“Aw, that’s sweet.”
The Dean walks back over to his seat by the window and rummages through his bag. After a few moments, he pulls out what appears to be a very pale plant.
He sets the plant down on the table and begins working on sketches in his notebook.
As he sketches the plant, an English Ivy of unusually pale color, he mutters at it. His hair begins to very lightly smoke and the Ivy’s tendrils start to curl and blacken.
When the sketch is completed, he crumples it up and places it in the Ivy’s pot. Instantly, the paper bursts into green flame.
When the flames die down, there is a brief flash of light. When he can see again, the Dean cocks his head at the ivy, which has turned the color of tallow.
edited by Dean Lee on 7/15/2016
edited by Dean Lee on 7/15/2016
There’s a sound at the door. It sounds like something throwing its body against it, repeatedly. The door handle jerks and jangles, and then, finally, the door swings open.
An ocelot stalks in. It wears a jade choker, and from the cant of its whiskers and the tilt of its tail, it looks irritable. It heads straight for the nearest bookshelf, scans, and then starts tearing books down, scattering them on the floor. "Terrible. Absolutely terrible. This is most certainly proscribed. This is pornographic. No, no. This won’t do." The pile of books is growing, and the ocelot is none too gentle with his teeth, either.
The Dean looks up from his studies and raises an eyebrow.
"Are you looking for anything in particular, or are you just trying to get a taste of the collection?"
He smiles at his own joke and continues,
"Sorry about the pun. They call me the Dean. If it is not too presumptive of me, what are you called?".
edited by Dean Lee on 7/15/2016
The ocelot drags a thin book of poems onto the ground, and then turns to stare at the Dean, in the way only cats can.
"Bigsby," he says. He eyes the Dean’s hair. It looks a little singed. "I’m the one who has to keep this collection tasteful. She could be arrested for some of these things, but does she care? No. Just keeps them out in the open for anyone to walk in and see…" He turns back to the shelf, and considers The Flowers of Shakespeare critically. "You know those Surface poets," he mutters. "Every flower is a metaphor. Do you understand metaphors, Dean?"
Dirae Erinye bustles in here with coffee and cups.
“Anyone here needing a cup?”
The Dean chuckles.
“Metaphors?”. He thinks for a moment, “I suppose I have a basic grasp of them. Certainly I could tell you the academic definition and list a few examples, but I can’t shake the feeling that’s not what you’re looking for. How about you Bigsby? Do you understand metaphor?”
Hearing the door open, the Dean turns around to see Dirae’s entry.
“I suppose drinking out of a cup is somewhat more civilized than a bottle.” He smiles and outs the mead back into his bag, “I would love a cup if you please!”
“Here you go,” Dirae Erinyes pours a hot cup of coffee, and hands it to Dean, gesturing at the cream and sugar cubes on the tray.
“Metaphors? Does Lamia have a poetry reading going on back here?”
"Metaphors are camouflage to get filth past the censors," Bigsby says, without answering the question. "You look through this and let me know if you find anything unwholesome." Thus, the Dean has been enlisted in the ocelot’s campaign to keep Lamia’s bookshelf free of proscribed material. Bigsby picks up the book and drops it on the table in front of him.
"Lamia is not here," he says, offhandedly, to Dirae. "She’s doing God knows what on a yacht with a bunch of devils." He lashes his tail, clearly indicating his feelings about that kind of behavior.
“Well, then we could be at this all night - seeing ghosts hiding in the margins while the most treasonous of works past by our noses.”
"Was that a metaphor?" The ocelot looks at Dirae narrowly.
“Yes, but not a filthy one.”
"Well, it goes by faster if more people help, and you seem to know your way around figurative language."
While Dirae Erinyes doesn’t share Bigsby puritanical tastes, they hardly will pass up a chance to spend an evening reading. Picking up a promising volume off the shelf, they spent a few minutes flipping through.
“Any particular feelings on limericks?”
"I’ve never heard the word ‘limericks’ without hearing the full phrase ‘dirty limericks.’ Be merciless."
“Well, this is quite dirty just by the nature of the form - I’ll take it off your hands.” Dirae Erinyes sets it on the table, out of reach of Bigsby.
"Well, it certainly looks like we have a long night ahead of us."
The Dean takes a small bottle out of his bag and pours it into his coffee.
He pulls a book out of the growing piles and returns to his seat.
"Cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war."
edited by Dean Lee on 7/16/2016
The Dean looks at the cover of the book he grabbed and laughs.
"A first edition copy of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Impressive collection."
edited by Dean Lee on 7/16/2016
“A book like that such impressive reputation will need to be checked by several people,” Dirae Erinyes comments with false innocence.