Open RP: The Senior Is [IN]

[localadvisory]

Ordinarily, making contact with Tom involves a combination of luck, need, and knowledge. That's as it should be-- after all, if wizardry worked such as that every possible problem that one could have helped with, one must, then there'd be no point to organized senior-structure to begin with. Hierarchies of authority existed for the purpose of funneling work towards those better equipped to manage it; call it evil, if you feel it's necessary, but even bureaucracy has a purpose and a life of its own.

But, there comes a time for the gentler approach. Small problems can fall through the cracks of even the most well-meaning systems. Especially large ones; no system larger than the stewardship of all life.

So, here's Tom Swale, set up outside his home with a driveway filled with junk, a home-made lock box, and a few signs gaudily posted on the street. To most eyes, they read GARAGE SALE, but to the right eyes, they say something different.

Maybe to your eyes, The Speech is more than just fanciful embellishment lending an elegant hand-made touch to a spot of local advertising. And for you lucky ones, it reads also:

TOM SWALE, LOCAL ADVISORY.
ASK ME ANYTHING.

Comments

[crouching_sin]

Naoya isn't a wizard.

Oh, he can do magic, but it's not wizardry. It's drawn from something different, something outside life and more approaching thought - demons, dimensions tied to his world rather than of the world itself, proper.

Of course, that's to his world, and there are subtle things here indicating that this is not his world. Different brands, slightly different politics as far as he knows...

... The fact that he suddenly showed up in America rather than portaling outside in Tokyo doesn't hurt, either.

But when Naoya passes the sign on the street, clacking geta earning him a few looks, and his matrix-pattern haori drawing a few more, he freezes. There's something cold that runs down his spine, because a language that is the root of all language?

Why, that looks positively pre-Babel to him. His voice is urgent, close to angry but not quite, as he speaks.

"Where did you learn to write that language?"

[unfavorableinstigation]

Nita's on a rare quiet day, meaning she can stand to spend the morning poking about through the junk instead of heading inside to talk to Tom or Carl directly.

And then a piece of it jumps on her shoulder.

"Whoa! Uh," Nita quiets herself after a brief outburst, trying to turn her head and get a better look at what's picked her out today.

/How you doing, little buddy? What's your story?/

Given that a Senior left it out here without a label, and her own Manual (and the peridexis) aren't throwing warnings at her, Nita lets herself react with curiosity rather than skepticism or outright panic.