(open) Home Territory

[stabinae]

'You say I'm stuck somewhere back in between
My blurred memories.
Some say I kicked myself right in the face;
I'm not as I seem...'

Coffee.

She breathed in the strong, distinctive aroma, a twinge of irritance flickering in her gut as she realised the scent of the beverage she drank so often brought a twisted kind of relief. Originally she'd drank it only to blend in further with humanity, then because it flawlessly masked her faint, feral, sulfur-ash-blood 'musk'.

Now, it appeared her system had grown a certain fondness for the popular beverage. She was not addicted, though. Of course not.
Shackinjira do not grow addicted to anything. She could stop drinking coffee whenever she pleased.

The bookshop had been quiet this weekend, so she'd had no problem closing it for lunch. However, the two hours of midday 'rest' were almost up. She could not sit in the coffee shop much longer, or else she'd be reopening late; and she was a punctual being.

" All right there, Emily?"

The waiter smiled at her as he began to clean one of the neighbouring tables; she, Emily Crowe, was a regular and some of the staff had even bought books off her. As she ran the shop with only a couple of employees - and it was quite a decent-sized shop - her face had been remembered over the years. Now, she was considered a local, and had many human aqquaintances.
The shackinjira didn't mind. It was only her long-term body's face they would remember.

" Yes, I am fine, Matthew." She rose, having finished her mug, and shrugged on her coat.

" Tell Rachel that her coffee brew is as exceptional as ever."

The human promised he would, and bade her a friendly farewell, which she returned politely. As she stepped out onto the street, she became just another person amongst a crowd of people.
Just one fish in a sea of fish.

Her long black hair rippled out behind her, her black coat covering a fitted dark crimson blouse and dark denim jeans. Her long legs strode out, black boots touching down firmly with each brisk stride, her black handbag slung over one shoulder. It was only a couple of blocks to walk; within fifteen minutes she was back, with the shop open and ready for business.

Until closing time at 7pm, that was.

Stabinae calmly, masterfully walked around, coat and bag absent, fixing and restocking shelves. It was just her and one employee today, the latter watching the till while she made the rounds.

[Elysia Gallagher O'Broin]

There was a pot in the middle of one of the aisles. It didn't appear to have a particular reason for being there, except to just lay there innocuously as if it was sorry to be there. Some ways from the pot was a wooden spoon, which appeared just as sorry to be there as the pot, that looked like it had been dropped in it's owner's haste to get to where ever it was they had needed to be. Both were obviously not meant to be there, but that didn't change the fact that they were.

Now, if one was to continue down that same aisle they would also see the elusive owner of aforementioned abandonned items of cookery, sitting crossed legged in front of Classics with a book open in her lap. A weathered, leather rucksack sat beside her, half stuffed with what might be a thick wool jacket that was exploding out the top and who knew what else. Because it was so hot in the South, she was swathed only in a pair of worn denim shorts and black tank--because sweating simply wasn't something she liked to do.

There were also no shoes on her feet; honestly, who wore shoes these days anyways?

Elly flipped a page in the book she was reading, a dreamy smile quirking her lips as she immersed herself in the works of Dostoeveky. It was so good to know that, as off kilter as she herself was, there were always people with bouts of insanity worse somewhere--even if it was only ink on a page written more than a century ago. The Brothers Karamazov was one of her favorites, and she related the most to poor Vanya as he began his descent into madness with the help of Smerdyakov; when one is labeled as crazy as she was, there are times when you start to believe it.

If only just a little.

Sighing happily, the blonde began to hum a soft tune under her breath, completely unaware of everything around her and the fact that she had left a pot and wooden spoon in the middle of the aisle just around the corner.