She doesn't look surprised at his reaction to her, or try to be reassuring; she just watches him with coal-dark eyes, watches how he recovers or at least hides behind an impromptu veil of nonchalance. He is nervous though, there's no hiding that.
The theatrics of the bow and the hat do earn him an arch of a brow, if only for how unnecessary it is. It is something new though at least. It's practically unheard of that she's bowed to in any capacity, to be honest. Most just faint or run away screaming.
If she has any interest in what he was planning on saying, she doesn't make it known, instead just nodding once. "A Dullahan, yes. Most expect to see a man."
And, in a half-hearted attempt at mimicking him, a gloved hand gestures to him right back as she approaches Corrán to settle him. For whatever reason, Sweeney's presence isn't one her horse agrees with. That, or he's just impatient to get home.
"The same way most expect you to be a great deal shorter, I imagine."
"A man, yeah, and maybe, I dunno, with a spectral head of flames. Glowing red eyes. The horse kicking up sparks wherever it strikes the earth, its hooves burning with the infernal fire of the damned. Y'know. All that, like."
He takes a few cautious steps back into the road, but still keeps a wide berth from the two; the horse itself alone looks like it could bite through his neck if Corrán had an inclination towards it. Mad Sweeney loves a fight, but doesn't love one with the prospect of bleeding out here, in the arse end of nowhere and not even in a proper battle. He readjusts the cap on his head and then shoves his hands into his pockets at another play at nonchalance. Still a little woozy on his feet, but sobering up quickly in the Dullahan's presence, and with the brisk dawn air starting to cut through his drunkenness.
He's a mouthy bastard even on the best of days, particularly when nervous, but the rider's remark gives him something else to ramble about: "And that, by the by, is a gross simplification. The height thing. I think they're starting to get us mixed up with the brownies, the brùnaidh? Now, those little fuckers are small, they'll bite your kneecaps right off. But the leipreachán come in all shapes and sizes."
A century from now, he'll be even more irritated about General Mills marketing a capering little man in buckled shoes— but that's for later.
Edited (nitpicking my own tags don't mind me) 2020-11-04 22:08 (UTC)
"There comes a point when even being headless loses it's novelty," she replies, almost on a sigh, "if humans enjoy anything, it's stories. And stories are often made better with hellfire. I've never understood it. Why would I need a spectral head when I already have one, it's generally unattached nature notwithstanding?"
It's not entirely clear whether or not she actually expects an answer; if anything she seems to be talking more to Corrán than to the hedgerow stranger. When she does finally turn her attention back to him, it's to watch him continue his ramble. She isn't entirely sure what to make of him, but for whatever reason, Aisling doesn't feel the same hesitation or wariness about talking to him as she does with humans. Perhaps it the fact he knows what she is, even if he's nervous about it. It's been a long time since she's spoken to another fae. A very long time indeed.
"I'm aware, on both counts." You meet all sorts deep in the forests, after all. "I'm just saying that humans' imaginations tend to be pervasive."
And, without leaving much room for argument - a habit that formed early - she carries on. "What's your name?"
And it is a very lovely head indeed, he almost says, the type of still-tipsy flirtation leveraged by instinct to anyone who crosses his way — but thankfully, some tiny distant self-preservation instinct manages to bite down hard on that sentence before it slips out. He's incorrigible, but learning. Perhaps hitting on a grim reaper isn't precisely the wisest course of action.
He's still not entirely at ease around her, either: the sound of banshees howling and the sound of the Dullahan's ride occupy the same terrified spot in his hindbrain, like some ancient instinctive fear that even the gods aren't immune to.
"Mad Sweeney, or so's they call me." If the leprechaun had another name, once upon a time, he's long-since forgotten it. His gaze has drifted down to her throat in vague curiosity, looking for the mark of aforementioned unattached head... but her high-collared clothing hides the scar. He suspects he wouldn't have noticed or known, if it weren't for the horse.
Probably best to keep on moving, and leave her to her extremely ominous business.
And yet—
"Do you have a name?" Sweeney asks. "Or is it safe to ask it? I've never met one of your ilk before. So, also, if there's any rites or courtesies I ought to be observing but I'm not, consider it the product of ignorance rather than, y'know. Negligence."
Rituals matter so much with their kind, even sometimes down to the offering of a name itself. Sweeney isn't particularly bothered on that front, though; his own has no power over him.
Both his name and the glance at her throat get him a quizzical sort of look, one brow arching a fraction or so, though she only need ask about the former. "What earned you the 'mad' part?"
Unless it's merely a nickname? She knows she has one or two, given in jest (and one not so much) by those who know her well, though she can't imagine going by them day to day. And the one she does use she doesn't recall being given by anyone else. She's never had family and therefore never had parents to name her, but she's always had one regardless.
The question of courtesies is another surprise in this oddball exchange, even if it doesn't much show on her face. "...No, you're doing fine. I dislike being watched while I work, but you've dawn in your favour there. And gold," she adds, warning spilling into her tone, "you bring any gold near me, I'll have your eyes out."
Pretty standard stuff he could find out from asking any superstitious townsperson, but she thinks it's perhaps better that he hear from her how little she tolerates the stuff.
At her mention of gold, he bites his tongue again, his fingers curling in his pockets; where they wind up tracing the edge of a gold coin, which wasn't exactly there a moment ago. A nervous tic, reaching for it when he oughtn't. He turns it end-over-end in his pocket again, tucking it back into the hoard as it vanishes. He rather likes having his eyes.
Sweeney's not usually this polite, but being driven by sheer teeth-gritting terror can do wonders for one's etiquette.
Then, to answer her question: "'Cos I'm mad as a fucking hatter, I suppose," he says brightly. "Or had been, for a while. Came back to my senses a while back, but once I've had enough drink in me, I'll fight—" or fuck, but that seems unusually uncouth to mention here, "anything. Just for the joy of it. Some would say that's a kind of madness. Anyway— It's a pleasure, Aisling, so long as my name isn't actually on your list tonight."
He's started moving again, restless, like the leprechaun simply can't bear to be standing still for too long. He starts to pace a little further down the lane, walking circles around Corrán and eyeing him from all angles. It really is a handsome creature.
"Is your horse actually a horse, or is it some kind of demon or monster made flesh? Like the Ceffyl Dŵr, or what-have-you."
Smart man; as irrational as her hatred for gold may be, Aisling's never been one to threaten lightly. Hell, usually she doesn't bother to threaten first. it's Sweeney's lucky day!
"I wouldn't call that madness," she dryly offers after a beat, "I'd call that a symptom of chronic boredom."
Reaching into one of the deep inner pockets of her coat, she brings out a small leather drawstring bag, correcting Sweeney as she goes.
"There's no list. I just go where I'm needed." Taking something out of the bag, she glances over as he slowly circles them both, Corrán fidgeting in place, his great head turning to keep an eye on Sweeney as though this hedgerow stranger's restlessness and wariness is contagious.
"He's just a horse, if you use 'just' rather loosely." Another something follows the first from the bag as Aisling feeds one to Corrán, and gently tosses the other to Sweeney with a wordless heads up. "You're making him nervous, you know. Give him that, he'll be less likely to kick you."
He catches the small projectile automatically, unthinkingly — he's preternaturally lucky in matters like this, just whipping out to snatch the sugar cube out of midair, before he looks down and realises what he's caught.
"And he won't bite my hand while he's at it?" Sweeney asks a little distrustfully, but he moves back towards Corrán's head and further away from those beastly hooves, from the blind spot that leaves a horse fidgety and extra-prone to kicking. And he takes a deep breath.
Alright. You were a warrior once, weren't you? So don't be such a godsdamned coward.
"If he eats me, miss Aisling Dullahan, I'm fucking haunting you," he promises, holding out his hand with the sugar cube in it, fingers splayed and palm open, while he tilts his head away and closes one eye as if he can't bear to watch his imminent behanding. He squints dubiously back at the horse as Corrán starts to snuffle curiously at the hand.
If she were more prone to it, it'd be here that Aisling might smile reassuringly. Alas, she is not, and so while her expression does soften a smidge at the edges, she's more curious with whether or not he'll do it than concerned with being heartening.
"He won't do either unless you give him reason to."
With the comfort of his mistress close-by and promise of an additional treat, Corrán does Sweeney a favour by not behanding him. Like his owner, he has a love of sweet things, and so the worst the leprechaun gets once the offering's been eaten is Corrán pushing his nose at him, nudging at his clothing in search of more.
Fleetingly, something very close to a smile does occur, even if it only lasts a second or so. "See. You're fine. Perhaps if we run into each other again, he'll remember you for that instead of your twitchiness."
Eventually Corrán gives up, and remembers that he'd still rather like to head home, now shaking his head with an impatient exhale. Patting his neck in understanding, Aisling pulls his reigns back to her side; a sort of 'won't be long now'.
"I should get him back, and you look as though you'd quite like this to come to an end," because even if he's relaxed just a fraction, it's still plain as day he's inherently uncomfortable around her, "so I suppose I should do you a kindness and leave you be. Unless you'll be heading this way, in which case, you're stuck with me a while longer."
'This way', after all, is back towards town. "We needn't talk if you'd rather we didn't. I don't mind silence, uncomfortable or otherwise."
"Then today's your unlucky day, 'cos I do so love to prattle." Mad Sweeney could occasionally be quiet, but he mostly cherished silence when he was hungover and brooding, needing a rest or a nap. That would probably hit him later today, once the headache sank in; for now, though, the morning was clear-eyed and dewy mist on the ground and fresh air and a chill in his bones. Starting to walk would be good, and would give him a chance to warm up.
"But yeh, I'm headed that way, so I'll walk with you. Back towards the inn. Or someone's convenient hayloft. We'll see what mood strikes me."
He falls in beside Aisling as she starts walking, leading the horse again, her steed on one side and the leprechaun on the other. They make for an odd picture ambling down the lane, if any farmers are up early enough to catch a glimpse. From afar, the pair look human enough.
"And where are you headed, anyhow? Do you sleep?" he asks suddenly, wondering aloud. He's never met one of her kind before, and he has so many questions.
'As long as the hayloft isn't mine', is what comes to mind, though she keeps it to herself. But while this is a deviation to what is usually a very straightforward morning routine, if Aisling had had any issue with having company, Sweeney would have already been long since left behind.
In truth, she actually doesn't mind it. She knows she's not always the easiest to talk to nor the most interesting (or so she's been told) but if someone's happy to be around her, she won't complain.
"I'm heading home, as I said before." Because it strikes her as a rather out of the blue question, she frowns as she adds; "And no, I don't, not usually. I've not always got the time to."
That's not to say she doesn't enjoy sleeping, but she works all day and all night; the couple of hours she can scrape out between those two jobs she likes to use as personal time, and caring for Corrán.
"I do. I don't think I necessarily have to, but I find it easier to pass alongside the humans if I occasionally need to kip down like they do. Or other times I'm out nappin' in the forest until it's time to get back to town or go gather their offerings on the doorstep. Not exactly snoozing under a toadstool and sipping from dewdrops, like, but the sentiment's the same."
He's not anyone's idea of an idyllic painting of woodland creatures, really, but some things do hold true. At the same time, Sweeney wonders vaguely if she's been subject to the same ebb and flow of worship and strength as he has. Somehow he thinks not. Death is permanent, in a way that the humans' other fleeting beliefs aren't.
"What kind of home does a Dulluhan lay up their hat in? I've trouble picturing it."
She doesn't respond in kind, but she does nod, equally in understanding and in agreement. It helped to blend in, certainly - though if she ever felt like doing so herself, it was more because it felt...nice. Nice to just stop for a few hours, see if maybe this time could be when she experienced dreams again.
It's been a while since she's done the former and even longer since the latter, but she's quietly hopeful.
"One with a roof and walls." Is all Sweeney gets as an answer to his question, at least at first. She's never really had to describe her home before, so the rest of her reply comes after a pause for thought. "...It's not much, but it's warm. The garden's nice as well."
If there's an irony to a harbinger of death having a fondness for raising plants and flowers and seeing that they thrive, she's yet to really take any notice of it.
Perhaps he should've expected that cageyness, all things considered. But as they saunter along, Mad Sweeney's shoulders sloped and hands shoved in his pockets like he's out for a Sunday stroll, he shoots her a probing and bemused look.
"Is it all Venus flytraps and beautiful roses with sharp thorns, or am I wildly generalising again?" He can't really picture her in the sun hat, wandering around lovingly tending a garden. But, really, Aisling had a point: the towering leprechaun is in literally no position to make assumptions.
Instead, he casts his gaze heavensward, with a contemplative crinkle between his brow as he thinks. "Someone gifted me bluebells once. People call 'em fairy flowers, so it seemed appropriate as an offering, I s'pose. I wasn't entirely sure to do with it, though, so I tried planting them in the garden, and they're supposed to grow rampant like weeds but they died anyhow. I think I've the exact opposite of a green thumb."
He was too careless, too rough; also too bountiful and enthusiastic with his attempts at care. He tended to drown any houseplants he'd ever tried to keep.
That look's met with one of her own, bristling even if her tone isn't. "I'd sooner call that predictable generalising than wild."
The fact that she does grow roses is besides the point. Despite her sombre appearance, she's rather fond of colours and natural beauty; her garden wouldn't win any prizes, given how it's chronically more than a little overgrown and wild, but it is pretty. In a similar vein, she can't quite picture him spending much time in a garden - something soon backed by his own admission of inexperience with the subject at hand.
"Though that does lead me to wonder what sort of place a Leprechaun calls his own, if you have one. You mentioned haylofts and inns, but neither lend to you planting bluebells."
After all, why try planting something somewhere you wouldn't be able to tend to it regularly?
"Sometimes I stay with an extremely generous friend," Mad Sweeney points out, almost protesting, but there's a laugh buried somewhere under his words (there is almost always a laugh in the leprechaun's voice, even when he's wielding an overaffected scowl and a grumble). "Some people just leave out bread and saucers of milk for my kind. Others offer up a place to settle my bones for a bit. Someone's sofa to sleep on. A pantry to pillage. And then, by extension, a garden to tend and then fuck up."
Most people regret inviting Sweeney into their homes soon enough. He is not the ideal houseguest.
And then, with that thought occurring to him, he squints off into the distance. They've been passing little farmhouses, cottages, this drab but cozy little Irish village. "Wait. Does that mean you live around people? Like, permanently?"
no worries, I kinda fell off the face of the earth myself
The question or his tone - or perhaps both - make her wonder if her choice to stay in one place for a prolonged period is a particularly strange one. It isn't to her of course, but her proclivity towards solitude means that it's never really been called into question before.
"Not around them, necessarily - I'm not exactly close neighbours with anyone, but yes, I do; it makes certain things easier, but I also enjoy it. Having a place where I'm settled."
For now, anyway. Logically speaking, she knows she can't stay in one place forever, but until she has to leave, she does like having a place to call her own.
"D'you find it easy enough to blend in, or do they ever seem to get suspicious at all? About that strange woman who lives on the edge of town and keeps to herself?" The words on their own might sound like he's mocking her, but this morning alone has probably taught her that the leprechaun is perennially tongue-in-cheek, incapable of taking things seriously.
And he is genuinely curious about this question. Mad Sweeney manages to blend in well enough himself; he looks like a messy drunkard whenever he's out and about with the mortals, shooting the shit. Nothing about him stands out much, besides his stature.
The sun is rising over the crest of the hills, burning away some of the last of that chilly fog, and they're coming up on some farmhouses. He's on his way back to the inn, he's not going to follow her home, but he does wind up asking:
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leprechauns) wrote2018-12-19 11:20 am
no subject
The theatrics of the bow and the hat do earn him an arch of a brow, if only for how unnecessary it is. It is something new though at least. It's practically unheard of that she's bowed to in any capacity, to be honest. Most just faint or run away screaming.
If she has any interest in what he was planning on saying, she doesn't make it known, instead just nodding once. "A Dullahan, yes. Most expect to see a man."
And, in a half-hearted attempt at mimicking him, a gloved hand gestures to him right back as she approaches Corrán to settle him. For whatever reason, Sweeney's presence isn't one her horse agrees with. That, or he's just impatient to get home.
"The same way most expect you to be a great deal shorter, I imagine."
no subject
He takes a few cautious steps back into the road, but still keeps a wide berth from the two; the horse itself alone looks like it could bite through his neck if Corrán had an inclination towards it. Mad Sweeney loves a fight, but doesn't love one with the prospect of bleeding out here, in the arse end of nowhere and not even in a proper battle. He readjusts the cap on his head and then shoves his hands into his pockets at another play at nonchalance. Still a little woozy on his feet, but sobering up quickly in the Dullahan's presence, and with the brisk dawn air starting to cut through his drunkenness.
He's a mouthy bastard even on the best of days, particularly when nervous, but the rider's remark gives him something else to ramble about: "And that, by the by, is a gross simplification. The height thing. I think they're starting to get us mixed up with the brownies, the brùnaidh? Now, those little fuckers are small, they'll bite your kneecaps right off. But the leipreachán come in all shapes and sizes."
A century from now, he'll be even more irritated about General Mills marketing a capering little man in buckled shoes— but that's for later.
no subject
It's not entirely clear whether or not she actually expects an answer; if anything she seems to be talking more to Corrán than to the hedgerow stranger. When she does finally turn her attention back to him, it's to watch him continue his ramble. She isn't entirely sure what to make of him, but for whatever reason, Aisling doesn't feel the same hesitation or wariness about talking to him as she does with humans. Perhaps it the fact he knows what she is, even if he's nervous about it. It's been a long time since she's spoken to another fae. A very long time indeed.
"I'm aware, on both counts." You meet all sorts deep in the forests, after all. "I'm just saying that humans' imaginations tend to be pervasive."
And, without leaving much room for argument - a habit that formed early - she carries on. "What's your name?"
no subject
He's still not entirely at ease around her, either: the sound of banshees howling and the sound of the Dullahan's ride occupy the same terrified spot in his hindbrain, like some ancient instinctive fear that even the gods aren't immune to.
"Mad Sweeney, or so's they call me." If the leprechaun had another name, once upon a time, he's long-since forgotten it. His gaze has drifted down to her throat in vague curiosity, looking for the mark of aforementioned unattached head... but her high-collared clothing hides the scar. He suspects he wouldn't have noticed or known, if it weren't for the horse.
Probably best to keep on moving, and leave her to her extremely ominous business.
And yet—
"Do you have a name?" Sweeney asks. "Or is it safe to ask it? I've never met one of your ilk before. So, also, if there's any rites or courtesies I ought to be observing but I'm not, consider it the product of ignorance rather than, y'know. Negligence."
Rituals matter so much with their kind, even sometimes down to the offering of a name itself. Sweeney isn't particularly bothered on that front, though; his own has no power over him.
no subject
Unless it's merely a nickname? She knows she has one or two, given in jest (and one not so much) by those who know her well, though she can't imagine going by them day to day. And the one she does use she doesn't recall being given by anyone else. She's never had family and therefore never had parents to name her, but she's always had one regardless.
The question of courtesies is another surprise in this oddball exchange, even if it doesn't much show on her face. "...No, you're doing fine. I dislike being watched while I work, but you've dawn in your favour there. And gold," she adds, warning spilling into her tone, "you bring any gold near me, I'll have your eyes out."
Pretty standard stuff he could find out from asking any superstitious townsperson, but she thinks it's perhaps better that he hear from her how little she tolerates the stuff.
Oh, right - she hasn't answered his question yet.
"That aside, my name is Aisling."
no subject
Sweeney's not usually this polite, but being driven by sheer teeth-gritting terror can do wonders for one's etiquette.
Then, to answer her question: "'Cos I'm mad as a fucking hatter, I suppose," he says brightly. "Or had been, for a while. Came back to my senses a while back, but once I've had enough drink in me, I'll fight—" or fuck, but that seems unusually uncouth to mention here, "anything. Just for the joy of it. Some would say that's a kind of madness. Anyway— It's a pleasure, Aisling, so long as my name isn't actually on your list tonight."
He's started moving again, restless, like the leprechaun simply can't bear to be standing still for too long. He starts to pace a little further down the lane, walking circles around Corrán and eyeing him from all angles. It really is a handsome creature.
"Is your horse actually a horse, or is it some kind of demon or monster made flesh? Like the Ceffyl Dŵr, or what-have-you."
no subject
"I wouldn't call that madness," she dryly offers after a beat, "I'd call that a symptom of chronic boredom."
Reaching into one of the deep inner pockets of her coat, she brings out a small leather drawstring bag, correcting Sweeney as she goes.
"There's no list. I just go where I'm needed." Taking something out of the bag, she glances over as he slowly circles them both, Corrán fidgeting in place, his great head turning to keep an eye on Sweeney as though this hedgerow stranger's restlessness and wariness is contagious.
"He's just a horse, if you use 'just' rather loosely." Another something follows the first from the bag as Aisling feeds one to Corrán, and gently tosses the other to Sweeney with a wordless heads up. "You're making him nervous, you know. Give him that, he'll be less likely to kick you."
'That', in this instance, being a sugar cube.
no subject
"And he won't bite my hand while he's at it?" Sweeney asks a little distrustfully, but he moves back towards Corrán's head and further away from those beastly hooves, from the blind spot that leaves a horse fidgety and extra-prone to kicking. And he takes a deep breath.
Alright. You were a warrior once, weren't you? So don't be such a godsdamned coward.
"If he eats me, miss Aisling Dullahan, I'm fucking haunting you," he promises, holding out his hand with the sugar cube in it, fingers splayed and palm open, while he tilts his head away and closes one eye as if he can't bear to watch his imminent behanding. He squints dubiously back at the horse as Corrán starts to snuffle curiously at the hand.
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"He won't do either unless you give him reason to."
With the comfort of his mistress close-by and promise of an additional treat, Corrán does Sweeney a favour by not behanding him. Like his owner, he has a love of sweet things, and so the worst the leprechaun gets once the offering's been eaten is Corrán pushing his nose at him, nudging at his clothing in search of more.
Fleetingly, something very close to a smile does occur, even if it only lasts a second or so. "See. You're fine. Perhaps if we run into each other again, he'll remember you for that instead of your twitchiness."
Eventually Corrán gives up, and remembers that he'd still rather like to head home, now shaking his head with an impatient exhale. Patting his neck in understanding, Aisling pulls his reigns back to her side; a sort of 'won't be long now'.
"I should get him back, and you look as though you'd quite like this to come to an end," because even if he's relaxed just a fraction, it's still plain as day he's inherently uncomfortable around her, "so I suppose I should do you a kindness and leave you be. Unless you'll be heading this way, in which case, you're stuck with me a while longer."
'This way', after all, is back towards town. "We needn't talk if you'd rather we didn't. I don't mind silence, uncomfortable or otherwise."
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"But yeh, I'm headed that way, so I'll walk with you. Back towards the inn. Or someone's convenient hayloft. We'll see what mood strikes me."
He falls in beside Aisling as she starts walking, leading the horse again, her steed on one side and the leprechaun on the other. They make for an odd picture ambling down the lane, if any farmers are up early enough to catch a glimpse. From afar, the pair look human enough.
"And where are you headed, anyhow? Do you sleep?" he asks suddenly, wondering aloud. He's never met one of her kind before, and he has so many questions.
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In truth, she actually doesn't mind it. She knows she's not always the easiest to talk to nor the most interesting (or so she's been told) but if someone's happy to be around her, she won't complain.
"I'm heading home, as I said before." Because it strikes her as a rather out of the blue question, she frowns as she adds; "And no, I don't, not usually. I've not always got the time to."
That's not to say she doesn't enjoy sleeping, but she works all day and all night; the couple of hours she can scrape out between those two jobs she likes to use as personal time, and caring for Corrán.
"I presume you do?"
no subject
He's not anyone's idea of an idyllic painting of woodland creatures, really, but some things do hold true. At the same time, Sweeney wonders vaguely if she's been subject to the same ebb and flow of worship and strength as he has. Somehow he thinks not. Death is permanent, in a way that the humans' other fleeting beliefs aren't.
"What kind of home does a Dulluhan lay up their hat in? I've trouble picturing it."
no subject
It's been a while since she's done the former and even longer since the latter, but she's quietly hopeful.
"One with a roof and walls." Is all Sweeney gets as an answer to his question, at least at first. She's never really had to describe her home before, so the rest of her reply comes after a pause for thought. "...It's not much, but it's warm. The garden's nice as well."
If there's an irony to a harbinger of death having a fondness for raising plants and flowers and seeing that they thrive, she's yet to really take any notice of it.
no subject
"Is it all Venus flytraps and beautiful roses with sharp thorns, or am I wildly generalising again?" He can't really picture her in the sun hat, wandering around lovingly tending a garden. But, really, Aisling had a point: the towering leprechaun is in literally no position to make assumptions.
Instead, he casts his gaze heavensward, with a contemplative crinkle between his brow as he thinks. "Someone gifted me bluebells once. People call 'em fairy flowers, so it seemed appropriate as an offering, I s'pose. I wasn't entirely sure to do with it, though, so I tried planting them in the garden, and they're supposed to grow rampant like weeds but they died anyhow. I think I've the exact opposite of a green thumb."
He was too careless, too rough; also too bountiful and enthusiastic with his attempts at care. He tended to drown any houseplants he'd ever tried to keep.
It was not his forte.
no subject
The fact that she does grow roses is besides the point. Despite her sombre appearance, she's rather fond of colours and natural beauty; her garden wouldn't win any prizes, given how it's chronically more than a little overgrown and wild, but it is pretty. In a similar vein, she can't quite picture him spending much time in a garden - something soon backed by his own admission of inexperience with the subject at hand.
"Though that does lead me to wonder what sort of place a Leprechaun calls his own, if you have one. You mentioned haylofts and inns, but neither lend to you planting bluebells."
After all, why try planting something somewhere you wouldn't be able to tend to it regularly?
oop sorry i vanished this month
Most people regret inviting Sweeney into their homes soon enough. He is not the ideal houseguest.
And then, with that thought occurring to him, he squints off into the distance. They've been passing little farmhouses, cottages, this drab but cozy little Irish village. "Wait. Does that mean you live around people? Like, permanently?"
no worries, I kinda fell off the face of the earth myself
"Not around them, necessarily - I'm not exactly close neighbours with anyone, but yes, I do; it makes certain things easier, but I also enjoy it. Having a place where I'm settled."
For now, anyway. Logically speaking, she knows she can't stay in one place forever, but until she has to leave, she does like having a place to call her own.
no subject
And he is genuinely curious about this question. Mad Sweeney manages to blend in well enough himself; he looks like a messy drunkard whenever he's out and about with the mortals, shooting the shit. Nothing about him stands out much, besides his stature.
The sun is rising over the crest of the hills, burning away some of the last of that chilly fog, and they're coming up on some farmhouses. He's on his way back to the inn, he's not going to follow her home, but he does wind up asking:
"One of these yours?"