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
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?"