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[ He's haphazardly dressed in something that could be considered vintage pieces of a noble era long gone. A tiny little glass of liquor by a bottle of it. To the side lay a small plate of smoked meat and a pen and a paper with notes and scribbling inside and this is all that occupies the otherwise open table.

He puts the pen down and looks outward with a calm exhale. ] What philosophies shape your life?

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[Not so much, more like she's the sort of person who establishes herself as quickly as possible as someone who is unlikeable, to prevent drama later. It's easier this way, when you're as unapologetically rude as Penelope.

Also she likes booze, he had booze, and now it is she who has the booze. This transaction made simpler by omitting the actual asking-to-share portion of the interpersonal conversation. See? She's streamlining!]

Being me isn't a choice, but whatever helps you sleep at night. Salut. [sip.] Bigger question; why are you asking?

[ He'll stick with his opinion that most people want to find a space for themselves and some need to prove they're above that until decided the observation is unfitting. Not like he had a distinct dislike or disapproval of either method of living. Up until you decided to do something that was utterly offensive to his person, be however you want to be. ]

Your actions however are, but whatever helps you sleep at night. [ He'll tend to the food, at least a little. ] small talk bores me. A useless waste of otherwise worthy time.

Well, yeah, I mean, sure, I could fake being polite, and nice, and like I care about the social comfort of people who aren't me, but why? Unless they're in a position of direct power over me, what's the benefit? It's not going to change anything. I'm still capable of what I'm capable of, and everybody knows it. They don't have to like me to pay me money to do what I do. Usually it's easier if they don't.

[Thankfully she is utterly uninterested in his food, or that too would make its way to her vulgar, vulgar stomach. She does lean her hip against the table and not-subtly glance at whatever it was he was writing, though. What's privacy? Who knows! Not Penny!]

Small talk bores everyone, that's why it's called small talk. Here's another big question for you, Big-Important-Questions-Guy; why are you dressed like you robbed the graves of a bunch of dead Victorians? Not the most flattering look.

[ She has sound reason in her own way. He would dare to say that many people function this way. Merely some are more subtle about it. Yet he'll let her finish her bombardment of questions and statements before addressing any of them. ]

And yet people still partake. A reflection of character, no doubt. [ the easily persuaded mind believes what the world tells them and never questions why or simply says 'that's not me'. ]

Isn't Halloween coming up? Perhaps I'm practicing. [ A beat ] And what is it that you do, fine stranger?

Pretty boring costume, then. Maybe if you wore one of those horse masks it'd have a better effect. Much more unsettling.

[AS IF THAT'S A GOOD THING, PENELOPE, WHAT ACTUALLY IS WRONG WITH YOU]

I'm a designer. And a tailor. And I curse people for piles and piles of cash. How's about you, Dorian Gray?

[ He seems almost disinterested in her horsemask comment. Such a boring thing compared to the ancestor masks of shame. Those were eerie. He attends to the meat instead for a moment. ] You can do better than that. I have faith in your imagination.

[ A beat ] I write, I paint, I sometimes undo curses for piles and piles of cash.

Your faith in my ability is deeply moving. [Her tone strongly suggests otherwise! Good lord what an annoying person she is.]

Oh, so you're a white hat! Exactly as boring as I'd always imagined you people to be. Nice to meet you, then. [She drinks more of his booze, for punctuation.]

[ Oh, if she only knew how heavy a burden he bared from the days he was very much not white. Oh well!

Fabian wonders, briefly, if she'll exhaust her own obnoxiousness when she keeps hitting a wall or if she'll just keep hitting a wall. He's almost 400 years old, Penelope. He's been a stone wall to many an obnoxious person. Especially with this new age wiccan bullshit becoming a thing. ]

I suppose mentioning that what you put out to the universe comes back to you falls on deaf ears. [ So much so that he didn't even bother forming it as a question, but just saying. He'll just lean back again with a smile. ]

Pleasure is all mine, clearly.

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