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.
She's eager to test out this theory of Milliways occasionally sucking in people from different points in time. It's only her second visit here, and after the first five minutes of quietly gritting her teeth at the outrage of being taken out of her perfectly nice hallway at home and dumped in Milliways as of half an hour ago, she decides that curiousity is a better course of action.
She's wearing her wings, of course, being in costume, so when she stands to approach his table, they might be a bit...noticeable. Along with the green and yellow top and leggings, red claw-tipped boots, mace, the big knife at one hip, and the crossbow in the other.
She's pretty sure that by 19th century standards, her outfit is hardly au courant. Oh well.
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."
Fortunately, Kendra does not currently have a mouth full of tea, otherwise she might have performed a polite but spectacular spit take into a napkin on hearing 'Oscar Wilde.'
Her lips do part, however, for a silent moment. Then she closes them, because gaping at someone was considered rude in Robbie's time.
"'As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.' That Mr. Wilde?"
And this would, of course, might be the Mr. R. Ross, with whose history is she is familiar, but she let's no indication of that show.
The quote she's offered will be said four years in Robbie's future.
"I do not know. That particular statement has not been brought up between us, but we've been terribly distracted as of late, so I might have missed him saying it. I know he will be great, but right now, he's struggling."
He's spoken to a few other patrons of the bar who have informed him of how Oscar's works will survive and become great classics among the literary world.
"But, he has published Poems, which he often quotes from." Robbie chuckles to himself. "He likes to quote himself."
She's eager to test out this theory of Milliways occasionally sucking in people from different points in time. It's only her second visit here, and after the first five minutes of quietly gritting her teeth at the outrage of being taken out of her perfectly nice hallway at home and dumped in Milliways as of half an hour ago, she decides that curiousity is a better course of action.
She's wearing her wings, of course, being in costume, so when she stands to approach his table, they might be a bit...noticeable. Along with the green and yellow top and leggings, red claw-tipped boots, mace, the big knife at one hip, and the crossbow in the other.
She's pretty sure that by 19th century standards, her outfit is hardly au courant. Oh well.
"Hello," she says, when she reaches his table.
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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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Her lips do part, however, for a silent moment. Then she closes them, because gaping at someone was considered rude in Robbie's time.
"'As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.' That Mr. Wilde?"
And this would, of course, might be the Mr. R. Ross, with whose history is she is familiar, but she let's no indication of that show.
Reply
The quote she's offered will be said four years in Robbie's future.
"I do not know. That particular statement has not been brought up between us, but we've been terribly distracted as of late, so I might have missed him saying it. I know he will be great, but right now, he's struggling."
He's spoken to a few other patrons of the bar who have informed him of how Oscar's works will survive and become great classics among the literary world.
"But, he has published Poems, which he often quotes from." Robbie chuckles to himself. "He likes to quote himself."
Reply
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