unfinishedlibrary | for all the world's a stage

Who: The Editors
What: The Library changes once again...
When: January 9- January 22
Where: The Library
Content warnings: Please put them in the comment headers!

The Assistants have vanished into their backroom once again, leaving only the increasingly unbelievable “Back In 5” sign on the Help Desk, but at least they have attempted to impart some knowledge on the Editors before departing (or… attempted to do anything but, depending who you ask). The customary tea cart with drinks and increasingly stale biscuits is parked in its usual spot, though it seems that the quality of the tea at least has improved some. (Still waiting on coffee improvement.)

There’s a new crafting setup in the Maker Space, a table with an iron and machine for making vinyl designs, along with the instructions on how to use it, and a stack of t-shirts in various sizes. Usually there’s something in the correct size, but, well, mistakes happen. While this addition to clothing is a boon, there is the problem that the t-shirts can’t be taken out of the room until some sort of design is put on them. Get creative! Show off your style! Or maybe just steal one of the shirts that are there for display purposes. It’s fine, the Library can make more.

In the second week as the Library begins to change once more, the Lobby’s wooden floor shines with extra polish. The walls make an odd creaking sound as they shift, warping into brick covered with velvet drapings in a rich, dark red. Gold thread twinkles in the stitches, a sense of opulence woven through. The sound of ballroom music drifts by and, while in the Lobby, characters will be taken by the unusual impulse to dance.

Outside, in the Garden, the day/night cycle has paused firmly on a cloudless night. A full moon hangs in the air - literally. About the size of a basketball, it follows the first person who enters the Garden; hovering a couple of meters above their head. A white aura spreads from them, powered by the moon, and those who are caught in its light will find themselves unable to speak anything but the truth.

When the person to whom the moon is attached leaves the garden, the moon and its aura will leave them; and the moon will attach to the next person to enter instead.

On the circulation desk, there is a sign: “This Week’s Recommended Reading: Twilight!” The accompanying sign up sheet waits next to it for those wishing to check it out- though some will receive the movie instead of the book, with no particular rhyme or reason to it. Periodically someone might also receive something else entirely. Whoops? The Assistants at least will fix that quickly. ~~Richard will be embarrassed, while Phillip will be trying not to cackle.~~

While not advertised, various iterations of different stories will be available throughout the Library. In particular, someone seems to have left the projector in one of the meeting rooms running, with a variety of different recorded plays. These range from professional productions, to parodies, to what appear to be high schoolers (of which one production features a sixteen year old version of Phillip running around being an absolutely nuisance.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm afraid that I must agree that it is interesting. Was it a conversion begun with the flesh, or the spirit? I know of entities of both kinds, in my own galaxy, but they are rarely so straightforward to converse with." He mimics the notes of the ocarina, again whistling low-middle-high. Turning the notes over in his head, making a thoughtful sound. "And one could argue that our sons are similar, but they are not truly self-sustaining. They begin, always, as mortals."

He whistles low-middle-high again, then a few notes that roughly follow the progression that Hisako has been attempting. No, that isn't quite right, is it...?

Not the first time she's heard of these people as having sons in a way that clearly isn't the method she's familiar with. "The body reshapes and the steel comes in all in an instant. It takes a little longer for the soft tissues to change completely. I still had red blood and felt hunger for... I'm not sure. Years shading to decades, but not many of those."

She's thinking of the hunger as a lingering element of humanity, not something she'd learned to ignore. Getting to meet it at last and drink her fill and then, yes, want more again is throwing that off.

Hisako huffs an almost laugh. "Lucky! I have never been able to whistle. I think this is written for something for percussion on strings, but change the key and the melody should be doable, don't you think? Even with the limits of my range." She raises her ocarina and plays the phrase with a lilting rollick at the end.

It's a book of sheet music missing any introduction or explanation of what to play it on, is my story and I'm sticking to it.

"The shape of your body first, then the internals. What initiated the change?" It's most definitely heretical, that he's enjoying these conversations with the Library's various xenos and daemon-esque creatures so much.

But -- tell no-one! -- Ultramar had no stringent anti-xenos policies before its integration into the Imperium. And even now, he does not follow his Father's laws to the letter.

"I agree. The notation, I think, is where the trouble lies." He whistles again, the first few not-quite-right notes of the song. And then a different, but very similar tune. "Try this, mamzel? Where the notes go up," he taps at the sheet music, "step them down. We can see if that sounds better."

If one approach fails repeatedly, try a different angle.

One of his brothers has decided that she's an abhuman, though the amount of silver - blood, bone, claws, and the metallic feathers - did throw him for a bit. He doesn't know the first Stormwings were created from a dream.

"A Stormwing friend thought I was about to die, so she turned me." Hisako shrugs folded wings, like it doesn't matter. "I've always thought I could've pulled through, but she panicked, and it's not like it's easy to intuit what kills a mortal when something that would be only so upsetting to you makes one collapse and bleed a lot. As for the how, most of my feathers are like razors. If I pulled or shed one and let it cure, then someone deliberately cut themselves with it, that would do it. An accident would not, but I don't know where the dividing line is - so, let's try not to experiment."

She keeps her voice light, but Hisako takes this very seriously. There is a metal feather, the shaft stripped, in her partial bun as a hairstick, though.

"Mamzel, like I'm respectable! Flatterer," she chuckles, and does as requested. "Hmm. Hey, turn the page. Would that go with the next part? It gets more complicated."

But they must be separated, and-or cured? I will not experiment," of course, "but the parameters are a curious thing," he says, his blue eyes flitting to her feathers.

"My sons find themselves in similar straits at times," Guilliman confesses. "I have had to draft them guidelines for what a baseline can and cannot withstand." A crooked, sheepish little smile. "And I have been told that I err on the side of caution, myself."

He obliges her request, turning the book her way. He can still read it that way, after all. Almost easier. Hmm, hmm-ha, hm... it's still a strange song, but the scaling does make more sense that way.

"You may ask me not to. But my mam would twist my ear if I was not at least so respectful."

"While they're attached they're more flexible, see." Glancing to the side first, she extends one wing and flicks it so that the tips of her primary feathers, which do also rather resemble blades, bend in the air a bit, clicking softly against each other. Hisako's total wingspan would exceed Guiliman's height, like a condor's would exceed a normal person's. "If they're anything but removed and allowed to harden, all they do is cut. If they are loose and cured and they slice into someone, unless that's deliberately self-inflicted all they do is cut. And usually cause infection if it's not washed out quick, but it's normal infection."

They can also lend special properties to weapons, she doesn't say. It doesn't seem likely to come up, she's seen no arrows or bows here. She tilts her head one way and then the other over the page, birdlike.

"I mean, I'm being cautious," she says wryly. "Mostly people would survive a little laceration if they walked into me or something, but that's no way to treat a cellmate." Hisako is in fact actively afraid of hurting people. It would be easy, and then she'd find the reaction delicious. Also, retaliation. She stands on tables a lot and is careful with her wings.

"I'm not going to tell you no. I will say my mama would say you wanted something from me." She smiles without too much teeth showing, wanting to convey 'playful chatter' and not 'hostile suspicion'.

Guilliman ducking his head, apparently conceding the point Hisako's mother would have (hypothetically) made. "I was built to wage war, but raised a politician."

Even after that shameful confession he doesn't turn off the charm, giving her a smile and an easy shrug. "You are the first I have heard describe it as a prison. And it is not inaccurate," he grants. "But it is a fascinating one. I wish to gain as much from the experience as I can, before I am obligated to escape."

"Such a shame," Hisako laments theatrically, probably overdoing it a bit. She's inclined against both camps - more against war, it must be said - but he can't help how he was made or reared. "I was a wharf girl. What could I do for you, hmm..."

She is not immune to charm and he's good-looking, in a weary way. Whatever's going on in that oversized skull, the emotion under that self-control is quite appealing. Hisako can also taste little shocks of pain, like individual grains of salt on her tongue, and a something she's never experienced before which tingles.

Breezily she says, "We can only hope for the opportunity, and that it comes before the interest wears off. This is not my first time being torn away from everything, stuck somewhere with bizarre rules and full of strange people, and forced to idleness. Can I give you any tips?"

for all the world's a stage - LIBRARY LOG

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