1963-09-07 - Cats of a Stripe
Summary: Two girls of a mystic bent meet in an occult bookstore.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
tigra rogue 


New York, New York, what a wonderful town. The Bronx is up—-let's not go there. The fact is, New York is an impressive city, and people from all walks of life, and variations thereof, come to New York to try for a better life, to peddle their wares, or just to experience broader horizons. Given that, it should be no surprise that of various "hole in the wall" type stores, there are some that carry a little bit more than what one might find at a five and dime in Topeka.

*

Once such place is a particular bookstore that's more than a bookstore. It's in a quieter part of town, the storefront is rather unassuming, the door a bit dingy, the window a little grimy, but it's the dirt and grime of life, and while the inside smells a little musty, it's the mustiness of old books and strange curios. Once inside, it goes surprisingly deep, and there's out of the way staircases pointing to other areas. There's shelves of books, some old, some new, some normal, some…would be chained in another story. There's also glass cases and cabinets, some with strange objects, some with more rare books.

*

As a courtesy to the store owner, Tigra dropped her human form enchantment upon entering, and currently browses along a row of books, wearing a cream blouse, tan pencil skirt and modestly heeled pumps. She has just enough experience with magic to know of some places like that, but not enough to be a major customer.

*

Who better to know the ins and outs of a five-and-dime than a student at Columbia who counts every nickel and dime against the cost of her tuition with almost pained misery? The bookstore, too, holds a certain allure for a scion of academia. Thus it's near and dear to her heart, on the first day of class, that such a shop ought to be spied among her search for a totally different place at a different address. The scrap of paper with a written detail in her pocket no longer has any purpose, crumpled and folded into oblivion. But she drifts inside with a deep, almost glad breath of coming home.

And a terrible sense of loneliness, one she does not express. Though it's there behind her long lashes, her sunglasses removed for the dim racks. Not the sunhat, though; she wears that broad-brimmed thing quite gladly. "Good afternoon," she murmurs to the proprietor and perhaps everyone, and without hesitation she drifts straight towards the European section such as it exists. Not Hermetic, nor Golden Dawn, nor any of those odd forms. There is a shelf, surely, that holds what she wants in a language not of English but one of its cousins broken off the staff about a millennium ago. Runes, furthark, staves; that's where she might be headed.

Though to be fair, a woman who is also orange and bewilderingly striped -might- halt the bohemian in her tracks. At least politely because she has to figure out a way past. "Ah, pardon." English? Maybe.

*

The proprietor, or at least the person working the old fashioned cash till, seems to be a small, wizened old man who's read a great many books. He also looks just slightly confused, though. Nonetheless, he returns the woman's greeting with an absent, if polite nod, before going back to his book.

*

It doesn't help that the aisles are somewhat narrow, all the better to cram more…stuff into it. "Hmm?" the woman says, glancing up from a row of old science journals. "Oh!" she says in realization, stepping closer to the shelf to flatten herself as best she can. Which is difficult for someone not very flat to begin with.

*

The only thing flat about Scarlett is her poor poppy; several of them adorn her braids, bright specks of soft orange and luminous red, lying almost two dimensionally upon her plait. She can sympathise, giving a bit of a grim smile tinged in rue. Boxes on the floor aren't going to help her either, and she sighs softly, the heady dust and must smell of any bookstore assaulting the senses. "Forgive me. There must be some other way back there, but I fear I would need a machete and a guide." She grips the narrow shelf on the opposite side for a handhold and tries to negotiate around Tigra, flattening herself against the pile of hardbacks and paperbacks, dislodging one or two. At least she can haul herself up, shimmying sideways in hopes of not causing any discomfort. Whether that happens is a matter of gravity.

"These places never are very wide, are they?" Lamentations of the scholar, no?

*

"I think it might be one of the universal laws of the best book stores," Tigra says in agreement, grunting a little as she tries to flatten herself further. Her tail's not being very cooperative, flicking about and bumping against legs, but at least keeping out from literally underfoot. "My first thought was to just climb up out of the way, but I didn't want to look savage," she admits.

*

"True. The better the store, the more disorganized and less visible the floor," Scarlett murmurs. She proves rather effective at clambering up and sideways, though preferably no one will look askance at her attempts to hop down. They're both lucky she wears tights or else that tail might /also/ be a feature of the given redhead. All the same she does waltz back and spin, potentially very ticklish. "I think fierce might be a better description than savage," she allows. A look up and down at the shelves give a sense of the contents, and she picks up two of the books knocked free by her moving by.

*

"Sorry about the tail," Tigra offers once the needle has been threaded. "Has a mind of its own sometimes." She crouches down to help with knocked over books. "And thank you," she says, flashing a quick grin that reveals a hint of fang. "I think fierce is a much nicer thing to be called from savage. Nonetheless, might have been off putting." She glances towards the front, where the owner sits, though his view is blocked by a wall. "Last time I did that, to get to a book on a top shelf, he told me to stop. And I don't know -how- he saw me."

*

"Oh, no, it's quite a charming tail. I mean no disrespect, I am merely ticklish." It's near enough to the truth as the faulted fractures in her soul resonate to the close possibility of theft. She puts back several books, wedging them into the overstuffed pile. "I have no idea how they manage to fit so many in there. It's a portal to Oz hidden behind these, I am fairly sure of it." Her gaze flicks to the proprietor, her hat tilted sharply back to the point of being almost edge on, rather than at an oblique angle. "I suspect he is watching us even now. No doubt I'll be scolded for standing on the shelf. Bad girl and all that. Are you a regular here? I have only the faintest guess where to find anything on the Eddas and… ah, well, I doubt there will be much except I need all of the next century to sort through what is what."

*

"Ahhh, doubly sorry, then," Tigra says with a sympathetic smile. "I don't know if there's many worse ways to lose your dignity than getting tickled." She pauses a beat. "Worth it though, with the right person." The smile fades a little. "Hm? Oh, yes. That wouldn't surprise me, actually. The portal, I mean. It's as likely as some of the things I've seen here. Most of it's not anything I have business reading, though." She glances around a moment. "I've been here once or twice, so I can help you look. Uhm, Eddies?" she asks, unsure. "I think one has a single father."

*

Cat tails cause all the world's woes. Napoleon's loss at Waterloo? A stray cat tail. The fall of the Roman empire? Fuzzy wuzzies among the Gauls. Who can resist the swish swish of a furry tail that led to the Communist uprising in Russia?

A portal being real should take the girl aback, but oddly she just smiles. "What is the oddest thing? Books that bite, actual book wyrms that breathe fire and cause headaches?" A trace of her fingertips spin through an obvious mudra, one that has no force behind it to do anything. Yet. But she has a halfway decent start in action, even as she allows her hand to drop to her sides. "Divination," she says softly. "I figure that should be a useful start." An explanation is forthcoming: "The Eddas are the poems of Nordic Europe, the Vikings and such. They tell how to perform certain divinations and charms."

*

"Oddest for whom, though?" Tigra responds, bit of humor returning. She watches the traced mudra, her tail giving a brief flick. "Mm. Didn't think you were just a casual book lover," she notes. "So for us two, a book that bites might not be all that odd." Lips twitch as she fights an urge…and then gives in. "I guess if you could divine where it was, you wouldn't need it, would you? Uhm, think there's some old English works a little further down, around that corner there," she says, gesturing towards the end of the aisle. "Nordic might be nearby. You're a practitioner, then?"

*

"I love the spirit behind the books, and the wisdom contained therein, for there is a joy moving beyond the years, passing through the veil of time, to unite me with all the minds gone before and yet to come." Scarlett probably quotes someone there, the lilting flow of her words easy upon the ears.

The recommendation for old English and then Norse gives some sense of hope, and she drops her shoulders just a fraction to allow for relief to seep through. A tiny bit, but enough to matter. "I think it makes as good a starting point as any. German might be the next choice, but I cannot read German very well. Ah, I'm not sure what I constitute. Curious, at this point. I stand so far back on the path I might get to call myself a practitioner in a few hundred years." A tease, clearly because she's not more than twenty and change.

*

Tigra tilts her head at what appears to be a recitation. "Who said that?" she asks, curious. "That has a vaguely Ben Franklin air to it, doesn't it?" She grins a little. "I can read a very, very little bit of German, myself. I've thought about learning more, but, well, haven't taken the time. Wouldn't say I'm a practitioner either, honestly. I've…well, I've done a ritual here and there, following the instructions of others, but that's all."

*

"Me." Ben Franklin, Scarlett No Name. "Though I suppose there is an air to it of Churchill or Franklin. I can mostly understand guten in German, and days of the week. More than that, nein." She shakes her head, and eases back. "I think you have a good sense of humour for someone who does rituals. Most who do seem very prone to wearing flappy, heavy robes and chanting in odd tongues."

*

"Really?" Tigra says to the answer. It's not meant to be skeptical, but more curios. "Definitely a profound way of looking at books. It's something I've felt, but never put into words." She tsks lightly at the talk of robes and makes a flicking gesture with one hand. "Heavy robes and fur? Definitely not my style, thank you. At the time I wore quite a bit less than I am now." She now offers a smile and her hand in formal greeting. "I'm Tigra, by the way."

*

"Scarlett," replies the young woman. She reaches out her own hand, gloved in white, complete with charming pearl buttons at her wrists. Useful when dealing with delicate books, she might even win points from the proprietor for taking such care. "Heavy robes seem to be quite the thing, nonetheless. I saw some fellows running around in heavy ones."

TBC

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