abraxaslogs | [open]

Who: Michael Ralston & Various
What: Catch-all for August
When: post-Horizon, but will probably use this space as I see fit throughout the month.
Where: Castle Thorne
Notes: Feel free to hit me up on discord or plurk if you want to plot something or want a ~*~bespoke~*~ starter. Prose or brackets are a-okay; I'll match your preference. See Ralston's optional opt-in info HERE .

THE CASTLE.

There is a man in Castle Thorne who walks with a cane and has made little effort to seek out anyone's company. By all accounts, he is easily missed and cuts a fairly unremarkable figure—he is neither particularly tall or short, nor especially good looking or plain. In fact if not for the tell-tale tunic and trousers and a penchant for haunting the guest quarters, he might be easily mistaken for some servant or native of the castle who is only as interested in these out-of-world travelers as he is employed to be.

And yet—

[A] Here he is, making use of the library available to Thorne's 'honored guests'; he has rooted his way to some back series of shelves, and is presently standing at the foot of a ladder clearly doing the mental math on scaling it to reach an upper series of books when movement at the end of the stack draws his attention. Ralston snaps his fingers at whoever has had the distinct misfortune to cross paths with him, saying,

"You. Step this way for just a moment."

[B] Or he is in some quiet courtyard available to Thorne's guests, sitting on some bench in the shadow of a high stone wall where the air of the day is most temperate. He has an orange in hand, and is peeling it slowly with every appearance of waiting for someone. Ralston's dark eyes search out any figure who happens to pass across the yard. If he happens to recognize them as either an ex-prisoner or someone who has demonstrated a particular talent for the little magic spells being taught by the Thornean mages, he will whistle to get their attention and motion for them to come closer. Worst comes to worst, he might flick a bit of orange peel in your direction to clarify the urgency of his demand for conversation.

[C] Or, rarest and strangest of all, Ralston might be found in some part of the castle where he shouldn't be. Perhaps it is a merely a rarely used back staircase, or a quiet corridor in some wing of the castle which guests have ostensibly been discouraged from visiting, or he is quietly letting himself into a room in which he has no business being.

WILDCARD.
[You know the drill. Feel free to hit me up on disco or plurk if you feel moved, but I can roll with pretty much anything.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"... Me?" The creature that steps out of the shadows at the end of the shelves is very likely not what Ralston was expecting. Keeping his forebody low makes him look even longer than he is, sinuous as he comes into the blue glow of the lantern hanging from the ladder. The tunic, though, looks outright silly on him.

The creature slithers around the edge of the stack and for a moment—

It doesn't matter. If Ralston pales or if his expression grows very thin in response to the thing which unfolds itself at the end of the row, it is a short lived moment of revulsion. He has done his reading, and he knows a thing or two about the shape of beasts in dark and dangerous places; why should he be surprised to find something like that here?

He takes a silent step back from the foot of the ladder. It isn't a no.

"There's a book up there. Arcane Recitation, volume six. I seem to be having trouble reaching it."

The heel of the unadorned cane is tapped against the floor for emphasis.

He looks at the ladder, up into the recesses of the stacks. So these are books, he's guessing from context. "... If I point to it, will you be able to tell me which one it is?"

Even as he asks, he rises up onto his hind feet, nearly twelve feet tall as he grips the shelves to steady himself. "Which ledge? This one, or higher, or lower?" he asks, touching the book at his new eye level.

As the long creature unfurls towards its full height, some hindbrain instinct has Ralston taking a further half step back. He doesn't think to question it until after it's already happened—a sharp little flare of annoyance sparking high behind the ribs. What are you frightened of, you silly old man?

"No I won't be able to tell you which one it is," he snaps back, impatience flaring. "Just bring them all down. Everything from that higher shelf."

He looks down once more to check that he has the right shelf, and then picks up the two dozen or so books in four hands, passing them down from hand to forefoot to floor with care. For all his size, he's very precise in his movements, setting them down square to each other.

"What are they for?"

"Reading," is the dry answer he supplies the creature with. He uses the foot of the borrowed cane as a hook to fetch closer the first volume within arm's reach so he might read its title while it remains on the floor.

"Or kindling, if its anything like this." The volume is shoved dismissively aside and his attention passes to the next in the long, excessively carefully laid out row.

"I don't know those words." He steps around the line, still careful in how he moves, looking at the covers. "Are they art?" he asks, touching one with a forefoot, its fingers following the embossed lines of the cover.

"Most certainly not."

Each offending volume is knocked an inch or two out of its diligently ordered space until, halfway down the line, the point of Ralston's borrowed cane pauses. With a clever flick of the wrist, he draws open the front cover and then—evidently satisfied by what he finds on the facing page—finally bends down to retrieve it.

Art. Only a self obsessed maniac pens a book.

"You may return the rest," he says.

Obligingly, he stacks the rest up, unaware of which way is actually up for any of them, but careful with them all the same. But watching Ralston, he does pause a moment, and curiously opens one like he has.

"Oh," he murmurs, gently leafing through the pages, his primary pair of eyes wide.

There are some people who might find this moment—a beast's first forays into the wide world of the written world—moving. How lovely a thing, to witness such genuine curiosity first hand. It is the sort of thing which begs mentoring, kindness which might in turn beget some sense of pride. Teaching is a reward in and of itself; no doubt there are individuals within this very castle who might think so.

Michael Ralston is not among them.

He snaps his prize volume shut and tucks it under an arm. With a withering look for the rest of the volumes— "I would strongly advise you put them back and forget you ever cracked a book. Academia is a miserable business."

Click. The foot of the borrowed cane as Ralston, object in hand, turns to extract himself from this particular library stack.

He stares after him for a moment, and then picks up the rest of the books into a single block, rising again to put it back on its shelf. Sorry, librarians, maybe one in five of them is facing the right way now and half are upside down.

He keeps the one he opened, though, and drops back down to follow the cranky stranger.

"What is academia? Or business?"

"Poison, both," is the cranky stranger's brusque assessment as he goes tilting out of the library stack to the rhythm of cane and shoe heel.

He zags immediately left in a pointed attempt to measure the commitment of his pursuit.

It's scarcely even pursuit, considering how little effort it takes the grue to keep up with him, tucking his book under a lower arm.

"Is your leg hurt?"

"No."

Indeed, now that they're on the move he seems spry enough despite the cane. If it weren't for his demand of assistance mere moments ago and his reticence to climb that ladder himself, it might be easy to estimate the thing as a mere fashion statement.

(Do multi-limbed creatures comically draped in silk tunics have suspicions about accessories, fashionable or otherwise? Gods only know.)

Some may be over his head with crazy technology like books, but he's not entirely stupid. He exhales, letting his steps slow.

"Pleasant meeting," he calls after him, without any insincerity at all, because it is the polite thing to say. "Safe footing to you."

[open]

A. The Library

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I'm sorry for my idiot.

bless

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my turn to apologize

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