1660/Silence in the Magic Box

Silence in the Magic Box
Date of Scene:	26 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Black Bolt, Athenaeum

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Black Bolt has posed:
What brings the likes of a man like Blackagar Boltagon out to Bludhaven? The name is a good start. Nothing good ever comes out of a place starting with 'Blood.' They aren't fooling anyone around here.

He's merely a gentleman out of his element here. Nothing about him expressly screams 'occultist' or even someone who would know his Trismegistus from Alistair Crowley or a Norse rune from a Solomon summoning key. His attire is definitely classy rather than a hoodie and beaten up jeans. The Magic Box holds all sorts of secrets for the average practitioner and probably confusion. The proprietor doesn't descend to help him yet, though.

At the moment he surveys an assortment of dummies arranged around a stand featuring various supplies of a mundane nature. Above, a poster helps display the chakral points presumably with a martial artist in mind, someone maybe who thinks disrupting the flow of energy through an individual might prompt the failure of biological systems. Or bad dreams. It could be anything. He shakes his head slightly.

Athenaeum has posed:
The woman causing the small door bell to chime is perhaps closer to what the proprietor might expect, but that doesn't mean she stands out any less in a crowd. A deep jade green gown of silk covers her from neck to floor, a deep hood that had been hiding her face until that moment gets pushed back as the door is closed behind her.

The gown itself is fitted around the torso, as it touches her hips though, full-length skirts fall in clean lines to the floor. Beneath which simple black ankle boots with a wide, inch high heel do little to help the short woman's stature, but go well with the almost regal bearing (or perhaps just good posture?) that she has going on.

With the hood removed, it's easy to see her paper-white skin and wide, turquoise eyes that catch the light and reflect it, gemlike in their nature. A simple cut round emerald sits on her forehead, a golden chain holding it in place before twining into her hair. It only takes a momemt before her face blossoms into a warm smile, apparently at the shop itself rather than any one person.

Black Bolt has posed:
Sometimes it helps to be raised among a highly diverse population that prizes genetic diversity to the point of near worship. One can't accuse Blackagar of shock seeing attire that better belongs in a museum or a history textbook. He isn't exactly mundane himself in those choices. The zippers on the slacks he wears don't quite count though they are unusual enough to run up over his boots. Some kind of couture detail, probably. There's also the small circlet that spans his forehead in a thin silvery line. Its V notch rests directly over the top of a third eye according to the helpful chakra map.

Like any gentleman, he averts his eyes after measuring up the woman's immediate presence. No direct threat to his perusal of the martial arts gear, and he doesn't obstruct the aisle more than he has to. The shop isn't large and her efforts to sweep past may be somewhat hindered by the rack of jars and lids directly behind the Midnight King.

He selects two bokken and hoists them to his shoulder, kept vertical. Carrying those to the counter takes no real effort. Would-be purchases are left there for the time being and he nods gravely to Ysabelle. Some might even construe the gesture as shy, rude, or a plethora of other vaguely standoffish qualities. .

Athenaeum has posed:
The magus' own eyes of course scan the shop for more than just purchases. Each person there is checked against some mental guideline, not so much dismissed as each is found to be unlikely to cause hassle, as... accepted and then moved past. That is until her eyes come to rest on the tall man with his silver circlet and odd clothes.

It's a mystery, and mystery is what the Magician lives on. There's something sovereign about the way the man carries himself, and what's more, who comes to a magic shop to buy training weapons?

The nod is what does it, it tips a little light onto the man's self-image if nothing else and so, oddly, before she's really giving it much thought the woman in green offers a small curtsy, fore-fingers and thumbs pinching and carefully lifting skirts an inch or more as her own head dips diffidently. It's only for a moment, but it certainly stands out amongst the other modern people's tendency to just ignore the two oddities in their midst.

Black Bolt has posed:
A curtsy is the very thing to halt Blackagar. He needs but a moment to reconcile her odd manner of dress and bearing. Few people pay great attention to posture unless forced by circumstance, at least in the average slouch about population of Bludhaven; Gotham; New York. Name a city and chiropractors rub their hands in glee.

In his defense, the Magic Box sells a reasonably impressive assortment of martial arts gear to go along with the magical. Maybe marital is the next branching off point; magic veils and cummerbunds that actually assure weddings go off without a hitch. Idle thought. A horrible thought.

He cuffs his hands behind his back and returns the slight inclination. He bows to none, not truly, but showing respect is not beyond him. Those frosty eyes skim across Ysabelle's face and venture no further. His smile is polite, neither too leering or too faint. In that he's definitively not German. Stepping aside means to allow her to pass, a gesture made to forfeit a place at the register. He's not buying yet.

Athenaeum has posed:
Ysabelle smile deepens, opening her hands with palms up to show their emptiness. No reason to cut in front of him yet, having found nothing to purchase. There is however, a book case past him, and it's to this that she gestures, her smile turning a little sheepish.

It's not that she doesn't want to talk to him, but what do you say to such a stoic mountain? Besides, had he wanted to strike up conversation he would have. And so the gesture, with an implied query of passage to the rather old looking books behind him. Not for her the new-age '50 Love Spells' books that are boldly displayed on the counter, nor even the older but still modern (by her reckoning at least) 1920's Books of Shadows that were later set into print, but real enough to be kept more towards the back.

No, Ysabelle had picked out the three of four /truely/ rare books, kept so that they can stay under a watchful gaze of those in the know, without being so in the way as the dabbler might try and pick one up. Even if the exhorbitant price tag on little placards next to each book wouldn't have done the trick for most.

Black Bolt has posed:
No doubt all of Attilan would falter if they found Blackagar under a tree reading '50 Love Spells' or 'Charming Your Audience, the Enchantress' Way.' Something about that actually kindles a possibility, tucked away for later.

Instead, he retreats several steps to make boldly apparent he isn't finished with his shopping or prohibiting a lady from attaining her shelves. Perish the notion of stopping her from shopping. The bokken threaten to roll away in the transition, only to be stopped by his palm as he steps into the open space. Their intrusive fall arrested, he borrows the jar of pens from the register to pin the two bamboo weapons in.

Hardly a sound comes from him to indicate anything is amiss. In fact, his clothes don't even muster much of a noise. Adjacent to 'Herbals and Tinctures' as a whole section of books, he thoroughly disregards them. Whatever Ysabelle finds fascinating, he watches rather curiously. The proprietor is probably beside himself worrying, seeing if she means to disappear or break the wards around the books to carry them off. With that many digits, it's only reasonable. Blackagar idly nudges the cover of a softback volume into place. 'Ferns for life' isn't really his shtick.

Athenaeum has posed:
Another dip of the head, a wordless thank you directed at the large man that appears to now be taking an interest in her, or at least with the books she's now found. The wards are obvious for those that know what to look for, which is likely on purpose too. Though the magus assumes that for every two that are obvious, there's likely at least one that is hidden and much nastier.

Crystaline eyes slide over the bindings, dark leather well oiled and yet still lightly cracking seems the mainstay. Though one is bound with wood, pale and lined like bamboo. For all she knows it /is/ bamboo, the Chinese characters stenciled on the front would certainly suggest that; 'Luck, and the manipulations thereof.' is a rough, yet perfectly adequet translation. A small look of concern mars her features, that smooth brow furrowing ever so lightly.

Black Bolt has posed:
Which price they bear matters less than the contents. Images within, scribed letters, leave a fair indication these are second printings of an original, or possibly a third hand variation. At least one of those grimoires is not the source material written by the original hand, though they are very lovely indeed. The wards in the place probably hum with the proximity to other practitioners. They do not make a dent on Blackagar, and he is not hinting he knows about them. They won't do a lick of good if he opens his mouth, anyways.

The faint concentration lining his expression attests to a few particles spun around to unclear ends. He moves alongside the bookshelves, giving them a passing survey of varied topics. His hands do not touch the spines or wrestle with the papers. They remain behind his back, the very picture of a fellow not about to touch something. Until, of course, the disturbance yonder by the green-gowned woman halts his course. How would he know she frowns? Intuition. Reading people is something of a high art. It needs to be when his entire life revolves around a code of silence. A quick survey reveals no immediate threats - hanging spiders, monstrous tentacles, magic gate opening.

Athenaeum has posed:
Luck... Or Entropy for another word. It's a dangerous thing to be playing with at the best of times, but with this being a third edition, who knows what errors the scribe may have made? Nothing too bad, being that the book is still here, but in the wrong hands? The young looking woman gives her head a little shake, the glittering stone on her brow swinging this way and that under the momentum.

Something of the hush of the store has settled into the woman by now, because she doesn't speak as she catches the teller's eye with a smile and a tapping of lacquered nail to the glass case. Carefully avoiding the wards of course, no pressure that might be construed as /tampering/.

She points at all four with a warm smile and a nod as the poor soul's eyes go wide. The eyes go even wider as a stack of high value notes are placed on the counter top. Ysabelle for her part, just gives a little shrug, her look for all the world one of 'I just can't help myself'... No need for them to know the real reason after all.

Black Bolt has posed:
Entropy never has been entirely positive or negative. In the wrong hands it's a pure disaster. In Blackagar's hands, he ends up with a narrow jar full of some thin, twisted metal simply described as 'filament, fine, Paraguay.' It's his own business why he should want that atop everything else. Possibly he justifies his continued existence as a shopper and not someone eavesdropping.

He carries his second acquisition up to the first, at least intending to add it to the bokken upon the counter. His hand remains planted firmly upon the counter, affecting nothing but a thoughtful nod while waiting. The number of bills passed over doesn't quite shock him. Poor cashier hasn't a chance, of course. His own preparations aren't done in cash, but rather pulling out a wallet and producing a credit card just in case. If they're cash only, his expenses shouldn't likely exceed $100. So who is the holy roller here?

Athenaeum has posed:
The four books are wrapped (separately) and then placed in a pile. The woman waits with calm patience whilst all this is happening. And then the kingly presence returns with his little jar of filament, and she's taking a side step to make room for him at the glass counter.

She offers the taller (by nearly two feet!) man another genuine smile. For a moment, one hand moves in the international sign language for 'hello again' just in case she's misunderstood earlier and he was in fact deaf, rather than just above talking to one beneath his station.

Black Bolt has posed:
The proprietor has the wire bagged up and ready to go easily. The two weapons he'll have to carry out himself, likely no trouble for a man of Blackagar's size. They are not heavy and he is unlikely to find the burden particularly onerous. The swiped card ends up back in the wallet he carries in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Politeness doesn't have to face a fall, however. He kindly inclines his head and glances to the sign, then rapidly returns his own: 'A pleasure to meet you.'

Manners never die, even when executed by quick motions of his fingers.

"Is that all?" asks the cashier, not entirely familiar with what they're up to. The dark-haired man nods, and holds out his hand for the bag.

Not deaf after all.

Athenaeum has posed:
Progress! The Magician smiles at the cashier, dipping her head in a nod as she collects her books. One hand remains free for her to offer a quick; 'And you, however brief." She laughs quietly, eyes sparkling.

'Though you have me all the colours of curiousity now... Perhaps I can lure you into taking tea sometime?' Not that she's in the habit of just inviting random people to have tea... But the longer she spends time with this man, the more... out of place his aura seems. Ysabelle adds; 'Or another time, if now is not convienient?' If the teller can read sign, they show no signs of it.

Even as they continue to talk, the pair make their own ways towards the door. A door, that the lady stops three paces short of - thus allowing the gentleman to do his duty.

Black Bolt has posed:
Progress indeed. Call it an adjustment and an improvement over knowing nods and respectful bows. Ysabelle's persistence is clearly valued by the proprietor, now several dollars richer, and the Inhuman king bound into being very quiet indeed. He balances the purchases in a one-armed grip, the other free. This doesn't cause any particular hardship on his part.

A nod assesses and agrees to the offer. His abbreviated language will become even quieter upon holding the door open for her. No particular hesitation is to be measured there when he simply walks up and pushes it open, awaiting her stately descent through it. No need for hankies over puddles, either, or throwing his jacket down for her to avoid messing her sturdy shoes up. The streets here are fairly well kept. 'Now is fine.'