The brass golem was anything but a golem in the light of the cataracted eye; it, or he, as the figure showed itself to be to the magickal orb, appeared as a sort of protective spirit, a veritable animated, extremely sentient gargoyle, habitually standing passively at rest, but ready at a moment's notice to spring into action against any who might shatter the peceableness of the Public House in which it resided. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the many mirrors behind the bar, and saw what he usually saw, with the addition of an illusory halo; the illusion still held, but was transparent to the cataracted eye -- but it was beginning to fray at the edges. A movement at his side and behind him caused him to turn away from the mirror and glance sharply in that direction, and he caught a glimpse of his bushy coyote tail. Hmpf. Odd effect, he thought, it looks bushier in the cataract than usual. With a start, he realized that it should be surrounded by a halo representing his disguise, like the rest of him was. He lowered the patch again, looking through his normal, mundane right eye, and still saw the tail, sans halo, poking out through the back of his coat, which was the same with or without the illusion. Calm, stay calm, act like nothing is amiss, he scolded himself, act like there's nothing wrong or out of the ordinary, and no one will dare to notice.
"Your pardon, Barman, but do you have a...er...convenience... for patrons? I seem to require, that is, my person seems to need... a bit of 'adjustment.' Oh, that's very good, 'Davo, maybe you should turn round and shout 'LOOK AT MY TAIL, EVERYBODY!' and see what happens, he scolded himself mentally...
The proprietor headed back toward Mordavo with a faint smile and a knowing look. "Having trouble... maintaining public appearances?" HE asked, plainly a bit smug about the whole thing. "Such is not ...uncommon... until one gets used to the... atmosphere of The Timekeeper. You have nothing to worry about, nevertheless just at the end of the bar there, fourth door. I ask that you keep any... curiosity about the other doors in check, hmm? Leave your drink, I will ensure no-one takes your spot." HE winked at Mordavo and moved to serve another patron. mordavo made for teh door of the convenience with as much decorum and nonchalance as he was able to affect.
Mordavo cursed sulphurously as the illusion failed for the fourth time in a row to mask his tail. He could cut it off, he supposed, but that was always messy, and the reattachment was always an arduous and tiring affair, even when someone else did the thaumaturgical dirty work. A sound from the depths of the Gentleman's Convenience (it was nearly as much a wonder as the common room itself; like the closed stacks in his Library, the blasted room seemed to stretch into infinity!).
A sound halfway between a cough and belch, it was heralded by a gout of flame and a deep-voiced "Goodness me! I do beg your pardon!" as out of the haze of the middle distance there strode what could only be described as a dragon, metallic blue-green scales, dual frills, ridged backbone and tail, wings, and all, and dressed impeccably in weskit-and-breeches with a black-pinstriped white shirt and emeral ascot, white-spatted oxfordsand a cutaway tailcoat of deep cornflower blue. "I say, sir, might I have a towel?" the draconic fellow asked.
Mordavo managed to check his stare just in time to avoid it becoming a faux pas, and said, "Ah! Verily, my good fellow, an' it were, right off the top!"
"terribly decent of you, old fellow." The dragon wiped away what appeared to be grease (Mordavo thought it might be the draconic equivalent of sweat) from what, on a human, would his browline, and from his jowls, and then tossed it into a nearby bin marked 'Soils,' and said, "A word of advice, young sir Coyote. In the Timekeeper, disguises are not really 'the thing,' if you get my drift. They don't work out well, anyway; Markus the proprietor and barman maintains what I believe to be a sine wave propagation device that counters all thaumic and energy-based technologic disguises. Well, I'm off!"
Mordavo watched the fellow depart, then looked in the convenience's mirror, then back at the exiting personage, then back at the mirror, and finally said, "Fionagh's Flinders! With what have I to be enchafed?" and abandoned the attempts to conceal his nature. he did tuck the tail under his coat, however, and exited the Convenience, returning to his drink and place atthe bar. While in transit, he noticed a strong smell of ozone, coupled with a hint of heated wool, and a scent...not a familair scent, but one that was not unfamiliar, either. Odd, he thought. he went and sat back down at his barstool, which was now flanked by two patrons who had just entered; the action caused his even-bushier-than-usual tail to flip out from under the divided tails of his frock coat. "Blast," he said, and then, "Ha. let it be, forsooth. Flaming thing doth have a mind all it's own tonight." His cataracted eye itched, and he slipped a finger under the patch to rub it around the rim. It always itched after he used it; he wasn't sure why. He propped his crook-ended staff against the bar yet again, and resumed sipping his Pint. It was difficult to do with his coyote's jaws, though, and so in the same spirit with which he had discarded his disguise, in favor of being obviously what he was (a coyote-like being), he opted for the drinking tube that he kept in his outer thigh pocket, slipping it into the glass and sipping the dark, buttery stout through it. Much better, he thought...
He spoke, apparently to the room at large, but actually to the two new arrivals, "this place seems not to let disguises hold; I'd advise thee that ye drop whatever masks ye might be maintaining. Ye would be less discomfited, I'm certain." He noted in particular the young fellow (Tobias, he had said his name was, as Mordavo was moving back to the bar) with the barely-discerenible bulge around his middle, as if he bore a large rope, or a tail of some length wrapped around his waist; under that coat, it was difficult to tell which it was.
"Starsight? Yes I know of it, just a moment please." Markus the proprietor and barman headed into the back room, reappearing shortly with a bottle and a crystal goblet. He set the goblet in front of Tobias and deftly opened the bottle, pouring a measure into the goblet. The wine, itself being a pale, almost perfectly clear white that seemd to attract and hole within its depths the nearby lights of the bar area. "Here you go, now let me just check your currency..." Markus trails off as he picks up the coin and examines it closely, commenting on its rarity and accepting it in payment fo rthe current beverage and more besides.
The Proprietor took another long look at Tobias, his intense gaze taking in Tobia's looks, dress and other visible articles. Even the bump in the coat seemed to have been noticed. "A Walker, I presume? You are quite welcome here. If you are here to relax just ask." Markus went on to offer a list of clients in case the fellow was in need of employment. Mordavo speculated to himself that 'Walker' must indicate a journeyman of some kind. "If I am mistaken, then please forgive me," Markus said, "you merely have the same look as many Walkers that come through the Timekeeper."
As Markus is finishing, and while Mordavo returns to his stool, the barman turns and continues his smile at the now un-disguised Librarian. "My apologies for any...inconvenience, but you may understand why I must make such things... difficult inside the bounds of The Timekeeper. I hope you do not mind sharing the same bar-space? We seem to be rather busy at this time." "Speaking of which, if you will excuse me gentlemen?"
The gentleman who positively reeked of ozone sipped his German beer with gusto. It had evidently been something a while since he had had a pint. His appearance as a whole, machines aside (the prints, bulges and other indications of which could just be discerned, under teh fabric of his clothing) was nothing to outrageous. A crisp black goatee accentuated his sculpted chin and matched his slightly short black hair, which remained hidden under a short-rimmed blue and black fedora. His suit was a plain black business suit typical of the mid 1930's. of a place called 'Earth,' which Mordavo had visited once through one of the Library's other portals.
Mordavo had set his staff between himself and the well-dressed gentleman to his left. The smell of ozone surrounded the man; not so much so that the others in the room would notice, but it was there for Mordavo's coyote's nose, and his staff seemed to have picked up a static charge; within the staff's
crook, blue-white arcs resembling those of a Jacob's Ladder device crackled back and forth between the recurved tip and the opposite shaft of the long, jointed wooden implement. Or, was it a missal from the Headmaster to return? He peered at the staff, and then grabbed it just as the arcs appeared again; he received a small, rather pleasant jolt (the intake of energy was something that all practitioners of his home plane learned to do as a matter of necessity). No message, just a side effect of whatever device the gentleman wore. He nodded sagely and respectfully to the man, and let go of the staff. "By your leave, Sir; I trust you mind not my absorbtion of thy excess aether in mine implement, here." He smiled, hoping the coyote's visage didn't inspire any fear in
the fellow; he didn't intend such. He could have simply stored the energy in the staff; the wooden device, carved all along its length such that it resembled a length of bamboo, was in fact made up of those bamboo-shaped segments, and held together and rigid by an inner tensioning system. It was made for several purposes, among them an energy-storage receptacle, and an articulatable tool and weapon; when the tension of the inner tensioning system was released, the crook could be uncurled (or not), and the whole staff could be bent in various ways, which made it useful for all sorts of utilitarian purposes. It could also be kept tensioned and used as a quarterstaff, or as a jointed flail; or, bolts of energy could be fired from it like a beam weapon. Usually, Though, Mordavo just used it as a symbol of office and generally a quarterstaff-type tool. The crook often turned out to be extremely useful.
He turned to the younger fellow in the worn and patched coat, and asked, as politely as he could manage, "I beg your pardon, young sir, but I am ignorant on the matter; what, if I may ask, is a 'Walker?'"
