"It's very striking. The gold's a lovely colour." It's a careful, purposeful choice of words: Strange doesn't flirt much from the get-go these days, not until he's more comfortable in an environment and assured that he's not about to be dropped into the ocean for shoving his foot in his mouth. But it still bore mentioning. Striking. Of course she's beautiful; that uncanny molten colour simply heightens it.

"I'm also vaguely acquainted with a one-eyed god," he adds, thoughtful. "It doesn't seem to hold him back much, either. If you still have your dominant eye, then I imagine you ought to get by just fine with the archery."

His fingers flex and relax against the banister, an unconscious tic. One makes do with what one has.

"Is this a common occurrence for Riftwatch? Bargaining with ancient elvhen spirits who unexpectedly change the bargain?"