If it isn’t ol’ creepface McGee himself. Well that’s rather rude of me. Flint Darklace just has resting ogle-face. He can’t help looking like he’s leering at wherever his gaze rests. But I also think he just straight up leers constantly anyway. He’s a bit of a sleaze. He’s down with the Enooky Buddies though, erm, the Enochian Enclave, so that means he’s at least a good-guy somewhere deep down at heart. Really, really deep down. They’re supposedly researching and ferreting out evil plots and stuff, and even get recognition from our illustrious Archfey on occasion.
Ol’ bitter better batter grove himself leads it. Um, Jarrah Bettergrove I think is the actual name. I meant no disrespect, in case he can hear my brain. There are rumors that he’s telepathic. Ah crap, Flint’s looking my way, I’d better at least be cordial, since he’s still a member of the Courts, higher up in standing than our fam. That’s one way that he’s a pretty good guy though, he doesn’t play the politics or lord it over anyone in the lower social strata or whatever you wanna call it. If anything, he’s content to remain where he’s at in our weird hierarchy nonsense, and somehow has the clout to keep himself there, maybe because of his involvement with the Enooky buddies.
As cheerfully as I can muster, I call out while waving, “Heya Flint! What brings you to the library on this side? Don’t the Enooky buddies have enough books of their own?”
I try to hide my cringe as Flint leers my way, ‘unintentionally’ ogling me up and down. My robes are sitting a might bit tighter than I normally have them, from getting soaked and dried earlier, so I’m feeling all sorts of self-conscious right now under his scrutinizing gaze. Thankfully Flint responds, “Well if it isn’t little Miss Clocktok. One certainly wouldn’t be shamed to say they took a stroll in this direction in order to happen upon such radiant beauty as your own. You’re ravishing as ever my dear.”
Bleugh, I don’t stick my tongue out and gag, despite wanting to. Flint’s a handsome-enough guy, a charmer and a sweetheart from what I hear, but eugh, no. He just lays it on so thick, and those ogling eyes send the wrong kinds of shivers down my spine. Catching himself, Flint corrects, “My apologies, sorry Tiktik, young lass. Alanea asked me to fetch a few scrolls that we’d apparently lent the public library long ago, that are far overdo. You know I would do anything for our dear Miss Whifflewillow, and oft do, for that matter.”
Shrugging, more at ease now that he’s not flirting, I nod along as I pass him before adding, “Yeah, miss Fluffypillows is pretty popular with anyone who isn’t blind, and probably most who are. That timid mousiness and her, ahem, assets, are, well, let’s just say I understand that good things come in small packages.”
Smirking, I elbow Flint’s thigh just above his knee as I’m passing him, due to my short stature. He flashes me a genuine smile, though his gaze still drinks me in uncomfortably-thoroughly. This tends to be about the limit to our interactions, him being overly flirty, me trying not to get defensive, then a cordial exchange where I tease him about something. Like I said, not a bad guy by any means, as far as I can tell. I honestly feel a bit bad for him, and Alanea. They get way more attention than they’d like, being the faces of the Enooky Buddies, and that only serves to make Flint’s licentious gaze all the more widely acknowledged.
So, how many of the younger Fey are hanging out in the stacks, or looking at pictures on pretty old scrolls? Uh, okay, no one in this aisle. Huh, no one in this aisle. Or this one. Or this one. What the spoot? I check the commons area of the library, and it’s dead as a doormouse. Or quiet as a doornail, or something. I know I'm mixing metaphors. Whatever. It’d be funny if there was anyone to hear me say it.
I mean, Flint’s here, digging out some old scrolls that belong to the Enochian Enclave, but he’s the only person I spy. I’m a pretty good spy too, especially in urban areas! You have to be, to be Tiktik Clocktok, Urban-Bountyhunter Extraordinaire! Seriously though, where the heck is everyone? I could really use a little cherubic face grinning at me while I’m putting on a show, reading stories and telling tales.
Grumbling, I stalk around the library a few more times, searching high and low, but the results are the same. Throwing my hands up in exasperation, I roll my eyes and sigh while mock-shouting, “Fine, be that way!”
Kicking the root of the library tree on my way out just leaves me with a stubbed toe for my troubles. Okay, I deserve the stubbed toe, ow. I stamp away towards The Tear in frustration, feeling even more down than before I’d decided to head to the library. Whatever! I’ll just go sulk for a couple of weeks in The ‘Twixt.
Gritting my teeth, sniffling, my eyes are itchy and puffy, so I rub the sleeve of my robe across my face. Striding swiftly through the plaza, beneath the canopy as everything else in the Fae’s Wilds, I keep my glare slightly downcast, not wanting to be teased for being an emotional mess. I feel a sudden sharp pain at the back of my skull accompanied by a loud honk. Ow! Whirling quickly, I spy my goose, Artemis. My bad mood probably smelled all the way to home, or something. I don’t know how Artie navigates The Courts and finds me at times like this.
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Rubbing the back of my head, I mutter with chagrin, “Oh, hey Artie, I guess you’re my plus one into The ‘Twixt. You up for it pal?”
I don’t know any spells yet to understand goose language, but Artie honks affirmatively regardless. Setting my right hand on Artemis’s left scapula, I resume my stalking towards The Tear, though it becomes more of a shuffle due to my height, or lack thereof. I don’t even feel like making shortness puns to entertain myself, that’s how foul my mood has gotten. I can’t even let myself think wordplay like having a fowl mood, and I’m just getting sulkier and more sour the more I think about it.
I just, I’ve been trying to figure out these feelings about Littlebit, and I don’t want to think about them if I’m not in a good mood, because I don’t want to taint them. We’re like sisters. She’s the best thing in my life, and neither of us dates anyone else. Is it possible that, that well… No. No it’s not possible. Fae-fection isn’t going to happen Tikki ol’ gal, don’t get your hopes up. Stop thinking that your bestie is super-cute, the most gorgeous gal you’ve seen besides yourself.
Also maybe stop referring to yourself in the third person, or being big-headed like calling yourself the second most gorgeous gal you know. Okay, I’m probably not even in my top ten, being realistic. There’s our illustrious Archfey, there’s Miss Whifflewillow, there’s Bitty, grans one and two, mom, cousin Stinkybutt,—ugh, she’s so gorgeous, stupid Trinket-nut—pretty much every dryad in the entire Wilds, the pretty people in the storybooks from ages past, and so much more. Ugh, now I’m depressed about my looks. Way to go me.
I rush the rest of the way to The Tear, and hop in, keeping one hand on Artemis, so that we arrive in The ‘Twixt together. Artie immediately takes to the sky, abandoning me as he wings away in search of whatever fun and adventure The ‘Twixt has in store for him, leaving me alone with my sadness. To cement the whole thing, I conjure an illusory double of myself, it’s stationary, so it’s just a me in the middle of a sob, perpetually sad. Sniffling, I try to hug illusory-me, but of course she’s intangible, so I nearly fall on my face for my effort.
Nothing is going right today! I try to work from sadness up to indignant fury so that I’ll stop moping. Picking myself up, and dusting myself off, literally and metaphorically, I stamp towards the town crier. Adopting the lingo I’d picked up the last time I was in The ‘Twixt, I demand, “Gimme the scribs Shouty McLoudmouth.”
The newsie-looking older chap with a bushy moustache takes me in up and down at a glance, before licking his thumb, and rifling through a stack of paper nearby. He clears his throat and offers up, “An angry little lady like yourself might get a kick out of this one, Biggs, half-hill-giant, broke out of jail before his trial a couple days ago, you can probably guess how. Elsewise, we’ve got some cat-burglars what need catching, Meowster Purrington, Felix Dome Esticus, and Kitty Larue. Those are probably all you can handle. Unless you build a bigger name for yourself by say, nabbing all of ‘em, I’m not really willing to lay any others on ya.”
Despite wanting to stay indignant, and grumpy, at this point, I can’t help cracking a smile at The ‘Twixt’s overly-obvious punny names for its criminals. Still, these are all small-fry compared to the type of distraction I need, so I palm a few coins from my pouch and slide them wordlessly to the crier. He surreptitiously counts the coins by fingering them as he slips them into his pocket. On the sly, he slips me two more scribs, that is, wanted-posters, scribbles.
Hm, what’s this? A ruthless killer by the name of Knives Mill Yunzuv is on the loose? That’s right up my alley. That dead-eyed stare and pointy crewcut are going to be easy to spot in a crowd if he doesn’t have a hood up, and if he does, it’ll be all that much easier to find him. Nobody goes around with a hood up in this town unless they’re hiding something. So, chances are, anyone I spot skulking with one is either Knives, or knows something about something going down. Plus, someone with millions of knives strapped to their personhood probably isn’t going to be anyone else.
Let’s see this other one. Barry Allen Lyve? Barry A Live? Bury alive? Check, suspected of nabbing people, and tossing ‘em into holes, and filling ‘em in, super-fast, before they can climb out, or wake up, or anything. Probably supposed to be some kind of hit-man, or mobster enforcer or something. The scribs don’t go into that much detail about the backstory on the characters The ‘Twixt makes up for me to hunt. Still, since I paid for his scrib, he’ll likely find out that I’m on his trail. So, one way or another, I’m going to run into Barry when I least suspect it. I gotta make sure I don’t fall asleep anywhere unsafe.
Kinda wish I had Bitty here to watch my back, or that Artie had stuck around. This is the only place that he can truly fly around though, so I get it. In the Fae’s Wilds, he can’t go above the canopy, and doesn’t have a lot of room between trees to spread his wings. Outside of the Wilds, if we’d ever go there, he’d have to contend with that big ol’ storm and all the acid rain, the rains of pain, or stinging-wet, as they call it.
Still, I’ve got five or so baddies to track down, and I know just where to start. The docks of course. You always start at the docks. It’s tradition. The seediest bar at the farthest pier, on the most run-down dock in the area is where all the juiciest rumors can be overheard. I do a little thrifty discounting, swiping a magnifying glass off a nearby shop stall countertop, in order to play up the part of the private-investigator. I’ll drop it back off later. It’s not like the characters made up by the ‘Twixt really need it, or even do anything when I’m not around.
I’d honestly be better served with a spyglass rather than a magnifying glass, since I’m mostly trying to cover ground and catch faces in crowds from far away. Going over a clue up close, magnified with this really isn’t going to do anything for me. Sighing, I return it to the shop stall I nabbed it from, before trying to get myself stoked up and ready to rumble. Alright world, here comes Tiktik Clocktok, Urban Bountyhunter Extraordinaire!