OOC NOTE: The following is a quote from the forum thread, Sundry Faces. It is perhaps the best description of Estelle's book, her, Unorthodox Catalog... _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

...Such a queer, quiet little woman; would any be at all surprised to know her living space was very much the same"

It was a rickety little place, winding and crawling once one found the steps behind a tall, nouveau-styled door. Up, up, up one had to climb, and the further they climbed, the narrower the steps. A romantic mind might feel Elle lived like a forgotten princess lost and locked away in some stingy, book-dusted tower. But this princess was far from lost, and the locks were several and self-placed; she checked them in triple every night.

Touches of her personality, things rarely seen in public other than through the arrangement of her clothes, showed much more noticeably within the small sanctuary of her little apartment. Books lined the wall shelves; that was an earlier note and a much given thing. But certain things showed the librarian had a taste to her, one that spoke of a beloved artistic period from faraway places. Everything was antiquated, and to compliment the curled, carved feet of her beaten couch, book ends, lamps, photo frames, and even the petite sprawl of her bed; they all matched the organic, rounded portal of the downstairs door that faced the market square.

Art nouveau and antiques with a few oriental rugs; there were worst tastes to have, and her trappings were meager. All little comforts she'd collected, sparkling and pretty like a magpie's treasures, over the many years she lived in the city.

The queerest and grandest of all things in the librarian's home, however, was a tall book podium left in a free stand in the farthest corner in the hollow of her bedroom. On the podium was of course, a book. But this book was unlike the many neat and predictable things that lined her walls. This book was a work of art, a sad, beautiful, grand, meticulous work of art.

Slowly but surely, as Elle sat her things down in their proper places, a bit of paper was unfolded from the overly large space of her jumper pocket. On the paper, once unfolded, was a fairly well drawn portrait. A name lay beneath the portrait. Upon opening that large, queer, bookish work of art, Elle began to paste the piece onto a new page already showing the evidence of another masterful composition.

It was a grandiose compilation of every face in Rhydin; or at least it would be, given time and patience and dedication. Many a hand would like to find themselves rifling through that book, for Elle was tireless and very, very attentive to detail. Names from the prominent to the barely known stared up at the changeling from her book; and each had a small corner smile, as if caught in a candid moment, unaware and natural. Slowly, fondly, she stroked the bird frail edge of her fingers along the latest entry.

"So many to collect..." Came her quiet murmur. With one last, lingering look and the careful flick of a marker ribbon in place, she turned, jotting a last minute note down to lay at the edge of her dresser.

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The entries on each page are in a fairly similar fashion, and most, if not all hold a portrait hand drawn by the librarian herself; unfortunately there is no true order of any kind to the entries. One must sift through all the pages if they mean to find their own face...

Name: Samilee Burke Age: 23 Spouse: Unmarried (Seen in the company of one Vilrath Arisa, Jochin Nagadari, and Corlanthis Wystansayr) Birthdate: May 30th (year undetermined) Occupation: Unemployed

Hobbies: Dancing, watching movies, paintball (sports"), visiting the seaside, recreational drug use, searching for specific clothing labels.

Encounter's Log:

Ms. Burke and I have never met, but the day I chanced upon her was one that sticks out in memory. As I was dropping off and picking up the proprietor's numbers from his accounts, exchanging the ledgers and vice versa, I could hear a most curious voice through the normal din of the building. She was laughing, her head leaned back just so, eyes in a leisurely slit beneath the heavy paint of her lids. On my way through I caught the tail end of the conversation she was having, where she was going. The name of a certain establishment caught my interest, and upon following her there, I became lost in the intricacies of the world she'd crafted around herself. Drug use was at times heavy, as was the consumption of her drink, yet somehow Ms. Burke seemed aloof for all her intoxication. There were moments during my trails that a certain glow would take to her eyes, or a veiny, ethereal quality to her skin. I do not believe she's entirely human, of what she might be exactly I still do not quite know, but I have suspicions, and the library is quite extensive. Between her business, Ms. Burke seems to enjoy the company of other interesting faces, her circle is wide, and seems never ending at times. There is most definitely something about the way she moves through the world that is unique to many others, free yet a slave to her own sense of self and the indulgence she craves from life.

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A small, folded flyer lay pasted to a part of the page; it's background was dark and the text a vibrant, sinful violet that read, The Asylum Club. There was a time and date written in Elle's own neat scrawl beside the pasted and folded piece, no doubt the time and date of when she'd gone to observe Samilee for the first time.

Elsewhere on the page, various descriptions of earrings, tattoos, and other piercings were jotted down in accurate detail, as well as an account of the woman-in-question's preferred shopping retailers. A smudge of lipstick, blush, and nail polish rowed across the bottom page in neat little swatches, each color was named, and all of them lined in a scale from one to ten; least to most frequented.

Other bits of paper and scraps included a crinkled label from a cigarette wrapping paper container, a clipping of a coupon from the paper that mentioned omelet specials, and a few pages from local shops, most of which were designer quality.

Small notes had been jotted here or there, musings from Elle herself; excerpts from piece of literature from the library; guesses to subject's origins and biology.

Down below it all, of course, there was a small, hand made scrawl of Ms. Samilee Burke.

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http://i1013.photobucket.com/albums/af255/fellea/RDI%20Thingys/UCEntry2SamibelleLee.jpg

Samilee Burke

Name: Godric Age: Appears to be 33-38 Spouse: Unmarried, with three children and an previous wife(mate") Briar Wilthorne. Also seen in the company of a supposedly 'kept' woman named Lust. Birthdate: Unknown Occupation: Retired Human Trafficker

Hobbies: Hunting, tanner, running, languages.

Encounter's Log:

Mr. Godric is someone I first met during one of the my nights as Murielle. I say "Mr. Godric", because not once in all my times there after our initial interface, did I learn hide nor hair of the man's surname. His nature was quite stand-offish and elusive from the first manner of sight; I'd heard him reeling about something quite violently, then witnessed him smash a bottle into the greedy flames of the Red Dragon's hearthside. Were it not for my shifted skin, I might not have managed to speak to the man, not that we spoke much, mind you, but there was something in the sparseness of his words that made it feel like we'd had numerable conversations when in fact it'd barely been the skeleton of one. Silence becomes some people quite well, Godric is most certainly one of those people at times, I've seen. Even in his more verbos moments he seems to pick and choose his words with a great care. I'd sneezed, he murmured a Nordic reply. His surprise to my own reply was what sparked further words in "common tongue", as he called it. I blamed my knowledge on the true source; books. His scoff was odd, as was his reason for not indulging in the written word I so worship. Then, as the night drifted away, he transformed before my eyes off the edge of the porch. A werewolf, Loup garu, the long tooth; call it whatever name in history you'd like, but a creature of his caliber was not easy to observe. He hunted, he feasted, he prided in his kills and ran every night in his fur. Though quite abrasive, I did notice a great change in the man when he was around his children. Given the nature of his ramblings, and the subtle allusions he made to me due to my chosen spot to sit when we'd met back at the inn, I believe the man is suffering from some sort of separation. I've not glimpsed the woman who bore him his three children, but I've heard her name murmured carefully. There were enough scars on his body to suggest many a wound, but I suspect none are as deep as the ones he carries inside. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Lining the outside edge of the page were small snatches of what looked like leather and thin, well cured swatches of hide. All were examples of Godric's fine work, and each labeled to ensure their orderly line she'd crafted them in with all their fine, eensy stitches into the paper. Words as common as 'deer' and exotic as 'caracal' ranged between the skins and furs.

Notes came in neat places that described in great length and reasoning the man's many, many scars. Given the knowledge of his nature, various words such as 'territory disputes', 'mating rituals', and 'coming of age's were jotted down with little bullets beside them. Other words like, 'kingship' and 'pack ruling' were question marked. Beside this there was a small list of measurements and approximates that denoted Godric's animal form's size, fur tone, and other notable features compared to that of his skinned, 'man' form.

Beside Godric's sketched image, Elle had scripted the names of his children with a touch more care than the rest of her scrawlings; these names too had descriptions, albeit smaller ones, given the brief period she'd actually glimpsed them.

One of the last few things she'd collected was the crinkled, slightly charred, wet-then-dried label of a liquor bottle; beside it was a date and small scrawling of how she'd watched him break it. There had been a look in his eyes that she felt needed mentioning, and a glimpse of the beast beneath that she hadn't even fully known was real until later in the evening.

What one might note about Godric's page is that while Elle's inscription had been fairly lengthy and somewhat personal due to her account and interfacing with the man, was that she had fairly little to show for all her work. Apt and clever she may be, but some folk were not so easy to put to a page; Godric was surely one of them. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

http://i1013.photobucket.com/albums/af255/fellea/RDI%20Thingys/UCEntryGodric.jpg

Godric

Name: Jochin Nagadari Age: Appears to be 28-32 Spouse: Unmarried, but more often seen in the company of Ms. A. L. Harper and a number of other women. Birthdate: August 6th, year unknown. Occupation: Odd jobs, hunter.

Hobbies: Calisthenics, dancing, boxing, smoking, music dens, drinking, socializing.

Encounter's Log:

It was at the library that I first met Mr. Jochin. He'd come in with a query that I found a bit odd for someone of his appearance; he asked about a complete catalog of vampiric bloodlines. In truth, that's a strange request for anyone, regardless of their appearance. I assured him that while I didn't have such a tome in stock, that the library did have the resources to narrow his search down to someone in possession of such a thing. After that day he never returned to the library, but I often saw him about the Inn. In fact, I'd seen Mr. Jochin several times in the Inn before he'd ever walked into the library. His social hours vary greatly, as he seems to keep no means of a conventional job, merely a series of odd ones that fill the time for when he's away. I'm not quite sure where Mr. Jochin goes when that phone of his rings, but he comes back often looking fairly worn and at times even moving stiffly, though not always. Either way, he seems to have no real care and very little regard for his body, save for how it appears to those of the opposite sex. There has not been a time I haven't seen him smoke, nor drink, save when he alternates between endurance exercises and fist-to-cuffs boxing during his down hours. When he's not occupied his time with those things, I've noticed that Mr. Jochin doesn't often sleep, he simply sits up at all hours in his room above the Red Dragon and thinks. Meditation would be a more proper word, considering the depth of his stare into the empty air. Mr. Jochin is, first and foremost, and outwardly attractive individual. His smile often draws people in, and the back and forth of his easy conversation helps sink that initial hook in a little deeper. It was as Murielle that I learned this, and though his intentions are probably not the purest, Mr. Jochin is first and foremost a gentleman in his own unique way. After a while I found that though Mr. Jochin doesn't always exert the effort necessary to get his hands on a sweeter, finer tobacco, he does appreciate it greatly. In fact, the smell often lingers about him; not stale so much, but a pleasant scent that sort of blends into his overall presence. Like many people I've encountered in this city, Mr. Jochin is another person who's a bit more than he appears.

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The sketch of Jochin is a bit larger than the others, if only for the small ribbons of smoke Elle so delicately illustrated beside his portrait. Beside those trickles of smoke the first list is scrawled out neatly; it is a list of cigarette brands. Near the end a small paper emblem from one of those very name brands is pasted in carefully, though the surgeon generals warning seems to have been either scraped or peeled off.

A cleft note stands in the far corner of the noted page as a starter symbol for a small description of the few types of music Jochin favors over most others. Blues stands out, and from across the page, a tendril of smoke seems to creep out as if it means to wrap about the small collection of bullets and sentences.

Tri-folded neatly on the middle right of the page, beside Jochin's portrait, a small colored piece of paper from the library is folded. It's a piece of paper from one of the many stacks found behind Elle's desk with a tacky backing for convenience, and a preprinted set of lines and title and date sections. On the front of it there is a footprint, a large section of one, anyway, and on the back there's what looks like a bit of cigarette ash and a smudge of dark, amber liquid long dried. The name 'Murielle' and the name of what appears to be a bar or some such establishment is written beneath it very carefully.

Near the bottom of the page a small flyer for a local gym, on the bottom of the flyer in thick writing lay a small schedule of times for free boxing and other details that include amateur tournaments. One or two of the hours of operation are circled, and between them further notes are inserted; times no doubt, that Jochin goes despite the 'hours'.

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Jochin Nagadari