13667/A charm for all your fears

A charm for all your fears
Date of Scene:	26 July 2021
Location:	The Magic Box, Sunnydale
Synopsis:	Scoobies. They are a thing. Also trades probably need to have an agreement before hand.
Cast of Characters:	Askante, Mercy Thompson, Rupert Giles

---

Askante has posed:
It's probably rolling around to closing time for the magic shop, but it's still daylight outside, just about. Twilight is rolling around as it is want to do at the end of a day.

And the doorchimes jingle as they do, when someone steps in, though initially looking toward the door proves fruitless. It's already swinging shut, but unless they're serving ghosts at the magic shop, there doesn't appear to be anyone... immediately.... there. But then, hunched over by the potions and charms section is a figure in an ancient black duster, scuffed and faded by time. The view is mildly obscured, but they appear to be crouched down looking at the bottom shelf.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Closing time. It's a thing that means different things for each business that it applies to. For some, it means a last call for alcohol. For the Magic Box, it might mean that the store will actually close soon or it might not. Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn't. Mercy is settled in one of the chairs that belong to the table further within the shop. There's a cup of tea sitting on the table near to her, and she has a book open on her lap. She was reading the book up until the point the door chimed.

At that point, she lifted her gaze away from the book. One of her eyebrows quirks up slightly, out of curiosity. If there was a ghost, she would see it, for better or for worse. Her tongue flicks out, damping her lips, and she lifts the book from her lap to place it on the table as she catches a glimpse of the hunched over guest. Then she unfurls herself before rising to her feet and starting to walk towards the potions and charms section of the store. Curiosity can be a powerful thing, and Mercedes is possessed of it quite well. She's wearing a pair of cut off blue jean shorts, a purple t-shirt, and a pair of tan coloured steel toed boots. Her dark brown hair has been tamed into pigtails that are a bit frayed by this point in the day.

Askante has posed:
A series of negative sounding vocalizations can juuuuuuuuuust be made out from the area of the figure crouched there. The duster hides a multitude of sins, but it does not hide the long, thin, scaled tail that protrudes like that of a skeksis from behind. Nor the bound-up dreadlock... spines. Another grunt, another, then a fussing and rearrange of several of the charms on the shelf, like some kind of cataloguing is occuring. A long black finger with a sharp end, is pointing at three, ibble obble, black bobble, ibble obble OUT! One gets selected and examined over another palm.

It does not appear to be paying much attention to Mercy, yet. It has to be aware she's there though.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There are times when Mercy simply keeps an eye on the shop, and this is one of those times. Her head tilts a little bit to one side as she studies the figure that's hunched there. There's a glance towards the tail and then the dreadlocked spines, both of which cause her curiosity to be nudged up just a bit more. She glances towards the charms that rest on the shelf, and then turns her attention back to the guest.

Shifting slightly, Mercy lowers into a crouch and rests her forearms across her knees. "Was there something that you needed help finding? I don't own the shop, but I can make sure that he gets a message, if there is," Mercy says in a soft tone.

Askante has posed:
Askante turns its head to look at Mercy, the black eyes shimmering liquescently. It tilts an ear, which does exist under there somewhere and holds up a finger, removing a bird skull charm from around its neck. Whispers are fed into the beak, the skull turned and the words released. "Are these all the charms that you have, as I am looking for a scribe's quill." -- It holds the charm with the beak open toward Mercy, studying her. It then repeats, adding another whisper to the beak to be released -- "You are familiar to me and I do not quite know why."

It doesn't get up though, remaining hunkered by the charms, looking beyond her, around her and furtively to the corners of the shop.

Rupert Giles has posed:
"You don't need to get a message to me," comes a voice from the back. "I've returned." And Giles is there, at the door leading to the back area. He'd come in whilst Mercy was engrossed in her book, and thus escaped detection. Or, given her keen hearing, perhaps he hadn't. He steps further into the shop and toward the front where Mercy is with..

Giles pauses, and blinks, as he sees the creature hunched there near the charms. His eyes flick from the frill of dreadlocked spines, to the tail, and then to the bird skull charm. "I carry a few scribe's quills, but I don't keep them on display. One moment." He turns and moves toward the door leading to the basement and goes through it. Probably on his way to gather said quills.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A moment after the store's guest looks to her, Mercedes tilts her head to the other side, holding still there where she's crouched. Her gaze slips to the bird skull that's withdrawn, a flicker of curiosity showing in her eyes before her gaze lifts up but not to meet those black eyes. "The owner usually has some other charms besides these on the shelf. Was there a particular kind or purpose of charm that you're looking for the quill to have?" she asks, curious. She doesn't really know a lot about charms.

Mercy blinks and raises an eyebrow slightly. "I'm familiar to you? I'm not sure why that would be," she says softly, sounding a bit puzzled. Those who are like her aren't exactly common or numerous, these days. Shifting her weight, she smoothly rises to her feet before stepping back a little bit and looking over towards Giles when he speaks, a smile coming to her featuers. "Welcome back, Rupert," she says in a warm tone of voice. "I was hoping you'd return in time. I always wonder if I get enough information for you when I take messages when you've stepped out," she comments.

Askante has posed:
Askante's black eyes track to Giles as he emerges from the back of his den of shinies. The Skeksis that is ASkante shuffles sideways, staying crouche with its tail slunk out behind it and watches the store keeper steadily as he takes in what he sees. It looks to Mercy, back to Giles, back to Mercy and back to Giles, then murmurs to the skull. It turns it back to both of them, after it had listened to what was spoken by them both through the tweeting beak to its ear. "The Olympian was right, you are oddly calm and this is a good thing." It sighs though, recharging the bird skull. "I can understand you with this, but can speak only a breath at a time." Pause, whisper "...A birds lungs, even a ghost bird, are not large." And it gestures to the skull, then makes a writing gesture in the air, which apparently is what it wants the quill for. If it's a real quill. It might be able to tell the difference...

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"The Olympian?" Mercedes asks, raising an eyebrow slightly, a touch of curiosity to her voice. She lifts a hand, flipping one of her pigtails over her shoulder before her hand lowers again to her side. "I have a bit of familiarity with things that are't necessarily human, I suppose it could best be said," she says softly, a smile quirking her lips. She grew up amongst a pack of werewolves and has been exposed to a number of supernatural things in her life.

Her gaze falls to the skull, and she tilts her head to one side before giving a small nod. "A breath is not a lot. Especially a bird's. "You're looking for a quill that can translate for you. A quill of languages," she says softly, making an interpretation based on what's been said. "Rupert is rummaging about in the basement to find the quills that he has so that you can take a look at them," she adds, a smile coming to her features.

Askante has posed:
Askante listens to the tweet and nods afterwards, pointing at Mercy, then writing in the air again, pointing at its ear, then writing at the air again. Apparently just one language, the most common one in the area. It remains crouched, the coat hiding so very much of it where it hunkers, as it watches the stairs downward with glances and Mercy with the rest of its attention. It narrows its eyes at her though, leaning forward just a little bit, then clicks fingers, bringing the beak to its lips to whisper.

"You look like Old Man Manyskins."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Giles might not have heard the comment about the Olympian, whoever that is. He has a number of quills, but none of them are likely to be a quill of languages. Or, there might be! With the stuff that was already in this store when Giles bought it, and the stuff that has accumulated since, anything is possible.

Returning presently, he carries in his arms a stack of ten boxes, rectangular, and of the size to carry a quill or something of a similar size. "Here's what I have," he says, pausing briefly to close the door with his foot before he moves toward the counter as the closest available space to place the boxes on.

"Old Man Manyskins?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The woman-coyote tilts her head a bit to one side as she watches the gestures that their guest makes. "So not all languages, but just English. To translate you to English, and English to you. Perhaps you could learn English, over time?" Mercy offers. She glances towards the basement stairs, then back to their guest. "He tends to find what he's looking for, down there," she comments, a smile returning to her features.

She blinks with a bit of surprise, and then she ducks her chin slightly, her left hand shifting to rub her palm against the thigh of her shorts. "You've met him before," she says softly, studying the creature for a long moment. "I'm half Blackfoot," she adds with a smile. She falls quiet then, her tongue flicking out to damp her lips. Her attention turns to Giles as he returns, and she gives a small nod. "Mmhmm, it's... well. It's one of the nicknames that belong to Old Coyote," she offers. "Did you find the quills?"

Askante has posed:
Askante nods softly, whispering to the bird skull, "Many times... I went and brought him back from the Black hand woman's hut in the world beneath, one time when he was afraid to leave because of a spell she had cast." It looks up at Giles as he returns and whispers to the beak once gain, letting the bird tweet its lungs to the room, "Do not be startled, I mean no harm." As it stands up and unfurls to nearly scrape the ceiling, it gives an old blackfoot physical communique of greeting; all indian tribes had them, for when you could not say hello because other things might hear you and that would've been a -bad- thing.

It gestures to itself, then the table, then the box, then its eyeball and tilts its head, heading that way.

Rupert Giles has posed:
"Of course I found the quills," replies Giles, a small, but warm, smile curling up his lips. "Ah. Old Coyote I'm familiar with. I had never heard him being called Old Man Manyskins before, but it makes sense." He half watches the hunched figure, and half pays attention to what he's doing with the little boxes. Each one is taken out of the larger box and sat on the countertop, and the lids removed and sat beside them so quills within are visible.

"If you had meant harm," he says, glancing over at the creature as it stands to its full height, "You would have harmed instead of talking. I'm not certain I have what you're looking for, but you're more than welcome to look through what I do have. This is all of them."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There's a blink at that particular mention, and Mercedes tilts her head to one side, studying the creature. "I... will have to remember that," she says softly, inclining her head slightly. Remember which part of it or just all of it is hard to say. "I can't imagine what that must be like, to do such a thing," she adds, a thoughtful note to her voice. There's a smile that quirks at the corners of her lips, and she gives a small nod. "I believe you," she adds, about the intent of no harm. When the greeting is given, she waits a moment before returning the greeting in like kind. There are some things that she knows about her heritage, and it would seem that happens to be one of them. She doesn't seem bothered by the full height of the creature.

She gives a small nod before lifting one of her hands to gesture towards the table. "Would you like some tea?" she offers. Hospitality is important, after all. She looks over to Giles and quirks a smile at him. "I suspected that you would find them. Your basement is pretty magical that way," she comments, a touch of amusement to her voice. "He has a fair number of nicknames, if I remember right," she adds.

Askante has posed:
Askante nods to both of them. It then moves like greased lightning. It was over there, now it's over here, right beside Giles and looking at each quill in turn, lifting them up gently and sniffing them. One by one. Quill by quill. It actually settles on one that looks very bland, a simple black swan feather that doesn't even have a metal nib, but instead is truly a hollowed quill split at the end very carefully for writing with. It looks at it very carefully, looks down the hole in the end of it, then looks about for something to write on.

It ultimately yanks a bit of the paper from the receipt roll on the cash register and pricks its own thumb with the end of the quill, then places it against a line of the english language on one of the signs by the various segments of items on offer. The writing on the sign that originally said 'Chicken feet, 99 cents' all sucks up into the end of the quill and it grins, nodding, pointing at the feather.

It then sets the blank receipt paper down on the table and pins both ends with boxes for the other not-legit quills and sets the feather on the surface.

It begins speaking then, in that old strange tongue:

    I am Askante. That is a name that is probably not familiar to you, but I was sent by the Olympian Phobos, the god of Fear, to try and help me settle here. He seems to trust you. I do not trust him, but that is because he treated me the same as all the others of him that ever went before, which is not something I care to like. I can trade for the Scribe's quill. I do not like to be indebted.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Giles glances first to Mercy, and he nods. "It rather is, isn't it?" Referring, of course, to the basement. Then to the creature as it does its.. thing. The sudden movement actually does have him startle. He wasn't expecting that kind of speed. Not so much fear as surprise. And then he calms back to what he had been before.

He rests one hand atop the counter and nods to Mercy. "Tea, yes please." He watches the writing being first sucked out of his sign, and then transferred to different words on the receipt paper. He holds up one finger after reading it and steps back to look at the shelves beneath the counter. Spotting what he wants, he reaches for it, and sets a few pieces of regular printer sort of paper atop the counter.

"Askante," he says, testing out the name. "Did I say that right?" Ah-skahn-tae, more or less. "Phobos. Right. Treated you the same as all the others? How did he treat you?" Giles might be merely curious, or he might be truly wishing not to repeat the mistakes of others.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There's a quirk of a brow as the creature moves so swiftly, her gaze flicking to follow it, yet she doesn't seem startled by it. A lot of supernatural things are fast. She watches curiously as each quill is examined, and she steps a bit closer to watch as it happens. When the black swan feather is selected, she studies it for a moment before looking back to the creature. She tilts her head a touch to one side, and a smile tugs at her lips. "You like that one?" she asks, a bit of curiosity to her voice.

Her gaze turns to the scroll of receipt paper, to watch then as the feather is set on the surface of it. And she waits, and she watches. "It's good to meet you, Askante," she offers, a smile coming to the corners of her lips. "We will help you how we can," Mercy says softly, giving a small nod. She doesn't even think about it, really, she just answers. She doesn't speak about the offer of the trade, though -- that's up to Giles.

Her attention turns to Giles, and she gives a nod and a warm smile to him. "I'll fix up some tea, then. It shouldn't take but a few minutes," she says in a warm voice. She heads for the kettle, to get it filled and on before preparing a couple of mugs. She has her own cup of tea still from earlier, sitting on the table.

Askante has posed:
The quill scribbles a lot more, whilst -THEY- talk, translating to the tongue of the one that gave it blood. The language is pictographic, almost like Kanji. And then it runs out of paper and pauses. This is a good thing that Giles provided A-4 printer paper and Askante lifts the quill delicately and sets it upon the page again, as the feather goes merrily on its way, writing what was said in the language of the user.

It speaks again:

    Yes, that is correct. (and it actually says its name to confirm that) I thank you for the assistance. I normally do not require such help, but a treasure of mine was stolen whilst I slept. Likely picked up by someone that knew not what it had. Tea would be nice, though I do not know if I will like it, I have not drunk it in many years.

It straightens, looks at Giles, then Mercy, smiles widely and waves... four arms in happy hello, then leans back down to watch the paper as it speaks further.

    I spoke to the son of Yahweh when I came here first and was angry that I was robbed. I do not think I should set honeybadgers to eat the eyes of the one that stole my precious thing, but he is looking. I think you are probably going to know him by a different name, if you know him at all. He is called Satan, the adversary, Lucifer the light bringer. He is looking for my precious thing at the moment. The people of the rainbow serpent gave me a gift, when I showed them what was cruel and what was not in the land where the bunyip dwell. This is what was taken: the crow's blessing. I do not think a mortal should have the crow's blessing.

The quill seems to pause, as Askante composes itself and speaks further.

    The god of fear seeks to treat as it all that share his domain belong to him and have no right. I am older than he. I am older than any god that still walks Gaia. But he treated as they all do, as if they have right of domain. I serve Mankind, I do not serve the gods.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The quill is watched whilst it makes the writing of Askante's language, though Mercy doesn't recognize the language at all. She doesn't know a lot of languages, alas. "You'll need to carry paper with you, for it to write. Or maybe there's some kind of spell crafted paper that can refresh itself back to blank to be written on again," she suggests, a thoughtful note to her voice. She isn't really sure if that's a thing or not, but she tosses the idea out all the same.

"You're welcome," Mercy says, giving a small nod to Askante. "A treasure was stolen? Do you know how long ago it was taken?" she asks, curious. If there's a scent, she might be able to follow. "Where was it taken from?" The questions go along with her curiosity, and they often end up being asked. "What does your treasure look like?"

She pours the boiling water into the mugs for the tea, then sets the kettle aside before picking up the pair of mugs to bring them over to set them on the table. The one for Giles is set in front of him, made the way he favours, and the one for Askante set nearby. She blinks, then raises an eyebrow slightly when Lucifer is mentioned, and she gives a nod. "We've met Lucifer. I hope that he'll be able to find your treasure and return it to you. What's the crow's blessing?" she asks, curious anew. She glances towards Giles and then towards Askante when servitude is spoken of, but she doesn't seem to have anything to add to that.

Askante has posed:
Askante considers, then points a finger at the quill. It stops scratching and lifts off the surface of the paper. It takes it then and draws an oval shape, creating in the middle of that, an image that looks a bit like a bird, only created in the pointelism of aboriginal art of Australia. Wings spread, beak open. Only there is a man beneath the crow, as evidenced by the kokopelli type legs that are visible beneath. Crow was a man and a bird. A symbol perhaps.

    It is a simple stone with that image upon it, on a thong of gut. It was made thirty thousand years ago and is MINE. (the capitals seem to emphasis at the same time as Askante's quills quiver) The crow speaks all tongues. Mortals should not speak all tongues. The Powers stopped all tongues being comprehended by all, for a reason I think. Anyway, I do not know when it was taken. I slept for a long time. Men were claiming gold in the rivers of the west and the place I slept was a cave in the west. When I woke, there was a sunken hostel above me, claimed by one of the quakes of the Earthshaker that sleeps far beneath the world. And the Crow's blessing was gone.

It sniffles at the tea, then drinks the whole lot down, scalding hot though it is and gives a soft 'herrrrk' as it does so.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy turns her attention to the quill when it's indicated, and she tilts her head a bit to one side. She watches as it's taken, and continues to watch as the shape is drawn with the somewhat man-bird-shape drawn within it. She isn't entirely sure what it means, but she perhaps picks up on the fact that it's a symbol for something. Or maybe someone.

Her attention turns back to Askante as the creature speaks, and then her attention returns to the quill as it writes the words, reading as it does. "I don't recall ever seeing anything the likes of your treasure, but I'll definitely keep an eye out for it," she says, giving a small nod. "To know all of the languages because of your stolen treasure is not right. You must mean the gold rush, I think. I wonder if your treasure has managed to make its way to here or if it's still somewhere there," she muses, a thoughtful note to her voice. "I'm sorry that it's been taken. I can ask a couple of people that I know, to see if they may have seen it or come across it at all," she offers. She knows a few being that are old enough that they might have heard of it. She can't help but to blink out of surprise when the tea is drunk down as hot as it is. "Umm... do you normally drink it that hot?" she asks softly.

Askante has posed:
Askante huuuuuuuuuuffs a breath out, then reads the paper, speaking afterwards.

    Sometimes. I am unfamiliar with Tea. I did not get offered a lot of tea, when I was last on Gaia. I will make note to myself not to drink it until five minutes of the clock have gone past. My throat may be quite happy for this service.

It nods though, pointing to the bit of the page that referrences the gold rush, though it is writ in its odd, ancient tongue. So relatively unhelpful there.

    It is not where it was, it is where it is now. I have many fetishes, from many times. Probably, I have more than most shamans do, for I have collected them over many thousands of years. I had a Bonafide, which now Lucifer has. It is the fingerbone of a man wrongfully accused of a crime, who died as a result of that crime. The Bonafide points to the Truth, or as it is... guilt. It pointed to a place south west of this township. I think that whoever has the Crow's blessing, is in the carribean, or is in the Triangle space, within the carribean sea...

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you weren't familiar with it. I'd have warned you, otherwise... it's quite hot when it's first made," Mercy says in an apologetic tone, ducking her chin slightly. "Sometimes people add things to tea, depending on what they like. Milk, sugar, honey, lemon. Just something to think about maybe for the next time that you have tea," she adds, a smile touching her lips.

She glances down to the page when some part is pointed to, but she gives a small shake of her head. She doesn't know what it means, what the symbols translate back to in English. Then she tilts her head slightly before giving a small nod. "Well... that makes sense, for it to be where it is now. That must be quite a collection to keep, and I'd expect that they're quite useful to you, too. Though... well, southwest of here could mean a lot of places. Which isn't to say that you're wrong, that they're not in the Carribbean, just that there's a lot of states in between here and there," Mercy says, considering the information.

Askante has posed:
Askante writes.

    Seven, according to the map. It is truth. But pirates are in the seas there.

That in itself might be its downfall, as piracy is long stamped out at least as it /used/ to be. Assumptions make an ass out of you and me, don't they say?

Abruptly, it looks up, off to the distance.

    I am called...

And with that, the Mockingbird's tongue is left upon the table, as the door swings shut with a chime. Negotiations on that account, may have to wait until another date. The quill has been taken.