2023.12.01: Bob and Lyra Meet
| Bob and Lyra Meet | |
|---|---|
| New arrival Bob is sipping Mocha in Roasters when he meets enigmatic Lyra and learns to avoid becoming a Toad | |
| IC Date | December 1st, 2023 |
| IC Time | Evening |
| Players | Bob, Lyra |
| Location | Prospect Roasters |
| Spheres | Mage |
Mid day coffee is never a bad idea.
And from the density of patrons in here? The majority of the Prospect University population agrees. The store is filled with students and other unaffiliated adults milling about. Waiting in line, sitting in place, hanging out with friends or business partners... And then, there is a space of the shop which is largely empty. A sort of social desert. A darkened corner of the place... At least comparably to the rest of it. In that corner there sits one woman who, even amidst the dense crowd of patrons in the space at large, attracts an undeniable moment of attention. Sometimes several.
Lyra sits at the dark booth in the corner with her legs crossed, out into the walkway as she rests her head on her right hand's palm supported on the table by her elbow. In her left hand, she holds a book which seems to be about three quarters done... On the table is a large sugary nightmare abomination of a custom coffee, and a simple black leather bag... It seems, for some reason, she is the reason that this corner of the place is relatively empty of company.
This woman is A vision of seaside arboreal beauty standing to a height of five feet and eight inches. Her face is softly square, framed in lusciously long silver hair which reaches the small of her back. It is worn loose, slight with natural waves. From beneath sharply arched brows there peers impossibility. Shocking silver, like the very moon itself, is the color of her almond eyes.
She wears light makeup on this occasion. Light, only by way of meaning there is no need for foundation. Her lips are painted a rich wine red, and her eyes are sharply lined with cat's eyes and black shadow.
The occasion sees her dressed extra casual. She wears a black tanktop with a bindrune in white as its design, over a pair of black featureless leggings which lead down into a pair of black ankle boots, clasped twice each.
She wears an array of jewelry, chief amongst these the four necklaces around her throat. One is made of what appears to be small metal rail spikes, wound and twisted into the shape of an esoteric symbol which may bare some familiarity. Alongside this is a necklace of purest silver, astoundingly beautiful with a charm wire-wound into the shape of an oyster's shell,housing a pearl who may well be a small replica of the moon itself in its luster.
The rest, by comparison, are insignificant. A black featureless choker is secure around her neck, and a charm necklace full of what looks like nothing more significant than various bits and bobbins.
The door pushes open, letting the winter air in for a few moments as a man in a motorized wheelchair rolls through and to the counter. The twenty-something man is wearing a knit grey polo, with a black blazer over it. He also wears a pair of black jeans and brown loafers. A small tray connected to the wheelchair has a couple drink holders and a closed ultra-lite laptop with many stickers on the back. Into one of the cup holders goes a Cafe Mocha he orders, after a sip.
The man is tall, if he were standing, perhaps 6' 1". He has an oval face with a thin beard and mustache. He is smiling and his hazel eyes are merry. He also has a small bit of foam on his mustache. He rolls further into the room and looks around. The woman in the dark corner gets a curious glance. He seems inclined to join her, but stops. After all he's new, and not going to be pushy. He rolls to what may be becoming his usual spot, next to the bigger uglier couch. He takes another sip of his mocha and wipes his mustache with the back of his left hand, looking embarrassed.
The moment that Bob's eyes find the corner with their curiosity, they find that Lyra's silvers meet them with an absence of the same. The kind of expression that says 'it is what it is' as she turns her attention back down to her book... Not one to make a spectacle out of the wheelchair man wheeling in, after all!
Her eyes flit back down to the book... But she does find the interest enough to comment. She does not look, but it's clearly Bob that she's addressing.
"There's these wonderful things these days... Called straws?" Though the words spoken by her lightly Welsh tone could easily be sharp, they are well intentioned enough towards humor. She says little more, and still does not look in his direction.
His hand was reaching for the lid of the laptop, but pauses when he hears Lyra. "Heh. Yeah. I always feel self-conscious when drinking from them. I'm Bob". He looks at the book, seeing if he can read the title, then looks back at Lyra.
The book is... Well, without a title. It is old, to Bob's eyes. Filled with yellowed pages looking the kind that would sooner crumble into dust than yield to the page turning of a reader.
"Why would you feel self conscious about drinking from a straw, Bob?" Lyra asks without introduction, "It's a marvel of modern technology. And you are already so much a beneficiary." It's only now that Lyra's gaze lifts from the book, and she affixes him with a small smile which 'does' betray her amusement for some reason or another.
"Lyra. Charmed I'm sure."
'Darkened corner and all, I should assume no writing or text is visible or readable on the pages she's on?
A shrug is Bob's initial response, ineloquent as it is. "I don't know, it just feels that way. Also seems to taste better without the straw. Also, I hate plastics. Or rather, I hate what they do to the environment."
He pauses, then continues. "And I'd love to get rid of the chair, and am working on it. Mind if I join you Lyra?"
"I don't mind at all." Lyra says, not looking up from her book.
"And there 'are' metal straws. Re-usable ones. I know several people who carry metal straws around in their bags... Easy to re-use. Wash them in the bathroom and there you go." It's only there that Lyra does close the book, setting it off to the side before leaning back and resting her hands in her lap.
"Why would you want to get rid of something like that chair? It gives you what you lost. It's practically magic."
Bob smiles and manipulates the joystick on his chair to move to the dark corner. He won't move into a seat, but he parks at the table. "I hadn't thought of a metal straw. I will need to pick some of those up. That is a great idea." Bob sighs. "The therapist said I will be able to walk again, I just have to give it time. And yeah, it gives me mobility again. But it's not walking."
The 'kind of magic' comment gets a curious look, but that's all. "But it is better than not being able to move at all. I'm new to town, but a lot of places are wheel chair accessible here. Much better than N'Orleans." This last is said with a hint of a legit Cajun accent.
"Mmm." Lyra replies to his last statement, not responding much to the humor in the accent beyond a small, insignificant laugh.
"Well it's always wonderful to put a voice to a new face in the city... You see so many day in and day out that it's hardly novel." She cants her head, regarding Bob with an air of slight curiosity.
"That kind of hardware isn't something you typically see when it comes to people who 'will' make a recovery. At least, not in my experience... That must mean you've got a pretty healthy work situation going on hm? What brings you here to Prospect? What's here that's not in Louisiana?"
"My mother was from here, a, uhh, long time ago. Yes, the folks who took me in after the crash fixed me up with it. Well, my legs are actually fine now, it's psychological. But I am working through it."
He chuckles, "With the help of a good Mocha, of course."
He continues, "As for work, well, I get by. I do research for folks. Businesses, politicians, and so on. I also build computers, and security systems. I go back to UCP for my Comp Sci doctorate in the Spring."
"Oh! Well that sounds like a lovely feather in your cap when you manage to get it done." Lyra replies with genuine, if weak, enthusiasm. "I see. If it's such a mental hurdle- then I suppose that you've been coping with the situation for a long time indeed. You're fortunate." As she speaks, she does pick that book back up... Flicking it open to the exact page she left off on, amd beginning to read while conversing.
"Speaking of caps to feather, it sounds as though you wear a great many of them. Again I reiterate that you are a fortunate man... But research, mmm? That's interesting. I presume that your research you do is in the field of your major, yes?"
An ever so slight raised eyebrow on Bob's face. But Bob knew folks like this in New Orleans. And if she's like them, she's been around..or is just arrogant. Still, he smiles in a self-deprecating way, "For the Ph.D.? Yes. That people pay me for? That's in whatever field they need the info. I'm really good at finding stuff online, even stuff folks don't want found." He pauses. "The wheelchair is new, for a year, since I woke from a coma a year after the accident." He takes a look at the page she is reading.
OOC: At this point Bob tries to sneak a better look at the contents of the book Lyra is reading. Lyra requests perception + stealth vs 6. Or subterfuge in place of stealth. Poor Bob tried to be too many things growing up, and lacks stealth or subterfuge.
Lyra allows that he'll see it if he wants to, but Lyra will see Bob looking.
Bob agrees, and they proceed.
The moment that Bob attempts to peer at the page, he'd find that the page is... Subtly, just so subtly, out of his line of sight. It is mundanely explainable of course! Through the corner of her eye, the woman had noticed... And just slightly enough, had tilted the binding closer to herself to avoid the contents being seen.
Alas! There were at least more serious possibilities... And this is the least.
"Well, it's certainly a nice ride." She says of the wheelchair, "And that IS the kind of work that I would expect to pay well. Personally, I'm in the restaurant industry. I own a place down in Chula Vista called the Lady of the Lakes... Theme pub with fancy food and regular clientele. You said you were coming back to finish the Ph.D., yeah?"
Bob looks slightly disappointed, but not much. " A restaurant? Cool name too. What theme is it? I take it Arthurian in some way?" He seems genuinely curious.
"Mmm." Lyra replies, "Certainly that." She reads for a few moments in silence... Then finally, turns her attention back towards him.
"It's anthropological research." She explains, "I'm currently studying the sacrificial ritual practices of the tribal picts. I'm stingy, though, about people looking over my shoulder as I read." She cants her head...
"And I would have gladly told you if you simply asked."
A cringe, Bob clearly looks embarrassed. "It's not the first time my curiosity has gotten me in trouble. I'm always anxious to earn new things. Sacrificial rites of picts? Wow. Not exactly light reading. Also not Gourmet magazine. Are you also an anthropologist?" , Bob asks. "I didn't even know they sacrificed people. I mean, why do that? It's not nice."
Lyra snickers.
"Not nice? Civility hardly matters when your people believe it to be a matter of their own survival. Or, perhaps, the matter of proving a point to their enemies... And in some cases, believing that they could attain eternal life of a sort through sacrifice. Immortalization of the blood or some nonsense of the sort." The woman explains with dispassionate tone as she lets the book open, just a little more, to where it had previously been turned from.
The pages are utterly covered in the scrawl of the dead Pictish language, along with several pictures which seem more like diagrams. Guides, it would seem, on how to perform the rituals.
Some real historically accurate material.
"Many more cultures around the world sacrificed humans for some reason or another... You need only look at the Aztecs for more obvious proof."
A dubious look perches on Bob's face. "I suppose. I'm not for going down without a fight, but sacrificing. I don't know. Then again, I'm not the Picts, so who am I to say whether what they did was right or wrong. And you're right, Picts, Aztecs, and others. I don't know. I guess I am half the idealist I'd like to be, and twice the idealist others would like me to be. Ah well. The modern world is not the place for idealists I guess. Or at least, not for long.", he chuckles.
"You're a product of your time, as were they." Lyra replies with a clean candor as she turns the page... These two pages are just a slew of Pictish text.
"You don't have to be OK with sacrifice. Be as uncomfortable with the concept as you'd like to be, and it would be proper."
Bob nods, "You make a good point. We're all colored by our prejudices, especially by our generation. Besides it's not like anyone does sacrifice now days, right?" He is watching her response.
"There will always be those dark corners of the Earth where culture has not caught up to modernity." Lyra starts, "Papa New Guinea was a good example. Still indulging in cannibalism as a cultural cornerstone. I'm sure there's plenty of others... And perhaps, there are those freaks out there who still 'do' sacrifice human beings for the appeasement of some nebulous belief system they hold." She sets the book face down, and picks up her coffee to take a long drink... When it's set down? She shrugs.
"And whether or not those people are abhorrent is entirely up to the eye of the beholder."
Bob's head tilts a bit to the left, "Really? What do you think, if you were the beholder. Oh, there's a bad D&D joke in their somewhere.", he chuckles. "But, seriously, I am curious what you think. About sacrifices I mean."
"I think that the people who did them believed they were necessary." Lyra replies with the same candour, "In the face of the Roman invaders, for example... If you believe that a sacrifice of an enemy soldier will appeal to your war god and bring your people assured victory, wouldn't you do it? If I were faced with such an option, I don't think I would find myself hesitating the least bit." She leans forward, resting her chin on her palm as she regards him.
"To answer your question more directly: I think sacrifice is a 'very' sordid affair. Best left to antiquity, if you ask me."
OOC: Lyra lies, rolling for her lie, with Honeyed Tongue, which adds a success:
<---======##====================[ Dice Roll ]=====================##======--->
Lyra rolls Manipulation + Subterfuge vs 4 for 8 successes.
2 +4 +4 +5 +6 +7 +8 +9 +9
<-------------=============++++++++++++++++++++++++=============------------->
Bob attempts to detect if Lyra is lying, but Lyra has the Honeyed Tongue merit, and the dice are against Bob. Lyra suggest Perception + Empathy, except Bob does not have empathy. He could roll straight Perception, but they agree to hand wave that Bob fails, as he is unlikely to beat 9 successes.
Bob believes she is telling the truth.
"I guess. I think if I was in that situation I'd try to find another way to succeed than sacrifice someone. Killing an opponent is one thing, but killing someone helpless, no. And I agree, it is something best left to antiquity. There are..corporations that are rumored to be doing unauthorized experiments. I suppose that's similar.". He takes a gulp of his Mocha.
"Rumored? Oh honey, if there's rumors then it's almost certainly worse than the rumors say." Lyra replies with a shake of her head, "You know those brain chips that never even passed animal testing? They're already looking to start testing them on humans. Like we're just some kind of toy for them to shove random shit into and see if it works." She takes a deep sip of her drink...
"I mean hell, the corporations in this country alone are worse than nearly anyone else in history when you REALLY look at the details."
"Yeah, you are probably right. But I mean, what can we do? They seem to have all the power. It's not like we can wave a wand and poof a lab goes up. That stuff is in myths.", Bob says.
Lyra stares for a moment... And lets out a long, long sigh. She picks up her book again, and moves it into a bag by her side before slinging it over her shoulder.
"You tell me." She says, "Traditionally, how do you think that people handle oppressive regimes? Because really, that's nothing more than what these corporations are. Oppressors."
"You're right.", Bob says. " we We do have a duty to keep people free. But I am not a warrior. I make computers, and code."
"Hey, that's not an excuse. Look at the ridiculous 'hacker collectives' like Anonymous. Hacktivism, it's cutesily called or something." Lyra rolls her shoulders...
"Out of curiosity, do you happen to know anyone in the city? Or are you just wandering around without any acquaintances until your classes start again?"
Bob says "I've met a couple people, and I've a house. The husband of the couple that was taking care of me helped me get to Prospect, and told me this place was..a good place, owned by good people. Right now I am just trying to get the lay of the land, meet interesting people, and learn things."
"Did that person tell you to look for anyone in particular? Or did he just have a taste for this specific coffee shop out of all of the coffee shops in Prospect?" Lyra asks, pulling out her cell phone and tapping away at the screen... If earlier was any indication though? She's not distracted from the conversation at the least.
A chuckle escapes from Bob. "Well, not specifically, other than to say I should get in touch with the owner, via the staff here."
"I'm a friend of Eloise." She replies plainly, "We used to be neighbors, as a matter of fact. I can't fathom why a computer guy like you would need to talk to Eloise... She's not at all the type. Neither am I, as I'm sure you've noted with your prying."
She turns her moonsilver eyes onto Bob...
"How good with computers 'would' you call yourself?", she asks.
Bob sits a bit straighter. "Oh, ok. Umm, yeah. I'm very good with computers, I can get them to do all kinds of things. I am sorry for prying, I was curious. Are you, as Steele put it, a member of the basement book club?"
Lyra's neutral expression turns to an outright scowl at the mention of Steele's name... It is a change deep enough to freeze, nearly, as she looks towards the kitchen door.
"I run my own book club." She says with a touch of venom at the corners of those breaths. "Are you able to get down the stairs with that thing? Or, if I suggest that we cease the liar's dance and speak with honest intent, will you tell me you cannot descend?"
A pull back from the scowl a bit, but Bob doesn't pull away from the table. "I've been down there, yes. I've seen the video, which was really campy. They have a stairmaster like thingy installed, so it's wheelchair accessible. And as for liar's intent..can you blame me? I am new, and trying to be circumspect. I'm open to any advice you can give though."
There is no verbal response from Lyra at the admission. Instead? She simply rises from the table... And walks away. Straight past the counter, with a nod of consideration to the barista as she simply makes her way into the kitchen and, presumably, down into the basement.
Bob follows into the kitchen.
This is a very modest, but very clean kitchen. There is a single small grill next to a small oven. An island in the middle of the kitchen serves as the prep area. There is a stainless steel walk in cooler next to a very small dish washing station. The entire place is gleaming white tile and dull shining stainless steel. There is a heavyweight steel door leading out back to the alley and a rickety wooden stairwell just off the exit door. A swinging half door and a small service window open on the coffee shop and the sounds of the shop echo off the tile and steel surfaces. Immediately inside the kitchen is another door that leads to a long hallway. There is a staircase going up and a door at the end of the hall.
He continues to follow her down the steps to the basement, though with the wheelchair he has to work himself into the lift chair, strap in, and wait out the slow descent down.
Newly replaced wooden stairs descend down into a clean, welcoming basement. One of those lift chairs have been built along the railing to make the steep slope handicap accessible. The basement is a little on the cool side and the walls are left to the bare brick. The lighting is pleasantly soft with warm circles of light instead of harsh fluorescent. A large, round table has been set up in the middle of the room with 13 chairs around the perimeter, but room enough for more. There is also a couch and a flat screen TV, a small washer and dryer in a closet off on one end, a little kitchen area with a small stove and small table nearby, and of course the smell of coffee wafts down constantly. There is a dumb-waiter built in against one of the kitchen walls to transport food - or whatever - up and down from above. Against one wall is a bright red phone booth. There is one entire room dedicated to a communal library.
Bob takes some time to get down. He has to strap himself into the contraption and then slowly be slid down. Eventually he's down though. "It's good to be able to speak openly. I am sorry I was so cagey, but like I said. We have a lot of enemies."
"The fear of the enemy is a fear that belongs to the weak." Lyra replies wehn he makes it downstairs... And indeed, there Lyra is. Seated at the round table with her fingertips idly drumming on the tabletop.
"But let me warn you. If you pry as you pried with me with any random witchling that you happen to see, one of them will certainly turn you into a frog- or worse. It is a horribly prevalent curse on all of my sisters, you see... We possess such foul moods and a terrible territorial imperative." Her demeanor, while not entirely unchanged, is certainly different now that the veil is lifted the rest of the way... It's not exactly HARD to tell that Lyra is what she is. She doesn't just wear it on one sleeve, after all.
Both, really.
"A proper introduction, then. I am Lyra Deidre Grey. Grand Matriarch of the Circle of the Grey Moon. Elder of the Verbena, and holder of the Chula Vista territory."
Bob nods, "I am Bob Huard, Apprentice of the Ghost Wheel Society of the Dreamspeakers, and the Reality Hackers of the Virtual Adepts. Honored to meet you, umm, maam." He follows up after a moment with, "And I will refrain from prying in the future. It'd be nice if we had a handshake or something to recognize each other."
"That would require cooperation the likes of which we will never see." Lyra replies...
"...Dreamspeakers, AND Virtual Adepts?" She asks rhetorically, "Curious. I can't fathom why you would have ever had the need to explore beyond the shamanistic practice of the Dreamspeaker for your craft... But, I suppose, when your blood does not possess the spark of true magick, you must collate as much as you are able."
A Verbena, for sure.
"What really brings you to Prospect, then? Is it truly so vapid as the pursuit of a doctorate? Or is there some other reason?"
The vapid comment does seem to rankle him a bit, but he tries to hide it. "My mother came from here, a long time ago. She said she had family here, though I don't know if any are still here. I couldn't stay in New Orleans, too many memories of my parents. So I came here. I had already applied and been accepted here before the accident." He pauses. "The doctorate will help int he mortal world. As for the dual traditions, I had a strange awakening. Then, when I came out of the coma the couple that taught me the basics were a Virtual Adept married to a Dreamspeaker, the best suited to teach my weird mix of paradigms. Of course, we all think we have true magick. Then again, who am I to tell. I can do stuff, it works. The only thing I am really sure I know is that I don't know a lot, and have a lot to learn."
Lyra's eyes narrow.
"There are those who think that, and those who know it." She says with candor, "And while your magick may work, it does not work as you think it does. Which is precisely, I am sure, what you would seek to tell me if the tables were turned." The witch cants her head, regarding him as if for the first time again.
"I will honestly tell you that I am not the one to teach you. Your perspectives are too different from my own, and I am afraid there would be little benefit for you in a woman like myself constantly telling you your way is inefficient and weak. There have been several like you who have come and gone from Prospect over the years... Chula Vista as well. Viktor may be worthwhile for you to contact. Meeting Eloise, I expect, will change little to nothing for you in the grand scheme of things." She tilts her head back, looking to the ceiling...
"While she was the Herald of the Traditions, in my honesty I must inform you that the Traditions Council has not been convened in Prospect in well over a year. Perhaps, even, two."
Surprise mantles Bob's face. "Two years. But, I thought they were our leaders? I don't suppose you have a way to contact Viktor? Also, you mean a Herald right? Or is there some position that is 'the' Herald? I have so many questions. Of course, I can see that there would be a big mismatch between our paradigms. I still hope we can be friends. Nothing in magic I can do that you can't I guess, but if you need anything computer-wise or security systems, or research, I'd be happy to help."
"Leaders? No. Representatives, and nothing more." Lyra explains, "We are a collective. And if it is the colelctive will that there be no council here in Prospect, then there will be no council here in Prospect. Herald was a role with its own responsibilities which typically involved what it sounds like... The facilitation of communication." She cants her head at his offer, but nods matter of factly.
"I do not make friends easily. I do not seek friends. But contacts? We can most certainly be to one another. As for Vik? I'm afraid I don't have anything on hand with regard to his contact information. Linger in Traditions spaces and I'm sure you'll see him some time or another... As for the differences in our magic? What do you mean, nothing you can do that I can't? Do you believe our magic to be so similar that I could turn a screw by coaxing its spirit, or code an impenetrable firewall on the digital web? Make a machine? Build a gun? No. These are not my way. They are yours, and I neither want nor value them with respect to my own practice." She nods there, rising from her seat...
"Now that we know one another. Is this all? Or do you have more questions for me?"
Bob looks a bit chagrined, but nods. "It'sSmall text a lot to digest. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me." He's trying to be respectful.
