multiversallogs | your highness your ways are very strange

It's a bit of a wet morning for it, with rain having come down in a fine mist when Xenophilius had first gotten to work, but has since dried up. It's left the earth moist and cool, the leaves of the vegetable and herb plans clung to by beading moisture, and saturates the air with the smell of the garden. The wizard kneeling amongst the plants has dirt on his palms and beneath his nails, streaking the knees of his trousers, but he also couldn't be more content. The gardening implement in his hand rakes the ground so that he can dump wayward weeds into the pile he's made at his side, and white-blonde hair clings to his brow more from recent rain fall than perspiration -- he works like it's leisure.

The humming can be heard at garden's edge, and it's obvious he is in his own little world.

As the Valhalla's night clerk, Fish should have left work some hours ago, but, rather than just shovelling a bunch of eggs into his maw and leaving as soon as possible, this morning he decided to hang around for the continental breakfast in a properly social way. This meant getting into a frankly amazing conversation with a man with a mantis arm, and so he's not even remotely regretting his decision. The people he meets here are so cool, seriously.

Sadly, however, he forgot his sunglasses at home today, and so as he trudges through the yard he is both squinting and attempting to shield his eyes with one hand. His hood is up, and his sleeves are pulled right over his fingers. If he had a bandana he'd be wearing that too. Alas. And yet, despite his apparent allergy to the sun, he stops to take a look at what this gent is doing. Wet sneakers in the grass and all.

"Hey," he says, by way of greeting. He could just walk on by, but...whatever, he's feeling extra friendly. Call it overcompensation for his fear of the recent anti-cruorvore activities.

Looking up in his distraction, Lovegood squints against the sun himself, ever so slightly cross-eyed gaze taking its time to seek out Fish's. The occasional streak of dirt on his face and in too-white hair is a little disproportionate to the amount of work he is actually doing-- namely, weeding-- but he seems happy enough, and offers the young man a bright smile.

"Hello," he says. He's not an uncommon sight in the Valhalla Inn, having finally gotten the courage to explore the outer world of this strange place and once that started, staying out for wanders that could last hours, but ever returning. He'll sort himself out eventually.

Or get kicked out, one of those things. The weeds are more concerning for him, at the moment. "This garden is shamefully free of gnomes, did you know?"

"Uh... no, I didn't." You'd think Fish would be used to the random kinds of things people will say in a city like Baedal, having lived here for months now, but it still catches him off guard sometimes. He is, however, getting better at just rolling with it. "Is that bad?"

"Perhaps. I suppose it depends on what was done to the sorry little blighters."

But Xeno smiles pleasantly enough, bright and sudden, rising up to his knees and pushing his hair back from his face so as to acknowledge the presence of another, holding awkward the weeding tool. "You come here at night, I think. It's a nice place, you should give my regards to the management. My name is Xenophilius Lovegood."

Well, that sure is a mouthful. Fish finds this fellow's overall manner somehow calming (well, so far), and although he hasn't felt much like smiling lately he has a go at one anyway. It ends up looking affected, sure, but the sentiment is...kind of there.

"I'm Fish." In lieu of shaking hands, he just nods; that seems to suffice for most people. "And yeah, I work the night shift. I'll tell the boss lady what you said, she'll like that... um, so you're not working here, you're just doing this... just because?"

Doing this? Xeno glances down at himself, around, his hands, which he then wipes off a little on his coat, tumbling looser dirt off his palms. "It seems that I am," he says, then properly getting to his feet in the slightly haphazard, gradual way that tall people do, taking care to mind the plants he's surrounded by.

"I keep plants at home, sensitive ones, and seeing as I can't very well tend to them--"

He gestures vaguely, his smile ever-present and mild, as if he put it on and forgot about it. "Fish. It's nice to meet you properly, of course. I hope no one minds, this, I just thought the weeds were getting on."

"Nah, I'm sure it's okay. You seem happy, and it's not like..." What, it's not like you're wrecking things? That seems a little harsh, especially since the dude is smiling like that. He's been trying to stay positive lately; now would be a good time to practise that. "I mean, it's good for the garden and stuff, so." Nice save, expert conversationalist.

"Where're you from?"

Fish stands about 5'7", by the way, and therefore feels sort of miniature right now. But that's okay, he's used to it.

And at 6'2", Xenophilius is quite used to be the tall one, especially seeing as he comes from-- "England. Devon, to be specific, but I don't expect to meet many who've been down that way." He could specify that he comes from exclusive and secluded wizarding societies, hence the-- the everything, really, but explaining himself isn't something that comes very second nature.

"And yourself? Unless, of course, you're a native."

He seems surprised to hear the name of a country he recognizes. Gosh, there sure are a lot of people from Earth in this cohort. Nice people, too. He sort of wishes he'd come in along with them in the first place, instead of those other jerks...but that's a mope for another time.

"Um, I'm from America. It's been...almost a year, I guess, since I got here. And I've never been to England, but I always wanted to go." And now he never will oh god the angst of it all.

Edited 2011-10-22 00:06 (UTC)

A year.

Xeno's smile sort of wans at the edges at the concrete evidence as to the concept that he could be here for quite some time, caught up in silent studying of Fish as if to try and detect whether this is good or bad. It's an awkward place for a stop of silence, hands knitting together as his thoughts haphazardly navigate around applying such a situation to himself.

He starts, then, when he reminds himself he is, indeed, having a conversation, and says the first thing that comes to mind, seeing as it's already pressing on his own;

"Did you have much family back in America?"

"Yeah." This subject is kind of depressing, he thinks, but buddy here wouldn't have brought it up unless it were weighing on his mind—and it must be, given how he looked just now. Poor guy. Since Fish likes to be accommodating when he can, he'll go along with it. It's an innocent enough question, anyway, and he doesn't seem bothered to discuss it. "Well, not a whole ton of them, but... my parents, my brother. Cousins and stuff. And some friends."

He's looking down at his shoe, now, and performing an incredibly clichéd gesture while doing it, too: the toe of said shoe gently pokes and scuffs at the ground. "It's kinda hard without them. But it's like...better, in a way, since they're not here. I dunno if my mom could handle this place." Thinking about his mother is actually incredibly painful, but one wouldn't necessarily know it to look at him; he's got that deadpan down pat.

"How 'bout you?"

"I suspect my daughter would take to this place quite well," Xenophilius says, by way of answer to the question politely put back to him - and it's the only family he sees fit to identify. There's no point in not seeming a little sad about the separation, for all that it hasn't exactly sunk in yet, but it doesn't make pleasantries seem insincere, same goes with the mildly crooked smile he has as he adds; "She's just out of school, now, so I'm sure she'll get on fine regardless."

He leans down, then, to pick up the handful of weeds he's torn from the ground, shaking them off a little of loose dirt before moving to set them into the pile collected for disposal on the pathway. It's a practical thing to do, but also a good distraction from the topic he's stumbled into.

"I was given a photograph, though, when I came here, so that was kind."

"Well, that's good." He's not trying too hard to sound upbeat, so this little attempt at optimism shouldn't come off as phony, he hopes. Either he tries gently to steer this conversation away from where it seems to be going, or he leaves awkwardly—and he's been trying not to do that so often. So.

"I've noticed a bunch of other people finding folks they already know too, or I mean, knew from before. You're pretty lucky that way."

This is Xenophilius' kind of place.

He sits inside with his second cup of coffee drunk from, a few tattered books and magazines at his elbow for perusal, and what seems to be a few sheaths of blank parchment, an ink well and a quill in his hand. Happy to be out of the way and otherwise content, his intention is to write. Currently, however, he is looking at the ceiling-tall aquarium with either intent interest in the starfish and other creatures inside, or his mind has gone off on some other tangent entirely, and that's just where his eyesight landed.

Ink drops from quill tip, ruining his page, and gaining his attention. It's dabbed up with the sleeve of his jacket.

A wind slams sharp down the street, catching Xenophilius off-guard.

Loose leaf publications come flooding from his hands, whispering down the sidewalk, drawing a wince from the wizard as he starts off after them, crushing what he'd managed to hold onto beneath an arm. A few are snatched up off the damp concrete, moving as if to leap frog from page to page, before he remembers he is, you know. Magical. Struggling his wand from the pockets of his coat, he flicks it impatiently in the direction of scattered news pages. "Accio journalism!" It mostly half-succeeds -- some of them stop and drift on back in fragmented fluttering, while others languish where they've landed.

"At least that cuts the wheat from the chaff," he mutters, as he goes about collecting up the strewn pages.

It's practically instinct - when he sees the papers go flying, McCoy pivots in place and gathers up the ones that have fluttered down by his shoes, though some of them have gotten wet. He doesn't miss the display of magic, and he's caught off-guard, wide-eyed, still holding the papers out to the blond man.

Xenophilius doesn't notice, at first -- he moves from page to page of the scattered publications he'd summoned in zigzags, snatching them up and out of order, disregarding the messiness of the stack being collated beneath his arm. His wand is still held, somewhat absently -- it's a strange thing even by wand standards, made of a pale, ashy grey wood and carved almost like a unicorn spiral, coming to a tip.

He pauses, then, seeing McCoy and almost confused when his ever so slightly cross-eyed stare lands on the pages clutched in the strangers hands. Then, he brightens, bustling on over.

"I've a charm that'll put them in the right order, if I can remember it," he adds, holding out his hands to accept the papers in fistfuls. "Might get a bit awkward with their wetness, but now -- thank you kindly."

He sees the wand, puts two and two together - this must be what Sebastian meant by other magic users. The ones who use wands to cast those Patrony-whatsits, instead of their own blood. Though it's hardly the first time he's seen magic used since arriving in the city, it still makes his mind rebel.

"Yeah," he replies, handing over the papers to the other man to take, still a little baffled by what he'd seen. "You're a wizard?"

The pages are taken with another muttered phrase of gratitude, the movement loud with rustling as Xeno tries to manage them and his wand and ignoring the on and off breeze funneled down this street. That question, though, has him remembering the other man's immediate presence, head up and off-gaze a little guarded before he allows an uncertain smile to form.

He's still getting used to that kind of question.

"I am, sir, indeed. You aren't one, then?"

"No. I'm a doctor." Because, clearly, being a doctor and being a wizard are mutually exclusive existences. "What was that thing you did? That - ack-ee-o thing?"

"The summoning charm."

This won't be a first, for Xeno, but it is still new -- being able to share details, or even broad strokes, of his wizarding heritage with those who have none. It is a thing that evokes shyness but also a little bit of thrill and anxious keenness with the novelty, his wand brought up a little to show while his other arm pins down the messy bulk of pages to his chest. (And never mind that he's the one who used magic in full view of the world -- he's used to the enclave of wizard-only communities.)

"Simple little spell, really, but very useful. I've been told about doctors -- that's a sort've Muggle healer, isn't it? The ones that cut people open and things." He sounds more interested than judgmental, as he extends the arm that holds his wand. "Accio sports page." The errant page whispers up off the ground, snatched from the air mostly by being impaled by the wand that brought it.

McCoy notes the wand, the way it's carved and curls like a narwhal horn, and it's sort of pretty, in a weird way. He keeps an eye on it, not sure what it can do, but not wanting to get on the wrong side of it.

"We don't cut people open anymore." Beat. "Not in my time, anyway. Got to, here, with the damned level of technology availab - " And then the sports page zooms right onto his wand, with more accuracy than can just be blamed on the wind. "It just zoomed to you!"

Well, he wasn't going to read that section anyway. Or, he was, but.

Xeno glances at McCoy, almost surprised by the wonder been given his way, as opposed to the other way around, and his smile is unassuming and bright. "That is what it was meant to do," he clarifies gently, before shaking the page off his wand with a rustle. "I don't have much of that, generally. The technology. But a wand is a good thing to have.

"But you knew of wizards before, did you?"

"Not before coming here." He's still gawking, unable to believe his eyes. Seeing the magic LeMat had done was one thing, but this is another entirely. It's all completely fucking incredible (in the sense of the word that he cannot believe it) but it keeps happening. "We don't have magic in my world. We have science."

"Oh, sir, I wouldn't be too sure of that. Conversely, perhaps my world has science too, and I just didn't notice."

Xenophilius has his 'reasonable' voice on, which sounds just as meandering and wandering as the tone previous, his ever so slightly unfocused gaze settling on McCoy's as he waves his wand in emphasis. "I haven't met many wizards, here, just people who seem to know about them a little. And you're my first doctor."

If there's a difference in tone, McCoy hasn't been able to pick up on it; the man sounds just as la-de-da as he did before, but now he's waving that wand around and he can't help but flinch away. Thus far it hasn't done anything like explode, but God knows it might at any second.

"What do you go to?" he asks, horrified and intrigued. "If you don't have doctors?"

"Healers." Which, apparently, is a significant difference to doctors. Xeno's smile is small and polite, rocking his weight up onto his toes, then back down onto his heels. "No slicing and dicing of anyone involved -- they use magic, potions, charms, et cetera! We have whole hospitals full of them, but you know--"

Because he can't be a reliable ambassador the whole time. "I prefer to use my own remedies. Even our healers are a little closed minded about what can be beneficial for the human body and brain. I've done quite a bit of research in my magazine, but I don't think they subscribe to it." There's the tiniest of self-aware smirks at the corner of his mouth, but it's a buried piece of punctuation in the la-de-da story of Xeno's expression.

"But I don't know if that would interest Muggle healers much, even ones that don't cut people up."

...magic, potions, and charms. Maybe it's just because he hasn't seen it in action (because honestly, the magic he has seen ... is kind of impressive), but it sounds like using faith, trust, and pixie dust to McCoy. His raised eyebrow makes it clear how he feels about it.

"Dare I even ask what kind of home remedies you use."

Xeno is oblivious to this cynicism, an arm going out to urge McCoy further towards the building fronts so that they can best stand and converse in the shade as well as out of the way of the wind. "Oh, nothing outrageously outlandish. But the saliva of the common garden gnome is enormously beneficial, and people should not be so quick to treat common bites. Gurdyroot tea infusions are, I'm quite convinced, excellent for victims of poisonings and toxin-related sickness.

"And Dirigible Plums greatly enhance one's ability to accept ideas and free up the ability to think. I grow my own, back home. I haven't really discovered what sort of magical plantlife Baedal has to offer."

He moves closer to the building with the other man, and the words crazy fucking hippie wizard are ricocheting off the inside of his skull like so many tiny, doubting bullets.

What the fuck are dirigible plums?

"Sorry - what?" He stares at the light-haired man with a look that is a combination of confusion, distress, and - yes - horror. "I have never - did you say - garden gnome saliva? The little plastic thingers in my grandma's yard?"

"No, real ones."

His hands kind of position themselves to show the approximate height of the average garden gnome, the crossy-eyed nature of his gaze wandering back to McCoy's and a little hesitation and doubt creeping in that this is making the impact that Xenophilius would hope it to make. His hands fold together, smile fixed but uncertain.

"Which, I am sure, sounds impossibly ludicrous to Muggles such as yourself-- that's non-magic people. But I assure you, there is much in the world just ready to be believed."

"Real ones." That's definitely flat doubt in his voice. "Real versions of the little plastic thingers that my grandma had in her yard. And their saliva is useful."

Saliva as a useful thing is not foreign to him. Garden gnome saliva is.

"Yeah, it kinda does sound ludicrous. Do they still have the little hats?"

"Well, one would assume that wee statues are made to model after something else," Xeno offers, mildly, hands still locked together but head tilting in some gesture. "In the same way stories hold a little truth to them, rumours beginning somewhere. You must look past what is initially apparent, doctor."

A beat. What were they talking about? Oh right-- "I suppose they'd like hats, wouldn't they? I don't think it would tamper with the effects of the saliva much."

"No," McCoy agrees, still clearly in over his head but flailing for the surface anyway, his confusion apparent in his eyes and in the rapidly deepening furrow of his brow. He has, he realizes, lost complete control over the conversation, because now they're apparently discussing the effect that hats have on saliva and what has his life become. "No, I don't think hats do, normally."

He checks his CiD for the time. "Uh, listen, I gotta get back to Hellsing. It's been... " A hesitation. "A conversation with you, Mr. Lovegood."

"Hellsing!"

Oh no, that sounds dangerously close to a renewed conversation. "You as well, then? The Guild of Battling Preternatural Horrors." This is recited with an almost schoolboy-like interest, hands pressed together despite the crush of his journalistic literature to his chest. "I dare say you'll encounter a bit more magic than a simple Summoning Charm, but if you have any questions, I've already informed Hellboy he is free to contact me."

At least, actually, Xeno feels prepared to let McCoy extricate himself.

"Yeah, I've come across some of it," McCoy agrees cautiously, not sure if he should get more into this just in case it leads to talking to Lovegood longer. He's still confused as hell over Patronawhatevers, but he suspects that if he asked him, he would be even more confused, and probably angry, too. "I'll be sure to let Hellboy know if anything crops up that I can't understand."

This is a lie.

[ OOC: Surprise me, if nothing suits! I can make most things work. ]

your highness your ways are very strange

a morning // valhalla inn

/sneaks in late

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STILL THE LATEST, hello

\ oAo/

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an afternoon // queequeg's

a noon // streets of mog hill

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god, my lateness everywhere.

it's okay, i'm really slow too.

ok that made me gigglefit.

happy to help

??? // ???