Difference between revisions of "Log:Moves and Counter-Moves"

11 March 2017

Mireille visit the library for some local information and trades moves with a poetic local

The Lethbridge Library - Reading Room

Tock "mmmmhhmmmmhmmmmms" very quietly to himself as he sorts books and maps and tidies up in general. He moves with a spry, quick, and efficient alacrity that belies his evident age as he works. A tweedy sort in any weather, this spring day finds him wearing a venerable houndstooth jacket and a white collared shirt replete with dark-brown bowtie. His wire-rimmed spectacle remain perched firmly up on the bridge of his angular, bird-like nose throughout the whole of his maneuverings, book-shelvings, and dustings. Oddly cracked, the spectacles don't seem to interfere very much with his vision at all! (Perhaps they serve as impromptu bi-focals, by dint of a most very fortunate accident?)

Libraries aren't known for hustle and bustle -- do people even read anymore? With so many more flashier things to do, libraries aren't folks' first choice on a Saturday. Even so, there are a few souls milling about, perusing this and checking out that. A woman walks in, folding her coat over her arm as it's not needed indoors. She looks normal. No oddly colored skin. No tail or wings. No horns. She doesn't even have that unearthly beauty going on. She's just..

Normal.

Mortal? Perhaps.

Picking up a magazine, she idly flips through the pages before putting it back and moving on to the next thing. It's odd, though. It's hard to peg her age -- 20 seems just as valid a guess as 40 -- and the longer she's here, the more unsettling she is. How is she unsettling? Can't quite put a finger on it but people start to move away from her.

Tock notices and observes, and he observes and he notices. He's Been Around, he has, and that sort of watch-full-ness comes with the territory, it does. What territory, you might ask? Well, mainly Right Here, for nigh on 30+ years, in and around the town and country and city and falls. So an out-of-towner is always a curiosity and a curious out-of-towner is then most doubly-doubly so. When the "regulars" start to uncomfortably move away from the newcomer, Tock comfortably fills in the space, poking his glasses up higher on his nose and venturing an "A'er-noon, young Miss! . . . "

Mighty fine day it 'tis, nigh unto Spring! Might I perchance help you to look up some thing? Mayhap a fine guidebook, or maps of the falls? or a local-writ history of these very walls?

The stranger has moved on to a newspaper -- not a national rag but one of the local ones. She seems less concerned with the goings on in the nation's capital and more intrigued by an article about a kid who got his head stuck between the wrought iron fence finials on the town green. A smile curves her lips, a small twitch of amusement there, as she turns the page. Has she noticed the people unconsciously moving way from her? Maybe. Perhaps she is used to such things and doesn't pay it much mind anymore. This is a city but it isn't the towering metropolis that is New York or Chicago; newcomers still kind of stick out a bit. Maybe it's just that? An inbred aversion to out-of-towners? Maybe there isn't anything weird about her beyond that.

Still...

Stiiiill..

There's an energy about her similar to the heaviness in the air before a bad storm. Despite this, though, when she is approached by the older man, she looks up from what she's reading and grins brightly. "Good afternoon to you as well," she says, her voice free from any specific regional accent. "It is a fine day, indeed. Closing the newspaper, she returns it to the rack and turns to face the fellow head-on. "Actually, if you have some guidebooks to the area, that would be lovely." She has a smooth way of talking, this one. Soft and assured, warm and inviting.

Tock nod nod nods and his countenance brightens visibly as he pushes his broken spectacles higher up on his nose and he thinks, running through his "mental card catalogue" . . .

A guidebook it is, and I know just the thing! A local's compendium: flowers of Spring!

With hike-plans and map-folds of where they have Trod, And where to find blossoms both fragrant and odd!

Tock rummages and putters and returns, a bustle of near-contained energy that decries his evidently well-advanced years . . .

Should it -never- be said that I'm shy of a rhyme, a rainbow's bright glimpse, or a laughing-good time! What's life to be lived through a visage that's dour? What Glamour in that? It's but death by-the-hour!

When you've seen your years pile up all around, you'll take better care of what moments are found: In the first days of spring when the air waxes warm, You'll Seek Simple joys -- in whatever their form!

Tock's subtle emphasis of the word "Glamour" carries the implicit query of: "Excuse me Miss, but are you Lost? (i.e. a Changeling)" and the "Simple Seek-ing" phraseology implies a question of: "Are you in need of food? Hospitality?" . . . both linguistic devices quite evident to most any Changeling, while at the same time of course seeming merely an old man's quirky poetic eccentricity in the ears of mortal men.

Ashe spends a good chunk of time in the library given her duties. There’s always the little bat that enters into a room before she does. Thankfully she’s decided to be not a bat for the moment and heads into the reading room with a few new volumes to add to the shelves of another part of the library. Black eyes look back and forth between the two before she nods her head in greeting, “Good afternoon.” she states as Uvall drops down and skitters to hide under her hair at the nape of her neck.

Mireille, who shows no indication of being anything other than mortal -- other than the aura of WTF weirdness about her -- is standing opposite from Tock. She's just put aside one of the local papers and the older man is off! Seeking, searching, thumbing through books. A smile remains caught upon her lips, clear amusement shining through those green eyes of hers. "Thank you," she says when he returns with the guidebook. "You are ever so kind."

Glamour, huh?

Any evidence in her expression as to whether or not she caught the reference (or if it means anything to her, really) is lost as she looks down at the field guide which has been placed in her hands. Opening it, she thumbs through a few pages with clear interest. He /does/ have an odd way of speaking, this lyrical poetry of his, but she refrains from comment. "Have you always lived here?" she asks, curious but polite. "You seem very knowledgable." Gah! Is she or isn't she? The longer they stand here though, the stronger her strangeness grows. It feels .. how does it feel? Powerful? Heavy? Inhuman? Yes. That last one. Inhuman.

Another person appears and Mireille turns to glance at Ashe. Her gaze travels up and down and back again before she nods to the woman. "Hello," she says and then peeks between her and Tock to see if they know each other.

Tock nodnodnodnodnods in amiable agreement to the "have you lived here a long time" query, quickly and easily replying:

From my youth as a lad I have wandered these lands, And nigh ev'ry book here is known to these hands, For four-score and seven I've lived in these hills, Seen Forty Spring thaws, and the same count of Chills.

. . . as his broken spectacles glint and cast their oddly fragmented bits of sunlight down onto the foldout maps of the guide-book.

Ashe does recognize one of the two people in the reading room, but she’s used to new faces wandering in. The woman smiles a little, her stitches pulling at the edges of her mouth, “I’m Ashe Whelan. If there’s something that we can help you with, please let us know.” she directs that to Mireille. Then there’s a look to Tock and a nod of her head to the man, “Tock.” she states in greeting. Is she used to him speaking in riddles? Maybe? She gives a little scratch under her hair to her companion and then heads over to settle a book down on one of the tables.

Aaron comes into the reading room, not intending on interrupting the others. He's quiet, and gives off a kept demeanor about him. His hand moves from the door to open it back to the pocket of his charcoal gray over coat. Those that have the means to see, see that he is not alone. A young spectral woman accompanies him. Both look related in their respecting faces. He casually looks from one shelf to another, taking in the space. Hand occasionally moves to touch the spines of random books.

"What sights would you recommend for someone brand new to the city?" Mireille asks, continuing to slowly page through the book but her gaze unfixed from the words, instead sweeping back and forth between Ashe and Tock. "I hear that the surrounding countryside, as well, is particularly note-worthy." Note-worthy? "For its beauty, that is." She continues to smile, her expression a curtain for whatever thoughts and feelings exist behind it.

A small child wanders close, going for a picture book on a low-shelf nearby. Her mother, perhaps sensing something /wrong/ with the tall, dark-haired woman speaking with Tock, grabs the girl by her arm and yanks her back. Back and away. The action is not driven by thought, just maternal instinct. And once she's pulled the little girl away, she looks confused. Like: why did I do that? She makes an apologetic sound but, even so, ushers her off-spring to a different part of the reading room.

Mireille is unfazed.

"It's nice to meet you, Ashe Whelan," she says in reply to the introduction, offering her hand to shake. She also caught the greeting between Ashe and the older man, her smile deepening. "And Tock."

Ashe gives Mireille’s hand a shake, not too strong but not too limp. Just right! “It’s nice to meet you.” she tells the woman. Then there’s a look to the mother and child and a bit of a smile offered. Another look to the child and then the stitched face woman looks back to the others. She blinks when she sees a familiar mien, “Aaron!” she whispers excitedly. A wave of a pale hand to the Darkling.

Aaron turns his attention to the three people standing and talking amongst themselves. The smile from the one individual gets a light nod and return smile. But then his name is called out from a familiar voice. Seeing Ashe causes Aaron's eyes to go wide in a blink. The subtle smile becomes more pronounced seeing the red-haired woman. He makes his way over. "Mrs. Sanderson! What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to find another familiar face from my past in these parts." To the others, he gives another nod in greeting. "I hope I wasn't interupting a private conversation."

The stranger -- Mireille -- holds herself with a sense of ease. One can see it in her posture. One can see it in her gentle smile. One can see it in her ey-.. well. Her eyes. Yes, they are bright. Yes, they are inviting. But there is a watchfulness there. It's a subtle thing, only visible to those studying her closely, but for those that are? They would note that she is paying very, very close attention to the details of her surroundings -- the unspoken ease or tension between people, the particulars of their demeanors, the notable aspects of their appearance. She's carefully cataloguing all this, storing it in her memory banks.

One never knows when some random peculiarity will prove useful.

She shakes Ashe's hand and then turns attention to Aaron, looking the fellow over. He's clearly Lost -- as are the others. But what about Mireille? There are checkmarks in both the 'Yes' and 'No' columns; maybe she's Winter and just has her mask strengthened? That might be the answer right there. Turning back to Tock, he being the resident expert in all things Fort Brunsett. "Also, I was wondering. I am staying in a hotel at present but needs to settle into a place more permanently. Can you recommend a place that isn't too expensive?"

Tock shakeshakeshakes his head: "Not a trouble, Aaron! Not at all!" and welcomes Aaron into the conversational circle, stepping to his left to make room. He then turns back to Mireille and purses his lips before he answers her question. His bird-bright eyes overcloud only briefly as he thinks how best to warn her . . .

Depends where you'd go, I would say, fair young Miss There's -plenty- to see, but I'd be quite remiss If I didn't warn there are dangers to find Some paths might well prove to a -stranger- . . . unkind . . .

. . . and there it is, Tock's laid it out there, plain-as-plain: "Are you one of Us? Or are you not?" No Changeling could mistake the query, even as a mortal man might blunder right past it. He calmly awaits her response, watching, not-unkindly, from behind his cracked spectacles.

Ashe winces when Aaron calls her by her married name, “It’s Miss Whelan again. No longer married.” she tells him. Even though it had been years, it still stung a little. She gives her fellow Autumn a hug and then releases him. “It’s good to see you here. A lot to catch you up on.” she tells him. Which means it’s confidential Changeling stuff and she’s not sure about Mireille just yet. “No, nothing private. Just meeting new faces.” she tells him. Then there’s a look to Tock as he speaks and a smile is given for him helping Mireille. It was very nice of him. “I’m not half the expert that this gentleman here is, so I’ll let him give suggestions.” she nods in Tock’s direction.

Well. Now she's been put on the spot! Mireille doesn't answer right away; instead, she just presses her lips together thoughtfully. How is she going to answer? Is she or isn't she? At this point, there are no mortals nearby; they have been driven off by the collective Wyrd concentrated in this spot. They don't know why they don't want to be near the Changelings, they just know that anywhere is better than here.

"I would not wish to step on any toes by going places where I am unwelcome," she replies carefully, one eyebrow lifting slightly. She looks between Tock and Ashe, Ashe and Tock -- although her attention is briefly diverted when Aaron slips away.

Was that an answer?

She circles her attention back to the other two to see how that landed.

Tock laughs merrily, a bright and cheerful bell-like sound, taptaptaptaptapping his foot patiently and grinning good-naturedly as he remains seemingly quite content with, or perhaps even slightly enjoying Mireille's little game. Perhaps he just knows that in any contest of patience the "Home Team" has all the advantages? . . . after all, they've each got a warm meal and a warm bed to look forward to an the end of the day, and, it would seem, M'mselle. L'etranger -from Out-of-Town might have fain hope of neither. Tock's eyes sparkle from behind his fragmentary spectacles as he waits, passing the time by helpfully writing out location notes on Post-It notes for Mireille's fold-out maps. Will she Invoke the Hospitality of the Waykeepers? Or . . . will she not? Cards-on-the-table time!

Ashe gives a look after Aaron and then back to Mireille and Tock. She listens to them speak and there’s a bit of a smile to the woman before she looks back to Tock and lets him do his thing. She gives a look to her pocket watch and there’s a frown, “It was good to meet you, I sadly have a meeting to get to. So will leave you two to your conversation.” she tells them. Then she nods to Tock, “Good to see you again.” she states. Then the woman heading back out.

Ashe taking her leave gives Mireille a bit more time to plot out her next moves, outwardly occupying herself with the task of waving to the woman as she departs. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Whelan," she says as the gears of her mind turn-turn-turn. Once she's gone? Her gaze sliiiiides back over to Tock, observing how the man chuckles with amusement over her predicament. The post-it notes, it has to be said, are very helpful and very much appreciated.

"One always needs to take care when moving to a new place," she says, moving her coat from one arm to the other as she watches the man go about the business of writing out this, that and the other thing. "It is best to hang back, observe and get the lay of the land before integrating into an unknown society," she says.

Cards are flashed. But not yet put on the table. This one? She's paranoid -- which perhaps is even more telling than her sense of wrongness. After all, Changelings are a suspicious bunch -- and for good reason.

Tock nodnodnodnodnods at the prudence of the wisdom of Mireille's caution. A worthy trait, and certainly something he himself respects, as is plainly obvious from his own open and frank but never-quite-revelatory discourse. He points to the large wall map in the side room, "coincidentally" empty, at the moment, of any and all mortal patrons.

The lay of our lands is quite plain, one might say, But the Choice shall be Yours at the end of the day, To call this place "new" or to call it a "home" To stay for a spell or to onwardly roam !

Tock meanders semi-haphazardly over to the privacy of the map-nook, pointing out casually the boundaries of town and country, city and falls.

"Home," Mireille echoes quietly. There is a bit of a sigh wrapped around that word -- not quite sad but with a thoughtful cadence. "What is 'home'?" It seems like she was about to speak on that more extensively, to continue the thought, but she simply buttons up her opinions and follows Tock over to the map nook. Leaning in slightly, she studies the area as he points it out, her gaze following his aged finger.

"Tamarack Falls," she says, brushing her hand across that part of the map. "I have heard that there is oddness there, things whispered about and sworn as true by the locals." Green eyes tilts over to peek at the older man, dark eyebrows lifting with an unspoken question. She wants to see where this will lead, that much is clear.

Tock deftly withdraws his hand from the map just as her hand is lifted up toward it, allowing her own gestures to dictate the weft and warp of the fabric of the conversation, as it continues. He watches the motions of her hand with equanimity as he listens to her words.

"An oddness," you say -- though not mentioning -where- You've heard these strange rumors of happenings there, But to those that call these fair lands all our own, There's Wonder-full Beauty fain here to be known!

Though we may seem odd to a stranger-come-late, And show caution to dangers that pass through our gate, With eyes that see beauty where few care to look, You'll find many things are a plain open-book!

Tock watches the edges of her green eyes for their reaction, seeing her Seeing of his Seeming, if they so See.

Her hand hovers over Tamarack Falls and her expression remains thoughtful. She's not .. True Fae, right? I mean, she's /odd/ but she's not /that/ odd. Certainly one would be able to tell if she was one of Them. Right?

One would hope.

Pulling in her lower lip, Mireille gives the corner of it a chew. "Finding a knowledgable and trustworthy guide would be nice. Nice, enjoyable, helpful. Very helpful," she mutters lowly, half continuing the conversation and half speaking to herself. So she's not True Fae. That much can be reasonably assumed. Does she work for them though? GAH. Who is she? After all, she hasn't even given her name yet. Her eyes narrow, study the map, and then she looks over at Tock, all warmth and friendliness again.

"Could you recommend someone? Yourself, perhaps?" Twinkle, twinkle, grin.

Tock grins good-naturedly, taking Mireille's en-passant gambit in stride, fully acknowledging it, and perhaps even upping the ante without altering the parameters of her bet. He's plainly unafraid -- at his advanced age, Death is becoming something close to a next-door neighbor for him. Someday Death's bound to head on over for a visit . . . maybe even today, should Mireille prove to be a Privateer, . . . or worse . . . ?

Matching her own caution, he's not divulged anything needfully kept Safe even if he does risk his own skin in her company. She'll get her escort, as per her request: The choice of whether it will be as a trusted companion or a watchful "observer" is going to be in her court, purely depending on how much of her own Trust she's willing to share. "Let's find out!" he thinks . . . Dinner's available, at Hazels . . . with another pair of discerning eyes, and the near-surety of meeting a Waykeeper!

I'd say we could fairly give Hazel a call, She'll cook up a feast for you! . . . and that's not all . . . Her restaurant's famous for more than good food, She cares well for one and for all of her brood.

She'll know where to find you the best place to stay, With lease terms quite flexible, easy to pay, She'll put you in touch with your kith and your kin, Who knows? Like as not, they might wander right in . . .

Her door's open wide for three squares all day long, But orders of Breakfast will never go wrong! Just tell her your favorite snack to prepare, and trust in her Judgment -- she's well-more than fair!

. . . again with the casual wordplay on "kith" and "fair" . . . keeping the game alive, waiting for the moment Mireille opens to trust, . . .

It's kind of a funny thing. While Tock is visibly old, Mireille doesn't seem too unlike him. Sure, she appears young. -Ish. Young-ish. There is a bloom in her cheeks and nary a wrinkle to be found on her features. But she /feels/ aged somehow. She's seen much -- and this goes beyond the shellshocked tint that many Lost earn after escaping a Durance. She's seen things /here/, on this mortal plane. Years passing into decades and creeping up on a century. That's what she feels like and might be one of the reasons the air is thick with strangeness around her.

"Hazel's," she says, opening up the guidebook Tock's given her and fanning through the pages to see if the place has been mentioned -- either on page or post-it. Ah! Here it is. "Crossroad's Cafe?" Mireille re-positions a post-it so that it serves as a bookmark, a means of leading her back to the address when the time comes. "I will make it a priority to visit." When the older man means 'kith and kin', there is an eeeeeeeever so slight tightening around her eyes but it gives way quickly to another one of her easy smiles.

"I probably should be getting along," she says before holding the book aloft. "I assume that I need to sign up for a library card?" Ah! The opportunity for a name -- although, given her behavior, the likelihood of it being a real one is slim-to-none.

The spry bright-eyed man wearing the shape of old age grins broadly at the worldly-wise woman wearing the guise of ambiguous-youth. "mmmmmmhmmmmmmmhhmmmmmhmmm" is all he says, eyes dancing. "Still no decision to trust, eh?" he thinks, "well, -here's- a wily one!" It seems fairly safe to assume he'll be keeping an eye on the book, and its borrower, one way or another, with no "carding" required!

His answer causes her to laugh -- and it's honest to goodness laughter, not just for show. "Only the foolish give trust freely," she says, tapping the side of her nose and winking at Tock. She might not trust him yet but it seems certain that she likes him. First steps are always the most tentative along the journey and she's only juuuust put her foot on the path here.

She slides the book into the pocket of her coat and then tugs the garment on, getting ready to brave the cold once more. When will it warm up here? /August/?! "It was nice to meet you, Tock," -- ha! she heard Ashe address him as such. Point to Mireille .. although that seems a nickname rather than anything official. So. Half-a-point to Mireille? Something like that. Buttoning up her outerwear, she grins at the old man. "If you do not mind, I would like to visit again. I mean, beyond just returning the book."

Tock grins warmly in return, brightening the room with a Sunny, open and honest smile that hopefully lessens the chill of the air of Vermont at the same time as it gladly concedes a point or two (?or two half-points?) in the Opening Moves in the hopes of the strength of a Trustworthy Endgame. "Yes. Yes, . . . you'll have to. I wrote it." Tock explains, "Thus, that book is part of a Private Collection, if you would." he concludes, eyes twinkling with the Joy of the Paths of Spring Flowers. Oh wait, that's actually the title of the book.

Mireille looks pleased and gives Tock a neat little nod. Turning, she heads for the door and her unearthly presence guides people out of her way with an unseen puuuush. The citizens of Tamarack Falls would likely know what's up -- or have a strong suspicion, anyway -- but these city folk just know they should step aside. Maybe they'll wonder about it later. Maybe they will forget it entirely. The latter would be preferable, truth be told.

Leaning on the door, Mireille pushes it open and is gone, lost to the foot traffic coming and going along the sidewalk outside. With her departure, the atmosphere of the library dials back down to its previous level of oddity -- yes, the norms still have to contend with whatever vibe Tock throws off but at least Mireille isn't around to complicate matters. But she'll be back.

Oh yes.

She will certainly be back.