nysalogs | [open] channeling angels in a new age, now.

[It's true he has no idea where to place that accent, but at least he recognizes the humor in it, a little smirk crossing his face while he tugs his shirt and jacket straight after his trek here and all its elbowing.]

Don't worry, I'm fairly easy to put the blame on. [Great, thanks Merlin. He stands there for a moment, then realizes and moves to take Prior's arm like a true gentleman. Finally, loitering in royal courts for so many years has a practical application. With a short nod he gestures with his other hand for them to start off back the way he came from, hopefully with better luck in the crowd this time. Attached to someone else, his "run into me please!" aura should be gone.]

What do you want to see first? Shops? Tumblers?

You seem pretty stuck on these tumblers. [And Prior's not wholly sure why, but is putting it down to a life spent deprived of TV.] I think we should see what the fuss is about people falling over.

[There's a faint trace of a limp as he walks, but he puts his foot down resolutely anyway, just picks it up a little quicker than most people might.]

I can do that. I do it too much just lately. Maybe I should throw out my hat for some money, too.

[If it's strange to walk arm in arm with another man, here, then Prior seems blithely unaware. He's not, quite. If there's so much as a flinch of awkwardness on Merlin's part, he'll take his arm back in a manner casual enough to look like it's what he intended all along.]

I think they're impressive, that's all. Can't I be impressed by a little creative falling?

[He puts his own faux-haughty tone into this "defense," but of course he isn't seriously bothered. Performers like that are the most interesting thing he's familiar with, too—there are televisions in this place, but he doesn't know what they are to even seek one out. So: flips.

But even if he were going to feel awkward about walking around like this, that slight limp and a comment about falling down already take priority; now he'll keep an eye on Prior's footing, subtly, without making a big deal of it. He can't help, well, helping. So: time to go.]

It's not only tumblers, in my defense; I like juggling well enough. Throwing knives around is where I have to draw the line.

Oh well if it's creative falling, that makes all the difference. You never told me it was art.

[Merlin's turn at haughtiness makes Prior laugh. He's too scrawny for it somehow, although that has to be hypocrisy coming from someone whose body weight is barely more than his own bones. And if he picks up on any excess care Merlin's taking well, he doesn't need it but won't mention it this time. In the list of small daily indignities he lives with, someone who can barely walk down the street unscathed keeping an eye on where Prior puts his feet is among the least of them.]

Oh but knife throwing is at least glamorous. Quivering beauties pinioned to a spinning wheel, dashing gentlemen risking their life and limb - and all fake, obviously. Magnets, right?

[Mag...nets... Merlin bites back a sigh, pursing his lips before he once again has to reveal his old-fashioned ignorance and ask.]

Magnets? [so,] They're quite real every time I've seen them. Once a performer threw a knife into an apple my friend held in his mouth—nearly wet himself.

[It was Stressful, but after no one got hurt, it was also hilarious. But still.]

And the wheel creaked. Perhaps it would be more dashing with your... magnets.

[Maaagnets. Prior recognises the uncertain drawl of one who's never encountered the word before.]

It's all very well the whole magic translation thing they do here, but has anybody thought to hand out dictionaries yet? Magnets, they're-

[He's just not a science guy.]

Some metal attracts other metal, don't ask me why. In my time we use it to make cute plastic letters to stick on the refrigerator, but you could use it to influence a metal-tipped knife to strike the right part of a frame. Magnetic attraction.

[He quickens his pace enough to trade Merlin's arm for the space ahead of him, turning to look back.]

in human terms, it's like when you meet someone's eyes across a dancefloor and you know you both want the same thing. No possible reason for it except something in your makeup recognising something in theirs that makes it shiver in all the right places.

[Maaaagnets. What a mystery. Merlin purses his lips as he watches Prior move ahead, thinking about... science? Metal that sticks to other metal, on purpose? It seems just like magic, without magic involved. Science remains an enigma.]

Oh— [But the rest of the explanation, without science or knives or metals—yes, he can get behind that. Something in that resonates with him the way knives sticking to certain pieces of a frame... doesn't.] Like destiny. I know what you mean, then.

...Well, minus the dance floor.

A floor you dance on. Come on, at least try.

[Science seems like magic to Prior all the time, not being particularly of that kind of mind. Except that enough people claim to know how it works, and make their explanations so dull that no one can really listen long enough to prove them wrong. Or, that's his theory.]

And not like destiny, at least not for more than one great night. Like chemistry.

[Oh- he's set a ridiculous precedent for himself, hasn't he-] I know what a dance floor is! I don't dance.

[Does he look like he can dance, because he's pretty sure he barely looks like he should be able to stay upright. Chemistry, destiny... he shrugs.]

Destiny's the best I can do.

Oh destiny. I don't think she and I would be friends.

[Merlin, he's quite sure you can dance, given the right partner. One day, with enough painkillers, it's possible he'll put this to the test. As generally the shorter of a pair, he's quite used to dancing backwards - and in heels.]

Though you have yours, I suppose? The whole magic, beard, bermuda shorts thing? [A little wince in case that's not the most grandiose of descriptions. Sorry.]

[It really isn't, but he scoffs good-naturedly instead of get up in arms about it like he might with someone else. He actually likes Prior, so... Prior has made the list of people who can tease him about the whole magic, beard, whatever-those-are thing.]

Something like that. I've heard I might even spend some time as a tree. [mmmmmhmm] Until then, I suppose my destiny is... still asleep.

[This, with a little gesture up, towards the moon - and notably, its stasis pods. God, that's dramatic. He didn't mean to be dramatic.]

Oh your destiny's a person? [That's so much better than bermuda shorts, and God, why that's the only part of the cartoon Prior really remembers is beyond him. The image fades the longer he's in younger, ganglier Merlin's company, anyway. Childhood's a fickle thing.

But, not important. Prior fans out his hands: hold everything.]

Male or female?

[No, he takes it back, tell him more about the shorts—whatever a cartoon is, he must know.

Or: he rubs the back of his neck a little, waving his other hand in a sort of ehhhh motion. Sort of? A little?]

You've heard of King Arthur, haven't you, if you've heard of me? So...

[A moment for it to click and, ohh. Ohhh.]

Well, there I was getting romantic. I suppose it should have been obvious. But you. But he...

[Prior's face moves through a multitude of ways of phrasing this, before settling on]

But isn't he a tiny wart child?

[Prior, you are his favorite. He actually laughs instead of just badly concealing a chuckle this time—god. God.]

At heart, certainly! He's older than me by a year or two. Very much the personality of a wart, though, that's not wrong.

[Hmm, well. Clearly there are some discrepancies, here. Prior beckons Merlin to keep walking, falling into step with his longer legs. His own seems to bother him less with the distraction.]

Now, this is testing my loyalty to anything Disney but lacking princesses, but in my version of events, Arthur was a child everyone called Wart. He doesn't become King until he pulls a sword out of a stone. And there's a whole thing where he's an ant, and a fish, and something with a mad witch I can hardly recall.

[He shrugs.]

Chinese whispers, I guess. Your story's had a long season of being passed around. My ex boyfriend happened to be a carbuncle, though, so I can sympathise.

[What's a Disney. Either way, this is certainly a decorated version of events - but then, also, most people think Merlin was born 80 it seems, so this... he probably should have expected.]

He was most of a donkey once. Braying and everything, very regal. And the sword— [mmm, okay. Okay, in the interest of not poisoning the well of times too much, maybe he won't go around telling people he made that all up, where the sword was involved. Someone out there would get offended.]

Well, the sword wasn't the reason he became king, but it certainly helped later on. Sorry about your carbuncle.

Oh not to worry, he cut himself out. It's barely even sore now.

[Stings like a bitch, fuck you Louis Ironson, but never mind that now.]

Most of a donkey. I imagine there might be some parts a man would trade but - was that you? Your... magic?

Hmm. [Merlin's never had a breakup to relate; he can offer a sympathetic nod, though? That's close enough.]

Just what kind of treason are you accusing me of? [Were it such that he could take full credit—] No, not the whole time. Goblins, actually.

Oh, goblins.

[Like oh, sliced bread. Prior's learning the way not to go entirely crazy here is to grin and pretend things are normal.]

That explains everything. [Though he could be over sugaring the pill at this point.] You can do magic, though? I'm impressed by someone stealing my nose, it doesn't take much.

[Goblins are real, Prior!!]

Oh—sure, of course. That part of the story's actually true. Here- [Here, he can do magic tricks on command, sure. He's done this for other people here before, so - he holds up a hand and closes it into a loose fist. His eyes flash gold for a second, and he opens his hand again to reveal a tiny blue butterfly.

There it goes, fluttering away like he didn't just make a butterfly out of nothing. Tada.]

[It's not the only thing fluttering. If he's quick he'll see - or hear - Prior gasp. He lifts his hand to trace the butterfly's path through the air.]

Where did that come from? Can you do more of those? You could make a killing at uptown weddings.

It's magic. [Obviously - it's probably not technically alive and just elaborate light tricks, but let's not try to explain where the creating life line is to cross in magic. It's inconsistent.

Anyway it's pretty, which is the point.]

I could make as many as I want, I suppose. Enough for a wedding would take... well, I've never tried. Hours?

Worth it. One day of butterflies and you could take the week off. And so much less likely to shit on you than doves.

[Forgive him, there is party planning in his past]

Anyway, they're pretty, which is the point. What else can you do?

A day off would be something to behold... [When did he last have a day off? He honestly doesn't know.]

I could do—well. Not to sound smug, but whatever I want, I suppose. Certain things are harder than others...

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