Welcome to the Library(?)

[catarmy]

There's a building that's almost always closed, for days on end, weeks, months, years. Until one fair morning, the doors open, revealing a home that may look more of a library than something lived-in. But lived-in it is. There's an immaculate kitchen, though it is primarily stocked with fish and other meat, and by the stairway in the library area, there's a mass of pillows and blankets scattered about.

The shelving practically bursts at the seams with different kinds of books, sorted by genre and then by author. From fiction to non-fiction, the arcane, occult, mundane, and extraordinary can be found between the pages of many books.

And among it all, there is only a cat resting atop one decently-kept shelf. There is trace dust here and there.

Further exploration leads that there are a few other rooms that are locked. At least the washroom isn't? But it's definitely stocked as if a person lives here, and has simply forgotten to close and lock the door after leaving.

Comments

[nostradamnit]

Nostradamus is lost. He wouldn't otherwise have approached the building in the first place, but he's been trying to find the next village on his journey and pretty much failed. But when he realizes that this isn't a house--at least not a typical one, his interest is piqued.

"Hello? Is there anyone home?" His voice doesn't ring out in the space, more rumbling over it as he steps up to a bookshelf, finger gently brushing the spines of the books housed there. Curious; he is, and the books in their variety are. One of the books on astrology catches his eye in particular, and he pulls it off the shelf to leaf through.

[catarmy]

There are plenty of books to be found, to look and leaf through. Like many others, the astrology book is loved but very well-cared for, not a single dog-eared page to be seen. Pieces of parchment stick out between other pages, the note-taker's semi-scratch handwriting just barely legible. Some of the notes stop halfway through, as if the writer simply lost interest mid-sentence. The notes are really only casual commentary about the vagueness of such a practice.

In any case, there's no human answer to Nostradamus. Instead, there's a soft "prrrt?" that comes from a shelf just above and one column over, and a sleepy cat's face pokes out.

[nostradamnit]

"Yes, hello there." As if it's perfectly normal to talk to a cat, Nostradamus closes the book, replacing it where it had been, and walks over toward the animal, a sheepish little expression on his face. "You are a very pretty one, aren't you?"

A hand is held out--not touching the cat yet. Instead it's offered as if for inspection, for sniffing or nibbling, and to show he's not one of those rude humans who's just going to grab at them.

"I hope you'll explain to the master of the house later that I mean no harm. I was trying to follow the road to Greendale, but I think I took a wrong turn at the fork in the road." No, he doesn't expect the cat to explain literally, but perhaps goodwill with them will lead to goodwill with whoever owns the library, when they return.