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asklepios) wrote in
multiversallogs2011-12-27 04:34 pm
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( closed ) there are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth;
Who: "Vanessza Bernát" and Lucius MalfoyBenevenuta has always enjoyed the wintertime for the things mortals and immortals alike to choose to mark (or not), but modern celebrations are still a relatively recent introduction to her life; watching their invention by the Victorians was one thing, but reemerging in the late forties to discover that they were apparently 'ancient' had been a cute moment. The point being, it doesn't much bother her to go without and after she's sent out her small gifts (Ayse got a bigger jar, of whiskey and apple jelly) and sifted through the jewelry box that arrived for Catenrat (she needs to buy a better lock for it, she thinks), she's more or less done for the season 'til New Year's and unconcerned about it. She'd call her father, some years, but not every single one and it isn't so strange to be mostly alone.
What: An encounter in a bookstore.
Where: ...a bookstore.
When: After Christmas.
Notes: One day Benny will wear a color.
Warnings: None as yet.
There's any number of clichés about her kind, that way.
So, in hat and gloves and coat with sensibly flat shoes, she's investigating the offerings a bookstore that is not currently in the throes of a post-gifting sale (it's quieter than some others which are, and she doesn't feel the pressing need to get up close and personal with everybody who wants a copy of the latest Baedal publications) and carrying her scarf in hand, sifting through the history section with a few titles already under her arm.
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The last couple of years had held a distinct lack of wintry merriment, which doesn't mean Lucius can't feel its absence as sharply as he pleases. He had been quite determine to ignore the cohort invite and neglect to listen to nonsense about cats and rats. With exception to a bottle of red sent off to the Malfoy townhouse with a curt little note signed with his name, the one acknowledgment he had made was to rake blunt fingernails in wonder over the blank span of skin where twisted white scars had once been. Even if the ones at his other arm were fresher and slow to heal in his age, the rats had taken the correct markings.
But in truth, he remembers Christmas as family dinners with distant relatives and more societal banquets and dances, the wizard brand of nobility filling up the season with bright lights and food slaved over by long-fingered house elves and insincere courtesies and the ceiling charmed to fall intangible magical snow from the chandeliers. How he had complained about it all, when it suited him.
The bookstore is a nice neutral kind of place. There had been a title in the library he had wanted for himself, and this was seemingly the only store in Baedal (of the ones he had bothered to explore, anyway) that had pledged to obtain a copy for his purchase, so upon entering, he makes for the front desk. His garb is black on grey and only distinctive in the cut of his coat, long enough to swing near his heels, sleeves generous and loose, and long blonde hair makes stark rat tail tendrils along black-clad back. The man working the desk obligingly hands over the requested volume, Lucius taking it and not immediately paying for it; he has all the time in the world and so, he will browse, and continue building his mental fortress with even more texts to occupy his hours.
Hands gloved in lambskin leather and cane missing from his person (as he has taken to storing his wand in the deeper inner pocket of his coat, sometimes), he moves further inside, hands to himself and eyes on the titles crammed thickly together.
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Well-- mostly without interruptions. Her greeting is quiet when they don't bump into each other in one of the aisles, but pleasant and open without expectation. "Hello," she says, taking a step to the side to make sure she isn't in his way if he's going to give her the dismissive nod; not so far or so quickly that it'll be awkward if he doesn't.
The delicate balance she maintains does take a fair amount of cultivation, yes, thank you.
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And down towards the books in her arms. This isn't a nod of dismissive. "For yourself," he deduces. It's sort of like a greeting. "Otherwise it is said you may secure last minute guilt purchases between Eve and the New Year, or whatever counts for it.
"Good afternoon," is remembered.
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That's kind of her, though, to set a portion aside. Kindness being a thing that never ranked a high priority to give or to receive, but it's not unwelcome.
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"I had one for him already," she demurs with blithe smoothness, so readily that it's not immediately clear that (while truthful) she is, in fact, making a joke. That happens.
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He doesn't wish to explain to strangers the nature of friendship with Malfoys who are not him.
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Then, "For a lot of us, I suspect." What with so much of their cohort being so new.
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It's neutral agreement, but also correction. Not everyone is alone in general, the season aside. And considering he didn't get such a bad haul himself, all things considered and despite his own quasi-refusal to respond in kind, Lucius could probably stand to stop including himself among the more tragic.
But why would he do that.
"There is always next year." So it would seem. "You seem considerably well-adjusted for someone friendlessly transported into a new dimension." He says this and begins to move a little, continuing short browse down the aisle without completely walking away.
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"A useful response. Was departure ever willing?"
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"Ah, not the first time. But I could come and go, you see, so it was...more interesting than inconvenient."
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Lucius' tone says that he finds this an understatement, or that Vanessza is understated. Her acceptance of magic and potions, mild interest being a thing he would not attribute to a Muggle, even one from whatever walk of life lies beyond dimensions he's experienced. Fear, perhaps, is expected, cool aversion. Wonder and awe. He certainly knew some of that upon coming here.
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He bites back at least ten pessimistic things to say.
"And what are you learning?"
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There's a wide range of histories and cultures to choose from; she's trying to pin down what's most prevalent in Baedal itself, but understanding that sometimes seems like trying to clasp oil in her hands.
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There are many. He glances down at his own book. It is picked up due to its familiarity, in contrast - authored by someone from his own world, or at least somewhere very much like it, an unremarkable text about remarkable things, but nothing strange or new to him. "I seek what I know, but I can and shall make the unflattering excuse of age."
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"I think - I have always thought, the best way to understand the place where you stand is to understand how its history is perceived." And by who. It's why she has so many history degrees, from so many different places and times; the perception changes, era to era and place to place, and she doesn't study it to lord her experiences or to refresh her memory, she does it to examine the thought that shapes the discussion. To learn from it; to understand what's valued and why.
Maybe that's true of people as people, too, and not just people as patterns.
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Ever. "Baedal has history? I had not noticed," is glib.
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That almost gains a hint of a smile as well, a ghostly impression of one. Any more than that and his face might crack. "But admirably researched all the same, demoiselle.
"And so we have this place, seemingly created little over half a millennium. You may find the answers of when and what, but the most literature I anticipate you'll find of why is that ghastly little pamphlet they leave us with upon arrival."
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He doesn't quite shrug. "But I suppose it earns its place, given another five hundred years. No one told us why with regard to our own homes either."
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Baedal is less than a century older than Benevenuta herself. It's an odd thought.
"But-- I don't find it that way, I suppose. I wonder if that's my luck or yours, hm?"
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From more sacred and treasured scrolls kept guarded by the academics of his own community, through to the Holy Bible, and down to the pompously written pamphlet in the green tiled room, Lucius won't be citing anything written by some third, mortal party as a reason for his walking the earth, or randomly appearing in it, as the case may be.
It's hardly worth articulating, truly. "I do not consider myself fortunate, so you may have it, as you wish. Whatever wiles away the hours spent here."
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And growing smaller, if some of the rumours prove to be correct. There's a dreary thought. This whole conversation is dreary, actually, and seems to occupy so much of Lucius' dialogue when he isn't debating business and numbers with Severus the Younger, the monsters in the mist with his other set of colleagues, or the immediate family of Wizarding Britain with the people within it.
"If you uncover anything optimistic, consider sharing your findings with me," he offers, instead, in that drawling tone of tolerance for the hopeful as he takes a book off the shelf to read its front. "I did make one discovery, myself."
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It's not that she's relentlessly cheerful, it's just that upon examination, she doesn't seem to ever shake.
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"I have yet to find another purpose for optimism but to amuse," he notes, blithely, as he flips open the book to see if it has anything of relevance, or happens to be the kind of text that Lovegood would obsess over and quote at social gatherings. Perish the thought.
The pictures aren't unlike what he sees in the fog, at least. But to answer her question, he closes the book. "The vintage. Whether wine is magicked in from other planes or the fog hasn't corrupted the vineyards, I'm not certain, but there's a place in Aspic I am attempting to frequent and develop a habit for, and their house red is usually reliable. I could show you."
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...she's choosy.
"Do you play billiards at all?"
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He decides to put the book back. A Muggle's descriptions of animals he may or may not have seen fail to inspire, and Lucius is more interested in the magical properties of the fangs of a two-headed dinosaur are rather than urban myth and rural legend. "Because you could attempt to persuade me if so."
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Not that he's wary of anyone-- seeing him banter with a Muggle. But it's almost a compulsive instinct. "When suits you?" comes out more curt and conscious than he intended.
[ idk why i deem this better but at least i wrote it while awake? sry. ]
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"The end of the week would be fine. Veerdi." 'Going native'. She's been doing it for decades.
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It's helpful, being self-employed - nearly any day will do. Why the universe saw fit to give Lucius Malfoy that much control over his own existence is a mystery, but considering how he began, it can only improve, or limp along in discontent equilibrium. Amused scrutiny is tolerated, offering no more argument than a raised eyebrow, before Lucius consciously steers his attention back to the book in his hands.
The one he had come here for in the first place. "I'll leave you to your books," he says, "and allow the cashier to overcharge me." He steps back, then, to allow her her browsing, and to follow his own path back to the store front.