Difference between revisions of "Log:The Vorpal Riddle"

24 October, 2017

An afternoon at the park turns into something rather Sublime

It's late afternoon, and things at the park are hopping. Kids are out of school, working off their excess energy, some joggers who've gotten off early, some lunchers stuck at work late. A typical afternoon for a relatively nice fall day, really. In the parking lot, an old VW vanagon looking like it just came out of some Burning Man installation, all colorful murals and pachouli scent, is blaring some indie pop music, side door wide open. Rowan sits on the floor of the van drinking a beer and watching people do their thing.

Hark; over yonder grassy knoll cuts a shadowy figure - striding along with slow, steady, loping movements that are both asymmetrical and sure. Uschi leans to the side as she walks, see - the weight of her oversized rucksack isn't the problem, because at six-foot-somethin' the Ogress' got that whole 'long distance runner' vibe about her. No, what makes Uschi's walk so idiosyncratic is the fact her left arm is very, very gnarled - very, very crippled - very, very possibly actually dead.

Uschi, besides that arm, very much alive. Look at her, as she stops and leans back once she's drawn near to that hippie wagon stinkin' of pachouli - horns glinting dimly as the shadowy Moon mantle swirls about her, the Ogress lifts her chin and sniffs the air. Huh. Looks like she's going to investigate -- or possibly try and salvage some hubcaps when Rowan isn't looking.

'Their thing', in the case of a recent transplant to the area who may or may not secretly be a toy soldier (pro tip: this is Czptain), is wearing a white linen suit like some kind of Panamanian drug lord with a black turtleneck under it, barefoot in October, literally just sitting on a rock reading a book and nursing an Irish whiskey with his feet in the grass. He may dislike patchouli, but his sense of smell is provably terrible. Occasionally he'll glance up from the book -- if someone passes close by, or if someone's Really Noticeable Like Uschi in his peripheral vision. His head lifts slightly to track her, because Levi felt so terrible the other day; he's considering attempting to engage in Social Interaction, but still unsure about whether he wants to stick a bookmark in his Star Trek novel.

You know what fucking sucks as far as Teagan is concerned? Sunshine. You know what sucks more than sunshine? Being out in the fucking sunshine. Even worse? Being out in the fucking sunshine around people who like sunshine. But when you are a Darkling who has used up lots of glamour in making sure that your sometimes-small-sometimes-mufuggin'-huge datemate did not die of fire not too long ago, well. Sometimes you just gotta suck that shit up and be out in public.

It doesn't mean you have to like it, or look like you're liking it. Teagan's Mantle is set to broil today, all heat and the scent of tarmac and baked concrete after the sun goes down, with the crackle-pop-crackle of radio static from calls that never are received, never answered. Their head ducks forward, their hood pulled up over their face, long hem dragging down around their knees. Everything about Teagan looks like a very grumpy stray cat that just got dunked in a bath For Their Own Good, wrestled their way free, and is now looking for a suitable place to sit and be pissed off about that. They lope across the grass, head down, fractured-mirror eyes casting their gaze this way and that.

It's a gorgeous day, indeed. The sun's shining brilliantly, and there's only one patch of what must be cloud-cover drifting along the ground. It meanders steadily through the park, lazily drifting over Czcibor and on towards the van. When the Captain looks back down from studying Uschi, his decision has been made for him. There IS a bookmark in his book- a playing card, standard bicycle. King of hearts, specifically, with his sword- through his head, as always- circled. He himself is obliterated by black ink spelling the word JABBERWOCKY. And on the back? Script.

"Tell the Trickster I am arrived."

Ah, what a lovely day...A lovely day in which her evening dive into oblivion is being interrupted by the arrival of Uschi and...others. But most of the others she's pretty oblivious to. The Ogress gets a little salute with the beer bottle though. "Evening, slick. How's it going?" She greets the woman in her thick Irish accent.

Uschi slows her roll up there on her grassy knoll -- Czci has caught her attention, because how could she not see the tinman give her that look? Ya Ogress is hyper vigilant, yo. It's not until she notices that shadowy puff of low hanging cloud cover that Uschi stops walking all together -- her attention moving to watch it as it drifts along.

Being Moon, Uschi knows a thing or two about shadow and smoke.

Looking on now, at the way things are moving along? Uschi is Not Impressed. The Ogress stops, looks, and listens - standing not exactly still, no; she's moving subtly in time with the breeze, waving on her feet as she observes.

Frowning, Czcibor glances up from Uschi to the sky; something just cast a shadow over him, but there's nothing there. He starts deciding to put a bookmark in his book after all because if there's a shadow and nothing to cast it he doesn't like this, and glances down, and then stares. He shakes the card out of his book, glances at the page number, closes it, and uses the book to turn the card over. Seeing the other side, he scowls fiercely and stands up, sticking the book in his back pocket. First the roses in his mantle shift sharply and quickly to kudzu and bindweed and the scent of it veers sharply from gunmetal and ozone to gunmetal and Walpurgisnacht bonfires, and then a little breeze picks up by him and he whispers into it in Polish, "My friend, what glides through you unseen? Has it spoken where you can hear it?" ...yes he is literally asking the air.

The Darkling is also (somewhat-secretly) a Shadowsoul. There are some Fairest tendencies in Teagan, who knew? They come wandering up alongside Czcibor, and squints at him as the tin man starts whispering things into the air. "What'd it fuckin' say?" the Darkling asks of the Elemental, hands sliding into their pockets. A momentary shift of their hoodie's hem gives a flash of what looks to the Lost who can see it a rusty, mostly-broken-down machete with blood drops clinging to the blade's edge. (Fun note: it's legal to carry a machete concealed in Vermont. Or openly! Both are good.) Like, who needs introductions when there's a weird-ass card and a thing sliding unseen through the park.

Hey, that's funny. When Rowan saluted with her bottle? A playing card falls off the bottom, like she was using it for a coaster. Except she wasn't.

It's the King of Hearts. Guess what's written on it.

The shadow keeps on drifting its merry way. It might not have a cloud but that doesn't bother it none! What a resilient shadow it is.

Rowan looks down at the playing card that's fallen from her hand, frowning a bit as she hops up and looks around like she's gonna find the sneaky bastard who put it there. "What the bloody hell..." She leans down to inspect the card without picking it up.

A glance aside, and a faintly irritable look as his cranky suspicious kudzu and bindweed gets all hopey and bright, and Czcibor shakes its head. When he answers, his accent is noticeable and distinct, a mishmash of Europe with a mostly Polish background. "It doesn't know what I'm talking about. Whatever the hell's out there is hiding from even the air. The card," he says, indicating it with a vague gesture but not picking it up from the grass, "says 'Jabberwocky' on the front with the face design blacked out and the sword circled, and says 'tell the Trickster I am arrived' on the back because that's not fucking pretentious or anything. I can't see anything, and I don't like that whatever this is is in a park full of kids." Again his glamour's woven through his person, and his attention-grabbing presence is accompanied by the tanking capability to back it up. "If something starts going down, I'm real good at drawing aggro and taking damage, so let me do that, right?" Yes. It is clear he has in fact played MMOs at the very least.

Uschi looks to Rowan finally, as the smoke heads her way -- although the Moon Ogress seems much more interested in the playing card than the woman herself. Sniffing in again, Uschi remains fixed where she stands; over there on the periphery of the group, her dead arm hanging limply in spite of her shoulders being squared, feet kept broadly apart.

Attentive. That's what Uschi is being.

Uschi is not, however, engaging -- sure, there's a glint of cuspid beneath that Moon shadow, as Uschi curls her lip in possible response to something Czcibor says, but besides tilting an ear in his direction, she does nothing but... Watch shadow move, drift, cross the space. Expression? Very hard to read - but there's a glint in those iridescent eyes which suggest that she is watching very, very carefully -- even if action and conversation aren't exactly on the table.

There's a sort of ... long delay, as Teagan just looks at Czcibor, as if the answers to all the questions could be found in the smooth angles and wrinkles of his tin skin, his climbing roses and Spring tendrils. "'s'like me," Teagan answers somewhat casually, casting a glance over their shoulder, taking in Rowan and Uschi, and adding, "Not entirely like me, but like me. And. I know who 'The Trickster' in question is." They're just... casual. Like nothing at all is amiss. Teagans are usually exceptional liars.

Rowan decides she's gonna head toward the other Lost after picking up her own card gingerly, trying to touch it as little as possible. Before leaving her van entirely she changes her beer can for a knife and slides the van door closed. "'Scuse me, friends. This belong to any of you?" the Fairest asks as she approaches. When she hears talk of aggro and damage, she doesn't hesitate, though she's clearly missing at least some of the context, "Right, meat shield man. I'm really good with that." She looks to Teagan with a little smile, prompting them, "Yes? The 'Trickster'? Shall we find them, then?"

Teagan adds, after a second's delay, as if the words are just catching up with them. "My DPS is great." Beat. "You're gonna love Glitch."

Well. The jig is up, and apparently that's been made clear, because the "cloud cover" drifts right on over on Rowan's heels. It stays about... 20? 30? feet away, and lazily meanders around the group as they chatter on about... well, it.

The tin man's blank eyes are impossible to track, but for the most part, he does turn his head in the direction of where he's looking, and from that he's pretty clearly glancing at everyone approaching or loitering on the periphery of the little gathering; there's something assessing about his expression, and he nods, then gets a faintly wry look. "I don't especially like hurting people, so my DPS is fairly low-key unless fighting literal monsters in the hedge, where I'm not too shabby." He outright grins at Rowan, then sticks his hands in his pockets. "Awesome. Always feel free to duck behind me as long as you're not planning on stabbing me in the process."

'I know who the Trickster is'. The metal man nods to Rowan, then, and looks to Teagan once more-- but then actually calls over to Uschi, "If you're planning on starting shit, count me in."

Oh. Changelings want to gather around and discuss tactics or technology?

Not Uschi. Wandering the Wayward Path, the Ogress sneers - SNEERS - at Czcibor at the mention of 'starting shit', and turns away from the group to saunter off in the direction of... The smoke. Sure, halfway there she lifts something from the back of her ratty jeans -- oh check it out, it's a comically oversized hunting knife with a mirror finish. It glints in the afternoon light as she inspects it for Some Reason Or Another, her walking all slow and even and casual and totally chilled out.

No need to escalate things. Uschi is confident of that.

So the knife is slid back away, and the Ogress pads along: steady, sure of herself, and so not showing even an inch of concern or overt aggression as she wanders up towards the smoke and... Who knows what she's doing. There's a rustling hiss of sound, but that could just be her clothes - or the flakes of dry skin which drift away from that very dead left arm of hers. Why would anyone whisper to smoke?

Rowan looks up to the cloud cover and scowls, then back to the others. "I'm super lost. But...Uh, I'm down for whatever." She reaches down to pat her feathery bag, reassuring herself it's there. "Is this really a head-busting sort of thing though? I mean...Alice in Wonderland references could be dealt with in a non-violent way, right?" She looks the others over, as if assessing their capacity for whatever might be to come, and seems...unsure of the odds.

There's a pause after Uschi wanders over to the shadow. It stops, as if to listen to her, lingers a moment...

And then vanishes. At least, from where Uschi is. Everyone ELSE is now sitting in the middle of the spookcloud, and whatever it was Uschi did doesn't get a reply.

-Rude.-

"Mmm. You've met her?" Teagan asks, their hands still in their pockets. One of them finally draws out, absently scratching long fingers at their cheek; there's a rather telling scar across the palm of their hand: horizontal, thick, and knotted. "Well, it's not my favorite way of making an introduction." Once the spookcloud cluters about them, Teagan comments absently to the air, the static in their Mantle crackling sharply, almost irritably no matter how blase the enby themselves seems: "Well, if we're meant to tell her you're arrived, a name would be nice, you know." A sidelong half-smile to Czcibor, brief and sharp enough to cut yourself on, and the Darkling answers: "You don't seem like the type I hack in the back. I solemnly promise to only slash you from the front, and if you ask nicely."

The Captain's eyes don't visibly roll at Uschi's sneer, but his body language sure indicates it. He says amiably to Rowan, "Someone usually starts a fight when the tension's high enough, and if there's a spooky Thing being undetectable and dropping cryptic shit on people, it's usually the spooky thing. I like to be prepared..."

He trails off as the shadow falls on them, and grimaces and looks up-- but Teagan's addressed it. And then him. He blinks at them, startled, eyebrows up. "I'll keep that in mind."

From her vantage point over yonder, Uschi's reaction at the space-hopping smoke is this: she blinks.

Seriously. That's all she does at first. Then? Slow and steady, so carful to keep her body weight evenly dispersed and lopsided to make up for that dead arm, Uschi turns. Turns, and scans the area, until she spots the shadow pass along where the three other Changelings are. When she sees them, immersed within the nebulous form? She just...

...Watches from afar.

Man. Fuckin' Moon, fucking Farwalkers, fucking crusties who live on the edge of society and refuse to engage with basic social decency. Is Uschi aloof, dumb, or just a huge asshole? Why not all three... The Ogress just stands there, watching and for sure not engaging. Not now. Not yet... She's patient. Or? She has no idea what's going on. Who can say.

As for the shadow? It sticks around where it is. No answer to Teagan's provocation, not out loud at least. What response they DO get is... another card. This one is spinning, maybe thrown, getting tossed a bit on the wind as it falls back down towards the knot of changelings (sans Uschi!) and the shadow.

Rowan attempts to grab the card as it falls, but manages an impressive swipe that misses and throws her a bit off balance. She catches herself before she falls, thank goodness, and straightens up, looking around and saying nonchalantly, "Well, looks like there's another card there," in a slightly imperious tone, as if she hadn't just tried to get it, but instead expects someone else to grab it.

Despite being a man made entirely of heavy metal and not getting along with his magic fake leg on bad days, the Captain's got decent reflexes -- and despite not having touched the card that landed in his book -- he makes a grab for the falling card. Apparently he's getting tired of waiting for the bomb to go off.

The card flips into Teagan's hand; they snatch it out of the air and flip it over. Now, they can't read, but they can look at pictures and understand pictures. "What, your name's 'vorpal sword?' What a stupid name." Grumpy Summers getting grumpy when someone else is unseen and cryptic. Stop stealing my schtick and doing it better kinda because you can like write clues and shit, bro. The thought practically radiates off of Teagan, and their mouth turns down a bit, digging in their pockets for their cellphone. That's a forest-green vape... that's... cigarettes... here's a battered cellphone, even the Otterbox isn't protecting it that much.

Teagan pokes at their cellphone once, twice, and then says, "Hi Rainbow, some vorpal sword shadow playing-card person is here to see you. I'll send them to the place."

Uschi has this sort of far-out feral quality about her -- what has that Farwalker been up to, since she left whatever Arcadian hellhole that left the Ogress half crippled, silent and wary of groups? Because for all of her posturing up there on the grassy knoll, Uschi is wary -- who is that vigilant otherwise?

Because Uschi is silent, she's still, she's seeing much and doing very little.

Except tracking that shadow. Uschi tracks the shadow, the best she can: her own shadowy mantle hiding much of her form, but not those iridescent eyes as they glint through the gloom. Patient and observant.

TXT From Teagan To November : Hi rainbow some vorpal sword shadow playing card person is here to see you I'll send them to the place.

The shadow, Uschi tracks easily. Since it's like a 15' patch of no sun. When Teagan speaks their message, the shadow moves again, this time visibly, sliding rapidly off a good seven feet or so and settling just outside the personal bubbles of those present.

Rowan frowns a bit as Teagan calls osmeone, then shrugs and makes a face. "Well, sounds like you've got this handled. If you need me, or want a beer, I'll be in my van. " And with that, she wanders back toward her van, sliding the door shut behind her once she's in.

TXT From November To Teagan : I had wondered if he would come.

TXT From Teagan To November : Well he's here being a cryptic f*** I'll send him

TXT From November To Teagan : He thrills in it. Smack him upside the head with my blessing.

TXT From November To Teagan : Just watch the hands. He likes sharp objects.

TXT From Teagan To November : well so do I but it's a public park so maybe sharp objects are for later

TXT From November To Teagan : Details.

The Captain sticks his hands in his pockets. Glance in Uschi's direction, but it's only fleeting, and then he asks Teagan, "You got this, then?"

They pull a bud headphone out of their pocket, well, a pair of them, really, but only one goes into their ear, rather then paired into both ears as one might expect. Then this happens: "Well he's here being a cryptic fuck, I'll send him." Text message notification. "Well so do I, but it's a public park, so maybe sharp objects are for later." A vague scowl from the grumpy-ass Darkling, and they grunt at the tin man. "Yeah. I'm Teagan, incifuckingdentally." They dig in their pocket again, the oversized, tatty coat of a million pockets full of apparently everything important. Good thing Czc hasn't ever known anyone else with that habit. At least Teagan's wearing a shirt. Anyway, a ratty-ass business card's pulled out and offered over to the Captain, and then their glittering mirror-eyes turn briefly toward Uschi, but they don't try to pull her in -- being unsocial is a choice, after all. "All aboard the 'walking to the place' train, choo fucking choo," mutters Teagan, and then tips their head toward the park's exit. "I guess I fucking got it. Feel free to follow. Rainbow makes metaphorically killer cupcakes."

"Captain Czcibor Kowal, Zinnsoldat der Landeswehr," the elemetal introduces himself in return, clearly self-amused, sketching a brief bow to go with it. "Captain's fine. So is Kowal." He takes the card and pockets it, then moves to pick up an oversized messenger bag from where he was sitting on a rock earlier and sling it over his head and shoulder across his chest. Barefoot, he follows Teagan. "I like cupcakes."

Uschi watches Rowan drive off with some curiosity -- is the Fairest getting reinforcements? No way to tell. Instead the Ogress turns and looks at Czcibor and Teagan; her horns cutting through the air as she bobs her head, curious and watchful and... Does she even know how to socially interact? It can't be that she's nervous - right? Look at her! So tall and gruesome. What'd Uschi have to be nervous about?

The Moon Ogress turns and look at the shadow, as it lurks across the park. Have any other folk noticed it? She's trying to see -- but she's also watching Teagan and Cz out of the corner of her eye. Right? Damn shadow Mantle and it's stupid shadowy quality... Bare feet start to pad across the grass -- in the direction of the trees over yonder and... Farwalkers gotta walk, man. Farwalkers gotta walk.

...And watch. From the shadows. Until they decide to walk some more.

So the zinnsoldat follows the Ambiguous Shadow of Malcontent, and to the Wayhouse they go! Teagan pushes open the door grumpily, and slumps inside grumpily. Their Summer Mantle is set to 'extra crispy broil' at the moment, and the shadows that dog their feet spread out around them more happily once they're inside. "November?" they call, heading for the restroom. "I'm gonna go take a piss, I brought your shadow friend." Oh Teagan.

November is, indeed, within, and steps out of the den (where the computer lives) with a swish of casual rainbow polka-dotted skirt. The dress is a playful scoop-necked A-line which COULD have been a little black dress, if it didn't have a rainbowgasm of dots striping its fabric from neck to knee. "May your urination bring you only relief and yellow," she bids Teagan, dry humour blithely spoken as she looks toward the mudroom door in silent expectation.

And the zinnsoldat follows, considerably less cranky than he was when the shadow first showed up at the park; the kudzu and bindweed of his mantle have once more given way to roses, wisteria, morning glory-- climbing then dissipating, gently present. He comes in and unslings his messenger bag, leaving the white linen suit he's wearing unabashedly rumpled -- and sort of going with the bare feet. "I'd like to clarify," he says genially in his mostly-Polish accent, "that I am not your shadow friend, I'm only the Captain who got completely hammered at your party. Sorry about that. Unintentional."

The release of the magicks keeping the shadow friend hidden falls with the sudden severity of a curtain forged from lead. It's not so much -that- magick that crashes down as if using the Wayhouse like an anvil, it's everything it was suppressing.

First comes the noise. It's an audio bouquet of blades- scalpels cutting away diseased flesh, chisels revealing beauty within stone, knives whittling away wood to free art, hunting knives changing a corpse into cuts of meat.

Second is the man himself- what parts of him make an appearance. Shadows drape much of his form, leaving his outline easily visible but the details completely lost to the darkness. Where Teagan's dog his body, his are lazy lovers lounging across his form. Where they don't hide his body, the light rolls through, leaving a queer ghostly view that- sometimes- exposes the bones beneath. The only constants are his mouth, and his scars- oh, so many scars, in twists and whorls and slashes across his face and arms and throat. His hands seem like they're -trying- to behave, pale flesh visible ALMOST all the time. But they flicker, and when they do, it's not bone beneath, but blades, hidden by the skin and muscle and exposed in their absence.

Lastly, perhaps most potently, is his sheer presence. It's not a force of personality, but of -Wyrd.- Tangible, sublime Wyrd.

He grins. It's striking, the smile beneath the missing upper half of his face. "Indeed. The Captain is many things, but -I- am not one of them." The head turns, aiming the smile at the way Teagan left. "I owe them thanks. I was beginning to wonder if nobody in this town could solve my riddle. I'm not nearly so good at them as-" And he turns again, towards November. "-My. Dear. Trickster." Is that- warmth, in that tone? Softening the edges of his voice? Why, it just. Might. Be.

November's accent remains the same New-England-slept-with-Irish lilt as ever as she surveys the Spring soldier and remarks, "A faerie revel is rather supposed to result in intoxication of some kind. You were a delightful Lysander." Patient, she awaits the Grand Reveal, and, being November, has very little reaction to it when it comes, the many-coloured transparencies of inhuman flesh continuing their slow dance across the spectrum. Crystalline lashes dip, then rise as she takes the shadowy fellow in from toe to head, blink once in slow consideration, then slide down as she indicates his .. well, open-gaping everythings. "You seem to be missing bits. Have you tried to find them?"

Teagan calls over their shoulder, "I'm sure to let you know if it isn't all good." The androgyne's shadows continue to dog their feet as they slouch back into the main room, heading for the fridge, and beers. A pause to just... stare... at Vorpal. "Hunh." Not only is Teagan a world class liar but they hand

they hang out with another Sublime individual on the regular, and have been healed by her lately.

The Captain goes unnaturally still, face also losing its animation completely for a moment, fixed in a mild and pleasant expression-- it's a combination of a deliberate schooling of his features and an application of breath-held concentration. Even his mobile Spring garden momentarily pauses in its constant dissipation and manifestation.

Then he's moving again, and it's just to go occupy a table like it's Wall Street. There's a lot of clank as he puts his messenger bag down on it, and more of a clunk as he drops himself into a chair. "Fuckin' faeries," he says with an abbreviated laugh, ringing hollow in his empty chest. "Was I Lysander? That explains a little of the unaccountable jealousy. I thank you for your graciousness."

He suddenly remembers he left his Irish coffee at the park and looks instantly regretful, then goes digging in his bag for a second and produces a flask, from which he drinks what unquestionably smells like vodka. With emphasis. Also relish, but not the pickle kind. "Riddles, sir, have a habit of biting the unknowing. Is caution so surprising?"

"Did I miss one of your parties?" The smile fades for the first time, reversing into an exaggerated pout. "I do so enjoy your little get-togethers. What was the theme this time? Was it a new mystery? Your games are so much more developed than mine. I try, but I'm afraid it just doesn't pan out proper. I'm a terrible pupil." At Teagan's return, the smile returns and flashes their way. "Ah, THERE is our shady little sleuth. Congratulations! You were -splendid.- I'm afraid my puzzles don't hold a candle to November, and that's -probably- because the candle knows that would be rude- AH! Which I am being myself!" The clothing he's wearing is almost an afterthought, nearly unworthy of attention in contrast to how assertive the rest of his presence is. It looks simple- plain slacks, dull black shoes or boots covered by said slacks, some manner of collared shirt beneath... look, it's difficult to identify clothing when it's only visible in fits and starts. It looks casual and inexpensive, nothing worth paying attention to. So when he sweeps a bow, there's no flying coattails or whooshing cloak. "I am Vorpal- not "vorpal sword," friend," he says in an aside to Teagan, "For that -would- be a stupid name- and I am to the Hunt what dear November is to trickery. It is a sincere pleasure to meet you both- and the dearest of delights to reunite with -you,-" he finishes as he stands, half-tilting his head towards November before glancing Czcibor's way. "CAUTION? Caution is commendable. I wasn't criticizing your -caution-, simply the combination of the puzzle-solving skills of those graced with one of my calling cards, and- my own skill at crafting a riddle -intended- to be solved. It seemed rather obvious to me, but then- I knew the answer, I suppose."

The kitchen is technically two rooms away, given that the living room opens into the dining room, and only thence into the kitchen, but there are no noisy guests for the time being; Teagan will have little difficulty overhearing the group.

November remains standing as Vorpal explains himself, 6'4" in her lovely 'glass' slippers, their hedgespun waters glinting and glittering almost invisibly about equally transparent feetses. Still, calm and silent, only the colours and the weightless drifting of queerly liquid hair proves she is more than an oddly dressed bit of sculptural art. Unlike Czcibor, she is quite scratch-free, coated only in a fine and iridescent rime of fractal frost.

"Creative redistribution of attended truth, thank you," she corrects, prim, before stating a light, "This is the Wayhouse. I am the Waylady. You are welcome, under the laws of Hospitality, and you will be marked for all to see, should you break them."

It's really hard to get a read on someone's expression when their face constantly rearranges itself when they're not consciously making that NOT happen. It's like trying to see something original in a mirror instead of your own reflection. Teagan's face borrows Czc's cheekbones, then those slide away and soften into something else, anyone else. November's smile or something like it passes across the Darkling' s face, and is gone, quick as a cloud scudding across the face of the moon. "Cool. Because Vorpal Sword is a stupid name. Vorpal is aight, though." Their fractured mirror eyes glitter briefly at the compliment given their sleuthing skills. "Kind of a thing, yeah," and then they crack open a beer and take a good swallow of it, wandering back to lean on a convenient doorframe.

"It helps to know a thing is a riddle instead of an Admiral Ackbar epiphany," the Captain opines grumpily, capping his flask again and setting it on the table next to his bag. "Just as a style point. Looked for all the world like a trap or a threat." He really does look too young to sound like a cranky old man, but then, so does C.B., and who ever knows how old changelings are anyway? He sighs, then laughs a little bit, and reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose. Soft metal against soft metal-- there's no screech, but it does sound a bit like a pencil drawing on a rock. "Vorpal, then. And I take it you heard my introduction to Teagan."

The tin soldier does give November a crinkle-eyed little smile, sidelong. "I very much appreciate Hospitality."

"As you say," allows Vorpal, either agreeing with her correction or simply unwilling to attempt to fence words with her. He scoffs, his head bobbing in that faintly circular path that screams he's rolling eyes that they can't see, but he pauses at the end and remarks- "Ah. I imagine you rather -have- to mention that, don't you? It doesn't work otherwise. Well, then!" Vorpal claps his hands, and the sound is of clanging steel rather than slapping flesh. "I accept your hospitality with due thanks, and I shall be on my absolute -best- behavior." Even as he speaks, his hands solidify and remain so. When he parts and reclasps his hands, there's the soft, fleshy "pap" that one would expect. "A -thing-, is it? Well. We shall have to speak of this -thing.- It'd be a crime to waste such talent." The face shifts back towards the tin man as he lubricates his insides the Russian way, considering him a moment. "I did, Captain.You're a good sport. I appreciate that, you- sharing the card with your fellows as you did, despite your concerns." Pause. "... was it you who- no, it was -you-," And Vorpal turns back towards Teagan once more. "- who mentioned Glitch." A flick of the face back towards November. "Did he come as well? -Excellent.- Unless it's a different Glitch." Fingers lift to tap a darkened cheek. "... you know, I can't recall if he likes me or not."

November, smiling at last, offers Vorpal a sweet, "The kitchen is there-" with a graceful gesture toward the dining room and the open kitchen door beyond. "Enjoy the cupcakes." With a light and fluid swish of skirts and drifting hair, she turns toward the stairs to note, "Bills to pay, thrilling mundanities to chase, et cetera, et cetera. Don't break my Freehold, Mr. Dingleheimer."

There's probably something else Teagan planned on saying, but they end up just blinking rapidly. ".... Vorpal Dingleheimer?" Their expression is a visual DOT DOT DOT

Nemo calls after her, a quick, "I'm here to TEACH, not to BREAK, dear heart!" And then... Teagan. "... just. Vorpal. Like- Aristotle. There's no last name. She's being- well. Herself." He shrugs. "Ah, well. I'd be lying if I said I shouldn't have expected as much, arriving as nearly unannounced as I did. Still. All in all, I think I did rather well, for traipsing about in her territory rather than mine." Vorpal shrugs, before looking between the two others. "You really -should- try the cupcakes. She's a wonderful cook, from what I remember. But as for me? Ah-" Vorpal shakes his head slowly. "I have other things to attend to myself- and a delightful new... territory. With which to acquaint myself. Ever so many new trails and dens to discover- and, from the sound of it... at least one old face to find. Ah, he won't mind if I drop in. What's a nice visit between old friends." Didn't he just say he didn't remember if Glitch even -liked- him? "Teagan. Captain. I bid you both adieu, and auf wiedersehen."

There's a mild shrug and a brief, amused look. "You're welcome," he says of Vorpal's appreciation of his good sportsmanship, and then he blinks. "Or like Cher," he adds, confirming his understanding of 'one name'. He slides Teagan a look that communicates much-- even if a lot of it might be indecipherable-- and then gives Vorpal a salute. "Do widzenia," he answers in farewell, and finally, one corner of his mouth crooks up in less cranky entertainment.

"Uh, if he's a Glitch from Maine, then yeah, he's probably the same guy," Tegan hazards, absently scratching at their cheek with one hand, and taking another swallow from their beer. " I mean, I could tell him that you're here, if you wanted to leave a number for me and I can pass it on to him?" There's something approaching protectiveness when Tegan mentions the other person, an odd sort of reaction from an otherwise diffident being. It's difficult to tell where the darkling is looking, but it seems they might glance to the side at Czc as well. "Yeah, single names are all the rage this year, or so I'm told." Beat. "See you later, bro. we can talk about my talents later." Some people are terrified of Sublime individuals. Some people call them 'bro.'

"If you like~" Vorpal gesticulates in a rather vague manner, shrugging. "Couldn't hurt. He always was a wee bit twitchy." Teagan's confirmation of talks to occur later earns a dip from the occluded head, and a faux salute aimed at the both of them- and then he moves to the front door. The way he exits is a little odd. He opens the door leading out of the mudroom and props it open, then heads back into the mudroom. It's only -then- that he vanishes once more.

A brief moment later, the front door swings shut, seemingly on its own.

The Captain gets this look that's sort of reminiscent of :I with a little bit of >.> thrown in for good measure; kind of flatfaced, kind of put upon, a little resigned, and doing either a take to the camera or another take to Teagan looking for confirmation that he's not the only one who's sort of...

...well...

...thinking 'okay, so THAT happened'. "I'm increasingly getting the impression that there's a high concentration of what-the-fuck here even beyond the norm for a freehold."

"That kind of means you need to leave a number!" Teagan calls. there's no rebuttal to the idea that Glitch is ... a twitch. They sigh, taking another swallow of their beer. "You have NO idea, Captain. No idea. I mean, I can try to give you the rundown, but... I avoid Freehold shit."

Uncapping the vodka again, Czcibor snorts at Teagan's callout after Vorpal, then takes another swig from it in preparation as Teagan responds to his observation. "If I want freehold shit, I'll ask officers. I'd deeply appreciate a broad-strokes picture of how close the general population is to crossing the line, though, because I'm more or less used to swanning in and being the inordinately strange one. Here I'm starting to feel like I'm still three-quarters human."

A heavy sigh from Teagan, then, and they tip their head to the side. "I'm not a Freehold fan, like, in general. I have yet to see one that isn't more trouble than it's worth." They lope out through the kitchen, pick up another beer, and then lope back to the living room. There's a weariness to Teagan, truly. "So, now that we're not in public, I'm Teagan, motherfuckin' obviously of Summer. No motley, no bullshit, no Freehold. Squire of the Broken Bough." As if those thick scars across the palms of their hands weren't a complete giveaway, never mind the token machete at their hip. Slumping down into the sofa, they ask, "Where do you want me to start? The nearly-fae? The Gentry? The crazy humans too wound up in our shit?"

Sterling comes in through the front door.

For a second, the toy soldier looks like he's going to say something. Even opens his mouth. But then he shuts it.

But then he gamely goes on to wordvomit opinion anyway. "In theory, they can be a good defense in event of an incursion of gentry or armies of loyalists. How good a defense they are always depends on trust level, leadership, resourcefulness, and organization. Usually at least a few of those categories have considerable room for improvement. The concept is also sound, metaphysically, as I've had it explained to me... but all it is is a basis on which to build, and some people never even took wood shop in secondary school," the Captain says philosophically, slouching back in his chair with his vodka, then pausing to sit up long enough to take the Star Trek novel out of his back pocket and stick it in his messenger bag. "But that's neither here nor there."

"Right: not in major public, then." He lifts his flask in a mock salute. "Former Spring Crown of Vienna's freehold, thankfully never had to hold one again. My motley's Die Landeswehr; we keep each other sane. Right now it's only two of us since the members have mostly scattered, but keep in touch; my oathmate hasn't arrived here yet. Sworn to Fate's Harvest for now because what I am for is protecting people, and if I'm staying somewhere a while that's usually best served by sticking my nose into freehold business enough to find out who makes shitty calls and who gets hurt." There's a slight curl to one corner of his mouth. "No entitlement. The only title I have worth keeping is Captain, because it means nothing in civilian society and is no threat to anyone in power-- and because it's mine. I'll not bind my soul to anything else, it's misshapen enough that I'm afraid an entitlement might break it."

Finally he takes a breath, coughs lightly into his hand in something resembling apologetic embarrassment but isn't very sincere, and smiles winningly at Teagan. "The Gentry first, please? Then the crazy humans. Then the nearly-fae?"

"It appears I chose a -very- interesting time to walk in," the third voice belongs to a small woman that's just entered the Wayhouse, dressed nicely in what many might call 'business' casual - slacks, blouse, nice boots, and a walking coat. Everything is in some shade of grey, but a little color comes forward in the cream of the blouse. A smile is presented as she continues from the entryway, reaching up to remove her coat. "I do believe we met, in passing, the other day with Ferrum?" she wonders, pale blue eyes sliding over onto Teagan with a perked brow and a hint of a smile. Her accent is so very British - perhaps her demeanor, too, with its sense of detachment.

"I don't suppose either of you would happen to be a Waykeeper?" the as of yet nameless woman wonders next, putting her walking coat over the chair's back. Hands reach up to adjust her blouse, neatly, afterwards.

When being soliloquied at by a charming-af metal man with Presence probably literally coming out his ears, what does a Teagan do? They listen, leaning casually on the arm of the couch. "Yeah, well. I'm not much for signing on with death pledges, ever. Much less... " And then Teagan turns their attention toward the incoming Sterling. They bring their hand up in a small wave. "Yeah, we did, yeah. How's Ferrum doing?" A glance aside to Czcibor, then, and they explain, "Someone's Hedgebeast pet got loose, and apparently was abandoned. So now he chills with Sterling, here."

"Uhhhh, no. I don't fuck with Freeholds. November just left, maybe she'll be back."

Were they talking about something?

Good thing presence isn't a liquid or it would get rather unfortunate for any shirts the Captain ever wore. "Not I," says he regretfully, one hand briefly placed over his chest where his heart should be. "I only arrived this weekend. I think Friday. It's a bit of a blur, I was very, very drunk." He may in fact be an alcoholic, given the fact that it's only afternoon and there's a flask of vodka in his hand. He may only be a Polish changeling who's accustomed to dealing with aggravation.

Sterling gets a charming smile, though; for a moment it seems like he might not stand up, like the smile and no more words will be all she gets from him, but then he closes his eyes and laughs at himself a little, rising to his feet. A quick sketch of a bow, favoring his left leg, and he introduces himself for the second time today. He thinks. Perhaps the third. "O rescuer of abandoned hedge pokemon, I am Captain Czcibor Kowal, Zinnsoldat der Landeswehr, healer but not veterinarian-- though luckily for all Ferra, Spring doesn't care." He lowers himself back into the chair with his hand on the table, and the corners of his blank silvered eyes are crinkled in self-amusement.

He laughs, ladies and gentlemen and notate bene, at his own jokes.

"Ferrum is doing well; I bought him some... bedding, which for now is a nice dog bed with a blanket and heat lamp. After I have moved things, that will hopefully be upgraded more thoroughly," Sterling assures Teagan in her usual calm intonation, giving an inclination of her head. When the Darkling mentions her name, she perks a brow higher, but ultimately doesn't comment on it. Then Czcibor is giving out his presence, and she can't help but smile - charmed, apparently. When the tin soldier is done introducing himself, she bows slightly in accord.

"Maria Victoria Sterling. Doctor Sterling, or Sterling, will suffice," she says, watching Czcibor with his elaborate aura of being there with intrigue. Her own mantle doesn't seem much at play, especially between Czcibor and Teagan's powerful and loud ones, not to mention she's hiding her mien. "Ah, and a healer? I am, also - but I have little personal experience in the realm of Spring. The Wyrd saw fit to label me as an Oneirophysic."

Turning back to Teagan then, she mentions with a small nod of her head and an explanation of, "I'm not seeking to join; only to offer my services. I have yet to decide if I will Oath for the season or not."

"Since we were in public before: Teagan, of Summer, Squire of the Broken Bough." The Darkling finishes their first beer and moves on to their second, staying slouched down in the couch and cracking open that beer casually. "A disappearing doctor. Well, good to meet you, doc." A vague smile flickers across their face, and fades. "Yeah, well, good luck with that. In my experience, they only want you if you're willing to do the death pledge. But, you know. My services aren't exactly the sort that people like to admit that they need."

Sterling's lips twitch at the side - it might be a slightly smothered smile with Czcibor's response. She inclines her head to the good Captain, with a statement of, "I would be happy for that." Then aside to Teagan, though she does turn her head more towards the Darkling, she comments, "That would be unfortunate. I have been hoping to investigate the Fae influence in the area, but I know there is also another Freehold close by... I imagine they feel much the same as the one here." Briefly, she shakes her head before continuing, "If either of them refuse to work with me, and exchange resources, then it makes my job more difficult... Doable, but difficult." Apparently the quiet, standoffish doctor has some faith in her abilities.

"That's basically how it is for me. Although without a Freehold's constrictions on my job... sometimes it's easier, to be honest. But, my job isn't research and info-gathering so much as it's research, info-gathering, and then killing things." Teagan shrugs vaguely. "Just don't go throwing any fire at any cops, though, and you should generally be fine." Beat. "I don't do that." Pushing themselves up to their feet, they offer, "I've been out all day. I need to like... get a shower and put on some clean clothes. Good to meet you properly, Sterling. Captain, let's talk later." And with that, they lope up to the second floor to snag a shower.