She's heard a lot about Destiny since she was 16. She never thought she'd meet him. But, Dream showed her, once, what Destiny looked like, and she knows who he is.
And from a table, over the top of a book, is another one of his, blinking a bit. She somehow knows who it is, even though she's only heard rumour. Standing, she walks over and curtseys. "Good evening, sir. Is there anything I can get for you tonight?"
She is just a bit unnerved by him, but takes a deep breath. "Sir, I feel as if I know you, perhaps a bit better than I realize, however, I am not exactly certain of your name, whereas you seem to know mine quite well."
Sometimes people do extremely foolish things on their way from the bar to the table where they intend to eat dinner. Like stopping to look at the unidentified figure with the book.
Fine meal, oh, quite a fine meal indeed. Prospero leans back in his chair and sips from his glass of port. The evening's passed pleasant fair; now he sits and takes in the atmosphere of the bar, and observes its patrons as they mingle.
Some minor movement on the other side of the bar catches Prospero's eye, and he turns to look at the patron inciting such commotion.
The tall, hooded gentleman. The book.
Prospero stares. Deep have his studies gone, into places where knowledge has passed into folklore into myth, and he knows those places true and well.
Sunk deep in his thoughts, Prospero's mind turns over, restless and keen.
Prospero raises an eyebrow. He had not approached the gentleman, nor had he made voice in his direction, and still--
He rises from his seat, setting his glass of port down on a nearby table as he does so. He walks over to the hooded gentleman and bows, deep and from the waist.
"Buon giorn', ser. You have the advantage of me, as I regret to say I know not that by which I might address you."
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He's singing a medley. Of Destiny's Child.
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Naaaaazguuuuuuuul!
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Not at all discreetly.
By one of His.
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But his face is turned towards Faith anyway.
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She stares, for a minute. Maybe two.
And then looks down, full of fear.
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The pages turn.
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"Destiny."
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No one ever said the man had common sense.
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The book is read.
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Blink blink blink.
There's something about that voice that touches him as dimly familiar somehow, although he can't put his finger on why.
"Evening, sir," he says cautiously. "Have we met?"
Idiot.
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Which is close enough to the question.
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Some minor movement on the other side of the bar catches Prospero's eye, and he turns to look at the patron inciting such commotion.
The tall, hooded gentleman. The book.
Prospero stares. Deep have his studies gone, into places where knowledge has passed into folklore into myth, and he knows those places true and well.
Sunk deep in his thoughts, Prospero's mind turns over, restless and keen.
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The rustle of paper. The sound of fingers over ink.
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He rises from his seat, setting his glass of port down on a nearby table as he does so. He walks over to the hooded gentleman and bows, deep and from the waist.
"Buon giorn', ser. You have the advantage of me, as I regret to say I know not that by which I might address you."
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