sweethymns | OPEN RP POST QUATRE

Well, that's not the hat I stick my hand in often, but it's something I'm not terribly unfamiliar with-- [She's interrupted by a rapping noise on the window.]

Alright, now what??

[Huh. It's one of the crows and it's tapping its beak impatiently on the glass window.]

[The noise actually startles Booker a bit, and he turns to look at the window with a confounded expression. A crow.

He flexes his left hand without thinking, certain associations about a certain vigor coming back to him. But all he says is;]

This place have a crow problem or something?

[SIGHING. And then she stands up, with her plastic cup in hand so she can dispose of it.]

Come with me. Can't have anyone seeing this exchange.

[Booker has no earthly idea about what she's talking about, and her words make it impossible to immediately ask, even if he wants to. So, looking a little dumbfounded, he stands to follow her out.]

You weren't kidding when you said you were abnormal.

[That might have caused her to grumble as she tosses her cup and opens the door. They're going back in the direction of her house and now it's become more noticeable that the crows are following her, one hopping after her on the ground, and the others gliding in the air, in a way that wouldn't be noticeable to anyone else except the two of them.]

When you live alone for a number of years, it tends to happen.

Uh huh.

[Sorry, but he's a little distracted by all the crows following him. He's starting to wonder if Murder of Crows had another side-effect he didn't know about.

But no, that didn't make sense. Amelia was treating this like nothing out of the ordinary.]

Are you going to tell me what's going on with all these crows anytime soon?

I need to give them payment.

[The sun is growing warmer, giving her hair quite the sheen.]

They're my eyes around the town and messengers when I need them.

[Booker keeps craning his neck upwards and behind, as if checking on the crows flying above them.]

You give birds payment? [You can't criticize, Booker, you summon crows and have them peck people's eyes out.]

Who are you? [No way she's just a teacher at a school.]

[Amelia turns around, with a combination of exasperation and reluctance in her facial expression.

But you know what? Booker spilled the beans about being from 1912. So it's quite silly to be tight lipped on her end.]

Amelia Eva Steinbeck. High school literature teacher, certified in the state of California, and...

[There in a more private area away from prying eyes and the crows land on the ground hopping around them or flapping their wings.]

A witch.

[He stops, eying the crows as they hop around him. It's not that he doesn't trust them, it's just that... well. He's seen what kind of damage a murder of them can do. He's prone to keeping a respectful distance in a group like this.

This line of thinking is derailed when Amelia says she's a witch, though.]

...a what? [Um, did he hear that right?]

Hang on a sec.

[She squats down and uses her fingers to pluck five long strands of her hair.]

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ouch. OW, felt that one.

[And she delicately hands out each strand one by one to them.]

There you go. Thank you for last month. Keep up the good work.

[There's a pause and she thoughtfully plucks out another hair and holds it out to a crow who gracefully takes it with its beak.]

He's probably around right? Either way, send him a message. I'm dealing with him. [Gestures towards Booker.] He's not from around here and I don't have the skills to travel like he does. I need advice. Preferably by tomorrow.

[The crow that received the sixth hair nods and then one by one, with their payment in their grasp, the birds all fly away. Amelia stands up, dusting herself off and faces Booker.]

Anyways. A witch. Crows, witches, they kinda go way back.

[this isn't very helpful at all]

[Booker is so... confused. Why is she pulling her hair out? Why is she giving them to the crows? Why is she talking to the crows?

He's seen strange, probably even weirder in Columbia. But this is a different sort of unusual than the blind extremism found in the city in the sky. The notion of a witch was bordering on the occult, and that was something he had no experience with.

He just blinks when he's gestured towards, and when Amelia explains further, he just kind of stares, not sure what to ask first.]

You're...

...not crazy, are you?

You pointed a gun at me in my house and said you're from 1912.

I am from 1912!

[Granted, this is a bit hypocritical of a man whose daughter is an omnipotent traveller between alternate realities and the like. And a witch is probably a tame claim compared to a freaking floating city in the sky and gene-altering vigors. Maybe this is one of those instances where science is confused for magic? Who knows in these worlds. (It isn't, Booker.)]

See, we're both mental! We're even.

[She throws her hands up in the air.]

Let's just head back to my house and I'll explain a little more and why I think I can get you to where... Well, wherever you want to be!

[Ugh, well. She has a point there.]

Fine. But I already told you; I don't have a place I belong. I don't know where the hell you'd send me.

[He can't go back to his timeline -- he should be dead there. And he doesn't want to poke his nose into any other worlds. His experiences with that has been shaky at best.

And besides, what if by making some other place his home -- someplace more reminiscent of his own time, perhaps -- undos everything he worked for? He doesn't want another surge of Comstocks existing, and he doesn't think he's smart enough to unravel the complex web of timelines to avoid that happening.]

Then you can... Well, for now, there's just me.

[She starts walking back to her house.]

I said before, it's a good thing you landed in my house. I'm a witch. I'm used to the abnormal because I AM one. No one else in town has ever been aware of it, nor do I let them know.

So even if you don't belong anywhere, you at least found a place with me that matches your shade well.

Edited 2016-09-18 01:05 (UTC)

[He follows, picking up his pace to catch up with her. He still has too many questions left unanswered.]

So you're an actual witch. As in, you're using magic? Real magic, not science that everyone likes to think is magic?

[He doesn't comment on the fact that it's a good thing he landed in her lap; because, honestly, it's so true that he feels like it doesn't need to be commented upon. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, if he can figure out what exactly being a witch entails.]

There's a difference between science, where there are laws, and mostly clear causes and effects in play, and magic, where in general one has the potential to make something out of nothing.

And remember when I said I was old enough to mind myself?

[Okay... he supposes that makes as much sense as it possibly can, to someone unfamiliar with magic.]

Yeah...?

66.

...What's 66?

[Because there's no way she means that's her age, right? RIGHT?]

I was born in 1948. It's now 2014.

[Her smile is a little wry. She never really minds revealing or talking about her age, save for when she does have to cover up on documents and normal company...]

Although, I do pass for my late twenties pretty well, don't I?

...

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