Meredith is over by the wall at the moment, sweeping her hand over an, ahemhem, lewd finger-made drawing of a centaur with a giant dick and a sword pointing at the name of another Summer courtier. The walls, sensitive to touch and intent, are easy proof that white boards are so passé, smoothing out into blankness as her hand passes. Her Crown is a crown of fire, of heat haze, a glimmering of white-blue-golden flames shot through with crimson. Who needs metal coronets?
More like who needs any sort of head-gear at /all/? Because Kip doesn't. Though on second thought, some sort of crowny-type-thing just might help tame that ridiculous hair of his, or maybe do a better job than the attempt at a man bun is doing. He's at least dressed less ridiculous than his hairstyle, wearing an actual dress shirt in a light blue shade over which he has a summerweight thin dove grey sweater. He's got on a pair of black pants and his usual beat up black Converse. Okay, maybe he does look almost as ridiculous as his hair. He heads in, pausing in the doorway to watch the hand sweep away the the drawing; a drawing which he tries very hard to not pay too much attention to. Oh those Summers. So crude. A hint of a flush creeps across his lower face and the lightning around him flares around his head for a moment in a blush. But he hovers, not saying anything just yet, silent aside from the scuff of his shoes on the floor.
Meredith turns at the scuff of shoes on the approach, her hiking boots soft-soled and quiet on the floor. The appraisal of the bookworm is swift and automatic, a toe to head sweep of black/white eyes from the monochromatic Summer, one side black, one white. "You're the one they talk about in the paper," she muses, recognition and a speculative, "You don't LOOK like a Lothario," following.
That blush? It magnifies. Brightens. Spreads across his face and aura like a bloom of algae flourishing in a pond. And then it's soon controlled and stomped back by sheer force of will as Kip edges further inside a few steps more. "Uhm, that... it's gossip. It's not real. I'm... I uh, I'm not. I'm just me," he mumbles, pushing a hand through his hair, even though most of it is tugged back from his face except for a few strands here and there. "But yes, I'm Kip. How did you know?" He stands there, not too far away but a more than comfortable distance, hands shoved into his back pockets and his shoulders slumped slightly forward, hunched over a little in his usual shy nerd stance.
Raising her black brow, the Summer steps away from the wall to head toward a heavy couch with a sturdy leather upholstery, much-scarred and of dubiously human provenance. It doesn't look quite like a mortal animal produced that hide, or the wood involved, for that matter. "Seriously? This freehold's got, what, just under sixty people in it, and you have to ask?"
She waves him over to the couch, or a chair, or the floor, or wherever he feels inclined to exist, gesture as careless as the idle flop she takes to seat herself. Notably, her particular seat has its back to a wall, her sides facing exits, keeping them in view. "I know how it is with the gossip, though. Used to get that when I was a kid. Nerd, yeah? Took karate lessons to get my confidence up, and look where THAT got me?"
Her confidence is as bold as her wrath is wide, an old, well-worn anger no less hot for time and distance.
"Come on, sit. Who's the Kip behind the sex-slave dungeon master with thirty wives?"
"Well, I've been called a nerd, but I'm afraid I haven't taken any karate classes," Kip says as he moves to and settles down into a seat at the couch. He leans a bit forward on it, elbows resting on his knees and his hands loosely clasped together, legs apart in a bit of a manspread sort of way. "Though I-- really, it's... I'm not..." He pauses. "It's only seven wives."
Wait, did Kip just make a /joke/? He does seem to smile a little, just enough to momentarily engage his dimples which show it's an actual smile, so maybe he's slightly less uncertain than he was just moments before. "I like poetry, vodka and long walks in the Library. I'm not sure there's much else to me, sorry to say."
Meredith isn't a man, but she's a manspreader herself, sprawled in lazy comfort on the leather. When Kip actually JOKES about his 'harem', she barks a single sharp, loud laugh, grinning across at him, and winks, miming a bullseye shot with her finger-gun his way.
"Anyone who reads that many books has got hidden depths," she disagrees, "even if they're nerdy ones. I know this guy in my raiding group who's the jockiest of jocks, but a total marshmallow for ducks." She frowns briefly, bemused. "Like, PhD level fascination with them. He went to school for it and everything, but you'd never know it unless you heard him melting over ducklings."
"I don't... melt. Over ducklings or anything else," Kip mumbles, almost like he's suddenly shy again. "But I don't think there are any depths, hidden or otherwise. I'm pretty much the what-you-see-is-what-you-get kinda guy. Or I like to think so. Unless I had depths but forgot them in the memories I had screwed up when my brain went all wonky recently. Sure you probably heard about it. So. I told you about me. Tell me about you." After all, turnabout is fair play, right?
Her white hand lifts, circling at her ear in the crazy-kook swirly when he mentions his brain going wonky. "Yeah, we heard about that one." Scooching toward the arm of the couch so she can half-turn, a leg slides up bent-kneed for balance on the cushion, foot dangling over the edge. "As for yours truly, I am your mighty Summer majesty," she flourishes a sarcastic, but amused fake bow, "and I could totally kick your butt at karate. Won a few local competitions, but it feels kinda like cheating these days." Her black shoulder shrugs. "Not a fair contest to fight full-humans." Not a FUN contest, either, if Kip is empathic enough to notice the emotional cues.
"I teach. Seminars, stuff I can do online. Business tactics and shit. Consultants get paid big moolah, and it lets me set my own hours for when, you know, fate decides to shit on me and give me a big fiery hat."
"Better you than me. Well, better /anyone/ than me," comes a quiet mumble from the Kip-shaped awkward form that sits there. He does flash a slightly sad smile, almost a look of pity. "Not a fighter. Me, I mean. I stay huddled in the Library like a good little Assistant Librarian. Which is part of why I'm here. The whole pledge thing and all that. Gotta set a good example now that Ashe made me a freaking mentor. You might want to rethink her having any sort of position of power anymore. She's clearly losing her damn mind."
Laughing again, Meredith shakes her head. "NOT wanting the bugger's usually a good sign. It's more trouble than it's worth. You need me to recite the words, or how's that Librarian memory going?"
"We're about to find out," Kip says as he stands up. Because pledges are Very Sincere Things and require him to stand. He takes things like this way seriously. At least he's not wearing the only suit he owns to do this like he usually does. Maybe it's too warm outside for the suit. Maybe he's just feeling lazy. Maybe he just wanted to wear the sweater because Mina once told him it looked nice on him. Who knows. But stand he does, smoothing down the front of his pants where they bunched slightly from him sitting. "I pledge my time, talents and fealty to Fate's Harvest. I swear I no longer serve the Fae and nor will I while this promise stands; that while I am under its protection I will obey the principles and the bylaws of Fate's Harvest Freehold as-- as ratified by Monarch and Council in return for the support and safety they provide. May I perish in exile should I be forsworn. -- was that about right? If not I can redo it. My brain's not quite the same as it used to be, but I'm hoping I remember all the important stuff."
Meredith eases up to a slightly more formal position when he stands, listening, and smiles when he's through -- the feeling of the pledge settling into place is answer enough for his question.
"Fealty accepted. I'd say that worked well enough." She hops up to her feet to offer him a hand, skin a bit stiff, but still skin, callused and marked by the signs of hard physical training. "Welcome back."
Kip does give the slightest exhale, less about the pledge and more about his memory being intact enough for it to /work/. After all, he's still finding gaps and holes where Important Things I Used To Know have been, though those instances are getting very rare in comparison to the first few days after the fugue. When he takes her hand, his own grasp is a tight hard one and his skin bears signs of work as well, just the drying sort like working with paper and such things rather than weapons. "Good to know my mind's not entirely gone. It's about all I have to offer."
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