"And, do come again- there's no harm in a peek beyond the veil after all- or in funding your charming guide's next drink." He calls after a departing group of faire-goers, the hard porcelain of his mask- a Jester grinning and frozen- hiding the scowl beneath as he counts his funds from the last performance. He sighs, tucks meager tickets into his pocket, and pulls his mask from his face, sitting it aside on a nearby picnic table and scratching absently at the black paint on his cheek, a second more flexible grin marked into pale skin. "I swear, you spend 11 years trapped in a shitty little town and you forget how to tip apparently." He mutters, picking up his violin and beginning to tune up. He's dead to the world for a long moment, the violin case on the ground by his feet closed to indicate he's not performing at the moment. But he catches eyes on him- or perhaps eyes on the forest just over his shoulder- and shifts his own glance to be eye to eye with the source- He's seen her around before- looking troubled, more often than not. "I've not got another performance for a while, love, I'd hate for you to linger around and get the wrong impression of me as an artist." He insists. "... Odette, yes?" He questions, one dark brow arching. "Do you always look as if you're a deer about to meet the vicious front end of an 18 wheeler?"
@odette-abbott