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[center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/b3RmLjEwNi5kZWI4ODcuVUc5dElFVjJaWEpuY21WbGJnLjE/hippie-movement.regular.webp[/img][img]https://images2.imgbox.com/b3/f3/196w9mDz_o.png[/img][/center]
[right][code]13 Mourningdove Lane[/code][/right]
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There were questions, so, so many questions, so many questions in need of real answers, answers which suddenly became so very unimportant the moment a young Scot brought a little more light into the room. Cailean found the exact right lever to flip just in time to stop Pom’s nuclear meltdown. Pom straightened up as the either very short elf or extremely tall halfing bounded over, a confused smile on her face as she tried to parse out what pie sounded like. Or was Pom fucking sound? Some new lingo all the hip young cats were using? Yes, yes, yes, that must be it. She was confirmed to be hella sound.

[color=deb887]“Oh yeah, man. So sound, absolutely rock and roll,”[/color] said Pom, her face lighting up as Cailen pointed out Burnie Cinders. [color=deb887]“[i]I know, it’s so weird! [/i] Nobody else is acting like it’s a big deal.”[/color]

Pom nearly floated away to join Azure above the others and would’ve trailed behind Cailen like a kite but she was pulled back down by the whiff of something off. There was the disappointing, cheap candle smell of Norm’s abysmal apple pie, an absolute travesty of a dessert that even a double scoop of vanilla ice cream and a piping hot cup of joe couldn’t remedy, but that wasn’t it. It smelled even more familiar than that god awful pastry pastiche which almost always guaranteed that Pom was going to get tipped less than eighteen percent. It was that mix of mud, fish toilet, sad nostalgia, and polluted backwash from those fucking rustbelt bastards in Ohio which now clung to Cailean’s wet hair that dragged Pom back down. She’d bitched about that smell quite often come laundry day. She’d loved that smell. She missed it.

[i]Not here,[/i] thought Pom, pretending like she was only adjusting her sunglasses as she sniffed and shuffled away to find either a wall or a hole, whichever presented itself first. 

Her body stiffened as the tapping of a cane drew her attention away from pretending she was examining a tapestry to an older, English elf who probably still referred to the American Revolution as the War of Colonial Tomfoolery. It was clear to Pom, between the pompous elf’s disdain of those gathered in the hall to his rudeness of not participating in their name game to his downright criminal inability to understand that a pulverized cherry pie still tasted like cherry pie, that this man was definitely, certainly, and, most of all, obviously was not just the Archivist, but also a no good fucking lich. After all, he had the wealth to afford a mansion and was dressed like he was from last century so he had to be ancient. 

[i]What other proof do I need?[/i] thought Pom as she was about to  push up the sleeves of her jacket which was also from the last century, gearing up to go. If she was gonna get her soul sucked she was at least going to go out swinging. She stopped about mid forearm, in part because she realized her hands were still covered with pie viscera and it was difficult to do without dropping the pie box again, and in part because she thought that perhaps he was just a Shakespearean actor hired by Azure, the actual Archivist, to throw her off the scent. 

[color=deb887]“Can I use your sink? Some of the crust got mashed in with the filling so I can’t really lick it off. Well, I mean, I could, it’s not like I’m incapable of licking, it’s just that given the option between wash or lick, I would prefer wash. Actually, it’s really the only option, unless someone else wanted to lick, but I don’t think I’m there quite yet. I don’t know. How about a garden hose?  I’m a mess,”[/color] mumbled Pom to herself, her words getting drowned out by the actual pertinent questions. 

The only clearly audible sound she made was when she punctuated her statement with a loud gasp and nearly broke her dietary restrictions when her hand went to cover her mouth. It was around this moment that Pom, between Azure’s levitating, the blasé reaction to Burnie Cinders, Matt smoking in the corner like a real animal, and the “Archivist” and Mason both talking about magic, realized that maybe magic was actually real and she wasn’t an absolute total wastoid. However, the joy of that revelation was struck down as Pom overheard Bea make a biting remark, yet again obviously talking about her. 

Pom shot the young lady, who had pulled out her own cigarette to join Matt, a horrified glance that only intensified as she realized what was happening. Bea and Matt were clearly too cool for school, signified by their choice to smoke inside of somebody’s house without asking or considering the health risk they were putting everyone else at, and here Pom was asking for permission to use a bathroom like some kind of fucking square! Bea had every right to bully her for being such a loser. Pom had to prove herself to the hipster that wasn’t even paying attention to her otherwise she would lose all sense of self-worth.

Slowly, obviously, Pom reached behind her back towards the tapestry, positioning herself to cut off the Archivist from seeing what she was doing. If being a rebel and a vandal meant that the smokers would think she was fucking sound too then she would rubbed her filthy, stupid hands over every goddamn inch of what was hopefully an easily machine washable tapestry, as tapestries were known to be. An immediate feeling of guilt came over her as she wrapped her grubby fingers around the tapestry and readied herself to use it like a towel. Her face took on the look of pathetic shame that dog’s made when they made a mess on the carpet. Her hands trembled. 

She couldn’t do it! This was why nobody liked old elves like her. She might as well start cutting her hair like Nancy Reagan. 

Pom let go of the tapestry, her offense hidden on the side that faced the wall, her hands no less red than her face, the incriminating streak of cherry on her cheek blending in with the rest of it as she burned red in shame for what she had just done. Slowly, painfully, she raised her red right hand up: first to her waist, then to her shoulder, then high above her head, before finally adding in some tippy-toes. Instead of just blurting her question out amongst the chorus of accusations and outrage that made it difficult to hear what was being said (a good thing too or else Pom would’ve been panicking about this supposed murder ritual), Pom waited until the Archivist turned his head towards her. She began bouncing up and down on her feet when he didn’t notice her right away. 

When the Archivist finally flinched in a way that looked close enough to a nod of go ahead, Pom let out a loud [i]pwah[/i] of breath that she’d been holding to dissuade herself from making ooh-ooh noises. 

[color=deb887]“Bathroom?”[/color]