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fandomtownies2007-03-03 05:18 am
norglomofnit.livejournal.com) wrote in fandomtownies2007-03-03 05:18 am
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Fandom Post Office: Friday morning
Moist was standing on the footpath, hands on his hips, staring at the decidedly less than glorious looking post office.
This would never do. No one would answer the glorious call of the Postal Service if the home of that service was distinctly lacking in glory. Since he had no intention of running this place on his own, coaxing people to answer that call loomed large in his immediate future.
"Gladys, we're going shopping," he called as he bounded up the steps. Gladys was patiently sorting through the piles of undelivered mail, eyes smouldering with a banked fire. "There must be somewhere we can buy supplies, and there's a decent amount of money in the tills."
The flimsy paper pieces had given him pause - for about five seconds, and then he'd stared at them in wonder. It was just stamps, only better and purpose built. No more carrying around gold, no more needing a horse and cart to shift your fortune - or someone else's fortune, which was the majority of Moist's experience. You could just fold it up and put it in your pocket.
"Yes, Mr Lipwig," Gladys replied obediently, carefully placing the pile of letters and parcels back on the floor.
"You can finish that when we get back. First we--" and by we, Moist of course meant you, "--freshen up the look of the old place, throw up a new sign, and then we deliver the mail. It's bound to get the right sort of attention." As opposed to the wrong sort of attention, Moist thought, which generally involved questions like, 'And what do we have there, then?', 'Well, well, well isn't this interesting?' and, in more extreme cases, shouts of, 'Stop and you won't be harmed.'.
The key was to create the impression he belonged right here, in exactly this place, doing exactly this job, and the best way to do that was to actually belong. There was no room for hesitation or uncertainty. As of this moment, he was the - Fandom? He flipped through the ledger again. Yes, Fandom - Postmaster.
He had a creeping sense that that was far more accurate than he would have liked. This post office felt like a living thing, a patient guardian animal, watching to make sure he'd do as he ought, ready to enforce it with a swift snap if necessary.
He'd learned from long experience it was best not to consider those sorts of things too closely.
Moist brushed himself down, rolling his eyes at his bright golden suit - because while he was prepared to accept he was stuck with being Moist, it would have been nice to have ditched the suit - and waved a jaunty hand in the air. "And we're off."
[ooc: Merely establishing, so no interaction possible.]
This would never do. No one would answer the glorious call of the Postal Service if the home of that service was distinctly lacking in glory. Since he had no intention of running this place on his own, coaxing people to answer that call loomed large in his immediate future.
"Gladys, we're going shopping," he called as he bounded up the steps. Gladys was patiently sorting through the piles of undelivered mail, eyes smouldering with a banked fire. "There must be somewhere we can buy supplies, and there's a decent amount of money in the tills."
The flimsy paper pieces had given him pause - for about five seconds, and then he'd stared at them in wonder. It was just stamps, only better and purpose built. No more carrying around gold, no more needing a horse and cart to shift your fortune - or someone else's fortune, which was the majority of Moist's experience. You could just fold it up and put it in your pocket.
"Yes, Mr Lipwig," Gladys replied obediently, carefully placing the pile of letters and parcels back on the floor.
"You can finish that when we get back. First we--" and by we, Moist of course meant you, "--freshen up the look of the old place, throw up a new sign, and then we deliver the mail. It's bound to get the right sort of attention." As opposed to the wrong sort of attention, Moist thought, which generally involved questions like, 'And what do we have there, then?', 'Well, well, well isn't this interesting?' and, in more extreme cases, shouts of, 'Stop and you won't be harmed.'.
The key was to create the impression he belonged right here, in exactly this place, doing exactly this job, and the best way to do that was to actually belong. There was no room for hesitation or uncertainty. As of this moment, he was the - Fandom? He flipped through the ledger again. Yes, Fandom - Postmaster.
He had a creeping sense that that was far more accurate than he would have liked. This post office felt like a living thing, a patient guardian animal, watching to make sure he'd do as he ought, ready to enforce it with a swift snap if necessary.
He'd learned from long experience it was best not to consider those sorts of things too closely.
Moist brushed himself down, rolling his eyes at his bright golden suit - because while he was prepared to accept he was stuck with being Moist, it would have been nice to have ditched the suit - and waved a jaunty hand in the air. "And we're off."
[ooc: Merely establishing, so no interaction possible.]