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[personal profile] shelbyrou
It is currently 10:01 Pacific Time on Sat Apr 14 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waning Half (Philodox) Moon phase (46% full).


Assuming Shelby uses his Family-only personal private number on a number Tristan knows? It's a few moments before pickup, and afterwards there's a fair bit of noice in the background- a rhythmic thudding sound. It's Tristan's voice, however, either slightly offhand or slightly distracted. "Shelby? What can I do for you?"

Shelby would use nothing else, not if she actually expected to reach Tristan and not wade through the layers of distraction and obfuscation. The Ragabash's voice comes, faintly amused. "Is this a bad time? I wanted to catch you up on some of the new arrivals in town."

Tristan laughs, and replies, in amusedly singsong tones, "I can see your house from up here." He returns to his usual relaxed and sociable manner. "I was just taking the whirlybird up for a spin, now's as good a time as any. We have new arrivals?"

Shelby says, "I," and then nothing for a good moment or three. "--Zosia's house, you mean. And yes, we do. One of yours, and one of mine. Did you read the article in the paper earlier this week? Turns out he's one of ours. A storyteller, and from a long time ago, not just a galaxy far far away."

"Which article?" Tristan asks, mock-irritated. "The papers have more strange stories than the Cracked website. Wait, what? You guys have time-travel now?"

"Sort of," the Ragabash acknowledges, humor returned. "The Deep Umbra is a strange place. Well. You saw my hair. But yes - we're talking to Theurges to see if we can get him back, and trying to get him acclimated in the mean time. Of course this would happen when both Zo and Mouse are unavailable," she adds, momentarily vexed.

"Involuntary time travel, then?" Tristan guesses. "I flunked History," he adds, absently. "He sounds entertaining anyway. If it will make things any easier, I expect I can find a nice remote log cabin for him somewhere without any modern amenities. What about the other one?"

"Yes. He's from the late 1600s. And no, I think he's adjusting well enough for now. I'll let you know, though." Shelby sighs, collecting her thoughts. "Other one is Charles Townsend - he's also from the other side of the Pond. I gave him your info. He's here to work for one of his family's business associates. Seems nice enough."

"Townsend? Townsend? Not sure if that name rings a bell or not..." The thumping of the rotors in the background can now be heard, very faintly, from outside as well as over the phone. "Well, we'll see if he calls. Oh! While I remember. I came across the name of a club the other day. What was it? Silver... Silver Spoon Club. In St. Claire. Any chance you can let me know if any of you know anything about it? Word is, that it has an unsavoury reputation, but I don't know if it's just the ordinary sort of dubious or something more. I'm having the usual financial checks and so on done, on my side of things."

"He dresses like you and Zosia," Shelby adds of Charley, faintly amused. "And I told you about Todd and Angela, right? Todd does property management and Angela's an accountant. They don't run in anything like your circles, but the more family the better." As for the other, she's quiet for a moment. "--No, that doesn't sound familiar. I can ask around in town, though. There's a Walker kin who's a private eye. He might be just the one to look into it. Want me to call him or shall I give you his info?"

"Now that sounds like a useful profession for kin," Tristan remarks. "I wonder if I... no, better not. Zosia would kill me. Does he do that sort of thing for free when it's, you know, possible not-quite-human? Or does he expect paying?"

Shelby says, "I don't know," again, adding, "Sorry, Tristan. You'd have to ask him. Probably he'd appreciate some sort of payment, but I don't know what his rates are. Do you want me to call him, or do you want to do it? He says he gets bored doing divorce cases all the time."

"Oh, I can," the kin answers, although with an audible trace of reluctance. "The Walkers seem to be pretty bearable, on the whole. Can you text the number? Rather need both hands on the controls right now."

"Don't text and fly," Shelby agrees gravely. "Sure. I'll ask around too, but I don't spend as much time in town these days. Nick's probably your best bet, at least for preliminary work."

The sound of rotos is getting louder, over the house (it stays the same over the phone, logically enough). "Oh, if you know anyone you trust who can take photographs? I don't know if you guys want some aerial pictures of this Little Shop of Horrors you call the Bawn. The edges don't look too obvious. Assuming I've got the edges right, anyway. I'm not so sure about where the eastern side ends."

Shelby says, "Nick?" again, though she sounds doubtful. "I don't know. Maybe? We've got a pretty good handle on things, on the ground. --Speaking of which, just to reiterate: don't go anywhere near it. It's unchecked Wyld, and it will do Gaia-only-knows-what sort of things to you. I've heard some of the plants farther in have turned carnivorous. Now we're really trying to keep things out."

"Yes, that's what I said," Tristan responds a bit blankly. "Sounds a bit too much like Russian Roulette with crack to be appealing. Anything more I can do before I buzz back to Baby Central?"

"Oh," says Shelby, but not like she actually knows what the kin's talking about. "And yes, really. Some people have, and they all regret it. But no, nothing else comes to mind. I didn't want to leave you in the dark about what's going on." She pauses, then adds, "You know you can call me if you need anything, right? I know I'm not Zosia, but I'm not helpless."

There's a laugh from the other end of the phone. "Nor am I," the kin points out, then sighs, so lightly it's al but lost in the background noise from the helicopter. "I appreciate the sentiment. Don't worry about it. And I do appreciate the call. That was thoughtful of you."

"No," she agrees soberly, "you aren't. And if I ever treat you like you are, be sure to let me know. Give Ellie a hug from me, Tristan. And have a good weekend."

"Oh, probably," Tristan says, in the sort of voice that suggests that only a fraction of his attention is currently on the call and most of it is elsewhere. The note of the rotors changes; the little aircraft is turning. "Good bye, Shelb."

Shelby says, "Bye, Tristan." *click*


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May 2012

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