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Description
Kaphiri's not feeling too great.

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The steady tick of the clock acted as well as any lullaby, coupled with the notes of Carmen emanating from the gramophone sitting across the way, still functional even in its ancient age. Not one of the better recordings of the opera, Kaphiri would admit, and the sound was crackling at best, but it somehow suited the dusty, quiet air of the little shop. Dust, ugh.

Sunlight filtered through through the grungy windows, illuminating the dozens of particles drifting aimlessly through the air, but despite the solar warmth Kaphiri shivered faintly and drew the cloak masking his markings closer about himself. It never grew outrageously cold here, even in the winter, but even so he was accustomed to a climate far dryer and hotter than this. Slitting his eyes closed, the naga sagged against the countertop and allowed himself to retreat mentally into the remembered sounds and sights and smells of the marketplace and the sunny comfort of the library not quite so unlike this small shop.

But such things were miles away and years behind, he recalled as a sharp pop and dead silence from the gramophone roused him from his thoughts and informed him that his record had run itself through. As fond as he was of Carmen, he was not particularly inspired to move from behind the counter to switch to the next vinyl. In fact, he wasn't inspired to do much of anything apart from lay there lethargically and sniffle with increasing frequency.

He was getting sick, but after agreeing last week to mind the shop for Aolani on this day, there was no backing out of it now. The fact that he had something of a minor, boyish crush on the other naga had probably contributed to his acquiescence. Fortunately, the backalley occult shop's existence was only known to a specific kind of people, the type of customer who would not bat an eye for more than a second at the image of the shelves being tended to by a seventeen-foot snake monster. Business was usually slow.

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Description
Kaphiri's not feeling too great.

--------

The steady tick of the clock acted as well as any lullaby, coupled with the notes of Carmen emanating from the gramophone sitting across the way, still functional even in its ancient age. Not one of the better recordings of the opera, Kaphiri would admit, and the sound was crackling at best, but it somehow suited the dusty, quiet air of the little shop. Dust, ugh.

Sunlight filtered through through the grungy windows, illuminating the dozens of particles drifting aimlessly through the air, but despite the solar warmth Kaphiri shivered faintly and drew the cloak masking his markings closer about himself. It never grew outrageously cold here, even in the winter, but even so he was accustomed to a climate far dryer and hotter than this. Slitting his eyes closed, the naga sagged against the countertop and allowed himself to retreat mentally into the remembered sounds and sights and smells of the marketplace and the sunny comfort of the library not quite so unlike this small shop.

But such things were miles away and years behind, he recalled as a sharp pop and dead silence from the gramophone roused him from his thoughts and informed him that his record had run itself through. As fond as he was of Carmen, he was not particularly inspired to move from behind the counter to switch to the next vinyl. In fact, he wasn't inspired to do much of anything apart from lay there lethargically and sniffle with increasing frequency.

He was getting sick, but after agreeing last week to mind the shop for Aolani on this day, there was no backing out of it now. The fact that he had something of a minor, boyish crush on the other naga had probably contributed to his acquiescence. Fortunately, the backalley occult shop's existence was only known to a specific kind of people, the type of customer who would not bat an eye for more than a second at the image of the shelves being tended to by a seventeen-foot snake monster. Business was usually slow.

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