At a lonely little side street just away from downtown Sacramento, there sits a charming storefront aptly titled The Book Haven. This is the name of various unrelated bookstores across the country, but most are fairly similar in operation. This particular one deals in used volumes of every kind, as well as repairs. Both owned and operated by a friendly middle-aged woman, the establishment unfortunately teeters on the verge of bankruptcy every month.

The appeal of money, just to rent the building for part of the night, delivered by a flattering and handsome college boy in a beat up old car-truck, is too much for the proprietor to resist. She has gone home for the evening to balance the books, leaving the building under the supervision of Dillon Connery.

Dillon sits on the tailgate of his dented El Camino nearby, kicking his feet absentmindedly and humming a tune. The car is missing its hubcaps, and no longer has a real paint job; it is covered in matte black primer that barely conceals various dings and scratches. The back fender contains four noticeable impressions in a row, that bring to mind monstrous knuckles or fingers. The Savage himself looks in better condition for his age, of course, dressed in his typical street attire. He set the meeting time a little later than he would be there intentionally, wanting to be Martha's beacon in case she didn't know the place.

Martha wanted to be early. If only in case she had a flat tyre, got lost or was held up in some unforeseen way. She loved riding her bicycle and it showed in her face as she rode up. Dressed in a yellow hi-visibility safety tabbard over her long school gymslip and school blazer, her straw hat tied to her chin with a wide white ribbon. Martha's ankle length gymslip flipped and flapped as she peddled along. Smiling happily. Wide eyed and alert to the traffic. Her long skirt billowed and sometimes allowed a brief glimpse of the neat white kneesocks she wore. To compensate for her lame leg she had found a system of working and pushing hard to get motion and letting the peddle do the rest on the return stroke. As she peddled up to join Dillon, she glanced back to check the traffic before giving the signal for slowing to a stop and she guided her bicycle to the kerb. Homing in on Dillon with a shy smile.

Taking care to dismount neatly, she nevertheless found it impossible to dismount without needing to show another hint of her kneesocks. The brief glimpse offered by her hasty dismount revealed that her lower legs are slim, the calf of her right leg is clearly very well toned...the other less so, and stiff from knee to ankle.

Bashfully she smiled again to Dillon as she limped heavily along, robbed of her freedom of motion now, she seemed to pay a cost in dragging her stiff leg as she walked her bicycle to the nearby rack to lock it and secure it. "Ah! Good evening, sir!" she chirped, clearly eager to see him. "Goodness me, I do hope you have not waited long! A jolly good show it is a fine evening!" she chatted as she secured her bike, adjusted her hat, Martha began to unfasten the ribbon sash. Her hair in regulation twin tails, her satchel at her side. No cane in evidence. She stole a few glances about the street and rooftops...alert for any danger, before bashfully smiling to Dillon once more. She has clearly made an effort to be neat and clean.

Dillon's idle humming and kicking stops as he watches Martha's entrance. The trademark Dillon Connery grin is there on his face almost immediately. It's as though the Herald's general exuberance is absorbed by the Gangrel and bounces back out through his animated face. A mental note is taken of Martha's awareness, that she was quite keen, and seemed well-prepared.

"Good evening, ma'am." Dillon greets merrily. He's still not hopped off of the tailgate, yet, allowing her to close more distance. "And as always, you are worth the wait. But no, it hasn't been a long one. I wanted to be here for you to spot, in case you weren't familiar with the location." Dillon gestures to the sign above the relatively small building's windowed storefront as he hops down to meet the little lady. His long coat billows dramatically. "Poetic, isn't it? I couldn't resist. Here, let's get inside where we can talk freely. I've secured the whole place just for us to browse and scheme. The nice young woman that operates it has allowed me the privilege of merely 'locking up when I leave'." There's no further hint about his vampiric joke of the owner's age, or the convention that gained them this treat, because he wants to see the reaction from the other.

Martha hobbled closer, smiling and clearly reacting well to the mutual good mood. Gripping her lame thigh to help herself be steady as she gets closer, watching wide eyed as Dillon hops dramatically from the car. "Goodness me!" she exclaims, with a giggle, at his agility. Nodding, her twin tails bob as she listens to Dillons explanation. Smiling and nodding as she accepts the invite inside. "That all sounds splendid! I am very much looking forward to this, sir!" she hobbles closer, bashful...alert once more for activity in the street.

Turning back to the vehicle briefly, Dillon snatches a portfolio from the passenger's side seat through the open window. "Pay no heed to the state of this ride's appearance. I promise I'm not negligent of its care. This is... urban camouflage." He chuckles a little and raps his knuckles on the primer-coated steel. "I had a beautifully restored '68 Mustang Fastback a few deca-- er, years ago that wound up on cinder blocks and missing vital components after I left it unattended. It took all of fifteen minutes. No one bothers this thing, though. Perfect town car." The friendly Savage stops rambling when he notices Martha hobbling over to him.

There's a metaphoric click of wheels turning behind Dillon's eyes as he makes the last few steps to the Herald quickly. Having taken a bike, of course she'd be without her cane. "Sorry, a lady shouldn't walk without an escort. Let me." Dillon smiles a real winner of a grin as he offers his arm. It's obvious the suggestion references Martha's handicap, but Dillon at least tries to do so without bringing the matter to the forefront of the conversation. He believes the shyness displayed in some of her actions indicated a sensitivity to it, so he dodges it as much as he can.

Martha seemed fascinated by the talk of the car and listened very attentively, nodding often. Her twin tails bob. Again, she smiles bashfully as Dillon offers his arm. She blinks as if ensuring she heard his words correctly, then, seeing the grin, nodded firmly in shy agreement and limped closer, accepting the offered arm. At this distance her aromas of fresh cotton, lavender soap and minty toothpaste are obvious. Tiny Martha hobbles close and seems to try to settle her posture. Her reliance upon Dillon will be genuine. "Thank you, sir! What a gentleman you are! I shouldn't wish to be a burden though, do let me know when you grow weary of my hanging from you." she seems genuine in her worry, but soon enthuses with eager eyes. "Ah, and a wise gentleman too! All that talk of urban camouflage! How splendid! A great pity about your Mustang. What manner of automobile is that one, please, sir?" she asks, nodding to the Camino, "Please pardon my ignorance, sir. I am afraid I know very little about automobiles." tiny Martha seems interested in the reply, smiling happily to Dillon.

Dillon scoffs a short laugh, not fully a chuckle, but still friendly. "If, somehow, I should ever grow weary of offering you my support, Miss Villiers, I promise to let you know." Multiple meanings, there. And he's proud of it. "But don't expect to be rid of me so soon. Especially not when you're so pleasantly fragrant." He leans to her just enough to assure as a gesture that he's merely putting a playful spin on his words. They are honest.

Leading Martha inside, a bell dings lightly as the door opens. Dillon spares one last indicative glance back toward his car. "That would be a Chevrolet El Camino. Also a '68 model... I just liked that year I guess. It's a car, it's a truck... it's a 'cruck'. I've been fond of it simply because it has that classic look of a muscle car, with the utility of a hauler." He shrugs offhandedly. "It's useful, but fun. And don't worry about the Mustang," he adds a wink as he rolls the lock on the door behind them, "it was a valuable lesson in materialism."

The woody smell of antiquated books and paper is among them immediately. There are rows and rows of everything from children's books to novels, college texts and dissertations, poetry and classic literature, or pretty much anything else one can imagine. But searching for any one particular thing would surely be a needle hunt in a stack of needles. This is more optimized for hours of browsing and conversation. Clearly, this could be the setting for numerous return trips.

Martha listens attentively and smiles at the wink and the kind words offered. Bashful again, she holds to Dillon carefully, is pleased she was attentive to her fragrances and allows herself to be led inside. She shares a smile with Dillon as she takes in the aroma of books. "Goodness me! What a bonanza of books and learning, sir! Goodness!" she enthuses, all excited, she clings eagerly to Dillon. "Sir...what manner of book and topic of learning were you interested in exploring this evening?" she ask, all eager.

"I'm very glad you like it." Dillon says genuinely. "By the way, there's no monitoring other that the camera by the desk, and it's off, so we may speak freely here." He seemed to have been anxious for her reaction to the books, and grins at it. Seizing the opportunity given by her excellent choice of wording, he answers deftly. "The manner of book I'm interested in is just to tour of what is available to us, and see if anything particular grabs our attention. The topic of learning I wanted to pursue is you, if you will allow me."

The Gangrel raises his free hand in beseeching for understanding as they stroll slowly along. "I promise not to be offended anytime you want me to mind my own business, but our last meeting was mainly about me. By design, of course. I needed knowledge and Acknowledgement, both of which you provided graciously, and made me feel quite welcome."

"It struck me that I never learned your Clan or Covenant." There's is a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes as his smile widens. "Would it amuse you if I guessed?"

Bashfully Martha nodded, she had fallen into a shy silence and was holding close to Dillon. Watching and nodding with wide eyes. Biting at her bottom lip. The idea of the game appealed and amused. Twin tails bob as she nods agreement. "I am glad you felt welcome, sir...and: yes! It would amuse me to hear your guesses, sir! I do enjoy parlour games!" she enthuses, more from the spirit of the game than ego.

Dillon's eyes follow the bounce of Martha's tails as she approves. He's glad that she is indulging him so far. Picking an aisle at random, and asking with a silent gesture if it is an acceptable choice, he would lead the Vampires casually on. The aisle he has chosen seems to be more poetry than anything else, vaguely organized by era, then by author.

"Well, I suppose Gangrel is out." The Savage begins, smiling only a little as he organizes his thoughts. "Someone would have mentioned it to me, by now, I think. You're too pleasing to the senses to be Nosferatu, and I detect no auras of dread or menace." There is a pause here, as he tries to narrow it down. "And though you certainly possess the charm and graces of the Ventrue or Daeva, you are more subtle and agreeable than they tend to be. Which is one of the few things that points in the direction of Mekhet; the fact that I'm having to guess at all. I think you tend to cast shadows instead of dwelling among them, but that is my guess."

During the whole process, Dillon maintains an air of good natured humor, but it shifts a little toward nervous as he glances sideways to the Herald. "How am I doing so far?"

Martha smiles cheerfully. Still holding on to Dillon she limps along beside him, her stiff leg dragging. She giggles as the guesses are made and smiles happily as he settles on Mekhet. "Ah! An interesting deduction so far, sir! It is a good job I am not subject to a forfeit for this!" a cheerful reply. A happy smile as she joins in the good natured jollity. Twin tails bob again as she nods to signal a correct guess so far.

Dillon's eyebrows raise as his mouth draws down in a frown of disbelieving approval, pleasantly surprised he'd gotten one right. "The idea of your Covenant baffles me, though. I know you're not Sanctified, because as such an important member of the domain, you would have been at the recent meeting for sure. So at least I get that much of a hint. Probably not an Acolyte, either, as they tend to announce themselves to me when they hear I belong to the Church. Not usually in a confrontational way or anything, but, well..." His voice trails off before getting back on subject. "Anyway, your particular old fashioned charm-- and I mean that as the greatest compliment-- makes me think of an Elder of the First Estate. However, Invictus Elders usually either merge their covenant titles with their domain titles, or speak them even in the stead of their position in the domain, correct? You did gently correct me on His Majesty's title of Alder Prince, but have not issued a similar correction for yourself. Not even when I slip and just call you 'ma'am'."

Again, there's a ghost of that tightened expression on Dillon's face, like he's about to run head-long into a tree. "Am I getting close?"

Martha giggles. She is having a lot of fun with this and it shows in her bright eyed glee. "I do love games, sir! Close? Perhaps, sir! So far your thoughts seem accurate...you are certainly working hard for your success!"

Dillon snaps his fingers in feigned resentment that he got no further hints. The look of mock chagrin on his animated face is pretty entertaining, and entirely for Martha's amusement. Every time she giggles, he has to mightily resist doing the same. "No help, eh? You sound like a sneaky little Dragon!" It was actually a joking shot in the dark, to gauge the reaction in the little Herald's face, but Dillon has no other ideas and throws it out there.

Martha giggles merrily and smiles, "Ah! Well done, sir! You are acute in your assessments!" she giggles along. "You have bested my ability to confound! I should try hard to pretend to something else!" clearly impressed by Dillon, she hobbles closer. Wide eyed and having fun.

Dillon shakes his head, laughing lightly. "No, that was a 'coin flip', Miss Villiers. Both the Carthians and the Ordo Dracul seem to employ a variety of personalities, but I find the Dragons vastly more interesting." As in, he thought Martha was far too interesting to be Carthian. There's a wink. "Please don't tell any of the City's Carthians I said that, though."

She nods in playful seriousness, joining in the jollity, "I shall not tell a soul, sir! I would be a very poor Mekhet if I was insecure with such things!" a happy smile.

"Point taken." Dillon confirms with a nod. "In all seriousness, though, I have to tell you that I am glad that I can... be glad around you. So many of our kind are so severe about our condition. It's good to just stand here and laugh with someone in a great big pile of dusty books." He stops, running a finger along various aged spines. They're still in the middle of poetry, and the Savage seems to be just taking in the titles without any real recognition.

Martha nods and smiles and seems to understand: clearly sharing his view. "I fully agree, sir!" She limps close, hoping to keep pace with Dillon, looking at the titles he inspects. Allowing herself to disengage from his arm for a moment she hobbles over to inspect the titles at his side. Wide eyed. The talk of dusty books brought a calm over her. She studied the titles. Some were familiar, others less so. She pulled out a slim volume of poems by Sandburg. Studying the cover of the Dover thrift edition, she shows it to Dillon with a smile, as if inviting a comment.

Dillon looks over at Martha's choice. "Carl Sandburg..." He reads aloud. There's a frown and then a smile. "Not someone I'm familiar with. Are you, very?" He ends the sentence in a tone that is clearly interested, if a little ignorant.

Martha nods happily. "I have seen his name often mentioned as a force of a new voice of American Realism. I have read some of his work, though nowhere near as much as I should have liked...His words seems to mythologise America, whilst at the same time attempting to be honest about the world around him...fascinating!" she leaves through the volume and begins, in a precise tone and with great care, recite from "Skyscrapers"...

"BY day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and
has a soul.
Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into
it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are
poured out again back to the streets, prairies and
valleys.
It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and
out all day that give the building a soul of dreams
and thoughts and memories.
(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care
for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman the way to it?)

Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and
parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and sewage out.
Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words,
and tell terrors and profits and loves - curses of men
grappling plans of business and questions of women
in plots of love.

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the
earth and hold the building to a turning planet.
Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and
hold together the stone walls and floors..."

Martha seems stilled to silence by these words. She blinks.

Dillon listens attentively and nods here and there, often in easy rhythm with Martha's recital. He seems uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He finds some soon enough, quietly commenting. "The imagination it must take to comment on the majesty of the modern world, especially when you're a mortal who was born in it. But you're right. At the same time, it's very grounded and matter of fact... Hmm." He seems quite pleased with her choice, and asks, "'Mythologise America' you said... Was it some such curiosity that brought you to this country, Miss Villiers?"

Dillon knows this may be a loaded question and seems prepared to return to poetry should Martha steer them back. His own trip across Europe hadn't been a whimsical vacation, after all.

"Curiosity, sir? No...but...I did not get much chance to explore as I would have enjoyed to...though I did marvel at the skyscrapers! The Singer...the Flatiron and Woolworth...all most impressive! Mixing all those architectural styles in such a scale! There was no doubt in my mind, upon seeing them and the electric lights and New York city, that the United States represented the Future and all Its Works..." she thinks hard, keeping the book close to her chest as she thinks. A smile. Bright eyes watch Dillon happily enough, watchful for his reaction.

Dillon thinks perhaps it's not just the slim book that Martha is keeping close to her chest, but he latches on to the talk of New York. He's not dead-sure, but he thinks the Singer was demolished some time ago. Making a mental note to look that up later, he knows it will give him a clue to Martha's timeline. Devious! "The Flatiron! Times Square!" The Savage pipes, nostalgia on his face, mixed with excitement. "I went back a few years ago, and it's so bright now, you'd think you had raised from the Daysleep too early. You can look straight up, and see the skyline against the gray sky as clear as a cloudy day." Though, it's been awhile since he's seen one of those... "In the dead of night!"

"Goodness me! How exciting it all is!" she beams and chirps with excitement. "The marvels of it all! I daresay, sir, that you are a fine guide to this country...Chicago and New York in particular!" another happy smile, she keeps the book close to her chest still, but with one free hand rubs hard at her lame hip. "Do you think we might find some books on skyscrapers amongst these?" she asks, looking about while standing still. Wide eyed. Clearly enthusiastic.

Dillon shrugs modestly with one shoulder. "I've been around it a few times. Went to Europe once, but it wasn't the best of ages. A lot of scared and angry mortals killing each other..." He stops before he pulls the mood down. Not that he minded talking about it, just that he didn't want to be a killjoy. "The forties... well, you know. Anyway!" Dillon looks around, bright-eyed again, "There's got to be some kind of architecture section around here somewhere. Keep an eye out for art books?"

Offering his arm to Martha, he would continue to guide them in the search for skyscrapers.