Greta's well past presuming that any given scrap of myth or legend or superstition exists across multiple universes. Some things seem to crop up over and over, but it still doesn't seem wise to just assume anything is universal — especially when being a bloody pirate feels about as far from Greta's old life as someone might get.
So it isn't until Anne expresses some guarded familiarity with Sweeney's names that it occurs to Greta that Anne might actually know, not just about leprechauns, but about Sweeney in particular. She perks, eyebrows ticking up as she looks between Anne and Sweeney. Her rather charged scrutiny lasts until Sweeney plucks a coin out of the air and then presses it into her hand, at which point she gives him a level look of fond exasperation: a sort of nonverbal must you? No point in actually voicing it when she can guess what the answer would be. He must, whether it's to show her a bit of favor or to simply show off.
"Leprechaun," Greta confirms, her fingers curling around the coin automatically. It's not exactly like his lucky one; it doesn't feel as warm as if it'd been sitting in direct sunlight for an hour or so. But it is solid and real, and moreover, it'll stay that way, as opposed to turning into a scrap of bark or a river stone when her back is turned. Not that she has any intention of spending it — or pawning it for spending money. Maybe it's not atypically lucky in and of itself, but it only seems right that she guard it, instead.
"Did you have tales of them back home?" she asks Anne. "I know Saoirse and I both grew up with such stories, but beyond that..." she shrugs, glancing up at Sweeney. She might not be the only one leaving him offerings, but she's guessing the list isn't terribly long.
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So it isn't until Anne expresses some guarded familiarity with Sweeney's names that it occurs to Greta that Anne might actually know, not just about leprechauns, but about Sweeney in particular. She perks, eyebrows ticking up as she looks between Anne and Sweeney. Her rather charged scrutiny lasts until Sweeney plucks a coin out of the air and then presses it into her hand, at which point she gives him a level look of fond exasperation: a sort of nonverbal must you? No point in actually voicing it when she can guess what the answer would be. He must, whether it's to show her a bit of favor or to simply show off.
"Leprechaun," Greta confirms, her fingers curling around the coin automatically. It's not exactly like his lucky one; it doesn't feel as warm as if it'd been sitting in direct sunlight for an hour or so. But it is solid and real, and moreover, it'll stay that way, as opposed to turning into a scrap of bark or a river stone when her back is turned. Not that she has any intention of spending it — or pawning it for spending money. Maybe it's not atypically lucky in and of itself, but it only seems right that she guard it, instead.
"Did you have tales of them back home?" she asks Anne. "I know Saoirse and I both grew up with such stories, but beyond that..." she shrugs, glancing up at Sweeney. She might not be the only one leaving him offerings, but she's guessing the list isn't terribly long.