Log:Library
| Library | |
|---|---|
| Participants
Kara, Sam, Tock |
5 April, 2017 ' |
| Location
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!
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 might well 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. | |
