For all he's been warned, and all he was expecting this meeting, the actual aesthetic of this place sets Ringabel's teeth on edge. This place would meet with the enthusiastic approval of a certain Red Mage (or the bearer of that job's Asterisk, at least). And air heady with something intoxicating, when Fiore DeRosa already leaps unbidden to the mind...
Ringabel sits on the couch, legs folded into a "4," frowning. "Am I to assume I am in the abode of the lady Psyche?" he asks to no one in particular.
“Great minds think alike,” he says, the flirtation as natural as breathing. “Yours suits you.”
He takes the champagne flue. He’s never seen a wine that color; he’s looking, not drinking, for now. “One of your other champions explained a little of... he spoke of it as your game,” he says. “But I’d hear it from you, if your courting my assistance. Why play with - and for - the Lovers? Why indeed back an Arcana at all?”
"Aw, thanks," Psyche says. "And the reason you'd wanna back an Arcana is that whichever of us wins, that's the one who gets reflected in reality until the game starts back up again. If that's me, you guys get a more loving universe. On the other hand, if it's, say, Hakan, then you get a more rigid and authoritarian place. Last time he won patriarchies sprung up all over the joint."
"Any world," he says, teeth gritted, "with more Fiore DeRosas in it I would consider to be a worse one, yes. The one was too many. The realization of how closely I resembled him, frankly, was most unpleasant."
He pauses. "You're fighting over the genre of the next cycle," he says. "Whether it's an epic, a tragedy, a comedy." He tips his glass at Psyche at that last, using comedy in the traditional sense, a story that ends in a wedding. "With us as your knights - that part, I understood."
He thinks. "And how are these battles waged? One tale at a time?"
"Mmhm," she says. "We find a set of circumstances that could go either way and plop you down, hoping that you'll tilt the scales in one direction or another. Sometimes you end up possessing people who're already there--it's just part of the game, you know? You go to the people who you've got things in common with."
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For all he's been warned, and all he was expecting this meeting, the actual aesthetic of this place sets Ringabel's teeth on edge. This place would meet with the enthusiastic approval of a certain Red Mage (or the bearer of that job's Asterisk, at least). And air heady with something intoxicating, when Fiore DeRosa already leaps unbidden to the mind...
Ringabel sits on the couch, legs folded into a "4," frowning. "Am I to assume I am in the abode of the lady Psyche?" he asks to no one in particular.
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She's got a pompadour of her own and is wearing a tailored white suit with blue accents.
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He takes the champagne flue. He’s never seen a wine that color; he’s looking, not drinking, for now. “One of your other champions explained a little of... he spoke of it as your game,” he says. “But I’d hear it from you, if your courting my assistance. Why play with - and for - the Lovers? Why indeed back an Arcana at all?”
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He pauses. "You're fighting over the genre of the next cycle," he says. "Whether it's an epic, a tragedy, a comedy." He tips his glass at Psyche at that last, using comedy in the traditional sense, a story that ends in a wedding. "With us as your knights - that part, I understood."
He thinks. "And how are these battles waged? One tale at a time?"
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