19th century. After all, she lived through it.
After a bit, Robbie looks up, feeling eyes on him.
Robbie is still relatively new, but he adapts well to his environment. What was the use of flailing every time he wound up here? So long as that door remained behind and he knew he could leave when he wanted, there would be little reason to panic.
He smiles at Kendra, a sort of shy, nervous expression.
For someone so at ease in his own time and place, Robbie finds himself uncharacteristically skittish.
She smiles back, visible under the golden stylized hawk mask that covers the upper half of her face, and adds a small wave. Kendra's pretty good at sussing out when someone is nervous; after all, she's had three thousand years of lives to learn how to read body language
( ... )
There's a huge demographic in her universe that could be considered in a permanent state of 'going to a costume party.' Sometimes for purposes nefarious, even.
She gives him a slow, polite nod at the greeting, and another smile.
"Good evening back. Am I disturbing you, Mr....?"
Her accent is American, without any identifiable regional lilt or twang.
She'd almost forgotten how pleasant it is to be in the presence of someone for whom manners and courtesy are culturally important, to say the least.
"Thank you, that's very kind of you, and I hope I'm not imposing. I'm still feeling a little lost here. I hope you'll forgive me for seeming mysterious, but it's probably best if you call me Hawkgirl."
No skullduggery, really. Just the usual cursory attempt to preserve a private identity.
She opens her wings wide as she sits, folding them closed over the back of her chair once seated.
"I have not been here long either, but I find that I can... easily adapt to it. So long as I can return home when I wish, this is but a pleasant daydream to indulge in."
He smiles pleasantly and nods to the teapot.
"Would you care for a cup of tea? It's still hot, and brilliantly brewed."
Well, she has to admit that this is a pleasant change of pace for her what passes for normal nights back home. Less with the constant crises and more with the tea and cookies, please.
"Only if you have enough, Robbie. I'd love a cup, if that's the case."
She tries to remember the last time she actually had a cup of tea with someone, instead of a Coke or protein shake or orange juice or chai.
"You travel?" he asks, pouring a cup for her and sliding the china her way along with the cream. "Your accent is very neutral, so I make the assumption you do not live in Nepal."
"We call them the United States," he says with a smirk, relaxing and pouring himself his own cup of tea. "I have yet to visit them, though, and have not been to Canada since infantcy."
He sets the empty pot on the side of the table and orders a new pot along with an assortments of finger sandwiches for them both.
Robbie is a polite, proper gentleman who is a good host of such meetings.
Kendra, it will be noted, is quite impressed. Twenty first century America can be an appallingly boorish place. So was 19th century America at times, for that matter.
"I'm joshing you. That's all water long under the bridge, where I'm from."
When she's from, more like.
"Canada? Whereabouts? I know British Columbia well. My grandfather used to take me there as a kid."
"Speed - that's my grandfather - took me white water rafting on the Nahatlatch River two summers in a row. I loved it. My grandfather is an incorrigible daredevil. His idea of summer vacations is to take me parachuting over the Amazon river."
And she had loved it dearly, back in the days when her life was secure, with loving parents that were alive, before the murders.
"You grew up in London? Is that where you live now?"
That's a given, with his accent, which she's pretty good at identifying.
"I am living with Oscar and Constance Wilde while attending school." Robbie sips his tea. "London is where my heart is, and I don't think I would ever like to leave it for long."
It's amazing to Kendra Saunders that someone can walk in here as if it's normal. She's still new, see.
His clothing is arresting because it doesn't seem to be an affectation, like that of a certain Gentleman Ghost she knows. It's also arresting because Kendra well remembers the 19th century. After all, she lived through it.
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Robbie is still relatively new, but he adapts well to his environment. What was the use of flailing every time he wound up here? So long as that door remained behind and he knew he could leave when he wanted, there would be little reason to panic.
He smiles at Kendra, a sort of shy, nervous expression.
For someone so at ease in his own time and place, Robbie finds himself uncharacteristically skittish.
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Robbie sets down his pen and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief.
"Good evening," he greets, accent very British.
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She gives him a slow, polite nod at the greeting, and another smile.
"Good evening back. Am I disturbing you, Mr....?"
Her accent is American, without any identifiable regional lilt or twang.
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He nods to the chair closest to her.
"If you would like to sit, you may. I am not expecting anyone in particular."
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"Thank you, that's very kind of you, and I hope I'm not imposing. I'm still feeling a little lost here. I hope you'll forgive me for seeming mysterious, but it's probably best if you call me Hawkgirl."
No skullduggery, really. Just the usual cursory attempt to preserve a private identity.
She opens her wings wide as she sits, folding them closed over the back of her chair once seated.
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He smiles pleasantly and nods to the teapot.
"Would you care for a cup of tea? It's still hot, and brilliantly brewed."
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"Only if you have enough, Robbie. I'd love a cup, if that's the case."
She tries to remember the last time she actually had a cup of tea with someone, instead of a Coke or protein shake or orange juice or chai.
That's it. Chai.
"The last time I drank tea was in Nepal."
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She raises the cup, letting the aroma float its way upwards before she sips. He might sense a quiet delight.
"Ahaha. Yes, you might say that I travel frequently. I have my own transportation."
She raises and points a slender finger over her shoulder at her wings.
"I'm not from Nepal. I'm from America now, near New Orleans. Unless you still haven't gotten over calling us the Colonies?"
Okay, she knows they have by the mid-19th century, but she can't resist.
When she does sip her tea, she smiles again. Assam, perhaps?
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He sets the empty pot on the side of the table and orders a new pot along with an assortments of finger sandwiches for them both.
Robbie is a polite, proper gentleman who is a good host of such meetings.
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"I'm joshing you. That's all water long under the bridge, where I'm from."
When she's from, more like.
"Canada? Whereabouts? I know British Columbia well. My grandfather used to take me there as a kid."
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And he died there, leaving a widow with five young children to raise.
"I returned to London with my mother and siblings by the time I was two, so I don't recall much of Canada."
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And she had loved it dearly, back in the days when her life was secure, with loving parents that were alive, before the murders.
"You grew up in London? Is that where you live now?"
That's a given, with his accent, which she's pretty good at identifying.
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"I am living with Oscar and Constance Wilde while attending school." Robbie sips his tea. "London is where my heart is, and I don't think I would ever like to leave it for long."
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