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There are several large books stacked around Helen. Three in a language known in some worlds as Russian, one in a language known on some worlds as Greek, one that died out on most Earths long enough ago to not be known by anthropologists (but one significant slice of Earths became very prominent and important), and five in English. They all have titles about cross-dimensional travel.

She decided to stop researching in her room. So the young girl is researching at a table down here--that's totally the same thing as socializing, right?

Right.

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"Yew need halp wit thet stuff? I know Greek an' Latin, an' a few others."

(OOC: Would that forgotten language be anything like the Lovecraftian ones?)

(OOC: I don't think so--Lovecraftian mythos is not much like that of her set of worlds at all. :))

Helen looks up, then up again, at the very tall man in the trenchcoat. "No, I read them," she tells him, with a slight tilt of her head that sends the hair over her face. "Are you a scholar?"

That he asked implies he could be.

"A bit o' 'un." He grins. "May I set here?"

It is not so hard to make out his accent, but as a non-native English speaker it does take Helen a moment or two. "Yes," she says, moving over some books so that one of the chairs is not blocked. "What do you study?"

"I learned tew read from my crazy gran'father's books o' Black magic. They whar written en awll kinds o' different languages.

"My name es Wilbur Whateley, by the way."

Helen tilts her head. "Helen. The day we meet is calm, Honored Wilbur."

She pauses, uncertain, and asks "Do you mean using shadows?"

Wilbur sighs. "I mean cawllin' upawn demuns, openin' portawls ter nasty places, an' larnin' Thin's Thet Mankind Es Nawt Meant Ter Know.

"My Gran'father was crazy an' wanted ter destroy the world fer giggles. He awlsew thought thet a Dark Gawd would make a good son-en-law."

A tentacle slithers out of Wilbur's coat.

(OOC: sorry for the wait)

"...your grandfather was a fool." Helen tells him, upset and annoyed. She does not believe on things that mankind is not meant to know, or she does not believe in them continuing to be unknown, but calling upon demons and opening portals to nasty places are things that have rather personal connotations.

She doesn't notice the tentacle, at first. There are enough books to obscure most of her view.

"Naw, jest nuts." Wilbur grins.

The tentacle passes her a book.

"An' I was raised by him--sew I was awlmost es nuts es he was, by the end."

Helen accepts the book, absently, adding it to a stack, before she stops and looks back up at him and realizes what handed it to her.

"Are you a shapechanger?"

"Naw, jest weird." He chuckles. "I said thet Gran'father thought thet a Dark Gawd would make a good son-en-law, didn't I?"

"But you did not say that he was one," Helen continues, cautiously, her right arm under the table.

"He wasn't 'un. My Father was." He shrugs.

Helen meant a good son-in-law.

"Ah." Helen replies.

Her first thought is about compatible biologies. Her second is to move away. Neither are diplomatic, so her hand under the table just continues to bunch the excess fabric at the end over it, until she catches herself and lets go.

"A demon?"

"Imagine creatures sew strange thet et hurt jest tew look et them. Creatures thet dun't think en any way thet humans kin recognize, yet seem ter have some great an' terrifying Intent.

"Then imagine whut they pray ter, an' yew'll have some idea o' whut my Father es like."

Wilbur smiles sadly. "Ur better yet, dun't dew any o' thet an' fergit I ever said et."

Helen doesn't quite have to imagine the first, she thinks. (She's wrong. Her demons are far different from Lovecraftian ones.)

But the concept of something--greater--bothers her.

"Why?" She asks, head going up as she tucks her hair behind her face. "There can't be a way to protect the world if you don't know the dangers."

Wilbur breaks out laughing. "Protect et? Ur yew kiddin'? Thar ur 'uns among my Father's kind who could destroy awll o' Creation en thar sleep! The best yew kin dew es see ter et thet the End es swift."

Helen's mouth thins, obstinately, at the laughter. She doesn't believe in giving up. Ever.

That is why she wouldn't last two minutes in Lovecraft's world.

Not that anyone else would, either, but . . .

Presumably she'd follow in the steps of Dr. Stantz. Less succesfully, but for a time.

"Is everyone in your world, then, so ready to die?"

She'd try to learn about it, go nuts, try to summon Nyarlathotep backwards and teleport herself to the Throne of . That's what happens to nosy people in Lovecraft's world.

"Most o' them dun't know about et.

"An' most o' the 'uns thet dew ur stark ravin' mad. They kin't take et." He grins. "An' trust me, yew dun't have a clue how dangerous my reality es."

She'd be a bit more sensible than that.

Helen's chin sets, and she tilts her head slightly at him with an air of go on. She is, maybe, wondering how many worlds he's been to that he can make that easy declaration. But, then, she's too curious of why his world is dangerous beyond random lack of existence to challenge him on the matter. For now.

(Sorry, bed was calling)

In Lovecraft's world, curiosity turned the cat into a tentacle monster, drove it mad, melted it, and remade it as a ghoul.

"The very Names o' some o' them kin warp reality ef pronounced right. Thar's un thet will kill yew ef yew say His Name--an' 'un thet will kill yew ef yew read et.

"Thar ur books thet drive yew insane ef yew read them. Thar ur hidden cities populated wit witches, demuns, ur ghouls.

"Once yew start tew notice thet thin's urn't whut et seems, yer doomed."

"If," Helen says, clearly irritated, "the books drive you insane by reading them who wrote them?"

"Madmen, o' course!"