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.
This barely teenaged kid's first and most noticable feature is his pale, attractive and close to flawless face. He appears blessed with natural good looks and clear skin that do not require much effort to maintain. His eyes are a brilliant mixture of a rich blue and bright green, though they are often downcast and hidden in the shadow of his grey wool cap's brim. From the back of that cap his short-cut hair is dyed in streaks of dark blues and reds.
The kid's neutral expression, prone to a slight scowl that he constantly wears, might look rather unattractive and off-putting on another face; but on this one it just offers an out-of-place regal aire. Standing at around five feet and a half with a bit of a strong but sinewy build, he has some stature for his age but is not imposing. The kid's throat has some long thin scars across it, like he was in some kind of bad accident years before.
He currently also wears old faded blue jeans and a black short-sleeved sweater with thick red stripes from the neck down the tops of the arms. Some brown and dirty white vans, seeming large for the kid's size yet still fitting him well, kick around on his feet. A slightly over-sized dingy brown winter coat is worn over the ensemble. His hands are encased in thick black leather gloves.
Those hands... something is strange about them. It's difficult to be sure with the gloves, but the fingers just seem too long if you look at them for a moment.
Winter is laying on the floor, a rat sits on his chest nibbling from a cheap can of Del Monte peas that's been drained out. The Fostern looks up at the ceiling as he lazily strokes the rat's back.
<OOC> Felix checks -- are we putting this back a handful of days?
<OOC> Winter says "Yep."
<OOC> Felix says "okay, thanks! Gonna put it in Gibbous moon, then."
In contrast to the scene of calm which currently lies within the Library, the door virtually flies open -- well, about as much as one of them ever does, given their sheer size and weight and the fact that the person coming in is in homid, and is not a contender for World's Strongest Man this year. Still, the hinges are in decent working order at the moment, and Felix apparently has energy and momentum helping him out just at the moment. A blast of chilly evening air accompanies him inside, as does a lumpy, clearly second-hand nylon duffle bag. The Galliard kicks the door closed behind him and makes it a good ten or fifteen feet toward the kitchen before he spots the Ragabash. "You!" he exclaims, "Exactly who I been lookin' for, don't go nowhere." He sounds cheerful enough, despite the amount of force the poor door just had to put up with. In fact, pretty damn upbeat, and just like his movements, pretty quick as well.
A squeak and squeal and the rat takes off with all the sudden commotion. Winter lifts his head from the ground and stares at the arrival, before setting the can of peas on the ground at his side and sitting up. The meditative spell he was in seems to be a bit broken and Winter has a aire of crankiness that quickly develops as he stretches and pushes himself to standing. "Heading out?" Is all he asks, a curt tone to his question.
Felix looks faintly apologetic as the rat takes off; he continues his way to the fridge, pulling out one of the beers that -- hooray! -- have not been drunk by someone else in his absence, and then another, bumping the door shut and heading over to Winter with both in hand. One, he offers over. "Nah, headin' in. Although prolly then out again. Here," he offers the duffel bag as well, whether the drink's yet been taken or not, "there's shit in there for you, an' other shit, oughta be somethin' to offer Pete to make up for me runnin' him off just then. ...that was still Pete, yeah?"
Winter eyes the beer for a moment when it comes and then accepts it with a shrug. "I love not giving a shit about laws." He suddenly shakes his head a little, as if just noticing Felix and after a pause replies, "Yeah, that was Peter Rottentail." Winter cracks open the beer and takes a sip, sighs contentedly with mood lifting a little. "So, where ya heading on your vacation?"
Felix snorts. "Fuck laws," he says, dropping the bag by their feet; there's a bit of a thump and some definite crinkles when it hits. "Of the rich, by the rich, for the rich." He flops into a handy chair, opening up his beer, and just about immediately gets back up, taking a few paces and a sip as well. The surname of the rat gets a laugh, and a sung, "Here comes Peter Rottentail, dartin' down the Gnawer trail..." He turns sharply to Winter at the question, suddenly (if temporarily) still, "I dunno, an' that's parta why I been lookin' for you. How sure're you on the West Coast thing, for where you stashed your Uncle last? 'cause I ain't got news back on the Chain yet, but only person 'round here's got anything to say on the matter's been Slug, an' what =he= heard is he's been bein' spotted up 'round the =other= coast, 'round Hand of Gaia an' Three Rivers an' shit. Which's sorta the opposite of narrowin' shit down, so far."
Winter chuckles at the little song and copies it with a bit of humming, then blinks a few times at the sudden onslaught of words. Another full drink of the beer and Winter grins a fuller grin. "Yeah. I know right? It's almost like we're magical wolf-people and can like, talk to spirits and make bridges out of light that let us cross the world in a few seconds or something!"
That gets a bark of a laugh. "Well, =I= can't," Felix says, "Ain't too bad at rites an' shit for a Galliard but I can't open bridges an' I don't speak no spirit speech. Now, I know other folks do, an' I reckon there's a handful here an' there I can talk into helpin' me out, but. If he's movin' around a lot it won't do no good to find out real far in advance 'cause he ain't gonna be there anymore when it matters. Hey, can you sing, by the way? You hum okay." The tangent just comes along directly in the flow of speech, exactly as considering as the rest of the remarks, and he's started wandering a bit again while he talks (and drinks), as well. "On the other hand if it ain't somewhere I can get to fast one way or another, I gotta know far enough ahead to make it there slow. So." Shrug.
Winter eyes the Galliard for a moment and continues to do so through several long sips of beer as if he's constantly about to say something, perhaps just to force a moment of silence before he does speak. Soon though he offers, "Lay off the crack. Yes, ain't expecting you to open a moon bridge. That's some next-level Theurge shit. That said, perhaps if you want to get where you're going go ask someone who knows a couple of things about who has moon bridge's where. You know where he was last seen. Two caerns. Which of those two have connections with a Caern on this coast." A pause then he offers, "I'm being nice with the information and advice here cause I like you but the next step is yours, Felix." He looks over his beer and just a moment before he takes a long drink he speaks just across the top of it, "My passion is the drums but I can carry a tune."
Felix takes a fair-sized drink of the beer, and sighs, glancing toward the ceiling and visibly trying to slow down some. "I ain't on crack. I ain't on =anything=, which come to think of it maybe I oughta do somethin' about." Because apparently beer doesn't count. "'s just the moon." He makes a vague upward gesture with his free hand that, by coincidence or design, actually is in the direction the moon is actually currently located this night. A glance toward some of the bookshelves moves onward to a wall and starts looking the kind of considering that has probably spelt accidental doom for many a fragile item left in the wrong place over the years, and then finds the ceiling as he takes a slow breath. When he looks back to the Ragabash, he seems more focused, calmer, though the overall impression of compressed energy is still well above his standard level, and leaking. "So, yeah. Thanks." Another quiet moment, absently finishing off the can, and then a nod, as if something's been decided. He gives Winter a sudden, bright grin. "Found me a bassist. Nick plays. Still need a drummer. An' maybe another guitar, ain't decided on that, but. Definitely need a drummer."
Winter finishes his beer as Felix spasms about, calms and talks. He tosses the beer in the trash and then lifts his left hand. Using the fingers of that hand he ticks them off with the index finger of his right. "First of all. I'm down to beat on hollow objects with sticks. Second, Walker's make awesome musicians. Third, good luck."
"Awesome. I will give you... songs. Nick asked for some shit I might wanna play, I'll try'n get you some too." Felix crushes the can and eyes the trash a moment before tossing the can toward it. Success! He gives it a satisfied look, and leans down to pick the bag up again. "Thanks," he repeats, and unzips the bag as he steps toward the nearest table surface. Some of the contents get unpacked: specifically, nineteen packs of ramen in varying flavours, and a bag of knock-off sour patch kids.
"So why did you come here, reveal all my faults, dear? Are you a saviour or a cannonball?" A pause with a wan smile and the Ragabash adds in lyrical fashion, "To collapse fortifications or bring my salvation. Are they the same after all?" He lets his smile grow a little less bitter and frail into something more pleasant on his handsome face. "My old Theurge Packie, Silvertooth. She wrote all kinds of poetry. I have a whole book of it she gave me to remember her by. I think a lot of it would make good lyrics." He sighs and looks over towards the fridge, "I uh... could really use another beer now." Another quicker pause and he adds, "And some candy." About this time, Peter comes back out and silently moves at a fast pace to re-engage the can of peas. Winter looks down at the critter and his smile completes its arc towards fullness.
Felix tilts his head slightly at the lines, possibly trying to place them, since there's a faint change when the Ragabash explains where it came from. "I ain't bad at writin' music," he says, "But lyrics're harder. You wanna let--" He breaks off, changing about as smoothly as the timing allows to, "You wanna recite me some more of it sometime, we could see if anythin' matches up. Anyway, the ramen an' candy're yours." Pete gets a quirk of a smile from him as well, as he turns to head back to the fridge. Two more beers, with an eye to see how many that'll leave, and he returns to offer one over. "So I'm thinkin', before I get goin' again in a little, I could also use another beer. An' a snack. Et cetera." 'Et cetera' appears to be the Altoids tin he keeps his smokes in, since it comes out of his jacket pocket; despite them being rejected before, he opens it as if to offer one. Today, however, the cigarettes (well, and lighter) aren't alone in there; there are a couple of joints as well. "Plan?"
Winter eyes the contents of the tin for a good while but finally shakes his head, "Just the beer. Thanks." He takes the accepted beverage and the sour patch knock-offs, opening them both in turn and partaking pretty much simulaneously. Swallowing down a few bites and swigs, Winter nods with, "Yeah. Sounds like a plan."