Log:More Than What They Seem

More Than What They Seem
"How many more lipsticks and cogs can I take in one day?"
Participants C.B. and Cornelius.	30 September, 2017 Barter is done at Cat-22
Location Cat-22
Early Saturday evening at Cat-22 Collective means the place is rather jumpin'. Folks are in here eating, drinking, working on their laptops, reading, talking. And behind the main counter, alternatively serving people and sitting on a stool that's perched in front of an old Underwood typewriter, stands one of the Lost. C.B. wears his glasses today, along with a red and black plaid work shirt opened over a rather incendiary t-shirt, black jeans, and work boots on his feet. Lightning occasionally crackles from his hands or his eyes when he's annoyed with someone (a not infrequent occurence), but of course the mundanes in here can't see such things. Sitting on the cat tower in the middle of the cafe is another sight: a gray and white Cymric cat, except that its fur appears to be made from fluffy gray and white paper. He surveys the entire scene through huge, yellow eyes. Music blares out over the speakers: sounds like the Stones, circa 1966. "Mother's Little Helper..." Coming in on the heels of another customer as if he is running on fumes and drafting to reach his goal, Cornelius slips out of that wake once he is properly inside. His eyes are reading signs on the wall when some lightning causes him to look over at the owner. He, himself, will immediately be picked up as a fellow bastard hybrid of Arcadia if seen, but the signs are somewhat more subtle. Shadows stretch out in his presence; clinging to him until they reach their limit and then snapping back into place. That and the dropping of the room's temperature by all of a degree are, other than his appearance, what give him away. He bumps into a woman on his way to the counter and immediately gives her an apologetic nod. "Sorry, toots." Not bothering to see what she thinks about that, he slips into a seat and waits to be approached or for things to slow down. Or maybe just for a few minutes to pass. The lightning, for what it's worth, is not a constant around C.B. -- it comes and goes the way storms do, and sometimes isn't there at all. The silver in his hair and eyes, though -- that's a different story. As busy as it is, C.B. notices Cornelius almost immediately. In fact, he does a double take, his face scrunching up in surprise. When there's enough of a moment of calm, he sits down on his stool and reaches under the counter, pouring something into his mug that most certainly isn't coffee. As he drinks, he squints and glowers across the room at the newcomer -- not immediately approaching nor saying anything, but certainly giving Cornelius a thorough once-over. Though nothing has changed, a handful of minutes after he enters Cornelius gets up and approaches the counter in a strangely boneless manner that would have people screaming if not for the blessing of the Mask. After another patron has finished up, he steps in and sets four items down without a word. A copper cog that has turned a bit green is the first to be gingerly set down by those clawed fingers. A root wrapped in a barely damp paper towel follows. An unused orange lipstick is placed standing upright, then knocked over intentionally. Finally, a folded up scarf knitted from purple and green yarn is set down in a manner that it fences the other items inside its boundary. Looking up from these prizes, Cornelius speaks to the proprietor with a thoroughly urban accent that is a little out of place. "So how about it, pops? Think you got something worth these beauts? Maybe a local vintage of wine or a, I dunno, surprise me." He leans lightly against the counter. It's to C.B.'s credit, perhaps, that he doesn't immediately scoff or snort at this little presentation. He slides off the stool and leans in, examining each item in turn. Then those blue-silver eyes move up to the face of the horned man, a flicker of white lightning crashing around in his irises. He shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah, sure, why not." That sign wasn't kidding. Though before he takes them, C.B. leans in and asks very quietly, "Are they just...what they are, or are they /more/ than what they seem?" The question is fair given that it is asked of someone that is as much beast as man. Cornelius gives a nod worthy of the most ancient of sages before he replies with a gesture to the root. "Get that one in the dirt and water it three times a day for the next three days and it will grow into a bush that's pretty easy on the eyes, I ain't gonna lie." He gestures to the cog and adds, "The laundry place down around the corner will be looking for one of these." He gestures to the lipstick and adds, "This was dropped by one of your customers that will likely be pleased you found it." Lastly, he makes a circular motion. "And this thing here will keep your neck warm." Seeming a little smug with his presentation, he grows silent. Well. That gets Cornelius a very sardonic look from the Wizened, and a smirk to match. "Alright, wise guy," he says, swiping the items into a box beneath the counter as he slides himself off the stool. He heads over to the bar, eyeing up the various bottles back here, and pulls out a red. Lincoln Peak, Marquette 2015, according to the label. "This one isn't bad. Very dry, if you like that sort of thing. I'm not a huge wine drinker myself, but I've had it and it's decent." No, judging from the smell of him, C.B. is rather more of a whiskey drinker. "New Haven?" Cornelius's lips purse as he considers the bottle. "I tried last years. It was a touch sweeter than normal, I'm told, due to the effect a seven week drought had on the grapes. Extra irrigation can only do so much." He nods his head and returns his eyes to C.B.'s. "Sure thing, pops. You've got a deal. "Anything you need from the rougher side of town?" "New Haven? No, this is a Vermont wine. They make it down in Middlebury." C.B. squints at the Beast again, disbelieving. "You want me to give you that whole bottle for those -- " There's a sigh. He has to put his money where his mouth is, and he hands it over. "Fine. Here you go. This isn't a liquor store, though, so no brown paper bag. You'll have to figure that out on your own. Unless you're just looking for a glass -- I can help you out there." The question about the rougher side of town causes his eyes to widen slightly, as though he hadn't even considered what he might want. "Well, I dunno," he drolls. "How many more lipsticks and cogs can I take in one day?" "I don't know how much lipstick you wear or tinkering you do, but I withhold all judgment." Before his remark is even complete the bottle has disappeared up into Cornelius's tattered robe. "New Haven. Do the Google thing search for it. New Haven. Middlebury. Lincoln Peak. All the same. Well, same-ish." He leans against the closest shelf and causes none of its contents to so much as shift. "But. Pops. Listen. When I say the other side of town, I mean the other, other side of town. Where things and stuff is rough and tough, pops. That place. You feeling me?" Like C.B. is going to Google anything. He snorts. "Oh. You mean the little town, not the big one where Yale was. Right. It says Middlebury on the label, though." He points to the label -- it does indeed say Middlebury. Then he sits back down on the stool again, eyeing up Cornelius as he sips from his mug. "That place. Right." There's a thoughtful glance down at the counter. "Maybe. I'll have to think about it. Keep it in reserve, if that's alright with you." "So it does, so it does." The frost-bearded man has pulled that bottle out to confirm before smuggling it away towards his armpit once more. He picks up another bottle, glances at it, nods, and puts it back. "I'm scootsing over to the woods tomorrow and taking a look around. If I see something worth seeing, I'll grab something worth grabbing." He runs the back of his claw across a few bottles to make an off-key yet melodic sound before he looks back to C.B.. "Not a bad collection. Could definitely do some business. You do any furring? Furrying?" He looks a little confused as he seeks the word. "Tanning maybe? I mean, do you trade in hides?" C.B. gets that scrunched up look on his face again, like he's tasted something weird and is trying to sort it out. "Do I look like the kind of person who's into tanning and hiding? C'mon, guy, use your noggin." Still, he follows this up with a shrug and another sip from his cup. "Look, the sign is true enough, even if people don't tend to bide by it -- if you want to trade hides for wine, I'm fine with that. Maybe just stick to me and the others who, you know. Are like me, if you're gonna do that." There are definitely plenty of mortals who work here, too. "Don't worry that zappy little head of yours. I ain't gonna blow your cover." Cornelius looks back at the man and touches a finger to his eyebrow before casting it down in salute. "I'll be in touch. Next time I'll slip in the back, if you'd like." His grin shows off some very sharp pearly whites that look like they eat anything but vegetarian. "You keep it real, pops." He starts to head towards the door in that disjointed manner. "Don't worry about that. Everyone's welcome here." C.B. says that, but his voice has that sardonic droll about it that's not particularly friendly. Maybe that's just how he talks, though. He frowns, squinting after Cornelius as he starts to head out again, raising and dropping one hand. "Yeah, uh. Bye." With a shake of his head, he falls back onto the stool and, glancing back at the Beast's retreating figure once or twice, begins to clack-clack away at his typewriter.