unfinishedlibrary | Careful of the stacks

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Careful of the stacks - LIBRARY LOG

Who: EVERYONE!
What: A bunch of Editors walk into a library...
When: October 31st - November 13
Where: The Unfinished Library
Content warnings: Please add them as needed in the comment titles!

Welcome to the Library, Editors.

As the new residents drop into the Library, they are bound to have questions. Unfortunately it seems no one (except perhaps someone on the phone) appears to have any answers. But there is a nice little cart with a carafe of too weak coffee, a pot of too strong tea, assorted creams and sugar packets, and what appear to be leftover boxed shortbread cookies. There’s a sign inviting people to help themselves but reminding them not to take any food or drinks into the stacks, or touch any of the books with their grubby cookie hands. But aside from this little display and the nametags they’re all given, which do reappear whenever removed for the first week (where do they keep coming from?), the Editors are more or less left alone.

The Library is eternal, or at least it seems that way, unbothered by its new inhabitants. It certainly does not seem like this is anything unusual within its operation. Are there other sections of the Library with Editors, tucked into a different part of the stacks? Have there been Editors here before, and the ones here are simply a replacement? It’s impossible to say, just that the Library seems quite prepared for them. The refrigerators are stocked with appropriate (if generic) foodstuffs, any tantrums in front of the circulation desk are completely ignored, and attempts to set the Library on fire fizzle out before anything can even catch.

However, after a few days, some of the scenery in the Library seems to be changing. Little singing bowls and white noise makers pop up on various shelves and counters, yoga mats appear tucked under the bunk beds (plenty for everyone, somehow), and some of the rooms have started playing relaxing, meditative music over unseen speakers. More confusingly, there are also small UFOs hanging by string from the lower ceilings of the contained rooms, which on closer reflection are revealed to simply be two paper plates glued together and painted silver. In the beginning they’re quite sparse, but by the end of the second week they are everywhere and impossible to ignore.

At the start of the second week, there is a possible hint as to why, for at least part of it. On the table by the circulation desk there is a sign: “This Week’s Recommended Reading: Invasion of the Body Snatchers!” Next to it, there is a sign up sheet: a waitlist to check-out the ‘reading.’ (There is no explanation or apology for it actually being a movie.)

[ooc note: The Library prompts from the TDM can be considered canon to the game. Remember any of the locations listed in the setting are fair game. Have fun!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Konrad would have been quite content to ignore Harker entirely, sitting on the floor between other beds and carefully cutting identical rectangles from scavenged cardstock, but the scent of blood is immediate and sharp to his senses. Not fresh, not the mark of a wound still bleeding.

Precious few here had arrived bloody. Harker is watched as he shoves the bloody fur coat under the bed, unmoving, scissors ridiculously small in his grip paused in their duty of cutting rectangles.

When he finally speaks up, he sounds dry, interested but passionless. It's curiosity and little more, for the moment. But so many people here wound up so compelling if he bothered to pay them much attention.. "You will ruin your coat if you leave it there."

Harker should have made sure no one was around before trying to hide the fur coat, but he assumed that Konrad was busy with whatever he was working on. Looking back when he heard the voice. A guilty look crossed his features before he shifted to sit against the bunk and face the other.

"I am certain it is already ruined. I have frightened some with it, though, and I do not know how to remove the blood." It was an expensive coat bought by a friend for the long chase, so he couldn't just trash it. He had grown up too poor for that.

"Did you see it, sir? I attempted to keep it turned inside out; I do apologize if so."

He's definitely working on something, he's got a couple dozen of those rectangles cut out so far, but Harker's more interesting. "I am not frightened by such things, fear not."

If it did, his line of work would become MUCH more difficult. "But it seems no-one else is about at the moment to alarm." He raises one pale hand and beckons slightly. "Bring it here. I know a thing or two about bloodstains, it may not be too late." Generosity and the Night Haunter do not necessarily go hand in hand, but it is a diversion from the monotony of this library of unfinished books.

One bright side of the horrors of the last few months? Harker didn't show any fear or distaste for the other, more curious about this strange new place he was in. "I am pleased to hear it. I would hate to upset anyone else."

Looking up to verify before he reached back, pulling out the nearly floor-length pale furred coat, lined with black silk. Standing, Harker carried it over, his own hand pale but not as pale. His wedding band stood out against his finger as he held it over. The stain was pretty bad, plenty of spots matted from Quincey's blood. "I would hope it is not too late, but I would be very grateful if you could help."

Happily, for all that Curze might resemble certain myths of vampires, he isn't one! His golden, winged sibling on the other hand-- "Ah, yes. My brother feels similarly. We can't frighten the mortals, upsetting our nominal allies would be rude.."

The scissors are set aside, in favor of reaching to take the ruined coat with surprising delicacy for something his size.

The ring is noted too. It's still a human custom, even in the thirty-first millennium. "It is not your partner's blood, is it?" A mild enough question, for all that Konrad's method of choice to test the age of the stain is to lick it. Hm. "Cold water and a gentle hand will do much. Dried is much harder against such a color, but this is still fresh enough.." He uncoils suddenly, rising to his feet in a sudden jerk that is utterly graceless, his small rectangles of cardstock left to flutter to the ground. It's been a while since he's bothered trying to get blood out of anything. "There may be trouble finding an appropriate conditioner for the skin here. We will make do."

That would certainly be a mind trip when the time came. Not that Harker really needed any more shocks, but what was one more in the grand scheme of his life? More so after being kidnapped to a strange library. "Mortals?" Yes, he certainly caught that one. Yet, his voice doesn't tremble, trying to remember that the worlds are not the same for everyone.

The other's size certainly caught his attention. Even at six foot three, Harker could tell this gentleman had to be much taller than him.

"Thank the lord, no. My bride is safe, as far as I know." He couldn't be certain, but when Quincey fell, he had pointed to Mina's head, the burn vanishing… as he vanished. If there were moments after, he didn't recall. "It is that of my friend, Mr. Morris. He took a mortal wound." That's when a touch of sorrow finally shows in his tone. Blue eyes widening as Konrad licks the stain.

Suddenly looking up, he sees that the theory is right. Damn, that is a tall man.

"Yes, anything we can do, I would be pleased to learn in case it should become stained again, and when we return I will gather those for you, sir." Trying again to ignore his instincts and focus on the job at hand.

"The ordinary populace of mankind in their countless numbers and varieties." Curze measures his stride just enough to make sure Harker can keep up when he heads for the kitchenette. Thankfully it's not far. And nobody's there to contest his takeover of sink, countertop and paper towels. "He believes you more frail than you really are."

'You' being humanity, likely, since Harker himself is a stranger! A note is made on both bride and likely dead friend Mr. Morris. A mortal wound likely would indeed be the death of this absent friend, without medicae on hand. "Not so lethal a wound, perhaps," he muses, glad for now at no panic or sudden obeisance at his own presence. Terror might be sweet, but this man didn't strike him as being any sort of troublemaker. "Miracles do happen, now and again. By the will of our Lord, yes?" The dry note to that last might be missed. He did not believe the Emperor wrought miracles, but boy did most of the Imperium.

No, he's probably not criminal. That sort of politeness tends to be ingrained into morality and not just speech. "Never rub at blood, that will grind it in. Remove what you can with a clean cloth, or these." It's definitely been a long time, but Curze sets to work with patient deliberation, cleaning what he can with paper towels to absorb as much moisture as possible (and tossing the used ones all over the kitchenette as no longer important) and then setting to removing the rest with a wet dishcloth. "Would you recognize starch or talc if I told you to find it? There may be some in one of these cabinets."

"I would be hard-pressed to argue against that assessment of mortal. So, may I ask if you do not count yourself as mortal, what do you count yourself as? If that is not too forward, of course." Walking at a brisk pace to keep up with the taller man. Not wanting to have the other have to accommodate his stride for him too much. "We are not so frail, no. Sometimes it can be true, but not always."

"Indeed, but we have already had better luck than expected, I do not think a miracle is quite in our grasp. Which may be blasphemous to even say, but it is how I feel." He's been saying some off-the-wall things that have had Van Helsing and Mina scolding him since Mina was bitten. Yet, the small golden cross was still on, just under his shirt.

Nodding as they entered the kitchenette. Harker looked to make sure no one was around. Even if it might not matter. "I had no idea; I would have assumed rubbing it would have helped." Thank goodness he didn't try to clean it himself.

Jonathan moves to help but finds himself distracted by the paper towels. When asked about the starch or talc he looks up, setting the paper towel aside. "Yes, sir, I do. I can go find that." Starting to turn before looking back. "I also must apologize; I have been terribly rude. My name is Jonathan Harker." Even as he says it he moves to look in the cabinets for starch or talc, more likely he would find the starch.

Humanity had their heros and legends long before the Emperor decided he wanted a family, after all. Those stories came from somewhere. "I am a primarch. Our lives are to be mentioned in aeons, not decades, I am told." There's that undercurrent of dry irony again. He's never going to make it that long and he already knows it.

It's almost nostalgic. He didn't do the killing, it's not his coat, and yet here he is, playing the servitor, taking care of menial serf-tasks.. simply for something to do. More paper towels wind up on the floor or counter or in the sink in short order. A lot can be gotten out just by blotting! "If it is, then let it be blasphemous. If He has a complaint to make about it then He can very well come say so."

Cold water gets out much of the rest, the rag rinsed but never the coat. "Rubbing will grind it into the undercoat. Harder to clean." At least the more is cleaned off the less the kitchenette smells of fresh blood from the coat, and more just.. Curze's own less than clean, dried-blood smell. "Your manners," he murmurs, rinsing the dishcloth again, "Have been nothing short of unusually impeccable, Jonathan Harker. You may call me whatever you wish."

Cornstarch is almost certainly available! .. Talc's probably in the washroom with the showers, but he can make do with either.

"Oh." That got a bit of a blink as he scanned the items. "I could not imagine such a long life or the things you must have seen." He heard the dry irony but felt it impolite to inquire why.

That was certainly a change of pace, and a little bit of a thrill came from someone speaking so easily. Oh, how Van Helsing would have bristled, not that he had any issues with the old man. But sometimes one had complaints that apparently it was bad form to offer to sell your soul to have fixed and save your beloved. "I am inclined to agree with you, but I fear if my loved ones heard me, they would be quite cross." Not a bit of judging there; his tone says enough. He wishes for that miracle as well.

"Huzzah!" Harker pulled the box of cornstarch free and made his way over, opening the box with care. "I believe this is it." Looking down at the blood being removed as he set the open box within reach and kneeled to start gathering the dropped paper towels.

Not wanting to leave more of a mess than needed. "I will keep that in mind, thank you." He would rather not ruin the coat; it was clearly expensive. "I do try, as any gentleman should." He responded about his manners. "Though, do you not have a name you prefer to be called?" A jingling was heard from the pocket before he popped up. "Oh!" The explanation was quick as he moved closer and reached into the pocket, which was likely wet. A mostly full box of Winchester repeater shells was pulled out, a little damp along with a leather-bound traveler's journal. "I had wondered where those had gone."

At least the rifle was back in the snow in Transylvania.

"I cannot imagine it either."

Another paper towel joins the ones Harker's already picking up. He's definitely not looking where he's tossing those. "They are not here, and I will not inform them should they arrive. It's wiser to have a realistic view of Him and what He will and will not interfere with." Whatever little world Harker comes from, it's certain the Emperor isn't suddenly going to interfere on behalf of his mortal friend. The box of cornstarch is considered for a moment, coat set on the counter so he can take the box instead and Harker can rummage through its pockets unimpeded. "This will do."

And one of those singing bowls is picked up, left around for musical purposes. Well now it's being put to the purpose of bowls, a bit of water making a paste. Such small instruments really aren't suitable for something Curze's size, but he's used to that.

Gunpowder-scent, even in a box. But no gun to be seen. "I prefer to be called Night Haunter. My Father chose Konrad Curze instead. Do you have the weapon for those? I did not see one." He liked bolters more if he HAD to pick a gun. Those wouldn't do in hands such as Harker's. Where paper towels and damp cloth no longer get much blood out, the paste is applied. It'll dry. Eventually.

"I confess, it is rather enjoyable to be able to say such thoughts without being chastised for it." He loves his wife and friends, and his time, but, sometimes one wants to curse their maker for the evils they suffered. Or saw their beloved nearly succumb too.

Just picking up that one too. Quietly moving to drop them in the trash once he had set the box and his journal on a clear surface to keep them safe. Moving back over to watch Konrad work on the paste, studying the method. Between the light-colored fur and his snow-white hair, it could not hurt to learn.

"If you prefer Night Haunter, my friend, then that is what I will call you." He couldn't admit it was both a very cool and very unsettling name at the same time. Fitting for the man he was standing next to. "No, I believe I lost the Winchester in the snow when I dismounted from the horse." He spoke as if it just made sense. "But Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming spent quite a bit on both the coat and the ammunition. It would be poor form to let either be ruined. Bad enough that I lost the rifle." But he got the Count! "I do still at least have my kukri should I need it."

It's not every day a ten foot tall creature calmly works on cleaning your coat. And it'll work too - mostly, if one ignores the glitter that he hasn't quite managed to clean off himself. "The line between obedience and heresy is action, not thought. Your fellows may learn that in time." Or not, as mortals went. Most didn't live long enough, or were too deeply entrenched in their beliefs and faith.

He couldn't complain. He had his own beliefs and faith, things that precognition didn't show him or define. "Allow this paste to dry thoroughly, it will absorb the remaining blood and oils. At least a few hours. Find a brush, like one might use on a child, and brush it out later, in the direction the fur lays."

His sons would find it entertaining, watching their primarch instruct a mortal on such utterly mundane things. Even more entertaining, to have the same mortal possess the audacity to call him friend. What they don't know, they can't laugh at. "What is a kukri, may I ask..?"

At least the glitter will amuse Harker once he sees it. Sparkly and just refusing to come off? Better than blood. "Alas, where I am from, it is blasphemous to even say as such. I do find it refreshing, though. Not to say I am a non-believer, I am just a little skeptical after recent events in my life."

The cross around his neck worked on repelling vampires, so it had to have some power. Seeing the wafer burn, Mina was then removed when he killed Dracula. Further proof, yet some skeptical thoughts would always remain after the castle.

Harker was young for a mortal too, a full-grown man by his society, and recently licensed as a solicitor. Yet, he was only twenty-one. He waited until he was old enough to take the test. "Thank you, I will do just that. I appreciate the help you have given me here. Please do call upon me if I can ever repay the debt."

If only Harker knew, and yet, it may not change his mind. When prompted, he moved his jacket aside, the sheath holding the blade attached to his belt mostly hidden by the suit jacket. Taking it out, he held it up by the blade as to allow the other to look. "It is an excellent knife." He could say more, but he felt it was enough. The knife had not left his side since he acquired it a few months ago when starting their quest to kill that ancient evil.

Is it christianity? Is it Emperor worship? Is there a difference in thirty thousand years?

There's no 'you're welcome', just a low hum of acknowledgment; what Harker could do in return will have to wait to be seen, but Curze wasn't going to be keeping track. By the time he thought of something, the man could be well into his old age, or already long gone. His attention shifts a bit from cleaning to the knife; he doesn't recognize the exact type, but can tell from its design what it's for.

Or at least what he'd use it for. He doesn't reach out to take it, but there is, for a moment, definite interest. "A good utility weapon. Do you use it for brush or for throats?" A moment's pause, before he adds almost idly, "And does it have much to do with the recent events you spoke of? You don't seem the sort of mortal who'd be spending much time cutting your enemies to ribbons."

The hum was enough, and Harker expected the other to call on him in time. Otherwise he would find some way himself of making himself useful for the Night Haunter. Though who knew how long Jonathan Harker might live? It could be a handful of years, or hundreds. Who knew if he was tainted by the count or his brides? He certainly came home with some new skills.

No, brain fever, yes. That's what it was.

Jonathan could see the interest, so he didn't pull it away yet. A little sheepishly, when asked, despite what he had done, what was days ago to him. "The latter, but I hope it does not paint me ill. There was only one throat I was after; the rest were simply in my way and willing to die for their cause."

Yes, there was blood on his hands, metaphorically, but he would do it all over again in an instant to protect his beloved Mina. "Yes, it has everything to do with those events. I would say they would sound insane, but somehow I feel you might understand." Not a judgment, just honesty. "I had never so much as hit a man before a few months ago. Life has a way of making us change to survive."

Curze would know how longer Harker had to live, if he let any of the premonitions that itched at the edges of his sight gain his focus. People don't usually like to find out. "Survival does often force humanity to do the unthinkable."

Murder he's fine with, so long as it's for a good cause. "Tell me of these events that sound insane. This throat you sought to cut. It was a deserving one?" In anyone sensible, this would be an immediate do not at all tell Curze a damn thing, but what could possibly go wrong?

If he took the knife he'd be reluctant to give it back; the ones he'd brought with him here were of uniform purpose of killing, a utility blade would be useful too--

Harker was like most mortals that way, plus he would fall into utter despair if he knew he was tainted. "A truer statement never said." He replied easily. He had changed so much in the past seven months, and yet, he tried to keep his politeness alive.

There was no better cause in his mind. "Of course, but would you prefer us to return to the dorm so you can finish your cuttings while I tell the tale? Most would think me mad, I have a feeling you will not." Just a hunch, given how much his new friend looks like he is undead. No judgment though, Night Haunter was good as gold in his book so far.

And yet, he waited too long, with the thought of heading back to the room, the knife was put way as he reached for the coat as not to lose any of the starch on the way back.

The closest Curze comes to cleaning himself off any after this is rubbing his hands on his ragged pants. Good enough. There's glitter mixed in with the cornstarch paste. No complaint when Harker reaches for the coat, it's surrendered easily enough. So long as it dried, it would .. be serviceable anyway. Not soaked in crimson. "Calling someone mad, while we are in a sorcerer's library, seems basest foolishness."

He reserves judgment for criminals, not the deluded.

"When it's dry and the starch brushed out, if the hide beneath the fur is stiff it will need to be tended to from the other side. I saw a sewing machine in one of the other rooms, it will be of use." Because they're going to have to rip the lining out! Well. Maybe. Probably.

He should bother with a bit more cleanup, now there's a bowl of starch and a box sitting out, and a wet rag with some blood in it still, and Curze.. isn't bothering. It's really not a surprise given his own unkempt appearance.

But back to his cards indeed. He had fifty more to cut out, or so.

Jonathan was careful not to lose any of the starch, but he did look back at the mess left behind, and the way his new friend just wiped his hands on his pants. That was noted for later. He would come back and clean up the mess if no one else did first. At least the strange paper towels were off the floor and in the bin.

The glitter was eye catching. "You know, I honestly cannot argue that. It is a fine point." A bit of mirth in his tone as he followed along, "Duly noted, I will keep an eye on it and if it feels stiff, I will seek your help. I confess I am no good with a needle." It wasn't something he learned growing up. Granted, he was assuming it was a Victorian sewing machine.

It would be a sad loss for that silk, but it might be salvageable. Laying the coat carefully over his bed, he moved to take a seat on the floor. He would worry about his suit later. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, motioning to the cards. "Or would you prefer I simply tell the tale?"

That sort of work is why the Imperium invented servitors. Menial jobs best left to cyborgs with no ability to really think or act on their own!

"I've practiced a fair bit with leatherworking, but fabric is a different beast entirely." It required far more delicate tools. He could, it was just awkward by size difference alone. Maybe such a 'profession' explained some of the clinging scent of death. "No awls needed for cloth." A primarch is often exceptional at anything they chose to apply themselves to, so he could certainly learn... but practice would be needed.

Curze isn't yet sure it's a good way to spend his time.

With the freshly bestarched coat on a bed to dry, and Harker presumably comfortable in his own chosen spot, the Night Haunter folds long legs beneath himself and drops back to the floor gracelessly, collecting the already cut rectangles with care. "Your tale will do well. They must be exactly the same, all seventy-eight." Best he do it himself!

"It will keep my hands occupied in the meantime. I find myself terribly curious."

A lot of this kind of work was left to servants if he was staying with his employer, Mr. Hawkins, or tended to by professionals for what little coin Harker had had before his marriage. Afterward, he didn't really have an opportunity to figure it out. He had only been home a matter of weeks and dealing with the firm before he was dragged back into the fray.

"I could imagine so, yes. Leather would be much harder to work with." He could easily see that. More so with the sheer size of his new friend. "I could also ask one of the ladies to teach me, if that would be easier on us both. I could show you whatever I learn. Those skills may be valuable here in time." There was certainly not a tailor on hand to make new suits.

"Understood, well." He reached over to gather a few others from where he sat to return them to the Night Haunter. "Do you know what a solicitor is?" He asked simply. "It probably is not relevant, but it explains how I ended up where I was. It was my job, and I was sent to the home of a foreign nobleman to help finalize a purchase of property for him in the stead of my employer, who had fallen ill." It was a fit of gout, but given it may have killed the man, it felt that ill was the best.

The scissors, too small still for his hands to be used easily, are put back to work. He's used to dealing with instruments tuned to the hands of mortals, it's a mild irritation at best. "... Mm. If you learn of it and have some wish to pass on that knowledge, I will learn." Is Konrad overly invested in picking up tailoring alongside leatherworking? No. Would he probably learn anyway? If the library stays this monotonous - yes absolutely.

Collected cards, or well, proto-cards are taken back easily enough and set with the others. There's plenty more to be made. "I know the word, but I don't know if it means the same thing to me as you."

As Harker explains his job, which sounded awfully like minor bureaucratic things he avoided whenever he possibly could, he decides his assessment is right; solicitor definitely means something different to him. "A form of government functionary, then."

His blue eyes were watching those too-small scissors in those large hands. Again curious at just how well the other works with such small items. He is curious about what Night Haunter is making, but he will wait and see. "I would be happy to pass the knowledge along should I gain it."

Nodding then when the other replied. "We solicitors handle legal matters outside the courtrooms. While barristers work in the courtroom. I had been training as a clerk since I was still a boy." Fourteen, but that didn't matter. It was the era, and he had already known his boss by then. "I digress; it was a matter of a property. I was to go, handle the paperwork in this faraway land so the count could legally own the home he wanted. It should have been simple, but the man was not a man but a monster." He explained with a wave of his hand. "And I confess I did not notice right away. Not until I realized I was a prisoner in his home."

Jonathan shuddered when he said it. His time in the castle still brought forth nightmares. "He had three devil women in his home that I did not see until weeks later; they intended to drain my blood, and I pretended to be asleep. Fearful that if I moved, they might do so." And secretly wanting the kisses they spoke of, but he's not admitting that. "But before they could, their master returned... and reacted to them being close to me in a very livid fashion. Screaming at them that I belonged to him..." A breath taken. "All the while holding a bag that was wiggling and with cries coming from within."

Taking a moment to let the other speak if he chose. But Harker had lost a shade of his already pale tone while speaking.

'Monster' means so many different things. Curze was one himself by design, but this had a different sound to it, and for the most part he remains silent, working on his little cutouts with patience. A minor noble, seeking the aid of minor government officials to acquire new homes. Boring, mundane.

Except for the whole 'monster' bit. And devil women. And a crying bag. "Take your time, breathe. It is in the past, and the past cannot harm you. We can't have you fainting in the retelling. When you speak of devil women, this is ... a metaphor?"

There's room for a 'no'. He didn't believe in gods, but daemons are apparently a Thing, and devils were another word for that as far as he knew.

Dorms!

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