The combination of telepathy and entire student body thinking you are the equivalent of high school scum isn't always kind. It isn't that he cares so much about what they think, at all, so much as that there is no way to deter hearing all of it even so.
Having stopped on a rock outcropping, under a tree, to try and stop thinking himself, the words more than her movement had gathered his attention. One doesn't expect to find soaked girls, smelling faintly of salt water -- and not Caribbean sea water -- standing there helplessly. It's not a very common entry point. Even for someone who apparently likes literature.
"Milliways," is a calm response. There's an appraising look at the girl, that has nothing to do really with appreciation or concern. As simple as one might look at a tree or grass or glass. "Are you alright?"
"Milliways." Not quite trite or interested or emotional of any kind. "The Bar from the End of the Universe. Adams'." Not usually the bookstore section near the plays.
Oh, really now. Apollo had been enjoying the weather out back - and the improved scenery; he doesn't remember the space behind the bar being half this nice last time he was in - but this young lady has certainly made an entrance. "This is Milliways, lady," he says. "I can't say how you've come here, but you have." (The typist only hopes she can keep up.)
(OOC: I don't know how soon I'll have to call slowtime for the night, but I couldn't resist.)
"I don't doubt that," Apollo says (really, the dripping hair and clothes were a bit of a giveaway), "but you're here all the same. It likes to catch most travelers off their guard."
If there were any saving graces about the place, it was the lake.
Bar was nice enough to provide Sonya with a decent bathing suit among her wardrobe and she was taking advantage of the ending summer by spending a number of days or so at the lake. Swimming was theraputic and kept her fit in a way that running and shadow boxing didn't.
She wasn't one to socialize, being content to just let people be so long as they paid her the same courtacy.
There were of course, like everything else, exceptions-seeing a young woman in soakened clothing that was clearly not meant for swimming, was one of them.
Sonya refrained from sighing as she slipped a pair of sweatpants over her swimsuit.
"You're in Milliways." She answered. "Not so much a country, just a place in the middle of no where." In a matter of speaking.
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The combination of telepathy and entire student body thinking you are the equivalent of high school scum isn't always kind. It isn't that he cares so much about what they think, at all, so much as that there is no way to deter hearing all of it even so.
Having stopped on a rock outcropping, under a tree, to try and stop thinking himself, the words more than her movement had gathered his attention. One doesn't expect to find soaked girls, smelling faintly of salt water -- and not Caribbean sea water -- standing there helplessly. It's not a very common entry point. Even for someone who apparently likes literature.
"Milliways," is a calm response. There's an appraising look at the girl, that has nothing to do really with appreciation or concern. As simple as one might look at a tree or grass or glass. "Are you alright?"
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Viola breaks off, confused.
Blinks.
Thinks back over what has been said.
"I do not think I heard you right, good sir."
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Wonderful.
"Milliways." Not quite trite or interested or emotional of any kind. "The Bar from the End of the Universe. Adams'." Not usually the bookstore section near the plays.
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"Your words are wonderous strange. Your garments, too.
"How cam'st I hither? I know not this place."
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Albus turns to glance over his shoulder.
"Um - are you all right, miss?"
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And then shakes her head.
"That cannot be the answer. Speak again."
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"Um. That's where you are. It's not exactly a country, it's ... just the end of the universe."
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But like the babbling of a running stream,
They are only heard, no answer supply."
Which is to say . . .
Huh?
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"This is Milliways, lady," he says. "I can't say how you've come here, but you have."
(The typist only hopes she can keep up.)
(OOC: I don't know how soon I'll have to call slowtime for the night, but I couldn't resist.)
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No.
No, that's not right.
"That's not the place that I am meant to be."
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It likes to catch most travelers off their guard."
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A storm at sea. A strange country.
These things cannot like.
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It matches her boots.
"Though by some lights it may make a city-state."
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Viola breaks off, studying the other person on the shore.
Good sir?
Madam?
She can't quite tell.
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She inclines her head in what seems caught halfway between a nod and a bow.
It fails to answer the sir or madam question. This is probably not an accident.
"Which part has you confounded?"
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"And those are not the words that I expect?"
Which is an odd thing to realize.
Viola blinks, and then continues.
"Know you what man is he that governs here?"
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Bar was nice enough to provide Sonya with a decent bathing suit among her wardrobe and she was taking advantage of the ending summer by spending a number of days or so at the lake. Swimming was theraputic and kept her fit in a way that running and shadow boxing didn't.
She wasn't one to socialize, being content to just let people be so long as they paid her the same courtacy.
There were of course, like everything else, exceptions-seeing a young woman in soakened clothing that was clearly not meant for swimming, was one of them.
Sonya refrained from sighing as she slipped a pair of sweatpants over her swimsuit.
"You're in Milliways." She answered. "Not so much a country, just a place in the middle of no where." In a matter of speaking.
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