The evening is warm and cloudy enough that the sliver of the moon gives very little light to this little corner of Vermont. Even the wind is calm giving the clinging humidity in the air nowhere to go. This is a low thread count thin sheet evening for most.
Clio? She's sitting out at the Wayhouse, out on the porch, drinking one of the beers she's bought to replace the ones she'd been drinking for the last few days. Parked out on the steps with a beer between her feet and her Sax to her lips. The reason she is outside becomes clear; instead of 'silent' playing Clio's letting a low bluesy tune hang in the thick air around her sending off an ambient cerulean glow to the things around her and casting shallow shadows.
No otter escort tonight: just Etsy. She wanders up the way from the main road, humming to herself -- kind of her standard setting if she's by herself, like an idle mode, that humming -- and sort of drifting left and right as she walks, as if tugged one way or the other by an unseen tide. She's in her usual 'piles of thrifted clothing' look, albeit a little bit less than usual, maybe due to the heat, or maybe she's actually found somewhere to store her clothing instead of just, you know, on her person. When Clio's tune hits her ears? Etsy starts riffing off of it, wandering up to the porch and joining in as if she'd been asked to this jam session with an engraved invitation. The siren sings as if she was made for it, because, well. If not made for it, she was remade for it. Keepers, man.
Calliope is in her usual; threadbare jeans, a T-shirt that reads "This Fuckin' Chick" in bold white letters across a faded gray background. And her usual hole riddled vans to finish it off. Clio wont be winning any high fashion awards. Clio's luminous blue eyes lift from where she'd been watching her fingerwork on the keys and drift the direction of the voice she'd heard. Her featherd brows lift and she upnods the mermaid's direction with a tilt of her chin and a dip of the sax. She plays the song out, low and gritty. She finishes after a minute an a half or so and sets the sax down in it's case before lifting a hand, "Fancy fuckin' meetin' you here."
Once upon a time, in Maine, when she had literally millions of pledge dollars at her fingertips, Etsy wore couture and ruined it on the regular. Still, Fairest make almost anything look good, and worn broomstick skirts layered with mismatched tunics and that white Courier sash she's never without somehow work on the tiny Flowering. Her voice drifts over the gritty sax work and winds its way around it, full of wordless want. Come and crash on my rocks, or give me back my voice, sea witch, or something of the like. She rocks back and forth on her feet slowly while singing, eyes half-lidding as she enjoys the simplicity of it. When the song reaches its inevitable conclusion, she opens her eyes again, webbed hands flaring at her sides absently. "Ah ha. Is a statement of ironies, because is here of meeting befores. Yes, fancies. Is a goodness, Swearbird. How is the you?"
Calliope laughs, "Fine and fuckin dandy, Etsy, fuckin thanks for askin'. I see my fuckin' nickname's gettin picked up here fuckin too." She inclines her head, at the irony statement, "I can't fuckin' help it, I'ma wise ass. Life's too fuckin' short to cesor my fuckin' self. Thanks for the fuckin' duet though, pretty fuckin' sweet and I'm fuckin' guessin' you're never off pitch which means I need to fuckin' replace my shit reed." She pats the brassy insturment. "Have a fuckin' seat, ya want a fuckin beer. They're not cold any fuckin' more but they're at fuckin' least cool." She gestures to the sixpack next to her before patting herself down in search of her pack of smokes and frowns before finding them tossed behind her sax case. "Have any fuckin' exciting adventures recently?"
"A Counts says is 'fuckbird,' but is not the niceness, I do not think. Has an implications, and anyways, 'Swearbird' is a nicer sounds. Sounds like almost meant 'Scarecrow' but 'Swearbird' insteads." Etsy rocks absently back and forth, and when her hands have nothing to do, they sort of absently flutter and flare at her sides, like kelp drifting in the current or a decorative goldfish's fins. "Yes, pleaseandthankyou for musics. Is a goodness, for a sings." She tips her head back and forth, then, and the smile on her face is somewhat wry. "Only off-pitch on purpose," she agrees after a moment, and then shakes her head slightly. "Thankyou, will goes and gets a meads for me. Is not for beers, is make an upsets stomach. A meads, yes." Holding up one finger as if to put a pause on the conversation, she flutters inside, feet seeming to barely touch the ground, and then flutters back out with bottles of mead in hand. One of these is offered to Calliope, and two kept for herself. Settling in the offered chair, she picks up where the conversation was left off: "Not so much in last, like, days two or three? Am waitings for pod to buy farms finally, and will have tank for myself. A Maddox is build for me. Made a shower sealed up for sleepings, well, for naps, because nobody is sleepings in waters with mermaids, doggos and otters and Maddoxes cannot, but." Shrug. "Is adventures of you?"
Calliope chuckles, "Fuckbird works and if anyone thinks it's dirty I just dare them to hit on me." She wiggles her brows, "I hit back." Summer. "But Swearbird works just fine, folks who know me are fuckin' gonna know how the hell you're talkin' about any fuckin way, right beautiful?" She wonders happily as she gets out one of her halfies and puts it to her lips to light it up, careful to avoid the arcing electricity on her especially conductive lip ring and reaches down to snag the beer up in a clink of taloned fingers. "I try not to fuckin' barge in over much about that fuckin' kinda thing. Yanno, folks not fuckin' wantin' to relive anything so I let folks fuckin' join in if they like. It's always a fuckin' pleasure, especially when the singers a fuckin Siren." She chuckles under her breath and sucks in some of the cigarettes. "Ah, makes sense. Grains and what fuckin' not. Yeah, sure I ain't fuckin' going anywhere." She's not, she's settled into a contented lazy lump for the moment. "Sounds like you're gettin' your shit all set the fuck up. Me? Still waitin' for the crown to fuckin' call me in so I can figure out if I need to fuckin' stay or not. Word in town is there's another fuckin Leionare out here, fuckin' somewhere. I ain't been able to fuckin' meet him and I certainly don't wanna fuckin' step on toes." She smiles and wiggles her brows, "Not that I mind the fuckin' break."
When most people say 'musical laughter' they don't really mean it, but Esther's laughter rises and falls: arpeggios climb and fall when she laughs, and she does in response to the Summer's statements. "Yes, is knowings it is a yous, that is a certains." She opens her mead, and takes a swallow of it, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Mmm. Is compliments good, thank you. Is a goodness of making musics, always. Not a lots of peoples is makes a musics and not all... have a pretentions about it." Her nose wrinkles up at that, and she takes another swallow, the bottle's lip clicking against her wicked teeth. "Am not a knows of ones. Is a names of knowing? Maybe am knowing of a names but am not knowing is a Legionnaire," she offers. "Am knows of Broken Boughs, but ... " Her shoulders rise and fall. "Always more good Summers is a goodness." A soft laugh at that last bit. "Yeah. Am run supplies to Legionnaires sometimes. Not an envies, of the jobs. But is a job of needing done."
The swearbird's head tilts and she listens to the laughter with a curious expression. Clio's own laugh isn't terrible; it's carefree and has a twittering qulity to it but it certainly coldn't be called enticing or lovely in any way. Clio leans against the step behind her comfortably and takes another drag off her battered cigarette and lowers a hand to tug lightly at a thread that's coming out of the knee of her jeans in comfortable confidence. "Tell you the fuckin' same thing I tell everyone else, I don't fuckin' give compliments I just assert fuckin' positive obser-fucking-vations that I make. Compliments always fuckin' felt like a dirty word. Don't much like fuckin dirt words." She lets her lips play into a cheeky smile and she winks. "Legion of the Iron Wall." She says without a hint of swearing in it, "Legionnaire or Warmaster Elusive, swat I figre they call him since he's nigh fuckin intangible. Any fuckin way I don't fuckin' know his name just fuckin' know he's supposedly some big wig int he Summer fuckin court here." She admits and stabs out the cigarette on the sole of her shoe. "It fuckin' is. Not my first fuckin' choice but the other fuckin' entitlement I was goin' for wanted me to like, clean the fuck up or whatever. Liek I give enough of a fuck to care what I look fuckin' like. If I'm doin' my fuckin' job everythings bloody any fuckin way, right?"
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