Fandom Island and Town

Flint had offered to give Henry a lesson in sword fighting when they'd been at dinner on Thursday, and in an attempt not to have missed that obligation before the next dinner happened, they'd agreed to meet here.

Flint had scrounged up a few practice cutlasses from Better Not to Ask, and was warming up his arms before Henry arrived. The porgs kept their distance as they watched.



[OOC: Expecting one, but open beach is open!]

Flint was in the bookshop today, reading about predatory birds of Central and South America. The crested caracara perched on his slightly dusty cash register probably had something to do with the choice of reading material.

"What sort of name is Tidreles, anyway?" Flint finally commented.

"What sort of name is James?" Tidreles retorted, pecking at a piece of paper.

The book store was open! Maybe you also need research material?

If you'd been on the beach this morning, you might've thought that the man dressed in linen and wearing a Tahitian black pearl on a cord around his neck sitting quietly in the sand as he dried off had arrived right from the ocean.

But that would be extremely extra, wouldn't it? And Poseidon, god of the sea, was never anything but low key. Ignore hurricanes. And floods. And tsunamis.

He sat there, letting the wind blow his hair around, and stared out at the water. If the waves were bigger than they should be for a beach in Maryland, well, sometimes that happened.

[OOC: So open.]

After an enlightening dinner last night, Flint had tucked into a book about modern city planning and was now learning about crosswalks, traffic flow, and how he, perhaps, should not have stabbed that car a few weeks ago.

Perhaps.

He glanced up from his bed and then blinked in confusion as a giant lizard stomped past his door and crashed through his display of deeply terrible beach books. He wasn't sorry to see them go, but...

"What the fuck is going on out there?" he demanded to no one, grabbing his pistol and stomping outside.

Being outside did not help with his confusion.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" he bellowed.

He'd have some Things to share at First Aid.

There was a small flag on the counter to celebrate Sierra Leone's independence from Great Britain, but it was hard to find behind all of the boxes of 'beach reads' that had appeared from somewhere.

Flint was very certain he hadn't ordered them. (He didn't know what Women Living Deliciously even meant.)

The books, as he unpacked them, were stacked haphazardly onto the floor. He'd move them later, but for now he was just so very confused by their titles.

[OOC: Open!]

There was a tiny flag for Barbados on the counter, no tiny children (Flint had checked three times), and a cozy fire in the fireplace. Flint was in the chair near it with a copy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol and a sheet of paper where he was writing down a (long, long) list of people he would send vengeful ghosts to haunt.

It never hurt to be prepared! Someone might come in and ask for it!

The shop was open! There were no Black Friday sales because Flint didn't know that was a thing and also because he didn't really sell things.

Flint was regretting the hamburger he'd eaten at Mooby Land last night, but he wasn't regretting how quiet the island had gotten this week.

The door to the shop was propped open to let in the breeze, the flags of St. Vincent and Zambia were on the counter, and Flint was in his chair with a copy of Fordyce's Sermons, flipping pages and snorting audibly at some of this man's conclusions. Miranda would have some thoughts on this when it was finally published in their time, and they would be scathing.

He missed her.

The shop was open.

There were small Indian and Pakistani flags on the counter today to celebrate their independence days this week, and Flint was paging through a new book today--Human, All Too Human by a man called Nietzsche--and enjoying the quiet.

He wouldn't hate an interruption: a month without a crisis for him to deal with had left him feeling itchy and unsettled.

After being horribly overstimulated by the movie in his class (?) about kitchens (??!), Flint retreated to his shop with a soothing cup of tea without ice or milk, thank you ever so much.

The fortnight previous' parroting obstacles had preventing him from properly celebrating the Bahamas' independence day, so there was a large flag in the window today, which somewhat blocked the view of the street from his comfortable chair.

His little bookshelf of books he'd read, hated, and might sell had increased by a few, and he was currently reading Gulliver's Travels, a book not even written in his time. It felt very daring.

The shop was open.

After seeing how decorated the tavern had been on Tuesday, Flint wondered if the tiny Canadian and American flags on his counter were a little too understated for his continuing celebration of independence from the British Empire.

He thought that over, then shrugged. He wasn't really that worried about it.

The door to the shop was closed now that he'd learned the Rules About Cold Air and he was in his chair by the window. Today's reading was the US Declaration of Indepedence. He was really enjoying people--using very nice calligraphy--telling the king to go fuck himself.

The Ink Spot was open! Whether Flint would sell you a book was still up for debate.

Flint had been doing some major clearing out and rearranging in the week since he'd washed up on shore, broken into the bookshop and declared it his.

He'd also spent an inordinate amount of time flipping the lights on and off, flushing the toilet, and turning on the hot and cold water taps in the apartment above the shop. He'd also quietly panicked at the cold air cycling through the building. The less said about his search for a giant ice cube secreted in the cupboards, the better.

He hadn't made sense yet of the how the books were arranged (other than "a lot of them" and "in many piles") and he kept getting distracted by some title or another. He also had no idea what a "bookbelt" was, so he'd taken the sign outside down and replaced it with a temporary piece of timber that he'd scrawled "THE INK SPOT" onto. He'd get a better, more permanent sign soon.

He was currently seated in a battered leather reading chair under a lamp with a copy of Cervantes' Novelas Ejemplares. On the checkout counter/holding space for the books he'd already finished (not many) was a tiny Kuwaiti flag, celebrating their independence from Great Britain on June 19, 1961.

The bookshop was open.