2022-06-11 - Is It Pa-Piracy If the Scrolls Accidentally Come Home With You?

It's one of those days which merits finding a good book and setting up camp somewhere in the shade to appreciate it. Now, having read all of her personal books, this inclination brings Ariadne to the front steps of the Public Library in Grey Harbor. It's a fantastic looking façade to the front: the squat brick building sports an arched tunnel-like entrance guarded by two flourishing Japanese feather maples and literal wrought-iron gates fitted to the half-moon arc of the entrance itself.

Ariadne's loitering with her phone out off to one side of the entrance. She's reading through the latest recommendations for science fiction fantasy and twisting her lips to one side thoughtfully. Another twitch of her thumb and she shifts her weight to one leg, the better to lift up a sneaker and tap-tap its toe on the cement. Jeans and a black turtleneck suited for cooler weather (though with sleeves rolled to elbows) completes her look. Her hair's in one of those lazy messy-bun updos and flashes its celestially-dyed underpaneling like a hummingbird's throat.

"But what if I want something with magic..." the barista mutters to herself.

Mikaere's reasons for heading to the library are rather more practical: he keeps a tablet on his boat, but not a laptop (it seemed practical at the time, when he was just planning to sail and then come home again!), and there are moments in one's life when a full keyboard is more useful, even if it does require using a painfully slow, locked down public library PC. 'Laptop' is probably on the list of things for the Kiwi to obtain, if he's going to stay longer than a few months; it's probably also on the list of things that are just slightly beyond his current budget, alas.

Dressed in his usual cargo shorts, t-shirt (this one advertises the All Blacks, complete with silver fern) and jandals, he pulls his sunglasses (unnecessary, but a fashion statement) off of his face and tucks them into his pocket as he approaches; and evidently, he's alert enough-- or there's just enough of a moment of quiet enough-- that he's picked up at least part of Ariadne's mutter. The barista earns a crooked grin.

"You don't get enough magic in your day-to-day life, then?"

Up comes the barista's head like a startled prairie dog. She recognizes Mikaere and can't help but chime a wry laugh.

"Boy, isn't that a thing to consider: magic and then magic." Subtle emphasis defines it as the general what-the-fuckery they see on a regular basis around here. "Maybe I want a break from the normal stuff and get into someone else's interpretation of it, yeah? A break from the Veil nonsense." Her phone is slipped away into her jean pocket as she then moves to meander over towards the Kiwi. "What brings you here then? Don't tell me."

A fist-bump offered out. "Magic, right?" Such cheek.

It wasn't Mikaere's intention to startle Ariadne, and his expression says as much: a little wry apology, there, albeit one that's heavily slanted towards mirth, too.

"Magic," he snorts, returning the barista's fist-bump with a roll of the eyes, studying her for a long moment before he indicates the library building with his chin. "No, not magic, not unless technology has been reduced to magic. No, my head's pretty firmly stuck in the real world, and the need for an actual keyboard on which to complete some vital, but unexciting, pieces of life admin."

"I never really got into the whole fantasy thing. Maybe it was the whole Lord of the Rings mania when I was a kid; or maybe I never would've been, I'm not sure. I prefer reality."

Not necessarily brazenly, but confidently, Ariadne holds the man's darker eyes and continues smiling somewhat to herself. Fist-bump obtained along with roll of eyes: charming sally, success.

"See, that's understandable. If someone was like, Ari, why don't you like grunge? Seattle's famous for it, but I'm not fond of it. Too much of it as a child and I burnt out on it." Mild shrug as she turns and, with a tilt of her head, indicates they should meander inside at some point or another here. "Plus, everybody's got their escape. For some people, books. For others, reality, and things like...sailing to far-away lands and having adventures...meeting wonderful new people with questionable filters." Such an innocent allusion while Ariadne doesn't necessarily look directly at Mikaere; her little smile lingers.

Reaching out, the barista pulls open the front door to the library. "Anyways, I have the best seller's list up right now for science fiction and I'm just thumbing through it," she explains, eyes on the phone as she holds the door open.

Yes, Mikaere saw what you alluded to there; it's visible enough in that lift of eyebrows, the smirk on his lips. "I couldn't possibly comment on such a thing," he says, primly, despite the laugh in his eyes (and lingering about his mouth, too). "I don't know anyone who fits that description, alas. Perhaps I'd better sail somewhere further still."

A beat. "Coffee," he adds. "As a Seattleite, I think you're also supposed to be fanatical about Starbucks coffee. Escapes, though; I appreciate that much, sure. And if magic and dragons and, I don't know, flying saucers? is what helps there, who am I to argue? Me, I'll take a good, solid real world thriller, if I'm after fiction."

Ah yes, going in to the library-- yes, that's the thing they both came here to do. Mikaere was well-raised enough to hesitate over letting the woman open the door for the man, but he's also modern enough not to fight it, and so acknowledges the gesture with his chin, and steps on in.

... only to say, with a blink, "Well... fuck. Did the public library here always carry extensive amounts of scrolls, Ariadne?"

It might aid in Mikaere's decision to enter the Public Library when Ariadne doesn't look up from her phone while she waits for him to go first. Indeed, modern sensibilities reign in the barista's book, and once he steps inside, she does as well.

Before she crosses the threshold, she replies with eyes still on her phone, "I dunno about scrolls, that seems pretty archaic to...what the fuck."

She's looked up now. Ariadne only bares manages to avoid bumping off of the Kiwi in her own moment of shock. "No. Uh. No, the...um. Scolls. No, not scrolls. The...tiles. Pillars." So many scrolls: piles of them upon one another stashed into long nooks in wooden aisles stretching long between open-air atriums beneath a roof letting in ample sunlight. None of the light actually hits the scrolls, thus preserving them. It smells like humanity here, but also vellum and papyrus, wood cared for and yet warmed by the ambient heat -- beeswax sweet and candle smoke where the lighting isn't the best.

"Mikaere, um. This...this isn't...Grey Harbor." Give Captain Obvious a cookie!

"No shit," says Mikaere, promptly. His hands, abruptly clammy, grasp idly at the structured cotton of his shorts, as if that alone might be enough to reassure them into sweat-less complacency. Those dark eyes sweep the room, cataloguing what he can see: all those scrolls, the impressively well-thought out design of the room, the very smell and feel of the air.

His exclamation aside, he seems genuinely lost for words, a frown so deep it leaves monumental craters in his forehead set into place, though his eyes are unquestionably wide with wonder and not fear.

A few deep breaths follow: in and out, in and out. "What is up with doors at the moment?" he wants to know. "This is not the first time I've walked through one and into somewhere else. The Veil is fucking with us. Right. This is a library, I'm guessing? And we're still us."

"It's definitely a library and we're still us, yes."

At least half of this statement (eh, let's be generous, 87.92%) is accurate. Ariadne then makes the mistake(?) of looking down for her phone to see about calling for yeeeeeeeeeeeah, nope, it's not happening. What was once a phone is now a scroll, albeit a smaller one, rolled up in her hand -- and she's dressed in what appears to be a girdled wrapping of cloth in a pale-cream color. Sandals on her feet, flat things held together with twine and beads, keep her otherwise bare soles from touching the ground.

"Uhhhhhhhh." She pats herself all over like she's going to find pockets. "Shit! My wallet! My keys! My lip balm!" Priorities, okay? The air feels dry. "Okay, okay. Okaaaay-okay-okay." A hard-puffed sigh and hand spanning her eyes. "It's a library. Scrolls. Lots of scrolls. I know that I know what this is, it's just taking time to get to the front of my brain because I'm in the middle of wanting to lash out at the Veil and that's not a good idea. Just being blunt," she notes.

To be fair, Mikaere is still a little distracted, and that's probably why it takes him some time to determine that, yeah, those aren't shorts he's pressing his hands into, and, also, Ariadne's changed her clothes as well. His is a knee-length tunic of sorts-- really, just a piece of fabric that's fastened at the shoulders-- and actually, Mikaere, that's not even cotton (trust a man not to know the difference, though).

He's calm, though, studying Ariadne through her moment, then giving her what is perhaps intended to be a reassuring nod. "Be blunt," he says. "I'm spending time with Jules, remember? Blunt is good. But yeah, let's not lash out at the Veil. We'll get our stuff back at the end of this, so help me god, and in the meantime... this is not a war zone, so far as I can tell. I'm not wearing pants, which I'm less fond of, but again, I can work through it. We're in a library. We wanted to be in a library, right? So."

He tips his chin towards the room they're in. "Let's go find the answer to some ancient mystery, ay? Find some long-lost piece of writing and pretend we can trust that it's real, and not just the Veil making shit up to convince us it is. The sooner we do, the sooner we get home again, and you get your happy escapist reading material."

Emerging from behind her hand, Ariadne drags her palm down the side of her face exasperatedly.

"Blunt it is. I'm going to be set for escapist material for a very long time if the Veil keeps this up. These...Doors are just...real bullshit," she mutters sharply. "It's not fun when I have other things I need to be doing! Not running willy-nilly around some other place in time! But yes: fine. There's some Task," -- air-quotes -- "Which needs to be completed and sure, let's figure out what it is." Seeming to realize that she's still got the small scroll in her hand (not her phone, WOE), the redhead frowns down at it. "I wonder..."

It's easy enough to unroll it with two hands to reveal the inner contents. What...precisely is this?

A missive detailing how someone wants to confirm information from a specific scroll -- a poem? A poem. Something about plagiarism? Ariadne relays this to Mikaere, adding in confusion, "It's signed...Aristophanes of Byzantium." A blink. "How am I reading this, it's not English."

"I know a person can fall into a Dream at any point, out of nowhere, but-- yeah, these Doors are kind of bullshit. Though," Mikaere hesitates, then shrugs. "I now own a crystal tumbler from the Orient Express, and that's never happened before. I didn't think you could bring things back from Dreams, but these ones seem to defy that logic."

That thought is one he's distracted from, though, frowning in consideration as Ariadne relays the information she is. "Can I see? Is that another feature of these Dreams? Because I could speak French on the Orient Express... though Ravn couldn't, so maybe it just depends on the role you're cast in. Maybe we're just educated, so of course we speak and read the language in question. Aristophanes... Aristophanes... I've heard that name, but I've no idea where. Greek literature, or history, or whatever it is, is definitely not my area of expertise."

He turns away in order to peer at the shelves, and admits. "I've no idea how any of this is categorised, though. The Veil wouldn't make it that simple, of course, the fuckers. Do we ask someone?"

It's all Greek to them.

Or, it would be, if the Dream wasn't translating languages. Ariadne knows it's a dialect she shouldn't understand at some very far remove, like a ghost-limb that's there but not. Having tilted the scroll over for Mikaere to read, she then looks around, jaw set.

"It's not my area of expertise either. The name doesn't even ring a bell, not even in any of the trivia knowledge I can access. Asking somebody would be best, but who? It's not like everyone's got name tags on and a specific tunic denotes 'librarian' verses 'assistant'....or maybe it does, I dunno." She has to look back down at her hands to make sure the scoll rolls up nicely rather than bending upon itself. "I also know just enough that I've got boobs and ergo, I'm the odd chick out here. Any educated question I ask are going to get looks. The easiest way is for you to ask and me to pretend to listen because what, I've got a lyre to play or something -- unless I'm high in the ladder or something, but then it becomes a question whether or not an escort is required. Maybe you're an escort? Not..."

Ariadne pinches the bridge of her nose for a second and helplessly snort-laughs. "Like a bodyguard. Don't...okay, Jules would be laughing at me."

Yep. Greek. Mikaere can read it too, but his read clearly does not provide any further elucidation: he shrugs, shakes his head.

Thoughtful consideration answers most of Ariadne's reply, right up until she says what she says... and he begins to laugh. It's too loud for a library: much too loud, and much too obvious, and maybe he does realise that after a moment or two because one hand gets clasped over his mouth, though it's too late to have failed to attract attention (whoops).

"I," he points out, then, in a much, much lower voice. "am laughing at you. Wholeheartedly. Okay-- look. I vote that we're husband and wife, and I'm just that indulgent that I let you accompany me, and so if you say something, and they ignore you, I can repeat it, and we can pretend that's perfectly normal and not horribly archaic and wrong. Does that work? Or is that worse than my being an escort?"

His eyes are twinkling with mirth again, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Ariadne's own shoulders shake as she requires a palm against her mouth. It's infectious, his laughing, purely because what in the everliving fuck is going on and it's a release of stress. Take that, dolophages, how about a fish bone in your craw?

"Oh my god," she drawl-laughs softly before clearing her throat. "I've heard worse ideas...and been married in Dreams before. I can tolerate a patriarchal society for a bit in order to get the fuck back to normality. Here." Mikaere is offered the little scroll. "It'd be best if you held it, since you'll likely be asking the questions. Word choice is going to be important here. Being confused about who this Aristophanes guy is probably isn't for the best; if anything, it makes you possibly look suspicious, like you maybe intercepted something you shouldn't have, right? So..."

Hearing footsteps at the end of the aisle of scrolls, the barista pauses. It's another...scholar? Educated individual, bearded, walking and reading a scroll at once, there and gone. "Hmm. Yeah, let me keep thinking, it's on the tip of my tongue, what and where this place is. I guess there'd be a main area this way?" Ariadne honestly picks left and starts walking, glancing back at Mikaere.

"You bigamist," teases Mikaere, and yes, this is much more comfortable ground: a bit of laughter, a bit of stress-release, and yeah, maybe this isn't so bad; maybe it's going to work out just fine. He accepts the scroll gingerly, as if he finds its size and shape uncomfortable in his big, hefty hand, but his chin lifts and he acknowledges Ariadne's instructions easily enough.

"Right," he agrees, extending his stride hastily to fall in step alongside Ariadne. "Thank you for the education, oh wife of mine. I think you're right: we're off in some side area, but there's bound to be something more central somewhere along here. Aristophanes. Aristophanes." The name does not roll comfortably off of his tongue, but perhaps repetition will help: the last thing he wants is to fumble it, when the moment arises.

"At least 'Ariadne' is a Greek name. Assuming we're not playing very specific roles, at least you know that much. 'Mikaere'-- well, it'd have to be Michael, I suppose. Some version of Michael?"

"With any luck, 'Ariadne' is going to be a bit much and someone's going to comment that the gods are going to strike my family down for their impertinence and I should have been named the Greek equivalence of 'Jane' or something," the barisa notes drily as they walk. No argument about being a bigamist, apparently, because for all intents and Dream purposes? It's true and it makes Ariadne smirk to herself.

It is admittedly a little difficult to walk without thinking she's going to step on the hem of her wrapping of cloth and yoink it down for a sudden flash of assets. Ariadne fusses with what appears to be a shoulder-pin-clasp as she walks and talks. "It'll have to be Michael, yep. I'd just...say it as Michael. I'm not so name-savvy that I know the origin of yours, so we'll have to wing it there." A little apologetic grimace for the uncertainty. "I'd also not be assuming we've got no largely important rolls. This is a private scroll and I, the woman, was carrying it. This smells a bit like a kind of espionage...or maybe I'm just presuming, I dunno. Evidence. We need a body around here, ugh."

Where are the bodies? Thanks, Door, for dumping them in a too-quiet section of this library.

Ariadne has a point about..., er, 'Ariadne', and Mikaere acknowledges as much with a twitch of his mouth.

The rest, though? "Michael. Okay-- I mean, the reality is that we're inevitably speaking Greek, even if we don't know it, and that probably means translating our names as we go. 'Michael' seems a little too... Christian, for wherever and whenever we are, but I suppose the name must have existed prior to all that, anyway, and-- I'm rambling." He is rambling. It's a good indication that he's not quite as comfortable as he seems. "It better not be espionage... or if it is, it needs to be the kind Ravn and I ran into on the Orient Express, where we were able to largely ignore it and drink whiskey instead. Though," he juts his chin towards the rooms they're passing: more scrolls.

"I'm not expecting much whiskey here. I really hate it when the Veil doesn't give us proper clues as to what we're supposed to know. Maybe around this corner?"

"We'll flip the Veil off and figure it all out, just need to find a damn body to ask. You'll have to tell me about this Orient Express thing though, Ravn hasn't mentioned it to me yet." Her brows lift at Mikaere. More dubiously, she adds, "I doubt there's going to be whiskey. Wine, yes. Bad beer, absolutely. I'm touching neither unless we HAVE TO -- "

Ariadne does an abrupt side-step after they enter the main aisle-way which helps her avoid someone walking way too fast with way too many scrolls balanced in their arms. The person seems to know someone(s) else is (are) there because they too do an abrupt dodging motion, but alas: gravity. Scrolls tumble in a fall of soft sound and grabby-hands failing to catch a good number of them.

And WOW, some of those obscenities are impressive.

While the young man with curled blond hair stoops to gather them up, Ariadne stares. "I didn't know something like that was possible with a goat," she asides to Mikaere without looking away.

"Oh. I'll fill you--" It takes Mikaere a few seconds after Ariadne to properly grasp what's going on, though his reflexes are evidently as sharp as anything: he equally manages to avoid the incoming someone, though again, it makes no difference to the incipient influence of gravity (though gravity, of course, has yet to be quote-unquote invented).

He takes a hasty step back, not that that stops him from being in a position to hear those obscenities, and his eyes positively bulge: okay, that's impressive.

"I don't think I wanted to know," is his answer to Ariadne, before he turns his attention more wholly towards the youth in question. A straightening of his shoulders, then: a clearing of his throat, too, as he reaches for one of the fallen scrolls and then extends it to the man in offering.

"I am so sorry," he says. "We got in your way. Can I help? Completely our fault. The wife is so clumsy sometimes... aren't you, darling?"

(Sorry, Ariadne.)

What a death glare briefly from Ariadne.

But a cover is a cover and then, more demurely if still admittedly shrewishly, she agrees, "I just can't help it in the face of so much vaunted information. I get so overwhelmed." A hand to the brow is probably over-doing it and as such, she merely rests her hands before her waist in the primmest manner possible. "My husband needs assistance, however."

"Your husband can fucking wait, I'm late as is," the youth snaps back with a scowling glance up at both of them. He snatches the scroll from Mikaere and continues gathering up the lost scrolls. "It's gods-damned rare enough that I get to assist with anything around here. I had to go to the Serapeum to get half of these anyways."

Ariadne echoes, "Serapeum?"

"Yes, the Serapeum," the young man continues, convinced now he's in the presence of intellectual plebeians. "You know? Of Alexandria? Ptolemy can't make up his damn mind about where to keep anything in the first place."

Mikaere gets a wide-eyed look. "Library of Alexandria," she breathes.

"And you can fill her elsewhere, sir, there's no fornicating on the premises," the scribe also snaps -- he apparently heard Mikaere's comment coming around the corner.

It takes Mikaere... a moment. Maybe two.

He has the grace not to blush, and instead, manages only to smirk, a little smug, a little pleased, and then? A little apologetic, too... but only a very little. One arm creeps around to try and draw Ariadne close.

"Newlyweds," he says, by way of apology, but with an expression that suggests... yes, okay, fine, they've been caught. "We're here on our wedding tour. We'll be good, I promise." Mostly. Maybe. "But we're library aficionados. Truly... is there something we could do to assist you, so that you could, in turn, assist u-- me?"

Library of Alexandria. The Great Library. He's picked that up, by now, but manages not to show his dumbfoundedness; that would be inconvenient.

Ah, retail. Nothing like trial by fire in terms of public deportment. Prepared to deal with hilarity in the most professional manner, Ariadne manages a beaming simper. Oh yes, good scribe, we're newlyweds, look at us, so enamored and overwhelmed by the Library itself. Cue eyelash flutter.

The scribe makes some disgruntled sound. "What ever help could you need from somebody like me? I'm just a gods-damned go-fer."

"There's a scroll we need -- " Ariadne stops and visibly reins herself in. "My husband has a scroll dictating the need for a certain piece of information. You seem to know where things are?"

"Of course I do, woman." The young man's cruising for a bruising by the harder glint in Ariadne's eyes now, but she doesn't retort. Must not blow cover. Still, poking at the scribe's sense of pride seems to have worked. He thumps all the scrolls to a bench off to one side and holds out a hand towards Mikaere. "Let me see it."

There's something in the expression that Mikaere aims towards Ariadne, now: that look that acknowledges her, and also seems vaguely perturbed to have ended up... well, here, with this. It's only there for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the young scribe, and now, again, it's all business-- which is to say, all charm.

"She's overexcitable, my wife," he explains, with another silent apology that, this time, gets no corresponding glance. Hopefully he can trust Ariadne enough to deal with this; hopefully he's not equally cruising for a bruising, at this point. "It's no big thing. Here--" He offers out the scroll, and adds, "You know how it is. No wedding tour, unless you agree to do the work at the same time. And it's not such a terrible piece of work! But... we're not from around here. We don't know our way around. We've never seen something so... large. And impressive."

Ariadne grits her teeth back and forth silently. Must no bruise those cruising. Staring dead ahead for the moment seems wisest, perhaps looking off to one side at the sound of someone rustling around in another alcove of scrolls.

The scribe snatches the scroll from Mikaere (scroll-snatcher, this one) and unrolls it.

And then gives Mikaere a startled look. "Who -- who did you say you were? This is -- this is Aristoph -- Aristophanes, he's one of the favored of the Pharoah! You know this guy?!"

"...yes," Ariadne decides with a glance at Mikaere.

Unfortunately, Mikaere's mind goes blank. He ought to be able to come up with something to say, right about now, but... no. No, this is not going to work.

So: "Yes," is what he says. "Yes, I know Aristophanes. What of it? Can you help us with our search, or not?"

Maybe slightly less charming, now.

Cue Imperious Barista Brow to go along with Mikaere's question.

The scribe splutters. He's apparently come to the realization of these two plebeians being more than just plebeians (even if neither of the Gray Harborites seem to know precisely where they stand in the social ladder) and rapidly rolls up the scroll with practiced skill. "Gods-damned, I wish you'd said something earlier! Horatus is going to skin my ass! Yes, this way, the poem you're looking for is this way," he gestures, ditching his pile of scrolls entirely. There the kid goes like a cat with its tail a-fire.

Ariadne gives Mikaere a shocked look. "Uh. Okay, whoever this Aristophanes dude is, he's got sway with the Pharaoh! Shit, I wish I knew which one. This is going to sound a little ridiculous, but...I might know more about this than I originally thought because of a video game," she mutters to the Kiwi. Must follow scribe now!

"No, no, you'll be fine. We won't tell you on." There's something in Mikaere's raised eyebrow, perhaps: a hint of quid pro quo, maybe? They won't tell, if he won't tell... or something.

If so, that probably explains the half apology in the tall Kiwi's expression as he glances back at Ariadne. There's no time to hesitate, with the scribe launching himself into action, but that doesn't mean he can't raise his eyebrows, a little askance. "A video game," he repeats, not much above a mutter. (Clearly, Mikaere has never played Assassin's Creed, or anything else that might be relevant right now.)

"About this poem..." he adds, more loudly. "Can you tell us more about it, young man?"

At least they see where the scribe scrabbles off to? He disappears down an aisle about three spacings up with much haste. He might have caught the nuance of quid pro quo there? Maybe.

Either way, Ariadne waits to see if the scribe answers back. He does, as loudly as allowed, which turns out to be very muffled given he's deep in the alcoves of scrolls and hunting like a squirrel for a lost nut. The barista sighs.

"We need to get closer," she mutters, "He's overwhelmed with sudden generosity." How drily she says this. "Anyways. Ptolemaic reign. About two-hundred B.C., give or take, which is unfortunately and potentially three Pharaohs. Alexandria is half-Greek, half-Egyptian, and a fucking mess. Nobody likes the Pharaoh because he's mostly Greek and pretending to be Egyptian. That this place isn't under threat is amazing to me. Serapeum? That's about Serapis, a god half-Greek and half-Egyptian and nobody really likes that idea either. That this Astriophanes guy is in with the Pharaoh? Good for him, but risky as hell. This makes him probably a philosopher or poet, think about it," Ariadne adds as they find the particular aisle of scrolls wherein the scribe is still digging madly.

Oh. Just look at Mikaere's expression: yeah, he's not thrilled by any of this information. "So we've walked in to a fucking mess," he concludes. "Great. Good. Fine. This is great!"

Reader, it is not great.

At least the scribe seems to be on their side. Mikaere raises a brow, watching his progress, though the whole thing has all the hallmarks of a farce, and that's less than ideal. "Philosopher or poet," he repeats, coming to a careful halt in front of that aisle, his hands clasped behind his back. "I don't remember much about the Ptolemies, but I seem to remember a hell of a lot of-- wait, were they the ones who did all the inbreeding? Or has that stopped by now, because we're Greeks and we're all civilised? Maybe don't answer that. Maybe it's better if I don't know."

He lifts his voice. "Any luck there, my good man?"

As to inbreeding: "Gee, I wonder," drawls Ariadne in her most Southern accent with a dry, flat look in Mikaere's direction. She needn't say more.

The scribe is literally shoulders-deep in one of the alcoves and scrolls litter the floor around his feet. "I know it's on here! I swear to gods, if Marcus moved it again, I'm going to skin his ass!" It's just a little funny -- a little -- with the lad's voice all muffled and echoing in the diamond-shaped space of the alcove. Ariadne wrinkles her nose against laughing aloud.

"So if it's a poem, Aristophanes is probably looking to recite it for the Pharaoh, huh?" she surmises aloud.

No answer from the scribe. Mikaere gets a frustrated, prompting look. Yell at the kid, please.

At least Mikaere's answer to that is amused: a shake of the head, a roll of his eyes. Fine, okay. Yes to inbreeding, then.

He'd be quite happy to simply stand there and watch for a while. There's something... deeply funny may not be the correct term, but certainly 'amusing', somehow, about this whole situation. The boy, fumbling through the alcoves; the two adults, pretending but also not pretending to be married; the whole situation, indeed.

But Ariadne prompts an answer, and while they may not be married in truth, the tall Kiwi has been married... and knows that kind of look.

He clears his throat. "Young man," he says, lifting his voice just a fraction, not quite a boom but not far off of it. "My lovely wife asked you a question." Raised brows. Hint. Hint. Hint, hint, hint.

"And we wouldn't want the Pharaoh to be kept waiting, now, would we?"

It's really the second observation which prompts the scribe to appear again.

"What? Aristophanes, what?" he says, hair all frazzled and expression equally as such as he remains bent over, arms still disappeared into the alcove.

"If it's a poem, Arisophanes is probably going to recite it for the Pharaoh?" Ariadne repeats with a tang of iron in her words.

Scoff. Scribe scoff. "Gods, no, he writes his own lines, where have you two been, lost?" He doesn't seem to care about the squinty look he gets from the barista. "There's a poetry contest right now as we speak, it's the talk of the town." City, whatever. "The Pharaoh's judging it. This is probably Aristophanes recognizing someone's copied another work down." Back he goes into the alcove.

Leaning in towards Mikaere, Ariadne notes sotto-voce, "This kid hears a lot of gossip around here, I bet." Brows lift. Clearly, they need to squeeze him for more information.

Poetry is not so much Mikaere's thing, but he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, because... well, that's what you do, right? "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate." It may have made more sense in his head, this whole thought and resulting action.

He frowns, though, and it's not just because he doesn't remember any more of the poem. Ariadne's full of useful ideas, and Mikaere-- big and not that bright, as he is-- seems more than willing to follow her cues.

"That happen a lot?" he wonders. "No, I mean, of course it does. Everyone wants to get the ear of Pharaoh. Why... when Pharaoh's around, then you get down on the ground. If you ever find yourself near... er one of the Ptolemies, get down on your knees." Someone's Ma may have been an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan, what of it?

"A man'd do a fair amount to get close to Pharaoh. Don't you think? Wonder what else one would stoop to. What else goes on around here."

"Hmm...the Bard. Makes you prescient at this point, you realize this?" An amused little murmur from Ariadne, who knows this particular sonnet well enough. She keeps her hands primly yet before her waist and continues attempting to wear boredom as a mask; she can't help but look around despite herself because...well...it's the Library of Alexandria, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, OH MY GOD.

The scribe appears again after a moment, his brows beetled. "You're not from around here, are you. Not a city boy at all. Man, excuse me, sir," the lad decides after a moment with a deferential nod. He seems he's realized he got ahead of himself there in addressing Mikaere. "The winners are being chosen tonight, so you're late for this poetry contest, but maybe you can give the next one a chance. There's a lot of stooping anyways -- gods-DAMNIT, Marcus, WHERE DID YOU PUT IT!" Something seems to occur to him as he appears again, appearing shocked. "Unless..."

He looks between Ariadne and Mikaere. "Someone could have moved it after copying it so no one else could check for plagiarism!"

Ariadne gives the Kiwi lofted brows. Well?

"Do you know any poetry from this era or earlier? Because I sure don't," Mikaere murmurs back, amused. "Language is one thing, but... ugh, context. Fuck the Veil."

His expression is at least marginally composed again when he's next required to face the scribe, and allows himself to agree, "Hopelessly in over my head, I'm afraid. We're country folk, the wife and I, but... you know how it is. Bright lights, new life. Falling in with important people and how can you not take the opport--"

There's that frown. No more bumbling country man, but something sharper, his whole body drawn up and together. "That's very suspicious," he confirms. "Does just anyone have access to these scrolls? You don't keep duplicates of anything? Would someone else have a copy?"

"...you really are country folk, aren't you." It falls unhelped from the scribe's lips as he straightens in place and wipes sweaty palms down his tunic front. Ariadne arches an imperious brow. It doesn't matter overmuch, the lad runs fingers back through his bird's-nest of blond hair anyways. "Nobody copies these, only the most important stuff. Nobody's got time for that. Or the papyrus. There's only one of it and someone's going to skin Marcus for losing it. Or misplacing it. Or whatever idiocy someone bribed him to do this time."

The scribe gives Mikaere an even look. "You can try bribing him to bring it back if you want, I can fetch him?"

Ariadne gives Mikaere another look. "Oh my god, city politics are alive and well even now," she mutters. "And no, I don't know any poetry from now. Dare me to quote the Jabberwocky? Really fuck with him?" The scribe is squinting at them and for good reason: Ariadne's talking no louder than necessary to be heard and not at the scribe.

Mikaere fixes the poor scribe with a slightly affronted glare, as if he's most unimpressed to be considered to be so ignorant... though of course, he is, and it shows.

Meanwhile, his mental fist goes tap, tap, tap at the door to Ariadne's mental door. Okay, so that scribe now thinks we're absolutely batshit crazy. I vote yes, quote the poem, and, okay, shit. What have we got to bribe the man with? Do I just threaten him? I can threaten him.

A bland smile, then, for the scribe, and a shrug of his shoulders as if to say 'don't mind the wife, she's even more out of her depth than I am!'. Ha. Ha, ha, ha. "By all means," he agrees. "We need to get to the bottom of this. Bring him. This business can't stand; Aristophanes won't stand for it. So."

Ariadne's busy considering the three-dimensional filigree on the ceiling above -- ooh, and the fresco, look at that -- when Mikaere knocks. One can see her stiffen and then relax into an indolent pose of checking her nails.

Poem is go shortly. You could threaten him with this Aristophanes guy and the wrath of the Pharaoh if he finds out about the bribe and cheating because it sounds like Aristophanes is the favorite even if he's awful at writing poems, she replies back across the mental plane.

Meanwhile, the scribe nods. Aristophanes' name has some weight with him, at least. "No, he wouldn't." Ah, a favored poet of the scribe -- scribes? -- here in the Library. "Let me go find Marcus, I'll drag his bribable ass back here." The implication to 'stay put' remains in the scribe's wake. Ariadne watches him go and rolls her eyes almost out of her skull when he's out of sight.

"Oh my godddddddddd," she mutters, spanning her nose with her hand again.

"Can't argue with that," murmurs Mikaere in answer to Ariadne, turning around to watch the scribe go. He's silent after that, at least for a few moments, foot tapping idly upon the floor, brow deeply, deeply furrowed.

"I used to be completely on the straight and narrow," he complains. "And here I am... preparing to threaten people. This fucking place."

This place? Probably not the library. Or, at least, not the library only.

Ariadne continues eyeing her nails.

"I'd like to think maybe it's more like...saving the kid some trouble by making him understand how money's not worth his life. How about that view on things?" she offers with a glance over at Mikaere, brows lifted. "I know my knowledge is sourced from a video game, but if the Ptolemies on there are anything like the real thing...? Nobody likes being thwarted and somebody is going to take it awful personal if their favorite poet is sabotaged."

Distantly, the sound of a sudden conversation striking up can be heard. The redhead cranes her neck to see better down the corridor, but can't make anything out in particular. Other scholars drift by in deep discussion, so deep that the two Gray Harborites are complete ignored.

Or maybe it's because they're presumably country bumpkins.

"That's... a better way to put it," allows Mikaere, running his fingers through his short-cropped hair. There's not really enough of it to rumple properly, but that's not the point of the exercise, is it? "Money's not worth everything. And-- hell, if needs be, he can paint us as having done the thwarting of the plagiarism; the hope is we won't be around long enough for that to matter." It's kind of a big hope, all things considered, and probably explains why this particular man waltzed straight into a kidnapping-in-progress without backup. Common sense? Not always so common.

He turns his head, getting a good look around the little nook where we're standing. "If this is the great library," he muses, "just think about the wealth of knowledge is right here, things lost to time. Not my area of expertise, but... still, holy shit."

Ariadne seems to be musing over further possibilities for convincing this other scribe up hock up the lost scroll by the way she doesn't answer Mikaere immediately. He further distracts by bringing up their surroundings and it's with a wistful sigh that the barista nods.

"I'm a life-long learner and this is literally a Dream. There's knowledge in here that will be lost as the library degrades. It doesn't get burnt to its foundations, by the way, despite popular society's beliefs," she notes with a glance over at Mikaere. "What it does get is torn apart by, oh, I dunno, asshole regimes flip-flopping rules on the drop of poison in wine or a dagger and people playing favorites and frankly, the Egyptians want the Greeks out and at this point, I'm for it. Anyways."

Dismissive swishing of her own hand to stop herself. "I still can't think of anything more clever than to play on the kid's sense of self-preservation. Convince him his life isn't worth the money and really, the Ptolemies will be thrilled to have help outing the poet trying to undermine the favorite."

"That sucks," is quiet, little more than an exhale of breath, really. "All of it. History: people fighting over stupid things, trying to control each other, making a mess of everything. And losing so much in the process. This place--" Mikaere shakes his head. Not a scholar; a long way off being an academic. But he can absolutely recognise the importance of this. Even from where he's standing, how many of these scrolls have survived even in part? Very few. It's a sobering realisation.

He exhales again, but more firmly this time, turning his head to watch after the direction in which their young scribe departed. "No," he agrees. "I think that's our best bet. It's a pity we've been dismissed as country bumpkins, though, but... eh, we'll make it work, right?"

"I'm...not too terribly bothered to be pegged as a country bumpkin. We're underestimated now. Power's technically in our field because it's awful easy to convince someone else it was their idea because how could we have come up with such wisdom? That, and people will blab. We're not connected to anyone powerful, so where's the consequences to telling us a master plan because what are we going to do?"

Ariadne smirks to herself. More soberly, her smile fading, she adds, "That, and I'm just glad I haven't been tossed out. There was the potential to get flogged if you hadn't been here, sooooooo..." That thought doesn't require more elucidation. "We just need to get the damn scroll and I think that's the key to this Dream at this point. Anything we try to take back might not keep, which...god, Mikaere, I am tempted to take a scroll just to see -- just to see," she reveals with a grimace.

In the distance, again, conversation, but this time it sounds like the blond scribe they've been interacting with along with a new voice. Ariadne lifts her brows and waits, imperious as can be managed. If things continue to play out, it's on Mikaere to lead the conversation.

"Useful thing, that little scroll of yours, even if it has gotten us into this particular situation," murmurs Mikaere. And while he's at it? A side-long grin. "Look, Ravn and I accidentally brought these beautiful crystal tumblers back from the Orient Express with us... I recognise that's not the usual way of things, but damn, how could we not try? Some lost work of Pythagoras or something." He's nodding as he talks, though, as if he's also working his way through their next steps, shoulders back, stance ready.

He gives Ariadne a quick, firm nod: okay, then. Showtime.

The scribe and the newcomer-- Marcus, was it?-- will find the tall man (so very tall, by ancient standards; impressively tall) with arms crossed, waiting, his foot tapping.

A quick, firm nod back. Showtime.

Ariadne adds, "Believe me, it's tempting as all hell to see about bringing back a scroll, but where to start?" Her spread of fingers before herself encompasses the entire Library -- all hundred-thousand and more scrolls. Mikaere readies himself and so does she, managing to somehow look the perfect balance between bored and sanguine.

It's the blond scribe, yes, with a darker-haired young man in tow about the same age. The latter certainly looks already chastised. "Aristophanes sent them, Marcus, just cough up the damn scroll already."

Marcus stops short of the two Grey Harborites and rubs at the outside of his arm; he probably got punched there once already. "I got paid and I'm not fessing up," he grumbles, all but implicating himself in the process by his wording.

Ariadne sighs quietly to herself and squints at the Library's ceiling.

"I mean... any of them," is Mikaere's murmured reply, but further elucidation on this point will need to wait: he has a young scribe to lean on, and he seems almost to relish the role: pulling it on like a comfortable cloak.

"Is that so?" he says, arms still crossed in front of him, his smile-- well, it's warm, really, and only ever so faintly menacing, the bitter pill wrapped in sugar sweetness. "Pity. Not a great move, career-wise, you know? You know what Pharaoh's like. What Aristophanes can be like. Oh, sure, the money's good now, but..."

He shrugs, expansively. "You've seen what happens. It's never much fun for anyone involved, is it? And Pharaoh, he's got ears everywhere, particularly when it comes to his favourites."

It's tempting as hell to fold her arms too, but Ariadne goes for the saintly route -- saintly with a visible lack of amusement otherwise.

The blond scribe (Ariadne realizes this lad hasn't got a name thus far) punches Marcus in the arm again, making the dark-haired scribe wince again. "Lay off, Felix!" he snarls quietly.

"You heard him! You picked the wrong side, now get over it and tell us where the scroll is," Felix (Ariadne nods; okay, now the lad has a name) snaps back. "You don't want to get on the Pharoah's bad side!"

"They could be a double-plant!" Marcus insists, still rubbing his arm.

"Marcus. I know what Aristophanes' signature looks like. The scroll is from him. They need that scroll. Listen to the man." A point at Mikaere. Ariadne tilts her head, silently insinuating how wise it is to do such a thing. Marcus gives Mikaere a resentful if attentive look now, in case there's more to add to the argument.

Mikaere watches the interplay between the two young men with a faint amount of amusement, albeit an amusement that he attempts to cover up with dubiousness: see those bushy brows, raised so distinctly? Yeah. See them.

"He's got it right, Marcus," he says, firmly. "We're here on Aristophanes' behalf. My wife and I, maybe we're from the country, maybe that means we don't know all the ins and outs of politics... but we know not to get on the bad side of our patron, particularly when he's on the good side of Pharaoh, you know? It's never worth the money. I'd hate to--"

He trails off, ever so meaningfully. Did he just grow slightly taller still? Did the muscles of his forearms, so bare and thus so visible, just flare ever so slightly? He did. They did.

"It's just not worth it, Marcus. Give us the scroll, and we can pretend this never happened."

Thing is, Mikaere's a good number of inches taller than the tallest of Alexandria's working class, much less the ones blessed enough to be born into higher echelons in turn. When he literally flexes?

Marcus's resentful mien morphs into something far more apprehensive. "Alright, alright!" Both hands, hard-working callouses despite his scribe work on display, lift palms-out. "Okay! I'll get the scroll, shit, give me a minute!" He goes to turn and then has the audacity (maybe not so much audacity where the country bumpkins are involved, but it's the premise, surely) to say curtly to Mikaere, "You'd better put in a good word for me with Aristophanes because I'm the one helping him win this contest." Stomp, stomp, stomp, sandal-stomp.

Not jandals, sandals.

Ariadne can't help the cough-laugh. "Dumb-ass kid, he's the one who started it all by taking the damn bribe in the first place."

Felix scowls at the other scribe's back. "Yeah, well, his mom isn't the smartest lady on the outskirts. This one time, she -- "

Ariadne holds up a hand. Felix falls silent with a 'hmph' and a look at Mikaere like, excuse me, sir, your wife is a fuddy-duddy and ruins my stories.

Never let it be said that Mikaere is not polite. "Thank you," he says, even if it means saying it to young Marcus' retreating back. (At least that retreat means he doesn't feel any obligation to lie regarding good words... or further point out the same thing that Ariadne has just pointed out. He relaxes his stance, though, calmly dropping his arms and releasing the tension in his shoulders. Shake it out, Mikaere. Shake it out.

(Felix gets a shrug: yeah, yeah, he knows, but... you know, look at her? Wife. Do you have a wife, Felix? Yeah. Didn't think so.)

"That wasn't so hard," he says, with a moue of quiet approval. "See? Everything's going to be fine."

Felix remains unimpressed with his story being quashed. He rolls his eyes and watches Marcus disappear around the corner of one section of the alcoves. A scoff from him. "Fuck hid it in the histories of the north. Wow. We'd have never looked there, that section's impossible to keep organized."

"Maybe color code things or something," Ariadne mutters, still considering her nails. Felix is full of unimpressed looks now. But then, there's Marcus, appearing with a scroll in-hand. Stomp, stomp, stomp, he's going to have shin-splints when this is done.

The scroll slaps against Mikaere's chest. "There, you stupid country hick, take the damned scroll -- and you tell them I helped!"

"Crisis of conscience," the barista mutters even more quietly while looking innocently off to one side. "We should probably go now."

"HEY!" Both scribes wheel at the sound of a sudden, shockingly-louder shout. It's not bombastic, but in the quiet of the Library, it seems loud. "You fucking rat! We paid you! Coward! Get him!" Marcus suddenly finds himself in possession of the Wings of Hermes and zoom -- he gone, deeper into the Library -- and Felix too!

Ariadne blinks. A trio of men in garments indicating equal if not higher societal status now bear down on them now.

Mikaere fixes a look at Felix, as if he's trying to decide exactly how sarcastic the young man is being, and perhaps ultimately decides he doesn't actually care that much. The important thing is that the scroll is found, right? And all the rest is--

The scroll gets slapped against his chest, and he picks it up, delicately; this time it is Marcus who gets a look, as imperious as the day is long, right up until that shout. The tall Kiwi has time to peer after them, glance at Ariadne, and then--

Again, his shoulders straighten. Again, he draws himself up (and up and up). And the scroll, he slides it subtly behind his back, nudging quietly at Ariadne's hands. He's not especially stealthy, but... maybe.

"Gentlemen!" He steps forward. "Can I be of assistance?"

Someone's been dating a grifter for a month or two.

Someone feels the scroll bump at her hands behind her back and plucks it adroitly from Mikaere's hands in turn.

Surely she's just turning to fix the fall of her clothing as the three men approach with all the guff of an incoming storm front. Scroll's gone and disappeared now. Where? Polite company will never know.

"Yes! You can tell us where that little rat bastard went!" says the leader of the cohort, a balding individual full of hot air and no muscling whatsoever. "And hand over the scroll!"

"We need to verify something on it," the second man claims, he smelling of a lot of wine and not a lot of showering. The third one remains quiet while he scratches at his ribs through the fall of his clothing like he might have lice. Just maybe.

Baldy, wino and lice: three great tastes that would probably... no, look, they're definitely better together, as long as 'together' is also 'a long way away from here'. Mikaere grants all three of them a lift of his very expressive eyebrows, and lets them wait. One beat. Two beats.

Three.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he says, crooked smile in place, a little warm and self-effacing, country bumpkin coming to the fore. "My wife and I were just-- well, you know how it is." Brows waggle, just so slightly. "Some of the young scribes were showing us around, but--"

He glances around, shaking his head. "I've no idea where they've gone. Did you see, my love?"

Longest set of three beats on the planet.

Baldy huffs and folds his arms, lifting his hooked nose in disdain. Wino hiccups -- literally hiccups. Lice, well...scritch-scritch-scritch.

As to how it is? The three men look between themselves with disgusted disbelief. God, these country bumpkins, showing up and treating the Library as such. Shame! Shame!

Ariadne? She pulls every bit of thespian in her bones and manages like two brain cells had collided for some sparklings of static, "Oh, no, I didn't see where they went! I was so distracted by all of the scrolls. So many of them! And so many words! It makes me dizzy." Now the back of her mouth tastes awful, ugh, but look at that vapid little smile!

"Where's the scroll?" Baldy snaps -- and then literally snaps his fingers at Mikaere, like he was demanding it of a butler.

That smile? Not so crooked, now, but earnestly broad and brilliant. "Did you look around you?" he wonders, managing-- more or less-- to succeed at sounding charmingly naive. "There are so many of them! Just like my beautiful dove here said. Why, I bet you could find dozens and dozens that would suit whatever you need... do you like poetry? I can recite you some poetry, if you like. How did it start again, my dove?"

Big eyes turn their gaze on to Ariadne, so very, very wide.

Because, "We don't really have scrolls, not nearly so many, where we're from. We just remember things! We have to."

Wino's now squinting at Mikaere like he's a dolt. Lice is still scratching away, itch-itch-itch, maybe someone should shave him balder than Baldy and dip him in the ocean or something. Baldy scoffs.

"Give us the scroll, you fucking backwards idiots," the leader snarls, color starting to show at his cheeks.

Ariadne blinks most vapidly again. "Right, because scrolls have words and those are complicated." It hurts. But it also hurts not to laugh. She's dying on the inside. This is so deliciously spiteful. "Oh, the poem? Right, it starts with..." She makes a point of delaying up until it looks like Baldy is going to start talking again and then recites, overly loudly, "Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe: all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe."

Now she's being stared at like she has three heads by those three knuckleheads across the aisle -- and it looks like they're going to get the whole damn poem, poor fuckers.

Were he not focusing basically all his mental energies on maintaining a straight face, Mikaere might, at this point, choose to comment on this tactic directly to Ariadne, mind-to-mind. That's probably a bad idea, though: laughing would rather ruin this whole experience, and any additional incentive to laugh, largely inevitable in that circumstance? A recipe for disaster.

So instead, he draws himself up even taller, and positively beams at Ariadne. Does he make a good lovesick fool? It's hard to tell. Maybe he's just bilious. Maybe some kind of fishy morsel from lunch is sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. Or, sure, just the wife.

He glances back at the three men, too, beaming at them as well. Do they see how talented his wife is?

His wife.

His hands-- otherwise empty, do they see?-- clasp together, not yet in applause, but in preparation for applause. For now, it's more like a prayer. Hopefully no one notices how he's digging his fingernails in, all the more distraction to keep from laughing.

Oh man: that Jubjub bird and the frumious Bandersnatch! And vorpal swords! And those three imperious senator-types looking more and more confused and concerned as the poem unspools.

"...and as in uffish thought, he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey woods and burbled as it came!"

Ariadne can't help herself: she lifts up her hands in claws and wriggles them at the men, teeth bared. It's very unlady-like and breaks the atmosphere of the poem entirely. Baldy splutters and especially when there's the soft sound of a scroll falling from folds of clothing behind her.

"What was that?" Baldy snaps, immediately trying to look around Ariadne.

But no matter: with all the bombastic arrival of the Kool-Aid Man, the far side of the hexagonal reading room nearby busts in to reveal...

...the Jubjub Bird -- and it glares daggers at Ariadne through the mist of stone dust and semi-shredded scrolls.

"GIVE ME MY FEATHER BACK!" the Wonderlandian horror shrieks at top volume.

Hey, turns out senator-types shriek really loudly too. Ariadne stares owlishly.

It's quite a performance. Mikaere tries-- he really, really tries-- to maintain suitable composure, but it's hard and getting harder, especially as Ariadne wriggles her claws (and if that's hard? just wait for it). He's barely holding on, really, though there's an abrupt raise of his eyebrows and widening of his eyes at the sound of that scroll dropping; so alert and aware, there's apparently no way he could miss it. But to do anything about it? That's--

-- suddenly less of a problem. "Holy shit," he says, perhaps speaking for everyone in this particular moment. That's a... well, he doesn't know what kind of bird it is, but it's not (as far as he's aware), an Egyptian bird. Or a Greek bird. Or a Roman bird, for that matter. And that's a problem; that's potentially a very bad problem.

"Run," he tells the three gentlemen, not-quite-calmly.

And to the Jubjub bird? He turns his attention directly on the creature-out-of-myth, and projects the first thing he can think of: utter calm.

Chill, bro. It's fine. Everything's fine.

Baldy, Wino, and Lice all scatter like rats. Screeching rats. Who cares about a scroll when a giant-ass bird, apparently summoned by some witchcraft incantation, has smashed after the caster in turn? They leave the Gray Harborites to their fate.

Ariadne's managed to stoop and snatch up the scroll, holding it obviously now against her chest as she watches the Jubjub Bird pick its way across the rubble and towards them. Beady eyes gleam. Mikaere's projection seems to hit when the bird lifts its head out of the classical predatory drop and continues walking more companionably towards them.

"I. Want. My. Feather. Back." It clips through the words with clicks of its beak in turn.

"I don't have it here," Ariadne babbles back, still wide-eyed and looking like she too wants to beat feet. As the Jubjub Bird approaches, it becomes harder to resist tilting one's head to look up at it. Now standing in front of them, the Jubjub Bird leans in.

"I...want my feather back," it tells both of them now with deadly calm.

Mikaere comes from a country where, once upon a time, there were giant flightless birds that walked the earth: arguably, one could compare the Jubjub to a Moa. Moa have been extinct for a long time, but-- the Veil. Something. Maybe it's ancestral; maybe it's Dream experience. Either way, Mikaere lifts his chin, draws back his shoulders, and eyes the angry Jubjub thoughtfully.

"She doesn't have it," he says, apologetically, and quite, quite evenly. "And I'm sorry about that. I wish I could change that. If I were a Healer, I'd offer to try and help you regrow it... but I'm not. I'm sorry. Can we offer you something else? What can we do, to make this right? It wasn't intentional."

(He hopes it wasn't intentional.)

(It was very, very intentional per Bard Ariadne's flawless, hubris-filled logic.)

Ariadne currently continues wincing; her shoulders are definitely slowly moving up towards her ears. The Jubjub Bird quits giving her a death glare to turn the intensity of the avian look on Mikaere. It's a hell of a look, especially along the keel of a narrow, hooked beak.

"No, you cannot offer me something else, you hairless pink fencepost, she TOOK MY FEATHER!" the Jubjub Bird suddenly howls into his face.

"I can get you another feather! A better one!" Even as Adriane blurts it out, all she can think of is Jack Sparrow from those goddamn pirate movies and how farcical all of his attempts turn out to be and oh god, help her.

Now the Jubjub Bird is eyeing her again with a portentous silence. It's thinking. Oh dear.

"Feathers," says Mikaere, very evenly, because apparently no, he has not learned how to stop talking while he's still ahead (or, you know, not dead), "are a little, er, what's the word? Passé, yes. These days. Why, half the birds are getting rid of them altogether. And,"

Stop, Mikaere. Just... stop.

"If you kill her, or make her get you a replacement, or anything like that... well, then she's not your sworn enemy anymore, right? And it's so much more fun to have a sworn enemy. You can chase her down at any point and people will run screaming, and it'll do wonders for your image. It'll be-- 'The Song of the Jubjub'. Magic! Positively enchanting."

The Jubjub Bird's beak is open to unleash yet another no doubt horrendous shriek when Mikaere speaks. It looks over at the Kiwi with beak still parted, beady eyes gleaming. Ariadne too glances over and her grimace takes on elements of betrayal -- no, Mikaere, BAD IDEAS, BAD.

"...a sworn enemy," the Jubjub Bird then repeats almost thoughtfully.

One can see the aw, fuck it cross the barista's mind. "Yes! Yeh-heh-hes, like a nemesis!" She spreads one hand very close to herself; offering fingers or palm out towards that hooked beak seems like a very stupid idea. Beady eyes flick back to her. "Everybody needs a good nemesis! It's like a love-hate kind of thing! A funny love-hate kind of thing! Right?"

Right, Mikaere?! her pleading glance seems to say.

Sorry, Ariadne.

"Right!" Mikaere agrees, nodding vigorously. "It's absolutely a love-hate kind of thing. You just... show up every so often-- just like you did now!-- and you yell at her, and scare people off. Because she did do you a wrong, and you can't let her forget it. But if you actually hurt her or anything, well... then she might have to hunt you down in turn, and that wouldn't be fun would it? So... nemesis."

He splays his hands, storytelling. Right now, maybe it's possible to see how he managed to build up a following of viewers, eagerly watching him tell stories on the Internet: he's leaned right into the story, his voice raising and lifting as appropriate. "Maybe she'll get the chance to make things right with you one day. But until then... you can't let her forget that you're out there, watching. Waiting."

Mikaere gets a look more and more openly betrayed from the barista beside him. She's honestly seconds and a knee-jerk reaction away from swatting him with the scroll. Watching and waiting?!

The Jubjub Bird clacks its beak sharply, the sound not too unlike the snitck of a finely-bladed paper cutter sliding home. "I like this idea," it decides, lifting its head up to a more neutral manner again. "A nemesis. Yes, pink fencepost, I like your idea. You."

Another CLACK of beak inches from Ariadne's face. She chokes on a squeal and stares, holding up the scroll between herself and it like the papyrus is going to save her.

"You're my nemesis...and you will GIVE ME MY FEATHER BACK!" The volume makes the barista wince.

"...but I can't right now?" she notes almost painfully.

The Jubjub Bird rears back its head and all of its feathers stand on end. "YOU WILL GIVE ME MY FEATHER BACK!"

Ariadne bolts like a rabbit then. Keep up, Mikaere, this is a martial artist and cyclist now sprinting in a flutter of fabric towards the nearest door! Hopefully it's a Door?!

Ariadne bolts, and Mikaere?

He's lost it. "THAT'S NOT HOW THIS WORKS, YOU STUPID BIRD?!" Breathe. No-- okay, no, we're not breathing. We're just yelling. Go on, Mikaere: yell away.

"If you just TERRIFY her, this doesn't work. You just-- UGH. You know this. Do this properly, or I'll steal the rest of your feathers, too, you over-stuffed future-pillow."

And then? Then he broadens his stance, puts both hands up, palms facing forward, fingers outstretched, widens his eyes... and sticks his tongue out.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH."

Yeah. Ariadne's run for the Door, if such a thing exists, and Mikaere? He's doing the Haka at a Jubjub bird.

For a split second, it looks like the Veil might cue up Yackity Sax because that bird is gearing up to take off after Ariadne like the vengeful spirit of Carroll himself.

But then, here's Mikaere, raising his voice and calling it names and comparing it to paltry home goods and HOW VERY DARE?! The Jubjub Bird drops its beak open in shocked disdain and then twitches its head back at the Haka display.

A beat or two of steadily more awkward silence follows.

The Jubjub Bird asks: "...what is that supposed to be, some sort of threat display? Your tongue is pink and stupid just like you. I should rip it out of your face, but YOU didn't take my feather."

"MIKAERE, GET OVER HERE, IT'S A DOOR!!!!" Not a door, but a Door. "JULES IS GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME IF YOU DON'T GET BACK WITH ME, GET OVER HERE!!!" Shrilly, Ariadne's voice carries from over by one of the doorways between atriums. There's a crowd growing outside of the area involving the Jubjub Bird, yes, and everyone knows the local authorities are going to show up at any second now.

You know what's even better than a Haka?

Running away.

Not, of course, that that's what Mikaere would call it: he'd call it a strategic retreat, maybe, or 'I actually don't want Jules to murder anyone' or 'this place is swell, but I prefer my modern comforts' or, well, you get the drift. Something along those lines. It doesn't matter what you call it, really: he gives one final war cry towards the stupid bird, and then hightails it after Ariadne.

There's a Door, and his name is on it, thank you very, very much.

It seems the last war cry startles the Jubjub Bird with its intensity; the creature had been glaring in Ariadne's direction. It flutter-hops back a step and tries clutching a pearl necklace it doesn't have.

This gives Mikaere an excellent head start on the Bird.

Unfortunately, running is attractive to any predatory sort.

Fortunately, Jubjub Bird feet don't get good traction on marble. It skitters and slips for a second before taking off after Mikaere, leading its charge with another of those resonating shrieks. People beyond the door -- Door -- scatter with their own shrieks because who stands around waiting for a large bird to barrel down on them?

Ariadne waits until she can time it for Mikaere's own speedy approach and then bolts through the doorway alongside him.

-- and they both stumble out from the library's front doors and into the semi-balmy reality of Gray Harbor.

People aren't really supposed to catapult themselves out of library buildings quite like that... but whatever. Mikaere's breathing fast, grateful for shorts-and-not-robes, and turning a wide-eyed glance on Ariadne-- and then another behind them.

The Door did close, right?

"So, uh... what did you do to the poor bird's feather?"

Beat. "And do you still have the scroll?"

Thank god for sneakers and not sandals. It means Ariadne catches her balance instead of eating cement. She too looks back at the building with wide eyes and lets out a short, shocked sigh.

"Mother-fucker! Ugh!" Do not flip off the building, there are normal people inside no doubt very confused at sudden winded duo out on the front landing. Straightening up, the young woman seems to take a moment to make sure she's entirely back to normal by visual once-over before lifting up the scroll still in-hand. She blinks at it and then at Mikaere.

"Uh. I was a Bard. In another Dream. And I had its feather in my hat. And I'm pretty sure I got it fair and square, but on human terms. So probably not fair and square. And this is the poem from the motherfucking Library of Alexandria!" Scroll is shaken at Mikaere before Ariadne catches herself and pulls it tight against her chest. Hers! Hers? Immediately comes the conflict of keeping it verses turning it in because it's a scroll from THAT LIBRARY.

Mikaere's eyes? Wide as saucers (though probably not as wide as, say, Una's eyes would be). He lifts his own hand: he's still got the other scroll, the one from Aristophanes in it, and then, there? That's a glimmer of a smile, catching up past the adrenaline of their escape to bring on an open and outright laugh.

"Okay, well, sorry about the nemesis thing, but... holy fuck, we brought back scrolls from the Library of Alexandria."

There may be consequences to this, whatever they do with the scrolls, but that's a problem for some other moment. For now? Mikaere grins.

He glances back at the library doors again, too. "I think... I think I've had enough of libraries today, though. Yeah?"

"Yeah, we did!" Ariadne sounds elated and dismayed at once. This shouldn't have happened! But it did! And now they're holding several thousand year-old papyrus scrolls! She touches her own scroll with her other hand and dares to unroll it a little...and winces. "...I can't read any of this anymore, unfortunately, so it all looks like gibberish to me, which really sucks. I never got a chance to figure out what it said."

Rolling up the scroll again most carefully, she still nods and looks back at the library. "But yeah, I am done-diddly-done with the library today. No more books, no more Jubjub Birds, no more nothing." Scroll is then brandished at Mikaere with a half-smirk, half-scowl. "And if you EVER assign me another nemesis again, mister, there's gonna be consequences."

"I bet it'd still look amazing, framed and hanging on your wall," points out Mikaere. This time, he doesn't offer to try and read it; maybe he's forgotten that that's started to be a thing that he can do, occasionally. "And maybe you'll run into someone who speaks-- and reads, I guess-- ancient Greek? And even if not... I bet we have better poetry now anyway."

None of this stops him from grinning at her, half-apologetic and half (ok, more than half) amused. "I promise," is probably at least mostly genuine. "No more nemeses. No more fantasy. I... need a drink. Is it too early for a drink?"

"Honestly, after something like that, it's never too early for a drink. This, however, needs to go someplace dark and dry while I figure out how in the hell to frame it because...yeah, it needs to be behind glass somehow." Ariadne sighs down at the scroll in her hand.

Pulling out her phone, she sighs yet again. "Oh thank god, we were only gone for that amount of time too. If you want to have a drink, pick the place, I'll be there, and we'll commiserate or something. I need to get back and see how my dog is first though, I didn't intend to be gone for so long."

Mikaere turns his smaller roll of scroll in his fingers and nods by way of acknowledgement. "The bar by the marina?" he suggests. "I'll buy you a beer. After we've dealt with our prizes, and you've reassured your dog."

Because... yeah. This was a trip.

"Deal. Give me an hour or two and I'll meet you there."

Ariadne then blows a hard sigh. "Ravn's never going to believe this...or maybe he will, I dunno, but first, yes, dog and shower and stashing this someplace dry and dark. I'll see you in an hour or two," she repeats as confirmation before she then walks off with a bit of a wobble (at first) to her steps. Door hopping. Never a dull moment.