#interaction: swiftlance

[crookedorel]

🎄

She's heard'a this tradition before. Some of the village boys back home tried catchin' the young ladies unaware--one of 'em nearly planted a kiss upon her unsuspectin' sister's head.

Those boys didn't try such a stupid thing 'gain after Nephenee was through kickin' their sorry behinds outta the barn.

Don't matter if'n she has ta go the long way 'round; she'll avoid bein' cornered as much as possible. Course, good luck only lasts so long. She's just about squeezed past the door when he shows up.

Nephenee frowns. "Don't you dare."

He could not have avoided her if he tried.

This was not in the metaphorical sense, as the paths they traveled through Garreg Mach town could not have been more different on any given day, even in instances of comparable proclivities - if there were a shop they frequented, it could have been assumed that neither would have been caught dead in the other's haunts, and vice versa.

But on the singular occasions where fate brought them together, it did so with a gusto, and it found him turning the corner briskly to enter the building and crashing directly into her, bringing hands up to prevent himself and the doddard who had slammed into his front from falling to the ground.

But when his eyes met hers, Berkut could not help but crease them deviously.

"Oh, and what is this? Does the lady find the likes of me to be below her lofty station? Well, my lady, forgive me for tainting the very air that you breathe with my foul presence – I shall endeavor to make myself worth your while when next we part.

"But in the meantime."

He leaned forward, slow and deliberate and maintaining all the eye contact of a feline with the intent to meddle in something it should certainly not be, and pressed a delicate peck – chaste, for all that his lips curled into a smirk against hers – first to her tender pout, and then for good measure upon her forehead before drawing upright, self-satisfied.

"Is it not the season to be abandoning old grudges? Perhaps we have yet to learn you the high traditions. Worry not, I shall remember, and present a worthier gift for you the next time we meet."

[sayhwaet]

[Water ]

She ain't much a fan of fancy drinks. Too rich for her blood, as they say. Simple things make her happy, which is why she's content sippin' her water.

The crystal glass is a bit much.

A faint smear of the sticky lipstick she'd swiped on for this evenin' remains on her glass when she pulls it away. No matter; she was growin' tired of the tacky feelin' anyhow.

Calil's voice floats through her head unbidden. Lessons on bein' a lady or some such, includin' a lady always looks her best. Nephenee assumes that means makin' sure her makeup remains intact.

She turns to the closest person at her shoulder. "'Scuse--excuse me. Does my lipstick look messy?"

When Beowolf turns to see, there's already a grin forming on his lips- he knows that any talk of lipstick would inevitably turn to a) how easy it would be to remove, a task at which he was always happy to oblige, or b) how kissable it made the wearer appear.

The answer to which, as before, Beowolf was always happy to oblige.

But the sight that awaits him nearly causes him to jump - and he does flinch at the awful smear, a twitch of his hand that sent a splash of champagne to the hem of his teeshirt - but to his credit, rather than laughing, or worse, lying and leaving it be, he tucks his hand into the crook of her elbow and tugs her away from the lights of the floor and nearer to a quieter table.

"Crusaders on high, lady, you made a right mess o'yerself, dincha?" Steering her to a place where prying eyes would not follow, he nabs a glass of fresh water and a linen napkin. Dabbing a corner into the water, he sets to work at the delicate task of fixing this stranger's makeup.

"There," he says when the shape is presentable, if he does say so himself. Cocking his head, he finally allows himself a laugh. "Don't gussy up much, do you? Not that a pretty lass like yerself'd need it, hey?"