It was a curious occurrence. The street corner had not been empty, not in the truest visual sense. There lay the trappings of walls and shattered windows, boarded up doors, of a house too decrepit to be anything more specific than an abandoned building. There was a hollow behind the empty, broken eyes of the staring windows. No squatters had come to call the building upon the corner an impromptu home. No small traps, no scurrying of mice.

And then quite simply, one night, the house was there.

A simple affair, it smacked both of things modern and things archaic. One might have called the moldings about the windows, the curious chimney three stories upwards, Tudor revival. It was marked with an age of soot that did not belong to the WestEnd, though felt quite at home there. Some effort had been made to match the conglomeration of stonework that was the fa"ade to an older style, and it seemed as if the side of the building now exposed upon the corner had been more familiar with the press of another building against it. The two solitary windows stared outwards, quite blank and bricked over. To gather its angles into a succinct description: perhaps simple and austere. Perhaps neglected. There, too, was a rather simple sign hanging on a steel pole extended beyond a window, matched by another upon the door.

The Midnight Hatter 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. Mon " Sun

The lacquer suggested plastics within the paint. While the shop-cum-house seemed neglected, the night that it appeared upon the corner, a ghost did indeed spill out of the residence. He was a match for its austere nature, an echo of the Victorian era the residence was no doubt restored in mimicry of. Late Victorian. The Hatter had never been a patron of unnecessary decoration and overlarge furnishings. He brushed a white gloved hand over the dusting upon a dark sleeve and drew the trappings of the overcoat close (unnecessarily), before venturing out into the night of this foreign, new land.

The storefront's window was dim with the tale of something warm and archaic; perhaps a lamp burning whale's oil, though the crisp idea of electricity hid somewhere within the walls of the odd architecture. A small sign hung above the hours stated upon the door's window, but it did not mock "Closed". It stated, "Out to Lunch."

A scrape of boot upon shattered and shattering concrete over the intrusion of a small plant. The shop's keeper rounded the near corner of the wall that was unfamiliarly exposed to the breeze, and he had thoughts that he would need to reinstate the windows and paint the smart stone revetment with grime fitting of the rest of the building. There was a timed pause, for the Hatter had scented the smoke some long moments before. He rested a gloved hand pure upon the building's wide glass front.

"I apologize. There was a certain lack of patronage." An odd voice that was perhaps baritone, somewhere beneath the tales of other timbres. His breath did not have the politeness to fog the night, but instead cloaked itself in an ironic humor. Wouldn't they be surprised?

Bleached blue eyes swam over this visitor, a blatant curiosity as the pale man drew nearer. If he saw many other things besides the figure, he said nothing, though at a yard's distance he reached a hand as if to touch a pointed ear. Much too far away with that child's fashion of curiosity, before he slipped in towards the door to open the shop. It drifted inward with the slow yawn of a wakened creature, but the proprietor remained outside, examining his guest. He smelled of cold, glacial things. Frozen stone and age.

Disturbed quiet crept in like a slinking cur, perhaps to settle for just a moment longer.

"Of course." The pale man's strange voice held a note of humor still and amusement wore itself openly upon the few lines of his face. Yellow pages. Of course they had the yellow pages. His scarecrow form remained at the door for some moments longer, stepped aside in the passage of his guest who was yet without a name"but perhaps when he listened for one, he only heard those still-silent bells.

Obliging, the light in the shop came up at the entrance. A proper, simple thing of hats displayed and a counter wearing the blank electronic countenance of a cash register. He found the quality of the electricity now, odd. Something extra crowded the wires of the house, and the Hatter could only be left wondering what, exactly. Eventually he too took his long strides within, removing the Hat with an easy, many-many-years familiar gesture. It was placed"not upon a coat rack or hat rack" but upon a cat that too, shared the counter. Quite a bit larger than the house cat it resembled, the Cheshire smiled, but its eyes were lost under the Hat. The subdued maroon fur was tabby striped in black. Quite a skillful display of taxidermy, perhaps.

"This neighborhood seems quite pleased with my hours. Or perhaps it is your neighborhood?? but this was only a trailing, thoughtful remark, banked by the bright swimming of many other thoughts, questions, bubbling curiosities silent behind those bleached-blue eyes. He had walked through many a coltsfoot and comfrey cloud during his stroll. As the woman surveyed the shop, which was large enough to be considered more than a quarter of the first floor, the Hatter remained near the Cat upon the counter. The only door that led from the shop room, save for that which still yawned open to the night, was behind the counter and it was quite locked.

The Hatter watched the other move about his shop less like a predator thing and small prey, which was his tendency much of the time, than like a creature that felt interest and curiosity' and was surprised to find that it did. In the lull of time that was the elf-woman's (or so she seemed) roaming eyes and hands, the Hatter stroked the back of the Cheshire as if it were a real creature, but too heard the scuffling of a smaller, truer cat behind the locked door. Hare knew he was home, and that it was dinner time" a more mundane dinner of cat food and treats and some of the few things that disturbed the dust in the madman's kitchen. Pale eyes rested upon the door until the elf-woman had made full circuit and stopped near. He appreciated the curiosity in his Cat' and tipped the Hat back far enough that it stared out into the show room with its spring green eyes.

"Sid." Repeated in his odd, fluted baritone, "That is a short-name, non' Do you have another?" the madman queried in polite tones and took the offered hand, after some pause, into his own white-gloved fingers. Behind the strange creatures of his eyes thoughts moved, untwined, grew jumbled again and stretched out like snakes reaching for distantly burning suns. It would be a strange country if he ever drew down the silence for those minds that cared to listen.

"Enoch' but I prefer the Mad Hatter." Of course, of course. She had said she lived about this neighborhood, in the fashion of the rounds made. This too rested question in mind, "Whereabouts do you live, in this place?? In this decrepit neighborhood that is silent and full of late night dealings.

The female viking-warrior gave her word that she would visit his shoppe-house, though a day or date had not been arranged when last she spoke with the pale male. His directions had been short, accurate and easy-to-follow.

A promise made is now about to be kept.

Sunset, hours ago. It is late, but that is the point. And as she soon learns, the times listed on the sign fit perfectly with her WestEnd wanderings. Her typical grin, as sly as it is, appears right before she quietly speaks aloud the three words printed above the hours and days, "The Midnatt Hatter. Well na, a new navn for me to call him."

As leather-encased hand reaches out for door knob, she wonders if he has one of those small brass bells above the entrance/exit. It is said that many do not care for such an item to announce their arrival, and with good reason, while others enjoy the tinkling sound. The Seafarer falls into the latter category. But then, she is not trying to be secretive or sneaky during this visitation.

Though a bit disappointed at not hearing a light tinkling sound from a small brass bell above door frame, a wide, dimpled smile still appears as her gaze falls upon the two within the shoppe-hus. No hesitation in crossing over threshold. Gently closes the door behind her, yet makes sure it is shut tight; it is only a chosen few drinking establishments that a slamming of hinged wood takes place.

"Well na, do the shadows play tricks on me" Be that my friend, Sid, out and about this e'ening?" Mirth-filled light blues settle on the Ancient in good-natured jesting.

And a nod of greeting sent to the proprietor, himself. "Lord Hatter. Or should I say, Lord Hat-mann?" He, as well, cannot escape the female Viking's teasing.

Keen eyes sweep over the shoppe's interior, a quick-study of the offerings available. At least over those offerings picked by the Hatter to openly show. Who knows if, or what, other intriguing head wear be hidden elsewhere. Or possibly something even more mysterious, just because the place has *that* type of feel to it. At least to her it does.

"What be your price range, Mister Midnatt Hatter-mann?" Yet another title variation.

She has yet to step away from the door, and can only hope no one shall rapidly enter and cause a bumping in the night.