Friday, September 26, 2014

an ancient key


Adam

Night Owl Books keeps odd hours. Today it opened at five in the afternoon and will stay open until five am. Today one of Adam's employees (Sara's employees, really) was called away by a family emergency, and Adam, as a kind boss and a careless one, said that would be all right. Today a local Denver artist by the name of Anouar Taaffe has come out with an art book entitled Golems, Salt and Dybbuks, full of staged photographs around Denver's Union Station and metro-lines as well as the nearby State Parks. The art book has a theme and the theme is Jewish folk beliefs (or Kabbalistic folk beliefs) translated into an expression of a thriving but sorrow-stricken subculture.

There is a pyramid of these near the door because there will be an event at two-thirty am for the book and its author. The backdoor to the off-limits employees only area is open and there are tubs of earth visible on the floor, as well as some rearrangement of tables and certain shelves, those that aren't built-in maze-like to the building.

The front door is not locked, because this is a shop, but Adam is playing with Ruse on his desk as well as Ruse's new friend, a ghosty white ferret whose name is not Ghost.

Serafíne

Awareness

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Serafíne

(and for Mssr Adam.)

Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (3, 4, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 2

Alicia

Alicia has been in here for not-quite an hour. Just long enough to get the shit-shooting out of the way and disappear into the mythology section. She hasn't said anything about the tab she may or may not intend to have him take her name off of. They can deal with that when she pays for the book she's reading.

She does intend to pay for them. This isn't a library. The place won't stay open by sheer force of will.

Or maybe it will. Maybe Adam is the sort of wizard who can keep his electricity going and the bill collectors off his ass with a couple of rituals renewed every so often. She hasn't asked yet. She's been hiding in a corner somewhere for the last not-quite an hour.

Adam

[Sera's awareness cares not for Arcane.]

Serafíne

Her senses are open because her senses are always open and that is how she was made to be, and it is late enough that the streets are dark and early enough that they are not yet empty, and she does not know the day or hour, except that she knows her place quite precisely in both of them.

A certain street a certain door a certain-time-of-day when the sky is still skimmed with light and the earliest stars are coming out of hiding. Hard to see them in the city, but people who believe in them know they are there.

The unlocked front door opens because this is a shop and maybe there are bells because this is a shop and the shopworkers need to know when the door has swung: one way or the other, open for a customer, or closed behind her.

Sera.

It's not cold outside but it cools more quickly after sunset and there's a moment when she's standing just inside the closing door when she seems surprised or puzzled to find herself here. Tips her chin back, golden hair swinging down her spine, and glances up at the ceiling, like she's curious. Like oh, hey. ceiling. Like a bookstore is a strange place to find oneself, as strange a place as anywhere else.

Sera is wearing spike-heeled thigh-high leather boots laced up with criss-crossed chains and a tiny leather skirt and a Jesus and Mary Chain t-shirt (white) over a black bra beneath a black hoodie. Her hands are in the pockets.

She breathes in. Feels Adam just as surely and strongly as she feels Alicia. Still feels, most days, something else too.

That's okay. "Oh hey." And she smiles, a very simple sort of smile. "Ruse."

A very simple sort of pleasure she's already crossing the shop to enjoy. Seriously, who gives a fuck about books when there are ferrets around?

Adam

He is not generous: not with his time and not with his books. He is not generous at all, Adam. He is greedy. He stays sleepless so he can finish reading an interesting chapter or paragraph or page in spite of his body's demands because he wants to. He allows the Awakened individuals of his aquaintance back into the employees only room sometimes because they're special they're not dumb sleepers they're already forces to be reckoned with and he wants to.

He wants to.

But his lack of generousity doesn't (always) make him a jerk. He doesn't usually want to be a jerk to people. Some people he even finds acceptable, for non-Hermetics.

Alicia came in, they talked, she wanted to look through the books, he didn't want to be her shadow; he stayed with the ferrets after an, "Ask me if you need anything," and she might have heard him laugh once, a bark that is surprised with itself and husky and moves his whole godamned body into a hunched little C.

The white one (not completely white; there is a dapple of caramel on its back) is being bullied, running around a tall stack of books and startled every time Adam puts his hand down into rearing back then gingerly placing a paw on his knuckle and the signet ring (a sign of Saturn) he is wearing on his Jupiter finger, the stone Carnelian for Venus and rubbed with White Lead for properties that are conducive to a ritual he performed (chaunted).

Here comes Sera, and his expression shifts -- a subtle thing, that just-surfacing smirk. He is a smirker, it is sad to say, a truth. "Hullo, Serafíne. Ruse says 'hello,' but he might be distracted. He's got a new friend you see."

Alicia

Who gives a fuck about books when there are ferrets around? People who think ferrets are creepy.

As the front door jangles open and the voices at the front of the store kick up a conversation Alicia considers whether she wants to be rude or whether she can find it in her heart to mark her place in the book she's going to buy anyway. It's a heavy matter to consider.

In the interlude between consideration and action comes her voice from further inside the store.

"HI SERA."

Serafíne

Sera comes right up to Adam's desk, she doesn't much care for personal or private space and she sees Adam, you understand. Sometimes he retreats and is a shadow behind the goddamned ferrets but quite often she sees him as directly and wholly and entirely as she sees everything else.

Feels everything else.

And so she looks up at Adam as he says her full-name and catches the leading edge of that surfacing smirk and her eyes are tender as a bruise, rimmed with dark dark liner but clear behind it, this dark and clarified blue. Up, just once, then back down to the ferrets, that smile (unguarded) resurfacing as she watches them tussel, the sinuous muscularity of their little bodies, reaching out to stipple the desk-top with her own fingers, hoping to entice Ruse-and-Friend closer to her own hand.

"He looks like he's - " and there is something glassine about her tonight, which becomes evident for example when Alicia shouts her name. A momentary tension, a bracing-for or rallying-of before she lifts her right hand from the desk and waves back to Alicia.

"Alicia, hey." Back to Adam. "You guys know each other?"

Adam

[Perception (Specialty: People) + Awareness. Hmm. Sera. 'Sup? Are you traumatized?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 1

Serafíne

Hey, god. She's glancing away at him, flashing that reached-for smile when Adam decides to look at her, really look at her, and she's not thinking about it and he sees it immediately because he's looking at her and he's looking for it; wondering about it. Sera doesn't have any skill at dissembling. Really: it's all there to be read if you want to read.

So yeah, traumatized: some kind of darkness that has nothing to do with a break-up but is still wrapped up in grief and darkness and a kind of loss. She's also healing, this is recent, but long-enough-ago that she can smile, at the antics of Adam's ferrets.

Adam

HI SERA. Alicia from the corner, like a boggart or a House-spirit. The just-surfacing smirk gets wider for an instant and draws out the crinkle-lines around his eyes; they're almost merry, they could be merry, they at least connote a sense of humor, because crinkly-eyes always do. Blame the paradigm of Santa Claus.

Adam folds his arms across his (thin [no athletic prize]) chest and straightens, leaving the ferrets to Serafíne. Who is always, utterly, beautiful; who he always has to look at for a moment, no matter what she is wearing, how far from his 'type' she might be -- because Serafíne: what an arresting woman. And there is something glassine about her, tonight; so Adam looks at her for a second longer than he might usually, before glancing over toward Alicia's dark and gloomy corner.

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate because he's not a social host. There's space for Alicia to elaborate, of course.

Meanwhile: Ruse and Friend. Ruse is actually quite pleased to see-smell Serafíne because Serafíne means attention. Ruse is at the edge of the desk on Ruse's hindlegs looking for a good dangle on Serafíne's clothing to snag and pull and climb. Friend is hiding behind the stack of books, humped a little like a slinky caught mid-fall. Friend is ready to flee.

Serafíne

Ruse will doubtless find a good dangle. The hem of the unzipped hoodie if nothing else, stretched out, less black and more worn-through black, victim of a dozen washes, that sort of coloration, and soon as Sera turns around and sees Ruse standing up like a person which is so fucking adorable she'll reach for him, hold out her left arm, the cotton cuffs of the hoodie overstretched, loose around a wrist stacked with leather-spiked and leather-wrapped bracelets. Sera has a spikey-ring across three fingers of her left hand, silver or maybe iron, and another ring, beaten-bronze, on the index finger of her left hand, both of which catch little bits of light and wink back at whomsoever glances their way.

Yes. Adam says, and perhaps Alicia says nothing or goes back to her book.

Serafíne glances up once, her dark eyes on Adam's, steady. "Cool." - before they drop away again, and if Ruse hasn't found a hook already well here comes that left arm, yes, her fingers curled together the way one curls one's fingers, reaching for a half-wild thing.

She knows about half-wild things.

"He's shy," Sera, eyeing Friend, humped and hiding and ready to flee. That half-smile carving lovely across her mouth again. "Doesn't know that you can see like all of his back above the books."

Adam

Cool. He glances back at Serafíne, and the glance slides like a bead on wire; each woman has an end of the wire, right now, even if one of them isn't technically visible. He could look in the big moon eye silver mirror above the door, deterrent for thiefs. Adam has only caught two would-be thieves since he came to Denver, took up residence in the bookshop. He did not react in a manner unfearsome in either case. He doesn't think Alicia's going to steal; it's all mirror anecdote. He glances at the mirror, then back down at Friend.

"It's all right." Whisper-ghost of accent and slang, on that all right. "She seems smart enough." See now? He can be nice (enough). His arms stay folded but he lists to the side and his arm rests against the wall/bookcase by his desk, because standing isn't restful.

Ruse pounces Serafíne's arm, hug-attacking it before attempting to clamber up. Ruse has grown since the last time Serafíne saw him, but just a little, and he won't get too much larger. He is certainly larger than the ghost-y cream and caramel gelato-coloured beast who has begun to inch-worm away from the stack of books as if he knows that they're talking disparagingly about his hiding place. Then it sees Ruse going up Serafíne's arm and decides suddenly to charge:

War! The last second will see a sudden veering away if Sera so much as makes a sound or moves a muscle.

"When's your band going to play somewhere again?" Adam asks.

Serafíne

Sera is alas moving a muscle she is moving several muscles, her muscles were made to be moved and her arm is being pounced by a ferret and oh, ferret! is so animal and so thoughtless and so adorable that it unlocks the gates of the smiles she did not quite understand she was guarding.

Turning her arm like a coil to cradle the animal that will not be cradled and bring it closer, to marvel over his weasel-y little whiskers and impertinent pink nose and sharp little eyes and laugh when he clambers up from the bough of her arms to perch on her shoulder and burrow through the curtain of her hair, which unlike the too-low stack of books is an excellent ferret-y hiding place, variegated, the dark roots and the blond, disordered curls and Sera sees that attack and she's kinda bracing for it and here it comes but oh!

peace breaks out, or at least a momentary strategic retreat.

When's her band going to play somewhere again?

A little shrug, the errant sort that feels younger than she really is.

"Dunno. It's my fault. I keep telling Dan I'm gonna go to London soon, he shouldn't book anything. Then I don't go. Why? If we get a gig are you gonna come?"

Adam

He watches the Friend scamper, although scamper isn't the exact right word. The Friend-ferret, the pale-ferret, wants only to find a place to curl up. There is tube on the floor -- there are a couple of tubes on the floor, and jangly ferret-toys, and ferrets are musky creatures, dense and aromatic (sure), as Sera can no doubt tell with Ruse perched as he is hiding in her hair. The pale ferret gets down from the desk carefully, pausing on this level of that drawer and this level of that stack out of fear, getting stuck once but it's all right Adam lifts the thing and puts it down. Promptly: into one of the tubes. The tube begins to spin. Ferret-shadow within. Ruse looks down, watching, peeking through the fall of Sera's hair.

Adam, with a faint smile. "Can you sing anything in Ancient Greek?" It's not a non-sequitor; he wants to know. "

Serafíne

Sera inhales ferret-musk. Feels the tiny little feet on her shoulder through layers of cotton. Is still smiling that neatly framed smile that seems so lovely and vulnerable and open.

Just, you know, happy.

Above or inside or around or beneath or within everything else. All the things that can be contained, without thought or limit.

And hey, Ruse, she herself smells musky. It's the marijuana smoke in her hair.

"Hmm." More inquisitive than thoughtful, the curl of her mouth. "Say something in Ancient Greek."

Adam

He considers for a moment, and then he does. If the Cultist knows Ancient Greek, she'll likely recognize the poetic fragment; if she does not, she'll hear the strange sussurating syllables, the tidal flow all waves lapping against the shore, all light lancing through honey and falling on a wine-dark sea, and it sounds like a beaten coin, whatever this thing is that Adam says.

Serafíne

(Charisma + performance. Mimicking the words / trying to sing, yo.)

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 4, 4, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 3

Serafíne

The creature before him does not know Ancient Greek. That much is evident in the supple thread of her gaze, half-blurred. The way she cants her head, like an animal, to listen not for meaning but for sound. The ocean's rocking rhythm against some wooden hull. The scent of sun and salt-spray in some graveled cove. Cedars, rising against the sky. Then she opens her mouth.

Her voice is thready and she doesn't know the language so the syllables slew strangely together, uncouple from their beloved, and find themselves instead coupling with strangers on either side, going from neatly ordered poetry to beautifully phrased nonsense that resembles Greek the way an impressionist's painting seen up close resembles anything in it meant to invoke. Which is: only if you are looking.

And yet - lovely, lovely. Achingly lovely, the notes falling from her mouth like rose petals.

Adam

He stills as she sings.

He didn't expect it; his eyebrows lowering signify that, sure enough. He didn't expect it at all, but a small, fond smile touches the corners of his mouth while she is singing, and he looks at her. He sees her, too. He doesn't seem at all like the sort of man who would look at another person and see them, really, distinct and clear against the rest of the world, distinct and clear and burning within their own skins: a lamp.

But he does see her, usually. He sees her tonight. He can't look away from her when she sings and when the lovely thing is done, he remembers not to hold his breath, the small fond wistful little smile becomes something that makes the lines on his face ache, stays quiet because Adam is a quiet suggestion of things that are and are not more often than he is a presence.

He is a shadow. That is why he has none. See?

"Bravo!" His eyebrows quiver. "That was beautiful," and of course he means it. "You've got a good ear," he adds. "And," reaching over to take Ruse from her shoulder a moment before Ruse launches himself dangerously toward the tube on the floor, "your voice suits the language. If you get a gig, let me know."

He expects she'll send out the usual mass-text. That's fine.

Serafíne

Awareness-as-empathy, Adam. Something that makes the lines of his face ache.

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 5, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) Re-rolls: 2

Adam

Sera, being intuitive, being perceptive about people, being empathic -- Adam: he is such a center, relentlessly a center, and it can't surprise her to know that he is comfortable completely in his own skin and his own place, but he is. Sera can read, can absorb, that he is truly is impressed by her song, enough so that he was moved to make a gesture -- but decides against it. How'd see absorb that? Maybe in a certain movement of the expression gliding over his face, right?

And the small fond wistful little smile that becomes something that makes the lines on his face ache becomes that something because his mind is off with some gone-away thing, some absent wish-you-were-here, a longing for a thing.

But Sera, she can also see that he is trying to -- not draw her out, precisely, but give her a certain focus, because he can see

or saw

that haunted-by-darkness air she had.

Serafíne

Her voice is low, is rough, she's been smoking. She's been smoking sometimes too much, not mindfully but mindlessly. Lighting one from the end of another one. Feeling the rough burn of smoke in her lungs, against the back of her throat.

So: low and raw and immediate, intimate, as full of shadow as it is with light, and Adam is a shadow but she watches him, looks at him, sees him quite the way he looks at her, and sees her, single and entire, and burning, burning, the the windows and the walls and the many, many doors.

And she looks at him much the way he looked at her.

A moment: only. And yet,

what she sees makes her breath catch, snag in her lungs, makes her shining-eyes, makes her frown, a neat knot between her brows and glance-away as Adam is telling her that was beautiful and that if she gets a gig, she should let him know.

"Okay," Her little mouth curls: a hook. The sort that pierces skin. "I will."

Ruse has been removed from her shoulder and Sera's eyes drop to follow Ruse, Ruse, Ruse-in-Adam's-hands.

Then Sera kind of upends herself, gathers herself in a way that says that she is going. Leans forward to brush her mouth against Adam's temple. It is not a lascivious gesture, no. It feels like a prayer, or a blessing.

"I'm gonna go." She tells him, then. "Thank you."

He may not ever know what for.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Just your feet?


Grace

Sid's green gift has departed this place, so the grass Grace is lying in crunches uncomfortably underneath. But it's no matter really. The sky still glows with sunset. It's peaceful (for now). There are no vampires, no Technocrats, just earth and sky and the hot spring Node into which her feet skim. Her shoes and socks have been dropped off by the edge, and she's got her jeans rolled up so they don't get wet.

Oh yes, earth and sky and cell phone held up to block the view of all that so that Grace can get on Hacker News and browse the awesome stuff the outside world is up to.

Somebody out there just posited that black holes don't exist. Singularities are impossible, says the math. Another scientist replies, "Yes, Virginia, black holes exist," with even more math.

Truth is in the eye of the beholder, you see.

Serafíne

If Grace's senses are open she will feel Serafíne long before she sees her. They bend the world, afterall. Distant, (gutwrenching) and framed by the sunset world (enthralling), all these between-places (liminal) and hurtling ever-closer at the speed of, you know, a conversion van driven by someone Grace cannot sense at any distance, because he is himself ordinary, except vis-a-vis his capacity for imagination perhaps, or his love of the world.

--

So some time after the first inkling of that sensation and then some time after its arrival and then some time that remains as-yet undetermined, the glass sliders zip open and Sera emerges, boots solid on the flagstone patio. It's not the ordinary click of her heels; she's wearing her Doc Marten's tonight, and a gray hoodie repaired with patchwork that is longer than the buckle-covered leather skirt she has paired with it, over a plaid bustier. Hood pulled up to cover her hair, a bottle of beer in her right hand as she exits and exists and circles the patio, wreathed in mist rising from the hotspring, eyeing Grace's perch as she does.

"Just your feet?" Wry, her eyes dark and shadowed by the edge of the hood, the twist of her mouth at the edge of a smirk. Sera has lost a bit of weight recently. She is not yet gaunt as she was when she fasted, but there is a returned sharpness to her, somehow. "Why not go all-in?"

Grace

Grace lost a bit of weight recently too, although in her case, the thinness is on the mend. It's just hard to eat when you're in a coma after all.

She only snaps out of it when Sera speaks, her head swiveling in order to get an upside-down view of Sera's approach.

"Well, yes. Just the feet. If I went all-in, my clothes would get all wet."

That's really not what Sera was going for, and Grace knows it -- gives her a smirk back.

Serafíne

"Clothes come off," Sera, low-voiced. Left foot perched on a convenient little outcropping of rock. Her free hand is in the kangaroo pocket of her rather expensive hoodie, while the other - occupied with her already half-consumed beer - swings a lovely arc alongside her shapely right thigh.

"Or they dry, you give them time. How are you, Grace? Been awhile."

Grace

Grace just rolls her eyes at the mention of skinny dipping in the hot spring. Mind you, she was there that time Ian and Sera went and did just that.

It's just not Grace's thing.

Still, her phone falls in an arc down toward the grass again.

"How I am is a rather complicated state. I mean, between Alicia, Elijah, vampires, Technocrats, and Three Mile Island Bugfuck Elly, I don't know -- it's pretty interesting lately. Not all of that's good. But I did drink some wine that had had its atoms exploded and reassembled, so I suppose I can't complain.

"How're you?"

Serafíne

"How everyone is is a complicated state, Grace. All the pieces of yourself and all the pieces of everyone else like a whirlwind inside you," Sera has, by now, found a perch on a convenient stretch of boulder. The edge of her lovely ass, feet planted firmly on the slightly damp stones framing the spring. And her dark eyes are on Grace and they are framed by the outline of her hood and she has her usual raw confidence as well as a kind of reserve tonight, which sometimes comes over her, as if some indivisible part of her were at a safe and strangely contained remove.

There's a fond edge to the curve of her mouth, though.

Affection in its leading edge.

"I have no idea what the hell most of that litany means, or even what it means to you. Why don't you tell me.

"Pick one and start somewhere."

Grace's own question to Sera goes unanswered, for the moment.

Grace

Grace considers. Most of them are connected (like everything, but we know that). It all comes back to...

"Alicia. Her dad is, well, I don't have any proof, but I think he's some kind of super top-secret project to whatever brand of Technocrat has him. I mean, you know what's been said, right?"

Grace doesn't know how Sera mostly visits Ginger for the sexy-robot-voice, when she visits.

"So I went and poked around a little. Made a couple of pals. Asked a few questions. And now there's a guy from the Society of Ether in town who has a plan to find this family friend of Alicia's dad. He's going to track the Paradox that stuck to her. He's Elly, the guy with the exploded wine. Really. Amazing."

Serafíne

"You've talked to Alicia about all of this, right?"

That quickling look. Sera with her head canted. This angle, you understand, that allows her to watch the world unhinge itself. To see the seams.

Grace

Grace takes a deep breath, and the relative happiness in her voice at remembering Elly and his machines fades.

"That was the first thing I said to Elijah. Eventually, he let me talk to her. Originally, he just wanted me to read her diary and leave her out of the entire picture. I said no.

"Alicia did not want me to mount a rescue mission for her father, she just wanted information. And she wanted me to find Alethea, her family friend, so that's what I'm helping with. I took her with me to meet Elly. She seemed almost happy, you know?"

Serafíne

Sera takes a deep breath, drops her dark gaze to the edge light that cuts across the wake of the glass bottle like a blade. She is - remembering something, which is inside of her, half-eaten, half-consumed.

Darker than she often knows.

Ragged in her chest, as she takes in another breath.

Then another, glancing back up at Grace, eyes glittering in all that reflective half-light, the sunset or whatever a constantly changing pattern in the choppy surface of the water.

Another deep breath. "I know Elijah fucked up. Everybody knows that, you know? And I'm glad that you did the right thing, and made sure that Alicia had a choice in what happened next.

"But you can't hold that against him forever. Alicia can, maybe, if she fucking wants. But you've gotta give him space so that he can grow past his mistakes, you know? And part of that is - " A supple, liquid shrug. That wry curve to her mouth again. " - well, you can figure it out, what that means to you.

"The family friend. She's the one in hiding, right? What's the point of finding her?"

Serafíne

(pause!)

Serafíne

Grace and Sera are sitting out on the patio by the hotspring. Grace has her shoes and socks off, feet in the water. Sera suggested that Grace go skinny dipping. Sera is perched on a convenient rock, with a beer in hand. Dan's somewhere in the kitchen.

Here is the last post:

Sera takes a deep breath, drops her dark gaze to the edge light that cuts across the wake of the glass bottle like a blade. She is - remembering something, which is inside of her, half-eaten, half-consumed.

Darker than she often knows.

Ragged in her chest, as she takes in another breath.

Then another, glancing back up at Grace, eyes glittering in all that reflective half-light, the sunset or whatever a constantly changing pattern in the choppy surface of the water.

Another deep breath. "I know Elijah fucked up. Everybody knows that, you know? And I'm glad that you did the right thing, and made sure that Alicia had a choice in what happened next.

"But you can't hold that against him forever. Alicia can, maybe, if she fucking wants. But you've gotta give him space so that he can grow past his mistakes, you know? And part of that is - " A supple, liquid shrug. That wry curve to her mouth again. " - well, you can figure it out, what that means to you.

"The family friend. She's the one in hiding, right? What's the point of finding her?"

Grace

Grace (for the newly arrived) is currently lying down next to the hot spring Node, with her feet dangling inside, trying to soak up some quintessence and obtain pruny toes at the same time. Shoes, socks, and her phone have been discarded nearby.

"Yeah. I'm not mad at him really. I just wonder if he knows why what he did was wrong? That the root of all this was his willingness to reduce someone else's agency down to 'damsel in distress'? But yeah. He's torn up about it bigtime. It's hard to be mad at someone who is that miserable. Like he's doing enough chiding himself."

She raises a foot out of the water, lets the drops fall back to the water in order to make a pleasant sound. Toes wiggle.

"The point of finding Alethea is that Alicia wants to. Alethea is an Etherite. She's being hunted by Techs. From what I understand, Alicia was pretty close to her. So yeah, I put her in touch with someone who both has the capacity to help and wants to. Besides, Elly is awesome. Like I said."

Serafíne

"I don't know that it matters," quiet this, Sera. Strangely reflective and open yeah and spare in a way that perhaps matches the season.

Less than two weeks ago she killed someone.

With magic.

She still doesn't know precisely how to contain that knowledge.

So she doesn't contain it. She just is.

Eyes dark enough to be a bruise, her mouth wry, affectionate, tender as a wound, sliding now and then into an edgy little smirk, and right back out again.

It is a hard goddamned thing to be human.

"If he knows. Just that he asks himself the question. But I said that to you mostly because the way you just told me that story was as much about his fuck-up as anything else, yeah? And maybe you should be careful how you phrase that, or even think about it.

"Think about him the way he should've thought about Alicia. It;s just a thought."

A brief pause. Another swig from her beer bottle.

"This Alethea. How hard are the Techs hunting her?"

Grace

Grace's foot goes slipping back into the water again.

She thinks over Sera's words. Think about him the way he should have thought about Alicia. Like she's not thinking of Elijah like he's a fully-formed person who can handle his own damn shit? Like she's trying to protect him? Keep him in the dark, where it's safe? Not really.

The one thing that bothers her the most is how she had to censor him and tell him no, like she was some kind of 'crat herself. He can make his own choices, no matter what they might be, but when it comes to other people's continued existence, well...

She could stand to be a little less prickly about that. And that's... unfortunate.

"What it looks like? They want her bad, but can't find her," Grace says, at last, dodging the topic of Elijah. "At least I hope that's still the case, you know?"

Elijah

What does Elijah do these days?

He does all sorts of things, but he had something to do. Something big and important to do that started with an F and ended with a wrench Homework. He had things to do, and it felt a little odd to show up to the chantry with the expressed purpose of studying for a subject he already knew and not studying some of the vast depths and breadth of knowledge that he didn't already know but his grammar in French was pretty atrocious and the young man needed somewhere to study that wasn't going to promote falling asleep.

He'd been sleeping recently. He'd been sleeping a lot recently, and ever since he moved it became abundantly clear that the young man slept like a dead rock. Or a log. Or something else that was difficult to wake up because it wasn't something that woke up… well… ever. Elijah was content to be awake for now and coming to a place that he could actually get something done.

The door opened, and it was off to the inside of the chantry with him.

"Bonjour! C'est moi- Elijah. Je suis ici pour faire ses devoirs!" hé pauses, "goddamn I am never going to pass this stuff."

Ian

They arrived on foot, Ian and Jae-shin. There was no sound of wheels on pavement or the rolling purr of an engine to announce their passage. Instead Grace and Sera would pick up the tell-tale drum of feet on the earth, and the papery crackle of fall leaves tossed up in the wind. When the runners reached the edge of the treeline, they slowed their pace to a loping jog, moving like a couple of graceful animals over the grass. When they neared the Node, Ian dropped back to a walking pace, resting his hands on his hips. His ribs moved in a steady rhythm of deep breaths. He had on running shoes and a pair of track pants. Sweat dripped from his forehead.

He nodded first to Grace, then Sera, but did not immediately attempt to join their conversation. The man with him (Grace had met him before, but Sera had not) was Korean. He looked even more athletic than Ian, and resonated like something of the ocean. (Fluid and Abyssal.) Jae-shin smiled softly at Grace, then fixed Sera with a reserved but curious expression.

"Evening," he said.

Ian tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to get some water."

Serafíne

Grace misunderstands Sera's purpose there. Which was mostly: hey. Deep breath, pull back. No need to tell everyone everything that Elijah did wrong. Consider the story and consider the purpose and consider the words. Sometimes those things can fucking hurt, even when you don't mean them too.

But Grace dodges the topic and Sera kind of assumes that Grace gets it and anyway; she's strangely circumspect about it. Perhaps a bit distant, bottleneck cool where it is wrapped between her fingers. The night strange all around.

--

And Sera doesn't speak French and Elijah's call-out is muffled as he enters the chantry by the closed doors butt there is enough noise from his called-out greeting to pull her chin up. She breathes out -

- looks back at Grace. That half-smile again.

"If they are that hot for her you might consider whether you guys finding her could increase their chances of finding her. Right now, no one knows where she is. She might not even exist.

"But when you know. And Alicia knows. And everyone else here knows, that near impossibility turns into a possibility, right?

"Maybe it wouldn't, but I think you and Alicia should think about why she wants to find this woman, and whether your plan places her in more danger, and whether the goal is worth the danger in which you place her, and yourselves, by contacting her.

"When she's hunted. You know?"

Another sort of agency.

--

A flick of her dark (bruised/ing) gaze up as Ian approaches with a stranger. The brief skim of Sera's smirk, a bit more flat and closed than you'd imagine it, but Jae-Shin doesn't just feel like the ocean (fluid), he also feels (abyssal) like other things still a crawling kind of knowledge in and beneath her skin.

"Hello," that smirk. And it's not unwelcoming, what she says next. It's just her way. "Who the fuck are you?"

Grace

"I'll talk with Elly about it. He's been around the block a few times, it seems. But you're right. Trying to find her could be dangerous for her," Grace says, with a sigh.

"That," Grace says, rolling her head around to stare at Jae Shin's feet. "Is Soccer Guy. Ian's friend. I forgot his name."

She waves at them, and gives an upside-down smile.

Elijah

He follows the sound of people, because it sounds like there are people. Because he thrives on people, because he thrived on the idea of getting to do something other than pour over a textbook he didn't really want to pay attention to. He deposited the messenger bag... uh... somewhere. He looked at his pocket watch and headed off towards the sound of people.

Ian

[Awareness]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 4 )

Ian

Jae-shin's smile cooled, but he didn't seem especially offended by the question.

"Jeong Jae-shin, of the Akashic Brotherhood." He paused to take in a couple of breaths, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "And you?" His accent marked him as a non-native speaker, but he seemed comfortable enough with the language.

Ian glanced back a moment as he walked toward the house, then pulled open the patio door and stepped inside, heading for the kitchen. When he saw Dan, he nodded, and the faint edge of a grin touched the side of his mouth. "Hey."

(The last time that Ian and Dan had seen each other, Ian had been naked in the hot-spring.)

Elijah was there too. Ian felt his approach before he came into view, and there was a slow, measured glance back in Elijah's direction. Something quiet and thoughtful that hovered over him for a few silent beats. Then Ian grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet and filled them with water, taking a long drink from his own.

Serafíne

Sera's gaze slides quick easily back to Grace. There's a gleam of compassion that, there slithers to the surfaces and turns and catches the light and sinks back down beneath the surface too. Grace sighs. Sera's gaze lingers there, for several long, passing beats.

"Cool." Murmured, with a tip of her beer bottle as if in a toast. "Just think about it."

--

Then back to "soccer-guy" to whom the creature's attention returns with a dark, wry sweep. She sees the cooling smile, how could she miss it? Somehow that always brings out the edge in her,

as it does now. This smirk, more surface than deep. She has a half-dozen mysteries floating beneath her skin and she's a terrible liar and here she is, standing see, as Jae-Shinn introduces himself.

"Serafíne," she says, "Most people call me Sera. Nice to meet you."

--

And Dan, inside, is drying his hands on a kitchen towel and catches the edge of Ian's grin and you understand, grinning himself, through the rough blond beard. "Hey." to Ian. "Hey, man," to Elijah, before he kind of excuses himself and heads out to the patio to stick his head out for Sera.

"You ready or what?" Dan asks Sera.

And, "Ready." Sera responds.

"See you 'round," she says, by way of farewell to Jae-Shin. And, "Later, Grace. Be careful, okay?" then disappears back inside. They'll head down the stairs, to the walk-out basement. Start down through the fields. They're going hiking, at twilight.

Maybe they'll be back later. Maybe not.

Friday, September 12, 2014

awake.


Serafíne

Late late late late late Friday night into Saturday morning, god knows the hour but the bars are long-since closed and the sun has not yet given much consideration to rising and the city is quiet as it is in those hours and a text shows up on Hawksley's phone.

Maybe he won't see it until the 'morrow.

you awake?

Hawksley

In coming days or weeks, whenever the whim happens to strike him at sunset in the library, Hawksley is going to be out of the country. He is going to turn to the apprentice using one of his altars and reading one of his books and ask her if she wants to go to England.

That hasn't happened yet. Perhaps it has already occurred to him, though. Hawksley's spontaneity is only genuine about half the time.

--

When Sera's text hits his phone, Hawksley is not asleep. Nor is he at home. He is somewhere else, and the bow tie on his tux is undone and so is his belt and he is not alone and there are other things happening. But he looks at his phone anyway, like a dick, and his mouth quirks in a lopsided, lazy smile. He is drunk and he is relaxed and

yeah

he texts back: he is awake.

Serafíne

She is, by contrast, entirely alone. And quiet, in a quiet room, with a blanket wound around her hips and a mug of cooling tea on a chipped, worn, stained coffee table. There is a bottle of whiskey on the floor by the arm of the couch, but for all that she is not drunk. Not the way he is drunk, and she is not loose, not the way he is loose, and she is not pleasured, not the way he is pleasured -

but for all that a smile, when his response comes through. Lopsided like his yeah but not lazy. Some other inflection. Some other infection.

He doesn't know that, though.

Just like: she doesn't know where he is, or how he is. Just that he is,

yeah,

awake now. Awake still.

Awake.

can i come over?

she asks, without context. Just text.

Hawksley

Sitting alone with a cup of tea and a blanket over her legs is hardly the image anyone, ever has of Serafine whatshername. It is an image that exists, though, even with the bottle of whiskey nearby.

Sitting not-alone with someone bent over his lap and his tie undone and his mouth tasting of vodka is exactly the image most people might have of Hawksley's extracurriculars. Then again, most people don't know that Hawksley has curriculars to begin with. Most people don't know Hawksley at all.

All he says is yeah and what she says back is a request.

And that's really what gets his attention, when he picks up his phone again and looks through half-lidded eyes at what she says. It sends a thread of anxiety through his spine: wouldn't she just show up, wouldn't she just call him out to meet him at X, wouldn't this person with whom he has traded at least a piece of his name just create the reality she wants, rather than asking for it?

There is no answer on Sera's phone for a little while. When it comes, minutes later, it says:

not home. i'll come to you. where?

Serafíne

Sera is trying very hard not to think. No, wait, that's wrong. She is trying very hard not to feel, which is a very difficult thing to do in an otherwise empty room in a dark and silent house when you are awake and everyone else in the world is: elsewhere. But there she is, taking a pull from her whiskey bottle, reading old messages. Everything, whatever.

Pan's. she returns, not long after. the rectory?? ill be out front.

--

Which is where she'll be, however much later. Her shoes off and tucked neatly beside her on the front stoop, her arms wrapped around her thighs, and she's not wearing pants but who the hell needs pants when the shirt-tail of the men's button-down you are wearing as a dress and have been all day more-or-less covers your ass. Opaque stockings, thigh-high and trimmed in vintage lace buttoned neatly to the thin straps of her garters and a somewhat oversized baby-blue sweatshirt finish off the look and she is resting her chin on her knees and smoking a cigarette and drinking now and then from her bottle of whiskey, as she is wont to do, exhaling the smoke and looking up at the dark stippling of sky visible from her perch on the porch of the priest who loves her the way a father loves a daughter, whom she loves the way she loves everything: which is to say, the way fire loves oxygen.

Loose-haired, loose-jointed, loose-jawed, somehow. Resonance strong enough tonight that it feels like it is bleeding into the air around her. Visceral - first and foremost tonight. Wrenching, gut-wrenching, for all she looks so composed, like some scene from a John Hughes movie. The preacher's errant daughter sneaking out for a well-past-midnight rendenvous.

Hawksley

There is the matter of dismissing the person he rudely interrupted not so long ago. There's the matter of apologies, of insistence, of a rather harshly snapped set of words that catches that poor person well off their guard. There's Collins, doing as Collins does, taking over, smoothing over.

It turns out Hawksley has no fucking clue where Pan's rectory is, what the hell is Sera talking about. He knows what a fucking rectory is. He knows very little about Pan other than that he was a rather luminous, shining figure that Hawksley met maybe once. Sera draped herself all over him. Sera draped herself all over everyone; Sera draping herself over someone is no signal of particular affection.

There is an exchange, perhaps less terse than well where the fuck is that? but perhaps exactly that terse.

And however much later, there is a gleaming car the color of gold-flecked coffee sliding in front of Pan's rectory. And there is a window rolling down, and a beautiful young man with hair askew and wearing a half-undone tux looking out at her.

He is not a priest.

He does not love Sera the way a father loves a daughter. One could surmise, at least from how he speaks and sometimes how he behaves, that he does not love her at all. That he loves nothing, really, the way he loves knowledge, and power.

That he has loved nothing since the one he did admit -- to Sera, some time ago -- that he loved with all his heart.

But she loves him. God knows how. Maybe even knows why.

--

Hawksley cocks his head towards the passenger seat. "Get in, loser, we're going shopping."

Serafíne

Listen to him. Probably even God doesn't know how, or why.

Which may be okay with her. Sera's never much liked God anyway.

And yet, here she is on the porch of a shabby little clapboard two-story where the front door is always unlocked, on a shabby sort of street full of dingy rental housing and third-rate retailers that would be a dangerous street were it not for the inhabitant of that shabby little clapboard house behind her. Across from the darkened bulk of a silent church old enough that it has the full complement of a belltower and dingy stained glass windows, all surrounded by weedy apron of asphalt. A basketball court. A small playground for the daycare. Signage more in Spanish than English, and so damned ordinary, the whole scene, except for her, him, them.

His goddamned Porsche.

--

Sera is feeling him from some distance. All that sundrenched and soaring and Pan's fucking illumination at her back which makes it seem like high fucking noon and strange to feel all that light, rising right, when inside she's just -

- no, wait. Not strange at all. Someone she is always shredding herself open. Somehow she is always whole.

Like now, swaying to her feet as he pulls up to the curb, unsteady in that way that seems deliberate, picking up her bottle with her right hand, scooping up her shoes with the left, padding down the walk in her stockinged feet. And she wants to reach out and slide her hand through his disordered hair but her hands are full and she wants to bend down and kiss him but her heart is full of this kind of worming darkness, the sort that burrows more than it breaches the surface, and she isn't really sure she could do either of these things without staining him, somehow.

One desire trumps the other. She doesn't reach for him, doesn't bend to kiss him, just smirks, this native bravado, when he calls her loser, and circles the car, and sinks or maybe pours herself into the passenger's seat. Drops her shoes onto the floor and settles the bottle between her knees and tips her head back, long hair sliding down her spine. Vivid in the darkness.

Stark, visceral.

"What. You don't like my fucking outfit?" Slanting gaze fixed on his profile, hunting-sharp in the swimming half-light thrown back from the dash. Takes in his undone tux and shows off a bit of leg. Well, given the length of her clothing, more than a bit of leg and breathes in, and breathes out, and -

"Little late, isn't it? There's no place open."

Hawksley

Sera likes one god very much. Of the sky, of the sun. Not entirely human but far from entirely avian. With that god or version-of-a-god before her and all the might of Pan's god behind her she must feel surrounded by light, all of it suffusing and blanketing and buffeting

that coil of terrible darkness she took into herself earlier.

When he lowers his window and she sways over, anyone who might be up or peering out a window at this hour would think whore and think john. Neither of them belong here. Hawksley, for all the languages he speaks, knows only a basic smattering of Spanish -- enough to survive for a few hours in Mexico if he really had to, and perhaps has had to. No more. The Porsche doesn't belong here and his tux doesn't and she doesn't but at least some people know she knows the priest.

Think she's a whore, perhaps, all the same.

The passenger door is opened from within for her, so she doesn't have to lower shoes nor bottle to grasp the handle. She doesn't buckle in and Hawksley doesn't go tearing off; he can't heal her. He doesn't think she can heal herself from decapitation if someone were to throw their SUV into the side of his little sportscar.

"I usually don't even notice what you're wearing, tell the truth," Hawksley informs her. "It was a joke." There's a beat. He looks at her inner thigh, then her face. "Put your seatbelt on and we'll drive around. Tell me what's up."

Serafíne

It's a joke he tells her and "Oh," she says. Oh. Quietly, you understand, though not - never retiringly, and there's a note of surprise in there, still the quiet sort of surprise, this hanging sense of it, like the leading edge of disappointment. The moment he said that they were going shopping she believed him and - moreover - wanted to go shopping at three a.m. with a sky god in a half-undone tux, anywhere, everywhere, where the fuck ever, something strange and absurd and surreal.

Something lovely.

Something - anything - beyond the boundaries of her mind and her body.

"I spend so much time on what I wear. How is it that you don't notice? Sometimes my shoes are so fucking sexy I figure they should be on the table instead of under it and almost want to take them off and put them on my plate instead of the meal."

She breathes out and it is half a breath and half a laugh and there's no mirth to it. Reaches for the seatbelt because he told her too and pulls it across her body. Snaps it home. Have they moved yet? She doesn't know.

Her hands are shaking. Suddenly she doesn't know what to do with them. Or even why they are attached to her damned arms.

"I killed someone tonight."

Hawksley

There's a mental note being made to deposit Sera in the cinema in his home -- perhaps she stumbled across it on her own one day, and knows of its existence, or perhaps she'll be as delighted and surprised as anyone else who didn't think to look behind that particular door -- and have her watch Mean Girls until it is as firmly ensconced in her mind as his own. Don't ask Hawksley why he likes Mean Girls. Don't ask him why he got so pissed off at that Frick prick at Adam's bookshop. Don't ask him why he and Kate, Katie, Katherine, Kat, his ex-wife, broke up. This is how things are now. This is who he is. He has a mansion with a movie theater in it. Go with the flow.

Hawksley is driving as soon as she is securely fastened in. He's not a maniac, even now. He's not driving like one, either, though he does like to drive fast, especially when he gets on a long dark stretch of road and when it curls into his thoughts that he can probably get away with almost anything if he puts his mind to it.

Dangerous thoughts, those. He dismisses them, brushes them aside like so much dust from a book discovered in a dying man's forgotten library, and listens. He shrugs. "I don't see why shoes being sexy would make them appetizing enough to serve for dinner," he informs her. "I don't notice much what you wear because I'm noticing you instead." A glance, to the side, at her. "Would've thought you knew that."

Eyes forward, driving, driving, not noticing her hands shaking in the dark. Even Hawksley has limits.

I killed someone tonight.

Hawksley is very quiet. For several seconds. He is still driving: fast, controlled, lazy in this paradoxical way.

"Are you being metaphorical?"

He would not put it past her.

Serafíne

Some other night she might come back with a riposte about sexy shoes or anything being good enough to eat (or at least display on the table) and some other night she might go still when he tells her that he doesn't notice what she's wearing because he is instead noticing her. Might smile, a kind of half-smile that hints at something deeper and something stranger and something anchored and something aware: because she does know that. And the knowing-of-that makes her aware-of-him in ways that she is aware of few others.

Not tonight.

They're driving. He makes a turn and then another and finds a road that is empty enough and long enough and dark enough and straight enough that he can go as fast as he likes. Perhaps he doesn't need any of the caveats. Perhaps he just goes as fast as he likes.

The city gleams by, an impressionist blur. Radiant lines of light streaking through not-quite-darkness.

She tucks her hands beneath her thighs. Thinks that is a good place to keep them, then changes her mind and draws her knees up instead, heels on the edge of the seat, arms wrapped 'round. Whiskey bottle dangling from her hands which are: still shaking. But not as much, and it's easier to pass this off as vibration from the road.

--

Those several quiet seconds: she is breathless, gaze shunted away, mouth on bony knob of her right knee, watching the white line at the street's edge.

Is she being metaphorical?

"No."

--

A beat. Two. Three. Four.

There is a rhythm to the universe. A pulse, invisible, that punches through skin, through the base of the skull, seizes itself in the basal ganglia or what the fuck ever. She doesn't know. She's listening to it and it is: beating. Or maybe that's her heart.

"He was Fallen. I didn't even know he was Awake. I looked into his mind. He had some kind of shield or effect, but it wasn't meant to keep someone like me out.

"It was meant to pull me in.

"I don't remember - ever - feeling anything that horrible. Filthy." (Of course, there are things she does not remember.) "I used that. And I killed him."

Her voice is choked, thready. But she hasn't started to weep, not yet.

Hawksley

He is a selfish, self-absorbed, self-involved, self-seeking young man. He is concerned with a singular higher ideal that is, in the end, about no one but himself. It advances no one but himself. Had Hawksley been alive during the Ascension War he would have simply fucking abstained, being disinterested entirely in the Ascension of the human race. There's more than one reason why he was dismissed from the Order; no code, no law, no oath would restrain him from what he wants for himself. He's a bastard.

He does take particular notice of a few things outside of his main pursuit. He does care here and there, he does concern himself with a few things beyond his own power. There is, for example, his trust in Collins. There is, for a more immediately present example, his attention to Serafine.

Of course he doesn't care, or even notice most of the time, what she does or doesn't wear. Only as much as it titillates him, perhaps, or gets in his way, or amuses him, or gives him something witty to say at her expense. But he does always notice her. Even when she is drinking alcoholic slushies and he is jumping rope in the park; he is aware of her. She knows that. After all, she is aware of him, too.

--

She is not being metaphorical.

The road is long and dark and, after a while, lit almost entirely by his headlights alone.

Hawksley says nothing, and keeps his eyes forward.

--

Someone who knows more about empathy, psychology, or compassion would not ask what Hawksley does, after she explains to him what happened.

He's not one of those people though.

"How exactly did you do it?" he asks, and perhaps it isn't mere curiosity but it sure sounds like it.

Serafíne

Sera does not answer him immediately. She drags in a breath, harsh. Another one.

She watches the road as it passes by. As it slides sinuous from the sharp beam of his headlights to darkness behind. She takes a sip from her whiskey bottle, which she holds more out of habit than intention. More to make sure that she has something in her stomach when the urge to throw up overwhelms her.

It hasn't come in a while, but she knows it will return.

"I don't - "

This sharp shake before she resettles her head, mouth open, teeth set against her skin.

"Life." Quiet. "And Prime?" The query is as much for herself as for him. The moment was plosive and surreal and wrenching and she can hardly remember what it was that she did, because she did not do it with her mind, but with her body and her soul. "I attacked his pattern. His consciousness. I wanted to knock him out.

"And I did. And he fell in the water and he drowned."

She's crying now, silently, head turned away from him.

His eyes on the road.

"I don't really know what was happening. Half the time I thought I was hallucinating. But I wasn't."

Serafíne

A beat, some downstroke. The first of a full measure.

Then - in a smaller voice, just a bit choked, she adds,

"Don't stop driving, okay?"

Hawksley

Legally there should not be an open container of alcohol in the front seat. Legally Hawksley should not be going as fast as he is.

Logically he should not be asking the woman he knows to be more than a little tender-hearted how, precisely, she killed a man so recently. Perhaps this night. Could have been years ago. Hawksley has not tried to place it in time. He does, however, want to know the magic she used. She used Life to rend his body, Prime to twist his soul. And even then, she confesses, she only meant to knock him out.

At which she was successful.

--

Hawksley, being as he is, huffs a breath outward when she says he drowned. He is not mocking her tears, as much as he is uncomfortable with them. He drives, and she sniffs and asks him not to stop driving, and his brows furrow. He does not say anything for a while, until:

"You didn't kill him, Sera. The water killed him. As the water has a right to."

Whatever that means, Hawksley does not pause to explain to her. He glances at her. "You took from him the ability to deny the water its due, among other things. What do you think he would have done to you, and whomever was with you? What was he trying to do to you when you reached into his mind to begin with?" Hawksley is frowning, ever deeper. "He was Fallen, Sera. They aren't even human anymore. You're lucky you could recognize what was left of him as a mind to begin with, as a soul. You're lucky you even survived it."

His frown has only furrowed. Rather out of nowhere, or everywhere, he slams his hand against the wheel.

"What the fuck, Sera? What the fucking.... fuck!"

That last one isn't a question. And regardless of what she just asked him, he somewhat forcefully flashes lights, pulls to the shoulder, stops the car. It takes him a moment, sitting there gripping the wheel and staring forward, before he remembers to turn on his flashers. Before he puts the emergency break on. Before he can unwind his fingers from the steering wheel and look at her.

A beat, then two, pass. And then his belt is off and he is all but kicking the driver's side door open, getting out, slamming it behind him. Outside the car he paces a moment. One way. Another, each direction aborted. Stops, because there's really no place to go, and then stops beside his door, turning his back on it, leaning against the porsche. She can't see this part, but he presses the heels of his hands to his brow, fuming.

The car is still on, and at least for a while, it dings about the driver's side seatbelt. That sound fades, soon enough.

Serafíne

Sera cries very quietly in the passenger's seat of Hawksley's Porsche. It comes and goes. Her tears are not harsh or stormy, just present, leaking from the corners of her eyes and funneling down her cheeks. Sometimes she takes a breath that gets all interrupted, right, some huff-huff-huff that is entirely unintentional, these little spasms of her diaphragm. And she sits there, curled up, arms around her legs, teeth set into her kneecap, then just her mouth, then instead her cheekbone, sounding really rather almost-normal until (huff huff huff) another one of those little spasms digs into her body or she sniffs because, you know, her nose gets a bit snotty when she cries. Isn't it that way for everyone?

They drive.

She finds that oddly soothing, because you see right now she cannot really bear to be still and she's a bit too tired and spent to move. So: driving, hurtling through the dark, his hand between them when he has to reach to change gears. The engine's ordered chaos, its quietly controlled crescendos and decrescendos as he accelerates on the flats and slows just enough to take the curves with flippant grace.

The silence lasts long enough that when he starts to speak again she is almost grateful. Steals this glance at him - her stark eyes, her sharp little profile and the three a.m. tangle of her hair like a halo, glowing in the dashboard lights. And he tells her that she didn't kill him, and she opens her mouth (again around her knee) to maybe say something but Hawksley does not pause. She can see the frame of another purposeful breath in the air all around him and he goes on and she returns that glance briefly, then drops her gaze to the shadows where her stupid shoes are rattling around on the floormats and she is sort-of nodding, the motion arrested because her mouth is open again, because her teeth are once more set in her skin, and it could be assent or acknowledgment or agreement or apology, right? Maybe all four, wrapped up into one.

I know. I know. I know. this litany punctuate at the end of each damn question. What on earth would he have done to her. What was he trying to do to them. She is lucky she even survived it. Yes, she knows that too.

Then his hand slams against the wheel and she just kind of draws this arrested breath and she's in his periphery so he probably can't see her bracing her shoulders for whatever is to come, but she does, this thoughtless tension in her spine and he's steering the little sports car onto the shoulder, Jesus Christ where the hell are they, even? The headlights forward, bright down the shoulder. The flashers tick-tocking when he remembers to shove them on.

Then he storms out of the Porsche and she starts crying again, this time in earnest near-silence, her head down, her arms so tightly wrapped around her legs that her knuckles go white with the strain. Cries - as she does so many things - without reservation.

Cries until she starts hiccoughing like mad. Cries - honestly - until she pukes.

Which she does, cracking open the passenger's door, leaning out over the verge while her body rids itself of the whiskey she ingested. She doesn't really stop crying while she's throwing up. Somehow they have the same rhythm, don't they?

Sera pulls the car door closed again when she is sure the spell has passed. Not a slam: just enough force for it to click home.

She's calmer, after. Wipes the sourness off her mouth with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Wipes her nose. Then peels the sweatshirt off because you know, it's gross now. She just used it as a big dumb hanky.

Hawksley

There's a damn good reason that Hawksley is out of that car as quickly as he is. It's certainly not that his rage is threatening to overtake him, certainly not that he's about to start smacking Sera in the face. He's angry, but he isn't violent. And it isn't that he wants to cool night air to clear his head and calm him down, though he knows that helps, he's seeking it without even realizing it, wanting the wind on his face because it makes him feel more whole. The real reason, when you get down to it, is that Sera is crying and Hawksley has been as expertly trained as any young man in the western world -- perhaps the world, full stop. He can't bear it. He couldn't bear it when Alicia started crying after his workout, he couldn't bear it when he broke up with his first girlfriend, and he couldn't bear it any of the times he's seen his mother weep. He would rather Sera do what his first boyfriend did when they broke up and just bloody his fucking nose already.

Outside the Porsche he puts his hands in his hair while he works on wrapping his mind around what Sera has told him. He feels like a Sleeper. He knows next to nothing about Mind magic. He does know that, as with many spheres, the ability to act upon another pattern comes only with rather significant power, but prior to that, one can enact small changes. But one can almost always chart a path or create a shield early, early on. They teach apprentices that. He knows that plenty of magi who can reach into your thoughts can also fucking block off their own mind.

And this is why he is so angry that he is out of the car, so that he does not get in Sera's face and just scream at her. And this is why he is waiting for the wind on his face to ease him. And this is why he is out of the car, on the driver's side, when he hears the other door open. Hawksley looks sharply past his right shoulder, listening more than looking, wondering if she's getting out.

Nope.

She's throwing up.

Hawksley exhales heavily and circles the car, arms unfolded, grasping the edge of his car door and reaching over, taking her hair on either side of her head and drawing it upward. He's had way too much practice at this. He does it by the light of the moon and the car interior, holding it all back while Sera sobs and Sera vomits. He's not the sort to feel a lurch of his own in the presence of puke; he just notices that it's mostly liquid. So he's there, and pulling the door closed is only going to close it on his arm, so that doesn't happen. She folds herself back in, and he comes around, avoiding the puddle, while she pulls off her sweatshirt and wipes at her face.

Good friends give you mouthwash or a real hanky or something. Rub your back. Hawksley at least looks sympathetic when he says:

"You'd better not be crying because I'm angry, Sera."

Looks sympathetic. Sounds like he's making a request.

Serafíne

She doesn't expect him to come 'round the Porsche and she doesn't expect him after to stay but there's not much room for expectations inside her, just that flood of emotion, so some piece of her startled when gathers up her hair and that part of her very much wants to get hold of herself but the rest of her does not pause for much of anything.

The purging helps, though. With everything, and afterwards she feels both shaky and clarified and not at all like she needs to cry except in the seconds between the seconds where other seconds live and she's looking up at him, strangely abashed, when her golden head emerges from beneath the bulk of the sweatshirt as she shrugs it off, and she cannot quite meet his eyes except sometimes, when it feels so direct as to be startling, and talking about why she's crying just makes Sera - quite suddenly - want to cry again and he can see her tearing again but he can also see her bracing her shoulders and willing herself not to cry, and the effort that requires for her.

Sera shakes her head no. No, she's not crying because he's angry but she's not looking at him because she doesn't really know if it is true and doesn't know if he wants the truth or if that was just a please and doesn't know an awful lot of things right now, foremost of them is: whether she will ever feel clean again.

So: thinking thinking thinking, which is hard when everything inside you is wrong and bad and gross, but thinking and then she looks up at him, just kind of steals this glance and takes a deep deep breath and says very quietly, "Maybe a little bit. Not 'cos you're mad but because I made you mad. I'm sorry I won't - " breathbreathbreath " - cry anymore." Promising not to cry makes her want to cry but again she holds it back.

"You don't - you can just drop me off at home, okay? I'm sorry."

[-1 WP to not cry!]

Hawksley

That request was, in all sincerity, both a please stop crying, since he cannot handle it, but it was also a plea for his anger -- of all things -- to not be the thing that makes her weep so hard she pukes. That anger, given what she's told him, should be little more than a footnote.

The air outside is cool. This time of year, the sun sets and heat vanishes from the city and its outskirts. Perhaps it feels comforting on her face and her throat, perhaps it soothes. Perhaps it just tightens, chills, makes the ache worse. Hawksley, in shirt and jacket and his own everpresent warmth, doesn't feel it.

She looks abashed, and teary, and determined, and it all just makes him feel more shitty.

--

Hawksley's brow furrows a little deeper. He listens, because she always tells him the truth when she doesn't try to skip over thinking at all, and shakes his head. His hand reaches out, stroking a palm over the top of her head.

"Don't be dumb," he says, softer, though verbally more a direct order than his expressed hope that he wasn't the reason she was bawling. There's tenderness in those three words, murmured as they are. "I don't care if you cry, Sera." LIE. LIE. LIE. A neon sign appears in her magician's vision above his head, three arrows flashing as they point at his head, yelling LIE LIE LIE. It's okay, though. The truth is: he cares very much that she cries. Which is why he doesn't like it. Not one bit. Not at all.

"I just don't think me being mad or you making me mad is the thing worth crying over," he says, still quiet, still palming her head, stroking her thick bleached hair, scritching mildly at her scalp with his fingertips. He leans over, careful, and kisses her where her third eye should be, would be, is.

"Besides, I'm not even mad anymore."

Neon signs flash around his face again.

--

He doesn't tell her yes he'll take her home or stop saying sorry to me, jesus, what the fuck. He does help her fold back into the Porsche, and closes the door, and walks back around to the driver's side. Hawksley gets in. He looks over at her. There's no need to settle into those seats: they fold around him as close and supple as a lover. There's just the dome light fading off after the door closes, and his eyes maintaining some light even after they are back in darkness.

"I'm gonna take you to my place," he says quietly. "We'll wash up." He pauses a moment, thinking of what she's been through, how she looks right now. "You can be alone, if you want," he also says, just as quiet. "There's a million rooms." Or fifteen, minus the rooms Collins and Alicia and Hawksley sleep in. His eyebrows lift. "Maybe you can sweat it out, too. I've got the sauna and the steam room," which are different, of course. "Or swimming. Or we could dance or fence or sit outside. Or you can be alone," he says again, because he is not sure what she needs when the inside of her psyche is crawling with such filth. He is suddenly doubting that it was okay to touch her, earlier.

"Just don't cry because I'm angry," he asks her, again a plea more than an order. "Don't... apologize for crying, or for calling me. It just makes me think that you're not going to tell me what you really need right now."

Serafíne

Hawksley is right, later, when he is doubting whether it was okay to touch her. She didn't touch him when he pulled up in front of Pan's little house. Didn't kiss him. Didn't curl her hands through his hair. Didn't initiate any contact with him whatsoever and there was no conscious thought behind it, just this thread of a kind of dark, acquired certainty that she might be a carrier somehow. That she might spread this disease, whatever it is. That she might infect the people she touches, loves, admires, adores, with something that cannot be scrubbed away.

But she's too tired to flinch when reaches out and strokes the crown of her head or maybe she doesn't quite remember too and anyway she also needs that contact because, like most people in the goddamned world who fuck things up and live through loss and hurt themselves and the people they love and come back from those things, too, with new wisdom or new knowledge or new platitudes or new resentments or whatever gets them through, she's dumb sometimes.

He instructs her not to be, and does so with a quiet tenderness that makes her want to cry and he says that he doesn't care of she cries, which is a lie, and that he's not even angry anymore, which is also a lie, and both lies are so carefully and thoughtfully meant that now she looks teary and wretched and adoring rather than abashed and lifts her chin minutely when he bends to care-full-y kiss her over her third eye without even thinking about it. Closes her eyes as he comes close and kisses her brow, carefully, carefully.

And starts to cry again.

--

She's sorry, she's sorry, she doesn't tell him that she's sorry but she is and she can't stop him and what he may know or may not know, what he may sense or may not sense is that these tears are different, right. Clear, serous, not cloudy. Cleansing rather than infected, infectious.

Because he is so warm and so bright and so searing and so soaring and he burns so damned bright, the gesture and the kiss feel like a blessing from a sun-born, sun-burnt, sun-bright god and he comes away from without a trace of taint.

And by the time he has folded her back in to the Porsche and closed her door and circled the ar on that dark, deserted road, and sunk into the lover's embrace of his driver's seat she has dashed those last few leaking tears away and manages, you know, not to apologize to him again even though the urge is there, beneath her skin and kind of wraps itself around her spine, not urgent but present, because she's dumb, at least until he tells her what it does to him, when she says it.

Which does not excise the urge but gives her the space to understand why the fuck it isn't really okay (which explanation: also makes her want to cry)

"Drive the long way. Okay?"

A deep breath. She is telling him what he needs right now. Which is harder to do than most people know or understand.

"If I fall asleep in the car, let me sleep. Don't wake me up. Don't carry me in." He could, and she might never know it, she sleeps that deeply. "Just let me sleep. I'll come in when I wake up."

And she reaches out for his right hand with her left, which is also harder than most people can understand.

"And tell me why you're mad. Okay?"

Hawksley

Hawksley can't tell the difference between infected tears and cleansing tears. He really can't. What he can tell is that she isn't fighting the crying as much, doesn't look quite as lonely and miserable, and that changes his ability to tolerate it. He does kiss her, not knowing what sort of tears she's bringing, not realizing that she is terrified she will taint him with something, not knowing that when he straightens his back she can see that he is still fine. He is just as clean and just as bright and untouched and unassailable by the filth of this world as he was before he came near her.

So that must mean something, right?

--

There is this: a little shallow on empathy he may be, but Hawksley is more in tune with himself, on many levels, than a number of young men of his age and upbringing. He knows what he feels and he is so articulate, in so many languages, that it is little trouble for him to explain why he doesn't want her to be saying sorry, why he doesn't want her crying to be due to his frustration. Whether that means that her crying or saying sorry is or isn't okay, he doesn't hasten to judge. He just tells her the context:

when you X it makes me feel Y and I would like you to Z.

"Sure," he says, and puts on his seatbelt, and makes sure she has hers on, and he turns his eyes from her and starts to drive. As he starts to drive, she starts to speak. And what she asks for instantly makes him want to argue: that's totally dumb. She doesn't need to sleep in the car. But Hawksley doesn't argue. He just decides not to let her fall asleep in the first place. "Okay," he says, and it's not really a lie.

Her hand rests atop his, atop the gear shift. He opens his fingers so hers can rest between them. Her request makes his brow furrow. He thinks for a while, watching headlights on the dark roads.

"You should have shielded your mind before you tried to touch someone else's." There's a rising intensity, in the next few words, like he's forestalling argument: "I know you didn't know, okay? What he was. But that's all the more reason to protect yourself. Jesus. It's like us and condoms."

Saying that makes him think of fucking her. Vaguely, not even erotically, but it's there. "Which is also a little fucking stupid," he points out, not for the first or twentieth time. "But you know me. You trust me. But everyone else? Especially the people you don't know from Adam? You fucking protect yourself. So why the shit wouldn't you do that with your own mind?"

He breathes out through his nose. "That's why I'm angry. Because you're smarter than that, you're more powerful than that, you know better. There's a difference between experiencing life or trusting the universe or whatever and not having some self-preservation. And I'm just... pissed because it could have been a lot worse.

"And I don't care," he says, insistent, halfway, turning to glance at her for a second, "I don't care that there's one less fucking Fallen alive right now. I still don't think that Nephandus dying was even your fault, just a happy goddamn coincidence. Fucking karma, you know? But as bad as you feel now, it could have been so much worse. And thinking about that makes me want to... fucking throw up, I don't know."

His left hand grips the wheel, but he hasn't moved his right. He is staring ahead.

"So it fucking pisses me off."

Serafíne

The analogy is perfect. Bloody perfect, and he is ready for the argument that she didn't know and goes on and his voice rises and she says nothing, watching the road and the strangers' headlights hurtling toward them through the dark, then fading away in the rearview.

She listens and steals a glance at his profile and frowns a bit in a way that could easily be read as thoughtful rather than miserable except that she is miserable and that infects everything she does but he: has his hands on the wheel and his eyes where they belong on the road so he probably cannot see it and he cannot tell the difference between one kind of tears and another but he can read her body language, her presence in the space, and this time she seems wholly capable of bearing his anger. Of living beside it.

She doesn't break down into tears at all.

"I never - " a pause, a breath, she's looking for words and they are both limited and limiting, "thought about it like that, it makes perfect sense. You know? Like. I never even thought of it at all. A mindshield like safe sex."

This note of breathy humor that is not really humored, just a noise she makes,

"I can apologize for that right?" And she really is asking him, and she really does want to and thinks that this is a perfectly valid and reasonable request. A little while later, a little further down the road:

"Thank you for telling me."

Hawksley

Now that's awesome. He came up with an analogy on the fly and it's totally perfect. He flicks his eyes over at her, noting the humor, or the pretense of it, and hoping.

"Apologize to yourself," he says, and it isn't mean to be as flippant or as dismissive as it sounds. Just a turning around, not a deflection but a reflection: ultimately that's what he thinks. "You're the one you owe it to."

Not him.

His fingers sqeeze hers on the gear shift. He exhales, more slowly. "Me getting mad is like you crying. It's just fucking coping with something completely fucked up."

Serafíne

Sera doesn't know what to do with it when Hawksley tells her to apologize to herself. It makes something else that has nothing to do with any of this catch inside her and she closes her eyes and feels it, strange and nameless and unsettled and knows she has to do something about it, perhaps as soon as she recovers from this.

I might cry a lot, you know?" Which, naturally, makes her want to cry and she kinda holds it in and it kinda shows in her eyes but he's kinda driving so Hawksley better have his eyes on the road.

She squeezes his hand back. You know, just a little, because she is still suck beside and within and around the conviction that she might taint him somehow. "For a little while. I know it's dumb but I feel like there's something wrong with me. Something tainted. Infected, or infectious, or something. And it scares me, and it feels like it's never going to go away.

"Even if it probably will."

Hawksley

That makes his brow furrow, deeply. He doesn't take his eyes off the road, turning as he is in the dark, but he shakes his head a little. "Feels are real but they aren't reality. Reality isn't even real. Will is reality. Even subconscious will. The more time and energy you give this feeling that there's something wrong with you, the more power it will have. You'll imbue it."

He does glance at her, so brief, as the road straightens on ahead. "I know this all just happened and you're just having feelings and you just said you know it'll probably go away, but... make sure it does. Exorcise it. It doesn't belong to you. It isn't of you. It was summoned," he doesn't point out that this is because she didn't ceremonially encircle herself with protection again, because she gets that, "and it left a mark. But it did not come from you and it is not part of you. It isn't a cancer. It isn't alive,"

like cancer is alive, devouring, demanding,

"and that feeling, or that mark, or that taint, isn't natural to you and won't become so." He pauses a moment, a stillness in that car as it moves so very, very fast. "Exorcise it. Ritually or however you do it. Do it in a way you believe in, but do it. Just ignoring it or pretending it's already gone won't do any more good than wallowing in it." Hawksley shakes his head. "Just do something that makes you feel clean. Even if that feeling only lasts a little while after the ritual. Then do it again. However much you need to. Imbue that with your time and attention and energy. Give that cleansing, whatever form it takes, your power. And it will be as real, and as strong, as the feeling you have now. Realer. Stronger."

Serafíne

Sera does not do ritual. She does: feelings. That's it, full stop. She doesn't even bother with yoga like Jim or what the fuck ever other strangers do, she just feels things and wills them and hey, we're done.

But she must know better than to argue about ritual with a Hermetic, so she doesn't, not really. Just listens to him with her hand over his as he grips the gearshift to change gears and his tendons are all flexing with the motion. Listens to the engine and the subtle thread of road noise and night outside and the hum of traffic somewhere close, around the curve, down the flats.

"It's not the same for me," she tells him, rather gently, though being so deliberately gentle with him makes her want to cry again and there it is.

"I kind of have to suffer through it. Feel it rise, and feel it ebb, and feel it leave. And I will probably cry alot, so I want you to be prepared.

Hawksley

"I know," he says, interruptive, when she says it's not the same. He knows it isn't. They don't always speak the same language. Or rather: the same dialect.

There is a kneejerk reaction to what she says next that he doesn't voice. He just looks forward, driving. "Do what you need to do," he says eventually, quietly. And that is all.

--

Hawksley drives until they reach his house. It isn't downtown. It isn't in Aurora. It's in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the entire country. It's a house -- a mansion -- that is unreasonably large, unnecessarily large. God only knows why Hawksley has such a house, with all its rooms. Why he has so much that he can surely never enjoy entirely on his own. No one asks him. He doesn't feel the need to explain himself to anyone. It doesn't occur to him to consider how he appears to others; certainly not people who don't matter.

Which is most people.

He doesn't stop her, as he had sort of promised himself, if she falls asleep. He just drives inward, into the garage off to the side, til the engine cuts. Til the lights go out.

Serafíne

He doesn't say anything else. Neither does she.

Maybe she cries a little bit more which sucks but these are also a different sort of tears. Not cleansing, and not clarified, but not wretched, wracking sobs either. Sera can cry a thousand different ways. There are as many nuances to her tears at there are nuances to her kisses and she gives herself over to them all, so very easily.

The tears stop. Her breathing shifts. They are on: some street that is not quite his own, but is not far from it, when her hand goes slack on his and slips downward and her head lolls to the side until her shaved brow comes to rest on the passenger's window. Breath fogging the cool glass. It's good. It's better. She doesn't even need to attempt small magicks to soothe herself when her will is at its low ebb. She just needs to be there. The car moves. Moves her from place to place, takes them from here way back over to there and allows her to be many places at the same time, which is another kind of miracle.

The rhythm and the movement and the engine hum and her teary-eyed exhaustion and her ridiculous get-up and on and on conspire to lull her into that sleep that she might not otherwise have achieved tonight.

And she doesn't wake up when he turns onto his street, or pulls through his gate, or eases the Porsche into its garage. Doesn't wake when he kills the engine, or when the headlights fade.

This is what she wanted. To sleep, maybe even to dream, not surrounded by death.

And maybe - just maybe - he lets her.

Hawksley

There are tears. And lots of them. And Hawksley has gone so quiet, and is looking forward more than he looks at her, and he notices when her hand relaxes. He looks at her then, as she drifts off. He frowns, because the truth is: the glass is cold and the world outside is cold, too. It's autumn. It's nightfall. He sighs.

He reassures himself that he never promised her shit. Not to let her have whatever she wants, and not even to be there, caring for her, when she cries

and cries

and cries,

and lets something awful work its way through her like an illness she can't fight but can only get over. He makes her few promises. Come to think of it, he can't think of a single one he's made her off the top of his head. Not explicitly.

--

The car stops, and he looks at her, and then he gets out. He comes around to the passenger side and opens the door, and reaches in, unbuckling her. Perhaps she wakes. But he ends up lifting her, arm under her knees and around her, under her arms. She is not the heaviest weight he's lifted. He leaves her grotesque sweater where it is and bumps the door closed with his heel.

She is going to be taken inside. And taken to some room, it hardly matters what room, because it is not his but not far from his. Some dark room with a bed that is unmade and only a little furniture that is dustcovered, including a settee that is softer than it needs to be. Hawksley will set her down, in this cool but not cold room, dark and mostly empty but clean. On a settee that is softer than it needs to be. With his tuxedo jacket laid over her.

With Collins, summoned in the dead of night to get the sweater and have it cleaned, set out toiletries in the adjoining bathroom for Miss Sera, and arrange breakfast for her the following morning.

It is Collins who does these things. Collins who brings a real blanket to Sera, without removing Hawksley's jacket. Collins who puts a small wastebin near the settee, a small table with a bottle of water. Collins who ensures, since Hawksley forgot, that the vents in the room will let warm air in.

Hawksley leaves her alone, then. to sleep. To cry. To vomit. Whatever it is she needs. He is relatively convinced that what she needs is not necessarily him.

the river styx.


opus auxilium

RULES (Full credit to Kai via Damon as always):

1. There is no post order, but please only post once for each post I make unless I say otherwise.

2. Please try to be timely on posts: in other words, 10 minutes or less to post and if there is combat, declare/roll in 2 minutes or less. I will give a polite warning if we start getting too late with these.

3. You are free to multi-task, so long as you can abide by the above strictures.

4. This scene may (key word: MAY) involve combat taking place and as such, there is potential risk to your PCs in various types. If you decide you want to bow out based on that I am completely fine.

5. Please PM or IM me with anything you want to be off-limits; phobias, triggers, themes, etc. Also PM with any relevant Merits or Flaws (Nightmares, Phobias, etc.) or any active magical effects (wards, Life enhancement, et. al) your Mage has going on your person. If you need to roll those, or Nightmares or the like, do so now. If none of these apply, no need to PM me with “None”

7. Please keep track of your own health, Quintessence, WP, etc.

8. This scene sets itself in the vicinity of Washington Park at twilight. The park is sparsely populated tonight. Description post incoming!

Kalen Holliday

[How awake are we?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 3, 7, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 4 )

Serafíne

Applicable merits: oracular ability. Applicable flaws: hospital phobia, amnesia.

opus auxilium

Washington Park has to be lovely this time of year. And it is. It's the period before autumn starts to turn the leaves green, but it's cooled off from the hot summer months and that makes it much more tolerable. The sun is setting, casting the sky in brilliant reds, oranges and purples above the greenery.

You would think that this would be a perfect time for people to be out and about, but it's also a new school year and people are busy with other things. That makes tonight relatively sparse in terms of population. There are a couple people here or there, but most of them are on their way out. There's a guy who been laying on a blanket on the grass reading, but he's since fallen asleep. Anyone within sight of this particular vicinity--the path that circles around Smith Lake, within view of the elegant boat house--are a ways away and dealing with their own things.

Sitting near the edge of the lake is a particular sight that some of the Awakened may find familiar. Interestingly enough, it was pretty sparsely populated then too on that Sunday morning half a year earlier. A scarecrow stands on a post about eight feet tall, dressed in a dark trenchcoat and a black stovetop hat, with velvety dark pants and a dress shirt under the coat. Just hanging out there, out of nowhere.

Kalen Holliday

Kalen has been a frequent visitor to Washington Park for the last six months. He's come to the same spot overlooking the edge of the lake and stayed there, quietly. Sometimes he prays there, because the place you meet something like The Message is probably as sacred as a sanctuary. Not an Angel, The Message; but, at least to Kalen, angelic.

It has been half a year, but time...time is a fluid thing. Particularly where The Message is. So, despite the weeks stretching into months, Kalen didn't give up. It has been long enough, with enough things that are not angelic or good, that Kalen is a little surprised to see a scarecrow at the edge of the lake again.

His approach is smoother this time. With less limping and a touch less caution. A touch. There could be more things here than just The Message. It could be, somehow, another Sending. Perhaps all Sendings manifest as scarecrows. Perhaps they all manifest as scarecrows here.

[Awareness!!!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

Gwendolyn Bishop

It wasn't parent/teacher conferences and, for that, Gwendolyn was thankful. The first place she had been in the city was a museum, a place to see the planes and to be intrigued by the history of flight. The second place that Gwendolyn went, of course, was a bookstore. And a month did pass, and the Etherite spent her time making a circuit from home to work to the grocery store back to her Summer Home. The place she took with her, that felt warm when it was warm and cool when it was cool and whatever mindscape Gwendolyn had created was set aside in favor of being at the park.

Summer Home could wait.

It would all still be there when she went to sleep.

Gwendolyn was making her way through the park, because it was a lovely enough day and Washington Park was the kind of place that she enjoyed being. She was a solitary craeture, clad in a pair of yoga pants and a tee shirt from some concert she had been to a few years back. She didn't seem like she would be old enough to be a fan of Prince, but the Musicology tour had been pretty spectacular. Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, and over one shoulder there was a messenger bag instead of a purse. She turned heads when she walked. She turned heads when she did a lot of things, but what turned her head was

"A scarecrow?"

Gwendolyn fished through her bag for a tablet. Thin and bleeding edge (but not foldable, not yet, she was still working on that). She tapped on the screen idly as she prepared to run a certain diagnostic scan for fluctuations in the area's magnetic field.

[awareness seems like a good idea right now]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Alexander

The evening is slowly drawing in, and the sky is beautiful. The weather is warm, the city – this part of it, at least – is at peace. It’s the perfect evening for a walk through the park, really.

It’s been a few days since the events at the Black Orchid and Alexander is still wearing the dark bruises of that night. His shift had finished a couple of hours ago, but he hadn’t felt like going straight home. So? He’s been walking the city with no real direction in mind. Not consciously, at least. He’s been happy to drift, following crowds, taking random turnings and alleyways. His meandering had brought him to the edge of Washington Park and, just on the off-chance, he thought he’d check again for a certain Message. It’s been how many months with no sign of him reappearing? Six, maybe?

Those first couple of months, he’d been here pretty frequently to look. There hadn’t been and sign of him reappearing – either in this world or over the Gauntlet. The visits had become less frequent until they came about once or twice a month. With time, who knows – maybe they would die out altogether. Who knows where he could be or what he’s getting up to.

So he walks through the park, around the lake. And sees a familiar figure. Two, actually. A rather mundane-looking – if out of place – scarecrow. And Kalen. Seeing them there, he picks up his pace and jogs towards the lake near the two of them.

“Small world. Is that who I think it is?” He calls out so Kalen can hear him before turning to the lake and peering down into his reflection. Excited, curious, he wants to make sure that this is more than someone’s frat joke.

[Spirit sight, are you there? TN4]

Dice: 1 d10 TN4 (2) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

Alexander

[Also: Awareness]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )

Serafíne

Serafíne does not stake out the park as Kalen does, but she is here often nevertheless. The neighborhood is close to her own; there's good shopping, there are little retro-hipster bars and cafés not far from here. She's always meeting someone or doing something, has some reason to be in the vicinity. Tonight, a small bag in her left hand as she walks back toward the park from Devil's Food, where she left some friends behind, perhaps because she wanted to smoke some pot and watch the sunset. Maybe she's supposed to meet Dan here later. Maybe she had a whim to go boating after dark, to feel the world moving around her and under her, water.

--

There. Clove cigarette in one hand, take-out bag in the other, hair loose and golden and curling where it is not shaved. A small plaid bustier and a tiny leather skirt that barely covers her ass. Fishnets and combat boots and a battered leather jacket with god-knows-what lurking in the pockets.

High maybe. Possibly.

Enough that she half-wonders, you know, if she hasn't somehow stumbled backward six months or so, watched the sun move the wrong direction.

But no -

no -

Serafíne

Awareness.

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (4, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

opus auxilium

They all pick up on it...that feeling that Alexander, Kalen and Serafine have felt before. It's a shimmering, ethereal feel and that's what Alexander and Kalen pick up on. Gwendolyn has a sense of age and yet, oddly, youth as well. Something that is relatively new to the universe and also carries the echo of something much older. Sera...well, she may or may not remember this feeling depending on how good her memory is. It's the primal essence, falling off like flakes of dust. Like looking through a window that you can't see what's on the other side.

Alexander gets a bit of magic off, letting him look across to the Spirit world. Unless Sendings all look identical, this is the very one they rememer. The Message stands there where his physical manifestation lays, the tall and angelic creature with the androgynous features and giant owl wings.

Gwendolyn is going for her tablet to do some scans, and the scarecrow does something that may take her attention away from the device. It...moves. The head lifts, revealing the blank, vaguely misshapenly-carved block of wood that makes up its face. The raising of its head causes a slow, almost ominous creaking sound as that featureless wood turns to each of them, regarding them in turn.

"I remember you," it says to Sera, Kalen and Alex, and Alexander sees it smiling in a very faint manner. "You are off the Traditions. You received the message before." It looks at Gwendolyn then, the head tilting right with a creak into a curious cant.

"I do not know you. Are you of the Traditions as well?"

Alexander

Alexander looks at the lake, at his reflection. Through the reflection and out the other side. The magic isn’t strong, barely holding itself together, but it does hold long enough for him to turn and see the scarecrow properly.

“It’s him! It’s really him!” He’s smiling widely as he says it, walking over to join Kalen. Maybe this is the sense of wonder that the others have been talking about. He’d seen the birth of this creature come from the death of another, and then see it become more than the relatively mindless creation that it was to the aware being that now stands (flies!) in front of them.

“How have you been, Message? What have you been doing since we last saw you?” He holds out a hand in greeting, if the Message decides to take it.

Alexander only notices Gwendolyn when the Message turns to look at her, and suddenly the smile fades as he turns to face her. On guard. Here is someone Awakened and unknown. Is she of the Traditions? Or Union?

Kalen Holliday

"Yes," Kalen says, his shoulders relaxing a little as the feeling of The Message washes against his skin like light. He reaches out once to touch Alexander's shoulder. It is hardly as though there is time for all the usual greeting things people do. How are you. How about that weather. Has our team of choice scored more points than average or less this term of play. Fuck all that. The Message is here.

Granted, Kalen can only so often be bothered with normal greetings anyway.

He smiles at the statement that The Message remembers. Nods. Only that The Message is so close to the water prevents Kalen from running up to embrace a scarecrow, Instead, he holds one arm out for Sera. It isn't as though she needs help to balance off the path in those heels, and he knows that, but he offers anyway. Because more complicated things prevent him from running up to embrace Sera.

Only then does he turn his eyes, so pale in the dusk that their color is impossible to determine beyond extremely pale, on Gwendolyn. Steady. Expectant. She is the only being here he does not know. Does not trust. So he watches her carefully as she responds to The Message.

Gwendolyn Bishop

Was she of the traditions as well?

Well, one doesn't argue with a moving scarecrow. The Scientist pulled her tablet close to her rather impressive chest and the lady made a small eep noice. Clearly, the woman wasn't expecting to be addressed by a scarecrow, but she striaghtens up and smoothed out her shirt and she had to be a representative. A symbol. If she was going to be a respectable and non-embarrassing Etherite (not Son of Ether, she wasn't a Son of anything) she didn't need to seem so openly surprised when randomly placed scarecrows started moving.

But then there were people looking and she was suddenly wishing she wasn't wearing workout clothes and, instead the woman took a second, inhaled deeply, and introduced herself.

Introductions were easy enough, but she wasn't twelve anymore. she wasn't pale. No, her hair was dark, her yes were dark and her skin was tan- be that from spending time outdoors or a natural predisposition to a darker complection was hard to tell. Her lips were full, her eyes were bright, and she could fake enough confidence to get through an introduction.

"I am of the traditions. Doctor Gwendolyn Wade-Bishop, son of Ether," okay, so maybe she wasn't that good at introductions. Straight and to the point that one.

Serafíne

Serafíne is a disciple of Life and Mind and Time. She remembers everything, except her own history - which must be a choice, conscious or unconscious, decided or decidedly undecided. A path she has taken as her own and for her own.

For the nonce.

And she isn't thinking about The Sending at all, just the way the light bleeds over the horizon and the way it makes her lungs feel, sometimes, as if they were aflame, the way she swallows the air, the way the evening hums, cool, the darkness closer, the lights in the windows of the houses lining the streets so precise and so discrete and so immediate that they seem full of secrets, the lovely, sliding sort of secrets that always belong to the strangers locked behind those stranger's doors.

She is holding: the sun in her throat and the moon on her tongue, the sweet smoke and the ground beneath her feet, the remnants of whatever-that-was in the bag swinging from her right hand and -

- oh. oh. oh.

She feels everything. Alexander's chill and Kalen's storm, like a front on the horizon. Something else - tenacious - beneath her skin. Hanging on, you see.

Hanging on.

And: shimmering, rising, which makes her lungs want to expand as if she could leave the ground. (You must understand that she already knows what it means to rise.)

Kalen offers her an arm and Sera glances up at his profile. It might seem to be the first time she has noticed him. She smells like cloves and burnt sugar and tobacco and rhum and she takes his arm, easy as you please, stepping carefully from the path on to the grass. A glance at Gwendolyn, banked and lambent.

Oh she is lovely.

And Sera, tightening her grip on Kalen's arm, bites the inside of her cheek, hard enough that she breaks the skin. That she bleeds. The spike of pain pushes her out of her skin, focuses her senses as she, looks and Looks.

[Prime 1: Watch the Weaving. Difficulty 5. -1 (practiced) -1 (focus)).

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

opus auxilium

Sera expands her vision to catch manifestations of Prime, and she picks up on the coalescing Quintessential energy around Alex's eyes. There is also the vague sense of something floating around the scarecrow, of course; the Message was created by those shards of Avatars created by the Avatar Storm, after all. It's not quite an active Effect obviously, but it's close.

"Ether. Yes, of course." The blank face doesn't smile--features are generally required for that--but there is a sense of satisfaction. The scarecrow looks from her to Alexander. It doesn't reach out and take his hand on this side of the Gauntlet; that hand is still bound to the cross-pole, after all. But there is a sense of acknowledgement, and in the Umbra where it can't touch him the Message bows its head which makes the scarecrow do the same.

"I need your help. Someone needs your help. There is something on the other side that is harming us, and we need assistance from those who have the capacity to do so. Will you help us?"

The question seems posed to all four of them.

Serafíne

Sera focuses her vision primarily on Gwendolyn, the stranger whom she does-not-precisely-know as Gwendolyn introduces herself. She can see the energy around Alexander's gaze - a slanting glance, all sidelong, and something about her is satisfied that the apprentice is imposing his will on the world. Perhaps Alexander will feel the dark smear of her gaze on his countenance, in the twilit park, perhaps he is too focused on the Message to sense her attention.

Regardless, her attention slides back to the Message, and Sera offers a neat little shrug.

"'Course. Who's we?"

Kalen Holliday

"Doctor Gwendolyn Wade-Bishop," Kalen says quietly, mimicking her inflection not because there is any mockery but because Names have power. "Welcome to Denver."

And then he turns back to The Message. Not because he is finished his evaluation of Gwen but because The Message is here and Alexander is here and Sera is here. The last Mage he met under these circumstances, he invited into his cabal. Of course, Alexander had known Sera. That may have smoothed over a bit of the normal reluctance to trust.

There is no hint of reluctance in his answer to The Message. "I will help you." He does not speak for the others, but he expects that Alexander and Serafine will come. He expects Gwen will come too. She is, after all, here. Friend or enemy...her presence is almost certainly fate. One does not argue with fate. Coax, barter, influence...perhaps. But argue, no.

So he stays there, near Alexander, Serafine on his arm, watching The Message. He smiles a little at Sera's answer, leans sideways a little to touch his temple to hers. She's close enough to his height in heels.

Alexander

Lowering his hand, Alexander returns the bow of the head. The last time he’d seen it, it had been fully capable of movement. So easy to forget that was in another world…

Alexander eyes Gwendolyn warily as she introduces herself to the Message, and to the others. But it’s one thing to say you’re a Son (Daughter?) of Ether. It’s another to have some kind of confirmation or proof that that’s the case. At least when he’d been introduced to the others he’d so far met in the city, there had always been someone there to vouch for them. Even Alicia was known to Kalen, and Alexander? Trusted Kalen, Sera, Grace… Gwendolyn, not so much.

So he touches Kalen’s arm without looking at him – doing well, great weather, didn’t watch the game, we must get together some time – and moves, turns, to where he can look up at the Message while keeping Gwendolyn in sight.

Sera, though. Sera gets a warmer glance, a smile, a bowed head of her own. It’s not exactly the hug from that evening in the Chantry, but then this isn’t exactly the Chantry kitchen with cooling tea in the pot.

Alexander looks back up at the Message when it explains why it’s here and a few emotions pass over his face. Curiosity that there might be more Messages out there. Concern that they were threatened. Dread at what was shortly going to follow, even if he had been relatively spared compared to the others – especially to Sera. She gets another glance, worried for her.

“Yes. What is it that’s hurting you?”

Gwendolyn Bishop

"Of course," she replied, but without any hesitation. Nothing that would indicate that she was anything other than capable. Anything other than ready because she had to be ready. Her attention stayed with the Message, though briefly it does wander to take in the other three people who were to be addressed. The technomancer stayed rather comfortably where she was, content to not meander over and invade the space of the other three, and she very carefully put her tablet back into her messenger bag.

opus auxilium

[[Something something oogly boogly]]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Alexander

That feeling, of something building. It's familiar, and he knows what's coming. Alexander moves over to Sera, rests a hand on her shoulder and gets ready to support her. He gives Gwendolyn a glance. “This is going to hurt.” Then he closes his eyes.

opus auxilium

"I am most apologetic, but as before, it will be easier to provide answers on the other side."

And in truth, he does seem to feel bad as the four mages feel their perceptions ripple and thickness surrounds them, like the air is congealing but less physical than that. That thickness slowly gives way and their vision goes blurry as they start to pass through the Gauntlet.

And then the pain. But of interesting note to the four (or three, plus Gwen if she has ever passed into the Umbra before)...it doesn't seem to hurt quite as much this time around. The sensation Alexander felt before, like a migraine that was spread through the whole of his being, feels more like a soreness after you wake up from a punishing workout. Kalen feels the migraine effect, suffusing his being, as does Gwendolyn. Sera might have been anticipating that horrendous pain flying through her synapses and connecting with her very soul, but it feels instead like a thousand little pinpricks, tingling and nipping. The sounds of screams, indistinct voices and mad babbling is fainter and fewer. The Avatar Storm does not feel as strong, particularly at this Shallowing.

When they come back to their senses, they find themselves in a graveyard. At least, that's what it feels like; there are no graves, no caerns and no monuments. It is a hallowed and yet desolate place of barren earth, devoid of life even here in the spirit world. A wide, black river sweeps along nearby, the water impenetrably dark. The mages get a shiver that runs up their spine...the cold void of death. Color is drab, except for them. They seem to stand out like a beacon...them and the Message. Kalen, Sera and Gwen can see it now, the tall being with the perfectly genderless human features and the graceful owl wings. It stands there and folds its hands in front of its chest, gives a polite half-bow.

"Thank you for coming. Since we first met, I have been travelling and establishing...alliances with other denizens of your realm and mine. These alliances have been very fruitful, and I find myself quite attached to them. Someone has been claiming them and taking them here. This person will not speak with me. I hope that they will speak to you, and you can argue for their release on my behalf."

Serafíne

Kalen touches his temple to her own and he has the impression of Sera's half-smile evident in his periphery. The curve of her cheek, the gleam of her shallowed gaze, the immediate awareness of her presence. A little nudge back with a hum, and they are remembering the pain of the Avatar Storm, Kalen and Alexander both, and Sera is not really remembering it in the same way they are; not anticipating it. Just holding some sharp knowledge inside herself and turning to glance at Alexander - a bit strangely, mind - as he rests his hand on her shoulder. Nothing objecting, there. Sera never objects to touching another creature, or being touched.

--

And then.

And now -

Her breathing is sharp and shallowed and there are tears in her eyes but she is not on the ground, Sera, not screaming, not keening, not anything except -

in pain, in passing pain, tears in her eyes, grinding her teeth, her mouth flat, pressed together as she works to bear it.

Graveyards: she shivers, Sera, visibly, physically, moistening her mouth and starting to hum again, beneath her throat. The notes are eerie, and have this sense about them as if they were both necessary and essential and forgotten or perhaps half-remembered, like a song written into the skin of your bones.

"Just, your friends?" Sera asks, quiet you see. "Or, everything the graveyard can hold?"

Kalen Holliday

Kalen does not close his eyes to prepare for shifting into the Umbra because he so very rarely sees the spirit world. One day, he will learn. But there are so many things to learn. And there may be moments when he speaks in that measured voice and he says that knowledge is power where it is possible to believe he would learn everything for that reason. Except there are moments like this, where his eyes are wide and full of wonder and it is so vividly clear that Kalen will learn everything he can because the cosmos is a vast, mysterious, wondrous place.

He wants to see everything.

But then there is pain, sharp and hot and spreading through him. He can taste it, thick and warm on the back of his tongue. And something like death. Different than the death last weekend. New weekend, new kind of death. That's how Denver rolls.

He starts to reach for Alexander, because the fucking world is spinning and there is red boiling in the space behind his eyes, but then he remembers Alexander is more than solid and cold, Alexander has Serafine. Instead he takes a breath and forces his eyes open and takes a step closer to The Message. But already the world is steady enough. The sense of something ephemeral and sacred shredding as the shards of other Avatars grated and brushed and raged against it is diminished, somehow. Still, the memory of them is cold. Always cold.

He is listening to The Message and he is getting his bearings and then his eyes linger warily on the river. "What do you know about this person?" He asks The Message without taking his eyes off the water.

Serafíne

Life 1. (-1 Focus) / Mind 2

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (3, 4, 4) ( success x 2 )

Alexander

The feeling builds, reaches its crescendo. Alexander takes a deep breath, tensing for the inevitable…

He grunts as it hits, but more out of expectation than actual pain. He wonders for a moment whether something had gone wrong, if reality had chosen not to allow itself to be bent that way and pushed back against the Message. He opens his eyes again and looks up at the Message, smiling again as its true form shows clearly. Then he looks at Sera, remembering the effect of being pulled through the Gauntlet had on her the last time around. She seems… ok. Not great, by any means, but she’s still standing this time. As is Kalen. A glance at Gwendolyn again – to check that she’s still with them.

Now that the Message is fully free again, Alexander moves to its side while he looks around, releasing his light touch on Sera and touching the Message’s arm gently, momentarily, instead.

He tries – and fails – to suppress a shiver at the feel of the place. He crosses his arms across himself and rubs them as if for warmth. If it’s possible for such a thing to exist here. The Archmage’s final resting place may have been a cave in some nameless realm far from everything that would normally be called living. But it still had life. Unknown, wild, untameable life, maybe, but still life. Here?

Is this where spirits come when it’s time for them to move on? he wonders to himself. He turns on the spot, taking in the bare earth, the desolate stillness in the air. Sera and Kalen are getting information about why they’ve been requested. Alexander? Starts walking towards the black river while they talk, listening while he does. Curious creature.

Gwendolyn Bishop

Her head hurts. A terrible feeling that washes over her, that settles in a space behind her eyes and she closed them tightly. She was expecting the worst, but this? this didn't... quite feel the same. This didn't quite feel like what she was expecting. There was a feeling of coldness on her spine and the woman shuddered. Possibly from the cold. She's never passed into the umbra before, and instead she found herself transported to a different plane.

She quickly patted herself down to make sure she had all of her faculties in order, and that her sunglasses hadn't fallen off in transit. She ached, and she hurt in ways that she was not expecting to hurt, but there was death here. She lreached into her messenger bag again to take out her tablet. the young woman caught movement out of the corner of her eye and- "Hey, I don't think you should go there alone."

She followed along with Alexander, but Gwen stopped just long enough to try and get a feel for what precisely made up that black river. She typed along on the little metal device, scribbling some chemical equation on the screen and hoping to find some revelation in the work.

[Corr1/Matter1- What's the river made of? diff 4 + 1 (distracted) ]

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (2, 5) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

opus auxilium

Sera realizes with a cold dread that, as she scans around, the only Life Patterns that she senses are the four of them, the Awakened. But it's more than just that. When you use Life magic to scan for Patterns, you often have to filter out simpler Patterns to narrow down to the complex ones. That isn't needed here. The dirt, the air, the water--especially the water, more than anything. Nothing here is alive, even remotely. No fish. No worms in the earth. No microbes, no bacteria. Technically they shouldn't be able to live like this, but this is the Umbra and luckily biological rules don't quite apply.

As such, obviously, there are no living minds outside of the four Mages to scan. She does get a vague sense of another intelligence, somewhat similar to way the Message's mind registers. A spirit's. But it's much more vast.

opus auxilium

Sera immediately starts to reach out with her senses as she and the others asks for clarification, and she gets her answers. She also gets an answer from The Message, who spreads his hands.

"Those I know is what I seek. I do not presume to seek everything from this resting place...that is entirely too vast. And those who are laid here came here naturally. Those who were taken...they did not come here in a natural manner."

Onto Kalen then, who is on edge because of that pitch-black but free-flowing river. He's a wise Hermetic, but also one who has experience with fearing rivers. "They are a guardian here. Or was intended to be. The more they caretake, the more power they get. I believe they stumbled upon this fact and avarice, unfortunately, grew within them."

Alex goes over to investigate the river, and Gwen warns him about doing so alone. She may have a point; as he gets closer to the edge, that chill in his bones--a cold more penetrating than temperature--grows and expands. It would seem that the river itself is leeching his heat directly from him. As he gets closer, they all feel something around them...stirring. It isn't anything physical; no zombies coming from the ground or anything like that. More like a consciousness orienting its attention toward them.

Kalen Holliday

[Intelligence+Cosmology D=8 WP]

Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (2, 4, 7, 9) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Serafíne

Sera crosses her arms all stark in front of her torso. She's wearing next to nothing and is a little bit stoned and still reeling from the pain (lessened, yes - but this is now and that was months ago) of the crossing, reaching out to find -

Nothing.

Nothing,

nothing.

"We're the only things close to alive here." She says, low-voiced, as she starts to move, picking her way through the graveyard without tombstones as if she had found herself in an abattoir, unwitting, careful of all the unseen stones. "But something's coming, something big."

Gwendolyn Bishop

[int+occult, diff 8. C'mon Mom, please say I learned something at home]

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 5, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Kalen Holliday

Movement as Alexander and Gwen head off toward the river draws his attention. "Careful, Alce," he murmurs. He does not stop either of them, but his eyes are uneasy as he watches them head toward the river. He listens to The Message, but his eyes track Alexander and Gwen headed for the river.

"We will do what we can," he says to The Message. He manages to tear his eyes away from the river long enough to look back, reach out to clasp The Message's shoulder.

And then Sera is speaking and he takes a breath. "We should be with them, when it gets here." He sets his jaw and extends his arm to Sera again as they walk. Because who wouldn't offer an arm to a lady in a creepy spirit graveyard...? Because they are headed toward some kind of night-black river, like the icy water that nearly drowned him and the life-stealing shadows summoned from the place Thakinyan lived that nearly devoured his soul had somehow melded into a single, greater nightmare? Because both?

[Willpower because reasons.....]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

Alexander

It’s cold. Cold. So damned cold. Not ice cold, not snow cold, not the wind either. Something less tangible but so much more penetrating. He hugs himself tighter as he approaches the river. He wasn’t dressed for the cold – it had been a warm evening before they came here – but even so… It wouldn’t help.

Alexander looks back at the others – Sera and Kalen, as they talk with the Message. He has been listening, calling back with, “Intended to be the caretaker? Intended by who? Or what?” But he turns back to the river.

He feels something waking. Something that’s not alive, as such. Not from their world? Something created? Does Sera sense the Message as alive? He doesn’t understand enough about her magic to know.

But he does know that there is something strange about the river. Something making him feel like he’s freezing, more than already frozen. That the sensation that usually lingers around him isn’t even the end point for how far it can go.

There’s nothing alive, but there is the dead. Resting or trapped, maybe. Maybe he can sense what the others can’t. He keeps on walking towards the river, but pushes his will against reality while he moves. Reaching out to sense the spirits that may be nearby but not visible to their normal, mundane senses. Maybe he can see if that thing that they're all feeling is in the river...

[Sense spirits, Diff 4, no focus handy so +3, burning the willpowers]

Dice: 1 d10 TN7 (10) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Alexander

[WP - ahh, crapsticks...]

Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Gwendolyn Bishop

"There is nothing living in that river," she called out, as though this would be some kind of help. Gwendolyn tapped something on her tablet again, nodding and keeping her findings for the time being. She continued forward to try and catch up with Alexander, but she wasn't a fast creature. She wasn't an athletic creature, and the entirety of the feeling of death around her , "if this is what I think it is... we're at the river Styx. Which means..."

She called out to the man by the river, the one who had been headed tht way and Gwendolyn stopped in her tracks. she didn't run, she couldn't run, she would just get winded in a matter of moments. She did not feel ill at ease surrounded by all this death. only... out of place.

"Don't. Touch. It!"

opus auxilium

Sera is right; there is a presence, something big. And then, in an instant, it isn't there. That instant sees a--yep, you guessed it--a gondola coming into view from the other side of the river. It's wide enough that you can't even see the other side, by the way, and thus perhaps not surprising that you didn't notice the boat on the other side.

The figure inside of it along on with a pole, but he is no ferryman. It is a man, in point of fact. Or looks like one. He is dressed in a black leather racing jacket, with neon green stripes down the arms long, platinum blonde hair. He looks to be in his mid-30s, perhaps. Riding leathers make up his full outfit, in fact, and he's looking at the four of them (five of them: The Message too) with a look of sly amusement.

"Well, well, well," he says as he pushes closer, stopping a few feet from the edge. He appears to be talking to The Message, who is no longer smiling. It is not scowling, but this one...he does not get a smile. "You brought some friends, I see."

Serafíne

"He," Sera has taken Kalen's arm as they walked, but now she unwraps her arm from his and takes one careful step closer to the ferryman, to his gondola, to the black, black river. " - says that you have taken souls that do not belong here, souls or spirits or what the fuck ever.

"Why?"

Alexander

The others may or may not sense the tingle as he pushes his will against reality again, but they will see him suddenly freeze. Hard to tell from the back, but he’s balanced on a hair’s breadth between freezing up completely and running away. He freezes and… backs away, very slowly. Even without Gwendolyn’s shouted warning, he has absolutely. No. Intention. Of touching that water.

He backs away, still looking at the surface of the water, getting faster as he builds up distance. He may be in control – just – but that river? Is not something he wants to look down into again.

Alexander starts to speak, but his voice catches in his throat. He clears it once, twice, before the words come. “They.” He turns his head to look at Kalen, Sera. Even Gwendolyn. And he’s white as a sheet, blood drained from his face. “This is a prison, and they can never… never be freed.”

He turns back to watch the boat arrive, still moving towards the others. He’s silent, though.

Gwendolyn Bishop

[int+occult]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 5, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Kalen Holliday

Kalen's attention is mostly on the thing in the gondola and the water at first. On Sera, so alive she seems like she should burn this place, stepping forward to challenge it.

But then he does look toward Alexander, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder once he is close enough. "Never is a rather absolute word. And, in a world such as this one, just as in ours, sometimes rules can be broken. Bent. Temporarily suspended. To most of our world, what we do is impossible." He manages to smile, even here, in a spirit graveyard next to a terrible spirit river, because this is what he was trained for. This is what he promised to do for the world, and he may have extended that promise to the whole of creation he can affect. Because you cannot just abandon your Calling because you're not standing on the same earth,

Moments like this are practically the only time he feels whole.

But how do do they break or suspend these rules? Most likely with the thing that just arrived. But how to make it cooperate....?

[Intelligence+Occult D=7 WP like candy]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 7) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Gwendolyn Bishop

"Excuse me, I apologize, we haven't been properly introduced yet," one can tell she is a teacher. That she is a teacher of high school students because there was a line drawn where her infinite patience would prove itself not-so infinite. She did not know who this man was, and her suspicions were not confirmable due to the dissonance with the legend. She took a look at the man, and pondered. he tried to think of something her mother may have ranted about.

And my, didn't Pomegranate Deme rant about a number of things. But this is a river she knew as a child. this is a story that Gwendolyn knows because it was some part of her

"I'm Gwendolyn Wade-Bishop. These are my associates," whose names I do not know but you don't need to know that, "and if I am to understand correctly, there's something of a disagreement here? I'm sure there's an end we can all reach where everyone is satisfied, yes?"

She reached up to pluck the sunglasses off of her head, toying with the earpiece idly.

opus auxilium

The man in the gondola leans on the pole, seemingly uncaring about the fact that it perches him precariously over the water a bit. Sera speaks up first, and he raises an eyebrow. "You," he says with a bit of a grin. "Are rude as fuck. You should learn to be more polite, especially if your friends are right and I have something you want. It's polite to say hello before you start making demands of people. Like this...'Hello.'"

He straightens from his lean on the pole, just so he can make a bit of a dramatic bow. Alexander's reaction catches his attention too, and his grin gets a little wider. "Breathtaking, isn't it? I sometimes like to stare into it and just imagine the vastness of it all. It's empowering."

And then Gwen speaks and he turns his attention to her. "Ah, someone who can be polite. Nice to meet you Gwendolyn. I'm Zane. This is my boat, and this is my part of the river. If it falls into the river, it's mine. So I think it's less a disagreement than a case of possession being 9/10ths of the law. The law of the Universe, in this case."

He cocks his head. "What kind of agreement are you thinking of?"

Kalen Holliday

"The whole of Creation has fewer laws and more truths." Kalen says quietly. "You found that the more beings you had stewardship of the more power you had. Some of those you have belong here, they came here because this is where they belong. The ones you took...possession may be a thing you can keep by force but for those beings...it is not yours by right.

"We seek the return of those who should not be here. To restore everything to the place in which it is intended to be." He steps up to Sera's side. There is a shudder as he glances at the water, but then he looks up from it and into Zane's eyes. "We can offer you power from a living source, which is a rare and precious thing here."

Gwendolyn Bishop

Kalen gives them something to offer, power from a living source. Something that was rare indeed in a place like this. She nodded, content to back this stranger's play because, well, she can't say that they're a posse and not back his play. Whatever his name was.

Serafíne

Sera is humming beneath her breath, her arms still crossed, her body language turned inward. Her sense of What is Happening is approximate and tenuous. She understands that they are in a place of death and knows at least the name Charon, the myth, the gold coins for the eyes. The places the dead are meant to go, but beyond that her understanding about what and how and whom they might be bargaining for is virtually nil. Others like the message whom this creature has claimed, kept for himself, held back against the world. Whatever falls into the river is mine. And he wants to bargain and he chastises Sera for her rudeness and Sera doesn't have the energy to roll her eyes but -

- she starts to Work, humming beneath her skin, holding her energy inside, finding the beat on her tongue that matches the beating of her heart that -

(Mind 3: on the spirit thingy. If she can read his mind she is going to try. Necessary successes up to Sam.) Difficulty 6 -1 (focus) -1 (quint). + WP

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (6, 7, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Alexander

Alexander keep moving back, only really stopping once he’s back behind Sera and next to Kalen. He look around when he feels the hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away or brush the hand off. This time, there’s comfort in the contact. Warmth. Knowledge that there is something good in the world. He looks Kalen in the eye, intent, intense. “No. Really. There’s no saving the ones that are meant to be there. Any of them. Ever.” He looks away again, back at the river. “So many of them…” He trails off, arms still wrapped around himself rubbing his arms for comfort more than for warmth.

It’s empowering. Alexander looks up at the thing calling itself Zane. He’s seen the wonder of spirits in the Message. The madness in the corrupted nature spirit by the reservoir. Now? He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at. Something that craves power. That likes to play. Something that he is, essentially, utterly powerless against. Poor little apprentice.

Kalen steps forward to stand with Sera, leaving him standing alone. He sighs, turns, walks back to the Message. To be close to something. And to ask quietly. “Who else controls the river? Can it be dammed? Diverted?” It may be naïve thinking this rivers works in the same way as one of water in their world but… you never know.

Serafíne

WP

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (3, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

opus auxilium

Here's the good news: Sera gets through. She penetrates his mind, which is significant because it means that he's living. If he was a spirit, she wouldn't be able to do it because unlike a corporeal person who has three primary patterns (Living, Mind, Spirit), a spirit has just the one.

Here's the bad news: Sera gets through. Once she penetrates his mind, she realizes--too late--that he let her. He has a Mind shield up, but it's not designed to keep people out. It's designed to trick people in, and then not let them out until he desires it. It's a trap and it diverts Sera's attention to the darker portions of his mind. This is valuable information, but it's also distinctly, incredibly traumatizing information. Sera's never truly been in the mind of a Nephandus before. She's very, very lucky in the fact that he lets her out, but not before she has just the slightest hint of what it feels like to go through a Caul. Just the briefest instant. Even that is enough to nearly shatter her mind, but she holds herself together just enough that she doesn't completely lose her mind.

And then he lets go of her mind, and her consciousness slips back into her body.

Here's the other good news: she is still alive. And as an added bonus, she got just enough of his thoughts to realize that he's alive despite his proximity because of that boat and that pole. Somehow, this Nephandi managed to steal this ferry, or kill the ferryman. As long as he has the boat and rowing pole, he's safe from the river.

Serafíne

What happens is a split-second of -

- a moment of -

something like suspension from Serafíne, with her arms wrapped around her body and a stillness that betrays absolute concentration, rapt, enraptured perhaps, and then, then a remarkable moment of decompensation where she looks like she is crumbling, like something essential in the center of her body is collapsing in upon itself, shivering as if clawed hand were stringing its way up her spinal column.

"Stop." This to Kalen, and Sera is wrenching the word out of her body. It is something close to a command. You understand the power because there is beneath everything about her a powerful will strangers and sometimes even Sera herself cannot recognize. "Give him nothing. He has stolen that boat and he has stolen that pole and that is what protects him. He's human. He's awake. He's Fallen.

And she's backing away, stumbling a bit, from the river's edge, shaking, with fear, revulsion, both immediate and (so well) remembered and (so wholly) forgotten and she is gathering the strands of her magic, too. Pulling them back into herself, trying desperately to -

opus auxilium

"The river," The Message says to Alexander, "is controlled by the Ferrymen. Their job is to bring people across the river, from one side to the other. The river itself is..." He gives a little shake of his head, regretful. "It is too wide to be changed. Even for those such as you."

Zane looks intrigued by Kalen's offer and he looks like he's about ready to respond. Then Sera enters his mind. The grin widens, getting a bit of a cruel twist to it as she gets inside and whatever happens in there sends her reeling. "You see what I said, chicky-poo? You're rude." He taps his temple, his tone taking on a vicious edge to the amused mocking. "Don't go places you aren't invited. That's called trespassing."

He turns his attention to Kalen, the nasty tone fading a bit. "So, this probably just got awkward. I'm still willing to deal though, if you want to give me power from a living source for your dead friends. Or I guess your...sentient spirit friend's dead friends? Whatever works. What are we talking about...a Node? A person? Animal, Vegetable, Mineral? I'm not too picky. Power is power."

Alexander

Alexander turns back to the others at Stop, listening to what Sera has to say. That this isn’t the ferryman. But that there are ferrymen. Others who control the river. Back to the Message. “These other ferrymen – can you bring them here? If this guy has taken down one of their own then they should be pissed enough to stop him. Right? Or whoever created the ferrymen and their tools?”

He might not be able to do much, but there’s usually someone bigger and badder lurking in the shadows who can.

Kalen Holliday

Kalen smiles, but his eyes are very, very cold. For the most part, Kalen fights because he chose to swear oaths and he adopted codes and he has this vision of Camelot. There are things that you do, and he does them with no particular anger. There are monsters and you kill them because you must. But monsters, in most of Kalen's experience, don't have choices about what they are.

The Fallen....

Alexander and Sera have both seen him fight. But they have not, until today, seen outright rage. Cold. Quiet. Consuming.

"No. I thought you were more proper ferryman. But the Fallen? You are not merely a creature that lusts for power, you are an abomination." He steps between the Thing and Sera.

He does not strike. Not yet. There is Sera to consider. Alexander. Protecting them is more important. Alexander has a plan. And Kalen knows this Thing will not let them walk away from a fight they are losing. The more time until reinforcements, if they can get them, the better.

Serafíne

And she is reeling, still reeling, giving these strange little involuntary shudders and fighting down her gorge and finding somehow within her body all of that pain and all of that revulsion and all of that sickness of mind and body, infection of it, the grotesquerie and pulling it, and pulling it, and pulling it close, and close, and closer still into the core of her body, feeling the frame of her consciousness shudder with it, Working.

(Life 3 / Prime 2 if necessary. She is using that fear and sickness and revulsion and concentrating it and using it as a focus and a mirror and a magnifier and rebounding it on Zane, intending to incapacitate him / knock him unconscious. Will be holding the effect until she has the necessary successes.)

Serafíne

The Effect. Difficulty 5 per Sam, need four successes.

Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (6, 6, 7) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Gwendolyn Bishop

Some people are into power.

SOme people are into its pursuit and its ends. Some people like the things it can do and they like the strength it gives them. She doesn't know that Sera is going to be doing anything, but she does know that she needs to keep this guy here. Gwendolyn also knows that she is a very pretty woman and no matter what seduction sometimes does work in one's favor.

It's hard to project authority when one is trying to project adoration. Especially when one did not feel said adoration, but she looked at Zane with big brown eyes and Gwen shot him a wink before putting on her sunglasses. They're a masterwork. Just the right shape for her face, just the right proportions to highlight her features and cover her eyes. And... mirrored. Within a moment her eyes were gone and it was difficult fighting past that reaction mirrored sunglasses tended to provoke.

"Oh, that's a shame," she purred. It left a disgusting taste in her mouth.

[Mind 2- I'm totally flirting with you, Nephandi, you want to stay here. Project adoration. Diff 5 + 1 (EUGH) = 6, -1 quint -1 specialty foci = 4]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (4, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

opus auxilium

The Message has not failed to pay attention to the information that Sera has provided, nor the suffering that she has incurred to gain that information. From the looks of his face--the way it twists into a look of rage, a look that the always polite Sending given sentience has never displayed to them before--it was definitely new information. He looks to the Orphan and nods, and just like that he takes flight.

It's amazing how quickly he can fly.

Sera, she is empowered by her pain. Any Cultist would be proud of that, the way she takes the extremes that her mind is pushed to and turns it into a strength. Even trees rent by lightning may grow new fruit, the Code of Ananda says. And rent though she may be at the moment, she unleashes some very like-minded fruit. It surprises the Nephandi; maybe he was just drunk on his own power, holding the stolen ferry of a powerful spirit that he managed to slay. There's a question of how that could have happened; maybe his Nephandic master aided him, or maybe he just got lucky. It's difficult to say.

Either way, his Qlippothic Mind magic is a nasty thing, but he never planned on someone coming here and actually projecting onto him. And so he leers at Gwendolyn (not like he wouldn't have anyway, but his attention goes straight to her, undivided. Even that look is enough to make Gwendolyn's skin crawl probably; in the moment, his friendly-yet-nasty guise is torn away and he's just straight twisted. But it does its job and he doesn't see or anticipate Sera's response. She's just a pretty girl who thinks she has power, he thinks, and she should be screaming right now. Maybe he'd notice she isn't if he wasn't using his imagination on Gwendolyn.

But he doesn't notice and it hits him like a ton of bricks. There's half an instant of surprise before the lights go out and he collapses. He was leaning forward just a little in his attention toward the Etherite, and that sends him topping over into the black waters lake.

They can hear laughter bubbling up from the water as he starts to sink, and they could swear that the water that he begins to submerge in take the form of hands, wrapping around him and pulling him under. He has a moment of regaining consciousness just before his head is submerged, and he opens his mouth to scream...but the water fills his throat and he sinks in, not even able to raise his hand in a silent call for help.

The black water ripples and then calms. It is like he was never there.