Difference between revisions of "Log:Medieval"

13 March, 2017

Metal bassist seeks book on Medieval torture

Tamarack Falls - Town Library

Tock looks up from the seemingly never-ending bustle of shelving and dusting, sorting and organizing, to see who's come in. Peering over his ancient (and slightly-cracked) pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, he wavewavwavwavewaves 'Hi!' to Cobalt from an otherwise empty but cheerily sunlit corner of the library. Tock's wearing his customary button-down shirt with bow-tie, waistcoat, and houndstooth jacket, all slightly mussed and a tad bit askew.

You wouldn't think a guy like Cobalt would be caught dead in a place like this. Big dude who looks like some kinda heavy metal demon + books? Yeah, right. But he's not in here like he didn't mean to be here. He comes in with a hungry (if glowing) eyes, casting around the shelves, being careful not to knock any tomes off books with his wings. He scowls at you when you wave, and certainly doesn't wave back, but he is headed your way. The room just got a /heck/ of a lot hotter.

Tock cheerfully awaits the much larger man's approach with a semi-bow and a flourish of a book on small engine repair that he'd just randomly happened to be reshelving and the moment, and he taptaptaptaptaptaps his left foot in place, metronomically, as he waits to see what Cobalt has stopped by for? Tock in no way seems to mind the heat. In fact, now that you mention it, he's been preferentially standing in the sunniest spot of the library since Cobalt walked in!

Raw power. Beauty. Darkness. Cobalt embodies these, and so much more. Like heavy metal cover art come to life, he stands proud, resplendent, and difficult to classify. Through the Mists, his hair flows in dark waves around him, elevated by some unseen force. Curving dark crystalline horns jut out from his forehead, and his irises, already green enough in normal reality, are startling now — like a pair of brilliant, glowing green eyes of Sauron. His skin is statue-smooth with just the slightest tinge of purple, and full-on claws just out from his fingers — dark and crystalline, like the horns on his head. He has two sets of fangs, like the small version of a large cat’s, that fit well in his mouth but make a startling sight when he grins. It’s especially hard not to miss the pair of large dark purple and black wings jutting out of his back — they have a skeletal structure, a bat’s texture, and raven feathers scattered throughout, perfect heavy metal demon’s wings. His clothing takes on a less modern form to enchanted eyes, like the leather metal uniform has become more like literal armor: segmented slivers of darkness that appear to move and change and meld to his skin, but always form coherent protection. There is frequently some sort of sword strapped to his back, and it is hard not to notice how sweltering he makes a room: like walking into the middle of the sun itself, albeit a black sun.

Yep, definitely nice and toasty warm around the big guy. Chin uptilted, arms folded, he stares down at you with imperious impatience. "Hey." His voice is a rumbling thing, deep and sonorous. "You got any books about medieval torture? Iron maidens, shit like that? Also," and he leans into you, the light from his green eyes illuminating your face, "I hear you invent shit."

"Hello and Hello and well, what-do-you know?" You're that musical Lost One: the bass-player fellow! What brings you in here on this fine cold Spring day? A torture-room setup? . . . Expecting some Fae?

Tock laughs, a sudden, bell-like sound, and he waves the larger man around to the History isle, leading the way with footsteps surprisingly spry for an elder his age . . .

Cobalt snorts. "Not much of a Spring day. It's cold as balls out there -- well, if you're not me." He smirks, nostrils flaring for a moment, like he's sniffing you. And then he's following you around to said history aisle, managing to not knock anything over thus far. "And yeah. Something like that."

It's pleasant and warm -here- in sight of the Sun . . . 
And yes, I do tinker with gadgets for fun!  
'Inventor's a strong word: a complement, aye,
So I'll thank you for that, and for stopping-on-by!

Tock "mmmmmmhmmmmhmhmmmhmmhmmhmHHHMmmmhmhmhmhhhmmmmmmm" 's a bit to himself as he quickly traces a tanned and aged finger along the bottom of the bookshelf, seeking amongst the Dewey codes for historical engineering titles that might contain the info Cobalt seeks . . .

Cobalt seems to listen very carefully to each of your rhymes. It's a funny thing. He doesn't seemed annoyed by them -- if anything, they interest him. But why? "Yeah, you're fucking welcome." You are lucky to have him here, of course. Lucky you. "So what do you tinker with?" He leans up against the bookshelf, folding his arms, and knocks books off left and right with his wings. Oops. But will he pick them up?

Tock finds a series of historical accounts of Medieval medical practices, more or less along the lines of: http://www.oddee.com/item_96620.aspx . . . by looking at the illustrations, it's easy to see that some of the "medical" aspects were of dubious benefit, quite likely to border on torture if not in fact crossing fully over into the Land of Pain.

A terrifying grin breaks out on Cobalt's handsome face as he flips through the book, showing those two sets of rather big, sharp fangs he has. "This is good. They were creative back then." He puts his hand in the book and stares at you again. "Why the hell do you have a book like this here?" It's maybe not a question he needs to ask, but definitely one he wants to ask.

Tock thinks about what he's invented recently, taptaptaptaptaptaptap -ing the index finger of his right hand against the right side of his chin. He summarizes thusly:

A little of this and a little of that:
Mechanical birds to amuse our friend Kat,
A flying lawn-Mower for Antiquer's Green,
Some bright neon lights for a washing-machine. . .

By way of answer to the "why these books" query, Tock shrugs alternate shoulders and gestures down a long row of books on historical topics. Some factual, some apocryphal, many painful-looking by their illustrations . . .

The patrons who stop for a chat and a read,
Can often find here what they seek or they need:
A Faery-Tale Tome from year eighteen-oh-eight,
Or stories of medieval barons' cruel hate.

Once again, Cobalt listens carefully to your rhymes. Then he responds with, "And now it's your turn to make something for me. Make it brutal, and loud, and black as can be. I could use more equipment, so get fucking going. What you're gonna create, I have no way of knowing." He smirks, looking mighty pleased with himself himself, and closes the book. Which he's going to check out, one presumes.

Oddly enough, all of the books that Cobalt has ?accidentally? displaced and/or knocked over are right back on the shelves in their proper order by the time he's turned around at the circulation desk and looks back. Tock seems to brighten quite a bit once he's been given a more-or-less open-ended engineering challenge. He's already obviously thinking about it, mental gears turning and whirring as he "hhmmmmmmhmhmhmmhmHmmmmmmmmhmhmhmhmhmmmmmmHmmmmmMmmmm" 's his way over to behind the desk and makes a quick annotation on an index card or two.

It's like Cobalt could've just said 'Impress me' and that would have been what he really means. Because it is. You could be useful. He wants to find out. Book in hand, he follows you over to the desk, throwing it down there and watching you. "Now I'm speaking your language, right?"

Tock shrugshrugshrugshrugshrugs a bit, swapping the card out from the book and hand-stamping the due -date with a quick, efficient, and evidently well-practiced motion . . .

I gather what books any customer wants: 
Whether 'bout forest glades or else dark ghostly haunts, 
Macabre titles are often requested. . . 
. . . -Better's- a day when my _crafting_ is tested! 

Tock grins, sliding the book and receipt back over the counter while simultaneously flipping it both vertically and horizontally into "proper reading position" for Cobalt.

Cobalt swipes the book up with one big hand. "That's right. It's your lucky fucking day." He gives you an upnod as he adds, "What do you expect to get paid for this little experiment? Provided the customer is satisfied. And I'm not easy to satisfy." He absently rubs the end of one his dark, translucent horns, the way somebody might scratch their ear.

Tock gives Cobalt a level, measuring look, tilting his head back and then forth and then back and then forth . . . and he then responds: unblinking but by no means unkindly:

If one's to be "paid," one might also be "fired" . . . 
Left -all- that behind, now that I've been retired 
So let us explore where your ideas lead, 
I'm well-enough off, so for "pay": there's no need 

Cobalt sniffs. "Good. Didn't want to give up my stash, anyway." Definitely not talking about money there. Then Cobalt extends his hand to you -- while he's not Ogre-sized, he's still plenty huge, and so are his mitts. Not to mention that his fingers have claws on them. "Let's shake on it. I'll give you two weeks to make a prototype of something cool. If it takes you less, even better. Deal?"

Tock places the library book firmly and snugly into the clawed confines of Cobalt's outstretched enormous paw, nestling it there carefully lest it come to harm via contact with anything sharp and pointy. He tilts his head sideways, and finishes:

Stop by after work at the shop marked "Leferve" . . . 
-Together- we'll work out a plan that'll serve! 
Are you new to this game? Or so it might seem . . .
Inventing's most fun when it's done as a team! 

Cobalt stares at the book in his hand, seeming disgusted. Because you didn't shake on it. And he didn't even involve saliva or blood! Pah. Regardless, he nods in understanding, the floating, almost mist-like tendrils of his dark hair waving around him as he does so. "Alright. Leferve. I'll see you there later, little metal man." And at that, Cobalt turns on a heel and heads back towards the door, once again trying not to knock stuff off the shelves as he moves. The blistering heat that follows him gradually recedes as he opens said door and lets in a blast of cold air.

Tock goes and fetches his Mr.Rogers -style sweater to ward off the winter blast and its aftermath as he returns to shelving and dusting and organizing and puttering, sticking a bit closer, one might note, to the Sunny areas . . .