A wind in the willows {OPEN}

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

Charlemagne Fletcher had always had a strange fondness for art museums, but it might not have been the art so much as it was the crowd.

The populace, the swarming masses that thronged about the famous paintings in this most famous gallery, was what truly fascinated Charlemagne. Paintings were interesting enough, but, having been raised in wealth, he had been exposed to culture like this for years of his life. He was artistic in his own twisted sense, but musty old paintings did not particularly impress him – not when he’d seen them twenty times already. No, no, it was the ever-changing people in the gallery itself that attracted his attention.

Humans were so very interesting, after all.

And breakable, too, he thought to himself. All so very breakable.

As he lounged on a bench in the middle of a particularly garish modern art exhibit, he watched those ever-so-breakable people mill about him as if he were himself a predator, his blue eyes eerily attentive. Anyone who caught his gaze shivered under the force, the computation behind those eyes, so cold and calculating and analytical and yet completely unreadable. They were like blue computer screens, somehow. Somehow.

He tilted his head and smiled toothily at an old lady passing by him. She clutched her bag closer to her person and hurried on.

So very breakable.

You can see that now, can’t you. The way they can snap. Where they will go, why, where they have been, why, how, when, where, with whom and for what. Can’t you?

That strange, strange voice again. So unfamiliar, and yet...so very familiar.

Odd. Very odd.

Charlemagne rested his head on his folded hands and fixed his eyes on someone specific and unknown to him.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Of all the places to spend a rainy afternoon, an art museum was by far Emilie’s second favorite. The first being, of course, any sort of musically-oriented room by a long shot, she found it almost unfair to compare any and all other destinations to any sort of place with a piano inside. It was that sort of thinking, of course, which had lead the competition to being over second place instead of first. However, not even that had worked out too well, as second place’s winner had also achieved its standing by a landslide.

Perhaps it was the peaceful air about them. The way the rooms seemed to flow in and out of one another as separate entities, all connected by some sort of string or common fiber she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was almost musical, the way the museum operated. Really, it should have been no surprise that she enjoyed it so much. Even after having visited countless art museums, she seemed to find something different about them every time. They were like books, the paintings; one quick rifle through the pages, a second-long glance, and maybe you’d be satisfied. Either way, if you were ever to stumble upon the same book or the same picture or the same word again, it had the potential to be completely and utterly different, all because of that one simple, long-ago sighting. Remarkable, really.

However, Emilie was almost positive she’d never seen the paintings in this exhibit before. And if she had, they were far more ostentatious than she remembered. It had to be a first glance. She made her way round the room slowly, meticulously, pausing at each piece for at least a minute to look them truly up and down. They were beautiful, she was sure, beneath all the vibrant colors and splashes and dotted lines she needed to find a way to read between.

After a few straight minutes of staring at the same splatter marks on the same canvas in hopes of finding some sort of deeper meaning, she gave up. Her lips worked in tight circles around each other, much like she was putting on Chap Stick, as she moved on to the next piece, whose meaning proved to be no more obvious. It was incredibly frustrating, not being able to figure things out like that. The simple things. And it was stranger still, the not so simple thing; Emilie had the strangest sensation she was being bored into by some pair of eyes somewhere in the room, although the source of her prickling neck-hairs was elusive, to say the least. She dared not turn around lest the culprit realize her suspicion, though her entire body was undeniably stiff as she viewed this latest piece of “art.”



outfit:here

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

It seemed that Charlemagne had found a diamond in the rough.

A little grin crossed his face as he watched the girl move. It was not a predatory grin, as a leering old man might have; in fact, for all intents and purposes, it was innocent, though eerie. He hid his mouth against his hands and let his eyes follow her, tracking her steps, watching her eyes when he could see them.

Who could she be?

Judging by her clothing, she was probably wealthy, or at least well-off. She was young, but she appeared mature, so...perhaps eighteen years old? Possibly older or younger, it was difficult to make that assumption from this angle.

Anyway, he'd certainly found an object of study for the time being.

"Excuse me, sir, could you get off the bench? Other people need to sit, too."

A security guard prodded Charlemagne in the side with his baton, and the young man's blue eyes snapped over to him.

"Hm? What was that?" he asked innocently, looking up at the guard with a completely guiltless, almost endearing smile.

The man seemed slightly startled by Charlemagne's display, but his frosty guard-demeanor swiftly returned.

"I'll need you to either sit up or move on, sir. There are old people and art students around here who need to use those benches for sitting on, unlike you."

"Oh, am I taking up too much space?" drawled Charlemagne, drawing himself up into a sitting position in the same languid, graceful way as a cat. "Well, I'm dreadfully sorry, you'll really have to excuse me--" He paused for a moment to make sure the object of his interest was still present in the exhibit. Good. She was. "--but, ah, before I depart, would you fancy a quick riddle?"

The man's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

Charlemagne grinned from ear to ear. "You're excused."

With a growing frustration, the man snorted and said, "I've no time for games."

"A riddle's not a game, sir. In fact, sir, I'd say it's more a test of one's intelligence, which is really a fascinating sort of study to conduct in an art museum in terms of gauging the overall intellect of--"

"Are you calling me stupid?" hissed the guard.

"Who, sir? Me, sir? No, sir. Wouldn't dream of it," Charlemagne replied with a mischievous smile.

The bulky man snorted and lumbered away. Charlemagne let his eyes drift back to the young woman he had been observing.

Deciding it was about time he approached, and since he had that riddle on the tip of his tongue anyway, he now wandered up to her, quite deliberately and without hesitation.

"Excuse me." He peered over her shoulder, but did not actually touch her. "Would you fancy a riddle?"

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Would it be horribly rude, just to take a peek? Yes, probably. And utterly conspicuous, too. She couldn’t do that. Emilie was many things, but blatant had never been one of them. Bold, perhaps, but never obvious; there was a delicate balance between the two, she very much believed.

Still, it was awfully tempting. There was a commotion—she could feel it tickling at her ears, just out of reach of proper comprehension but not so far as it was undetectable. In short, the most aggravating distance for someone like her imaginable. Her eyes remained glued on the painting, but her mind whirled elsewhere with possible scenarios the two men—she could tell, at the very least, they were men by pitch alone—could be getting themselves into. Most were, as expected, incredibly boring, only to be made moderately exciting were they to be proven true. She doubted whether she’d ever know.

It was just as she was bracing herself to come to terms with the fact that she would probably leave the museum knowing nothing of either this painting’s deeper meaning or the anonymous conversation that she heard it. Not only that, but she jumped, inhaling sharply. How’d he snuck up on her like that? Whoever he was.

She turned, slowly, lips pursed into a small smile while she looked him over. Strange, perhaps, but not threatening. There was no need to be particularly alarmed by his apparent disregard for social boundaries.

Still, she paused, voice rich with the sort of innocent curiosity that had killed cats by the dozen. “A riddle? Well, I suppose so, but…why? This doesn’t really seem the venue for wordplay,” she nodded at the near-silent gallery around them, not that she had any plans to refuse his offer.

Brow quirking slightly after a moment, she added as an afterthought, "And only if you'll let me ask one of you."

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

Charlemagne resisted the urge to giggle at her reaction, despite the fact that she seemed very mild as soon as he came fully into view. He was used to people being shocked at how utterly quietly he was capable of moving. Sneaky, they said he was. Well, perhaps that was so. Ssssnnneaky. Yes, he liked the sound of that word. Good descriptor.

He observed the girl quietly with his flat blue eyes in the way one might observe a work of art - with a respectful curiosity and interest. Though he may have been a strange one, there was nothing particularly devious or uncouth about Charlemagne. Despite his lack of respect for personal space, he rarely crossed over the boundary between odd and creepy.

He noted the curiosity in her voice and couldn't help but grin. Good! Someone interested!

“A riddle? Well, I suppose so, but…why? This doesn’t really seem the venue for wordplay."

"Which is exactly why it's the perfect venue for wordplay," he said brightly in response as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "Everywhere is good for wordplay, but especially places where you ought not to be doing it. Because riddles are often about breaking preconceptions."

He absolutely beamed at her latter condition, nearly floating off the ground. "You may, you may. I love riddles. I'm somewhat of a master at them, to be honest. I'm not shy about it." He tilted his head. "I also give remarkably good advice, but that's for another time."

[EMILIE SIMONE]

It was evident enough that this man meant her no harm. Judging by the look of him, he was merely bored, seeking entertainment in either the only way he knew how, or the only way he found to have a point. Personally, Emilie thought it might have been a bit of both. Although he was most definitely crossing the over the ling that typically constituted personal space, she felt no threat, and therefore let him remain. It was...different, being at odds with someone in this sort of way, and certainly held none of the innate discomfort that came from such intrusions by Christian. She didn't much much mind different. Not at all.

Considering his response for a moment, Emilie nodded in agreement, very much approving of his thought process, if perhaps it was a bit skewed. "Ah, so it's in the irony of it all. I see."

She smiled slightly, glad to see he seemed willing to participate in whatever game this was given her condition. It might make it more enjoyable, anyway, being the one to dish out some of the questions. "A master, you say?" she inquired politely, brow quirking slightly. He was funny, this man. He certainly had a way about him. "Hmm. Well, I seldom follow any advice but my own, so perhaps it's best to save that for later, anyhow."

She bit her lip slightly as she thought, a riddle coming to her in less than five seconds, although she paused for fifteen. He seemed like the type of man who didn't like to be kept waiting. "I've got one. Are you ready?" and, without waiting for a response, she began walking towards the painting on her right, slowly, hands clasped behind her back as she waited for him to follow. "The man who invented it doesn't want it. The man who bought it doesn't need it. The man who needs it doesn't know it. What is it?" Best to start off simple.

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

Charlemagne was often bored. In fact, he’d lived most of his life being bored, so it wasn’t really all that surprising that he had such odd ways of entertaining himself. He was just glad the young lady didn’t feel threatened; he’d been hit in the face with handbags before, and oh, wasn’t that a joy.

Really, he never meant any harm. He was looking for honest, innocent fun, always.

Dodging out of her personal space, he gracefully crossed one foot over another and turned, reappearing on one side of her and leaning against the wall. Charlemagne had a tendency to often seem lighter than air.

“Precisely,” he said softly, grinning one of his eerily-wide grins. “I’m very fond of irony. Which reminds me of a joke.” He cleared his throat. Though jokes might have seemed a bit below Charlemagne – who, for all his joking and erratic sense of dress, also seemed to have an air of nobility about him – the young man truly enjoyed anything that had to do with wordplay. Jokes often did, and therefore, he enjoyed them.

“There are two scientists, discussing their latest projects. One scientist turns to the other and says, ‘I’ve been working on my irony detector, but the damn thing just won’t work.’ The second scientist says, ‘Well, what’s wrong with it?’ The first scientist says, ‘It detects everything except irony.’” His grin grew just a fraction. He didn’t really mind if she didn’t find it funny; he did, and amusing himself was all that really mattered to him.

“A master indeed,” he continued, dipping his head, expression shrinking to a clever and almost sly smile. “One could say cryptic advice and riddles are my chosen crafts. Practically my profession.” He chuckled softly to himself, tilting his head. “My advice, however, is assuredly not a one-shot deal, though perhaps it would be best to save for a time in which it is needed.” Those bright blue eyes of his seemed to twinkle. “And it seems people rarely follow my advice because they rarely understand it, but I’m almost always right.”

The seconds ticked by as he awaited her riddle, and when she asked him if he were ready, he nodded, eager to begin. Following her as she turned, his steps nearly soundless on the floor, he listened to the riddle and considered it.

Surely, he had heard this one before...hmm...

In about ten seconds, he said, “It’s a coffin. Though, honestly, they’re rather comfortable, and if I invented one, I’d keep it. But I have a strange taste in beds. I like small spaces.” Chuckling, he turned the opposite direction and began to walk that way, similarly to the way she had turned from him and started to walk. “My turn,” he said. “What gets wetter and wetter the more that it dries?” About five feet from her, he gave her a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

[EMILIE SIMONE]

This man, whoever he was, certainly had an odd way of moving about him. It was curious, as though he was darting to and fro but still managed to retain an inane amount of grace as he did so; a bit like a cat, really. Still, she liked it. It was intriguing, as were his words.

Ordinarily, Emilie wasn’t one to laugh at jokes. She found them funny, yes, but it certainly wasn’t her way to open her mouth and giggle, much less actually laugh. So she nodded when he finished, smiling in her toothless manner, and said what she thought in a tone that fully expressed her amusement. “That’s very clever,” it was plain to see she didn’t hand out such praise lightly. This man, odd as he was, was certainly nothing if not clever and that at least was something she could appreciate. It was quite refreshing, to be honest, speaking to someone who wasn’t Christian in this manner. Almost as though she hadn’t known other people like this existed until just now.

“Well, I can assure you I’m not in need of any advice at the moment, professional or otherwise, though I’m sure you give it brilliantly. You ought to put more faith in your listeners, though,” she mused coolly, “Perhaps it’s not just daftness keeping them from following. Maybe they just all think they know best—after all, who’s to say you know their lives better than they do?” her brow quirked questioningly when she was through.

“Correct,” she nodded once he’d guessed properly, quite glad he’d done so. This would have all been a waste of time, had he been stumped on that one. A coffin for a bed…“That’s a bit morbid, don’t you think? Oddly permanent.”

Surprisingly, she wasn’t exactly nonplused. It took her a moment, perhaps, but Emilie turned around quickly enough, utterly intrigued with this strange man and his strange mannerisms and ever stranger way of speaking. She stared at him for a moment when he stopped, head cocked slightly to the side as though observing some very foreign strain of an utterly familiar animal. “Well, that’s simple,” she crossed the distance between them, utterly confident in herself, “A towel. Or a sponge, I suppose, but traditionally it’ll be a towel…” she nodded as she trailed off, a small, satisfied smirk crossing over her lips. Even with strangers, there was as rush in being right.

She watched him for a moment to see if he was ready, although went ahead without actually asking. It was he who’d offered the challenge in the first place, after all. “Give me food, and I will live; give me water, and I will die. What am I?”

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

This girl was very interesting, and she had indulged his fancies more so than anyone he'd ever come up to in this section of the art museum. Such a fascinating human, indeed. Intelligent, but beautiful. It seemed to be a somewhat rare combination.

It was one that Amy possessed, as well.

Amy...

His heart gave a strange little flutter at the thought of her.

Regardless, he could tell by her tone that she didn't give out compliments so easily as others did, and he found himself a bit flattered. Grinning, he nodded and replied, "Thank you." He bit back an 'I know' he was tempted to tack on. That would be a bit. Well. Arrogant. And he wasn't arrogant. He knew himself.

"Well, because I usually do." And there he was, spoiling that whole not-being-arrogant thing. "Well, no, that sounds awfully conceited of me, and I assure you I'm not that conceited." He tipped his head to the side and grinned. "No, no, I put plenty of faith in my listeners, it's why I give them advice. And information, but that comes for a price. Ooh, that rhymed." Being an information broker was such a delightful profession. So very...freeform. Such a great deal of power for so little effort from him. It was fun to see the way people flocked to him in their time of need.

Like little birds.

He grinned.

"Anyway, perhaps it is a little morbid, but I've always been told my sense of humor was a bit off." Another grin. "And permanence is only permanent if we think it's permanent. After all, have you ever died before?"

She answered his riddle quickly, dismissing it as simple, and he chuckled, casually circling her. "A towel and/or sponge, indeed," he said. "Not too complicated, of course. I've heard it a thousand times already. Well. Maybe not that many. Hyperbole is such a funny thing." He giggled, and suddenly he was leaning against the wall beside a particularly abstract painting as if it were nothing more than a window.

It took him only a second to answer her riddle. "Fire," he chirped. "It needs fuel to continue to burn, but would be extinguished by water. Quite simple, indeed." With a light chuckle, he tipped his head back, watching the light that was angled toward the painting next to which he leaned.

"How about this one? Thirty white horses on a red hill. First they stamp, then they champ, then they stand still."

[EMILIE SIMONE]

Emilie nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his thanks, though she said no more on the matter. A small, bemused smile stretched over her lips as she watched this odd man and listened to his words, her head cocking ever so slightly to the side as though assessing him. It wasn’t a particularly menacing stare, and certainly free of the type of faint repugnance she so typically let wander into her gaze when in Christian’s presence. Rather, the look was one of interest, analytical in much the same manner one might look at a puzzle they’d found more difficult than they’d previously imagined, but still enjoyed attempting to solve anyhow.

Curious, she spoke up. “What sort of price?”

Emilie wasn’t the type to ask questions she didn’t already know the answer to—or at least hadn’t though up potential answers for—but this man seemed different. Not nearly as dangerous to act out of character with. There was something comforting about his grin, as much it might have raised the hair on her neck, had she stared any longer.

She considered his question for a moment, turning her head away so as to look at another painting while collecting her thoughts. “Well, no. Obviously not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not something that lasts, either…” a small frown tugged at the corners of her lips before she turned back to him, shaking her head slightly as though to dislodge some manner of unwelcome thought. Of course it was permanent. Death was about as concrete a thing as there could possibly be. “Of course, just because it’s permanent in itself doesn’t mean it can’t inspire change elsewhere…So, it’s all relevant. Or irrelevant. Whichever you prefer.”

Her blue eyes followed him carefully as he circled her, narrowing slightly, though she wasn’t all-together too concerned. Still, no matter how closely she tried to watch him, the man seemed to evade the corner of her eye, for he was leaning against the wall faster than she could turn her head. Curious, indeed. Still far more innocently bemusing than anything, however. Emilie’s eyes flickered over the painting beside him as she waited for his response.

She nodded upon hearing the answer. “Correct.”

Still, Emilie stood and watched the man in wait of her next challenge. When she received it, it was with yet another mild smile. A difficult riddle, to be sure. Perhaps not the worst of them all, but much better than those she’d been given before. Of course, anyone who knew Emilie knew she loved a good intellectual struggle. Here, as anywhere else, she was not about to disappoint.

Emilie turned away from him, walking slowly along the other wall, peering once over her shoulder to see if he was watching her silence. About halfway down the hall she stopped, turned around, and nodded. “Teeth, of course. Mr. Baggins, I believe…no?” she spoke with a keenly hidden self-satisfied lilt. They may not have been her favorite stories, but Emilie was well familiar with the literary world, and she’d read her fair share of Tolkien. Besides, it was hard to forget the more clever things.

She continued in silence for a few more steps before looking at him once more, a riddle forming itself in her head.

“This thing runs but cannot walk, sometimes sings but never talks. It lacks arms, has hands; lacks a head but has a face.”

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

The look on her face as she examined him made Charlemagne grin. He liked bright people. They were far more entertaining than daft people – so much more to work with up in that head of theirs, so many more little knots and interwoven secrets and all sorts of clever things for him to poke around in. They also happened to have even more strings than normal that he could tangle up, and that was fun, too.

A chuckle escaped him, and he swayed his hips just slightly from one side to the other. “Usually a price that involves money. But sometimes I trade information for information. That’s the fairest, in my opinion. Really, I don’t care much about the money. I’ve enough of it already.” Honestly, Charlemagne probably could not have survived in the real world without the small fortune his parents had left behind after their death. The idea of him having a job, entering the working world, was ludicrous. He was not the kind of person that could function in normal society, which was why his setup in life was so perfect for his eccentric personality.

Oh, he did love it when people thought in front of him, just outright thought! It was so refreshing to see an intelligent person mulling over his quips for once. Flattering, even. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. That is, obviously the dead aren’t clawing their way out of the ground again, but...well. Nothing in this world is concrete. Not even death, simply because the living have no concept of what it really is. Don’t you think?” He chuckled. “And death often inspires change. Take the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. Started a war. Good stuff.” Another grin.

He seemed delighted in a way almost childish as she informed him that his answer was correct. His odd movement seemed to have stopped; he tilted his head against the wall and watched her, like a cat, always reflecting on how strange the behavior of humans was.

He followed her with his eyes but not with his feet, not feeling that he had to move as of yet. His grin grew even further when she correctly answered his riddle. “Indeed,” he said cheerfully. “Fascinating world, Tolkien’s. Made his own languages because he was bored. Wish I had the patience for that.” Another chuckle.

It was certainly clear that she was well-read and had a capable mind, and that’s how Charlemagne knew he’d made the right choice in selecting her as his object of study today. He had a funny way of regarding humans, almost as if they were toys – not toys to be thrown around and abused, but toys to test and turn around under a lamp, match with other toys, play with gently. Humans were too much fun to break so easily. Not that he couldn’t if he wanted to, he just didn’t possess the malicious intent to want to in the first place.

His eyes flickered to the ceiling as he considered the riddle, before replying, “A clock? Tricked me a bit with the beginning, sounds like a riddle about a river I once heard, but...no, no, hands but no arms, face but no head, has to be a clock.” Almost immediately, he launched his next riddle at her, hardly giving her a moment to think. “A horse is tied to a five-foot-long rope and stands exactly six feet away from a bale of hay. However, the next day, the hay is gone and the horse is not hungry because it’s already eaten. How?”

[EMILIE SIMONE]

He was a funny little man. It was much in the same way trinkets were funny, she supposed, in that truthfully they were better for admiring than doing much with. For as entertaining as this odd man was in the moment, Emilie knew full well she saw nothing more in him than that—someone to talk to. Someone who could solve puzzles without a knife behind their back. In other words, someone who wasn’t Christian. Thankfully, the stranger didn’t seem to have any ideas in mind other than conversation anyhow, so she was perfectly free to continue on as she wished.

She nodded. “Yes, well I suppose information is certainly more valuable in the end, isn’t it? Depending on how you look at things, and what sort you’re dealing.” Just as true as Emilie’s belief in the matter, however, was the fact that she had never once gone without money for a day in her life—not even when it had been only she and her sister. The young Mademoiselle Simone knew nothing of the value of money and probably never would, having grown up with a near-constant pile of the stuff up to her knees.

Again, she nodded at him, offering a small close-lipped smile at his observation as was typical when she found herself pleased by another’s company. They were a rare thing, Emilie’s smiles, so often replaced by some manner of carefully pursed scorn. “No, I you’re correct,” again, another rarity, “At least, it isn’t something to truly know about until one gets there. But I still think it’s rather enduring.” Had she the bad manners, she would have shrugged. As it was, her tone remained firm, dismissive in its agreement to partially agree, at least for the time being.

Before she had the time to do much more than nod and begin an affirmation of his correctness, the man had launched himself headlong into another riddle, and she found her pace slowing a bit as she listening intently. Immediately, too, began the thinking.

“Oh, well that’s simple.” she brightened after a moment, brows unknitting as she looked at him, continuing smoothly. “The other end of the rope wasn’t tied to anything. All the horse had to do was walk and drag the rope behind him, no?”

Continuing on her slow walk about the exhibit, Emilie remained silent until stopping just in front of a particularly peculiar piece. Nothing more than an ostentatiously large pile of multicolored candy wrappers, there was nothing artistic about the apparent masterpiece other than its obvious lack of ingenuity. She paused, cocked her head a little at the thing as though attempting to decipher whether or not the mound was supposed to be stacked in some sort of shape. It wasn’t. She blinked and looked back at her newfound companion. “Now this isn’t so much a riddle as a…quest for information,” she chose her words carefully, letting them glide off her tongue as with all things she said when she wanted something, even those things as insignificant as this now, “But what do you suppose that symbolizes? It has to be commentary on something, surely, or it never would have found its way in here…” she nodded her head back at the candy, watching curiously to see what he came up with.

[CHARLEMAGNE FLETCHER]

"More than right," Charlemagne agreed with a nod. "The price of information is variable and ever-changing...that's what makes it such a fun market." A grin spread across his pallid face.

This young woman was becoming even more intriguing.

Of course, she didn't particularly seem keen to debate death with him, and that was okay. Most people weren't fond of the subject, particularly if they had differing opinions. Religion and all that, sometimes. Charlemagne had never really paid attention to religion, particularly not since his parents had died.

Death was kind of an irrelevant thing to him. He wasn't dying. No-one he knew was dying. Hell, even if he were dying, he didn't know if he would care...

...no, that was wrong, he would probably care. The world was so fun...most of the time. Why would he want to leave it?

He grinned at her and nodded, indicating that he would let the subject pass, trailing after her, keeping somewhat of a respectable distance between the two of them.

"Correct," he chirped cheerfully. "I love that riddle. Always been fond of it. One of the ones where you have to listen close, and those are the best kinds. Like the one knight, a king, and a queen riddle..." He chuckled at her and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, almost pensively.

He was wondering where Amy was at that moment.

Noticing that Emilie was moving, he trotted after her, pausing at her words and examining the sculpture she was indicating. A pile of candy wrappers. Hm. Modern art could be so confusing. Fun, of course, but confusing. He was fond of art galleries for this reason -- trying to puzzle out why people painted or drew or sculpted the funny little things that they did. It always proved interesting to try, anyway.

"Well," he said, circling the stack of wrappers. He stopped, tipped his head to the side, staring at it from an angle. He took a few steps back and stared at it that way. Then he folded his hands behind his back and made a face. "Bit cheap, if you ask me. I think it's probably a jab at modern consumerism...childhood obesity, maybe, the generally crumbling state of our health as junk food gets cheaper and good food gets pricier. Of course, I could be completely wrong -- could be a statement against littering, or could be a statement against commercialism...it's a bit vague to tell. But maybe that's rather the point." He flashed her another grin. "What do you think?"