The Mortal Coil (Open • casual)

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

Location: Antique Book Store

It was like the treasure hunts from his past. Rooting through the stacks of old books, looking for that one priceless artifact that had been carelessly discarded by some ignoramus. Many a day from James's childhood had been spent doing the same thing, only with old toys. He had a yo-yo that had been on board the Titanic and a top from a Holocaust camp all because he looked at what others would not. That was his mission now. Last time he had been in this shop, James had spied a first edition of some random novel from 1876 for a meager $95. Unfortunately, he hadn't been there to purchase it, rather a set of signed Dickens novels. But James had returned to save the precious gem from the must and the mildew of the poorly kept shop.

Pulling his jacket closer to his body to avoid brushing against the shelves and staining the obsidian fabric with dust, James searched the shelves. Since the owner did not deign it important to organize the books, James had given himself two and a half hours to find the book in question. Fortunately, he was able to read the titles quickly so he wouldn't have to linger on the spines. After checking the bottom most shelves to no avail, James procured himself a ladder and started to search the uppoermost shelf. He scooted himself along the shelf using his hand to push pull his weight along the rolling track. Of course, the book was discovered in the corner of the top shelf furthest from the door.

Miffed at the inconvenient location and at the fact that, despite his best efforts, his coat was now dusty as the pages in front of him, James slid down the ladder and sniffed indignantly. Instead of walking to the cashier and paying for his booty, another book caught the professor's eye. After a quick inspection, James chose to purchase it as well. Rubbing the tip of his nose with his index finger to chase away an itch, James finally headed for the cashier, expertly navigating the maze of bookcases and stacks of books.

[dahlia]

Books were like people. Dusty and old as the ones in this shop were, they were cracked and aged as if they had grown. The folds in the spine of a book and ghosts of dogeared pages showed years of use, years of love, years of reuse... and now these receptacles of love were all at Dahlia's fingertips. What ever human companionship she'd had earlier in her life had melted away now, and she had to content herself with the ghosts that resided in these loved pages.

She loved them- people -she loved them all. All of them were children, just looking for their mother, just looking for an outlet. Even the most evil of people were not wholly at fault; that was not part of being human. How they were often couldn't be changed, but perhaps altered in order to save their souls. The problem was, she was only one entity...and her children were scared of her. They didn't understand, and they never would, she was sure of it.

And she had to content herself with the ghosts that resided in these loved pages. Love- something that recoiled from her, no matter how much she wanted to reach out.

It was just a bad day, she'd convinced herself. So she'd spend it here. The owner wouldn't mind... and even if they did for some reason, it was doubtful that they'd be able to find the illusive "ghost" in this ridiculous maze.

One can imagine her surprise, then, when a man entered the little make-shift hall she was sitting with, one wall blocking out the front of the store made entirely out of old books. She was curled up in a corner, her notebook tucked neatly under her legs, deep into a French book (her knowledge of languages beyond English stopped at French, and even then she had to figure out some words by context), surrounded by a few small piles of books that almost made a fort. She had quickly looked up when he'd entered the very thin aisle.

A miracle he even found his way back here, she thought, watching him. Her lids remained heavy and her expression one of melancholy, but her hazel eyes were alive with curiosity.

[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

James was taking long strides and his steps faltered when he saw a young woman in a verifiable fort. James stopped and looked down at her, his hands clutching his books tighter. "You're blocking Tolstoy," He sneered. Behind her was another book of interest and he couldn't very well just reach over her. The little, waif like woman had an eerie appearance, just sitting among the dusty tomes like she was. Her eyes, alive and sparking, contrasted her otherwise bleak and bland demeanor. James looked her up and down, nothing of note. A boring character, not very attractive, and sitting all alone. Obviously she was a social misfit, sitting in her corner. So far away from normal society.

James couldn't help but wonder what she did to make the world shun her. Or, inversely, what the world did to make her shun it. James poked one of the many piles of books with the toe of his patent leather loafer. "Kindly reach me that book by your right ear or move to the side and allow me to get it," James wanted to get out of the musty little cove so that his trench coat wouldn't get any dirtier. There were already sickly grey streaks around his waist line and he didn't want any more. James reached into his breast pocket and plucked a cigarette from the carton there and tucked it between his lips. He would light up the moment he was outside.

[dahlia]

Dahlia watched him, blinking a bit when he spoke so crisply to her. Very unfriendly, she could tell, but she could deal with a brusque person. She met quite a few, more so when her father was alive, because he actually kept contact with the higher class. She was about to turn round and fetch the book he wanted (which she was familiar with- in fact, she'd just finished reading it) when something stopped her.

To him, it looked just like a little flutter- a split second where Dahlia seemed to shiver, her hair falling in her face. To her it was three agonizing minutes, her breath hopelessly caught in her throat, her clothing weighting her down- like a dream, she began to switch perspectives, watching the man drown and then drowning herself, the water filling her little lungs until they burst, popping like hot metal through her chest. The pain was unbearable, and shown in her eyes for that very brief flutter.

She blinked again and then turned her head a bit, one twitching hand pulling the book out and then pausing, tearing off a little bit of paper from her notepad. She produced a pen and had written her note in a total of two seconds, obviously very used to writing longhand. Dahlia stuck the note in the front cover and then handed the book to him, careful to keep her skin far from his when she did. After they had completed the transaction, she looked back down at her French, seeming to forget his existence.

Enjoy it; it's exceptional.

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[JAMES MORIARTY EDWARDS]

James watched the girl, his observant eyes catching everything. It was aas if she had forgotten how to breath, drowning in mid-air and for that split second, fear for her mortal life flashed in her eyes. Curious as to what caused it, James filed it away to inquire about at a later time. Perhaps information on such occurances would be available in his personal library. James remained silent as she retrieved the book he had requested and scribbled a note. Taking both a bit skeptically, James scoffed when he read the note. "I am well aware of the literary integrity, which is why I am wanting to purchase it," James crumpled the note up and tossed it aside and proceeded to inspect the book.

While looking it over and checking the covers and pages, James addressed the woman yet again. "Are you a mute by choice?" There was a small tear on page 17 but nothing that couldn't be mended.The glue in the spine was a little dry but that was also easily mended. Satisfied with the quality of the print, the book was tucked under his arm with the others. "Professor James Edwards," James introduced himself blandly. Chances of him running into this girl again were slim to none so he figured that he might as well. "Avid book collector and shameless snarky bastard as Professor Collins likes to call me,"