Logs:Seeds

Seeds
Dramatis Personae Anahita, Cyan, Damien, Lucien
In Absentia	2024-12-20 "Whyever would you build an inn if you did not want to help the lost along on their quests." (after a small dance interlude.)
Location <NYC> Le Carrefour, Le Bonne Entente - Astoria, Queens
Above the bustle of the clerestory restaurant, tucked at the base of the bell tower, this indoor garden and library is out of the way and easily overlooked, sure to become a favored "hidden gem" of travel guides. Low bookshelves full of mythology, fairy tales, and folklore ring the central elevator shaft and the stairway spiraling around it like an easily navigable labyrinth. Beyond these are plants in a variety of tastefully whimsical containers, each with its own engraved plaque giving the common name, the scientific name, and their significance to various traditional stories and practices. The walls have been done away with so that the room extends beyond the doric columns into a surreal rooftop garden enclosed with glass stretching between the tower's massive buttresses. The arrangement of plantlife becomes less formal as one moves out into the four arms of the conservatory, visible containers giving way to beds and terraces and eventually landscapes carefully cultivated to look wild. There is plentiful seating scattered along the paths and just off of them, from proper benches to picturesque logs to surprisingly comfortable boulders. By day, myriad butterflies dance amongst the enchanted vegetation, and likewise moths by night. A shallow stream weaves throughout, feeding ponds that host plants of their own alongside fish, frogs, and turtles. Wandering the outer edges of the conservatory, one could almost feel lost in a mystical forest but for the stunning views of the cityscape beyond the glass. Rain and wet clumps of snow falling out of the darkness patter against the conservatory glass, but inside the crossroads are warm and cozy if not particularly bright. At least, not in most of its corners, where for the most part there is just enough illumination at night for safe navigation of the walkways and appreciation of the plants that line them. Scattered throughout the conservatory are several dilute streaks of artificial sunlight cast by hemispherical grow lights. Here in a small clearing just off one of the less-travelled paths, there's one such cleverly concealed by the branches of a cascara sagrada tree above a marble scale model of the Pergamon Altar, its central stairway shaped into a terrace that holds rows of narrow terracotta planter boxes that in turn hold rows of seedlings too young yet as yet to easily identify without the plaques affixed to their containers. Half-kneeling, half-sitting before the terrace on a low folding stool, Anahita is carefully tending the seedlings with a rustic metal watering can. She's wearing rugged denim overalls and a thin-waled plum corduroy shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up to her elbows, her long hair wrapped up out of the way in a red shayla. She's humming softly as she moves her artificial rainfall along each row of the terrace. The water, upon closer observation, is not behaving quite as one might expect. The droplets bead up as though they'd fallen on waxed canvas, rolling away from each other to spread out evenly before soaking into the fertile soil around the tender sprouts. Through the conservatory's evening tranquility there are a couple new figures making their way. Even among the deliberately enchanted feel of this indoor garden Damien stands out, albeit maybe not quite as much as his companion today -- still. He's in no hurry, stopping here and there to drop a comment here about this hotel guest's book of fairy tales ("-- practically slander, you know it was actually Europeans who went around kidnapping fairy children for quite some time --") or that one poring over a cafe menu ("-- will not regret trying the onion soup it's a touch of magic on a night like this --"), but for all his meandering his path does unerringly bring them to fetch up by Anahita and her plants. He is dressed, as is his wont, a bit eye-catching and a bit out-of-place -- maybe not for here, though. Cropped red jacket with intricate gold embroidery along the cuffs and hem, worn open over a violet charmeuse shirt, framing an oval mirror pendant in which the reflection always looks just a little off, and gold leather trousers tucked into black riding boots. "Wonderful gardener. I have brought you all a fresh new seed, and just in time for the new sun, too." His wide dark eyes, the light thrill in his tone, suggest that he is about to bestow upon Anahita the most wonderful of gifts. Cyan is aware that he stands out. Not just because this place is swank, and he most definitely is not. His old boots, sweatpants and oversized hoodie stand in stark contrast to the local vibes. But mostly because he’s still wearing a mascot polar bear head with a Santa-hat on it from his part-time job. In retrospect, taking it with him to avoid it getting stolen, might not have been the greatest of ideas, but there is a certain power to hiding your face behind something so utterly ridiculous most people struggle to admit to themselves that they’ve seen it. Trying to keep up with the Shiny Fey he stumbles after Damien, dimly aware that he’s been here before, nodding along to his statements about Europeans and onion soup. Coming to an abrupt halt he stops just short of crashing into Damien, the polar bear head wobbles as he looks to Anahita, and he sheepishly lifts his arm to scratch the back of his head only to not entirely be sure what to do once he realizes it’s not actually his head. “Err...hi?” What else is there to say when your hallucinations introduce you to someone new? Anahita sits up slightly at the approaching footfalls, but doesn't turn until Damien speaks. "Hail and well-met, spirited traveler." After a quick blink and a not-quite-double take at Cyan, she amends this to, "...travelers." She sets the watering can aside, shucks her gardening gloves, and rises, dusting off her overalls and looking Cyan over. "Are you looking for gardening advice?" Her eyes dart back to Damien, their corners crinkling with the distant suggestion of a smile, but she still addresses Cyan. "Or are you the seed?" "This charming bear has need of a home," Damien is explaining, quite as seriously as though this ought to answer Anahita's question entirely, and with the same tone of earnest explanation: "and if I find them one they will give me the most lovely dancing. You find home for so many poisonous seeds -- you know," once more his eyes are lighting as he conveys this choice bit of information, to Cyan this time, "they've some truly beautiful deadly flowers here. You ought to fit right in. All kinds of wicked magics." It’s starting to dawn on Cyan that maybe his hallucination isn’t as much in his head as they’ve been thinking. “I err...” once again he is very happy for the bear-head hiding the current complexion of his face. “I guess I am the seed?” he drags out the last word, looking first to Anahita, then to Damien, hoping this conversation at some point will start to make sense to him. Somewhere at the center of the conservatory the elevator has recently arrived. Lucien is striding through -- his even pace manages to not look much like he is racing, but he is certainly going a good deal quicker and more directly than Damien's meandering path had been, hastening through the familiar paths to cut the most direct route through to this little cluster. In contrast to the other eclectically dressed people he looks conspicuously like he has just rushed out of a business meeting, neat-dressed in an iron gray three-piece suit with picked stitching, contrast button holes at the cuffs, and a boutonniere of mistletoe woven--with no visible beginning or end--into a minuscule wreath around a small cluster of its own white berries, the shirt underneath a pale, pale green cinched with black-and-silver arabesque tie that matches the patterns embossed into his black monk shoes. His expression, when he looks at Damien, is a bit pinched, but this evens out into one of remarkably composed polite neutrality when he looks at -- blinks once, twice at -- offers a very small tip of nod to -- the. Bear. Of course. Bear. "Bonsoir -- you are looking quite festive for the season," he's offering, quiet and polite, to the polar bear, and then in soft francophone-tinged English: "Damien, is this -- a friend of yours?" Anahita does smile, now, reassuringly, at Cyan. "I doubt very much you would like the treatment I give most of my seeds, but I do have access to some housing resources. If that is in fact what you are looking for." She inclines her head. "Please forgive the whimsy. This man has a way of bringing that out, and it seemed all of a piece with your. Garb." She hesitates. "But I am not so sure now if this is quite so whimsical for you." She offers Lucien a nod of greeting when he joins them. "I believe he wants to dance with them. I might also be missing a bit of context, here." "This is a dancing bear," Damien says again, with a tone of great patience, "in need of a home. I found them quite forlorn and thought I know quite exactly the place to put a wayward soul looking for new direction in life. You --" Both his hands turn up, spread outward in a gesture of deep magnanimity towards Anahita and Lucien -- does he really remember Cyan themselves is there anymore, it's an open question, "may take them from here." He is turning to Anahita, making a leg for a deep and flourishing bow. "And may the new year bring you all the light a gardener could hope for." “Bear..?” It takes a few seconds, then Cyan remembers. Carefully he takes the polar-bear head off, revealing a very much squished crows nest of black hair that immediately starts fighting gravity. His grey-like skin is streaked with small green-blue streaks of color that are quickly disappearing now that his face is exposed to air. Two layers of face-masks are still covering his mouth and nose, although they’ve been slightly skewed by the mascot head. “Sorry, part-time job, it won’t fit in the locker and people keep stealing it” he says, trying to figure out where to look, his gaze wandering rapidly from one pair of shoes to another. The Suit Man is a perfect description of the kind of man their mother always told them to stay away from. And the woman, while seemingly a lot safer, also has the same do-not-mess-with aura that some of his old teachers used to have. In this company, gold leather trousers suddenly feel a lot more reassuring than before. “I could use a place to stay, yes-” His gaze has finally stopped wandering, fixated on the hem of the bear head he’s holding in his hands, then he adds “you can see him too?” "A hotel is hardly a home, you cannot just --" Lucien is starting to protest, but seems, as he looks at Damien, to realize the futility of this. Instead, in somewhat weary French: "{You are paying for their room.}" The small dip of his head is apologetic, as is the faint puff of air he breathes out -- not quite a laugh, though reminiscent of one. His eyes have lingered an extra beat on Cyan's grey face before his head simply tips in another acknowledging nod. "Yes, I am afraid my father is very much a real person. Please forgive his -- eccentricities. Are you new in town? You are very much in luck, we were quite booked through the holidays but --" He's glancing at Damien as if this is his doing, "-- we did happen to get a last minute cancellation just this evening. It is one of our smaller rooms, I do hope that will be alright." The bow Anahita returns Damien is a little less European but just as deep. "May the sun return to show you new paths yet untrod." Her reaction to Cyan's (partial) unmasking is solidly in double-take territory, but she does not stare or recoil. Her brows furrow at their question, and she seems to give it some perhaps not entirely unserious consideration, glancing over Damien's somewhat surreal person. "I see him," she confirms, probably unnecessarily after Lucien's assurance. "Did you have some cause to think we would not?" "Cannot?" Damien's brow quirks upward. "You are in innkeeper. Whyever would you build an inn if you did not want to help the lost along on their quests." He looks entirely unsurprising about this coincidence of room, though, just inclining his head in a small mirror of Lucien's. "I will get you your coin." He does not, actually, disappear, but he's gone as quick and quiet as though he had. “Your father?” Cyan feels himself compelled to study the Suit Man’s face, then Anahita, looking for some sense of amusement or signs of them joking. “I uh..” he hesitates, oh I just frequently hallucinate so I thought maybe he was a figment of my imagination doesn’t seem to be entirely the most reassuring response he could give right now, and he gets the feeling he really does not want to blow this. He takes a deep breath, and changes his stance, shoulders back, neck straight, hands lightly holding the bear-face in-front of him. His tone goes down an octave and his gaze fixates somewhere between the two of them. “I’m new, yes, and my current place of residency is...strained.” To put it lightly. “What I see isn’t always to be trusted and he...well-.” he gestures at the spot Damien recently occupied, “-can you blame me?” This is just like when they interrogated you about breaking that window at school, you bluffed your way through that, you can bluff your way through this. It's hard to say whether Lucien is amused, or joking -- his tone is quite serious. There is some vague sort of resemblance between him and the man that just departed -- somewhat, but it's hard to say quite where it is. Certainly not in his eyes, uncanny green to Damien's night-dark. Not really in the hair, or the facial structure. But the feeling of resemblance is there all the same -- perhaps it is somewhere else in his features, somehow hinting at warmth, at welcome, though nothing at all like a smile is on his assiduously neutral expression. Perhaps it is in the way that as Damien slips off, he remarks to Anahita: "A quest is a quest, but a home is a home and a crossroads -- for most -- is inherently transient," as if both Damien's comment and his own are entirely to be expected on a Yule eve. He half-turns back to Cyan. "-- I really cannot," he assures Cyan, almost diffident, "My father can be somewhat surreal on his best of days. He's fairly new to this country and still -- adjusting. I am terribly sorry for my manners," as if, somehow, the hallucinatory nature of this entire ordeal falls at his feet to rectify, "-- I am Lucien. This," with a nod toward Anahita, "is Anahita, she takes most excellent care of the plants you see here. I own this hotel and I do like to think it a comfortable place to find your bearings in the city. What can we call you?" Anahita is smiling, still, but there's a sort of neutrality in it, too. "I am sure that I can blame you, but I cannot see why I should." One side of her smile tips higher when she looks at Lucien, but maybe that's only because she's looking up at him sidelong. "A quest can be a journey home. I have not forgotten." She does not sound like she is contradicting either Damien or Lucien in this. "Even if the journey is long." She looks up at the glass overhead. "And slushy. As much as I enjoy Damien's poetic flattery of my gardening," she's telling Cyan, now, "my volunteer work in mutant housing support might be more relevant to your needs. Unfortunately, it's a busy season for transitional housing, too. But after the solstice, if you like, I can help you get that paperwork started." “S..-Cyan, you can call me Cyan, nice to meet you.” he does a small, but polite, nod towards Lucien, then to Anahita. “Paperwork?” she seems a little wobbly, like they’re looking at her through clear jello, or maybe it’s the world at large? It’s been a long day and they have been breathing in their own fumes for most of it, so maybe it’s not so strange that the world is turning into dessert. “I dunno much about journeys and quests, but I assume there is a price? Golden Pants-” he interrupts himself, looking to Lucien out of the corner of his eye to check if what he just said was insulting, “-err, your father, did not mention a price, except wanting to dance, but there’s always a price.” His gaze grows unfocused, distant as if he’s looking at something far away. “I can pay, ‘s just I wanna know what I’m getting into.” "Golden Pants," Lucien repeats this with no change in his gentle tone or composed expression, "is an odd fellow in many respects, but he is -- somewhat unswervingly a man of his word. Whatever it is you've promised him, I assure you that very much is the price he has in mind." For the barest of moments, Lucien's quiet neutrality seems almost ruffled -- a brief flutter of something dipping at his brow, but it's there and gone again too quick to pin much meaning to. "Regardless, my price for a hotel stay is extremely straightforward, and --" His eyes have flicked very briefly over Cyan. "-- Damien has already promised to pay the my costs of your room, which can be yours through the turn of the year when it is unfortunately booked again. Money means very little to him, if that is a concern." He's turning towards the center of the conservatory, sweeping out a hand in clear invitation to follow. "Why don't you let me get you settled, mm? Perhaps after a good night's sleep Anahita's offer will seem less daunting." Surely, a night in a magical hotel will make everything less dreamlike. "Nice to meet you, Cyan." Anahita unrolls her sleeves and re-buttons the cuffs. "Everything may indeed have a price, but better or worse, some things are already paid for. I am confident I can demystify it, but you needn't worry about that just yet." She plucks up the watering can and folding stool, then looks up again. This time, she almost smiles at the dismal night sky where her gaze lingers. "A bright and blessed solstice to you both." Cyan nods along, following Anahita’s gaze up to the sky. In his experience nothing ever comes this cheap. Not kindness, not geese and definitely not hotel rooms. But, it seems like his debt will be with Golden Pants and not these two. “Right, okay, thank you.” Maybe he’ll allow himself some optimism, it’s the season for it after all. He turns to Anahita, “Demystification would be appreciated, down the line.” He smiles, an act hidden away behind his masks, but hinted at for anyone who knows to look. Bright and blessed might not be his thing, but he appreciates the sentiment. “Happy solstice to you as well.”