#scarsdale

"The worst, of course... oh, may I see? What is it?"

A delicately wrapped shifting sort of thing, well shifting on the inside. When Zara opens it, she sees is made of glass, glass stained in swirling patterns, with sands isnide the color of a black river. There's a glass flat doll shaped like a man, movable joints and an terrified expression on his face. To shake it, gets the darker sands to move and the figure might vanish partly or entirely. As if he were drowning in a bog

A shadowy paw snakes up from beneath Zara's chair, and whips to bat at the dangling string....

Earl raises a brow on guard, Clem as well.

A rasp of delight as she makes the doll drown!

And then... "what?" Dark eyes seek out the owner of the paw.

Vashti says helpfully "It's a glass sandwave sort of thing with a happy theme" As if that's what was asked about and not the paw

There is a shadowy figure off to one side, eyes squinting through the sunlight rudely glaring down on the one not under the delightful tea garden canopy. He shuffles his feet slightly, and bereft of the ability to clear his throat for attention, was raising a hand for an awkward wave - but this turns into a grimace as his cat sneaks forward and starts Causing Trouble, and he hurries forward, cheeks turning bruise-colored in embarrassment.

"Aye.... tis a joy.." She scoots her chair back and leans to look under the table.

"And... a guest."

"Another sluagh" Earl observes.

"Aye."

"Master Symon."

"S-sorry, sorry..." And his voice becomes a hiss as he crouches and snaps fingers at what proves to be a shadowy feline under the chair, reaching to carefully untangle the paw from the string. "Lovecraft - behave. We are guests here. " He swallows, and winces. "Uninvited, at that." Retreating back to standing with an armful of disgruntled chimera. "Ssssssstriiiing!"

"ooo..." The moth pooka turns in her ashen and white sundress, "I've never had a Symon, simple or otherwise. Can we keep him?" Wing flutter

"Did you seek to try your luck? I admit, I of all appreciate a black cat on today of all days..."

Clem smiles "Almost tries like a carnival barker: Step right up, try your luck' and so on"

There is nothing more awkward than a sluagh, most would agree. But have the considered a teenage sluagh, showing up for a sluagh birthday party, uninvited?

The scrawny young man tugs uncomfortably at a tie that seems more akin to a noose, over his old-fashioned button up shirt, a dusty grey color. A backpack is slung over his shoulder wrinkling the lines of his shirt, and a creased lilac gift bag is on the ground by his feet, dropped when he retrieved the cat.

"Pardon the intrusion, Miss. The Madame mentioned you were having a gathering, and suggested that I pay regards."

"Well, I fear I cannot offer you cake, and the petit-fours are obnoxiously fresh. Would you join us for tea?"

Earl pulls out an extra seat for the lad if one isn't already obvious

He glances to Earl - up, and up at Earl, though by now his neck is used to the almost permanent crick of peering at Trolls, and accepts the seat, perched awkwardly. "No problem. Tea's good." A swallow, and he adds, "ah, tea would be most... delightful, that is. Thank you."

"Thank you." A gentle aside to Earl as he gets the seat. Zara prepares a fresh cup of tea. "Do you take cream, Master Symon?"

"Nice to meet you, Symon. " Earl says "I'm Earl, this is my cousin Clem. The Lady with wings is called Vashti, and clearly you know Zara"

"I mostly know -of- Zara..." He quickly adds, "Good things, of course. We shared a mentor, her before me. A lot to live up to. Ah..." He digs into the almost forgotten gift bag and offers a card over to Zara.

A small chimerical dragon is wearing a bonnet. It peeks at Lovecraft "A difficult matter" She observes.

"Likewise. Of." She nods, and adds a lump-laden splash of cream to the younger sluagh's tea.

"Pleasure to meet you. Is your Lodge near here?" He asks politely. "I live not too far from Chieftain Brekke's domain, but was escorted through the trods for this visit. A quick nervous glance over his shoulder, as if expecting said escort to drive the rental car straight into the garden to check on him.

"Ah. Rivervale! A.... truly unique experience, in scale." She offers him the cup - cracked china with little flowers, on a dusty saucer.

Clem smiles, "Iowa Actually, though the Rivervale crew are friends and good folk"

He nods, especially at the mention of scale. "Sure makes me feel small - smaller than usual, that is." A small huff of deprecating snicker, as he accepts the tea and passes to her, in return, a small envelope. Parchment aged to near crumbling if not handled with care, and the delicately pressed wax seal of Madame Grey

A small grey smile as she turns the envelope over in her hands. "And how is our mentor?"

"Oh, it's too hot, and the humidity is terrible on her joints, and she bemoans the youth of today... so, spry and fit as ever." He grins slightly.

"I grow old, I grow old, ishall wear my trousers rolled" Bronte observes

"Of course." She opens the envelope. "And aye, Bronte. Bronte, say hello to Symon.:

He blinks at the festive hat upon the little dragon, surprised. "You have a -dragon-?"

"A bookwyrm."

Then contemplating. "Or maybe a Pseudodragon... tiny size, neutral good..." He breaks off his musing and nods slowly. "That makes more sense."

"One may not own a dragon, but... I suppose you can capture their indulgence for a time." She sets the note aside and picks up her tea. "I defeated one at Pennons, some years ago."

“Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo, a star shines on the hour of our meeting.” Bronte says bobbing her heead

Earl smiles proudly at Zara

"Oh, I -did- hear of that. While Madame is -far- to elegant to boast, it did happen to come up in tea more than once..." He blinks to Bronte, and then a grin spreads across his face as he bows as well. "Aiya, Mellon."

A sigh, and he remarks, "If only I could take Sindarin rather than Spanish, I'd have an A already...."

A soft chuff. "Aye. But... may I advocate for the wonders of spanish literature?"

The cat winds around Zara's legs, uninvited, and mrows, "Donkey.... hotay."

Another rattle, like wind in the reeds. "And your charming companion? What is her name?"

“Are Russian cannibals worse than the English? Of course. The English eat only the feet, the Russians the soul. "The soul is a mirage," I told Anna Alexandrovna, but she went on eating mine anyway.” Bronte asks observing the Cat

Earl blinks, "We may have to cut down on her russian books a bit, Zara"

"Ah, I call her Lovecraft, but she is far more immature than your lovely wyrm here." He remarks, though his hand snakes down to rub against the chimera fondly.

"I hardly think thee is such a thing as too much Russian."

"A pleasure to meet you, Lovecraft."