(Untitled)

[thisfatefulhour]

Outside, there's a brief rush of wind.

A few minutes later, one of the tables has a blonde young man at it, reading. Occasionally he reads aloud, though under his breath; it sounds like poetry, from what can be heard.

Comments

[not_ho_chunk]

Gray Jay nods to him from a nearby table.

[thisfatefulhour]

Charles nods back, politely, as he sits down.

[not_ho_chunk]

"New to the bar, young man?"

[thisfatefulhour]

"Always, I think. But I've been coming for a few months."

[not_ho_chunk]

"Hm. Haven't seen you, but there's hundreds here, so I guess that's no surprise."

[thisfatefulhour]

"I'm afraid I don't come in with much real regularity."

[not_ho_chunk]

"Most don't", the old man observes. "Come when the door snatches them, the ones that can leave. There's always exceptions, of course."

[thisfatefulhour]

He smiles, brief and bright. "Yes."

[not_ho_chunk]

"So. Got a name?"

[thisfatefulhour]

"Charles Wallace Murry."

[not_ho_chunk]

A crooked smile, acknowledging the boy's reticence.

"Wisakedjak. Jay to some."

[thisfatefulhour]

Charles' eyebrows go up, and he repeats, carefully, "Wisakedjak. Is that right?"

[not_ho_chunk]

"Got it in one. You know the name, then?"

He's pleased, though not surprised. Not from this one.

[thisfatefulhour]

"I don't think so. I just have a good ear for that sort of thing."

[not_ho_chunk]

"Fair enough. Most find it too hard."

[thisfatefulhour]

"Still, it's your name."