[The screen shows the dim glow of a darkened room, half-candlelit. The Forge isn't on Asellus at all, though some people might recognize her room or her sword, and possibly the occasional flash of green hair as she reaches for a bottle of wine and uncorks it. There's silence while she drinks, before she puts down the wine bottle. Keen eyes'll catch
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[And so, have a Tyki with curly hair ruffled around his face, but missing the hobo-glasses that usually hide his eyes - they're a very odd shade of brown - peering into the forge with a sort of lazy interest. He may or may not be chilling somewhere familiar - the spare parlor?]
Kinda makes you think no one has a sense of family anymore, don't it?
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Family... [She can't talk about that; she hasn't got any. But it does make sense.] I guess that's a part of it. I mean, it's not like the woman didn't deserve it, but... [But glass coffins are a personal hang-up. She takes a long swig from the bottle.]
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[It's a silent acknowledgment.]
Gonna share that?
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Probably shouldn't drink it all myself, should I?
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Do you think you can figure out how to get here? [Yes, she's aware he's right down the hall. It's not a serious question.]
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Dunno, seems pretty far to me~ [Playing along.]
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Just don't go passing out in my bed if it's too much. I don't have the energy to try to drag you out.
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[But he turns the Forge off, and there's the quiet sound of rummaging as he makes himself known - wouldn't want to scare her by sneaking up on her. That's just poor form, in white mode.]
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Just come in. Don't bother knocking. [She calls it lazily, not really in the mood for formalities. She suspects it might have been a superfluous thing to say, though.]
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[Haven't even been here a week and already he's resorted to names. The honest to god truth is that Tyki never does names - names are only for when he's serious. And, let's face it, he hasn't been serious about a damn thing since winding up in this curious town.]
[He's a hobo anyway - though, thankfully, showered and in fresh clothes now - which means that formalities mean jack squat.]
[Tyki flops down on the end of her bed and props his chin on his hand.]
You look like something's eatin' at you.
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[A flash of amusement, and she hands the bottle over the three or four steps' distance to her bed.]
I guess that's about right. Have you been watching the networks?
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[And he stretches to meet her halfway, taking a swig of whatever's inside before holding the bottle out so as to get a better idea of what he's drinking.]
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I guess what the whole mess boils down to is that personal experiences are kind of clashing with the ethics of the whole situation. There's nothing to be done for it, of course, so there's no point fussing too much. But it's a little strange, finding myself at odds with people like this. [She turns back to watch him glance the bottle over.]
It's not very good wine. A little less 'alcoholic' than 'rotting grapes'. But it was a native seller, so that's not all that bad. Anyway, I guess I'm being a little maudlin about the whole deal. [A sidewise grin, and she decides to test him in one of her thousands of unintelligible ways.] Par for my age, I suppose.
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[Or, really, he's just been watching how everyone else reacts. Who knows his true motives.]
... it ain't half-bad. I've had better, but it ain't half-bad. [Sideways look.] C'mon, you're really not gonna pull that on me, yeah?
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Otherwise, she'd never have offered the parlor.]
Pull what? I've no idea what you're implying.
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