be a shmuck, read a book (OPEN)
Characters: Nemesis and you.
Setting/Location: The Beast's library
Date & Time: Day 6, mid-afternoon
Warnings: talking in the libary oH NO
Summary: A spy in a room full of information can you not see where this is already headed I mean srsly
He had to admit it, it was pretty damn impressive. The ceiling had to be at least forty feet high, and nearly every inch of wall from the floor on up was loaded with books. It fit the castle theme pretty well, excessive and all. A schoolkid's nightmare come true: more books than anyone could think to read in a lifetime, let alone a single afternoon of snooping. Things were going to be pretty pluck and luck for Nemesis, or rather, Generic Caravan Member #4.
Rather than nose around in his own skin, Tom had tweaked and initiated one of his hundreds of past disguises, locked away in the memory of his shapeshifting tech. He chose something very mundane and uninteresting: a face with no real remarkable beauty or flaw, limbs that shouted neither strength or suaveness, and clothes that muted out pretty well amidst the colorful spines of books around him. He was, in effect, Joe Schmoe: boring, simple, unassuming, and most of all, not Nemesis. There was a better name for his disguise, but for some reason, Tom couldn't help but think he really could get away with Joe Schmoe if he wanted to-- much of the crowd he was traveling with was way beyond Urban Center, USA.
Joe Schmoe found himself a relatively comfortable chair at a table and proceeded to stack and browse, the pile getting pretty high right from the get-go. Anything could have valuable information, be it history, fiction, or hell, he'd kill for an atlas. Cultural cues and superstitions would be extremely valuable: it wasn't much comfort at night knowing you knew nothing about where you were, where you had been, and where you were going on that long road. Diana wanted information on the fauna, as well--he'd zero in on that as much as he could. It was the least he could do for all the avoiding he'd been doing. Things just couldn't stay a bit comfortable, could they?
Fourteen books in one pile, seven in another, and eleven on the floor propping up his feet, Joe Schmoe eased back with the heavy book in his lap, carefully thumbing the yellowed pages and frowning at the text. Hand-written, yippee. If something outstanding popped up in here, it'd go in the take pile that was six strong already, stacked under a folded bedsheet. He needed a bag, dammit.
'...then the old hag turned into a beautiful enchantress.'
Oh, brother. This better deliver.