#seameow

[patchworkedmagician]

New Seap Item:

Price: D$25

[patchworkedmagician]

Jevil slides the printed image across the Seap counter.

The old plush cat gives the joker a gentle smile before lifting up the page close to their face, giving it a good once-over before squinting to read the text. The smile grows even wider on their face, and they place it back down to the counter.

"Ah, you old softy! Come here."

Seam scoops Jevil up into their arms and bumps their head to his, purring loudly.

[patchworkedmagician]

𝐻𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓈, 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝟣

Seam has poor eyesight, nearly blind in their right eye, and their button eye holes give them a sort of tunnel vision. You'll often find them lifting up something with writing on it up to their face and squinting to try and get a better look.

Seam has a cane they use as a mobility aid! They used to have toy beans in their paw to help give it some weight, but since their leg has been torn, most of the beans have fallen out and it's no longer strong enough to support their leg. The cane is carved to look like a knitting needle, but has been worn down with time and use.

Seam spends most of the day sleeping, and they've placed a little ringer on the counter of the Seap to help wake them. They make a raspy old 'mrrrp' when awoken.

[patchworkedmagician]

Deep in the Scarlet Forest, not too far from a keep where the four kings meet, stands a strange little store made of old quilted fabric, with frayed threads and small holes worn in its patches. The interior is dimly lit by lanterns and cluttered with all manner of things, old and forgotten, left to collect dust on shelves or abandoned in basements and attics.

The shopkeeper themself is not much different, a gnarled old plush cat wearily letting out a raspy sound somewhere between a groan and a trill as they awaken, having fallen asleep at the counter. A faded purple and orange ear flicks towards a sudden whistling heard from far in the back, and slowly but surely, they rise. Their poor face, now with only one dark cloudy eye, and the other being an almost comically oversized button, has a weary expression as they hobble onto their feet. The old cat's tail, tattered and worn, drags behind them as they limp into the back.

Nestled behind the shelves and displays sits a little kitchen, with an old iron stove and a table covered in a lacy cloth and covered with mismatched teacups and plates. The cat digs out one of several teapots, and gets to work. The whistling of the kettle quiets as it's plucked from the top of the stove, and the soft clutter of glass bottles is heard in its place. An array of various herbs, teas, spices and dried flowers are layed out.

The cat carefully inspects each, holding the labels up close to their face in order to get a good look at them. Once they've found the right ingredient, the container is opened, and the cat gets to adding pawfuls of it to the teapot. One, two, three scoops of black tea, a dash or two of poppy seeds, chamomile flowers and a little pick-me-up of catnip added for good measure. Once finished, the jars of tea go back into the cabinet and the hot water goes into teapot.

They'll have to make two trips, and- ah curse their old leg, they'd left their cane back at the storefront. Cupping the teapot in their fluffy paws, they lean in and whisper something, like hundreds of voices speaking at once to the teapot. A few moments pass, until small bright sparks and stars begin to dance around it, and it seems to almost merrily hover away back to the countertop, coming to rest on an ancient, tea stained doily. The cat takes a few small sniffs towards the teacups, and picks one already resting on a plate. With that in tow, they limp back to the storefront.

They ease themself back into an old armchair at the counter, and after taking a moment's rest, pour a cup of tea. A flick of one of their ears, and the front door to the store unlocks in an instant, the latches clicking open loudly, and a little hand embroidered sign flips around from "CLOSED" to "OPEN". And of course, the cane that'd been forgotten by the door hops over to the side of the armchair. The old cat settles in to the armchair, and blowing away a bit of steam, take a sip of tea.

"Ah, another day... Or night perhaps. I suppose it doesn't matter. But always best to pass the time somehow"

The 'Seap' is open for Business

[patchworkedmagician]

♫ - singing voice

* "Singing? I've never been very musically inclined, but I suppose if you insist."

* The magician begins caterwauling loudly, their yowls heard echoing outside their seap. It's not a pleasant sound, not by a long shot.

[patchworkedmagician]

Hello.

The sound of the little bell tinkling jolts Seam awake, their ears perking up quickly at the sound. The old magician's fur on their face is a mess, comically sticking up on one side where they'd been resting their head on the counter. They blink the sleep from their eye and button, and stretch into an upwards position. A surprisingly quick shake of their head and their fur (mostly) returns to its proper place.

"Greetings! Welcome, traveller. What might I do ye for today? If you don't mind waiting a bit, I'll have a fresh batch of Dark Candies ready soon."

[patchworkedmagician]

⍤ : What does your muse’s voice sound like? Is it light? High pitched? Scratchy? Deep?

* That's the strange thing about the old ragdoll. Whenever they speak, their voice changes, but always carries the same cadence and mannerisms.

* Sometimes the words they say are spoken in the voice of an old witch, their laugh a manic cackle. Other times, it's the voice of a strapping young lad, weary from long days of travel. The familiar and warm voice of your mother, an unfamiliar voice of a young, curious child.

* But most often, they speak in a mishmash of voices, changing with sentence and mood. But the strange lilt of their voice never leaves, and always despite the deep sadness it carries, also leaves one with a vague sense of warmth.

[patchworkedmagician]

🛣- Is your muse considered a wanderer?

* "At one time perhaps I could've been considered something akin to that. But now this old body is worse for wear, and wouldn't be able to get far."

* "Not that there's much reason to now either. It makes for a reasonable pastime I suppose, but wandering always seems to lead one to troubles here, and troubles always lead to tragedy in this dark of a place."

* "'Tis a shame, really. Were things different, perhaps a bit of rambling would have done a bit of good for once."