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Entry tags:

[OPEN]

Who: Charles Xavier & you.
What: Open post. Feel free to throw your characters at him.
Where: Mog Hill & Mafaton or somewhere in the central area of the city that your character is likely to bump into him.
When: Veerdi afternoon and evening.
Notes: None.
Warnings: None.

With no afternoon appointments and no one needing his immediate help at the Glory Shada (he is a counselor, after all, and they tend to keep more regular hours), Charles decides to slip away from work early in order to window shop around the city. It's mostly to look at furniture and other essential household items, although bookshops and strange trinkets inevitably end up catching his eye. Every so often he can be seen in shops, snapping pictures on his CiD, enquiring after prices and how long someone will be able to keep a reservation. Occasionally he'll wander into a cafe for coffee or tea on the go, more to warm up on a chilly Ruundary than anything else.

While walking, he lets his mind idle around, picking up and sifting through passing thoughts as he goes. Despite some friendly warnings to be cautious and his own recent encounters with the unforeseen forces of Baedal, he really can't help himself at times.

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Steph is coming home from her job at the university library, arms full of books, when she decides to stop for a coffee and something to eat. She's out of food at her room at the Inn, and doesn't feel up to grocery shopping tonight, so cafe food it is.

Armed with a large coffee and a slice of quiche and salad, Steph opens up one of the books she borrowed from work. Most of them contain information on Baedal, notes on history and politics. She's taking everything with a grain of salt, but it's better than being completely uniformed. She's not really paying attention to it, though.

Her thoughts are a mess, flashbacks from two nights ago combined with remembering what she saw the militia do and all piled on top of the general anxiety about being trapped in this city. Charles is free to pick up on these if he's nearby.

Clarice has, with her foghunting, made enough to rent herself a room; the inn is creepy, and she'd just as soon not stay there. She ends up in Mafaton a lot, still with her hood up more often than not - xenians may not be uncommon, and she's not ashamed, but sometimes she can do without being stared at.

But the sun comes out, a little warmer than is seasonable, and she can't help lowering it to let the sun warm her face. She's window-shopping too, and it's people's own problem if they decide to stare. Clarice remembers being a little girl in Miami, and getting much worse, before the world came crashing down around her ears.

The merchant selling throwing daggers, though, knows better than to scare away potential customers, and it feels weirdly normal, chatting about the merchandise in the open air. She's in a good enough mood when she turns, a little quickly, and hits Charles with her shoulder. "Oh - crap, sorry."

Stationed on a plush sofa at the back of one of cafe, Kate looks like a normal young woman studying a thick novel, reminiscent of a college textbook. But look closer and you would realize that she isn't turning any of the pages nor are her eyes moving side to side if she was reading the words on the page. Even closer inspection would reveal there's something else tucked into the book: a picture of a family in happier times, a husband and wife and their two daughters, dressed to the nines and smiling at the camera. It's her and her family, a time before the matriarch of the family is gone and the three others are left to pick up their pieces.

She's staring at the photo as if she can make time go backward or even get them to come here, but Kate knows that this is just wishful thinking she can't stop.

Balancing an uneven box of solar panel supplies on one hip, Alter stops in the middle of the street trying to regain her bearings. It's taking her longer than she'd like to get used to the ebb and flow of information in Baedal and it leaves her disoriented without the 'typical' landmarks she needs to navigate by. The CiD are lovely, it's true, but the lack of cellphone towers is just plain freaky.

Should anyone walk by, she'll look just like a young lady in need of a map.

While scooting about, a text finds its way to Erik's CiD.

I know I'm meant to be looking at furniture, but I quite like this set.

And a picture accompanies it.

At the moment, Will is still mostly thinking about apartments. The spider thing he was testing earlier today (he's apparently decided to call all the experimental vehicles after the most familiar animal reference now) apparently did a lot better than the lady who made it had been expecting, so Will got a bonus – which is good, because the two other things he was slated for today both failed very quickly, if unspectacularly. That means there's more time for scuttling around looking at apartments, after he goes back to the Inn and changes out of his flight suit.

It doesn't get him looked at oddly, around here, and it's not uncomfortable, but he's not sure how it'll look to prospective landlords. And, now that he's actually making some money, he's got a couple of changes of clothing that he picked out himself. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to pick up a couple more, if he can do it relatively cheaply, so he pauses to peer at a shop window thoughtfully. Probably a bit too high end for him.

He goes in anyway, wandering past the clothing to what seems to be a random collection of small housewares. He picks up a mug, and then pauses, looking at someone taking a picture of a set of dishes. “Asking someone's opinion?” he asks, less nosy than just wanting to talk to someone.

Walking through Mafaton, headed toward the pet store, Jay was planning on getting a few feeder rats. He considered, though, that he might like to get a snake as well, perhaps to flavor the rats to make them more appealing, if he had enough money. Although, he would feel a bit guilty doing that, seeing as they didn't usually have many snakes and they were really meant to be pets, not food. As he continued to consider this, the mental image of swallowing a rat snake while in his snake form floated to the top of his thoughts, and he realized it wasn't like the owner of the pet store would know what he wanted a snake for, anyway. Still, doing it too often would likely get a bit suspicious.

Reaching the window of the pet store, he peered in, remembering the post over the network reminding people that the pets were not to be eaten. He really should just stick to the rats, though that would be suspicious in and of itself.

There is a mind that clearly works different from the ones surrounding it. It's a complex structure of multitudinous thoughts, ongoing, never stopping. The stream of consciousness is combined with strong, visual images of the city, each of them accompanied by their own, distinct set of information. Some of these are more imminent, others tend to work subtly in the background, but all of this is there, seemingly out of nowhere, sorted, filed away, stored.

Sometimes there are moments of a certain structure and rigidity, which are immediately torn apart by chaos and distraction, fleeting inanities, undercurrents of memories, random contemplations and right now, some 80s music playing in the background.

Shawn himself can be found wandering the streets, awkwardly shuffling his hands around, seemingly overwhelmed by the task of eating a sandwich without having crumbs and chunks falling everywhere.

In one such cafe, there's a certain white-haired speedster waiting in line at the counter. For him, it wasn't the chill – he's used to that, and his mutation gives him a few degrees advantage besides – but the simple need for sustenance that necessitated the stop. It's been a few hours since he went out to explore the city, and as much as he dislikes eating at the snail's pace necessitated by doing so in public, he will need something before too long.

Luckily, this place carries some manner of bottled protein shake. Unluckily, he has to stand in the line behind every person ordering custom-made beverages who can't quite seem to decide what they want before he can pay for his.

So while he waits, he's running through segments of War and Peace in his head at the approximate pace of a chipmunk on speed, whilst intermittently considering where to look next for reasonably-priced clothing, whether molded plastics are common enough in the city that he can avoid the necessity of a metal watch, and if he can drink this at his natural speed without getting stared at or if he should fake it in this part of town.

The general sense Hermione's mind gives is of being crowded- thoughts inside thoughts inside thoughts, plans inside plans, ideas and ideas and more ideas- but shockingly well-organised. At the moment, there are, as usual, a thousand and one things on her mind- I hope Sebastian's going to be alright; I should buy more cat food; perhaps I'll have time to work on my translations this evening; the funny thing about Protean Charms is that they're as much a form of transfiguration as a charm...

She frowns, puts down her tea- because yes, this is what her mind is like even when she's trying to relax in a cafe- and reaches for a tiny little purse most would use to keep loose change in, shoves her arm in to the elbow without the purse seemingly growing at all and pulls out a notebook and pen. This is all completely matter-of-fact; the upside of Baedal is that magic is expected and largely unremarked upon, and she can use it without worrying about who sees her. Her plans to preserve ther thoughts for posterity, however, are unfortunately dashed by a lack of ink- and she has her hand halfway to her pocket before she realises that a repairing charm wouldn't work, that she's already used a refilling charm on it and another might not function very well, and that due to wizards not using pens she's never come across a way to conjure one. She could probably wave her wand and have words appear, but it's not actually something she's tried before due to the intense amount of concentration necessary and the relative simplicity in just finding a pen.

Blast.

It's this somewhat convoluted chain of events that leads to her trying to catch the attention of the young man who happens to walk by with a take-away cup of some hot beverage in his hand, her voice slightly apologetic but polite when she speaks. "Excuse me- sorry- you don't happen to have a pen on you, do you? Or a pencil. Anything, really."

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@Mog Hill [warning for violence/gore/death in the link]

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text;

Mog Hill, mid/late afternoon?

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i remember certain SOTG plans 8D

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