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Did you know that Arms and Armour gallery of the Met boasts one of the finest collections of medieval weapons anywhere in New York? In the event of zombie invasion, run there first. It oddly links to the American wing for no apparent reason, bound to the European Sculptural and Decorative Arts gallery, featuring a procession of jousting knights through several galleries numbered in the 370s. The same might be said for the years, perhaps. Either way, however, the faerie dust beauty of the metals under their aged patina call forth any with a fascination for such plated vambraces, cuirasses, breastplates, and other bits that only really feature in ancient, dusty novels about history.
Unless you're actually a damn angel, and not only an angel, but the highest of them. First of the Firstborn, he moodily circulates along the foremost gallery. He probably knows a good number of those pieces of art, and he chooses to consider the arms rather than the armour. Pretty things, though not entirely pretty.
"That's a ridiculous dagger. No one would use that." In his humble opinion.
"Oh, I don't know, it could be useful for something," opines the brunette wandering at his side. With her coat hanging over her folded arms, Rosemarie maintains a thoughtful silence as she looks past her own reflection in the pristine museum glass case. "It wouldn't have been created if it didn't have some use?"
Yes, that's a small smile because she is baiting the Devil, if only the tiniest bit.
Her eyes wander elsewhere, farther down the wall, to where a set of rapiers are displayed. Detaching from her escort, her boots make soft tiptap sounds as she approaches the collection. "I like these more. They remind me of Dumas and his brave Musketeers. I tried reading it in the original French, but I didn't study as well as I should have in high school," she murmurs, glancing back at Lucian with a faint blush and smile.
"Spearing small chunks of tuna from a tin, perhaps?" Funny how English can adopt that cutting edge, dry and far from brittle. A knife sliding between the seams, popping cohesion against American norms, his tenor has the quiet timbre of warm copper and brass. Rosemarie earns a look with a capital L from the corner of his eye. "Really. I would expect better from someone educated like you."
Whatever childlike creativity devised the current shape of that dagger with its inlaid pattern on the hilt, it fails to much captivate the Devil. He knows himself, that jettisoned piece of his very being, though he covets something better than a dagger. Maybe he needs to find William Wallace's seven foot long sword but that belongs in the Sterling Castle armoury, not here. The ghostly image superimposed upon glass reveals his features right down to the burnt orange coat he opted to wear. "Dumas preferred various things, notably a good stick ripe with fruit."
A muted twinkling laugh from behind her hand doesn't much disturb the Armory and its contents, nor the other museum-goers. That blush does increase by a shade, but Rosemarie doesn't wilt.
"You have an interest in sticking sharp objects into other people, Mister Venere." An extended index finger mocks even as it accents and she turns her attention back to the rapier collection. "Learning French is something I can do easily enough, if I find the time. When you're young, your mind is elsewhere, like…" Her voice peters out and she shakes her head, chuckling once to herself. "I thought I had better things to consider than conjugating the past tenses. What's that saying…ah: hindsight is twenty-twenty."
A lurid regard of the various weapons mounted on a wall would be enough to bring a docent trotting by, ready to defend the selections of the curators and who does he think he is, sneering unconsciously at the presentation? See, the nice little tags tell exactly which is which. All the more reason for him to look so dreadfully bored and put out. A foil next to a leaf-bladed sword, who would dare?
"Heathens," he mutters aside to Rosemarie. "Miss Falcroft, show me a man who has no interest in swords and I'll show you a woman. Or potentially a golem." His money is going to be with the golem. "C'est la vie." The nature of things, after all. He inclines his head back, not quite stretching out. "Are you still trying to winnow through the Three Musketeers in native French? Brave."
"Not at the moment, no," the librarian replies in regards to attempting to storm the venerated pages of the adventures of three brave Frenchmen. "I plan to in the future. I've been reading about other things — and I do still have to visit my French again." Turning to face him, she reaches out and tweaks at his coat, probably not aligning anything at all. Another more tentative brush along his shoulder might remove some lingering fuzz or bit of dust…but as if these things ever dared to alight upon the Morningstar.
"But no interest in swords? I thought all men were interested in their swords." Please give Rosemarie bonus points for the delicate formation of the question, complete with a knowing look veiled in innocence through her lashes up at the blond.
Teeming masses prefer the European sculpture gallery. Little boys oggle the knights on horseback, even the caparison colourful in checkered patterns of black and white, yellow on white, and variations between. How not to appreciate a destrier wearing a fashionable coat whose stylings would fit in well with op art? Those frozen statues are tall and bold, but the shape and height of the men almost diminutive next to modern football heroes and the leonine conquerer himself. "And what has so captivated your attention? You curl up in bed after dark with which fine companion to escort you into dreams?"
There isn't much fluff to speak of on his marigold coat, nor the dark navy pants that can't decide if they are to be sapphire or onyx inspired. "All men are, though we have opinions on those. See the filigree on that one?" He points at a particularly overly wrought basket-handled pigsticker, featuring the unlikely combination of floral designs overlaid on stars. "Never useful in battle. It would crumple instantly."
Rosemarie nods, her attention drawn as directed to the sword in question.
"It seems too fancy to be used in a true battle. Perhaps if some dandy in the court of the King were insulted, they could have a duel. En garde!" The cry is quiet enough to avoid disturbing, though she does execute a mock lunge past him, arm extended as if to bury said crumply sword into the lace-lined frock of an opponent. Not a full lunge either, but an insinuation of one with slightly bent knee. Catching herself a moment later, she does flush rather deeply and scratch behind an ear. Not many museum-goers mimic the duels of past times, much less adults.
Clearing her throat, she adds, "I'm reading 'The Once and Future King', by T.H. White. I dream of many amazing things after reading it." The small grin belies her fondness for the book.
Disbelief flickers through the angel's countenance. "You think he would even draw it? It would bend on the removal from the jewel-encrusted mistake of a sheath, and he might well snap the remaining protrusion after tripping on his high-heeled slippers," Lucian has his opinions and he doesn't hesitate to speak of them just to see what kind of response Rosemarie will gather. "Those lacy sleeves and frocks were ample excuses to capture the blades or turn them astray. Half tin and whatever ghastly webwork a jeweler created, they would be hopelessly snarled in some fine Belgian lace." He rolls his eyes slightly at the notion, daring not to venture further down that ostentatious rabbit hole. "The Florentines would have been aghast."
The goose step around her is purely for her own sake, and he manages not to cough at the mention of White. "Ah, Merlin. Dreaming of the return of a king to sweep the world out of its cares?"
"It's an idealized stance on things, but a nice thought nonethless," she replies softly. "Harmony. Peace. No war, just happiness. Hmph," and the librarian muffles another laugh, turning to walk farther down along the hallway. Her reflection passes along each pane in turn, muzzy around the edges in the burnished metal reflecting back the bright lighting.
"And I do think he might draw it, yes." She glances to Lucian. "If honor were at stake."
"Were honour at stake?" He rotates upon Rosemarie, one being swaying, swiveling in their wide arcs around one another. His brows aloft but a fragmentary degree, hard to measure against the calculated mien focused so firmly upon her. "Ideals have a hard time standing up to the harsh light of reality, the ambitions in the faulty heart or the cruel jests played to get to the top of the heap. An ornamental sword means less than hardened wit, preparation, and skill. A woman wielding a dagger purposefully could overtake that. But harmony, ah, there is a notion of a shield if so very, very rare."
He smiles in the briefest of allowances, his eyes showing very little warmth. "I stick to the broader, sharper ones. If nothing else I can smartly rap someone on the skull."
Her brows rising are far more marked, being darker in hue and Rosemarie in turn more transparent by nature. Her steps slow, her forwards advance stymied by his presence and intense interest.
"I suppose you could do far more damage with a broadsword, yes. You like that weapon then, above all else? Not words? They say that the pen is mightier than the sword…though no one was ever rapped upon the head with words. No, I take it back, I've dropped a book on someone before…accidentally."
That's definitely a lie, she absolutely meant to. A particularly boorish patron had it coming. Gravity is ever the aid of the vengeful librarian upon a ladder.
However they are in the Met, Lucian cannot pull sufficient rank without the gig being up to avoid being SHHHHed at by an irritated patron volunteer in the corner. She might want to reassess her choices in life, being this side of seventy and possibly sprouted from civil war iron pellets in the basin of the Smoky Mountains.
Ignoring her briefly, he instead gives Rosemarie the benefit of the doubt. "Why, throwing books. However will your superiors tolerate that bibliocidal rage? I do fear you in high dudgeon, Miss Falcroft." No, he doesn't. "I had rather fancied using a metal crutch under one arm and a pair of pruning shears for double the blade."
Placing fingertips against her lips at the fact that the Devil was just shushed by one of the docents, Rosemarie has to remain silent for a few moments to keep down the trickle of laughter threatening to escape. Oh my. If only the old battleaxe knew precisely whom she was scowling at, even if he does exist as a dapper show in his bright coat and pants.
"My superiors tolerate a good number of my shortcomings, Mister Venere. I do my job very well. You, however, would make a sight charging at someone with pruning shears. What would you do, cut a lock from their hair at an angle so that it doesn't match their coif? No " and she points again, wearing a muted smirk, " you would remove whatever awful clothing they wore at the time and then offer them a drink by way of an apology that you simply don't mean. After all, you would be doing the world a service in this, hmm?" That smile does grow wider to flash her teeth before being muffled away again, accompanied by a tuck of her chin.
Do not laugh. Mrs. Bixby does not know the mortal danger she faces, and the sins that her staring eyes convey upon the unyielding young man are severe enough. Tsk, he could tell her a thing or two about the PTA and theft of bake sale chips, but remains unnervingly mum about the whole thing. "Do they? I suppose there must be compelling reason for that." Right, poke the happy fun ball and see where that leaves matters. He knows the warbird under Rosemarie's demure demeanor. Tweaking its tail feathers is perfectly acceptable, all in all.
"Charge? I would wait for them to fall upon my less than tender mercies." Truly, he's making that awful joke. Forgive him for the act. His smirk says all he needs to know. "I should not remove their clothing but their dignity and the sporting notion of their ego in the process. So many ways to deliver a sound humiliation so they do not rise again above their betters, presumptive and crass."
"The world should tremble at your feet, Mister Venere," the librarian replies softly, only partially aware of the truth that she may speak, there in the hallowed halls of the Met. She adjusts her bag on her shoulder and ignores the clamoring of the Shi'ar Otherness in her psyche. What little influence it has shows in the faint golden flush about her irises.
"As the rolling bookcarts should tremble at mine. I'm the fastest member of staff when it comes to accurately reshelving books." The uptilt of her chin and nose come from the tail-tweaked Warbird. It's a true statement. The brunette has won the annual Christmas Race-to-Place every year for four years running.
"Why?" A statement of some importance, that. A shake of his head denies the very notion before it seeds any sort of unwanted response. "I see no value in being worshipped like a tyrant or a king. Or worshipped at all. You all wear the most ridiculous of outfits in such a position." Ever seen the Vatican's Swiss Guard? Froofy and poofy, hideously apparelled if anyone were to ask the Morningstar. And they should.
Hello, wee beaky. Whether he noticed Rosemarie transcending her pure mortal origins, he does laugh aloud. "Rolling bookcarts and deftly wielded tape. Oh, imagine the clatter in the silent stocking aisles while you prowl in all your dangerous finery, bestowing the worst of remonstration upon those who misshelf their books."
Uh oh, no doubt old Mrs. Bixby is thinking about tossing these two out on their bums by their ears — the titter arcs up and bounces about before Rosemarie can clamp her mouth shut.
"I'm nothing scary there, only good at what I do. Everyone knows that Mrs. Ketch is the scary thing." Yep, that harridan. Beware the head librarian and her looming presence. Best put that book right back where you found it. "If I were scary, I wouldn't be in charge of a help desk. That would be unhelpful." And yes, she beams at the play on words.
Mrs. Bixby can be on her way staring at the fine rumps of horses and knights. That's what her old age pension earns her. Anything worse than that belongs squarely in the realm of poverty among the American furniture exhibit. No hot knight action there.
Lucian shakes his head as he moves along to the next gallery, away from the lesser iron lady. "I am fond of thinking you swinging your pen and prevailing upon all who come by to be stamped, dated, and curated if they dare to break your rule."
Rosemarie holds her head high as she swans after Lucian — er, Warbirds. It's decidedly graceful in the end and nigh on proper as a Englishwoman in a corset and bell-skirt. Eventually beside him, she glances over as they fall into step.
"You would name me queen of the library? My lord, you are but kindness engendered…and a riddle to boot. I'd be royalty and yet you would slay anyone's ego on a whim. Would you be my valiant knight?" The attempt at an accent, far less cut-glass and rounded by Eastern seaboard nuances, fades out with her softer, more hesitant expression.
Ah, but only one library, a branch of a bigger branch. Far be it from him to complain or correct, especially when there would be nothing to gain by such a demonstration of bean counting or splitting differences. "Kindness? Never. Plainly sighted and occasionally spoken, yes." Lucifer has no doubts about that. "I am a poor knight, for the notions of chivalry die on battlefields and I shall not. Though do you have something for me to tilt at, a deadly beast ransacking your peace, I will subdue it."
Or scare the living bejesus out of it.
In a bold move, she endeavors to link arms with him, tucking her elbow against his ribs and wrapping her palm up about his bicep.
"I shall rest easy upon my wooden throne knowing that I can consider your wrath set upon the one who arrives late and denies me my lunch break." In the back of her mind, that dark little place not allowed much light of daybreak in her forethoughts, it is hysterically funny to consider the sincerely terrifying Morningstar confronting the perpetually-late assistant librarian who causes the situation in the first place.