[AW] I'm a deer caught in headlights

[Sloane]

 
There was something distinctly morbid about the library. It smelled of rotting bodies, as if someone had killed a million children and hid them in the floorboards. The dust caught in her nostrils and it made her sneeze, an unladylike sneeze that could not be replicated even if she tried. It started at her hooves and traveled through her body, expelling through her lips with a loud and roaring noise that seemed to echo through empty halls.

Maybe it was just the part of the library that she found herself in that was so unwelcoming. Then again, she didn’t mind the fact that there weren’t any other souls to bother her with their “woe is me” shit. She didn’t have time nor the desire to be someone’s therapist today. She was on a mission and she would not stop until she succeeded.

Stepping beneath a low-canging cobweb, Sloane meandered the rows and rows of books that looked to be thousands of years old. How they were still in their original binding was a mystery to the dark mare, a mystery she also had no desire to solve. She didn’t care if the books were new or old, falling apart or new and pristine. All she cared about was finding the book she sought. Nothing else really mattered.

And there it was. Wrapped up in dust and spider webs was an old book that contained knowledge of potions and poisons, spells and scriptures. A grin, an ominous grin, spread across her lips as she feasted her eyes on the black binding. Puckering her lips together, she blew a fast and targeted stream of air on the book, blowing off most of the dust and webs (after all, that shit would NOT be touching her lips when she reached for the book) off the binding. Sinking her teeth into the book, she pulled it from its place on the shelves, carrying it down the edge of the isle to a table with a single lamp that illuminated the immediate 2ft radius.

Once the book slammed down on the table, she nudged it open, using her magic to slowly flit through the pages, looking for something. Growing frustrated by her inability to find it, she grumbled beneath her breath, her tail flagging lightly against her rump and her hoof scraping the concrete in agitation. "Where the fuck is it?" She scanned the page before turning to the next one. Didn’t anyone put in a table of contents? How was she supposed to find what she was looking for? This was stupid.
 

[Willfur]

The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness

Though the Library sees a fair amount of traffic each day, it's a rare individual that does more than quietly, almost reverently, pace the aisles, gently plucking volumes from the shelves and slipping off to a private room or cushioned alcove to read beneath windows, lamps, and - sometimes - magical sources of light. These, the mule is always interested in, pricking his satellite ears and peering around corners to surreptitiously watch the strangers cast and work their wordless spells. He's not sure 'spell,' is the right terminology or way of thinking about Novus magic, but his experience with such things is, admittedly, limited.

It's noticeable then, when the darkly mottled mare comes stomping, huffing, and slamming her way into the archival section of the reference wing, dust and the most skittish of fox-like helpers fluttering in agitation everywhere she goes. One long ear trained across the rows, fixed on the mares path of disruption, Willfur reaches down to gently stroke the helpers as they flee past him, but only adds to their upset when he jumps at the sound of a loud, throat wrenching sneeze. He's never felt himself of any authority to be blessing someone, and so stays silent. Wordless, angry protests soon follow, toward the sneeze, toward some lack of result, or maybe an unwanted result found in the pages of the book she's chosen, he doesn't know. It's not until the mare starts shouting that Willfur is finally compelled to step forward.

"Hello! Is there anything I can help you with?" He tries to put on his best Greeter™ smile, despite noticing that the book she's just been handling so roughly is an old one, loosely bound and now additionally marked with a crescent moon of tooth impressions, front and back.



"SPEAKING"

@Sloane

☘

[Sloane]

Despite living in Delumine for what seemed like eternity (really, it was only a few years), Sloane had rarely visited the library the court was known for. She had never been the sort to read. It was boring and seemed to make her eyes feel cross-eyed. Why would she read a bunch of words when she could go out and experience the world? Then again, Sloane didn’t really like to experience the world either. In fact, Sloane simply existed. She was brash, blunt, and a sore on everyone’s rump. Ipomoea seemed to be the only one she could tolerate, and perhaps that was because he gave her a private island where she didn’t have to do a damn thing. The only problem was the fucking fire squirrels on the island next to hers. It was like a bonfire every night, but she digresses.

The point of that narrative was simple: Sloane didn’t like anyone or anything. So to see her pacing the isles of the library was an odd sight. In fact, it was such a rare occurrence that Sloane hadn’t even bothered learning about library etiquette. Perhaps it irritated many of the frequent library goers, but she didn’t give rat’s shit of care about what other people thought.

As she’s busy flipping through the old, worn book, she hears the approach of another. What about her body language gave someone else the idea that she might want to be bothered? It definitely wasn’t the way her ears lay so flat against her skull that it looked like she had no ears at all. It always wasn’t the way her body was stiff with agitation, her tail flicking aggressively at her hocks, or the fact that her hoof scraped the bottom of the concrete floor producing a sound much like nails on a chalkboard.

And yet, the individual approaches. She hears his question before she looks up to see him. Perhaps that was a good thing because if she looked at him before he spoke, she’d be too busy laughing at his appearance to listen to anything he was saying. "Unless you can put a damn table of contents into this book, then I doubt you can." Always the irritated girl, Sloane had never been one to make friends. It was a little strange that Ipomoea could still somehow tolerate her. Not many could.

It was then that she slowly drew her eyes away from the old, ratted book to look at the individual who had the misfortune of conversing with her on this delightful occasion. No sooner than she turned her head towards him did her eyes fall on his overly large ears. A laugh rumbled in her chest and left unchecked, it filled the library. It was not a soft chuckle, no. It was a loud, obnoxious laugh that echoed through the halls. "Jesus…who fucked up your ears?" Words were spoken through fits of laughs, rude as ever. But Sloane, unfortunately, didn’t care.

@willfur

[Willfur]

The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness

It's an unfortunate coincidence in life that those most likely to speak in anger are also, commonly, the least creative with their words. Willfur theorizes that it's because they're so quick to snap that their brains simply can't keep up, leaving all the work of speech to habit and memory, who lazily reuse old, worn out insults instead of crafting something new and unique from the present. He also thinks it makes them incredibly boring. Pointing out that a mule has long ears?

Wow, she does have eyes.

His mother used to tell him that the other horses made fun of his outsides because they could never find fault with his insides, and that if those were the only things about him they could criticize, he was doing a fine job in life. The words hadn't brought him the same comfort in his youth that they do now, with a wider and more experienced perspective of the world, but he smiles nonetheless, grateful to have had such a mother to think back on fondly. It must have been his father, then, that made him so wickedly discerning.

He can only assume.

Ignoring the mare's posturing and snarky tone, the raucous laughter, he turns instead to her previous comment, what he assumes to be the original source of her frustration. Peering over the end of the table at the book she's left open, he smiles again, this time less reminiscent and more shit-eating. "Well, in the past it was only individuals from families wealthy, powerful, or lucky enough to be able to afford a formal education through an organization or closed society who had access to things like books, so in many cases laymens devices like tables of contents and indexes of specific terms weren't included in older works. The authors could safely presume that the reader would already be familiar with written texts of the time, that they'd employ a scribe whose time was worth much less than their own and so could be wasted searching for passages of interest, or that they were observant enough to notice that all the entries are organized alphabetically," He pauses, eyeing the mare sidelong. "As this one is."

Zing.
Sorry, mother.

Satisfied with the point being made, he doesn't waste time gloating. He does intend to help the angry woman, if she can only control herself long enough to let him, so he hurries on. "But if you tell me what you're looking for, I might more easily be able to find it, or pick out another volume that covers the subject. Scholars depended on each other already knowing what something was called back then, or where to reference it, so starting from scratch is actually pretty difficult." He flicks his long ears forward, trying to put on an expression of sympathy and understanding. "It can be frustrating, for sure."



"speaking"

@Sloane

☘

[Sloane]

In Sloane’s defense (as the narrator of this unfortunate piece of writing must do), she has never seen a mule, a donkey, or anything else with abnormally long ear aside from a rabbit. Sloane is not well traveled and never really cared to. She only recognizes what she’s seen in passing because the mare cannot be bothered to open a book and learn. Learning was for the sort of people who wanted to enhance their IQ or knowledge of the world they lived in. Unfortunately, Sloane was not that sort of person. This was the very first time she had seen anything like the mule before her. In a sense, he was helping her learn - even if she might not wish to call it like it is.

Unlike the mule before her, Sloane did not have a supportive mother. She was one of three born to her mother in one pregnancy. Such a rarity for triplets to be conceived, let alone survive to term and then to survive birth through weaning. Her mother had basically told her to fend for herself. From the moment she had been born, Sloane was very much alone. She had taught herself to survive. Perhaps that is why her skin was so tough and her words so hurtful. She had been denied love and affection and this was all she knew. She didn’t know how to be friendly or what being friendly even meant. She just acted as she always had: with the goal of survival. Soft, trusting, and naïve individuals never really survived.

However, nothing else was said on the matter and perhaps that was a good thing. Instead, he began to answer her question that was really more of a snarky remark than anything, Sloane started to listen in hopes that he might say something useful. However, his words were long and drawn out, clearly evident of some form of higher education. He was trying to make her look unintelligent and it was doing nothing but pissing her off. And so, she stopped listening to him ramble and didn’t even give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his stab at her. However, she had heard him say something about being in alphabetical order or some shit like that. She rolled her eyes. "Organization by alphabet is only successful if the topic you are looking for is labeled under a uniform title…which it isn’t." She rolled her eyes yet again, looking back to the book and continuing to flip the pages in search of the topic she was looking for. "I’m not a complete idiot - I looked alphabetically." While she might have looked under one name, it very well could be listed under something else entirely - thus a table of contents or glossary might have been useful. But clearly, he could not help her with that.

But when he speaks again, this time, he seems to be making some sort of sense to Sloane. He’s trying to be helpful, at least she thinks he is. But regardless of his intent to be helpful, he’s still asking her to divulge more information than she really cares to disclose. After all, it’s really none of his business what she’s looking for. "Is it not obvious that I am looking for a potion or spell?" After all, the book she was currently flipping through was filled to the brim with recipes and chants. Now, exactly which position or spell she was looking for was unknown to him and Sloane intended to keep it. "You don’t need to know exactly what I’m looking for. Mind your own damn business." She would not be sharing her life story with him nor would she be telling him exactly what she was looking for. However, if he wanted to suggest another volume on potions or spells, she might be appreciative.

@Willfur

[Willfur]

The surest sign of strength
that I have ever seen
is gentleness

This time he accepts the mare's scolding - he probably deserves it, anyway - letting her anger roll over and around him like a sudden squall, metaphorically hunching his shoulders and turning his rump to the wind. It's just something to be expected. He should have known the mare wouldn't appreciate or engage in his game, that she's too tightly strung, too exasperated with the task at hand, the library, him, life in general, existance itself maybe, to converse in anything but angry, biting remarks. It was foolish of him to let himself be offended in the first place - and over something so trivial - and counterproductive to making friends or gaining any sort of trust. Forfeiting his earlier attitude, he recants, bowing his head slightly. "Okay, I'm sorry. That wasn't necessary of me."

He doesn't expect much of a reply, let alone a statement of forgiveness, so he carries on. "I don't mean to make your day more difficult and I know you won't believe this, but it's no place of mine to judge someone's motivation. I don't care if you're trying to assemble a curse or brew a poison or summon some primordial evil. I probably couldn't stop you if you were, and you're not stupid, so you'll just find the information one way or another." Now he looks up, meeting the mare eye to eye, two perfect opposites, his own warm and unassuming where hers are cold, unrelenting. He wonders if she always looks that way, or if it's only because he's irked her.

"You look pretty determined to me, so, if you won't be more specific, I'll just tell you what I do know. I've never tried to curse anyone, so I can't help you there, but poisons you might have better luck with in the culinary section. Cooks and bakers were the most likely assassins back in the day, as they had the easiest means to do it and the most readily used excuses for 'mistakes.' If it's something more alchemical than that, you'll probably have to dig through what little documentation there is for the specific type of magic you want to use. Unfortunately 'magic' is an enormous subject and it doesn't appear that anyone has tried to separate and compile a dedicated section for it yet." Which is odd, considering just how much magic there is in Novus. Maybe he should bring the idea up to the scholars once the weather turns. It could make for a worthwhile project over the colder months, when the library and its hearths are more populated than ever.

"I've been trying to find and organize some materials on that front myself, mainly to do with natural magics and how to wield them, but it's all jumbled among the other subjects in offhanded entries and unexpanded snippets of observation. You could just as easily find the notion you're looking for in the diary of a sixteenth century schoolgirl as in a dedicated work." He sighs, already bracing himself for the annoyance that's likely to follow. "So far all I've found are a handful of unpleasant, firsthand accounts of magic being used in battle. Spearing the earth up from below an opposing army, sucking the air from their lungs, that sort of thing." He shakes his head.

"I wish I could be more help-" Ears slamming forward, his eyes suddenly widen with the shock of an idea. "Oh! Maybe the foxes could help you! You could whisper what you're looking for to them. I've never heard them speak, and I spend a fair amount of time here, so your secret would still be safe." Finally feeling like he's given her something to go on, he smiles. "They're very helpful. I'm Willfur, by the way."


"speaking"

@Sloane

☘

[Sloane]

Despite the fact that he is being the bigger person in this situation and choosing to apologize for his actions, Sloane does nothing of the sort. The idea of admitting that she was wrong is likened to weakness and Sloane will never admit to anyone that she is weak. Even if she might not feel at all comfortable here in the library, she would not show him, or anyone for that matter, that she felt uneasy. She had to make it look like she sort of knew what she was doing. Was that what her tough exterior and demeanor was meant to do?

But she is silent, using her magic to continue to sift through the book in front of her as he begins to speak. Who does he think he is? He’s assuming that she plans to use the knowledge that she’s after for some sort of evil. Evil ritual, poison, unleash a powerful curse. None of that is really what she’s after. What she finds strange, however, is that for someone who insists on being welcoming and unjudgmental, he sure is judging her motives. "Why do you assume I want to use it for some evil purpose? What if I wanted to shit glitter?" Her eyes stare at him sternly, even though she’s cackling inwardly. She was not the type who liked glitter, let alone wanted to shit glitter. Glitter was the one thing in this world that she hated more than anything. It got everywhere and it was nearly impossible to remove.

However, the next words that come from between his annoying lips are one hundred percent true. She is determined. She is so damned determined that she has already vowed to not leave this library until she finds exactly what she’s looking for, even if it might kill her in the process. She would let it slide that he still thought she was out to perform some sort of evil act when in reality, she was looking for something a little more sinister.

However, no matter how sound his train of thought is, Sloane refuses to compliment him. She refuses to acknowledge that perhaps, a cookbook might be what she is looking for. But then again, considering she’s looking for something between a harmless potion and creating matter, perhaps she is giving him too much credit.

But at this point in the conversation, the mule is beginning to talk way too much. His voice is starting to annoy the shit out of her. Not to mention, it’s starting to sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown “wah wah wah wah waaaaahhhhh”. His syllables are slurring together in her mind and it is making her skin feel as though it’s crawling with lice or some other evil sort of bug. Maybe it’s crabs, that’s sure as hell annoying. In fact, Sloane was sure that there simply had to be steam coming from each ear as the temperature of her blood began to reach boiling mad.

But just when she was ready to gather up the old book and let him talk to the wind while she went somewhere where she could actually hear herself thing, his volume suddenly grew loud with excitement. The quick snap of his ear to attention caught her attention and made her visibly jump. Head shot up as ears lay flat against her skull. What the fuck was this guy doing?

He was talking about some foxes, probably the same foxes that she had seen scurrying through the isles of the library. If there were anything like the fucking squirrels that lived on the island next to her own, she didn’t want anything to do with them. In fact, she had no intention of telling them what she was looking for.

When she looks over at him, she can only see that goofy, cheeky grin as he tells her that the foxes are very helpful and that his name is Willfur. Willfur. That’s a name she needs to put to a face so she knows not to bother him ever again. Already she’s lost a few IQ points while she’s been standing here. "Sloane." She supposed at the minimum, she could tell him exactly who he was talking to so maybe, like herself, he might steer clear of her. "Do you ever shut up?" As plainly obvious as it is, Sloane is not much of a talker in comparison to the mule before her. She only speaks when she has to and even that is not often enough.

Good god she had a splitting headache.

@Willfur