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shelbyrouIt is currently 10:42 Pacific Time on Thu Jan 12 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (76% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 27 degrees Fahrenheit (-2 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.35 and steady, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3 degrees Celsius.)
Harbor Park -- The Meadow
One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire.
Obvious exits:
Bridge Street Fountain First Street River
A couple of hours before noon on a Thursday - in January, no less - and Harbor Park is practically deserted. Bangs and clangs and muffled shouts from the construction mix with the sounds of traffic, while the occasional pedestrian makes for a bright spot against the muddy green ground. A pair of ridiculously blue shoes tap tap against the pavement while their owner, a white-haired woman bundled into a down jacket and gloves, wanders absently, her attention more on the buildings surrounding the park than on whatever scant beauty the park may offer.
Suddenly and without warning, Nicodemus darts out of an alleyway and heads straight for the road. He passes on the left side of a street post, grabs it with both hands, and his feet come off the ground as he spins 90 degrees. His feet reconnect with pavement, having lost little momentum while making such a drastic change in direction, and he runs 30 more feet down the sidewalk before vaulting a fire hydrant and coming to a stop at the crosswalk. He jogs in place, keeping his workout going for a handful of seconds, until the light changes. He then runs across the street and into Harbor Park at a full tilt.
The woman stops to watch the horizontal flying man - not aghast, as might be expected, or even dismayed or dumbfounded. Rather, she rather seems interested, though there's little in her appearance to suggest parkour is one of her pastimes. As the man comes hurtling toward her she calls, her voice more reminiscent of Scarlett O'Hara, "How do you do that?"
As his path brings him closer towards you, it's a bit more evident that the man is just about at the point of exhaustion and he's been pushing hard for what little he has left to give. He's breathing hard and you can almost sense the lead weights building up in his legs as he slithers over the top of a bouncy pony mounted atop an industrial-grade spring. His feet slow, coming to a stop, and Nicodemus bends over at the waist. Wheezing, he gasps out a single word. "Practice." *Wheeze. Wheeze. Pant. Gulp. Wheeze.* Odds are his exercise routine has just concluded.
Shelby laughs, the delighted sound entirely at odds with her hair color. "No, I meant... how do you see those," she waves a hand vaguely at the pole he swung off of earlier, "as bumpers in your own personal game of pinball, instead of just going around them? Or even not even seeing them in the first place?" A beat and she adds, "I'm sorry, I'm taking you from your exercise."
Nicodemus retreats a few steps back towards the horse-on-a-spring he'd vaulted earlier and sinks onto its hard plastic 'saddle.' He's still panting hard, and likely will be for a bit longer. "S'okay," he says, taking a bit longer to catch his breath so his speech isn't so ragged. "It's kind of... like life.... Sometimes life puts... obstacles in your path that... you have to overcome.... And sometimes life... puts obstacles in your path that are.... not obstacles at all... and can help you along if... you can see them as... opportunities instead of... setbacks."
This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man is probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His (dyed?) black hair is of medium length and unkempt--in that intentionally unkempt way. Overall, it's difficult to guess who he might be or what he might do or a living. His attire and appearance communicate that he's well-off but not wealthy.
Nicodemus is currently wearing a practical yet stylish pair of loose-fitting black khaki pants combined with a button-down, long sleeved, dark blue silk shirt. His braided black leather belt perfectly matches his black leather loafers--except that the loafers look a little worn, as if he gets around on foot a lot. An oversized brown greatcoat, worn open, engulfs his form and plays absently in passing breezes. The exceptionally perceptive might notice that his pants do not quite hang naturally over his right ankle.
He wears little in the way of accessories: a silver chain around his neck plunges beneath his shirt and a small metal owl pin resides on the left side of his greatcoat. There's also a whiff of wood-smoke and ozone lingering in the air about him, possibly from an expensive cologne.
When he moves, it is with a grace, fluidity, and sure-footedness. When idle, he seems alert and focused, yet somehow simultaneously introspective.
Shelby approaches, slowly, coming no closer to the springy-horse and panting man than she can reach via sidewalk. "If you'd rather walk and talk...," she offers. "And opportunities instead of obstacles. Hmm." The thought brings a subdued smile to her face, and she considers one of the buildings across the street for a moment. "That's a very interesting way of thinking about that. Someone told me something similar just the other day."
Nicodemus holds up a hand, as if to indicate he needs a moment more. He has clearly physically pushed himself pretty hard today, and it's not even noon yet. He takes an intentionally tremendous breath of air and exhales it. He's still winded, still panting, but it's probably a bad idea to just stop completely without a cooling down period. Walking might be a good thing. "It's rare when... everything goes according to... plan. In life or while running it's... all about the path you choose... to take." He pushes of the horsey and walks your way. His legs seem a little rubbery and the crisp, cold air has to be murder on the lungs. He glances towards where you were looking, trying to see what it is you were looking at earlier.
It's just a building, nothing separating it from any of the others near the Park, save that this one doesn't have a Starbucks. "Isn't it always," she agrees with a laugh, waving him on down this particular path and falling in on his left. "I'm Shelby, by the way. It's nice to meet you. So is there a particular obstacle you're flinging yourself over today, or is this more of a daily thing?"
As he regains his breath and slowly recovers from his workout, Nicodemus progressively adapts to your more 'society' mannerisms. It's as if he's not entirely unused to rubbing shoulders with the well-to-do--or at least those posing as being well-to-do. "No particular obstacles today." He's able to get out short sentences without breaking for air now. "I try to get out every day or so." Pant. "I've found it helps keep me focused and centered." Pant. "Though I seem to have lost my new workout partner." He glances around the park briefly, failing to spot the missing person. "Nicodemus Dalton," he says, turning his attention back to you and offering his hand to shake. He then withdraws it rapidly. "Sorry. They're a little dirty, actually."
Shelby keeps her hand stubbornly out, claiming, "I don't mind dirt. Hello, Mr. Dalton - or do you prefer Nicodemus? I should try it sometime, when I'm wearing something more appropriate." She too looks around, but as there's no one with a neon sign proclaiming them 'NICK DALTON'S WORKOUT PARTNER -->', it's rather useless. "How would you recommend someone get started?"
Nicodemus reconsiders the hand, then dusts his hands together (to get most of the grit off them) and shakes. It's a firm-but-not-too-firm handshake and his hands are unusually warm to the touch--perhaps from the rush of blood from his recent workout. "I'm of the opinion that you should wear what you normally wear when you do parkour." Pant. "But I'm kind of weird that way." He eyeballs his scuffed loafers. "Probably need to get a new pair of shoes soon, though." He's breathing a lot less heavily, and seems to be well on his way to recovery.
"Parkour," she echoes, giving it the faintest of French pronunciations. "That's what it's called?" Her own hands are a little chilly, and as if reminded, she pulls a pair of gloves out of her pockets. "All right - but why? Why not wear what you'd normally wear to exercise?"
A ways down the path, but still far enough that the two could talk at normal voices and not have the content overheard, a dark haired, brown-skinned woman in a black army coat--quite firmly bundled today--crosses in front of them. She steps across the path with somewhat ginger steps, making her way to one of the scattered trash bins alongside it. She doesn't reach in the trash bin, but she does peer into it for a moment, with the kind of interest one might have for a particularly interestingly stocked store shelf, with all the contents marked as on sale. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder that she didn't have the other day.
This woman's build is most definitely slender, though not so skinny as to look unhealthy, and she sits only at a rough 5'3 in height. Her skin is a light brown, appearing completely unblemished apart from (if her shoulders are bare) a small hint of scarring curving up the back of her left shoulder. Her eyes are also brown, dark and soft, almond shaped. Her cheeks are nicely filled out, and her lips are small, but curved. Her hair, silky black, hangs just past her shoulders and is usually pulled back into a simple plait. She looks to be somewhere in her twenties, but there's a strange sense of timelessness about her features, which makes pinning down any exact age difficult at best.
Her clothing is almost always bland and worn. Simple running shoes. Simple shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, pants. She has an old army coat that looks as though she picked it out of a trash bin, and perhaps she did. At times she has a backpack slung over one shoulder, looking neatly stuffed.
"Parkour," Nick confirms with a decidely St. Claire native accent. "Well, in part, because I see parkour and the movements and philosophy therein as being an extention into day-to-day life, not something to set aside for a special time and special attire--like, for instance, a black tie dinner affair. Secondly, there's the practical aspect of it all. If you ever need to move swiftly, when parkour might be useful, then you don't have time to dress for the occassion. But if you're familiar with moving in what you wear day to day, you're in much better shape." Nick fails to notice Vagabond initially, eyes focused more on Shelby's decidedly parkour-inappropriate attire.
"Makes sense," Shelby decides, adding a nod, her eyes flicking past her companion to land on the woman up ahead. "Goes along with that mental fluidity you were talking about." A blink and she returns her attention and half a smile to Nick. "Not to mention, it encourages you to dress practically."
Vagabond takes one hand reluctantly from her pocket--though she is wearing gloves, and tips the trash bin toward her, so that she can better see the contents. The contents are, apparently, not interesting enough to actually stick her hand in the trash bin, however, and a moment later she lets it return fully upright, and quickly returns her gloved hand to its pocket with a slight shiver.
"It does place an emphasis on functionality, yes. Or at least seeking a comfortable medium between fashion and functionality. Your shoes," he points out with a grin, "are epicly fashionable--and yet epicly unfunctional. Pretty, though," he adds. He follows Shelby's glance and spots Vagabond just after she let the trash can right itself, so he missed her being poised to 'dumpster dive.' "Well look who the cat dragged in." He snaps his fingers, as if that might aid his powers of recollection. "Rajani! Got any rare and unique treasures to hawk to a poor and humble antiquities dealer?"
Shelby returns the grin, entirely unruffled by the aspersions being cast on her footwear. "Thank you," is probably for the compliment. As for Rajani... "Friend of yours?" she asks Nick in a low voice, followed by, "Would you like some privacy?"
The woman looks up, and a warm smile flits across her lips. "Ah! Hello! No, no, I'm afraid not, but I will keep looking, yes?" She turns to face them now, standing just off the path, still hunching down in her coat. "I'd gone and forgotten how cold your winters are. I have spent half my attention shivering today." Shelby gets a look that's blatantly curious, but no less friendly for it.
"Ah, well. Maybe something will turn up eventually. I'd be really interested in anything ancient items you could procure from India or Persia. There's supposed to be a lot of interesting artifacts and trinkets that have found their way out of Iraq over the past few years and are changing hands in neighboring lands," Nicodemus says, as if indicating an area of interest for himself or perhaps one or more of his regular clients. Nick turns to Shelby. "I ran into Rajani at a coffee shop about a week ago. She's quite the world traveller can certainly spin a tale. Although," he reconsiders, "some tend to be a little more gruesome. Sorry," he says to Shelby, as if the thought had slipped his mind. "I used to work as a homicide detective for for the SCPD and I sometimes forget that most people don't have the same sort of thresholds that I have for certain things." To Rajani, "No stories with livers in them for Shelby, okay?" He snaps his fingers again. "Sorry. Rajani? Shelby. Shelby? Rajani."
Shelby drops Rajani a friendly-enough nod, there in her down jacket and blue shoes, but it's the talk of cold that brings a sympathetic smile and laugh from the white-haired woman. "Oh, I know what you mean. And then in July everyone's complaining about how hot it is, and I'm still wearing sweaters!" 'Gruesome stories' earn both of the others a dubious look that turns to relief when no such stories promptly emerge. "No livers, no blood, and absolutely nothing pulsing, please," she agrees, offering the shorter woman her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"To be entirely fair to the stories," Rajani says, not without some small bit of mischievous glee, "Most of them specifically did not have livers in them, yes? That was the part that was upsetting." Though she doesn't look remotely upset. Shelby's hand is taken a little gingerly. "It is good to meet you as well, Shelby. You two should be careful." Still that look of mischief. "Not all of those stories are from far away over the ocean. I heard some rumors when I was last here."
Nicodemus nods in agreement with Rajani. He advises Shelby, "I've not seen you around the park before, but it can get kind of rough sometimes--especially after the sun sets. You'd really regret wearing those shoes then."
"That's why I'm wearing them now,” Shelby sparkles, with a glance to Rajani to include her in the joke as she reclaims her hand. "I've heard the park was in a bad neighborhood, but also that the fountain had to be seen." Ergo... "I don't suppose either of you know if there are any apartments or condos on the market around here?" Spoken wistfully, it's clear she doesn't expect a positive answer.
"Bad neighborhood," the woman agrees. "And no, I do not, but if you find any that are low cost, and monthly, I would be interested in knowing about them."
Nicodemus points towards the upper level of a nearby apartment complex. "I used to rent a studio in that place over there. Nice view of the park from higher up, but the place was infested with cockroaches. And it was overpriced. I don't recommend it at all, but that was about 10 or so years ago. Things might have changed, but I doubt for the better."
Perhaps stiletto heels make an acceptable weapon against cockroaches, for Shelby turns to look where he's pointing with a thoughtful look on her face. "Well, that's a possibility." Taking a couple of steps away from the others, she pulls out an iPhone and snaps a picture of the building, then another of the nearest street sign. "Looking for some friends," she explains, while waiting to see if the photos need to be reshot.
Vagabond slips her hand back into her pocket, watching Shelby's actions with idle interest. "Friends that are fond of overpriced and cockroaches?" she asks, her tone lightly teasing. "Your friends are strange, if you do not mind my saying so."
"A good view is a good view, and they're hard to find the further you get into the city. If..." Nicodemus is interrupted by an abrupt klaxon that sounds severe and negative--possibly even a warning of danger. "Excuse me," he says as he pulls his cell phone out and answers the phone. "Dalton, Private Investigator. The police wait 24 hours to declare someone missing, but I'm on the case as soon as you call." A voice, frantic but unintelligible, can be heard speaking on the other side. Nick makes an apologetic gesture and steps away from the group.
With an impish nose-wrinkle, Shelby says, "Maybe they're friends I don't like all that much." The pictures must be adequate for what she needs, for she slips the phone back into her purse and gloves back on as Nicodemus steps away. Giving him a little wave, Shelby turns to face Rajani more fully. "Want to go get a coffee? I wouldn't mind getting off my feet, and you're right, this is no fit weather for man or beast. ...Or woman or beast, for that matter."
Vagabond smiles at this answer, a little more on one side of her mouth than the other. She's distracted as Nicodemus moves away, and she watches him intently for a moment before the coffee offer seems to register. "Ah! Yes, coffee does sound very nice just now."
A man, unfinished wooden staff thunking along with him, ambles in from Bridge Street; given his speed and the way Djehuti's looking around, he's a newcomer to the area.
Ear still pressed to the phone, Nick starts walking faster and then breaks into a run as he heads towards the parking lot. He clambers into a yellow Toyota MR2 roadster, cell phone still pressed to his head, and gives it some gas to get moving. He's clearly got to be somewhere else and somewhere else fast.
Shelby says, "I think I know where a good one is - or if you just want fast, there's always Starbucks." She watches Nicodemus' get away, eyes drifting past to land, just for a moment, on Djehuti. A half-frown at him and she looks back to Rajani, adding, "We've lost Mr. Dalton, but if you're willing to be joined again...." She drops a nod toward the staff-wielder. "I met him the other day, and he's probably as miserable about this weather as we are."
Vagabond watches Nicodemus depart with an interest that she doesn't bother to hide, her eyes lingering on his car until it's joined the rest of traffic and vanished from sight. She looks from there to Djehuti, and then back to Shelby with a smile. "I will submit to your greater experience, I think. A place that is warm and out of the cold is all I wish for, right now."
The Strider, who is aways away from the two, does notice them, but he doesn't actually move toward them. Instead he trails over toward the river. He's not quite limping, but he looks tired. (And, at even the slightest move of wind, cold.)
"Starbucks it is," Shelby decides, and with a nod, heads for Djehuti and the edge of the park. When he looks her way she lifts one arm in a wave, but not until they're in earshot does she call, "We're going for coffee - want one?" She fully expects Rajani to join her without so much as a whistle or finger snap.
Rajani does tag along behind her, quite without encouragement. "Do you know him?" she asks after Shelby calls, regarding the man with obvious curiosity.
Djehuti is a man in his late 30s, though given his weatherbeaten face and tired posture, he might well seem older. He's about 6'2" tall, and his face -- all of him, really -- is long and thin. The face is relatively dark-skinned and weathered, carved with lines and yet frequently mobile and engaging. His eyes are brown, and often warm; sometimes, they are cooler, further away. But he is always, always observing what goes on around him. His brown hair, which is not long, curls and waves and kinks around his head; the longest stray strand does not quite reach his shoulders. On closer inspection, his posture may not be lazy; it may instead be coiled, poised, resting before more action. Something in that posture hints at grace, or perhaps even nobility.
His clothes are a hodge-podge. He wears battered jeans, a gray muslin shirt, and, over that, a keffiyehesque scarf, white cotton lined with what is apparently (and somewhat incongruously) polarfleece, serving mostly as a neck-covering, the folds extending over his shoulders, as well. (Though his head is uncovered.) He's currently barefoot. His backpack, dull green army vintage, is generally nearby. The only curious thing is that he wears brown gloves in all weather, fingerless save for the pinkies; these gloves wrap their leather up to about his elbows.
By the time Shelby is close enough to call to him, Djehuti has looked her way; he doesn't brighten, but a slight straightening of his back may well indicate his recognition. He turns away from the river and walks faster toward the women, saying, once he's close enough to be able to speak fairly quietly, "I will gladly go to drink coffee, if I may, once we are there, be introduced to this friend of yours, Ms. Zaleski-Laveque."
"Met him a few days ago," Shelby repeats over her shoulder to Rajani while they're still a little bit away from the man. As they close, her smile brightens. "Shelby, please. Rajani, this is Derek; Derek, this is Rajani. And I don't know about you two, but I have a half-caf latte and a chocolate chip scone calling my name."
Vagabond presses her gloved hands together in front of her chest, and briefly bows over them. "Namaste, Derek. Yes, we are escaping from the cold. It is good to meet you."
"Or, I may be introduced to her before we are there," Djehuti says with a mild smile, which grows as Rajani bows. He, too, bows, hands pressed together, staff in the crook of his arm. He does not offer a hand to shake. "Derek Ramsey is my fuller name, if that matters to you. Pleased, I am sure." That said, he turns his attention to Shelby, as he himself clearly has no idea where to find a Starbucks around here.
"It's too cold to walk around without names," claims Shelby as she heads for the road. She must know the area fairly well, for it's only a walk of a few blocks before the familiar logo and green awning appears. Inside, the cheery chime of bell and coffee-scented air dispel all hints of January's bleakness. "Do you know what you want?" she asks of the others, stopping just inside the door where those exiting will have to move around them. "My treat."
Djehuti had been rummaging in his pockets, as they entered. He glances over at her, eyebrow raised, amused. "We are on a date, then. How unexpected." He doesn't particularly seem to object, as he orders a small coffee (French roast), and a scone.
Vagabond looks quite pleased when Djehuti returns her greeting, and that expression lasts throughout the brief walk to the coffee shop. "Aie, I think, perhaps, what I want most is steamed milk. Vanilla? And a cinnamon roll, your friend reminds me I have not eaten yet today."
"Got it," Shelby claims, and with a nod suggests (or orders), "Why don't you two find a table?" Meanwhile she drifts up to the counter.
Djehuti may take it as an order; either way, he does it, trailing over to claim the area with the stuffed chairs-and-table, rather than the harder-chairs-and-table. "Eating protein is often of use as a breakfast material," he says to Vagabond, as he parks his staff in a corner.
The woman laughs, light and soft. "Ah, yes, but that is for later. For now, unhealthy baked goods, as they sound more appealing." She picks out a chair and sits, with her hands folded in her lap. "How is life treating you?"
Up at the counter Shelby could be ordering steamed milk, a small coffee, and a half-caf latte... or she might be purchasing three oct-shot espressos and a bag of chips. Either way, first words, then money exchange hands before the woman drifts over to wait by the pick up area.
The man considers this question. "My job entails considerable amounts of traveling and time alone," he says. (He has a job? Bit seedy for that, isn't he?) "And I have just returned from a spate of it. I think, in general, that life is treating me exceptionally well, and specifically, at the moment, that I am quite enjoying it. And how fare you?"
Vagabond smiles. "Ah. I am much the same, with my job. Though I do find at times that it can become frustrating, I am still enjoying myself. And I am always meeting the most interesting people."
Eventually Shelby clack-clacks back to their table with a tray filled with assorted baked goods and appropriately steaming mugs. She drops into a chair with a relieved sigh, tucking her feet beneath her chair, and looks at the others brightly. "Have you exhausted the conversation about how miserable January is, yet? Or is there still room for me to play?"
Djehuti laughs quietly. "You would not think that couriering would be frustrating, but yes, I find the same. And given that I am a courier for people who do not wish their information upon the internet, interesting people appear to be a speciality." As Shelby returns, Djehuti stands to help her with the tray. "Indeed not," he tells her. "Job stories, instead. January weather would take far too much time to complain about."
"Those would be very interesting people," the woman agrees. "Now you are making me curious." As the drinks and food arrive, she leans over to retrieve her steamer, pausing momentarily to revel in the warm flowing through her glove. To Shelby, she quips, "You are most welcome to fill in where we have neglected that topic, if you like."
Shelby contents herself with a heartfelt, "Winter's awful," before bestowing a bright smile on Djehuti for his help with the tray. "On that table over there, I think," she adds, nodding to an empty table beside them. "What have we learned, about jobs?" Blowing across the surface of her drink, she looks from one to the other.
Djehuti places the tray down carefully, and then places himself in a chair, carefully. "I have, in fact, learned very little of her job. Merely that it is frustrating and she meets interesting people. Which could describe every job in existence, save perhaps that of hermit." He reaches over to claim his scone.
"And it is very like his, in some ways," Rajani supplies, before sipping at her steamer. "Except for the courier parts. I do not do that."
Shelby says, "I've done plenty of traveling, in the past few months, and I think I'm ready to stay in one place, for a while." She looks over to Rajani. "Are you going to go out of the country, to find those things Mr. Dalton was asking about? Or do you find them more locally?"
"So you deal with people who prefer to stay under the radar, but you do not travel for it. I see," Djehuti says, as he spreads butter on his scone. "Myself," he tells Shelby, "This is my center of operations for a time, but the travel shall still happen. But to here, I shall return. As I told Rajani, I deliver messages to those who do not wish the internet involved. It is a narrow speciality, but mine own."
"Locally," Rajani tells Shelby, "If I should find them at all. Mr. Dalton runs an antiques business, and I mentioned that, should I come across anything strange or interesting, I would show it to him. Sometimes I do find strange and interesting things in strange and interesting places."
Shelby grins briefly at Djehuti. "You and FedEx, but I bet you have a more personal touch." And to Rajani, "I vaguely remember a quote like that. Something like... 'Some people avoid the strange and unusual, while I myself am strange and unusual'. Can't remember who said it, though." She shrugs off her failure. "Me, I mostly ask leading questions." Just then her phone rings. She grimaces but digs into her purse; a glance at the screen and she rises, looking irked. "Excuse me." She leaves both drink and scone behind, but heads outside for privacy.
Currently the moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (76% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 27 degrees Fahrenheit (-2 degrees Celsius). The wind is calm today. The barometric pressure reading is 30.35 and steady, and the relative humidity is 92 percent. The dewpoint is 25 degrees Fahrenheit (-3 degrees Celsius.)
Harbor Park -- The Meadow
One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire.
Obvious exits:
Bridge Street Fountain First Street River
A couple of hours before noon on a Thursday - in January, no less - and Harbor Park is practically deserted. Bangs and clangs and muffled shouts from the construction mix with the sounds of traffic, while the occasional pedestrian makes for a bright spot against the muddy green ground. A pair of ridiculously blue shoes tap tap against the pavement while their owner, a white-haired woman bundled into a down jacket and gloves, wanders absently, her attention more on the buildings surrounding the park than on whatever scant beauty the park may offer.
Suddenly and without warning, Nicodemus darts out of an alleyway and heads straight for the road. He passes on the left side of a street post, grabs it with both hands, and his feet come off the ground as he spins 90 degrees. His feet reconnect with pavement, having lost little momentum while making such a drastic change in direction, and he runs 30 more feet down the sidewalk before vaulting a fire hydrant and coming to a stop at the crosswalk. He jogs in place, keeping his workout going for a handful of seconds, until the light changes. He then runs across the street and into Harbor Park at a full tilt.
The woman stops to watch the horizontal flying man - not aghast, as might be expected, or even dismayed or dumbfounded. Rather, she rather seems interested, though there's little in her appearance to suggest parkour is one of her pastimes. As the man comes hurtling toward her she calls, her voice more reminiscent of Scarlett O'Hara, "How do you do that?"
As his path brings him closer towards you, it's a bit more evident that the man is just about at the point of exhaustion and he's been pushing hard for what little he has left to give. He's breathing hard and you can almost sense the lead weights building up in his legs as he slithers over the top of a bouncy pony mounted atop an industrial-grade spring. His feet slow, coming to a stop, and Nicodemus bends over at the waist. Wheezing, he gasps out a single word. "Practice." *Wheeze. Wheeze. Pant. Gulp. Wheeze.* Odds are his exercise routine has just concluded.
Shelby laughs, the delighted sound entirely at odds with her hair color. "No, I meant... how do you see those," she waves a hand vaguely at the pole he swung off of earlier, "as bumpers in your own personal game of pinball, instead of just going around them? Or even not even seeing them in the first place?" A beat and she adds, "I'm sorry, I'm taking you from your exercise."
Nicodemus retreats a few steps back towards the horse-on-a-spring he'd vaulted earlier and sinks onto its hard plastic 'saddle.' He's still panting hard, and likely will be for a bit longer. "S'okay," he says, taking a bit longer to catch his breath so his speech isn't so ragged. "It's kind of... like life.... Sometimes life puts... obstacles in your path that... you have to overcome.... And sometimes life... puts obstacles in your path that are.... not obstacles at all... and can help you along if... you can see them as... opportunities instead of... setbacks."
This thin, wiry, short (5'6"), and moderately attractive man is probably in his late twenties or early thirties. His (dyed?) black hair is of medium length and unkempt--in that intentionally unkempt way. Overall, it's difficult to guess who he might be or what he might do or a living. His attire and appearance communicate that he's well-off but not wealthy.
Nicodemus is currently wearing a practical yet stylish pair of loose-fitting black khaki pants combined with a button-down, long sleeved, dark blue silk shirt. His braided black leather belt perfectly matches his black leather loafers--except that the loafers look a little worn, as if he gets around on foot a lot. An oversized brown greatcoat, worn open, engulfs his form and plays absently in passing breezes. The exceptionally perceptive might notice that his pants do not quite hang naturally over his right ankle.
He wears little in the way of accessories: a silver chain around his neck plunges beneath his shirt and a small metal owl pin resides on the left side of his greatcoat. There's also a whiff of wood-smoke and ozone lingering in the air about him, possibly from an expensive cologne.
When he moves, it is with a grace, fluidity, and sure-footedness. When idle, he seems alert and focused, yet somehow simultaneously introspective.
Shelby approaches, slowly, coming no closer to the springy-horse and panting man than she can reach via sidewalk. "If you'd rather walk and talk...," she offers. "And opportunities instead of obstacles. Hmm." The thought brings a subdued smile to her face, and she considers one of the buildings across the street for a moment. "That's a very interesting way of thinking about that. Someone told me something similar just the other day."
Nicodemus holds up a hand, as if to indicate he needs a moment more. He has clearly physically pushed himself pretty hard today, and it's not even noon yet. He takes an intentionally tremendous breath of air and exhales it. He's still winded, still panting, but it's probably a bad idea to just stop completely without a cooling down period. Walking might be a good thing. "It's rare when... everything goes according to... plan. In life or while running it's... all about the path you choose... to take." He pushes of the horsey and walks your way. His legs seem a little rubbery and the crisp, cold air has to be murder on the lungs. He glances towards where you were looking, trying to see what it is you were looking at earlier.
It's just a building, nothing separating it from any of the others near the Park, save that this one doesn't have a Starbucks. "Isn't it always," she agrees with a laugh, waving him on down this particular path and falling in on his left. "I'm Shelby, by the way. It's nice to meet you. So is there a particular obstacle you're flinging yourself over today, or is this more of a daily thing?"
As he regains his breath and slowly recovers from his workout, Nicodemus progressively adapts to your more 'society' mannerisms. It's as if he's not entirely unused to rubbing shoulders with the well-to-do--or at least those posing as being well-to-do. "No particular obstacles today." He's able to get out short sentences without breaking for air now. "I try to get out every day or so." Pant. "I've found it helps keep me focused and centered." Pant. "Though I seem to have lost my new workout partner." He glances around the park briefly, failing to spot the missing person. "Nicodemus Dalton," he says, turning his attention back to you and offering his hand to shake. He then withdraws it rapidly. "Sorry. They're a little dirty, actually."
Shelby keeps her hand stubbornly out, claiming, "I don't mind dirt. Hello, Mr. Dalton - or do you prefer Nicodemus? I should try it sometime, when I'm wearing something more appropriate." She too looks around, but as there's no one with a neon sign proclaiming them 'NICK DALTON'S WORKOUT PARTNER -->', it's rather useless. "How would you recommend someone get started?"
Nicodemus reconsiders the hand, then dusts his hands together (to get most of the grit off them) and shakes. It's a firm-but-not-too-firm handshake and his hands are unusually warm to the touch--perhaps from the rush of blood from his recent workout. "I'm of the opinion that you should wear what you normally wear when you do parkour." Pant. "But I'm kind of weird that way." He eyeballs his scuffed loafers. "Probably need to get a new pair of shoes soon, though." He's breathing a lot less heavily, and seems to be well on his way to recovery.
"Parkour," she echoes, giving it the faintest of French pronunciations. "That's what it's called?" Her own hands are a little chilly, and as if reminded, she pulls a pair of gloves out of her pockets. "All right - but why? Why not wear what you'd normally wear to exercise?"
A ways down the path, but still far enough that the two could talk at normal voices and not have the content overheard, a dark haired, brown-skinned woman in a black army coat--quite firmly bundled today--crosses in front of them. She steps across the path with somewhat ginger steps, making her way to one of the scattered trash bins alongside it. She doesn't reach in the trash bin, but she does peer into it for a moment, with the kind of interest one might have for a particularly interestingly stocked store shelf, with all the contents marked as on sale. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder that she didn't have the other day.
This woman's build is most definitely slender, though not so skinny as to look unhealthy, and she sits only at a rough 5'3 in height. Her skin is a light brown, appearing completely unblemished apart from (if her shoulders are bare) a small hint of scarring curving up the back of her left shoulder. Her eyes are also brown, dark and soft, almond shaped. Her cheeks are nicely filled out, and her lips are small, but curved. Her hair, silky black, hangs just past her shoulders and is usually pulled back into a simple plait. She looks to be somewhere in her twenties, but there's a strange sense of timelessness about her features, which makes pinning down any exact age difficult at best.
Her clothing is almost always bland and worn. Simple running shoes. Simple shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, pants. She has an old army coat that looks as though she picked it out of a trash bin, and perhaps she did. At times she has a backpack slung over one shoulder, looking neatly stuffed.
"Parkour," Nick confirms with a decidely St. Claire native accent. "Well, in part, because I see parkour and the movements and philosophy therein as being an extention into day-to-day life, not something to set aside for a special time and special attire--like, for instance, a black tie dinner affair. Secondly, there's the practical aspect of it all. If you ever need to move swiftly, when parkour might be useful, then you don't have time to dress for the occassion. But if you're familiar with moving in what you wear day to day, you're in much better shape." Nick fails to notice Vagabond initially, eyes focused more on Shelby's decidedly parkour-inappropriate attire.
"Makes sense," Shelby decides, adding a nod, her eyes flicking past her companion to land on the woman up ahead. "Goes along with that mental fluidity you were talking about." A blink and she returns her attention and half a smile to Nick. "Not to mention, it encourages you to dress practically."
Vagabond takes one hand reluctantly from her pocket--though she is wearing gloves, and tips the trash bin toward her, so that she can better see the contents. The contents are, apparently, not interesting enough to actually stick her hand in the trash bin, however, and a moment later she lets it return fully upright, and quickly returns her gloved hand to its pocket with a slight shiver.
"It does place an emphasis on functionality, yes. Or at least seeking a comfortable medium between fashion and functionality. Your shoes," he points out with a grin, "are epicly fashionable--and yet epicly unfunctional. Pretty, though," he adds. He follows Shelby's glance and spots Vagabond just after she let the trash can right itself, so he missed her being poised to 'dumpster dive.' "Well look who the cat dragged in." He snaps his fingers, as if that might aid his powers of recollection. "Rajani! Got any rare and unique treasures to hawk to a poor and humble antiquities dealer?"
Shelby returns the grin, entirely unruffled by the aspersions being cast on her footwear. "Thank you," is probably for the compliment. As for Rajani... "Friend of yours?" she asks Nick in a low voice, followed by, "Would you like some privacy?"
The woman looks up, and a warm smile flits across her lips. "Ah! Hello! No, no, I'm afraid not, but I will keep looking, yes?" She turns to face them now, standing just off the path, still hunching down in her coat. "I'd gone and forgotten how cold your winters are. I have spent half my attention shivering today." Shelby gets a look that's blatantly curious, but no less friendly for it.
"Ah, well. Maybe something will turn up eventually. I'd be really interested in anything ancient items you could procure from India or Persia. There's supposed to be a lot of interesting artifacts and trinkets that have found their way out of Iraq over the past few years and are changing hands in neighboring lands," Nicodemus says, as if indicating an area of interest for himself or perhaps one or more of his regular clients. Nick turns to Shelby. "I ran into Rajani at a coffee shop about a week ago. She's quite the world traveller can certainly spin a tale. Although," he reconsiders, "some tend to be a little more gruesome. Sorry," he says to Shelby, as if the thought had slipped his mind. "I used to work as a homicide detective for for the SCPD and I sometimes forget that most people don't have the same sort of thresholds that I have for certain things." To Rajani, "No stories with livers in them for Shelby, okay?" He snaps his fingers again. "Sorry. Rajani? Shelby. Shelby? Rajani."
Shelby drops Rajani a friendly-enough nod, there in her down jacket and blue shoes, but it's the talk of cold that brings a sympathetic smile and laugh from the white-haired woman. "Oh, I know what you mean. And then in July everyone's complaining about how hot it is, and I'm still wearing sweaters!" 'Gruesome stories' earn both of the others a dubious look that turns to relief when no such stories promptly emerge. "No livers, no blood, and absolutely nothing pulsing, please," she agrees, offering the shorter woman her hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"To be entirely fair to the stories," Rajani says, not without some small bit of mischievous glee, "Most of them specifically did not have livers in them, yes? That was the part that was upsetting." Though she doesn't look remotely upset. Shelby's hand is taken a little gingerly. "It is good to meet you as well, Shelby. You two should be careful." Still that look of mischief. "Not all of those stories are from far away over the ocean. I heard some rumors when I was last here."
Nicodemus nods in agreement with Rajani. He advises Shelby, "I've not seen you around the park before, but it can get kind of rough sometimes--especially after the sun sets. You'd really regret wearing those shoes then."
"That's why I'm wearing them now,” Shelby sparkles, with a glance to Rajani to include her in the joke as she reclaims her hand. "I've heard the park was in a bad neighborhood, but also that the fountain had to be seen." Ergo... "I don't suppose either of you know if there are any apartments or condos on the market around here?" Spoken wistfully, it's clear she doesn't expect a positive answer.
"Bad neighborhood," the woman agrees. "And no, I do not, but if you find any that are low cost, and monthly, I would be interested in knowing about them."
Nicodemus points towards the upper level of a nearby apartment complex. "I used to rent a studio in that place over there. Nice view of the park from higher up, but the place was infested with cockroaches. And it was overpriced. I don't recommend it at all, but that was about 10 or so years ago. Things might have changed, but I doubt for the better."
Perhaps stiletto heels make an acceptable weapon against cockroaches, for Shelby turns to look where he's pointing with a thoughtful look on her face. "Well, that's a possibility." Taking a couple of steps away from the others, she pulls out an iPhone and snaps a picture of the building, then another of the nearest street sign. "Looking for some friends," she explains, while waiting to see if the photos need to be reshot.
Vagabond slips her hand back into her pocket, watching Shelby's actions with idle interest. "Friends that are fond of overpriced and cockroaches?" she asks, her tone lightly teasing. "Your friends are strange, if you do not mind my saying so."
"A good view is a good view, and they're hard to find the further you get into the city. If..." Nicodemus is interrupted by an abrupt klaxon that sounds severe and negative--possibly even a warning of danger. "Excuse me," he says as he pulls his cell phone out and answers the phone. "Dalton, Private Investigator. The police wait 24 hours to declare someone missing, but I'm on the case as soon as you call." A voice, frantic but unintelligible, can be heard speaking on the other side. Nick makes an apologetic gesture and steps away from the group.
With an impish nose-wrinkle, Shelby says, "Maybe they're friends I don't like all that much." The pictures must be adequate for what she needs, for she slips the phone back into her purse and gloves back on as Nicodemus steps away. Giving him a little wave, Shelby turns to face Rajani more fully. "Want to go get a coffee? I wouldn't mind getting off my feet, and you're right, this is no fit weather for man or beast. ...Or woman or beast, for that matter."
Vagabond smiles at this answer, a little more on one side of her mouth than the other. She's distracted as Nicodemus moves away, and she watches him intently for a moment before the coffee offer seems to register. "Ah! Yes, coffee does sound very nice just now."
A man, unfinished wooden staff thunking along with him, ambles in from Bridge Street; given his speed and the way Djehuti's looking around, he's a newcomer to the area.
Ear still pressed to the phone, Nick starts walking faster and then breaks into a run as he heads towards the parking lot. He clambers into a yellow Toyota MR2 roadster, cell phone still pressed to his head, and gives it some gas to get moving. He's clearly got to be somewhere else and somewhere else fast.
Shelby says, "I think I know where a good one is - or if you just want fast, there's always Starbucks." She watches Nicodemus' get away, eyes drifting past to land, just for a moment, on Djehuti. A half-frown at him and she looks back to Rajani, adding, "We've lost Mr. Dalton, but if you're willing to be joined again...." She drops a nod toward the staff-wielder. "I met him the other day, and he's probably as miserable about this weather as we are."
Vagabond watches Nicodemus depart with an interest that she doesn't bother to hide, her eyes lingering on his car until it's joined the rest of traffic and vanished from sight. She looks from there to Djehuti, and then back to Shelby with a smile. "I will submit to your greater experience, I think. A place that is warm and out of the cold is all I wish for, right now."
The Strider, who is aways away from the two, does notice them, but he doesn't actually move toward them. Instead he trails over toward the river. He's not quite limping, but he looks tired. (And, at even the slightest move of wind, cold.)
"Starbucks it is," Shelby decides, and with a nod, heads for Djehuti and the edge of the park. When he looks her way she lifts one arm in a wave, but not until they're in earshot does she call, "We're going for coffee - want one?" She fully expects Rajani to join her without so much as a whistle or finger snap.
Rajani does tag along behind her, quite without encouragement. "Do you know him?" she asks after Shelby calls, regarding the man with obvious curiosity.
Djehuti is a man in his late 30s, though given his weatherbeaten face and tired posture, he might well seem older. He's about 6'2" tall, and his face -- all of him, really -- is long and thin. The face is relatively dark-skinned and weathered, carved with lines and yet frequently mobile and engaging. His eyes are brown, and often warm; sometimes, they are cooler, further away. But he is always, always observing what goes on around him. His brown hair, which is not long, curls and waves and kinks around his head; the longest stray strand does not quite reach his shoulders. On closer inspection, his posture may not be lazy; it may instead be coiled, poised, resting before more action. Something in that posture hints at grace, or perhaps even nobility.
His clothes are a hodge-podge. He wears battered jeans, a gray muslin shirt, and, over that, a keffiyehesque scarf, white cotton lined with what is apparently (and somewhat incongruously) polarfleece, serving mostly as a neck-covering, the folds extending over his shoulders, as well. (Though his head is uncovered.) He's currently barefoot. His backpack, dull green army vintage, is generally nearby. The only curious thing is that he wears brown gloves in all weather, fingerless save for the pinkies; these gloves wrap their leather up to about his elbows.
By the time Shelby is close enough to call to him, Djehuti has looked her way; he doesn't brighten, but a slight straightening of his back may well indicate his recognition. He turns away from the river and walks faster toward the women, saying, once he's close enough to be able to speak fairly quietly, "I will gladly go to drink coffee, if I may, once we are there, be introduced to this friend of yours, Ms. Zaleski-Laveque."
"Met him a few days ago," Shelby repeats over her shoulder to Rajani while they're still a little bit away from the man. As they close, her smile brightens. "Shelby, please. Rajani, this is Derek; Derek, this is Rajani. And I don't know about you two, but I have a half-caf latte and a chocolate chip scone calling my name."
Vagabond presses her gloved hands together in front of her chest, and briefly bows over them. "Namaste, Derek. Yes, we are escaping from the cold. It is good to meet you."
"Or, I may be introduced to her before we are there," Djehuti says with a mild smile, which grows as Rajani bows. He, too, bows, hands pressed together, staff in the crook of his arm. He does not offer a hand to shake. "Derek Ramsey is my fuller name, if that matters to you. Pleased, I am sure." That said, he turns his attention to Shelby, as he himself clearly has no idea where to find a Starbucks around here.
"It's too cold to walk around without names," claims Shelby as she heads for the road. She must know the area fairly well, for it's only a walk of a few blocks before the familiar logo and green awning appears. Inside, the cheery chime of bell and coffee-scented air dispel all hints of January's bleakness. "Do you know what you want?" she asks of the others, stopping just inside the door where those exiting will have to move around them. "My treat."
Djehuti had been rummaging in his pockets, as they entered. He glances over at her, eyebrow raised, amused. "We are on a date, then. How unexpected." He doesn't particularly seem to object, as he orders a small coffee (French roast), and a scone.
Vagabond looks quite pleased when Djehuti returns her greeting, and that expression lasts throughout the brief walk to the coffee shop. "Aie, I think, perhaps, what I want most is steamed milk. Vanilla? And a cinnamon roll, your friend reminds me I have not eaten yet today."
"Got it," Shelby claims, and with a nod suggests (or orders), "Why don't you two find a table?" Meanwhile she drifts up to the counter.
Djehuti may take it as an order; either way, he does it, trailing over to claim the area with the stuffed chairs-and-table, rather than the harder-chairs-and-table. "Eating protein is often of use as a breakfast material," he says to Vagabond, as he parks his staff in a corner.
The woman laughs, light and soft. "Ah, yes, but that is for later. For now, unhealthy baked goods, as they sound more appealing." She picks out a chair and sits, with her hands folded in her lap. "How is life treating you?"
Up at the counter Shelby could be ordering steamed milk, a small coffee, and a half-caf latte... or she might be purchasing three oct-shot espressos and a bag of chips. Either way, first words, then money exchange hands before the woman drifts over to wait by the pick up area.
The man considers this question. "My job entails considerable amounts of traveling and time alone," he says. (He has a job? Bit seedy for that, isn't he?) "And I have just returned from a spate of it. I think, in general, that life is treating me exceptionally well, and specifically, at the moment, that I am quite enjoying it. And how fare you?"
Vagabond smiles. "Ah. I am much the same, with my job. Though I do find at times that it can become frustrating, I am still enjoying myself. And I am always meeting the most interesting people."
Eventually Shelby clack-clacks back to their table with a tray filled with assorted baked goods and appropriately steaming mugs. She drops into a chair with a relieved sigh, tucking her feet beneath her chair, and looks at the others brightly. "Have you exhausted the conversation about how miserable January is, yet? Or is there still room for me to play?"
Djehuti laughs quietly. "You would not think that couriering would be frustrating, but yes, I find the same. And given that I am a courier for people who do not wish their information upon the internet, interesting people appear to be a speciality." As Shelby returns, Djehuti stands to help her with the tray. "Indeed not," he tells her. "Job stories, instead. January weather would take far too much time to complain about."
"Those would be very interesting people," the woman agrees. "Now you are making me curious." As the drinks and food arrive, she leans over to retrieve her steamer, pausing momentarily to revel in the warm flowing through her glove. To Shelby, she quips, "You are most welcome to fill in where we have neglected that topic, if you like."
Shelby contents herself with a heartfelt, "Winter's awful," before bestowing a bright smile on Djehuti for his help with the tray. "On that table over there, I think," she adds, nodding to an empty table beside them. "What have we learned, about jobs?" Blowing across the surface of her drink, she looks from one to the other.
Djehuti places the tray down carefully, and then places himself in a chair, carefully. "I have, in fact, learned very little of her job. Merely that it is frustrating and she meets interesting people. Which could describe every job in existence, save perhaps that of hermit." He reaches over to claim his scone.
"And it is very like his, in some ways," Rajani supplies, before sipping at her steamer. "Except for the courier parts. I do not do that."
Shelby says, "I've done plenty of traveling, in the past few months, and I think I'm ready to stay in one place, for a while." She looks over to Rajani. "Are you going to go out of the country, to find those things Mr. Dalton was asking about? Or do you find them more locally?"
"So you deal with people who prefer to stay under the radar, but you do not travel for it. I see," Djehuti says, as he spreads butter on his scone. "Myself," he tells Shelby, "This is my center of operations for a time, but the travel shall still happen. But to here, I shall return. As I told Rajani, I deliver messages to those who do not wish the internet involved. It is a narrow speciality, but mine own."
"Locally," Rajani tells Shelby, "If I should find them at all. Mr. Dalton runs an antiques business, and I mentioned that, should I come across anything strange or interesting, I would show it to him. Sometimes I do find strange and interesting things in strange and interesting places."
Shelby grins briefly at Djehuti. "You and FedEx, but I bet you have a more personal touch." And to Rajani, "I vaguely remember a quote like that. Something like... 'Some people avoid the strange and unusual, while I myself am strange and unusual'. Can't remember who said it, though." She shrugs off her failure. "Me, I mostly ask leading questions." Just then her phone rings. She grimaces but digs into her purse; a glance at the screen and she rises, looking irked. "Excuse me." She leaves both drink and scone behind, but heads outside for privacy.