The library's ground level is one large room punctuated by even rows of pier columns that confidently hold the weight of the upper floors. The building is old but solid, its lath and plaster walls dark with age. Here and there some of the plaster has worn off to reveal the wooden slats beneath. Heavy, dark grained and decorated mahogany wainscoting runs the length of the walls, complimented by thick, ornate crown molding along the ceiling and each of the columns. It's clear from the dilapidated condition that the building's been abandoned for decades. There is a somber, sepulchral quietness to the place, even when alive with people, that is perhaps a ghostly echo of the rigid, required silence that its wardens demanded when the library was in its heyday.
Compact is the word for him: wiry, maybe 5'6" in his beat-up black combat boots, with a sense of compressed energy and imminence like a coiled spring -- or a cocked gun. Never quite still for long, balance flowing through the balls of his feet. There's a striking intensity to his narrow blue-green eyes, the colour contrasting with his fair skin and spiky copper hair; just below the left is what at first appears to be a faint mole, but closer inspection reveals as a small, long-healed scar. His features are appealing, with high cheekbones and a good jawline, but it's the confident mien and roguish smile that most often seem to draw people in.
The above are probably the first things people notice on nights during which he is not also wearing a fluffy, thigh-length caramel-coloured probably-faux fur coat. This not one of those nights. Under it, he's more reasonably clad, in nicely-fitting dark indigo jeans with a plain white tank, its ribbed cotton skimming close enough to hint at the musculature beneath. Over that, he's wearing a long-sleeved, navy blue shirt, unbuttoned; judging by the white-on-red number patches on the left arm, the flag patch on the right shoulder, and the round fleur-de-lis patch to the left of the collar, it was once part of someone's Scout uniform... probably not his. Okay, the 'Boy Scouts of the USA' patch over the right pocket's a hint, too. There's a couple leather-and-bead bracelets on one wrist and a length of ball-chain disappearing beneath his collar; his nails were apparently painted black some time ago, since they're starting to show chips. Late teens, most likely, and when he speaks it's in a mellifluous, southern-accented baritone voice.
Slug's frame is tall and lanky, somewhere in the neighborhood of six feet tall and just under two hundred pounds... But it's hard to really pin down the particulars. His semi-loose, dull orange hoodie hides much of his body and breaks up his frame, hiding the outline of his body. The hood is almost always up, and he takes pains to use it to obfuscate as much of his face as possible... And it isn't hard to see why. The right side of this young man's tan face has been torn up something awful. Deep troughs of keloid tissue run from just beneath his wild red bangs, across his high cheek, and terminate somewhere on his slender, stubbled jaw. It's hard to tell when he's got his yellow sunglasses on, but not both of his blue eyes move. It's likely the right one is severely damaged in some way, or false.
Beneath the hoodie's neckline, one might get a flash of the white tank beneath, especially on a hot day. The zipper on his hoodie has been rubbed with grit and dirt to take the shine out of it, and so has every other bit of metal on him, from hoodie right on down to his black zip-up boots. His jeans are significantly tighter than his hoodie, and often stained with something or another. On his hands he wears a pair of black fingerless gloves, something cheap and throw-away.
Saturday evening, about 8:30, and there's boots on the stairs, Felix heading down them to the beat of the song he's humming -- Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll, specifically. He looks cheerful. And fluffy, given the coat.
Slug has taken up residence at the mouth of a man made cave, built out of the disused stacks in the library. He's crowded down around a propane stove, a tiny thing with a tiny flame, his hands cupped around the edges. Deeper in the 'cave' there's a curtain, and other, shadowed things. He looks up, then back down at the burner and the cup set on top of it.
Felix more or less dances off the stairs, stopping suddenly (but on beat) as he catches the movement at the mouth of the 'cave', one hand whipping to point a finger at the inhabitant. "You! I been lookin' for you," he greets, tone too bright for the words to come off as threatening, "How's it goin'? Nice... cave-thing you got goin' there." A glance at the burner and its cup, then over his shoulder toward the kitchen, and back. "But you noticed we got a microwave an' shit, right?"
"I like the feeling of fire on my skin," Slug says, sniffing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baggy of herbs, indistinguishable in the darkness. He pops it open, shakes it out into the water, and stirs them with a colored popsicle stick taken from the same pocket. He chops his lips a little and bends his head, not enough to take his eyes off of Felix, but enough to get a good sniff of the fragrant mixture. "Something bad happen?"
Felix gives a little sideways tilt of a nod to that reply. "Fair 'nough, reckon it's pretty nice long's it ain't TOO 'on' my skin," he grants. "An' prolly, there any time bad shit ain't happenin' somewhere? Not here an' now far's I know, though. Hopefully not this evenin', either, 'cause I got plans. Nah, I just been tryin' to catch you for my Fostern challenge. 'case you ain't heard, I gotta check with all the Elders an' see if they got any news they want shared with the rest of the world outside this Sept. An' seein' as you're actin' as elder last I heard: you got any news you want shared with the Nation outside our boundaries?" The herbal mixture gets an interested look, but no question as yet.
Slug waves his hand, his stick held like a practiced smoker might hold a cigarette. His eyes lower, hooding, nearly closing. He looks into the fire and considers this, his bottom lip pursed just a little bit. "Yeah. I guess I am Elder- for now, anyways. Maybe longer if I win my own Challenge." He sticks the wood back into his pocket and lifts his tin cup off the burner, holding it in both hands, cusp just a few inches from his nose. He breathes deep, in, out, in, out, his chest rising and falling as slowly as a receeding tide. "Anything I know or I've learned, it's... been said. I've already told people, more important people than me. I always do, as soon as I find out that kind of news. I'm sorry." He takes a sip from the mixture in the cup and looks up. "I hope that doesn't screw things up for you."
"Oughta tell me," Felix says, leaning up against the end of one of the bookshelves and flashing the Fostern a grin, "Galliard, right? Hear all, know all, tell... the important bits. But nah, it don't screw me up none, the requirement's =askin'= y'all an' passin' the info accurate; ain't nothin' in there about everyone havin' to HAVE shit they wanna share. 'fact, Winter's instructions specifically included 'if they have any to offer', so if you don't, you don't. Although. Where I gotta take the news, it's to whatever caern it is Uncle Bob's hangin' out at these days. Which no one seems to know, 'cept maybe Winter, an' he ain't tellin', on account findin' it out's part of my task. So, you happen to know? Reckon if anyone does, it oughta be us."
"The last, juicy bits of news I had came before you got here, back when I was figuring out how to talk with the Ooze and stuff like that." Slug smiles a little, then takes another pull from his 'tea'. "I'm glad I didn't mess things up for you. About the only thing I could say is that the spirit of the Columbia river is still very much present, and Gaian, despite Her appearance. She could use a little help with purifying Her waters and getting back on Her feet. But, I guess that isn't very important to The Nation. Just the state." Slug sets his tea down between his thighs and allows his head to roll back. "But... you could send a message for me, when you're out there on the barking chain. Try to send word to Olga Fat-Ripper that Bad-Penny, Elder of the Bone Gnawers, says "He understands". That's all." Slug wets his lips with his tongue, drags a hand through his hair, and cocks his head to the side. "I've heard of him through a friend'a mine. He's out east, moving and shaking up and down the N-E coast. He was in PA, around The Hand of Gaia, and up in NY, in Three Rivers. If you knew what he was doing, it'd be easier to track him down."
Felix pulls an Altoids tin out of his pocket, flipping the lid open with a practiced, one-handed move; it turns out to contain cigarettes and a lighter, and no mints at all. He takes one of the former out, and holds the tin out to silently offer one to the Ragabash as well. "=Can= you talk to the Ooze?" he asks, "An' okay, got it. Can't imagine folks wouldn't be pleased to hear a river's spirit's still there an' uncorrupted, even if it ain't their own river. The other part, too -- yeah, I'll try an' get that passed along." The last part makes him look startled, then thoughtful. "Huh. The one thing Winter'd said was he's been spendin' his time on =this= coast since the Green fell. So =that's= interestin', definitely. Thanks. An' yeah, good point... it prolly would. You got any ideas on that, maybe?"
Slug passes up the offer with a wave of his hand, then he shrugs. "Nah," he says. "I tried a bunch of different methods, but in the end, I didn't get to talk to it. I just sent a message to a very old and very powerful..." he hesitates. "Echo. An echo of a person, lost in time, not alive or dead." He holds up both his hands, fingers fanned, then grabs his cup again. "No. If I knew more about him, how he was traveling, his personality, his history, I could guess. But even then, I don't know alot about the area." Slug drains the rest of his tea and kills the heat on the burner, standing up. "First, best guess? It has something to do with helping to take back The Green and holding it. That's basically Gnawer Holy Land. Or he might be looking for scattered refugees, family, packmates, paying up old blood debts, making sure no one was left behind."
Felix lights his cigarette, and flips the tin closed again, returning it to the pocket. "...huh," he says, considering the echo thing, and giving a small nod. "I know pretty much nothin' about that area. The northeast, I mean, though I guess talkin'-to-ooze-an'-echos, also. Those're good thoughts, though. Either of 'em, 'specially the second, he'd most likely be stayin' in that area, I guess. Although for takin' back an' holdin'... dunno, if I was doin' that I'd go check out the places that fought shit off so far. Maybe the other ones that didn't, too, see if they're gettin' anywhere an'... stuff..." He makes a face, and takes a drag off the cigarette, exhaling it with a sigh. "Thanks. 's more to go on than I had before, at least." He glances at the freshly-drained cup and finally gets around to asking, "Whatcha drinkin'?"
"Tell me more about him, the area, what's going on, and I might be able to figure something out- or I could ask my Corax friend, but she might ask for something in return. This ain't my challenge, after all, so I won't be doin' her favors for you," he teases, his voice soft and without malice. He bows, then turns and starts retreating toward his curtain. "Something to bring me closer to Chimera. I recommend not intrudin' on my sleep, 'cause I don't know what I'll be seeing, and I'm a light sleeper used to sleepin' in dangerous places. Might be bad, y'know?" He gives Felix a thumbs-up.
"Assumin' it's the same one I know 'bout, I got tryin' to catch an' ask her on the 'possible plans' list," Felix says, "but aw, c'mon, you mean you wouldn't jump at the chance to do favours for me?" He puts on his very best cute and innocent look, which is actually damn good for the second or so he manages it before the grin escapes. "Nah, thanks for the thoughts so far. If I decide to try an' ask her, an' I can't manage to catch her, I might ask 'bout goin' through you, but yeah, I'll handle any favour stuff myself, don't worry. An' yeah, trust me, I know bein' used to sleepin' dangerous places. Dream sweet, =I= ain't gonna wake ya." He straightens from where he's leaning, and adds, "Hey, just 'fore you go: who'd you challenge?"
"I wouldn't mind asking for you. That would be... better. Maybe. She likes me more than you. Besides, asking a Corax to talk isn't exactly a /huge/ favor." Slug shoves his curtain open enough that a bit of his bedding comes into view, a mattress on a floor with a number of blankets in different dark colors and materials. "I haven't decided yet. I'm taking care of someone else's challenge before I do my own. That'll give Winter time to challenge me for Elder, if he wants. You too, if you win, and think you can do a better job." Slug waves one more time, then steps behind his curtain and draws it shut behind him.