Difference between revisions of "Log:Library"

5 April, 2017

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Town Library

It's mid-afternoon on a Spring afternoon in Vermont. That means it's quiet: children and school groups tend to visit in the morning, along with the occasional stay-at-home wife. When lunch hits, the place empties. And then, after, the only people that come back are those that haven't visited before, or had the opportunity to: those that wake up /after/ the sun is at its zenith. Layabouts and ne'er-do-wells, all of them.

There are nooks. There are crannies. Libraries are like English muffins: sort of bland, unless it happens to be your thing, in which case you're probably boring, British, bookish, or all three. It's easy to hide in this library too. Because there are many places to lurk, and few people to lurk in them.

Sam is a denizen fot this afternoon. She sits by herself in a hard chair pushed into a corner. No one pays attention to her, and, really, that's to be expected. The misty, spectral Autumn is probably to be avoided, from her appearance -- then again, it's generally wise advice to avoid Autumns. Creepy motherfuckers. In her lap is a large tome of whatever. Probably stories or plays. But it's a large book -- note that. Large.

Libraries -are- Tock's thing, and Tock is indeed boring and bookish. (Two out of Three ain't bad!) A lifelong resident of the town, he's now semi-retired and volunteers as the town librarian. He "hmmmmmhmmmHmmmmmhmmmHmmmm" 's to himself very very quietly as he goes about the business of shelving, dusting, arranging, sorting, stamping, and filing, showing a predilection for lingering in the sunnier stretches of the counter as he works, his wire-rimmed spectacles glinting in the afternoon light and his brown tweed houndstooth jacket softly illuminated thereby.

Kara isn't bookish, she isn't boring and she isn't British, but seemingly by the work of the Fates here she is, walking past the door in all her misshapen strangeness, not long after a young man did the same. Her eyes, fierce and blue, scan her surroundings only enough so she knows there is no immediate threat before her body is skittering closer to the human she is apparently tagging along with.

The human she is hunting.

She watches from afar, behind some shelves, drinking in every smarmy smirk the mortal gives to the books he picks in the self-help section. The one he picks seems to be about coping with grief and loss of a family, but he puts it back on the shelf. There is acceptance there, almost derision, and Kara seems to like what she sees.

That is when she spots the two other Changeling. The Beast tries to ignore them at first, giving wary looks, as she keeps her sights on the mortal. She it is hard to let go, of any of the two inputs she is receiving, and it is blatant in how her head keeps zipping between Tock and Sam, and the mortal who is now talking with another self-help book. He is the sarcastic sort.

Eventually, curiosity bites the Dusk courtier in the ass, and with a frustrated growl she leaves the premises of her prey for the day, and goes where she can look at the other two, but mainly at Tock, at first. "Do I need a password, or are we doing this? If we are having coffee, someone is paying, because I have NO money on me right now. I am between jobs."

She arches her brows at both of them, tilting her head to the side. It is not everyday that SHE bumps into new Lost. Might as well poke them!

There is a calm about Sam, like the still fog over a Scottish moor. Around her is the smell of dead leaves: the deepest of forests, dark and mysterious. When she lifts her chin and eyes, that her face may be directed at Kara, it is with a deliberate, slow pace. And when she gets up, it is languidly and luxuriously, a cloudy, patient specter that seems to have no need to press.

Sam leaves her book behind. She comes up closer to Kara and Tock, and says, along the way: "Nature teaches beasts to know their friends."

And that's all she says, for a moment.

"If you need money, I have money. If you have need, I have. If. If." Sam lets out a ghostly sigh. "Who are you?" she asks of Kara.

Tock blinkblinkblinkblinkblinks behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, as he takes in Kara's bellicose opening salvo. Not sure if she's here to read and borrow books, to argue, or to get free food and coffee from fellow Lost across the street at Hazel's, he politely addresses the two less-confrontational possibilities straight away:

A card's but a cinch, and quite easy to do, 
Just stop by the desk and we'll write one for you! 
Books loan for a week and day for each one, 
Just bring them on back to us when you're all done! 

I'd say we could fairly pay 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. 

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

Kara grins, her head tilting to the side and allowing the golden locks of her hair to fall and drape over her shoulder. The toothy gesture comes accompanied by the chittering and clicking of something behind those teeth. Approaching the Beast is something that disturbs many other Changelings, as most of them find their own Mantles dwindling and going silent, like companions leaving the brave hero to venture into the monster's lair by herself.

"What a tricky question~ Does it have multiple choice? Because the way I see it, I could give you a name, and you could guess a lot about me from it, but that would hardly be the same as answering... who am I. Rest assured, if you have needs and money, you'll get to know me better in the future~"

The woman is always smiling, grinning, and thanks to her Mien she is never looking friendly. There is a sharpness to Kara, something mean, like her totemic animal is Disney's Scar.

That is not to say she cannot look comically surprised when Tock bursts out the rhymes. She looks at Sam, and then at the librarian again, to take a step closer to him, as if accepting a challenge that wasn't given.

A card, money or book are not what I pursue! Finding more about those with masks? Yes! Some stories, some tales, that is all I ask!

Kara gives a cocky grin as someone who has no qualms about sound stupid or going toe to toe with another's preferred methods of engagement. One thing she doesn't seem to do, however, is back down, as she offers her hand for Tock to shake, looking at both of them if he chooses to do so.

"Kara Gwendolyne Khan. At least that is what my ID says. You two?"

"Sam," says the Lost Ghost quietly. "Sam Mitchell." Beat. "Formerly, Sam Lefevre." She looks briefly to Tock. "And this is my uncle. I think." She doesn't sound entirely certain, but she doesn't sound entirely uncertain either. Matter-of-factly, maybe. Disinterested.

"But you can call me Sam."

And then, as Autumn courtiers are, perhaps, wont to do, she begins to slowly walk around Kara, as if she wanted to get a full, 360-degree view. Or fair appraisal. Hard to say what those Autumn folks truly want. An inscrutable folk, they are. Creepy.

Sam's hands slide into her pockets as she walks. Slowly. And this seems to be okay with her, surveying openly. Challengingly, in its own way.

Tock shakeshakeshakeshakeshakes Kara's offered hand cheerfully, lifting and lowering his own hand precisely the same distance each and every time, at precisely two shakes per second for precisely two seconds total, his head nodnodnodding ever-so-slightly in perfect timing with the handshake. Tock tilts his head to one side and gives a palm-lift half-shrug with his free hand, self-deprecatingly acknowledging Sam's comment that Tock still is, as Sam once was, a member of the Lefevre family:

The name here is "Tolliver," happy to say, 
And equally happy to bid you: "Good Day!" 
It's always a pleasure to meet someone new, 
Especially others who're Lost: such as you! 

A library's FULL of good stories, for sure, 
As you must have known 'fore you walked in the door, 
We've histories, fictions, and fairy-tale lore, 
Biographies ... treatises ... books by the score! 

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. 

I gather what books any customer wants: 
Whether 'bout forest glades or else ghostly dark haunts. 
Macabre titles are often requested. . . 
Look now, or return once you're fed and well-rested! 

"Sam. Sam Mitchell. Formerly Sam Lefevre... You are very thorough, aren't you, Sam?"

Kara doesn't follow the Autumn courtier when the girl starts to pace around her, sizing her up in the measures only relevant to those elusive sorts. Still, the Beast cannot stop moving, always huffing some, rolling a shoulder or shifting the weight of a foot to another.

"I expect a FULL report, or I am going to be very, very disappointed, ghost girl," teases Kara, smirking at Tock as she KNOWS Sam won't find any flaws on her. The Beast seems like she basks in having eyes on her.

While Sam looks, she speaks to Tock, head tilting at the measured shaking of hands, "They did quite a work on you, huh? How is life behind the all this clockwork, Tolliver? Is there anything impulsive left?" She asks with curiosity in her tone, but lacking some of the meaness she seems to put on everything else. Although a harsh question to some, the Chimeric creature still cannot help but wonder out loud.

"You seem so happy. Has the Spring infection catch you too? Or are you something else?" She looks at Sam, then, reaching to run her fingers through that strange, smoky hair. It seems the Beast wants to feel how that is like in the tip of her fingers.

Hiss. It's not a bad hiss, just a hiss. Sam's hiss. It is in reaction to being touched, and, on that moment, the part of her hair that is touched seems to solidify under Kara's fingers. Just as quickly, her face changes to mimic that of Kara's. Her eyes and forehead, at least.

It is a momentary shift, followed by a shake of the head, and a move to avoid further touch. One of Sam's hands come up to draw through the air in front of her face. "Please -- " Please don't? Please continue? She doesn't say.

But, oh, it is tempting. To touch the ghost, because, really, she's touchable. Tactile. And a little clammy.

"I don't aim to disappoint. But I'm not sure if I am supposed to aim to /please/."

Tock's eyebrows shoot up in syncopated surprise at Kara's directness. Well, if indeed she is after stories . . . Tock nods in agreement, remembering, for a moment, the details of the "work" that was indeed "done on them" . . . After a second's recollection, he looks up, commenting:

All work and no play makes a Jack a dull boy, 
As well might a Durance bereft of all Joy. 
One cog in the wheel-works, one gear in the pile, 
We each were made Nameless, by rank and by file. 

A twist on our dear friend Pinocchio's tale: 
They took the -quick- children: the bright and the hale, 
No wooden doll-toys, but real kids who could feel: 
And bent them, to Serve, with mechanical steel. 

Tock waits, blinking away the seconds to see if Kara will respond with a snippet of her own personal Story in return.

Once again, Kara grins, and that clicking sound behind her smile is audible again. She peers at Sam, and notices the change of expression, the wording. Instead of letting the girl go, the Beast cups the back of Sam's neck in a touch that is at the same time careful and demanding, to bring her closer.

"Please -what-?" She seems entirely too enthralled with the secrets Sam holds to answer Tock at first, looking into the Autumn courtier's eyes knowing fully well she might get some lashback from this. However, there is some confidence in those eyes that doesn't seem to expect it. "Have you forgotten how it feels? Or are the memories of what you lost the problem here?"

She lets go of Sam after some time of letting the wraith-like woman bask in the warmth of another creature. Then she turns at Tock, smiling, that edge always there. "It seems everyone had a terrible time in Arcadia. I am SO sorry to hear." Although she pats the man's arm, Kara doesn't seem like she knows what she is talking about.

It is almost like she doesn't have a mirror at home.

"How long were you out there, Tolliver?" She peers at Sam with a grin, "How long were YOU there, Sam Mitchel?"

drawn close, there is a detached sort of curiosity that lingers in her facial expression.

Err, Kara's facial expression, that is. For, when taken by the neck, the Autumn-thing's face shifts again to match Kara's, this time more fully. Skin color, features -- everything seems a near-perfect copy, as Sam's cobalt-blue eyes remain otherwise unshifted, even as her body matches that of whom touches her so familiarly.

"Please." Blink. "Touching me. I will steal your memories." Whatever that means. "I am -- " Beat. " -- I am what I am. Sam, I am." And then, Kara releases her, and her body shifts into the nebulous nothing that it normally is.

But, the specter remains close, like some frozen ghost.

"I do not know how long it was. Time is different there. I cannot recall, and, even if I could, my perceptions -- " Shrug. " -- are likely faulty." Break. "It does not matter."

Tock shrugs:

A second? A minute? A year and a day? 
Where Time's an Illusion, it's quite hard to say! 
The lesson to take home is somewhat more sure: 
Remember _each_ moment that's joyous and pure. 

The Beast guffaws at Tock's words, before she looks at the man, eyes narrowing so she looks as demonic as her Mien allows, those sharp horns now seeming-ly perfect in place for her.

"And where is your home, Tolliver? Where is it -really-?"

Kara is a vain woman. She loves the praise, the attention, and when the wraith-like Changeling changes into her, the Beast seems to ignore it. She just doesn't seem to notice.

Until she does.

It is when speaking to Tolliver that she first frowns, and then her eyes sloooowly go back to the Autumn courtier that remains nearby. She smiles at Tock, and raises a finger, as if to excuse herself, before she turns FULLY towards Sam to grasp that face with both hands. She doesn't seem to care about the memories when there is so much to be gained from... watching.

With both palms on the woman's face, she stares enraptured, just waiting for those features to change again, to show Kara on someone else's face. The few people in the store might think the two are about to kiss, given the anxious touch and proximity between the two Changelings.

"Use your words. What is this?"

With a sigh and a quiver, Sam's face shifts again when touched. Poof! Like magic. Like instinct. "Magic," she replies immediately and blithely to the question that is posed to her. There is a pause after.

"It is what I am." A moment later, and Sam's face shifts back to her own. Another moment, she looks like Tock. Another, like someone else. Then, back to Kara. "He made me this way: the King." Beat. "I don't know how. I don't know why."

Pause. Sam-Kara stares right back at Kara-Kara, as if there were nothing and no one else in the world. "Do you like what you see?" There is a hint of a smile, and, be darned, a note of warmth and openness. An invitation, perhaps.

Tock regards the demonic Aspect that Kara suddenly took on with a steadfast and measured calm. Without reproach, or shock, or revulsion, he meets her gaze, at her level. After a silent second or two, he removes his glasses and somehow looks instantly much younger without them. The cracked spectacles briefly glint in the afternoon sun as he folds them away and pockets them. Home? Home is Outside. Outside of Arcadia. Outside of Town. Outside of the narrowness of the mundane pit of slog that most "normal" people call their workaday lives. Tock speaks, quietly, but directly to the Beast within the one that stands before him, the cadence of his poetry quickening to a different metre, a four-footed rhythm that clearly sings of Freedom. His eyes flash bright and clear:

Within me blazes strength of oak, and patience of grey stone. 
I draw down GreenSong’s fervent pulse - the truest sound I’ve known. 

My ears ring with the thundering of hooves o’er frozen ground, 
With Breath, and Life, and flowing strides toward prey-scents newly found. 

Bright falcon’s cry o’er snowy peaks, White lightnings striking sea, 
The winds’ swift touch that’s born of sun - these songs I call to me. 

And to their chorus I do add the notes that are my own: 
The winding forest paths I’ve run, the soaring heights I've known, 

To rising breaths of life’s vast Song, I now lend my whole frame. 
May reaching upward to the Light become my heart’s sole aim. 

And in my heart I hold the Light of Truth and Love aflame, 
to bring to song the living strength, of Forest's Sacred Name. 

Tock replaces his cracked and timeworn lenses, and the mustiness and fuddiness of Seeming age return like a cloud passing over the sun.

Kara is mystified. She is frozen in place, still as a statue, while her eyes dart over Sam-Kara's face, the sight of herself making the Beast's heart pump almost audibly. The clicking of something behind her teeth is louder now, as she purrs/exhales, eyelids dropping to fade that sharp danger about the monstrous Changeling.

"You are beautiful."

The whisper is delicate, unlike anything Tock or Sam have seen of the Beast so far, and it is impossible to tell of she meant Sam, or just Sam-Kara. The way she ignores Tock for the moment goes beyond rudeness: it almost looks like an actual compulsion. The openness draws Kara in as she kisses the other woman's lips, the touch painfully getle, like a lover she has been missing all her life.

It takes the strange Chimera an eternity in her own mind to realize she is trying to make out in the middle of a library in front of another Lost, but she does so anyways unless Sam fights her. Only after this pseudo-eternity of soul sharing with her decoy that Kara's eyes regain their intelligence, and she snaps out of it, staring at Sam-Kara's face, a thumb detailing every nook and crook of those features, before she whispers for the woman to lose the face.

She looks at Tock.

"I... am terribly sorry," she grins, that sharpness back while the woman straightens herself up, her arm brushing with Sam/Sam-Kara's while she speaks.

"You... seem proud of what you were turned into. Am I missing anything here? You... are more than you look, aren't you, Tolliver? More than just another victim..." Her eyes drift back to Sam, and then back at Tock. She is distracted. The sight of her own face threw the Beast out of her loop. She almost looks more humane now, less of an instigator.

Kiss. Smooch? No. Not good.

Sam visibly withdraws from Kara. Uncertain. And then, as one might expect with a ghost, she steps back and then, just **bam** poof.

Well, no. Not really. She just backs up and turns to head around a stack. Maybe she /thinks/ that she's disappeared, but she really hasn't. She's just -- well, minus the entire 'that trick didn't work' bit -- leaving. Gone. Perhaps, if the trick worked, it'd be spooky cool. Like, **BAM** disappear! Ghostly! Spooky!

But, no. It's just an embarrassed withdrawal. Clumsy. Maybe her mojo got thrown off. Oh well.

Exit, stage left. /Not/ pursued by bear.

Tock had been speaking to Kara's revealed Beast . . . which has now receded back into the murkier depths of Kara's deeper subconscious awareness. And now that "Kara" has returned and the "Beast" has faded, Tock just looks at Kara with a "Who, me?" kind of expression, eyebrow raised, saying nothing. Dusty and worn spectacles glint once more in the fading afternoon sun.

Kara stares at Tock, still somewhat shaken by the experience, before she looks at the exit to where Sam has gone to. "Yes, you...," whispers the woman before her voice trails off, and she look at the man, shaking her head for some clear thoughts. "Tolliver, I must go. I will be back sometime." As she whispers so, the woman leaves, troubled, through the door.

Tock smiles, not unkindly, nods once, and sets about the business of shelving, dusting, and stacking.