[[[ Monroe and Willow discuss prejudices. Monroe tells an awful 19th
century story (tm) ]]]

Bell, Book, & Candle - Main Shoppe(#3437RJM)

	The comforting smell of incense greets those who enter Bell, Book,
& Candle. The storefront window's wine velvet curtains have been drawn
shut, the lights dimmed enough to give the place ambience without causing
one to strain their eyes if they choose the perview any of the books that
rest in oaken bookcases that line the walls and stand in rows at one end
of the room. There's very little here in the way of New Age commercialism
- in fact, only one or two rows are devoted to current work, the rest are
aged works of occult that look like they should probably be in some
ancient castle somewhere in Europe. Each row of books has a small sign on
either side indicating the subject matter and alphabetical references for
each row, and the cheerful reminder that a salesperson would be glad to
assist the truely lost and confused. The other half of the room holds
shelves and cabinets containing all sort of occult items and oddities,
ranging from the commonplace and affordable, to the obscure and expensive.
	The only wall without bookcases is the one by the register and
near the door - instead, there's a hanging display of ritual swords, some
smaller shelves with more books settled dustily on them, and a metal
cabinet, commonly seen closed and locked. There's also a corkboard with
hand-written messages and flyers for the local pagan community's
convenience. The register also has a small sign next to the credit card
symbols that reads: 'By the power that I wield, a curse upon the hands
that steal!' and in smaller letters: 'Shoplifters will be prosecuted to
the fullest extent of karmic law, three times paid. Have a nice day!'
There's always at least one person at the register, and more often then
not, another person on the floor waiting to assist customers.


			*>IMPORTANT +VIEW<*

Contents:
Willow
Hotep
Obvious exits:
Out <O>  Upstairs <U>  Backroom <BR>

Willow tilts her head. "What do you think of massasa? Vampires?'

Monroe says quietly, "They are dangerous creatures who prey upon the mass
of mankind - a rather low form of cunning rapist. But I will not profess
to know much about them, and I would be indeed surprised if this is a
sufficient picture of their existence."

Willow considers. "I think the world would be better without them." she
admits. "But well...that's what many people thought of Jews. Some still
do. Is there a difference, or am I no better then they are?"

Monroe blushes slightly. "Any man may judge too hastily if he does not
know all the facts." he says gently. "If our information is incomplete or
suspect - as nearly all information regarding such a secretive race must
be - we must not be too sure of the judgment that comes from it either. An
unsatisfactory answer, but I believe the only true one." He pauses. "May I
ask what precipitated this sort of inquiry?"

<OOC> Monroe says "Not /too/ much of a speech. He's picking his words
MONDO carefully on this one, rather than just blustering it all out."

Monroe did blush a bit, though, which may lead to some searching questions
about why this strikes him so personally.

Willow shakes her head. "A discussion I had with one of them and some of
the things others have said to me. I've never wanted to kill them all -
well, the Tremere, but that's more of a blood feud, but not all of them. I
just want them to leave me and those I care about alone." she tilts her
head. "May I ask what prompted such a reaction?" she asks gently.


Monroe says quietly, "I once thought that all available evidence suggested
that the best course for the nation was to return all Negroes to Africa."
He pauses. "And my faith was as sure and strong as the expectation that
the sun would rise." He shakes his head slightly. "And - God help me - the
streak of anti-semitism that flooded my surroundings never filled my
heart, but neither did I see it. I never saw it." He pauses. "I can
remember when I was...sixteen, I think. I heard about a colored man that
had killed a deputy in a fight while off-duty. He was killed, yes. But he
was killed by roasting. Over a slow fire of green wood." He looks back up
at Willow. "For God's sake." he says a little hoarsely. "I wasn't
outraged. I didn't cry out in horror. I didn't dash the paper to the
ground. I just turned the page. So for me, it is not a theoretical
question. Not anymore."

Mira enters the shop, the door chime tinkling softly.
Mira has arrived.

Monroe stands very near Willow and has just finished saying something to
her in a very low voice.

Willow furrows her brow softly, and seems about to say something to
Monroe, but then her eyes dart to the door and her brow relaxes. "Hello.
May I help you?" she asks quietly.

Mira slips through the front door and glances about, perhaps a little
timidly, her eyes wide and curious as they pass around the shop. "I was
just lookin' around.." she replies with a faint little smile. "Sorry to
interrupt."

Monroe brushes some unruly hair away from his forehead and gives Mira a
polite nod of greeting.

Willow smiles gently, but twines one of her hands into Monroe's. "It's
alright." she assures. "Feel free to look, but pet the cat at some point
or he'll be quite put out. Please speak up if you do need help, otherwise,
I'll be right here."

Monroe's large hand almost completely swallows Willow's small hand but he
seems to like holding it anyway.

Mira

There is an affected calm about this young woman, a steely, implacable
veneer she wears almost as a mantle. She has once-fair skin that now shows
a smattering of freckles and the kind of tan you get from the open road.
Her light reddish-brown hair is still curling stubbornly, even though
clipped barely to her many-times-pierced ears. The top manages to be just
long enough to hang a bit in front of into her hazel eyes. She wears no
obvious makeup. Despite an unimposing barely five feet in height, she has
a build that is compact and athletic.

She is dressed for utility and comfort: square-toed black engineer boots
disappear under a pair of dusty denim jeans, loose enough to allow freedom
of movement, and faded at the knees and pockets from wear. She wears a
cropped white t-shirt that stops just short of her midriff, revealing a
piercing there. A loose, red flannel shirt completes her attire. She is
often seen wearing a battered motorcycle jacket, patched at the elbows
with black electrical tape. Over one shoulder, she lugs the ever-present
canvas backpack.


Mira smiles benignly at the two of you, and then shifts her attention onto
other things, giving what privacy she can muster. She seems faintly
embarassed, but says nothing about it, other than a hasty "Thanks.."

Mira looked me over.

Willow returns to her conversation, her hand still in Monroe's as she
murmurs to him.

Hotep of course, pads over. Tithe must be paid to His Majesty, after all.

Willow mutters to Monroe, "... the massasa... and alive. They... But...
are sentient... if they... trapped."

Willow whispers "Are the massasa any different then the young man? He was
breathing and alive. They are not. But yet they are sentient and have
souls even if they are bound or trapped."


Mira chuckles quietly and kneels down to scritch the cat, quite gladly
offering the required toll. She even churrs at him softly, and nails a lot
of the right scritch-points. Sign of a cat-owner. She decidedly tries not
to look like she's eavesdropping.

Monroe nods slightly to Willow. He mutters to Willow.  he murmurs easily,
then after a hesitant pause. "I almost /dare/ not say. Not anymore. Do you
understand?"

Willow senses "Monroe nods slightly to Willow. "I cannot say." he murmurs
easily, then after a hesitant pause. "I almost /dare/ not say. Not
anymore. Do you understand?""

<OOC> Monroe says "Boy, that looks weird. The whole first quote got
chopped, but none of the second. Ah well."

Hotep purrs in appreciation.

Willow sighs and nods to Monroe in reluctant, troubled agreement, and
leans forward against him for a moment.