Rowan + Saoirse // The Snake Stole My Apple
Who: Saoirse and Rowan
When: Jan 6th
Where: Marketplace
Ratings & Warnings: Saoirse being Saoirse.
Rowan eyed one of the booksellers as he walked through the market, but shook his head and moved past without pausing to actually shop. He did not have a bag with him, and he knew himself and how difficult it was to carry three books anywhere when they were loose.
Food. That was the goal. It seemed to be the goal of everyone else as well and there were lines at all the food stalls in his current line of sight. He sighed and leaned against the wall that was by a torchlight but out of the wind, illuminating the part of the street he was standing in. He was too hungry to be picky; when one of the food stall lines went down enough that standing in the wind was worth it, he would eat whatever they had to offer.
Shortly after Rowan joined the queue, a short, blonde froth of hair stepped in line behind him. It wasn't deliberate, for Saoirse hadn't seen Rowan standing in front of her. No, she had a coin to spare and a belly to fill, and after her last experience in the market, the Mummer had decided it more prudent to stand behind a man in line than a woman. Ironic, given that men were supposedly more dangerous. No man had yet tried to drown her though, and that was a fact.
She waited a few moments in silence, fidgeting as the waiting queue of people trickled slowly forward. Three people in front of her, and there was a warmed, honey-coated apple sat on the corner of the shopkeeper's table. There was but one left, and Saoirse desperately wanted it to be hers. The sweet would be a well-deserved (in her eyes) treat for sitting through the sewing of furs onto the Mummers' daywear. The Christmas beading had to come off and be replaced with more practical wear to face out the rest of the winter, and whereas Saoirse didn't particularly mind the job, it was not the pricked fingers and chilled hands that she appreciated. Speaking of her hands, they hurt. She lifted them to her face, blew on them, and rubbed her palms together.
Two people left, and her apple remained untouched.
The man in front of her turned slightly, revealing his small featured profile to the girl's sharp eyes. They narrowed, those eyes. "Well, if it isn't Mister Mata," she said, tone as insincerely bright as the sun on a winter's day. "Bravin' the winter like us poor folk, are ye."
Rowan's eyebrows raised as he glanced back. He didn't bother to before. What of interest was behind him? As it turns out, some highly ugly hair with a woman attached.
The crazy invasive bitch from the Ledgers, in fact. Rowan paused a moment before responding, as if he was waiting for her to touch him again or something. He hoped not, and was satisfied that the tone of her voice was pretty disagreeable and not up for public displays of affection ... or something pretending to be such.
"I'm more surprised to see you and your hair out. I didn't think trolls left their caves in winter." Rowan turned away to study the food again. It all looked equally appealing in a vague way. If he wasn't so hungry, he thought to himself, none of it would look very good.
"Trolls are hardy beasts, so they are," she retorted. "Much more so than squinty-eyed weasels from the far east, aye. Did all that readin' screw yer eyes up that bad or were yer just slapped wi' an ugly stick?" Maybe that would explain why he never smiled. His mouth was too scarred. She glanced over his shoulder. The precious apple was still untouched. Satisfied, she burrowed back down into her wealth of furs.
"Weasels are clever. That's not much of an insult." Rowan glanced back at her. His pride would be bruised more than it would, except that he wasn't going to take much offense against his pride by a woman who didn't know what a brush was for. "Nor am I from the far east." Technically correct. His mother was, and Rowan was proud of that part of his culture ... well, the parts of it he knew about, which he was aware there was not many.
She threw insults like she was throwing shit at a wall and waiting to see what stuck. Even he was better than that when he really felt like going after someone.
He was at the front of the line now. He eyed the food one final time, then sighed and bought a pastry and a honeyed apple that looked sweet. If he didn't like it, he could probably find a Neophyte to give it to and see if he or she had visions of Snow White and ran away from him for fear of a magic coma that resulted in royalty.
Saoirse didn't truly go after people as individuals. He'd insulted her in a way she didn't find insulting, she'd insulted him without really expecting him to feel it. One wasn't as misogynistic as Mister Mata by having sensitive nerves. "Nor am I a troll," she said, reasonably, "and you ent that clever if you can't figure that out, aye."
She fell silent as he stepped to the head of the queue, and stuck her chilled hands inside her furs. Once that dick was out of the way, she could pay her coin and bite into -- WAIT just a minute. Had he seen her looking at the apple and chosen to buy it to spite her? He wasn't even going to eat it, look at him wrapping it up to put it away for later! Breath hissssssed as the girl sucked in a breath through flared nostrils. Her lips pursed, her brow pinched.
"You're a right arse, yer know that?!"
"Your hair works against you in that theory. I could buy you a brush, if you are too poor to afford one of your own." Rowan placed the apple within the pocket he had sewn into his cloak soon after buying it and unwrapped the pastry to eat for himself.
Her outburst, however, honestly surprised him. Rowan blinked and stepped out of the way so she could have her turn. "I thought we had covered that fact already," he said, then bit into his food. It was decent and warm, which is all he asked for at the moment.
If he was trying to sting her with insults about her hair, it wasn't going to work. Curly hair was curly hair, and there was little a brush could do to tame it. Saoirse had got used to it over the years after lamenting over it through the bulk of her teens, but she'd learned how to make it work; in costume, and in dress. It did, she privately admitted to herself, make her look a little bit like a golliwog. Nevermind, that horrible excuse for a man had bought the treat she'd been waiting for.
"Not enough," she snapped, and shouldered him bodily out of the way to get to the seller and see what he had left - and if she picked Rowan's pocket along the way, well, circumstances were what they were.
Rowan was going to respond, but the moment she got close enough to touch him he all but flailed away from her and onto the street, luckily flailing out of the way of any searching hands that were going too low for where he had sewn the pocket into his cloak.
Not that he was aware of it, just that he did not want her near him and he was about as graceless as a duck on land some days.
At least he didn't lose the pastry, he thought as he glared at her from his safe spot.
The green of the girl's eyes was malicious and vicious, and she spun to reengage the pastry seller with a short, curt conversation. Every line of her lay tense with affront, and when she finally got the second best option in exchange for her precious pennies, she wrapped it up to save it for later. This kind of mood did not lend itself towards the enjoyment of any treat, and she would only want another later if she crammed it in now.
Shame yer didn't lose yer own pastry to the floor, Saoirse thought, angrily. Stupid little man. She had to pass him in order to leave, and it was tempting to throw a kick at him as she did. So much was the temptation that her steps faltered and ceased as she drew level.
Once it had been obvious she was going to leave the conversation there, he had walked back a few steps and stood closer to the wall and out of the wind to finish his food. Rowan fully expected her to just walk away again and leave him alone after getting her food, as there was nothing further to be gained by trying to bait him.
But he was wrong. He watched her walk closer again, prepared for if she came close enough to touch. "What? Are you planning on stating the obvious some more?"
In retrospect, it was probably unfortunate that Rowan was so snarky. It was all his fault, of course, that he'd bought the apple, and been insulting, and now he was being insufferable yet again. Everything about him was an irritation, even down to the sound of his voice. It grated. So really, later on, Saoirse would tell herself that it wasn't her fault that she'd hit him; it was his own. He'd brought it on himself, really, positively asked for it.
The palm of her hand left a print on the side of his cheek. She'd avoided the use of her nails with effort, because if she'd drawn blood some idiot would have felt the need to call the Guard. A woman slapping a man in public, on the other hand, would be put down as a minor domestic incident and ignored.
Without a word, she turned on her heel.
Rowan felt the ringing in his ears and, to be completely fucking honest, hadn't expected that either. He stared after her with 'crazy psycho bitch' running through his head.
He knew how to guard his tongue. It was a valuable skill for someone who enjoyed pushing lines and seeing how things annoyed people, because there was always that moment of going too far and even could regret that. But he hadn't gone anywhere near too far with this- whatever her name was, crazy bitch with horrible hair, from what he could tell.
She was just, quite literally, crazy and irrational.
And now his cheek hurt and he couldn't even think of any response that wasn't an awed 'you really are crazy', so he just watched her leave in silence.
When: Jan 6th
Where: Marketplace
Ratings & Warnings: Saoirse being Saoirse.
Rowan eyed one of the booksellers as he walked through the market, but shook his head and moved past without pausing to actually shop. He did not have a bag with him, and he knew himself and how difficult it was to carry three books anywhere when they were loose.
Food. That was the goal. It seemed to be the goal of everyone else as well and there were lines at all the food stalls in his current line of sight. He sighed and leaned against the wall that was by a torchlight but out of the wind, illuminating the part of the street he was standing in. He was too hungry to be picky; when one of the food stall lines went down enough that standing in the wind was worth it, he would eat whatever they had to offer.
Shortly after Rowan joined the queue, a short, blonde froth of hair stepped in line behind him. It wasn't deliberate, for Saoirse hadn't seen Rowan standing in front of her. No, she had a coin to spare and a belly to fill, and after her last experience in the market, the Mummer had decided it more prudent to stand behind a man in line than a woman. Ironic, given that men were supposedly more dangerous. No man had yet tried to drown her though, and that was a fact.
She waited a few moments in silence, fidgeting as the waiting queue of people trickled slowly forward. Three people in front of her, and there was a warmed, honey-coated apple sat on the corner of the shopkeeper's table. There was but one left, and Saoirse desperately wanted it to be hers. The sweet would be a well-deserved (in her eyes) treat for sitting through the sewing of furs onto the Mummers' daywear. The Christmas beading had to come off and be replaced with more practical wear to face out the rest of the winter, and whereas Saoirse didn't particularly mind the job, it was not the pricked fingers and chilled hands that she appreciated. Speaking of her hands, they hurt. She lifted them to her face, blew on them, and rubbed her palms together.
Two people left, and her apple remained untouched.
The man in front of her turned slightly, revealing his small featured profile to the girl's sharp eyes. They narrowed, those eyes. "Well, if it isn't Mister Mata," she said, tone as insincerely bright as the sun on a winter's day. "Bravin' the winter like us poor folk, are ye."
Rowan's eyebrows raised as he glanced back. He didn't bother to before. What of interest was behind him? As it turns out, some highly ugly hair with a woman attached.
The crazy invasive bitch from the Ledgers, in fact. Rowan paused a moment before responding, as if he was waiting for her to touch him again or something. He hoped not, and was satisfied that the tone of her voice was pretty disagreeable and not up for public displays of affection ... or something pretending to be such.
"I'm more surprised to see you and your hair out. I didn't think trolls left their caves in winter." Rowan turned away to study the food again. It all looked equally appealing in a vague way. If he wasn't so hungry, he thought to himself, none of it would look very good.
"Trolls are hardy beasts, so they are," she retorted. "Much more so than squinty-eyed weasels from the far east, aye. Did all that readin' screw yer eyes up that bad or were yer just slapped wi' an ugly stick?" Maybe that would explain why he never smiled. His mouth was too scarred. She glanced over his shoulder. The precious apple was still untouched. Satisfied, she burrowed back down into her wealth of furs.
"Weasels are clever. That's not much of an insult." Rowan glanced back at her. His pride would be bruised more than it would, except that he wasn't going to take much offense against his pride by a woman who didn't know what a brush was for. "Nor am I from the far east." Technically correct. His mother was, and Rowan was proud of that part of his culture ... well, the parts of it he knew about, which he was aware there was not many.
She threw insults like she was throwing shit at a wall and waiting to see what stuck. Even he was better than that when he really felt like going after someone.
He was at the front of the line now. He eyed the food one final time, then sighed and bought a pastry and a honeyed apple that looked sweet. If he didn't like it, he could probably find a Neophyte to give it to and see if he or she had visions of Snow White and ran away from him for fear of a magic coma that resulted in royalty.
Saoirse didn't truly go after people as individuals. He'd insulted her in a way she didn't find insulting, she'd insulted him without really expecting him to feel it. One wasn't as misogynistic as Mister Mata by having sensitive nerves. "Nor am I a troll," she said, reasonably, "and you ent that clever if you can't figure that out, aye."
She fell silent as he stepped to the head of the queue, and stuck her chilled hands inside her furs. Once that dick was out of the way, she could pay her coin and bite into -- WAIT just a minute. Had he seen her looking at the apple and chosen to buy it to spite her? He wasn't even going to eat it, look at him wrapping it up to put it away for later! Breath hissssssed as the girl sucked in a breath through flared nostrils. Her lips pursed, her brow pinched.
"You're a right arse, yer know that?!"
"Your hair works against you in that theory. I could buy you a brush, if you are too poor to afford one of your own." Rowan placed the apple within the pocket he had sewn into his cloak soon after buying it and unwrapped the pastry to eat for himself.
Her outburst, however, honestly surprised him. Rowan blinked and stepped out of the way so she could have her turn. "I thought we had covered that fact already," he said, then bit into his food. It was decent and warm, which is all he asked for at the moment.
If he was trying to sting her with insults about her hair, it wasn't going to work. Curly hair was curly hair, and there was little a brush could do to tame it. Saoirse had got used to it over the years after lamenting over it through the bulk of her teens, but she'd learned how to make it work; in costume, and in dress. It did, she privately admitted to herself, make her look a little bit like a golliwog. Nevermind, that horrible excuse for a man had bought the treat she'd been waiting for.
"Not enough," she snapped, and shouldered him bodily out of the way to get to the seller and see what he had left - and if she picked Rowan's pocket along the way, well, circumstances were what they were.
Rowan was going to respond, but the moment she got close enough to touch him he all but flailed away from her and onto the street, luckily flailing out of the way of any searching hands that were going too low for where he had sewn the pocket into his cloak.
Not that he was aware of it, just that he did not want her near him and he was about as graceless as a duck on land some days.
At least he didn't lose the pastry, he thought as he glared at her from his safe spot.
The green of the girl's eyes was malicious and vicious, and she spun to reengage the pastry seller with a short, curt conversation. Every line of her lay tense with affront, and when she finally got the second best option in exchange for her precious pennies, she wrapped it up to save it for later. This kind of mood did not lend itself towards the enjoyment of any treat, and she would only want another later if she crammed it in now.
Shame yer didn't lose yer own pastry to the floor, Saoirse thought, angrily. Stupid little man. She had to pass him in order to leave, and it was tempting to throw a kick at him as she did. So much was the temptation that her steps faltered and ceased as she drew level.
Once it had been obvious she was going to leave the conversation there, he had walked back a few steps and stood closer to the wall and out of the wind to finish his food. Rowan fully expected her to just walk away again and leave him alone after getting her food, as there was nothing further to be gained by trying to bait him.
But he was wrong. He watched her walk closer again, prepared for if she came close enough to touch. "What? Are you planning on stating the obvious some more?"
In retrospect, it was probably unfortunate that Rowan was so snarky. It was all his fault, of course, that he'd bought the apple, and been insulting, and now he was being insufferable yet again. Everything about him was an irritation, even down to the sound of his voice. It grated. So really, later on, Saoirse would tell herself that it wasn't her fault that she'd hit him; it was his own. He'd brought it on himself, really, positively asked for it.
The palm of her hand left a print on the side of his cheek. She'd avoided the use of her nails with effort, because if she'd drawn blood some idiot would have felt the need to call the Guard. A woman slapping a man in public, on the other hand, would be put down as a minor domestic incident and ignored.
Without a word, she turned on her heel.
Rowan felt the ringing in his ears and, to be completely fucking honest, hadn't expected that either. He stared after her with 'crazy psycho bitch' running through his head.
He knew how to guard his tongue. It was a valuable skill for someone who enjoyed pushing lines and seeing how things annoyed people, because there was always that moment of going too far and even could regret that. But he hadn't gone anywhere near too far with this- whatever her name was, crazy bitch with horrible hair, from what he could tell.
She was just, quite literally, crazy and irrational.
And now his cheek hurt and he couldn't even think of any response that wasn't an awed 'you really are crazy', so he just watched her leave in silence.