Interlude 4: Guise and Dolls (1/2)

It was a rainy day in Cylvania City, and Jean Lafeet was actually enjoying it.

This wasn't like the northern rains of her homeland, Belltollia. Those were always cold, always dreary regardless of the season. But here, in this sheltered valley with the vast northern peaks of the Guzoverdee mountains shielding Cylvania City from the worst of the northern chill, she was having to endure only a warm summer drizzle.

Which didn't mean that she wasn't prepared, of course. She squared her parasol on her shoulder as she marched along, nodding to the passers-by, and smiling at the ones who gawked and pointed at her, then turned to tell their friends who she was.

She was an actress, after all. And this was one of the easiest ways to build up her Fame skill.

“Even the rain doesn't cool this place down much,” Gaston griped. “And it is so humid that I might as well be chewing the air instead of breathing it.”

Jean glanced behind her, and wrinkled her nose, dancing her whiskers along her cheeks. Her “human” friend did look a bit miserable, with his ponytail-bound brown hair losing its regular poof, and his fine red clothes sogging and sagging over what were admittedly a fine set of muscles.

“I have no sympathy for you,” she told him. “I offered another parasol.”

“Bah,” Gaston waved his meaty hand. “Such things are for women.”

“Then rot in the rain, and see if I care.” she smirked, and turned back to the street. “At any rate, I think her house should be about... oh. Hm.”

“Hm?” Gaston grunted.

“That looks like the Mouse golem I told you about. She looks upset. But I am not certain if we should interfere...”

Seeing so many walking toys in one place had been one of the hardest things to get used to, when it came to adjusting to this new land. Remembering that they were no longer toys, not exactly, but thinking and feeling beings had only added on to the peculiarity of this remote venue. Many of the sapient golems were teddy bears, too, and that had made it a little tricky, made her realize that telling these strange creatures apart could be problematic at times.

That said, she was pretty sure the three-foot-tall gray mousewoman wearing a round nightcap and matching patchwork dress was one of a kind. She was shaking a frilly parasol up at the man who'd accosted her.

That man was large, scarred, looming over her, and shaking a finger in her face. He was dressed shabbily, and the dirt smeared on his face was doing an admirable job of resisting the rain. A beggar? Perhaps. His body language was squared aggressively for one of the street people, though. Jean was sensitive to such things, and she doubted he was a simple pauper.

But then she had a trick for that sort of thing, didn't she?

“Read the Scene,” Jean breathed through her buckteeth.

And the two figures shifted in her sight, almost seeming to fill up with strings pulling in various directions, as she got a good look into their motivations, as the universe unveiled the parts they were playing.

Your Read the Scene skill is now level 72!

The Mouse golem was an open book, an innocent soul who delighted in simple things, but very much didn't like being pushed around. And her motivation here was giving the man what-for, dressing him down for his rudeness and hostility.

The man, though, was literally a different story. He was a bit resistant, and she knew she hadn't gotten all of it.. He had two or three dark lines across his form that indicated hidden motivations. Subplots trailed off of him, but his surface motivation was to discourage the Mousewife, and remove her from the scene and the story. His hostility was fed by frustration, because she was being stubborn, and... oh, that was a dark red line building. She'd seen lines like that before, and they always indicated violence.

“We need to involve ourselves,” Jean called back over her shoulder, before striding forward.

“This wasn't in our orders,” Gaston grumbled, but she heard puddles splashing behind her and knew he was keeping up. He would have her back, regardless of his feelings on this matter. If for no other reason than the hope that she would take him to bed at some point. (A forlorn hope, but Gaston was a bit of a forlorn figure at the best of times.)

“Allo,” she said, smiling down at the golem and cutting the large man off mid-bluster. “Fancy meeting you again. Karen, was it?”

“Oh! Hello there! You were in the line! Yes, I'm Karen Mousewife!” The Mousewife swung the parasol toward her, like a teacher's pointer. “Fancy seeing you out here! Did you have some more business with her ladyship the Councilor?”

“I do. I hope you're not busy at the moment?” Jean turned her red eyes onto the stranger, who glowered at her, that red line in his soul still glowing, but no longer growing.”

“She is,” the man snapped. “You're interrupting. Piss off.”

“Here now, you don't get to speak for me and that's a bad word to say to someone like that!” The Mousewife swung her parasol back and almost poked the man in the nose.

With an irritated snarl he grabbed it and snapped it—

—and Gaston lunged out from behind Jean and caught him square in the belly with a side kick.

Gaston was not a large man. He was what people kindly referred to as wiry. A bit thin-shouldered and pigeon chested.

But his legs, his legs were pure muscle. And as the man flew a good twelve feet and bounced off a low villa wall, she could see the thread of violence abruptly snuff out of his soul, and be replaced by the yellow thread of cowardice. Now he would be leaving, and that was for the best. The yellow '82' that floated free from him was more than enough justification to run. Another hit like that and he'd likely be unconscious, and then there would be guards and questions and problems...

So when Gaston stalked forward to put the boot in she caught his elbow, then quickly stooped and handed the broken parasol to a gaping and shocked Mousewife.

“Here now, no need for that. You were just leaving, yes monsieur?” she asked the man, who was scrambling to his feet and limping away, staring over his shoulder with a mix of shock and shame.

Gaston rumbled, and for a second Jean felt his arm ripple. Felt it start to sprout fur...

“Not here!” she hissed into his ear.

“Right,” Gaston barked. “Right. Right,” he said, snuffling his nose a few times.

Jean felt the skin under her fingers twitch. Felt the fur retract. That had been a close one.

“You kicked him!” The Mousewife squeaked. “Right in the tummy!”

Jean closed her eyes. This little creature, this thing of cloth and rags and presumably some sort of poofy stuffing was one of the most adorable things she had ever seen. And though they'd taken a risk here, she felt a wash of reassurance in knowing that they'd done the right thing.

“Tummy, heh,” Gaston snickered. Then he yelped in pain.

Jean pulled her elbow out of his side. “Ah, he was being mean. We are sorry for the trouble. He seemed out of line, and in need of a kicking... Anyway, are you by any chance on your way to Miss Celia? May we come to see her with you?”

“Oh well I suppose that's just fine,” the Mousewife said. “Maybe you're what she needs right now.” She mended her parasol with a word, and led the way down the street.

It was a small house, which was fitting, because Cecelia Gearhart was a small person, now. Jean found herself stooping into a front room that had human-sized chairs and a couch, as well as a wooden table with a few boxed games and knicknacks.

There was a normal-sized door leading to a cramped bathroom, but every other door off of this room was half-sized. Which made sense, really. One room for tall visitors, but everything else could be scaled down to a comfortable size for the primary inhabitants.