Logs:In from the Cold

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In from the Cold


Characters: Peter & Slip
Date: 2020-05-27
Summary: Peter looks to Slip for help reintegrating into the Freehold.
Disclaimers:


<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "Hello?"
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "Is this the Chamberlain, Slip? My name is Peter," some hesitations, "Vorman. I need to meet you.""
<phone> To Peter: Slip sends, "Hey, yeah. Uh. Need's a strong word. Something wrong?"
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "Well, I am an oathbreaker, having failed to uphold my vows to some folk... the Monarch included. I'm trying to make amends."
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "Need seems appropriate."
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "You are chamberlain to the you know... V.M.? I have the right phone number?"
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "These things are inexplicable, Cell. Phones." Coarse laughter, "Am I right?""
<phone> To Peter: Slip sends, "Mm," seems a placeholder, acknowledgement while she wakes up. "Yeah, that's me. Daytime's not my best time. Gimme a sec.""
<phone> To Peter: Slip sends, "Okay. So, where to? When?"
<phone> To Slip: Peter sends, "There's a tavern, the Critical Cafe, some distance from Jackson Square. I'll be the man with the briefcase and suit."
<phone> To Peter: Slip sends, "I'm familiar. Gimme thirty?"


It's a clear, sunny day, slightly cooler thanks to some early morning rain that's now cleared up, leaving the world smelling fresh and clean. The tavern's only populated by a couple hardcore, weekly groups in full costume playing D&D and Pathfinder. Alone by himself, in a corner booth, a man in a crisp, clean business suit sips on black coffee, a black leather briefcase handcuffed to his arm.

His hair is cleaned and slicked back, posture strong and confident, though he looks malnourished and weary. A strange juxtaposition to his crystal clear blue eyes, and his abbatoir of ivory teeth turned into a smile. He looks to have tracked in some stray brown leaves near his glossy, wing-tip shoes, suspiciously muddied.


Slip has shaken off the last of her sleepiness by the time she makes it to the Critical Cafe, though there's still something of a just woke up aesthetic to the way her dark hair hangs untamed, like she's just pushed her fingers through it. Dark make-up has seen some reapplication, though it's not clear if the smudging is intentional or leftover from the night before. Does it really matter? Her overall aesthetic is casual goth, a faded black tee-shirt with a crying seven-eyed skull on the front paired with black jeans and worn-down black boots, all accessorized in black and silver. Most notable among those trinkets are an old locker key hanging around her neck and the glass hand pendant with an eye on the palm which falls just below it. She doesn't precisely present as official.

Nor does she immediately present at all to the single well-dressed figure who seems to fit the description she's looking for. There's a gesture of ackowledgement, a single-finger bid for 'one minute,' and then pursuit of caffeine. Once that's acquired--something iced and dark--she winds her way toward the corner booth with a lazy smile and a lift of her plastic cup toward the empty spot across from Peter. "May I?"


Something in the air about him is wrong. The Wyrd shrouds him in wrongness, signalling him as an Oathbreaker to any who can truly see. Nevertheless, he wears his actor's smile fixed and embellished as he gestures to the same spot, "Please, by all means. Thank you for meeting many." He licks his lips, moistening them, "I'm sorry for my insistence on meeting face to face. You... make some kind of radio show, yes?" He makes a vague, twirling gesture to the open air about them.

While speaking, he scans Slip appraisingly, periodically glancing warily about, as if wary of the whole world.


The wrongness doesn't seem to trouble Slip as she sinks into the booth and sets her cup down, freed fingers pushing through her hair, making one odd ear a bit easier to make out clearly as it tilts toward the rest of the room, keeping tabs on their surroundings. "Podcast, yeah. Theoretically. Bit overdue, but it's in the works." Her accent isn't local, but then how many of the Lost who've gathered in New Orleans over the last couple seasons can claim any real native roots to the city. "And really, meeting in person is better. Not great on the phone." Her wide smile edges toward apologetic for their earlier conversation, which may well have been conducted from bed. "How can I help you, Peter?" precedes a long sip of her iced coffee, of the necessary caffeine to nudge this nocturnal creature toward daytime functioning.


Peter sets his little white ceramic cup down, his tone deepening as he begins to tell his story. "A long time ago I made a promise to my friends, my Court, and my Freehold, when it was all just being established. I had been a subject before that, too, to the Dragon King. And it did not help my state of mind much. I feel between the cracks and got addicted to my Hedge, almost. It has that heroin-like quality only two people recenly in love can create and get stuck in together." He looks off towards the closet door beside another booth, sighing wistfully at it for some reason.

Snapping back to reality, he elaborates, "I ran away from my duties, my responsibilites, to fuck off in a dream world. But it's making me lose touch with reality, you see." He looks down at his briefcase, frowning at it. "Forgetting what's right and wrong, a little bit." He looks back to Slip, "I want /you/ to help me repay my debts to the Freehold, to the reigning monarch at the time. Ian now, whomever comes next." He licks his lips, moistening them. "Help me create the Freehold a new Lost needs."


When Peter begins to speak in earnest about his situation, Slip's demeanor shifts ever so slightly, stray threads of her attention all pulling in to focus fully upon the autumn courtier across from her. Well, except for that one ear tilted toward the rest of the world. Just in case. It's difficult to gauge her reaction to the tale he spins of his own woes, whether she has any sympathy for his situation or not, but she does seem to understand the interest in that door right over there, that temptation into elsewhere. "I'm already doing what I can to improve the Freehold," she points out with a slight, off-center smile. "I'll continue to do so as long as whoever wears the crown desires my aid." She purses her dimly painted lips, a faint shade of matte burgundy that has already rubbed off on her straw. "I'm willing to facilitate whatever restitution you intend to make, on good faith, so long as you're willing to do the work. I'm even willing to accept that you may yet fuck off part-way through. I get how temptation goes. I need more than pretty words, though. I need to know what you mean to actually do."


With a small sigh of frustration, he lifts his hands in a helpless shrug, only to then gesture to his smartphone on the bar. "I'm so behind in the world, I'm not sure what I /should/ do. My first instinct is to reach into my briefcase, then walk around ordering people about or banishing them to the Hedge, but I know that, perhaps, that's not the /right/ thing to do." He flashes a quick, predatory smile. "What I can do, is usually paralyze anyone with a certain type of terrible awe, or force rights onto living where I want. Infiltrating any organasition by making the Wyrd insist I'm a part of it. My vow though, included using my token to help. Once I've made my restitution, I intend to get rid of it. It's maddening. It infects you. But I promised to you it to help."

He looks to his handcuffed wrist, then the black leather briefcase, "You see, it's a crown. And I'm a little bit obsessed with it. I promised to use it to help the Autumn Court, as well. So I can't just give it over, not until I've restored my word." He looks back to Slip, lifting his chin proudly, "I humbly request that /you/ tell me what to do, instead. I'm a bit suited to be a spy, or perhaps I don't know, a social attack dog?" He grins, then shrugs, "I will 'do' what you ask, or spend more time with the other changelings and come back to you with a physical plan. A written one, maybe even."


Slip listens. Above all else, listening is what she's good at, every detail of Peter's capabilities and frustrations taken in. The silence which follows implies consideration, her focus remaining steadily upon the author without any suggestion of judgment. In the end, she nods. "Give me some time, and I'll give you a path." With a hint of grim humor, the left corner of her lips edging higher, she adds, "Not likely spy work, though," with a vague gesture toward him, toward that aura of offness that marks him an oathbreaker, which would make a position of trust complicated at the moment. In time, perhaps. For now, the chamberlain will need to gather more information, to find the right task to help him get right with the Wyrd again.