Molly Toombs
The place was called Maven's. Plain and
simple, nothing more nothing less. It was a bungalow of a house that
sat along the Federal stretch between a small used car dealership and a
Vietnamese restaurant, the store was one of those establishments that
has been open for years despite the fact that it never seemed to do any
business. Maven or her husband would run the store themselves, for it
never really needed more than one person to watch it.
Inside the
light is dim, yellow, and dusty to set the mood. There are shelves and
tables and displays all about, offering all typical supply that you
would expect to find in a shop that catered to the occult and pagan
communities. There were books available in a back room that was set
aside specifically for literature, while up front you could find more of
your candles, your incense, your herbs and remedies and accessories and
statues and pendants and things of that like. Here or there, on
displays and tables centered or made to stand out, were antiques and
'artifacts' that were offered at prices that most people who came
through here wouldn't even consider.
Maven herself was working
tonight, and currently was posted behind the counter with some
accounting book or another open in front of her. She was a woman in her
mid-fifties, overweight with heavy make-up. Her hair was dyed black
and done up in a small beehive of curls. She'd make regular rhythms
tapping overlong red nails on the counter.
Up front there was a
couple who were only in here for the incense and soda from the small
display fridge in front of the counter. In the back room, where the
books are specifically, was Molly Toombs.
She stood leaned against
a bookshelf, back to the open doorway of what was probably once a
bedroom when this bungalow was a home rather than a business, with a
book open and cradled by its spine and covers with one hand, the other
hand flipping pages and putting finger to page to skim paragraphs. She
was hunting for something in particular, apparently.
Bolivar Fisk
Such
places could be gold mines, quite often gold mines that the proprietors
did not even know they possessed. Some objects just fell through the
cracks, lost in the shuffle or simply unnoticed in their inconspicuous
nature. Most people simply assumed that such places were nothing more
then what their names implied, curiosities, bric-a-brac and a waste of
money in both cases.
But they did not know, not like Molly Toombs
seemed to know, and maybe even Maven herself had an inkling. But there
were those who knew all to well what to look for, what things might hold
a spark of the unusual, a hint of the shadow realms that lay beyond
mortal understanding and ken.
But lets not dally on such things,
instead, lets go to the door. It's a plain thing, a simple thing with a
simple little bell which chimed brightly when someone would walk
through, as it did now. With a creak of the door and a swing on old
complaining hinges the door permitted the entrance of a man of
considerable size. With him he brought the smell of leather, of old
fashioned cologne and the treadfalls of heavy, feet. It was a
resounding, reverberating sensation those footfalls, each one seeming to
strain the floor boards on which they tread, each slow and specific.
The
man himself stood somewhere in the upper range of six feet, his head
almost touching the ceiling in such low confines, his legs were shod in
old jeans, his feet that of heavy leather boots. His torso was clad in a
heavy leather biker jacket and the man was for all intensive purposes, a
man in black. He moved toward Maven in the yellowed light of the front
room, removing a pair of old circular and blacked out glasses and said
simply.
"Where do you keep your books?" The voice a low rumble,
that seemed soft in in this moment, but might well be a roar in the
next.
Molly Toombs
Maven did have an
inkling, as a matter of fact. She'd picked up on some Truths in her
younger days, but had since settled down and contented herself with this
store and the things she sold from it. Largely product, yes, but
perhaps one of those artifacts over there, or a 'trinket' here, actually
carried some real worth.
This, though, is neither here nor
there. It doesn't change the way that Maven looks up from over the red
rims of reading glasses when the large man comes in with his heavy feet
and blacked out glasses after sun fall. She studied him, much like a
librarian may to determine if someone is going to be noisy among her
books or not, then nodded her head toward a hallway past the front main
room. "The first room on the right." Her lips were pursed together
sternly, but she somehow still managed not to sound like a complete
sourpuss when she advised him, while looking back down to her books:
"I'm going to be closing up in about fifteen or twenty minutes, just so
you're aware, sir."
And so, made aware he was.
In the room
of books, Fisk would find that the shelves had been built into the walls
rather than purchased and lined up in front of them. The middle of the
room itself was empty, for it wasn't large enough to very comfortably
fit an extra display. In the room of books he would find one other
person, Miss Molly Toombs. She appeared as a woman somewhere in her
mid-twenties, with red hair up in a ponytail that was hanging forward
some due to how Molly had her head leaned over an open book that she
held, intently reading from a page someplace in the middle-- something
had caught her eye, perhaps precisely what she was looking for. She was
dressed in a black form-fitted dress with long sleeves and a high
collar, a hem that stopped just below the mid-thigh mark. She had black
ankle boots and socks as well, but to prevent her from being the Woman
in Black to mirror his Man in Black, she also had a brown purse strap
across her chest, the bag itself at her hip, and a gray wool cardigan
worn to keep away the evening's chill.
Bolivar Fisk
She
was wary, wary of the man as he stepped up to the counter and perhaps
there was good reason for it. He looked like a biker, he even smelled
like one, like someone who didn't belong in such a place, that such
erudite idea's and esoteric concepts should have no place in the
meat-headed, leather wearing crowd. But the man nods at her warning and
turns to walk down the hall.
"Thank you, I suppose we all have to
sleep sometime." And so those foot falls resounded once more, perhaps so
much so that they might well interfere with Molly's inspection of the
book which she held.
When the big man entered the room those
blacked out shades were pushed upward, coming to rest in the man's short
silvered hair. He took a moment to breath in at the threshold, in the
doorway which barely contained him before he stepped inward and turned
his head left, and then right. Soft blue eyes fell on Molly Toombs for a
moment and then Bolivar strode inward, filling the room with his
presence as he moved to a shelf and put large, calloused hands upon his
hips and started to pace the wall.
A "hmmmm" sound rumbled up from
the depths of his throat as he considered this and that, the man
perusing titles quickly, intently, apparently he meant to honour Maven's
fifteen minutes. He did however look briefly at the title of Molly's
book...just in case she held something of particular interest.
Molly Toombs
The
sound of a man like Bolivar approaching was something most people would
pick up on, and Molly was more attentive than most. When the
nigh-behemoth of a man filled the doorway Molly glanced back at him, and
then did a double-take. The first glance had been a quick hop of eyes
from book page to figure and then back down again; initially, she
hadn't wanted to be interrupted from what she was engrossed in. The
second glance was a surprised one, a look of recognition. If Bolivar
paid mind to such things he could even tell that this second look held a
brief spark of excitement-- whoever it was she thought she saw, she was
probably going to be pleased to see them.
But then two sets of
blue eyes landed and locked, briefly, and Molly realized that she was
mistaken. Still, though, she watched the man for a moment before
shifting how she was standing-- straightening up so she no longer leaned
against the wall and shelf built into it. Molly's eyes soon fell back
down to the book she was holding to finish whatever paragraph she'd been
busy with earlier.
A politely quiet set of time passed, and when
he glanced Bolivar would find that the book this red-haired woman was
reading to be titled: Ancient Rites of Sacrifice: Biblical and Beyond
Molly
had since finished what she was reading and closed the book, so the
title was easy to find on cover and spine both now that she no longer
cradled the open book with one hand. She was now studying the back
instead, reading the author blurb printed there with a furrowed brow of
thought-- no doubt trying to judge the man's credibility based on the
schooling listed in his biographical paragraph.
For now, at least,
she wasn't intent on breaking the silence between two people in a room
together. She couldn't always be the socialite.
Bolivar Fisk
She
seemed pleased, as if she knew him from somewhere. But this man's face
was not scarred, his features were not worn and beaten, not in the same
way as that man from her past. No this did not quite fit that bill.
Those blue eyes were the give away but even with those similarities he
was a creature all of his own.
The man of course knew nothing of
this woman, except that her hair was red, that she was interested in
ancient history and that she knew that places such as these held at
least ssome, texts of worth. He watched her out of the corner of his
eye, watching as she red the back cover and shook his head.
"It's
always what they don't list that matters." He says as he looked at her
briefly, inclining his head to the book with a slow meaningful gesture.
"Where
they studied and where they come from doesn't mean a damn thing. They
never seem to get that at least not when it comes to a book like that."
Molly Toombs
When
Bolivar spoke up Molly's shoulders jumped just a little. His words
were unexpected, and his voice a rumble. By first impression he seemed
like he may be quick to violence, for this was the M.O. of a biker and
that's how the man was dressed. He was out of place in this
low-business occult shop in the first place. So when he spoke to Molly,
commenting on the book and the author details she was reading, she
twitched about the shoulders and chest with a small startle. Then, with
a blink to further state the surprise, she looked back up to Bolivar's
face and heard him out as he continued to speak.
"Well," she
started her answer with a thoughtful near-drawling of the word, and
glanced down at the book again-- this time, turning it over to see the
front cover instead. "I'm not exactly looking for a first-hand
account. I figure an accomplished historian would have a thing or two
to say on an academic level." She concluded her defense of the book
with a polite smile. She wasn't being stand off-ish or defensive,
despite her immediate reaction to being interrupted.
By the curious look that she gave him next, it's clear she couldn't help but ask:
"What
sort of things would they not be listing? A resume of expeditions,
perhaps?" Eyebrows raised up on Molly's forehead, and she turned her
body just enough to glance back at the shelf that she'd pulled this book
from. Things were organized by topic and category, so she didn't have
to go far to start skimming spines for a potential better find.
Bolivar Fisk
His
voice made her jump, something it seemed he was used to because he
offered her a reassuring smile, an act which made his lantern like jaw
seem all the more prominent. He did not laugh however, because he
intended no malice. Why would you in such a place with a complete
stranger after all?
"You would be surprised what sort of habits
and rituals survive from the ancient mists of time." He said as he
pulled a book down, examined it briefly, before pushing it back up into
its home. "There are places where you can still find ancient cultural
practices alive and well. Or at least maintaining better reference
material then any Library in the western world." He offered, that voice
still that soft rumble as he stepped to the next shelf.
He turned
his gaze, those soft blue eyes meeting Molly, the man looking down at
her, though only because he was a significant amount taller then her.
"Expeditions help, of course. The biggest problem I find with such books
is that most of them are written using sources that were already
written by other academics, some of which may have done the very same
thing." His grin widdened a little bit more, causing the man's features
to wrinkle gently.
"I don't find the telephone game particularly
useful for learning anything of value...except perhaps a good joke. But I
suppose...that would just be me."
Molly Toombs
One
of the survival mechanisms that Molly has been working like a muscle
since wetting her feet in the sea of supernatural was listening. She's
learned much of what she knows by listening, remembering, and then
studying further. Truth be told, that's precisely what she was up to
this evening-- further researching something that someone had told her,
that she had carefully listened to.
This man may not have insight
into her desired subject matter (though in reality he had far more
knowledge than she could begin to guess, more than likely), but she
listened to him all the same. He was raising decent points, at least,
and Molly's face portrayed this. She nodded in agreement when he
concluded, and apparently was taking his word because the closed book
that she'd been considering taking to the counter before was now
returned to the shelf.
With no book in hand, Molly Toombs now instead slipped her hands into her cardigan pockets.
"Alright
then." With a small, almost wry smile Molly then gestured to the shelf
to her left with a hand that remained inside the sweater pocket. "What
would you recommend for me, then?"
Bolivar Fisk
He
watches as Molly buts the book back up on the shelf, no visible
reaction from the action beyond a brief blink of heavily lidded eyes.
She asks him what he recommends, and for a brief moment he sweeps his
gaze over the room as if he might be able to take in every tittle in
that one glance before he shook his head.
"I recommend spending a
very great deal of money and learning a great many languages. Because if
you really want to know about things from the distant past you either
have to go to one of those remote, desolate locations to learn first
hand....or buy very, very old books." That smile spread across his lips
at his own statement before he let his feet take him to the first case
he had investigated, those heavy foot falls pressing hard upon the wood
beneath each step.
A moment later a book is pulled from the rack,
and he holds it out towards her, palm down...because his hands were big
enough that he could almost palm the thing. "But if you need to walk out
of here with something, try this one. Its about tribal practices in
northern sudan, sacrifices are still practiced there today. Mind you the
sacrifices have changed...from my own research their practices have
held true for centuries, maybe even back a few thousand years." He
shrugs.
"More credible then that extrapolation anyways."
Molly Toombs
Eyes
followed Bolivar as he moved through the small room back to one of many
shelves in the wall. To describe how Molly watched the man as cautious
wouldn't be accurate, but it isn't a far cry from the truth. She was
curious, as ever and always, but over that Molly was watchful. It
wasn't that she expected this silver-haired giant to attack her, but it
sure didn't hurt to be prepared. Being turned on wasn't impossible, and
Molly had seen plenty of impossible over the past dozen months already.
The
book that he comes back with is accepted with hands much less capable
of palming hardback books. Molly looked at the cover and flipped
quickly through the pages while he explained what the book covered. Her
expression proved her to be at least mildly impressed with the
selection. She tucked it under one arm and against her side for now.
"Considering
the current state of affairs, I don't think I'll be going to Sudan or
any place thereabouts anytime soon." She smiled again, borderline
rueful-- charming without the solid spark of real charm underneath (a
ghost of charm, a ploy, a play). "And I don't think any linguistics are
going to take me back to the biblical era.
"But your
recommendation isn't far off the mark. Thank you." Again, that smile,
and then to follow her free hand reached across the space between
herself and Bolivar. "I'm Molly. Not to be forward, but you seem
pretty out of place here. What are you looking for?"
Bolivar Fisk
Molly
was careful, watchful, because Bolivar was a large man, one might even
say he was huge. Or at the very least he gave off that impression. He
seemed to fill the space, though wether it was his physical form or some
other characteristic was entirely up to Molly, but you had to be
careful of strangers, especially strangers that stood head and shoulders
over you.
She commented on his idea's and at last a singular
chuckle escaped his lips, and he canted his head to the side with a
brief raising of a brow as if to shrug. "They might not take you back in
time, but all the really, really old books are not usually written in
our easily understood English, if your lucky, it might be Latin...most
of the time however, you aren't so lucky."
He looked down at the
hand that was offered and took it, his own hand firm and leathery,
though he does not even remotely try to crush her hand with his
strength, he simply shook it and then responded slowly. "Good to meet
you Molly, My name is Bolivar, but feel free to call me Bull." He let
her hand go then, and started back around the room, looking at the
shelves once more.
"Perhaps I do...but do you really fit the
description of someone who would be in this place?" He inquired, his
lips pulling into a lopsided grin, showing teeth on one side of his
mouth. "As to what I'm looking for." He shrugged. "This and that,
anything I haven't read...titles get hard to find when you've been a
book worm like me your entire life."
Molly Toombs
The
hand that she shakes is large, thick-skinned, and notably warm. There
was a constant worry deep down in Molly's bones that the wrong Undead
person would learn of how much she knew, and that they would come after
her for that reason. She was always aware of body temperature now, and
wary of cold handshakes. That this man's skin showed signs of life
tangible to touch helped to reassure. It was a flimsy comfort that
helped Molly continue the exchange without a strong desire to leave.
"Latin,"
she repeated the suggestion thoughtfully, but didn't inquire further.
He said that she usually isn't so lucky-- well, no, he said 'you' aren't
usually so lucky and meant it in a general sense, but Molly chuckled
all the same. "You're right there." About her not being so lucky, she
meant, but they were moving on.
When presented with the though
that she didn't fit the bill for the kind of person to come to these
shops, Molly looked down at the front of her dress, her stockings and
boots and the bare flash of thigh just to keep from being too prudish.
Her eyebrows raised as though to say 'Well, you have another point', but
she grinned some and contested with: "Perhaps, but a woman in a dress
makes more sense than a bookworm in leather."
She glanced to a
shelf, skim-skim-skimmed, then plucked a book free and held it out in an
offer to Bolivar. The cover was muted, hardback of a faded blue with
title stamped in gold. He would find it to be a study of magics rooted
in islander culture-- hoodoo and the sort, you know. "Here, maybe this
will make for a good leisurely read."
Assuming he takes it, Molly
would follow up with another smile, this with more a note of finality--
of farewell. "It was good to meet you, Bolivar." Nope, 'Bull' was too
on-the-nose for the giant man. "Have a good night."
And with that, she would leave the man to the room of books and be on her way soon after.
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