1965-07-19 - All's Faire with Poseys and Scrying Crystals
Summary: At the annual summer Booster's Faire, familiar faces cross paths. Flowers and flyers are handed out, no one loses an eye, and Mark Twain should have stuck Mickey Mantle into his story.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
tigra rogue strange 

It might be hot outside, but that doesn't keep folks from setting up their tents in Central Park. It's the fourteenth annual Booster's Faire. Different philanthropic groups around the city along with handfuls of smaller clubs from around the neighborhoods and borroughs attend. The boothes are of all sizes and shapes, some providing ample shade and some small enough to sit only one minder on the far side; think Lucy and her help-desk in the Peanuts. The trees spread their leaves above and most everyone has a drink in-hand.

He could be just about anyone on the street in his current get-up: blue button-down and black slacks, shined dress shoes, an ambling pace along the cement pathway and winding through the crowd. If Strange is annoyed, it's because people keep bumping into him. The curse of broad shoulders. He's looking for a certain stall in the entanglement of goods and ware-hawkers, one with crystals — actual, defacto scrying crystals…if you know what to ask for. They're always useful little things to have around when he wants a quick answer. As always, he's on the look-out for familiar faces within the throng and his eyes scan the footpath with lazy interest as he travels.

She could be just about anyone on the street in her current get-up: Broad brimmed hat, long lightweight trenchcoat, bare feet…okay maybe not just about anyone, given that those feet are furry. And clawed. And it's obvious if she has a top on under her coat that it's quite low coat, showing some white and orange fur there also. May as well mention the tail peeking out from under the hem of the coat. Okay, so she's not really like just about anyone else, satisfied? Are you happy now?

While being thus not on display while also being unhidden, Tigra strolls through the faire as well, not looking for anything in particular, just seeing what grabs her curiosity as she sips now and again from a bottle of Coke. She tilts her head at a familiar scent, and then starts working through the crowd in Stephen's direction.

Booster Faire, the very sort of thing to pull out the best and brightest from Columbia. The very broad spectrum runs from the brightly-colored girls in long dresses talking about peace all the way up to the Peace Corps, and those military folks more than likely to be recruiting for the latest cause, just as it may (not) be. Scarlett hands out flyers on behalf of one organization promoting the arts in Greenwich Village and for children in "less fortunate" circumstances. Hands-on workshops and donations of goods welcome, the folded papers say, and her general four hour stint of volunteerism is finally, utterly reaching its end. The flower girl of the riots from last year does much the same, offering up sprigs of delphinium or bellflower to anyone interested in receiving a floral blessing just in case they need the additional encouragement to participate. Another girl in a bright yellow dress hands out paintbrushes and those thick pucks of paint, encouraging brightening the neighborhood. Something along those lines.

She is not anyone but herself, the strands of her long hair entwined by gorgeous blooms — papery peonies and the last of July's roses. They form a stack red column against the palest of whites and creams, kissed at their hearts by deep violet-blue. The redhead speaks with those who ask and interposes herself in the way of another, avoiding the yellow-dressed girl from being squashed by someone not quite paying attention. "Have a lovely afternoon. Remember to spay or neuter your pets!" Yes, that group along with the ASPCA is just around the corner, talking about the delights of healthy animals in the city.

The Sorcerer is easy enough to track by scent; his is the singular melange of dry incense smoke and debonair woods in cedar- and wenge, with a spritz of grey musk and bergamot. Tigra's sure to find him within minutes if not less. His signature silvery temples are easy enough to spot through the crowd, given his height.

He hears a familiar voice amidst the throng, however, and looks to one side to spot the vibrantly-red hair to go with it — and flowers, of course, a well-picked riot of color to match. Meandering his way over to Scarlett and her compatriot, he offers the Bohemmiene a charming grin.

"Miss Scarlett. Can't say that I'm surprised to see you here. This seems your platform." He skims his gaze across the crowd once more before turning his attention back to her. "And what are you sharing with the crowd today?" A flyer is taken and read through. "Ah, a good cause."

With graceful steps Tigra is able to thread her way through the crowd with little jostling or bumping, though remains grateful for a lack of rocking chairs. She lets a side step past a non-observant pedestrian turn into a twirl that brings her up beside Strange, and offering a flash of a grin to Scarlett. "Lovely to see you both, but if I hear -one- spay or neuter joke, someone loses their eyes."

Who else in the world blends the scent of neroli, leather, and metal oil? Behind the fragrant bouquet of peony and heady rose, the darker citrus notes melt together on the pulse points. Scarlett stands out on behalf of that flaming braid reaching past her buttocks, but nonetheless, she makes no attempt to conceal herself. Being bait for any team is certainly her role in the world, all the more so when graciously stepping back to allow an alarmed bystander to dash off at a slower pace, and another series of victims to cross her path. A basket hangs over her forearm, and she sweeps a grandiose gesture, not fully a bow, at the Sorcerer Supreme. "Would you care for a stroke of inspiration or a flower, o wise master?" Amusement deftly lifts her almondine eyes, and the crackle of energy around her burns hottest in those green eyes truer than any shade a mortal ought to have. Humanity betrays her only there, looking askance, the smoldering emerald of its heart.

"Surprise? I think not," says the redheaded maiden, standing on her toes. "I am surely a shock to any who anticipate I leave the grounds of Columbia during the week." Her flyers are easily replaced, a sheet of neat prints hand-painted and sketched, handed off as needed. She offers that innocent lift of a smile to Tigra, and shakes her head. "Are delphinia more to your taste? No promise of avoiding licentious jokes. I'm channeling the very worst behaviour."

"Why not? I'll take a posey," the Sorcerer replies to Scarlett even as he glances up from the flyer in his hand to consider the red-head. Hmm. And who are we today…? He has his suspicions, but the well of collected souls runs more than bone-deep. Mayhaps the man will suss it out, perhaps not.

The arrival of his striped friend is enough to make him take a polite half-step sideways to grant her presence in their little conversation and he grins before chuckling at the commentary. "Miss Tigra, tsk. Such violence," he says chidingly, though with goodly amounts of amusement in his baritone. "I'll offer that there's nothing like an unfortunate twist of Fate to stand in for missing eyes. Say…a sudden fashion failure. Pantsing has been amusing since the creation of the clothing itself."

"Are those anything like dolphins?" Tigra asks about delphinia. "And I'm the last one to complain about being licentious, believe me." She decies to leave the subject of jokes there. "And I'm seldom opposed to one's worst behavior," she says with another quick grin. "Doctor. And no, just the potential for violence, not violence itself," she insists, before snickering softly at mention of pantsing. She's going to have to use that in her next fight, she thinks.

A tisket, a tasket, a Doctor-Sorc'rous basket!

No, he has to get his own damn basket. Scarlett refuses to offer her own up. She needs that, with her supply of flowers, and she pinches one of the thinnest blooms to proffer to the man keeping the dimension from imploding on itself. At least from outside situations, suffered by other matters. The neat flourish rolling her wrist brings the blade of the leaf neat to her thumb, and the drooping tumble of purple-blue blooms ready for the touch. "They are fresh from Chelsea."

The flower market, then, is announced. Yellow-dressed girl dances around to meet with others, and Scarlett slides the basket further down to her wrist, tucking it near to her body to shelter the basket from being knocked about. "Probably like, yes." Her grin slips uneven, dented at the corner of the rising arc of her mouth. "Twists of fate, ah. A risk, isn't there?"

Hey, the pantsing got a snigger out of someone present beside himself. Momentary adolescence assuaged, check. Man can't be perfect all of the time. He takes the proffered bloom with a little thankful nod of head to Scarlett and his eyes travel over it, noting the nuances of petal spread and color, veins in stem and leafing alike. The Witch will appreciate identifying it — a little distraction in a day that could run potentially testing. Who knows; theirs is the weird life.

"I rarely tease at the threads of Fate, but for a friend and to teach a lesson that stupidity garners unpleasant results? I admit that it's tempting," he opines to the two women present. "I have a feeling that you'll escape unscathed however, Miss Tigra, and neither of us will need to expend the effort. That being said, what brings you to the Faire?" he asks of the tigress.

"Subway, part of the way," Tigra answers immediately. "Then my feet the rest of the way. Nice walk, though I'm ready for summer to be over," she says, knowing that's not going to be anytime soon. She then smiles. "To properly answer your question, though, I'm just here to look around, see what things are about is all. Never know what might catch the eye, or who you might run into."

Never trust those flowers, especially the ones offered by smiling maidens from the deeps. Or at least the deep village, where any number of interesting pollens and powders could conceivably overwhelm the mind. Doubt never that someone would consider that, even if it's the cheerful bloke with a clean-shaven haircut hawking for the Army as opposed to the proto-hippies calling out for the beautification of dingy walls. Distilled beauty in the shades of violet will suit Strange, anyways. Blue is a fine colour for him. Just ask his Witch. Or the cloak.

"I have a difficult time believing that you would land other than on your feet," mentions the redhead, nodding to Tigra. "Take a look around. Plenty of friendly people eager to speak, and they will be happy to share their thoughts. Maybe even too much." There's that grin again.

The delphinium bloom will go home with him, along with the pamphlet praising the arts and encouraging them further. Better that than someone stirring restlessness in his neighborhood. The relative (if not occasionally warped) peace of Greenwich Village is something he appreciates regularly.

Tigra's two-pronged explanation is enough to garner another quick grin from the man. "You never know," he agrees. "I would think the heat would be trying with your…coat." The furred one, he means. A glance to Scarlett and he asks of her, "Did you come across a table with an older gentleman selling crystals? Red hair, though more blond than yours, a jumble of scars at one ear? He would have had them laid across black silk at a booth not much wider than…oh, so," and Strange holds out his arms to measure four feet or so. "He changes the name of his display every year to keep a measure of anonymity, but…he has the finest collection of scrying crystals this side of the Atlantic. I'm due to barter with him."

"It's been a long time since I fell flat on my face," Tigra agrees. "Literally, at least. Metaphorically, well things happen." She glances around the others in the area, coming, going, handing out flyers and so on. "It can be," she admits of the heat. "I'm glad I'm a tiger and not a snow leopard, though. With a coat like that it'd be hell on earth." She grows quiet to listen what Strange is looking for, head tilted with curiosity.

"A gentleman selling crystals? He went early. I apologize for that, but I am unsure on the reason why," murmurs the redhead, her hand gesturing to the further slip of the opposite corner of the Faire. A team effort to locate the tent in question or the lean-to over there; it could be very easy for someone to triangulate based off of that. "I thought to see him later on. But there's a gem and mineral show at New York University in another month or so." That much information trickles together, and she allows her thoughts to drift and wane like so much spindrift on a tumbling wave.

"I can imagine that having a heavy coat suited for the heat would be welcome."

"Hmm. Drat," Strange mutters, glowering across the sea of people passing by them and then down the lines of stalls. His gaze arrows in the direction of the red-head's point. "Still…I'll look again. He had an apprentice at one point and while it might be foolhardy for him to leave the stall in the kid's hands, the apprentice was doing well last I spoke with him in terms of proper salesmanship — knowing the quality of the stones and recognizing when he was being fleeced rather than the customer across from him."

Sighing, he looks over to Tigra once more. "Does your coat not allow any air to reach your skin? Pardon my assumption, but I figured that with your physiology being 'tigris' rather than 'panthera', the fur would still be suited for the sub-tropical regions."

"That's why I took the liner out of this one," Tigra says, shaking a flap of her trenchcoat lightly, and idly making a not eof the show at NYU. That might be interesting to go to, just to see what's there. "It allows some," she says with a nod to the doctor. "But let's be honest, there's weather where having no fur, no coat, or anything else, and you'd still be hot," she points out. "I'm not complaining though. Wouldn't give any of this up," she says with a grin.

An apprentice in an age and day. No such thing for the majority of workers, for whom their particular career track may take more twists and turns than anyone forced to live in one profession for the rest of their lives. Imagine, a career path! She wouldn't know a thing of that. "I imagine the loss of something of that calibre has an impact on the work you do. You wouldn't want something overly flawed." Her smile hangs faintly in the air, no more and no less.

She chuckles under her breath at Tigra's statement, and she inclines her head. "You'd know best on the matter of the coat."

"I remember the muggy days out in the Midwest. Sometimes, I'd take them over what we get there in the city. I can't imagine that you'd give up any of it, Miss Tigra. Why even consider it? You are still you, after all, even beneath the stripes." The Sorcerer then looks to Scarlett.

"Flawed scrying crystals are unfortunate things. Think of the worst television signal possible and then add in the potential for misinformation. 'Lies' isn't exactly the concept, but the flaws make for flawed viewing in turn. I wonder sometimes if some of the past mistakes of the earliest Sorcerers were due to instances such as this…"

"Someday, maybe I'll tell you about being me, or not me, under the stripes," Tigra says a touch quietly. She then snickers. "Oh great," she says. "I can't help but picture a crystal with a pair of rabbit ear antenna emerging from it." She mimes working the antenna trying to improve an imaginary signal on her unseen crystal. "If the weather's right, we can get the ballgame in Camelot."

The redhead shakes her braids, the snap of long flower-studded plait wound together. "Pardon me," she says, and withdraws from the pair to return her basket of blooms to the other volunteer patiently waiting for the lengthy period of time ahead of him. Nothing like being the guy with the flowers to toss to the ladies, right?

Strange gives the red-head a friendly wave as she scootches off to swap duties with the next sacrifical lamb — I mean, volunteer for the Faire's duties and the rest of his laughter bubbles up at Tigra's comment.

"I can tell you that baseball in Camelot was tried once to varying degrees of success. It was difficult when the outfielder was a dragon and catching the pop-flies invariably ended with the ball swallowed. Still, the runner was out regardless, I suppose." Carefully, he folds up his flyer to slip into one of the pockets of his pants. The delphinium remains in-hand, for where else to put it that it wouldn't be crushed or look odd on the man? No, he's not putting it behind his ear, as dashing of a Puck he might be in the end.

"Here, come along. We'll see if the stall is still up and whether or not Scry-Master Ori is present after all." The Sorcerer pauses before he rejoins the river of pedestrians to give the tigress a warm little smile. "And in regards to telling me about yourself? In your own good time, Miss Tigra. My offer for tea and talk always stands with friends." With that, he inserts himself into the meandering Faire-goers once more, his confident air enough to grant Tigra space to follow along.

"Sounds like good business for the ball makers, though," Tigra suggests, falling in step with him, weaving through the crowd easily. "Was Mark Twain there for that one? Maybe someone should do a sequel to Conneticut Yankee, but make it a New York Yankee instead. Yeah, have Mickey Mantle using his bat swing with a sword against a black knight. Best seller, right there," she says as they depart.

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