[P] we've smashed to smithereens;

[Acton]

Acton whatever you feed me I'll feed you right back   “I’m a magician,” he told her, a silver note of pride clear in his voice despite the drunken syllables. And then he frowned, his brow furrowing as he reconsidered. “Or at least I was. Here, look -“ His intent was to conjure a standard deck of cards, one she could pull from for a classic trick, but what materialized between them was all strange. Instead of the normal suits, there were stars and horseshoes, dragons and cups. None of the numbers matched, and all the lines were squiggly. It was a drunkard’s deck, a dream deck, and the cards were flying everywhere, all out of hand – but they each vanished before hitting the ground, to the consternation of the other passerby. “Huh.” Acton coughed and shook his head before continuing on down the street. “I’ll show you later, maybe.” He was too drunk to be embarrassed, and instead settled back as the conversation moved on, though his expression remained a little baffled. After both had cleared their cups at the vendor, he nodded assent to her request for a walk and followed contentedly beside her, the occasional whisper of her gossamer garb brushing against him light as a breeze. It was a pleasant evening, and the light from the lanterns seemed to bob and sway around them, casting fae shadows. A fitting setting for talk of portals and magic. “That was brave,” he commented, and did not ask her how she had decided there was nothing for her in her home-country. Hadn’t he made the same decision once? – or maybe it was twice, now, after the Gate. That’s temporary, he reminded himself blackly. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for here. As long as you stay away from drunkards and roustabouts.” He laughed, then, and nudged her shoulder with his own. The wine had done its blessed work – he felt warm, companionable, lighter. Only a little more, and maybe he could forget entirely the reason he was here. He laughed at her description of Amare Creek, and the laugh was there in his eyes, too, when he cut his gaze back to hers. “I do,” he said, the tone almost like a wink, “but I’ve only been there once. I met a madwoman.” Almost, almost, the memory of the bone-pale girl and her talk of blood and death is enough to cool the night – but the wine-buzz was warm in his veins, and there was music on the wind, and he could think of no less-mad (at least in such a way) companion than the one he had now. “Florentine is something, from what I’ve heard.” He couldn’t help his lip from lifting, just a fraction, at her next question, though he smoothed his expression back to jocularity quickly. “Reichenbach and Isorath – the Night Court Sovereign and his Emissary-slash-lover.” His voice dropped then, became something dark and sad, a long shadow in the grass. “I would not call them friends now.” What are you really doing here, friend? Before he answered, he took the bottle from her, taking his own long draught. If he leaned against her a little as he did it, well, he could probably use the help in keeping upright. Then he shook himself, and glanced around, gauging the interest of those surrounding them before turning his wine-blurry gaze back on her. “It’s a long story. But the short version is I left after the regime burned the pass, closed the gate, and set a dragon to keeping people from coming or going.” His breath was sweet and dark with wine; his eyes were bright molten gold on hers. He felt a hundred things and wanted to feel none. “Some fairytale, eh?” he said, and laughed again. @Pavetta I tried to make this shorter xD wanna start to wrap in the next post or two? (otherwise his posts are apt to grow longer and longer until they hit 1000 words and nobody wants that)