Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Mummy


Riley

[Morning routine: Alter Ego, Mind 2, taking all the time in the world, threshold 4, diff -1 (practiced)]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Riley

[extending]

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (2, 9) ( success x 1 )

Riley

[and again, NO GUTS NO GLORY RILEY YOU DIDN'T NEED BRUNCH]

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Grace

[Nightmares!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Grace

[Awareness!]

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

Riley

[Riley has 6 "resonance stealth" to last the scene, otherwise she registers as a Sleeper until she casts/takes down the effect]

requiem aeternam interrupta

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. This is gonna be a pretty laid-back one-shot, but do try to be timely on posts. Within 10 minutes and if there is combat of some sort, 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...frankly, is more mood than a lot of risk. However, there is some potential risk depending on what the PCs might do. I don't anticipate combat but you never know; psychological and mental risks are ALWAYS in play with my scenes. :D 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. We are at the Denver Museum of Natural Science. Figure out why you're there and post yourselves in!]]

Fr. Echeverría

One of the teenage boys who belongs to the after school program at the Church of the Good Shepherd got into a fight with another boy from the city school district not in the parking lot of the Denver Museum of Natural Science but in the food court. They hadn't even purchased tickets to go in. The story goes that the boy who isn't a parishioner was sitting at a table with his girlfriend when the boy who is a parishioner walked up to him and pushed him out of his chair.

His mother is dead and his father works one full-time job and two part-time jobs to support him and his three sisters. His father called Father Echeverría after museum security called him. It was either he go down to the police station or someone come in and physically collect him. The other boy is eighteen years old and doesn't want to press charges.

The priest has several hours between the noon mass and the afternoon mass. If something happens he can just have Deacon Zavala do it.

At the time of the incident Father Echeverría is walking out of the museum with a sullen-looking sixteen-year-old boy at his side. The priest is dressed all in black and has his hands in the pockets of his slacks. The boy wasn't wearing a jacket when he showed up. He has the priest's barn coat on now.

Riley

Why in the world would Riley be at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science? Probably for the science part, but there's not a lot there that appeals to her personal interest in science. Nature, history, these aren't really her "bag" see. There's a health science section on the third floor that comes kind of close, and a space science area on the main floor that comes a little closer.

Maybe it's just curiosity that has her wandering inside to the line to pay $15 for a ticket to wander around some more. Maybe she picked up on some unknown resonance and decided to discretly check it out.

It's none of those things, really. The building is a new place she's never been into before and she wants to explore.

She's through the line now, standing on the second floor landing between the escalators, not looking at the people (not really) but looking at the massive skeleton of a whale suspended over the first floor.

And seeing people through the gaps in its bones. Just another person in the crowd, a tall woman with long brown hair, a too big nose, dressed in a light jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and black-and-white Converse high-tops. Exploring.

[awareness!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

Grace

Grace is at the museum today because it's been too long since she's been. No real reason per se.

Obviously, when there is no reason for anything, the universe still has its own reasons, its own way. Mages appear when they need to.

She's on her way in when Pan is on his way out, with what's obviously a bratty kid in tow. One of the shepherd's flock gone astray and pissed off about that. Been there, oh yes.

The Adept is dressed in jeans and that grey turtleneck jacket, innocuous and hard to remember to the Sleepers around them. She waves to the priest, but his charge will likely not even notice.

Serafíne

Here is the flash of something absolutely surreal: just outside the glass doors where the patrons and hurrying out and hurrying in - a Cultist of Ecstasy. She is smoking a cigarette. The cigarettes has dark blue paper and a gold foil band around the filter. Her long hair is pulled back from her face and twisted into a thick and rather messy brad. She has a thick spike through the cartilage of her right ear and a bar that pierces her left ear in an artful three-places and she's dress for the cold in, you know, summertime clothes. Denim cut-offs and herringbone-patterned thigh-high fishnets held up by black lace garters and a loose white t-shirt over black lingerie and cropped leather jacket because why the hell not.

Sera is talking to A Guy and A Girl, cupping her tattooed left hand over her cigarette as she takes a pull. Laughing about something.

She just woke up.

It is breakfast time.

God only knows why she's here.

No wait, maybe God does know.

Fr. Echeverría

[perc + aware]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Serafíne

Per + Awareness.

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 10) ( success x 3 ) Re-rolls: 1

requiem aeternam interrupta

They've all found themselves here at the Denver Museum of Nature and Science on this chilly Sunday afternoon for their own reasons. Pan is here dealing with, shall we say, congregational concerns. Riley and Grace have both showed up out of a sheer Hey, this seems like a place to go today mood, to explore and see new things (or revisit things they've seen before). Sera is drawn here for reasons only God (or whatever power is Out There) is aware of; the point is that she's here. They're all here on this day, barricaded against the cold outside or just venturing out into it.

The DNMS is host to many exhibits, and they bring no small number of people to gander and ooh and aaah about the anthropological and geological wonders that surround them. Today it is a little less occupied than it might otherwise be; maybe the cold has kept them away, or perhaps it was just a sense that today was a day to be Somewhere Else. Either way, there are still people here wandering through the various floors and looking at the different exhibits but not as many as you might think. There are the Sleepers that Sera is speaking with outside, the boy that Pan is leading out, the employees who wish they were home nestled in with a blanket and some smattering of other people. But it is only the Mages who feel it.

Riley feels it first, but Pan and Sera (and Grace, too) aren't far behind. It's muffled, but it's there, sparking up in the upper floors of the building and arcing its way down. The more experienced trio get a sense of a hole being ripped in the fabric of mortality and a shining warmth pulling itself through; it glows against their mind, invigorates them. It's like birth, but ancient. Grace, for her part, just gets more of a general ping that swells in the back of her mind.

It's coming from the third floor.

Riley

Riley feels a jumble of things all at once. The first is a tension, because there by the door she senses a collection of resonances, one of which is at least a little familiar to her now. Mages, here? Of course here. Here in Denver there is Grace and Man-Candy and Lena and Adam, so it stands to reason that there are others.

And then she feels that something else, something Other that feels like it's raining down on her head. Invigorating, well that's nice, but what is it?

She pulls out her phone and, well. She turns to look back over the railing, across the main lobby to the front entrance where she senses that cluster of people and yep, sure enough, Shit is that Grace? Well, so much for a planned meeting under more controlled conditions.

And so much for keeping herself hidden until she susses out the Awakened situation. Because when Riley pulls out her phone she thumbs the screen on and she pulls up a custom-made application. Something that will let her see the Code, and what sorts of bugs and glitches it has in it today.

As she Works even this most minor of Workings, the air around her begins to shift, so slightly as it leaks through the barrier she's erected. Just the faintest thread of something inexorably mercurial.

[Watch the Weaving, Prime 1, practiced]

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

Riley

[nix that, I forgot who I was playing, Riley ain't got no Prime augh!]

Grace

Ohh, Grace-senses tingling. She takes a quick breath, and looks around, to Pan, to Sera (who she's just noticed loitering at the entrance, and what the Hell?)

It's happening again, isn't it?

Freakish metaphysical weirdness, and a group of mages all 'happening' to be at the right place. Gee universe, would be nice if you could put a little notice on her calendar once in a while -- 'Weird Shit Today, 2-5 PM.'

She doesn't feel the invigoration, the birth of something shining and warm -- she just knows it's something strange. And she hopes it's not demons crawling their way through the IMAX screen in this place. Shit.

In any case, she makes her way inside, because even if it is demons crawling their way through the IMAX screen, it's not like she can ignore that.

Riley

[for the record we're calling that an ENTROPY scan instead of Prime because Niko is an idiot today]

Fr. Echeverría

He doesn't have a hand on the boy's elbow or shoulder because he's trusting him to walk out of here on his own. Because the priest can remember being sixteen years old and angry at the entire world and willing to fight anyone who had slighted him even if that person were his friend. His anger made him susceptible to the slightest kindness. Drew him to people who understood him and he thought he could understand. That's how his son happened. Ignorance coupled with loneliness. His son grew up without a father because of his anger.

So he understands this kid. Has sympathy for him even though the kid doesn't grasp that his own father is trying very hard to provide for them. No way for him to understand this without growing up or having kids of his own but Pan would like very much for this kid not to have kids.

As he walks of his own volition he has no need to lay a hand on him.

But then something opens up upstairs. Pan sees in quick order Grace and Sera but his alarm and the sharpening of his senses supersedes his desire to great them proper.

"Manny," he says to the boy. Puts a hand on his shoulder now. No one else notices anything is wrong but they may yet. "I left my phone in the security office. Go sit in the truck."

"But--"

"Go."

[mind/prime 2: empathic projection.

coincidental. he's going for compliance here, hence the prime. diff 5, -1 because idk is 'intense' an appropriate resonance? i can supplement this with intimidation if he fucks it up.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN4 (3, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Fr. Echeverría

[OOPS MY FINGER SLIPPED]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (2, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Serafíne

"Oh my fuck," Sera mutters not precisely beneath her breath but around it. It has been a strange handful of weeks and Sera - who has a surreality all her own - is just there, sharing a cigarette with a guy who moonlights as a bartender at The Abbey and pays the bills with a job at DMNS, where he hides his many tattooes beneath a button-down, long-sleeve white shirt, which does not really hide them. And he is Talking About something and Sera is not really sure what he is Talking About or what he has been Talking About for the last... well, for the last god-knows-how long (two or three puffs of the cigarette) because she's feeling something; feeling it open up in her; feeling it swell and crack and bloom. Feeling that warmth, that -

- Sera tips her head back; there's brick or glass or something behind her. Sera tips her head back thinks about kissing That Guy because he's still talking while she's just being.

And then she does kiss him. Straightens up and reaches for both of his lapels and pulls him in and breathes out her smokey, spiced breath onto his beared cheek, her eyes closed, her senses open, burning, burnished, bright.

[Mind/Life/Prime 1]

Her cheek is smooth; his bearded. His breath is warm and a bit humid and a bit sour; she can feel the radiant heat from his skin and he opens his empty hand and reaches out instinctively to steady her, grazes her hip. She's never come on to him before, not more than she comes on to most people, and there's a startling intimacy about the moment that catches him on the cusp of awareness, has him taking in the view of the lawn on this cold spring day with a new - not appreciation, no. Perhaps merely: perspective.

Then Sera sort of nuzzles him and lets him go and snuffs her cigarette beneath a booted foot and goes inside.

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (5, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

As she aligns herself with the creative forces of the universe, Serafine senses a rush of a mental Pattern back into creation. It follows directly with the rise of Life energy, particularly warm and vibrant, flush with the building blocks of the universe. It isn't magic with a capital M and a k; it's something nearly as old as the foundations of reality though. Certainly more ancient than anything she's likely felt before. She gets a bead on it, up on the third floor in one of the middle area of that floor.

requiem aeternam interrupta

Manny would normally, perhaps, argue with the good Father about having to go sit and wait in the truck while the priest went to go get his phone. He would say that he can just go home on his own perhaps, or deliver some sort of snark (built on the back of being an angry teenager with hormones marinating his brain) about how someone can lose their phone so quickly. But the priest's command takes hold and the Sleeper sighs, heading off to do just that.

Meanwhile, Serafine's Guy is caught unaware by the sudden intimacy, and is caught just as unaware when she steps back and heads inside. That was certainly unexpected, and he's not sure what to do from there. He thinks about it for a moment and then lets her go. He needs time to process that little bit.

Riley lets a little bit of her sparkling aura, that inexorable but mercurial nature slip out ever so very slightly and she gets a fix on something, while Grace heads inside. They're all inside now, and...

Nothing is crashing through the museum. This is no Ben Stiller movie and no Tyrannasaurus Rex skeleton is playing havoc (or even chess). Its up above them though, so who knows what terror may be awaiting them (or what Sleepers may in trouble) that far up.

Fr. Echeverría

He stands still long enough to feel a sense of assurance that Manny is going to sit in the truck until whatever is going on upstairs is done going on and in that amount of time Sera has decided to come inside.

"Hey," he says to her in the distracted tone of one who's listening very hard to something going on a distance away. As soon as she's within arm's reach of the priest Pan takes hold of her hand and matches her pace. They're going upstairs.

Doesn't ask her if she felt that. If Sera didn't feel that she can ask him. He knows she uses physical contact to help her with her pagan rituals. If she wants to do anything on the way up, well. You're welcome.

Pan though has to reach into his pocket to find his rosary.

[prime 1: SUP WEAVING WHAT'RE YOU DOING BUDDY -1 diff because practiced]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (1, 2, 4) ( success x 1 )

Grace

Grace can feel the brightness of Pan's righteousness as he tells the boy to leave. But she can't help but look at Sera when that kiss happens -- can't help but stare, even though staring at kissing people is totally not her way. Sera's entrancing, draws all eyes and all attention to her.

There is something else, something familiar on the back of her brain, something... but she doesn't know Riley well enough to place it, and certainly doesn't know what Riley looks like.

Between the two Disciples, she makes a choice of who to go to first -- Sera, of course. Sorry Pan, but Sera's the one Grace makes a beeline toward upon entering the museum. Pan joins them soon enough, though, and it's not like Grace minds.

"Hey, guys," she says, when she gets close enough. Follows them, because hey if they don't know what to do...

Serafíne

"Did you feel that?" Pan is the first magus Sera encounters inside the museum, after he has divested himself of his teenaged charge. The kid is disappearing out doors still swinging from her entrance and Sera herself is going to slip an arm through Pan's and slide up beside him. Except, he's reaching for her hand, wrapping her hand is his, which pulls her back from whatever is Above to the here and now, for just a moment. A glimpse at his profile and they're already in motion, Sera walking closer to Pan than is strictly necessary or perhaps even proper.

Her pagan rituals, you know.

And then Grace, "Hi Grace," Sera says and sort of reaches for her like to pull her into the World's Strangest Threesome (not like that, darlings. Minds sharp and clean please.)

Someone somewhere wants them to Pay and Sera swipes an AmEx and lo they are through.

"It's just - being born. Being reborn, you know? Recreating itself, so fucking warm. Older than anything I know, too.

"Than anything I can imagine."

Sera tells them, the both of them, as they climb.

Riley

There is a community in Denver that Riley is currently not a member of. Her invitation got lost in the mail, maybe, which means boo no decoder ring. But genuine boo because three Mages are gathering together to probably help each other out, discuss, suss, plan, et cetera, and Riley?

Riley's the loner on the second floor stepping onto the escalator to go up a little further, to get let ooff on the floor where Egypt's on display next to the dinosaurs and oh, well, hm. Maybe this isn't a Ben Stiller movie but they are Awakened so anything is possible.

She pulls up a program on her phone and looks for other Minds. Not Sleeper Minds, not even Awakened Minds, but if they're possibly dealing with Other Sentience Riley would kind of like to know ahead of time, y'know?

[Mind Scan, same as before]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (2, 10) ( success x 1 )

Grace

Sera says it's being reborn, recreating itself, and it's warm. Older than anything. Grace puts two and two together and it comes up dinosaur.

"They have an allosaurus skeleton up here on the third floor. I don't know if it would be such a great thing if one decided to recreate itself," Grace says, and then stops herself. These two may not know what she's talking about "Allosauruses are the meat-eating kind. Big enough to bite a person in half."

Could be worse. There are dinosaurs capable of swallowing a person whole. That's not what we're talking about here, just scythe-claws and dagger-teeth, in a body about 1.5 times human height.

Sera reaches for her, tries to draw Grace into the group hug they've got going, but where she usually gives Sera great leeway in the whole touchy-feely thing, she's pretty damned reluctant to be drawn into a tight huddle with Pan too. She'll hold somebody's hand, sure...

Fr. Echeverría

If anyone had sent out invitations to join the Denver Awakened population Father Echeverría would have thrown it in the shredder with everything else he wants nothing to do with. Communities cause nothing but headaches. He didn't receive an invitation though. He found a Dreamspeaker girl who thought she could sleep under bridges and on park benches with all of her earthly possessions strapped to a bicycle and call it a day. It wasn't long before heathens were falling asleep drunk in pews in his sanctuary and calling him to ask for help with Nephandi and demons and dead Archmagus's bones.

Enjoy it while you can, Riley. Enjoy it while you can.

The three of them are held up brief at the customer service counter because apparently you have to pay for the privilege of entering a museum. The girl at the register already knows why the priest is there and he has the neon-colored paper bracelet around his wrist so Sera only has to pay for herself and Grace. It really is like the most demented date ever.

Up they go.

"I did feel that," he says in response to Sera's observation.

And then he picks up the pace. Drags the girls with him. Doesn't say anything to the notion of an allosaurus coming to life because it's hard to climb stairs and talk at the same time. By the time they get to the third floor he's breathing heavy but it isn't anything to worry about. He's just forty-six years old and doesn't exercise.

Riley

At the top of the escalator, Riley stops, steps automatically to the side as she looks down at her screen. It shows a map of the floor she's on, with little blips for certain people (why yes, she did learn a thing or two from Mssrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, and then digitized that idea), and the one that is the most interesting is one that is quite large and in the block to the left of her. Riley looks up, looks to the left, glances back over her shoulder again to see the strange trio...taking the stairs? She frowns, her mouth quirking to the side.

Alright, girl, you're in Denver now, time to play nice. She only enjoys her solitary anonymity for a few moments longer.

Riley steps back, leaning back into the shiny metal rail between the up and down escalators, and she waits. Looking at her phone still, switching over to another application.

And as she does she lets the shield around her mind - around her resonance to be exact - disintegrate. Revealing her to the others to be exactly what she is, which isn't so different from what they are. Maybe Grace recognizes her now, or recognizes the feel of her seeping through a wireless connection as they worked together to crack a code or five.

"There's something over there," she says, once they're within range, not looking up from her screen. "Something old old old-" and there she breaks off because she finally does look up, and over to a man in his mid-forties who looks like he could be older, huffing and catching his breath. Pushing up from the railing, Riley says, "Hey, is he okay?"

Meanwhile, that process is running in the background.

[but before that she scried from a short distance, and took a little bit of time to do it, so Corr 2, diff -1 (time) -1 (practiced), dropping a WP, don't know how many suxx she needs so she'll be running this until she hits it I guess?]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Serafíne

"If it's a person-eating dinosaur come back to life," Sera says, half-way up the stairs, laughing just a bit. "I say we let security deal with it." Laughing more than a bit. She's still holding hands with Pan, but Grace escapes her reach. Slips away from Sera's reach and holds herself apart and that's fine. They hoof it up the stairs, Pan going faster than he should. Sera's humming a bit beneath her breath, leaning into Pan and peering down the hallway in the direction of the Thing Coming Into Being.

By the time Riley rocks up, Sera is distracted by something else, the far-away look of someone... elsewhere. Riley's presence does not register, not fully, not yet.

Sera has tipped her forehead into Pan's shoulder as he catches her breath and is feeling for the loose, abortive swirl of the Things superficial thoughts, the drift of them, the moving current -

[Mind 2: surface thoughts? Aka: feeling snacky dude? Difficulty: 5. -1 (focus) ]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (5, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

[[A Thing]]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

[[Oh crap, sorry. ANother thing first, to see if that thing happens.]]

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

requiem aeternam interrupta

Sera reaches out with her Mind, and feels the at the Mental pattern inside in order to see if she can pick up its surface thoughts. And, perhaps to her surprise (or perhaps not), she realizes that it's aware of her there, and then she feels the power of something ancient rise up to push her out before she can get anything. She managed to pick up the feel of a feather and a heart, but little else. She also realizes, in confirmation of the age, that it's a vast intelligence. While she can't crack into those thoughts, she knows that this thing's experience runs well beyond centuries. Maybe millenia.

Grace

"Wait..." Grace stops, tilts her head, looks over Riley (looks how she peers into her cell phone, how she feels so suddenly like a silvery rush). "Riley?"

She fishes into her laptop bag for her cell phone, and quickly rattles off a text to a certain number, just to be sure.

It's you?

The answering noise from Riley's cell phone is enough to answer that question.

"It's okay guys, I know her. She's one of us."

So now they've got two Virtual Adepts staring into their phones while a potential resurrected, reborn something awaits on the third floor of a nature museum. Sounds about right.

Serafíne

"Fuck." Sera curses quietly beneath her breath; perhaps just audible enough for Pan to hear her, close as they are. "I was trying to see how well disposed it was to us. Right? Like maybe it was just hungry or whatever and the order of the day was to fucking run.

"Whatever is in there is brilliant; like, just - this sense of vast awareness, and it knows we're here. It knows I was looking; it pushed me away before I could sense anything more than a feather and a heart. "

Riley

Riley is looking at Pan when Grace steps around him and spies her. The Initiate offers the Apprentice a flash of a grin and a, "Heya, sweetheart," and then one of them is digging around for a phone while the other is glancing down to there's again. The process needs another minute to go through, the image on her screen - she has a smartphone with a nice wide, flat surface, a surface that is currently black with green digits (letters, numbers, symbols) blinking in and out of sight, slowly slowly slowly creating what looks like an ASCII image. It's almost there, almost shows the glass cases with their ancient unearthed mummies on display, and maybe whatever presence is inside there.

"I'm looking inside now," a glance up and around, the museum is quiet but hardly empty. She steps closer so that she's folded into the group now, part of them and yet a little apart. There is a stud - tiny and silvery, winking when it catches the light - in her left nostril. Her hair is down but pushed back enough to expose her left ear, which bears silver studs lining the organ from lobe all around the cartilage.

"Just...about...got it..."

[extending c'mon girl!]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (1, 7) ( success x 1 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

[[The other thing again]]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

The four of them converge, and Riley makes a little bit of introduction by way of pointing out that she knows some of what they know. Also, checking to see if Pan is okay. But she's keeping an eye out to try and see remotely into the other room, while Sera is trying to tickle at the surface thoughts of whatever's inside. That provokes its own reaction.

But we'll get there. First, introductions. Riley gets pointed out by Grace, who gets a feel for the other Virtual Adept's aura and then confirms it with a quick text. Mages, meet Mages. And Sera gives them a quick heads up to the fact that whatever it is was able to push out her attempts to take a look at what was floating on the surface of its mind. They're working together for the moment, and Riley manages to get her screen to pop up a look at the inside of the Egyptian exhibit. It's like having a spy camera in the room, only the spy camera is positioned in the best possible vantage point in order to see the entire room. What Riley sees on that smartphone screen gives her a moment's warning before the rest are about to see it.

There are several exhibits in this Egyptology room. The source of the overall room (which is not far from the stairs the trio of mages came up from) comes from two women, found wrapped in linen in painted coffins over 3,000 years ago. With them came several of these people, as scientists worked with the doctors at the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center to examine them via X-Rays, CT scans and the like. These two coffins have been within the room; one open, one closed. The one that has been left closed did so because it frankly wasn't quite as impressive of a specimen for display. Fascinating from a medical and anthropological standpoint, sure. But its sister sarcophogus had a more visually dynamic creature.

What Riley sees is that both coffins are open. One of them is empty, and someone is making their way out of the room.

The Virtual Adept doesn't have a lot of time to warn them, maybe just enough to get a word out before the person comes into view. She (because it is a she) isn't wrapped up in bandages and sporting the kind of ancient weathering that Jack Pierce so famously emulated on Boris Karloff in 1932. It isn't even like the CGI decay on Arnold Vosloo as he battled Rachel Weisz and Brenden Fraser. The woman's skin, in fact, is clear and smooth, without injury or weathering. It's darkened, the color that one would imagine the people of Egypt to be, and she is short, around five and a half feet. They can certainly see that there is nothing approaching any level of injury on her, because...well, she is frankly not dressed. Any bandages or the like were probably removed from her or dissolved years ago from study and weather. She doesn't seem to be ashamed of it though (and thank the gods that no one is around to see them talking to the nude Middle Eastern woman because wouldn't THAT be awkward); she is more intrigued by the four of them.

And when she opens her mouth to speak...well, oddly enough she speaks in clear, albeit accented, English.

"You're wizards. Are you waiting for me?" She seems unsure what to make of it if they are.q

Riley

Riley does try to warn them, that what she sees is a room with a missing body that's supposed to be on display - weird, so weird putting the dead on display. Well, the room isn't missing a body, it's-

"Someone's-"

And then there she is, the strange Middle Eastern woman completely naked and in public.

Riley's brows lift and her dark eyes widen. "What the fuck," she says, voice quiet with surprise.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. "Do you think," but no, don't even finish that question, Riley. You're a smart woman. That was a feeling of something being reborn and revitalized. The mind is vast and ancient. And a naked woman appears from a room where a sarcophogus had been recovered and is currently empty.

Do they think she came out of that sarcophogus? Yes.

"She's supposed to be in there," she says, voice low, filling the others in quickly. "Preeeeeetty sure she's one of the mummies retrieved and brought here for study and display."

This woman says that they are wizards and asks if they were waiting for her. Well, what did Winston Zeddemore teach her all those years ago?

"Maybe?" It's not an enthusiastic YES but then the woman didn't ask if they were gods, did she?

Grace

"Okay, well, at least you're not an allosaurus," Grace says, having poked her head up from her cell phone in time to see the arrival of a naked woman. Riley fills them in, and to Grace's credit, it doesn't much phase her. A mummy. Okay. Shrug.

"We were, sort of, waiting for you. But we didn't know what you'd be," she adds. "Hi."

Yeah. Hi, to the nude Middle Eastern woman who just walked up at the museum. Grace honestly doesn't care about that part. Just relieved she's not covered in scales and with five pointy ends.

"Who are you?"

Serafíne

Sera does not continue hanging on to Pan. Honestly she is now half-expecting an intelligent, malevolent, magickal man-eating dragon or whatever sort of skeleton it is they normally keep on display in these parts (this sort of museum is not one of Sera's regular haunts under any circumstances, whatsoever, so the difference between dinosaurs and dragons is will night indistinguishable to her and anyway she probably believes more in dragons than in dinosaurs), something humid and sloughing with compound eyes whirring with a vasty and primordial intelligence she can hardly comprehend and beneath that, beneath that, beneath that an awareness that feels equal parts bright and dark, inhuman and alien and hungry.

Wouldn't you be hungry if you had just dragged yourself back into existance?

Sera fucking would be.

Of course, Sera always Wants, remember how she Wanted after a thirty-day fast from sex and drugs and even the simple pleasures of ice cream and toast, imagine how much she would Want after 3000 years as a corpse, or whatever, dragged around the world chained in the box in which she had been bound.

And Sera, Sera Sera Sera, Sera steps out from Pan's side advances on the woman -

"Jesus Christ, did you just will yourself into existance? Just drag yourself back here again?"

- toward her really, already taking off her own leather jacket to hand over to the stranger.

"I mean, I didn't know I was waiting for you. I just went for brunch and a Bloody Mary or seventeen and saw Eric while I was walking and he was headed to work and we started chatting about this show that his ex was putting on at Gallery Twenty-Seven and before I knew it we were here and I was having a cigarette and

"bam. Fuck. So no, technically no, it's a goddamned coincidence but Jesus fuck.

"I'm Sera. We should probably get you outta here. You can put on my coat.

"Hawksley's gonna be so fucking jealous."

Fr. Echeverría

Pan would have ignored Riley's comment about whether he was alright anyway. They have bigger things to worry about than some middle-aged guy getting winded walking up two flights of stairs. It's just that none of them know what it is until moments before it steps out to great them.

Only Riley sees what's inside the room and before she can tell them what it is -

The priest slackens his hand just before the punker decides she wants her freedom back. Doesn't come forward and take control of the situation. That's not how he tends to operate. So long as it seems as though the younger women aren't making anything worse he's fine with just standing back by where Riley is and observing.

Oh Sera. Just what a visitor from three thousand years ago needs to hear soon as she wakes up. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck fuck fuck.

requiem aeternam interrupta

They all have their reactions to this woman standing in front of them, and they're understandable. Riley and Pan, they're taking in the situation in a measured way. The Virtual Adept says Maybe and the priest lets the others do the talking. Meanwhile, Grace and Sera are more direct, more forthcoming. And this all makes perfect sense. Riley is someone who has hid her Resonance to date, so of course she would be more likely not to reveal information right away, to wait and see. And wait and see is the good Father's jam.

Sera, though, she's ecstatic and she offers a lot of words in response. The woman smiles oddly, not quite sure exactly what the Ecstatic is saying--she understands the words, but not the context--but she also seems okay with being confused. It's almost as if she's used to it. She takes the offered coat, looks it over and then slips it on. She still isn't exactly covered, of course. There's a whole--well, let's say she's a walking below-the-waist indecency charge waiting to happen. But it's something, at least, and she rolls her shoulders, looks at the jacket to see how it fits.

"Thank you," she says to Serafine, gratefully, before she looks at Grace. "I am Halima Rahal. This..." She frowns a moment, like she isn't sure quite how to explain it. "You are not Children of Osiris then. But something like them, perhaps? Ahl-i-Batin? Taftani?"

Her knowledge of Western Traditions seems to be off the mark. And finally, she asks,

"Where am I? This does not feel like anywhere I have been."

Riley

[Internet, tell me things!: int+comp (data retrieval), diff 8 -1 (ability apt)]

Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (2, 4, 4, 6, 8, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Serafíne

"I'm Sera, you're in Denver, and I figure we should get outta here."

Sera is blissful, though she's not wholly certain whether all of this is happening at the moment, or whether she is hallucinating. Either way, she embraces the moment. With that last bit Sera's turning to the others in a sort of inquiry and reaching to peel her t-shirt up and off. Beneath it she is still slightly-more-decent than Halima Rahal is now: she's now wearing her usual costume of cut-off denims and a bra.

"Here," handing off the tee to the - you know - newly Awoken whatever-she-is - and making a gesture with her hands. "Wrap this around your waist. It'll at least cover your ass. Hey, did any of you guys drive?"

A glance at Riley with her phone. "Is there a back door we can get out?" Back to Halima Rahal, then. This quick slicing smile. "We should probably get outta here. Some asshole's bound to wonder why you're up and out of your coffin."

Grace

"No, we are not any of those. The Ahl-i-Batin are gone," Grace tells her, and where Grace picked that little bit up? She's not telling. The Ahl-i-Batin have been gone for a long time, which means...

"This may be a shock, but the better question might be 'when am I?' You're in a museum. A place for antiquities."

Which means... you were an antiquity, oh naked woman.

With that, Grace turns to her phone again. and why? Well, to pull up Google Maps, and ask plaintively for it to give her a map of this place. Is there a back door that they could run to?

[Corr 1: Whereami? Spending WP because 1 Arete is asking for botch.]

Dice: 1 d10 TN4 (3) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

Riley

The eldest among them are hanging back, one waiting to see how this shakes out, the other shutting down a program and opening up a simple browser. Riley is looking up the name, Halima Rahal, one ear pricking at Children of Osiris (Oh really?), Ahl-i-Batin (Jesus that's old), Taftâni - Riley lets out a surprised laugh. If any of them is an agent of chaos and potentially vulgar magic, well, maybe it'd be her.

Then she glances up, glances down no wait looks up because the woman with the half-shaved head and the thick messy braid of blonde hair is undressing. "Uh, you know there's a gift shop downstairs, right? I'm pretty sure they'll have shorts or a towel or something." Because the last thing they need is not one, but two people wandering around getting them noticed by the cops.

But Sera is free to do whatever because Riley's screen is white with search engine screens and ohhhhhhh.

Those expressive brows lift upward again, and then crash down in a frown.

"Hey," she says, sidling closer to Mr. Tall Dark and Too Fond of Johnny Cash. Her voice is low and she's holding her phone over so he can take a look at what she's found. Apparently Halima Rahal hasn't been dead a thousand years. She's only been missing for about sixty. She's leaning in to Pan, moving so that her left side is facing him if she has to, because he's the closest, Sera's over there, and Grace she knows is still pretty low level. Keeping her voice down to just the pair of them, Riley asks, "You wouldn't happen to know how to look for curses or bad Effects, would you?"

Oh, someone's asking if she knows a way out. Grace is on it, but Riley looks over her shoulder and says, "A back door's going to have an alarm, but I'll see what I can do." But before that, she looks back at Pan.

Fr. Echeverría

Pan does reach out and tilt the phone away from Riley so that he can read what's on it. That appears to change his opinion as to whether the women can handle sorting out what to do with her. Maybe they can look back and answer the question that Riley is asking him. But Grace is on her phone and Sera is trying to cover the nude woman's ass.

He's wearing black slacks and a button-down short-sleeved shirt tucked in and belted. If he were inside the church right now he'd have a collar on. An alcohol-abusing no-account gringo punk who didn't have a career during the time when most of these women were young enough to begin developing an interest in music isn't what he aspires to when he gets dressed in the morning.

Concern over crowding and overwhelming the woman gone now he hands the phone back to Riley and says "Thank you" in a voice she's hearing for the first time. It's husky and accented and that's all he says to her before he walks over to the Egyptian woman.

"Sera," he says as he crosses the floor, pulls out his keys, "the truck's parked outside. Pull it around back. There's a bag in the backseat, it's got a change of clothes in it, she can change when we're downstairs."

Just ignore Manuel.

As for their guest:

"Miss Rahal, hi, I'm sorry. What everyone's saying is you're a long way from home and we're gonna try and help you." He doesn't put his hand on her shoulder but he looks as if he would if she were clothed. His eyes don't drop below her chin. He's had lots of practice dealing with naked women recently. "What's the last thing you remember?"

[entropy 1: are you cursed or something? +3 diff because he's not using his entropy focus FUCKING SMOKE ALARMS, -1 diff because quintessence, does illuminating count here for appropriate resonance? -1 diff for that too.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (4, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )

requiem aeternam interrupta

Halima nods when Sera introduces her, says that she's in Denver. She actually seems to know the name of the city, for what that's worth; she smiles appreciatively when the T-Shirt is offered and takes it to cover her lower extremities. "Thank you. I don't wish to draw any undue attention to myself." The sentence comes with a wry smile when Sera suggests that someone might wonder why she's up and walking around. "I would imagine that would raise a lot of questions. I am sure that it already will."

She nods to Grace, not surprised that she's in a museum. The idea that the Batini are gone does strike her, though. The delicate (newly-regrown) eyebrows knit together, and for a moment she seems hesitant, unsure how to take that. But there isn't a lot of time to focus on that because in the meantime Riley has shown Pan some relevant information and she's planning to hack their way out the back door and Pan is stepping forward to elucidate her. She listens to him as she finishes covering up all the parts of her that would cause her to be thrown in jail.

"Yes, I gathered as much," she answers to him. "As to what I remember..." She pauses, as if she isn't sure how to answer that. "In this world? It was 1953. I was in Cairo. That is...a difficult question to answer, I am afraid. My memories are not entirely linear. I have been wandering the realm of Duat--the underworld--for however long it has been."

Grace

The familiar Google Maps interface goes up on her phone, but apparently Grace is able to zoom far further than most. Her fingers zoom in and in and in and in, and suddenly instead of streets and maybe the shadow of the outline of the museum on her screen, there's walls and exits marked, as well as a scrollable 3D interface for the floors. Soon enough, she finds what she's looking for.

"Second floor. There's an exit toward the back of the second floor," Grace says, showing Riley while she's at it. They'll need to know where to go.

Then, Riley goes on about shorts or a towel, and Grace shrugs and unzips her turtleneck. She's got a t-shirt underneath, so she's not going to scandalize anyone, going around without clothes.

And that T-shirt? It is a darker gray than her jacket, and has a design on the front like this: http://img1.etsystatic.com/029/0/6153077/il_570xN.565328593_23or.jpg

"As long as we're stripping to take care of Halima, one of you can take my jacket so we don't get arrested. I want it back though. I don't know that we have time to go down to the gift shop."

Ever practical, Grace.

Serafíne

Sera accepts the keys easily, flashing Halima a quick half-smile, turning to accept the keys from the priest's hands. Rising to the tip-toes of her Doc's to brush a kiss across the edge of his cheek with a tender, rather intimate murmur of assent as she does so. Slides the ring around her index finger and breathes in the sense of all that light, then exhales with a sigh.

"I'll bring the truck around."

PAN IS LETTING HER DRIVE SOMEWHERE. PAN IS LETTING HER DRIVE SOMEWHERE.

Probably because it is midday and she doesn't seem especially altered but still,

PAN IS LETTING HER DRIVE SOMEWHERE,

which stops her, not precisely then, when Grace is offering Sera a jacket so that she will not get arrested for wandering around the museum in a bra (hint: Sera always wanders around in a bra, and never gets arrested) and Sera takes the jacket.

It is a boring jacket.

Sera therefore leaves it unzipped.

Anyway, Sera takes the jacket and the keys and gives Halima et al a Ta and turns back to the stairs and starts down them and only remembers the last time she got to drive Pan's truck when she's half-way down the stairs, and that knowledge, that memory is sharp in the back of her throat by the time she gets to the first floor and starts out toward the parking lot, intending to bring the truck around.

She doesn't know about the kid won't know until she gets there but what the hell. Sera's a charming creature. She speaks Spanish. She'll find a way.

Riley

Grace is looking for a backdoor, Sera and Pan are talking to Halima, and Riley? Well first she is impatiently waving away Grace's phone. "We should scatter. Someone take Halima out the back, anyone not necessary to that can go out the front. I'll take down the security for a few minutes, long enough for you all to get out. I'll contact you after." She flashes Grace a quick grin that is maybe meant to be sort of reassuring? It's a brilliant sort of smile that Riley's got, a charm that pulls people to her, drawing them in like a magnet. It is part reassuring but mostly it's excited. This thing she's about to do? Break into the security system and take it down for even a little bit? This is the sort of thing that she lives to do.

Then the lanky woman is heading to the side, shifting her laptop bag so that when she finds a bench and settles into it the bag is resting in her lap. Then out comes her laptop, simple on the outside but oh so shiny on its inside. A custom build, because that's how Riley rolls. Nondescript outside, amazingness within.

She unfolds the device and wakes it up, and gets to work.

[Corr 2: O, Security Systems, Open Your Gateways To Me (getting into the security system to SHUT IT DOWN)]

Dice: 2 d10 TN4 (6, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Grace

Okay, fine Riley, don't figure out which door you need to take down, just wave Grace away like a gnat. Suppose she'll just take them all down, and... whatever. The disappointment doesn't exactly show on her face, but yeah -- it's not like the one thing that Grace can do in this situation just got waved away by someone she was trying to be cool for or anything.

And then, Grace gets grinned at, because Riley is about to do something legitimately cool, and yeah, that doesn't help.

Her tradition-mate makes some sense with the scattering idea, so she goes to Pan and shows him the map instead. Surely his techno-ignorance doesn't extend itself to computerized maps, right? Everyone knows how to read a map.

"So yeah, just go out this way... I'm going to go try to help Sera find the truck," she says, and ambles on downstairs. Really, the strongest among them should go with Halima in case there's trouble, she reasons.

Fr. Echeverría

The priest has an awful lot of questions.

Knowing that she disappeared in 1953 and hearing her say that that is the last thing she remembers. That she's been wandering the underworld. Witnessing her calm as she emerges nude from a sarcophagus. Hearing the names of long-dead traditions. This is something they're going to have to discuss at greater length later.

Not right now. Not in a museum during business hours when he's got a teenager in the truck and security could respond to the downed door locks any moment.

Pan doesn't know how any of that works. He can sense Riley Working behind him but he doesn't attend to it. He turns away from Rahal to glance at the phone screen Grace tilts towards him. He doesn't quite know what he's looking at but he frowns the way he frowns when he's reading anyway.

"Okay," he says. "We'll be right down."

That settles that. The door Grace pointed out is very close. He puts a hand on her elbow without glancing down. No point risking seeing something he doesn't need to see.

"Vamos. Come on."

requiem aeternam interrupta

Sera may wander around in just a bra and not get arrested, but she's certainly not getting particularly pleased looks from security people that she passes when she makes her way down to the first floor. They can't call the police because she's not actively indecent but it's very, very likely that she would be asked to leave and not come back (they have children here, the manager would say) if she wasn't already on her way out the door, heading off to the car in order to deal with poor sixteen year-old Manny who has no idea what this barely-dressed white chick climbing into Pan's car is doing. But she has the keys, and it probably won't be difficult for her to convince the kid that it's all fine, she's a friend of Pan's or however she approaches it. The car heads around toward the back.

Grace points out the door, and it's a piece of cake for Riley to hack her way through the alarm system, aided by a bit of magic. The social dynamics between the group is noticed by Halima, but she doesn't say anything because she knows she has a lot to learn still about all of them before she can make a complete picture.

And then, Pan's hand is at her elbow and with a slight nod of her head, she's letting him guide her along. This is their dance right now, and she's willing to let them lead. The path to the back door is untroubled; they pass by a couple security guys walking along, but outside of Halima getting the same kinds of looks Sera received, no one questions them.

The back door opens with ease, and they're heading out into the chill air. Halima squints at the bright light, is surprised by the cold. She knew of Denver. She didn't know it.

Riley

[int+comp]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 4, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )

Saturday, April 12, 2014

The New Girl and the Giant


Connie Mihailovich

In a lot of ways Lodo reminded her of DC; some of the wide spread architectural designs were familiar, in as much as they were early century American knock offs of European practices but brick and stone had always fascinated her. As she walked in the early afternoon Connie noted that even now the district had its fair share of early shoppers, the majority of which were presumably younger university students or working stiffs, like herself.

Long chestnut brown hair was clasped at the nape of her neck by a long silver hairclip with an emerald glass-like stained acrylic finishing that kind of looked like marble when it caught the light. She pauses in the window of a boutique next to a café, subconsciously reacting to the aroma of baked goods and coffee intermingling with the street and other stores about her, and blows a long wispy tendril away from her face. Blue eyes are dark in her reflection, cheekbones high, her chin stubborn but the façade she registers is largely composed.

Beneath the eyes she carries the weight of her dreams, like rucksacks filled with stones, being drug behind her upon rusted and thick, heavy metal chains. She churns a look of disdain out of that vacant stare into the glassy reflection that is her and moves away from the sight lest she find some way to start communicating with herself here and now..

And not in the actual, way, the crazy way. We’re not talking self-actualization here people, just some nutter talking to her reflection, She thinks heatedly.

This shift ended far too long after it should have ended and she reckons that, even in a pair of no-wrinkle blue slacks that are comfortable, a black knit sweater and a pair of black business shoes, that she might be exuding crazy just by thinking it. Full lips purse, her wide mouth narrows, and blue eyes dart towards the left as she reaches for the door to the café in search of a pick me up. Friday afternoon, twenty to five was too early for a lot of things..

Patience Mason

[Per+Aware: Do my senses detect another?]

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

Patience Mason

Long cold nights were giving way to warmer longer days, and thought it was only spring in the city of Denver Colorado, it didn't stop the ladies of the city from embracing the warmth. Dresses and tube tops were making their seasonal debuts, the newest fashions being ripped from the racks of the department stores and boutiques before being pulled over the bodies of women young and old.

At least in most cases, not everyone prescribed to such activity and Patience could be seen as an extreme in this manner. She wore no skirt, no dress, infact the woman looked like she might well be a biker of some form with the amount of leather she has spread across her body. From the gently heeled thigh high boots, to the riding pants, all the way up to the a curious bomber jacket she was encased in leather. But this was not enough to say this woman was odd, no it went further then that. It was like she had stepped out of an old photograph, like some daring trailblazer out of the early 1900's following in the path of the likes of Amelia Earhart, it was all to authentic, all to natural, all to uncanny.

Connie is about to reach for that door as the uncanny woman out of time stepped out of the shop next to the cafe, her hands settling onto a satchel that hung at her side as she adjusted the victory rolls that defined her high blonde hair. Sky blue eyes tracked left, and then right as if in search of something specific....

It is of course then that she lays eyes upon Connie, and she strides towards the other woman, with her gentle heel Patience towered at 6'2 and sadly, had to look down ever so slightly to find the woman's gaze.

"Salutations." She says haltingly, as if she wanted to say more, but wanted to wait and see waht this other, this newness might say in response. Or even if she wished to respond at all.

Connie Mihailovich

[perc; spec - intuitive + awareness; spec - motives]

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

Connie Mihailovich

“..what like, he said that?”A girl with pink hair spat the words out at her friend who sported an orange hawk, the pair stood in front of Connie, debating the finer points of the idiocy woman kind are forced to deal with; men. Or in their case, boys, and in hers too by and large, both by preoccupation and previous experience, sadly it makes her laugh aloud. It’s an unfortunate punctuation in the middle of the orange-haired-er-girl’s comment, whatever that might have been. She didn’t exactly have time to think on it because blue eyes are shifting now away from the uncomfortable interaction and she’s found another, lighter set to look up into.

It was a little bit like slow-mo’ meets Momento and she briefly wonders, no counts the hours, when was it she’d slept last? Yesterday? Peripheral vision recounts in memory as wonder identifies itself and blue eyes blink, they shut again for a minute, and then she cocks her head to the side curiously at the other woman.

This very bright, blond version of Dita Von Teese offering her ‘salutations’ like she’s wearing the same damn thong and they got it at the same place, on sale. Constance clears her throat in that unsure way, typically reserved for dubious and often tongue tied males, and she shakes her head gently as though she were clearing the cobwebs away with the motion. Attire has been noted, if she might call it that, the woman looks like she might be some kinda dominatrix biker tattoo artist barista.. “H-hey.”

What?

Did they do that now? No, fuckin’, way.

It’s the pull akin to magnetism that draws her in though, Patience holds that film-star quality, it’s jarring in the way that the rest of reality seems to be some sort of low budget B movie and all of their special affects went to layering over the images of the woman who stood before her. She is both a part of the picture but apart from it at the same time; like she’s walking around with a halo-stitched-shadow shining and outlining every line of her body.

Constance was staring. Probably not the first time this had happened to Patience.

Connie Mihailovich

*every inch of her body

Patience Mason

Patience shines, and this woman, this tired looking youth in need of a long nights sleep blistered, it made Patience recall some of the less pleasant moments in her life and she admittedly shifts for a moment as she becomes accustomed to the woman's presence. Though in truth Connie might imagine that she shifts due to her staring. But those sky blue eyes never leave Connies light blue gaze and the look on her features seem to note not at all that the woman was staring.

Perhaps she really was just that used to it. Or simply did not notice.

That film star quality might make you assume one thing or another about this woman out of time, the next thing out of her mouth might be expected to be glib and smooth, entirely in tune with the appearance she provides. But as those fine lips spread and additional words poured from that smiling visage, one might just find their assumptions shattered like spun glass.

"Appropriate sociological and temporally attuned extended salutations to your direct physical and noospherical personage." She said before gesturing to herself. "My parentalogically assigned identifier is Patience Mason, it is a direct and cataloged frame reference of note that I acknowledge and actualize your primary existence within the concurrent plane of relativistic existence." Said like she was meeting someone for the first time, and felt really good about it.

"Your physical and noospherical integral levels all reside within nominal attributes I posit?" She inquires, seemingly moving to wait in line beside the other woman.

Connie Mihailovich

She walks, as most youth do, with thin skin and subjective awareness, bruises are easy to come by when ego elongates into shadows and follows you around so readily. Constance has stopped paying attention to the surroundings, or rather, anything that isn’t Patience and when the woman speaks cloudless eyes widen to allow one part of the sky to speak to another.

Blink.

Audry Hepburn meets Bender with an IQ, yes?

Connie wasn’t at all certain if she should reply straight away or beeps. Was this a joke? Absently she disengaged her attentions from the woman – which was a bit like trying to refocus a camera manually – to her surroundings to notice that the line had moved on without them. Distractedly she looked down over her own appearance and then up, from foot to crown, to retake Patience’s presence with a bit more here and now and less LSD.

Despite the softness of her smile, she does burn a little, and pull at people in unpleasant ways regardless of meaning to. The dichotomy of her existence isn’t always known to her in all situations, she’s learned to garner from body language, tonality and turn of phrase what people typically mean but that was a lengthily and arduous way of asking what her name was or making an introduction.

Zero, one, one, zero, one, one.

“Oh, hey. I’m, uh, I’m Connie.” It wasn’t a question, really, but she spoke as if it should be out of confusion and the untold answer to the equation this encounter was posing without balance. Blue eyes narrowed, wide almond shaped and biting, curiosity burns away the top layer as she pushes forward and admits she’s lost to the last part.

“My what?” Shining glory has a syntax all of her own, “..are, are you asking me if I have ..an infection?” Rose asks while bleeding from her own thorns, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Connie Mihailovich

*beep

Serafíne

(Knock-knock, who's there? Perception + Awareness)

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 4, 5, 5, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Kalen Holliday

[Nightmares]

Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 4, 4, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Kalen Holliday

[Awareness]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8) ( success x 1 )

Patience Mason

Patience watches with that pleasant luminosity as Connie attempts to work her way through Patience's syntax and programming language. She really was a world apart, like you were looking through a portal to a world where people dressed like they were in the movies and spoke a completely different language.

And they weren't even in hollywood.

She certainly doesn't appear to be put off by Connie's tone, or her questions and she actually laughs lightly and gestures to herself. "My Heritalogically assigned identifier is Patience Mason." She repeated, ensure that she was known to the other woman before going on.

"It is with a positively aligned noospheric influx of concurrent sensory data that this personage hopes and projects that your bio-physical personage is not infected by a self replicating and parasitic infectious entity." That smile is still present upon her lips as she went on, her tone reassuring as if to try and say 'don't freak out'.

"Have you recently movated to this geo-political urbanized central locality?" She inquires with the tilt of her head. "Your individualized personage has not been actualized prior to this existent temporal frame in neither direct physical actualization nor aural actualization."

Kalen Holliday

Kalen opens the door for Serafine. It would not be particularly remarkable if it did not require her cooperation. She has to let him inch where once he would have swept ahead of her to pull open the door with the hand not wrapped around his cane. He is without a hand to make any bold, dramatic gestures that she should proceed through the door.

In all honesty, he looks like he's probably too tired for that anyway. Even Patience, who can usually get him to grin gets only a pleased flashing of his eyes. He cannot wave to her until he has released the door and stepped through it, That done, he does lift one hand, open it, and then let it fall back to his side.

Connie Mihailovich

Palliative care teaches you how to decode and decipher people’s languages, she may not get the complete message, but for the most part she gets the gist.

“Right, Patience, I meant that in the kind of way.. when a person seeks definition or understanding of an even or person, or situation, you know like this one?”

Oh man, it’s starting. “You know, like, you’re standing there and I’m standing here and..” The door swings open and more patrons come into the coffee shop, and meanwhile, Constance isn’t sure how she’s stood this close to coffee for so long without having it. Being too young or asleep doesn’t count.

“You hope I don’t have an infection? Well that’s great, I hope you don’t either.” Welcome to Denver? Was she new?

“Yup,” Connie confirms, nodding. Her attention rarely strays from the woman before her and thankfully – her hand to the Gods themselves – the pre-impregnated embryonic mageling balks at the idea of even mentioning that Patience kind of reminds her of that cyborg chick on that Star Trek show from late night. She doesn’t even know how to compute the thought of meeting this one’s aura, er, whatever.

Beer goes in the beer hole. That’s what college taught her.

Serafíne

Sunlight, bustling streets, all that shit. There's a two-for-one happy hour special on something next door and next door is a gallery-bar and Sera knows the 'tender and Sera knows half-a-dozen of everyone and she feels strange to be aware and outside when it is not even half-past-three (what, wait? it is half-past three? well then, like she cares).

Gentle readers likely care not a whit, either. Here is something: Sera and Kalen were next door, and there was alcohol, and Sera likes alcohol, particularly on a sunlit Friday when everyone around her is all humming with the end of the workweek and the promise of spring (not that our heroine works) but the yawn of awareness in the back of her throat. The ball of light all bright beneath her sternum.

And something else.

Something new.

--

The front door opens, the sweep of dark-to-light. That's Kalen opening the door and Sera - well, she lets him shuffle ahead of her, yeah and gives him a clear and rather distinctive half-smile as she ducks past and waits for him just inside, giving herself a half-moment for her eyes to adjust. Or something. Really, there's not much to adjust to. Sera is wearing dark sunglasses and she does not bother to take them off.

She is a little bit stoned.

Which is fine, just fine, because she can never understand what the fuck Patience is saying.

"I bet I can't get a shot in here." Sera is saying to Kalen as he shuffles up beside her. She's not looking at the menu on the board; she's looking clearly and quiet directly at Patience and Connie, and Patience and Connie alone.

As if they were the only other people in the universe.

Connie Mihailovich

[*event even]

Patience Mason

Patience listens intently as Connie explains herself, nodding a few times here and there to say she was following the discourse. Of course that explanation of seeking definition brings a more appreciable nod and an apologetic look but no words to supplement them.

"Welcome to the geo-political urbanized central locality identified concurrently as Denver, Colorado, United States of America." Patience offers warmly before she turns to regard the opening and closing door. It seems that she knows the two approaching individuals and she raises her hand and waves a few times before saying.

"Serafine, Kalen, please actualize and aurally propagate the necessary salutations to Connie." She said gesturing from the pair to Connie herself before she locked onto Kalen's tired look and tilted her head.

"Your caloric or rapid eye movement allotment's seem to be entering a negative state Kalen, appropriate advisory obtain necessary subconscious state of actuality to replenish, Doctor's prerogative." She laughs gently, like she might have been joking before nodding to Serafine.

"Serafine, you are looking nominal as is appropriate upon your standardized bell curve of actuality. Visual indicators indicate perhaps your bio-physical personage is infact concurrently above the standard rate of accumulation." She grinned. "I should inquire about appropriate testing and thesis acquisition at a further progressive time frame."

Kalen Holliday

"We could always get our coffees to go and add shots later. Or drink them, then go do shots, then more coffee, then tacos. Or waffles. Chicen waffles." He grins. "Have you had chicken waffles, because if not you totally need to....."

His attention shifts to Patience and Connie as they approach. Partly. You can't not pay attention to Sera.

If nothing else, you can say that the Denver Magi have tamed Kalen. At least enough that he does not regard Connie with the obvious wariness of a feral cat. His eyes, so pale a green it is impossible to be sure of their color from any real distance, sweep over Connie once. She is not brandishing any weapons. She is not frothing at the mouth. She is not on fire.

Good enough.

He offers a hand to Connie. "Kalen Holliday," he says quietly. Politely enough, if not precisely warm.

Once he's offered Connie a greeting though, his attention returns to Patience and he smiles. "Firefly," he says, and there is an undercurrent of something warm and amused threading through his tone now, rich and washed in gold as the sunlight outside. "I'm relatively certain caffeine and sleep are interchangeable enough, I have years of experience."

Serafíne

Sera is dressed in a short leather skirt cut on the diagonal and finished with metal rings that make it seem longer and more modest than it really is, with a pink and black bra - yes, a bra, not even the pretense of an outer garment there - beneath an unbuttoned flannel, this pink-and-purple plaid. Half a dozen necklaces around her neck, three-dozen bracelets, or so it seems, on her arms, spikes and loops and rings through the delicate cartilage of her ears. Her hair is loose and long and blonde. She is wearing spike heeled boots that are high enough to make her at least level with Connie, though she still has to look up (and up and up) to the confoundingly strange and occasionally delightful Patience.

Sera receives Patience's discourse the way a dog receives its masters: blahblahblah blah blah blah blah DOG'S NAME blah blah blah blah blah blah NAME blah blah TREAT NAME blah.

She still pays attention, though, just as she would pay attention to a talking payphone or a life-size groundhog in a tophat who offered her the time of day: because this is a fucked up world, number one, and number two, Sera has a helluva lot of experience with hallucinogens.

"I'm guessing your name's Connie." This brief slash of a grin. None of Kalen's wariness and an immediate intrigue and warmth. "Serafíne. Call me Sera. Listen, what are you guys drinking? I'll grab us a goddamned round if you get a table."

And she's already half-in-motion toward the register, though she throws Kalen a glance back; a direct one, wry. "I've never had chicken and waffles. That sounds fucking bizarre."

Connie Mihailovich

Inaudibly she seconds that comment Sera so poignantly coined and sadly, no, they didn’t sell liquor here. She was starting to think they should. It was nice to know that Patience spoke like this to everyone even if Connie couldn’t rightly come up with any reason, aside with pranking, why she’d single her out of the entire crowd.

I just wanted coffee… scroll, scroll, scroll.. I just wanted coffee… scroll, scroll, scroll..

It flashes in blue eyes like an amber alert above the motorway, and she’s pushing forward like a maniac, trying to follow the conversation as more people get added to it.Patience introduces them all and she’s practically leaning into Sera, the Cultist is breeding her own center of gravity it seems, it takes her another moment to find Kalen. Oh, but she does like the way he thinks.

Magestically she adds to the conversation, “Mm, waffles.”

The pair receives a suitable smile from the otherwise undaunted but obviously struggling receptionist as she gauges them, too. That is to say, she flashes one, with barely a hint of teeth and tries to affect something that reads approachable but in truth she’s about as successful in that as a flat tire is in motion.

Reaching up to unclip her hair, she pockets the emerald and silver piece, and surveys the three standing between her and the barista. That line, its moving, that’s not the problem the issue is that she’s not in it.

I just wanted coffee… scroll, scroll, scroll.. I just wanted coffee… scroll, scroll, scroll.. and booze.

Inaudibly she seconds that comment Sera so poignantly coined and sadly, no, they didn’t sell liquor here. She was starting to think they should. It was nice to know that Patience spoke like this to everyone even if Connie couldn’t rightly come up with any reason, aside with pranking, why she’d single her out of the entire crowd.

“Connie, new in town, caffeine deprived. Party in the corner, what’s up?”

Connie Mihailovich

[haha, edit fail!]

Patience Mason

Kalen speaks of his years of experience, and Patience...well Patience can only smile quietly before saying.

"I have done extensive data accumulation and indicative testing and analysis of the correlation between the noospheric stimulant caffeine and the rapid eye movement state of actuality, there is infact a point in the bell curve of transition that the ration of supplementation drops off." She seems to look up as if re-collecting the particulars of that study. "forty three point thirty four temporal units elapse before the molecular structure of the stimulant requires five times the saturation point to remain effective, concurrent elapsed temporal units increase this requirement by two fold for every five additional temporal units." Patience always seems to talk like she is being utterly casual in these conversations, despite the dire and heavy words she uses.

There is a recommendation that they move towards a corner, and that Serafine will gather up a round of coffee. To this Patience only smiles and nods before gesturing to an available table. "Shall we movate our bio-physical structures?" She recommends to the others before starting over, unbuttoning her bomber jacket to reveal crisp white shirt beneath and a slim grey vest.

"Caffeine diffusion, moderate intensity, no additional modifiers Sera." Patience calls back as she moves to take a seat.

Kalen Holliday

"Of all the things, that is the one thing you tell me is bizarre?" He laughs then. "Surprise me. You always do." And he loves her for that.

Of course, Patience is like a puzzle, and he loves her for that, so he lets Sera go and he returns his attention mostly to Patience. Sera he tracks from the corners of his eyes because he can't bear to entirely look away. Connie...well Connie he tracks because she is new and unknown and potentially dangerous.

"Which is why I spend approximately zero entire temporal units without supplementation," he says, playfully half-adopting Patience's phrasing.

His eyes flick to Connie. "Welcome to Denver. I'm glad someone is with me about the waffles."

Serafíne

"Cheers," says Sera, rather agreeably, to Patience. There may even be something absurd like a thumbs up, for all the eyeglazing seriousness of her strange discourse. Sera's smile still simmers like the edge of the sun lingering at the horizon, and her eyes are appropriately lovely and lazy as a summer's afternoon. There are how many lines of scrawling blank-inked text to catch a glimpse of on her body. Both hands, the palm and wrist of one, the outer edge of the other, perhaps a glimpse of a black-inked triangle tucked against the boney ridge of her skull behind the curve of her right ear. The hint of something beneath her right breast, mostly hidden by her bra, and another something-hinted on her left flank.

That Cheers encompasses Connie too, and the scene may be rather too chaotic for Connie to notice, but Sera's attention rests on her more than any of the others. The direct line of lenses dark enough to hide, completely, Sera's eyes. Connie's reflection all fishbowl superimposed (TIMES TWO) over a sliding and liquid vision of the counter and snaking line behind her.

"For fuck's sake," Sera counters, low, "it's breakfast and dinner, Kalen. Bizarre."

Not that Sera seems to care much about meals, mind.

She waits long enough to get their orders and then she's away and up at the counter there's a line and it is moving but somehow Sera manages to get to the head of the line without much of a thought. People just give way to her and the cashier is one of Dee's derby friends so they have a chat while the other Awakened find a corner in which to settle themselves.

Or not: maybe not. Maybe Connie effects an escape but caffeine's coming, my dear.

And soon.

(And booze, too. Probably booze, judging by the deliciously slurring slant of Sera's mouth, all lazy smile around her half-sorted toast. Hard to imagine where she'd keep a flask given the minimal clothing she wears but where there's a Will there's a way.

And she has a Will.

Doesn't she just.)

Connie Mihailovich

She’s creeping along like ivy up a brick wall, sure enough, and if the group leads she follows because the intrinsic one says there will be.

“I dunno what you’re telling me,” She says to Patience, “Half the time I’m pretty sure the coffee is working and half the time I think I’m dreaming. Nobody really tells me which is which.” Shit happens in either world so who was she to debate which was the originator and which was the by product. By now she’s managed to turn around the discourteous and confused buss, seeing as there’s a chair beneath her behind, and a puzzled yet curious blond encyclopedic accompanying her.

Kalen, for his love of waffles, and his cock-eyed wandering attentions for Sera, receives another smile but this time it’s a tad bit more genuine. Although it’s not nearly as enthusiastic as it was for Sera, the beloved Mother of Mercy with her holy grail of gifts, and that warmth, the richness, the precursory need for mainliningcaffinatedsomething..

“Mocha?”

How’d she know?

“Are you guys in the circus?” It’s the only explanation. That or Denver was more odd than New York, which was saying something, and really when it came right down to it she didn’t have much room left on the judgement scale. Thing was scraping pavement as it was and she’d used a forklift to move it the last time she’d gone out anywhere, with anybody.

“Chicken, waffles, bacon, coffee. Who cares. I’ll take it. Hello, everybody.” I’m Nurse Connie.

Patience Mason

"Sociological acknowledgement." Patience says in return to Sera's cheers. In the exact same way one might expect another to return the call...just....different. She turns her gaze back to Kalen quickly though, his statement drawing a look of horror and disbelief upon her features as she looked the man over, perhaps wondering if he was entirely truthful, or if he were about to sprout a series of heads from various parts of his body.

"Such continued acceleration of cellular saturation would increase the percentile of bio-physical collapse at the sub cellular level within sixty five temporal units by fifteen point six three." She says almost about to reach out to Kalen before she retracted her hand and looked at him for a moment, squniting before she laughed. "Ahhhh interpersonal noospheric witicism, quite Kalen, quite." She turned her gaze back to Connie then and inclined her head curiously.

"Circus?" She inquires, looking back to the others for confirmation before she shook her head. "We are not coherent amalgams employed as primary actualizes at a collaborative endeavour of movating improvisational entertainers." She chuckles before tapping her chin. "In addendum, if such was a concurrent relativistic truth I would certainly actualize as the behavioural trainer of Panthera Leo."

Kalen Holliday

He may have been exaggerating about his caffeine consumption. A little. And he appears to be at least several hours away from biophysical collapse. So clearly he's fine.

"The best thing is that you can have all of those things," he says to Connie. "Drowning them in maple syrup is entirely optional, but I know people who swear by it."

He watches them discuss the circus. Lion tamers. Acrobats. Clowns. What else? Mirror houses? He has never been to a circus.

Serafíne

Connie wins a mocha.

For the rest of the table, Sera orders a couple of French presses full of something-or-other. Ethiopian harrar and something from Costa Rica that may or may not have been processed by being consumed and then shat out by rare birds. Sera gives the barista grinding the beans the same glazed-eye look with which she might favor Patience when Patience talks about... well, anything, as the dude starts to explain to her the nuances of cultivation, shade plants, animal shit. See? It's interesting, he's fucking passionate about it, and she has no idea what the hell he's talking about and can't be bothered or maybe doesn't bother pretending she's any smarter than she is.

Sera orders enough savouries and pastries to choke a horse or at least a miniature horse too, because why the fuck not, and pays with an Amex and scrawls a signature and leaves, preemptively in that scrawl, a rather astounding tip given that 68% of her wardrobe came from a thrift store (though 32% was likely from that boutique down the way where the pieces are displayed like Rodin sculptures) and comes wandering back their direction (eventually) with a French press and a fistful of mugs, followed by a tattooed derby-doll with a tray full of snacks and desserts and Connie's mocha, too. Rich and frothy and fragrant.

These things are distributed like the proverbial loaves and fishes and then our heroine takes a seat and turns it around and realizes that her skirt is too tight to sit like that so she turns it back around and: if there is a seat available next to Connie and across from Kalen, that is where Sera sits.

She gives Kalen such a direct and swimming look, across the table, the sharp curve of her crawling mouth all.. delicious. Yes, delicious. Glances at Patience,

"You should try the harrar. Tastes like fucking blueberries."

then back at Connie. Reaches up and lifts her sunglasses off her face.

"We're not in the circus. You really don't know how or why we found you?"

Connie Mihailovich

There were no lions, tigers and bears in suburbia. Sure, they visited, they waved to the crowds but in the mid-eighties, notably before she was born, they’d faded out much like spandex and neon wrapped around a Whitney Houston tape.

Just a lot of windex, feather dusting, and yelling in Serbian.

“I’d be in the audience,” She says, nodding. “Always in the audience,” Connie adds subtly into the frothy sweetness of her espresso laden chocolate syrup with a dash of milk. Gods love that blabber mouth at the counter, whatever his name was, she offers a quirk of a brow to Patience followed by a slight lifting of the left corner of her mouth and she shrugs.

“Eventually, regardless of how much coffee or caffeine anyone has, we all crash at some point.” For a few hours, or a day, or two days, maybe if you’re Constance that is.

Meanwhile, it appeared to her that Sera was in some kind of blissful retreat into her coffee, that is until she bashed reality in the head with a bitchin’ question. Constance snorted into her mug, the contents protesting in a spray of warm, chocolate stained foam, and regarded Sera with more than curiosity now. Scalding awareness melded over her like a second skin and it took hold of her, the longer she looked at the woman.

“What is this, like, pranks and pastries?” Haha, haha, haha. Awkwardly she sets the cup down, belatedly worrying that maybe she shouldn’t have had a sip, and cautiously blue eyes move from Sera, to Kalen, and finally to Patience.

“You guys are.. you know, I’m just..” Wagging her finger at them like she just can’t quite make workable sense of English Constance is officially, everybody note, officially weirded out. Sera could have admitted to loving Alien Faeries from Unicornia and she might have seemed a lot less edgy and out to get her soul sounding as she had just then.

“Look, realllly funny, um.. I’m gonna go now, okay? Alllright.”

Had she brought anything else? She’s standing before she relinquishes her hold on the cup she’s so recently been offered and it clinks down hard in protest against the table, sloshing a little bit of that precious liquid over the rim.

Serafíne

Reflexive awareness-as-empathy on Connie.

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (4, 6, 6, 6, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 6 )

Patience Mason

Patience picks up the offered drink sniffing at it curiously though she certainly doesn't seem off put by the idea of something other then what she ordered. In truth it almost makes her seem reminiscent as she wraps her hands around the cup feeling that warmth, drawing in the aroma before taking a sip, considering it, and then taking a further drink despite the heat.

It would seem such things do not bother Patience Mason.

"Appreciative Sera." She says with a nod and a raise of her cup. "This particular distillation is of considerable and beneficial note, reminiscent of distillations previously ingested thirty six point seven three one solar cycles prior to this specific temporal framework. I recognize this particular amalgam to be concurrent with a particular localized and cultivated tea extract from the eastern geo-political provinces of the peoples republic of China."

She says this, and then she turns towards Connie as Sera inquires as to why Connie thinks they had all come to her in such a manner, drawn to her like friendly magnets and listened as the woman responded in kind.

"Your direct personage bares many attributes Connie, direct concurrent visual and paradgmic blindness is not counted amongst those currently active. You are acutely aware...." She looks at the others for confirmation.

"It is plain as a two dimensional plane of colour reflective material."

Serafíne

Do-di-do can this work a bit pls pls? (Explanation later, will use to guide my post.)

Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (1, 6, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Ian Lai

[Awareness, word]

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

Kalen Holliday

Kalen looks between the three of them and his eyes widen, just fractionally. "Seriously?" That question doesn't seem to be directed at any one of them in particular. It is likely directed at the universe. The universe has a thing for dropping unaware Magi practically in his lap when he's sleep deprived.

It is horribly inconvenient. At least the last one could hardly be described of as difficult.

It is probably best he not joke about kidnapping this one. "Hey. Stay," he says quietly. "That was kind of weird yeah, but...you know...we're like circus people. Beside which point, I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark that your life got a little weird before we showed up anyway. Please sit back down. It would be a shame to waste such excellent coffee."

Serafíne

"Oh my fucking god."

Sera looks like she's just discovered a new goddamned drug and the new goddamned drug is delicious. Connie's freaking out and Sera's blissing out for just one goddamned second, closing her mouth an inhaling as she looks, once more, quite directly across the table at Kalen. Sera does not quite understand that he's freaking out over all the newly awakened wandering around the city, a city and a world without stair-gates and baby-proofed locks over the doors hiding the darkest things their world has to offer. She's just pleased. She's just looking to share that pleasure with someone or something and right then, just right then, it is Kalen.

Then,

see.

A stutterstep.

This tangled sort of pounding of her heart. The hard slam-and-slosh of the mocha against the table top and the leading edge of Sera's gaze rising to follow Connie right on the cusp of an inhale that has Sera breathing in all of that some thing.

And Kalen speaks Sera's holding her breath. Sera's holding her breath and she's holding something else right now, too. Holding it against her breastbone, holding it beneath her chest. Holding it between her teeth.

Her eyes are on Connie all awareness, fascination. A blistering, gut-wrenching sort of love for all the many things that belong in places like this one: between sleep and waking, see. Her tongue is against the roof of her mouth. Just the tip of it, see?

Serafíne

(And: extension?)

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 8) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Connie Mihailovich

[perc; intuitive + awareness; motives]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )

Ian Lai

Here's the thing: Ian didn't drink coffee. Not regularly, anyway. He didn't really eat baked goods either. But there were other reasons for venturing into coffee shops, and today that reason happened to involve the fascinating swirl of resonance (some familiar, some not) that led from the shop door like some kind of neon sign that said: Awakened inside.

It was a difficult thing to ignore.

So he paused outside the shop, his head tilted and his eyes sharp, like he'd just picked up some fucking fascinating sound or scent. Like maybe he was trying to decide if he wanted to follow it to its source or walk by and let things be.

He reached out an arm and opened the door.

Just in time to feel that pulse of visceral energy as Sera worked her effect. Just in time to see Kalen try to convince some girl that Ian didn't know to stay (she felt young, the girl, so new that she had to have been feeling a little overwhelmed.) And for a moment after he stepped inside the shop, Ian regarded their table like he was watching some kind of play unfold.

He didn't wave or say hello.

Then he walked to the counter and ordered some black tea.

Connie Mihailovich

An overabundance of feeling is just as bad as the rush of adrenaline that follows in its wake and even though Patience seems kind enough, and unwilling to torture her as near as she can tell, in the immediate it isn’t quite enough. Had it, maybe, just been her who asked she might have been less skittish.

Kalen, he’s got that pretty-kinda-white-boy-face that says ‘easy now’ like she’s supposed to take him at his word when the girl on his arm, or rather at his side, appears to have discovered pure unrefined heroin in her coffee.

Almond shaped eyes widen just a little and she’s frozen, in a moment, where deviation sets before her one path of her own choosing and another created by another. As if, perhaps, she’d been snagged on a hook that had always been there, waiting for her, or had it appeared when she’d chosen to leave? Constance certainly wasn’t the person to ask, or even comprehend, because in all truth she had no idea what the hell was going on right now but Kalen says stay and she shakes her head ‘no’.

Still it’s as though her feet won’t move. She repeats the command, inwardly, and light eyes find their way to Sera and she isn’t at all sure what to say.

On one hand the whole damn shop seemed to be busily bustling about them and she stood, gaping at the others, having chosen to go but not at all comfortable with it. Her feet move, she relinquishes her hold on the chair she’d so readily vacated, and without further adeu the slender woman bolts for the front door like a foal that’s just discovered a hole in the fence. It wasn’t like she thought they’d murder her right then and there.

What could they have done?

Patience Mason

"I...." Patience was about to say something, about to speak further on this particular revelation when she see's the excitement on the others features, she understands what they see, the newness, the utter potential and possibility contained within this newly discovered magi. She knew the feeling well, felt it quite keenly.

But her features draw up a mournful look, akin to loss or regret and she drinks down half of her cup before she moves to stand. Her gaze falling on Connie as she runs for the door, the woman calling after her. "Interpret and accumulate sufficient data in this temporal frame Connie, The number of relative high priority personage schismatic decisions will increase by a factor of five, do not precipitate an over extension or exertion of your personal relativity prior to proper thesis stress testing." She tries to get it out quickly, before the woman is gone...but it likely fails.

She then turns to the others as she steps out around the table, that look of mourning still present on her features. "Please actualize a coarseness of relative non-existence, such individualized personages should be permitted total control of their algorithmic direction and directive, given that each of your personages are more likely to actualize upon Connie's bio-structure before my own." She started to move then, following the other woman out, but not with the intention of chasing her. No she heads in the other direction...her features perplexing and uncommon, at least for those who know her.

Kalen Holliday

Kalen watches her leave.

What could they have done? Perhaps he should just keep Grace or Ryne on hand when he goes out into the world. Like puppies. 'Look. Can I really be so bad? See how cute they are? How harmless? See how they trust me?'

He watches Patience follow. Turns to Sera. "That went well. Which is oddly reassuring. The last time I found someone he followed me home. I didn't get to keep him. This one...at least I won't worry about her and strangers with candy."

Serafíne

Kalen, see. He's all easy now and Sera thinks that that might work. And Sera's in two places or three. She's a little bit drunk and a little bit high and a little bit translucent. She's feeling the world beneath her and around her and inside her and here here here is her heartbeat.

Connie stands.

Then the world just stops.

It just fucking stops.

Connie's heart is beating and she is standing in place and there's her hand on the back of the wooden chair and there is the table and there is the slowly-melting foam in her now abandoned mocha and there is the line in which Ian Lai is now ordering a black tea and the world is stopped. Everyone, everyone, everyone seems frozen,

except for Sera, and Connie. Connie and Sera.

There's this echo beneath their breath; it is a deeply strange sensation to stand in a moment carved out of time. There's no noise around them; all of that is literally turned the fuck off.

"Do you ever feel like you've woken up, just a little bit earlier than everyone else, right? They're all sleeping; and you're in the house and it's the house you've always fucking known, and it's quiet. Oh, everything's quiet so you slip out from beneath the blankets and you pad down the stairs and outside, everything's quiet too. The sun's rising, but you see it differenly. Like you know how it works, and that knowledge is somewhere inside you, wrapped around your bones.

"You feel it like a song, or maybe a pulse or a beat or a something.

"Anything. It's different for everyone. But, see - you know, you just fucking know, that you're seeing and tasting and feeling the world that's brank spanking new, and it's real and surreal and more real than anything you've ever known, but somehow almost everyone else you know can't hear it, or feel it, or drink it, because they're still back in the house, in their beds, curled up,

sleeping."

Somehow Sera is standing up. She is standing up, and the world is all frozen, frozen around them. And Sera's smiling, and god she's striking, passionate, full of conviction.

"Kalen once told me that sailors used to go out to sea, in these fucking boats, right. Ships or whatever, just hurtling into the ocean, all this endless fastness, with nothing to guide them from port to port but their trust in the stars. That's a kind of magic, you know? Finding your way from here to there just by the changing light in the sky. Easier to manage when you have someone else to talk to who's trying to do that, too.

"I'm around. When you're ready, you'll know.

"Come find me."

--

And time, see: Time: Ian and Patience and Kalen and everyone else in the whole fucking place starts again. All around them it just clicks back into place, like a key, in a fucking lock.

Sera lets it, and Connie, go.

And she sits down heavily, just waiting waiting for reality's backblow.

Serafíne

Charisma + Expression: do I talk good?

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Serafíne

(So... okay, but not spectacularly.)

Now: Paradox.

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Serafíne

Soak.

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Connie Mihailovich

Thank you thank you thank you!

Ian Lai

The jeans he had on today were tapered skinny and dark blue with a faint sheen in the finish that made them look almost satiny. They trailed down to a pair of dress boots (ankle length, black leather) and up to a fitted black t-shirt. His left wrist had the same leather and steel bracelet that Sera had seen him in on their last encounter, and on his head sat a black and white baseball cap that, as a completion to the ensemble, just made him look so unbearably fashionable that you almost wanted to hate him for it.

(To be fair: he looked like kind of an asshole.)

And there Sera was, having this beautiful fucking epiphany in the little bubble she carved for herself and for Connie - out of time and in a place where no one (including Ian) could see.

He felt it though. Felt the unfamiliar ripple of... something. And even though for him no time had passed at all, the tic made him pause. Made him blink and frown slightly as he paid for his drink. Then he walked over to the table where Sera and Kalen still sat with their coffee and food.

And he regarded them.

"I take it you two know each other."

Kalen Holliday

"Oh, hey, kitty-cat," Kalen says absently. "You'd be correct. Would you like a pastry?" He nudges the pastries perhaps an inch closer to Ian. "I hear the chocolate croissants are incredible here."

He looks back over at Sera. Curious. Perhaps a little concerned. Perhaps.

Serafíne

Here it comes; a ringing backhanded blow that makes her reel and sets her ears ringing. This snap-crack-boom she feels in the back of her teeth, in the fine, delicate bones all labyrinthine in her inner ear. Everything slamming home at once, like the rush back into ordinary time from hyperspace and she knows she knows she knows she shouldn't do things like this, doesn't she?

Something wet on her right ear. Sera can feel it all niggling, then she reaches up with her right hand and her fingers come away a bit dark and damp. It isn't much and it isn't bad but that blow is still ringing in her head and Sera takes the tail of her flannel and uses it to daub away the blood. She glances at Ian, up-and-down, but does not quite register him fully.

Not yet. Not entirely.

Her attention swings back to Kalen. Sera swallows and her throat feels strange and dry and then she smiles. See? Smiles, all golden.

"Did you just call him kitty cat?"

Oh that is delightful.

Ian Lai

Kalen called him kitty cat, and Ian didn't respond, either because he didn't care or because he was used getting that kind of shit from people or because he was just... above it all (hah.) And Sera thought it was just... delightful.

Ian pulled out a chair and sat down, ignoring the entire exchange. He glanced at the pastries that Kalen pushed his way and shook his head. "No thanks."

He had his tea though, and he pushed the pastries out of the way so as to make a clean spot to set the mug down. It was still scalding (these places always kept the water too hot,) so he let it rest. He eyes the bit of blood that seeped out of Sera's ear with a vaguely curious expression.

"Having fun over there?"

Kalen Holliday

Kalen reaches out to touch the inside of Sera's wrist lightly. Briefly.

Then he settles back in his chair and leaves them to talk for the moment, attention drifting mostly elsewhere. Distracted enough that Sera bleeding from her ear and Ian showing up after six months barely seems to register to him as things that merit even some of his attention.

Serafíne

Ian asks if she's having fun over there and lo, head still ringing, Sera swings her attention back to him and there is something about her gaze in that moment - raw and strangely vulnerable, just open, see - that could be so absurdly arresting. Everything around her feels like it's floating, just untethered, except for the way the strictures of reality jerk her back here, anchored in her body, stitched into time.

Sera does not know how to answer Ian.

And Kalen reaches out to touch the inside of Sera's wrist, the left one maybe, where there's a shark either eating or being turned into the handle of a pair of scissors and some portion of a rather ridiculous array of bracelets near by, pushed up on her forearm and she glances up at Kalen.

Her heart beats. Her heart always beats.

Then back to Ian.

Sera smiles at him. She doesn't know why, and it is a small and strange and lovely smile.

"I don't remember being that new. Do you?"

Hawksley Rothschild

[Awareness]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Hawksley Rothschild

Hawksley isn't watching where he's going. Hawskley walks like the sort of person who expects others to part like the waters for his passage, and most do, and the ones that don't -- the ones who shoulder-check him or what-have-you and mutter asshole under their breath at his back -- hardly garner his notice. He is checking his messages again because stupid Grace hasn't returned his stupid text about getting stupid drinks tonight which is stupid because ...well.

Because he decides it is.

No drinks with Grace, then. He puts his phone away. He goes into a bar anyway. It is next door. Into several drinks he lifts his head, sudden and then going oh my god that was too fast and keeping very, very still for a moment. It's as though he's listening for something, but it's not listening. A warmth that is not tequila or vodka spreads from his belly up through his chest and down into his groin, through his arms and his legs. He breathes it in and slides off his barstool. He's already scrawled on a receipt for them. He makes for the door, and then to the cafe next door, pushing open the door to the cafe-next-door, dragging his pale eyes around until they fix on Sera.

Ian Lai

Did he remember being new?

Ian couldn't have been older than 23, 24. Right now, with that hat, he looked closer to 21. Some people might have said that he couldn't have known anything but the feeling of newness. Of youth and beauty and clothes that still smelled like he'd just pulled them off the hanger in some department store. Of neon lights that seemed to go on forever.

But the young always imagined themselves to be old, didn't they?

(He remembered.)

"Not sure if I ever was," he offered quietly.

The door opened. Someone else entered. Ian felt it more than heard it (that was a lie, he heard everything,) but he didn't turn around to look. Instead he leaned back in his chair, lounging into a relaxed pose.

"Kalen looks like he could use a nap."

Pan Echeverría

[I LOVE AWARENESS]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

Serafíne

"Everyone is," returns Sera. Is not was and she doesn't imagine herself old or anything; some nights every single molecule in her body feels new. Every organ and every cell and every stray electrical impulse: constructed again from something like scratch, by a deliciously active imagination. Her dark eyes lift over Ian's shoulder, but her attention is still somehow with them, "I think I freaked her the fuck out. You know? I just assumed - " An expansive sort of breath, all in, all-in.

"Kalen can always use a nap." There is quiet affection in that and quiet concern for whatever it is beneath his skin that drives Kalen from sleep-to-waking night after night and quiet awareness and quiet quiet quiet,

"You two know each other?"

This look drawn from each to each, but the question isn't the question that it seems. It's a different one.

It sounds like you two know each other EYEBROWS RAISED. Like: Kalen are you already cheating on Adam?

And Sera's attention is still on whoever-is-behind-Ian's shoulder, and that is Hawksley and it is kinda fixed right now, his sudden appearance feels all surreal and lovely and if he's real she's going to make him come over and kiss her or something with the power of her mind, yo.

Kalen Holliday

"I always look like that," Kalen says absently. He doesn't even bother to follow up with, 'it's exhausting to be this awesome,' or some other little verbal spar for Ian. His heart wouldn't have been in it even if Hawksley hadn't just walked in.

His pale eyes track toward the door and suddenly the air tastes like summer and sunlight and flight. His eyes close for a breath. Two. Three.

He reaches out for Sera again. Squeezes her hand. "Hey, are you-" And he's getting ready to leave before he lets himself get lost in Hawksley's Resonance. Because he's back to the mood in which he implored Galowglass to come out to drinks because he needed certainty and failing his, Gallowglass' would do.

Fuck, he still hasn't broken it to Sera that there is nothing going on there, however cute she thought they were. Does she even remember? Oh...there is that look. Perhaps she does remember.

"We met once. Months ago."

Hawksley Rothschild

He looks like he's smirking. Then he's smiling, and it's something else, and then it's gone again. Hawksley has a glassy brightness to his eyes that is either predatory, aquiline or drunk.

Mostly drunk. A little drunk! He would insist. But drunk. And then he saunters, because that is how men like him walk,

of course he would say there are no men like him, and he would be correct. Just like he's correct when he says he is already a god, and correct when he says that yes, he is a king. So: sauntering, even swaggering, he comes in, and yes he may see Kalen reaching for Sera like two or three or a dozen times in like ten seconds dude take it down a notch but maybe he doesn't notice that at all! He is, after all, drunk. He is smiling, and that doesn't stop. And then he comes up to their table.

Grabs the back of a chair from another table. Drags it back, swivels it around, drops into it. "I,"

he begins, sagely, interrupting-ly,

"am buzzed as fuck." He swivels his head around, from Sera to guy-he's-seen-once to guy-he's-never-seen, blinking slowly on the last. "Sera," he whispers audibly, without looking at her. "Don't make any sudden movements. But I think... we're not alone."

Ian Lai

"We met at a white party."

As though that wasn't going to give Sera exactly the wrong idea (or the right one?) It didn't matter to Ian. There could be no wrong impression with him. Impression itself was the point, not the accuracy of it.

Hawksley invited himself to their table (not at all unlike how Ian himself had done, though perhaps a bit louder and a bit less graceful.) And now Ian did turn his gaze to regard the other man, dark eyes trailing over Hawksley's form with a kind of lazy interest, like maybe he wanted to fuck him or eat him but not right this very moment.

He didn't bother with a greeting. It was that kind of gathering. People came and went.

A few seconds later, he picked up his mug and took a drink of his tea.

Richard

[i wanna roll awareness too!]

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

Serafíne

Sera squeezes Kalen's hand back and is he asking her if she's okay? Maybe that's what he's asking her. Maybe he's asking her something else. What she says to him is,

"She's gonna be okay."

Conviction, all of this fucking conviction is all wrapped up in her body and written into her bones. Connie will be okay or she won't. Those are the options and they're open to us all.

Then, Hawksley who has not kissed her, drops himself into a chair all backward like she wanted to do way-back-when until she remembered that her skirt was too tight for that shit and she had to turn the chair around and sit in it normally instead.

"You're adorable when you're buzzed as fuck. That's Ian. That's Kalen." Indicating one and then the other with a tip of Sera's golden head.

"They met at a white party," a cut of her gaze back to Ian, and she wants to know, "did it involve foam?" Sera is just assuming that it did. Lots and lots of foam.

Then, all confidentially to Hawksley. "You missed Patience. She was talking like a robot still. But she knows my name, so I understand her when she says that."

Richard

With spring finally on the advent, all manner of people wander the streets of downtown Denver on a Friday evening. Richard is not the only tall fellow on the streets. He is not the only one shouldering one of those enormous hiking backpacks. He is not the only one wandering around in sturdy trail-sandals, and he's far from the only one stopping off at a cafe for a drink. He's not even the only one wearing that three-week-old, my-electric-razor-broke-for-good-in-Calcutta-and-i-couldn't-be-bothered-to-buy-a-bic beard, or those i-pulled-an-all-nighter circles under his eyes, or thrice-worn clothes that could probably do with a good washing. Or five.

He is, however, perhaps the only man within a twenty-block vicinity to combine all of the above traits. So: a group of young magi are gathered and making friends or enemies or frenemies, and another young man who looks like he's in the middle of a backpack-around-the-world trip stops in for --

-- well. He was going for a drink. Maybe a plain small coffee; does anyone order that anymore? But he pauses, a few feet into the cafe. Months on end traveling amongst enclaves and cadres of the Awakened, weeks on end spent in the seat of the Tradition, and Richard has honed his sense for such things. Vibrations in the spiderweb. Needles in the stack. That sense of

visceralliminal

luminosity in the air; like time itself has recently been fractured and repaired. Richard stops in his tracks. He looks about, furrowed brow and scruffy-thick beard and shoulders stooped under the burden of that enormous backpack giving him a vaguely cavemanesque quality. Then, quite without further ado, he comes over to that table of young magi. Stands there at their margin for a moment, swinging the backpack off his shoulders and just -- pulling up a seat.

"Hello. Mind if I join you all? Tables are crowded tonight."

Hawksley Rothschild

No, he has not kissed her. It's been days! Many of them, perhaps. He blinks slowly at her, like he's having to slow down his visual processing of what's going on around him. He isn't backward, though. He is sprawling. The chair turned from one table to another, and thank god he has the back of it holding him up because he's slouched, he's lazy, he's thankfully propped up. He is called adorable. He smiles, beamish and endearing, saying:

"I'm always adorable. Hi, Ian. Hi, Kalen." He even lifts his hand, giving a tiny side-to-side wave. He is informed that he missed Patience, he says -- quipping, without feeling even remotely bad about this in part because he has no idea who Patience is at first, until Sera says 'talking like a robot' which he, unlike Adam and others, doesn't find fascinating. "I don't believe I missed that." It's droll and unapologetic.

He can feel a lot of things in the air right then, and one of the things he feels when the door opens again is the ocean. It's not anathema, even to someone to whom gravity is... um. Anathema. He likes the ocean. He likes the sky more but let's not be bigots about this sort of thing. Hawksley swivels his head around and his eyes pop.

"It's a giant," he loud-whispers to Sera (and presumably Ian and Kalen), before Richard shows up, beardy and dirty and backpack-ed, zeroing in on them. Hawksley thinks he's frozen up like an animal but outwardly, he just looks like a big lazy animal in his fashionably distressed jeans and fashionably old-fashioned leather shoes and tailored t-shirt (which is dark green and soft as powder and thin as tissue paper and makes it quite clear that dude, he totally lifts). He only thinks he's frozen.

He whispers again, turning his head to Sera and the others, but mostly Sera, the Disciple, who will fix this. "Sera, it's a giant," he repeats, more insistently. Perhaps a bit gleefully, mingled with the mockery of terror.

Kalen Holliday

He'd been about to ask if she was okay there. Before he left her there with Ian and Hawksley.

But Hawksley is there like some damned drunken embodiment of summer and Sera is talking and really she and Patience are about equally understandable to him and so instead of leaving he laughs. "There was no foam. It was tragic." And his voice sounds amused and relaxed enough, but it doesn't have that little hint of a purr. Really, of everyone here, only Sera has ever seen that to know it is missing. Heard that. Kalen honestly calm enough and amused enough for that tone is rare.

But then Richard is one too many strangers again, specifically one too many Awakened strangers to be at all comfortable with his prior tra and the immediacy that had come creeping back dissolves back into the ether. Hawksley's insistence about giants gets a faint smile as he rises.

"Goodnight." It is not a terribly specific goodnight.

Ian Lai

"It did if you want it to." He winked at Sera, like they were sharing some kind of secret. But of course then Kalen had to go and spoil it by giving an honest answer.

By the time Richard came in to join their group, Ian had only finished about a quarter of his tea, but it was enough to know that he didn't particularly want any more of it. He stood up, stretching up to his full (not giant) height, and made a motion (elegant and so very cat-like) to bow - mock-formal and playful, but slightly impressive in its accuracy - in Sera's direction.

"Until next time."

Then, without another word, he followed Kalen out the door, leaving his tea at the counter for the barrista to throw away.

Serafíne

AWARENESS ARE YOU A MAGE RICHARD YES!

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 2, 3, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Serafíne

"Come on down," Sera to Richard, echoing though not imitating Bob Barker, and she is seated so neither Richard nor Hawksley can see her amazing leather-and-metal ringed skirt so just: a girl with blonde hair and the side of her head shaved and half-a-dozen necklaces and three dozen bracelets and flashes of ink on her hairs and wrists, unbuttoned purple and pink plaid flannel unbuttoned and open over torso, which is -

- well, she's wearing a bra. A black and pink bra.

"Nobody else has eaten any of the fucking pasties I ordered, so you should, fucking totally."

Kalen, then. Sera tells him that she's okay, as much with a glance as with anything else. That little fracture-fault in Time is rapidly self-healing and Sera still has a headache but she's fine, just fine. "'Night Kalen."

A different sort of structure in her farewell to Ian. This flick of her gaze; she doesn't know quite what to make of that bow, so, "Later." Quiet see? Attenuated. Liminal.

Which simply leaves Hawksley-drunk-off-his-ass and sprawled-not-hunkered and the giant.

Sera leans over to kiss him quietly on the temple. Perhaps, so briefly, she sets her teeth to the Hermetic's pulse.

"If you wore some of my heels you'd be taller than he is." Sera assures (?) Hawksley. Then back to Richard, likely unnecessarily because Richard probably has ears. "You're really fucking tall. You guys wanna get outta here? My place isn't far."

Hawksley Rothschild

What Kalen doesn't know, and can't know -- this being the second time he and Hawksley have passed each other like ships in the night -- is that Sera is always okay with Hawksley. So far, at least. But to be fair, Hawksley probably doesn't know that, either. Sera might. Sera just knows things, sometimes.

Kalen and Ian both leave, and Hawksley is buzzed enough to have barely taken note of them to begin with, but he gives another little wave as they excuse themselves, then looks directly at the giant. Okay: it takes him a couple of tries to get his gaze to be direct. But it does get there, and it is piercing and slightly inhuman in nature.

"I don't know if they're leaving because you smell. They might be. Because you sort of look like you smell. Do you smell?" He raises his eyebrows up, like this is just genuine curiosity and not blatant rudeness. He even asks a bit like a kid, like he is just not sure but by god he really needs to know and be sure, okay? "Maybe I just think everyone with a beard looks smelly." Frowns, then. "Can someone look smelly? Shit, I'm mixing senses. HI."

Shoves his hand that way in greeting. He chooses not to answer the bit about wearing heels.

Kalen Holliday

He nods to Sera in return, but he doesn't reach out for her again. Doesn't add anything. What would you add for Sera with words? Sera is all feelings and passion bleeding all over the damned place. There isn't really anything to remain unsaid because what use are arbitrary symbols in the face of what she is? Language was never made to wrap around her and encompass her. More than any of them, liminal and enthralling and visceral...she was never meant to be bound with words.

There isn't anything to add, so he continues with the leaving. Richard gets a quick nod. He might not even bother pretending Richard's arrival didn't precipitate him leaving, but maybe he'll take the nod for something. At least he tries.

Hawksley's line of questioning gets a little, started huff of a laugh from Kalen. "Damn. Really?" He reaches out and musses Hawksley's hair as he slips by him on his way to the door. "Never be sober again again, okay? That was just fucking beautiful."

Richard

The giant,

such as he is,

drops easily, loosely into one of the chairs. He looks only mildly dismayed as two of their party immediately up and leave. "Goodnight," he calls after them, polite, and only after he narrowly stops himself from returning Ian's bow with a palms-together little bow of his own.

That which is divine in me...

...old habits a la Calcutta, after all. He doesn't, though. He is not in Calcutta; he is not amongst wheel-turners. He is in downtown Denver in hiking sandals, his heels calloused and dry, his beard thick and untrimmed. He is told he is really fucking tall. Somewhere in that tangled thicket -- darker than his luscious golden locks, which are actually sort of split-ended slightly-greasy locks right now -- his mouth tilts, a smile.

"It's because the basketball player I hired to be my foil is home sick today."

And then he is told he looks like he smells. Upon which he laughs, laughs outright. Also he picks up his arm and sniffs theatrically under it.

"I probably do smell," he says, leaning forward to grip that offered hand, shake it, release it. "I just finished ... " he thinks, "about forty-two hours of international bus, train and air travel. No showers."

Hawksley Rothschild

If Hawksley has noticed the stars in Kalen's eyes when his brain is writing poetry about Sera any more than he's noticed the hand-touching and hand-squeezing and are-you-okays, it...

let's not put an 'if' there. He is fixated on the bearded giant and simultaneously terrified and delighted. He does notice when Kalen ruffles his hair, and he's startled and bewildered by this, because he thought Kalen was gone. He looks up though, accepting the dictum to never be sober again, processes it, then grins. "'Kay," he says, and doesn't mean it.

RICHARD, then. Or the person who will possibly become Richard in his mind. He looks back at him. He hears the joke. His eyes brighten. "Oh my god," he says, and laughs. It's not even that great of a joke, let's be honest, but oh how it delights him. He is enthralled. Sera has already invited the guy home. They shake, and Hawksley's is strong but there's no heart in it, like he's forgotten he offered his hand at all

psst: he did forget.

"You're riding on the wrong buses and trains and air...travel...things," Hawksley informs him.

Serafíne

"Where the fuck did you come from, anyway?" Sera is briefly distracted by Kalen's passage behind Hawksley. The hair ruffling, the prohibition against sobriety. Well, she could probably agree to the latter but right now Hawksley is more drunk than she is and she doesn't have a flask and that's probably why. But: Kalen, hair ruffling, Hawksley. Sera thinks - not inexplicably - of Grace, and this makes her think - not inexplicably - of Connie, and then makes her look - not inexplicably - to Richard.

Not a series of coincidences; just a bunch of things that happened.

And Sera is still talking. All this happens in the space-between words, forty-two hours is a long-ass time. Sera comes up with the most exotic and mouth-filling and strange and delightful word she can think of that might be a town forty-two hours away. "Katmandu?"

He looks it, doesn't he, Richard? Giant, beard, hippie. Trail sandals.

"You didn't come looking for Connie, did you? All that way. Because I think I ran her off."

Richard

"Uh." Richard looks amused. He has the most remarkable eyes. Even sunbeaten and greasy-haired and very very bearded, he has remarkable eyes: cerulean blue, like a shallow sea. "I go to D.U."

So much for Kathmandu.

"I grew up in Berkeley, though," he volunteers -- and ah, yes, that fits. Fits the beard and the sandals and the grease in the hair, though maybe not the hair itself. But then: "And I was born in Le Havre.

"And most recently," he finishes, "I was in Kolkata. A bit to the north, actually. Hence the bus ride and the train ride before the airport. Who's Connie?"

Hawksley Rothschild

Katmandu! DU! Berkeley! Le Havre! Kolkata!

Hawksley's eyes are swimming. He has not lost his sense of delight, his musing wonder, but his eyes are focusing a little. He leans forward, suddenly, regretting it a second later but only because of the dizziness. He peers at Richard. "You know," he says,

"you never answered her about getting out of here. I've never seen anyone do that with her. I don't know who Connie is, though." He looks at Sera. "Who the fuck is Connie?"

Serafíne

"This girl who was here." So yeah, that makes sense. But Sera smiles around the words and they fill her mouth like a pastry; see. They're all layered inside her. The hook of her smile, "so new she probably thinks that it's just that the sky has be sliced open by a stranger and something new is leaking around the edges and she's not sure what it is or why it is or what's happened beneath her skin and Can Anyone Else See it.

"So I figured, forty-two hours of international travel, Kathmandu," a sly-cracking grin, see, "to Denver to here and fifteen minutes of from Connie? Something going on there and I'm not sure what. Maybe you weren't supposed to see her. Maybe you were supposed to miss her, but honestly I care fuck-all about what is supposed to happen.

"The invite was serious though. We can get high in the garden. You can grab a shower, crash on the couch or in the music room if you want.

"Probably there'll be a party later. Who the fuck knows, a priest might even come."

Richard

"I wasn't entirely sure I was being included in that invite," Richard explains easily, and without a trace of cringing insecurity. "But since I am -- sure. You two don't seem like you'll axe-murder me.

"I don't know if I'll stay for the party though," he adds, "even if a priest comes. I should say hi to my friend soon. I told her I'd be back in town today. And," he pushes back from the table, rises up -- lean and tall and all the taller-seeming for being so lean, "I still have no idea who Connie is.

"But I'm Richard." He hefts up that enormous, overstuffed backpack and straps it over his shoulders.

Hawksley Rothschild

The girl that was here. Well, of course. There was a girl here, not Patience, and now she's not. And Richard is. Richard, who came from Calcutta. Yeah: Kolkata? Hawksley knows what that is. He's been there. He's been to Le Havre, briefly, very briefly, he doesn't remember why. He's definitely been to Berkeley and is pretty sure he stole something there from a professor who had no idea what he had on his hands. He doesn't mention all of that. Why brag about his worldly travels?

He hasn't figured out yet if he wants to recite poetry in Arabic to Richard yet, speaking of bragging.

"Of course you were included," he says, as though Richard's doubt wounds him personally (hint: it does not). He blinks slowly again, looking at Sera. "Oh, another new one," he says, like he knows. He always Just Misses them, except for Grace. Grace is the last new one he met. All the others he only hears of. He is reasonably sure they don't actually exist, Sera's just making them up so she can be endeared by them. He wouldn't put it past her, she's usually thrice as drunk or stoned or whatever as he is now.

He looks at Richard again. "Her place is pretty awesome. One of the housemates, Dee? She's into derby, right? But also baking. And she basically looks like a pin-up and she blushes like that," a snap of his fingers. "It's so fucking cute. Dan's cool, too. Like Dan's cool, you know? Like you can fucking warp reality around that guy and he'll be like 'aight, I'll get the tequila' and shit. I mean, Sera bleeds on him every time she falls down and cracks her skull and he's still pretty chill about it,"

don't TMI don't TMI don't TMI YOU HAVE ALREADY KIND OF TMI'D ALREADY HAWKSLEY SO DON'T TALK ABOUT DAN'S PENIS RIGHT NOW kthx

he takes a breath. Lets it out, shoulders rounding. "There's another one but I keep forgetting his name because he's sort of boring. Around me, at least. The priest shines like a light in the darkness, and you're pretty sure he's gonna smite you with fire if you swear but I haven't seen it yet. He plays guitar."

Now he's just rambling. A lot. Richard rises up. Hawksley smiles up at him. "You fit all the pieces together just perfectly, don't you? I bet you're a whiz at jigsaw puzzles. Help me up," he adds, lifting his arm up.

Serafíne

"Invite your friend to the party," EASY SOLUTION RICHARD and Sera offers it in this equally easy and offhand way. The party is a thing not a time and place and it happens-over-time, evolves, if you will, as the hours and days pass. "But sure. C'mon. It's not far to walk. Corona Street, in Cap Hill."

The Richard's standing and standing and standing and holy fuck he is a giant. Sera has some very, very high heels and none of them, not a one of them, would allow her to come close to channeling Richard's remarkable height. So she looks up and up and up and then stands and she does seem kinda tall for a chick anyway but she is wearing Absurd shoes (and, incidentally, a skirt that is perhaps 1/3 leather and 2/3 metal rings and torn fishnets and she has already paid for all that food no one has scarfed and

oh

because dizzy, a bit, when she stands, for reasons that do not mirror Hawksley's reasons. And she doesn't mention it and she doesn't need help up

"Serafíne. Call me Sera. Help him up, will you?"

A wholly affectionate glance at Hawksley.

"He's too heavy for me. I'll be right back. Forgot to leave the tip."

--

And so she did. Sera slips away, back to the counter to talk the cashier into giving her back the credit slip she signed to leave another.

Richard

Richard still doesn't know the name of Serafine's drunk, rambling, lazily confident friend. He knows now, however, that there have been multiple New Ones, that Sera's place is pretty awesome, that Dee is a pin-up girl who blushes like that, that Dan is cool, that Sera apparently bleeds on people frequently, that there's a boring one, that the priest will smite you with fire and plays guitar. He listens to the rambling, smiling quietly and sort of privately behind that unkempt beard of his.

"Actually, I'm terrible at jigsaw puzzles," he says. "Not enough patience. Sorry to disappoint." But he takes the arm that is held out, and he gives it a hefty tug, and as Hawksley lurches to his feet he braces his other hand behind the elbow to keep the man from toppling the other way. Or sideways. Or any-which-way.

"I'm all right at Jenga, though. How did you get so drunk at a cafe, anyway?"

--

And Serafine leaves the tip. And Hawksley and Richard make it to the sidewalk, possibly one leaning on the other. Richard wasn't lying, and Hawksley wasn't wrong: he does sort of smell right now. He smells like sweat and many unwashed bodies and long hot train rides and a lot of curry over a lot of weeks. He smells, too,

a little like saltwater and the color blue; a little like the refracting fractals that shift and change in the heart of a kaleidoscope. But maybe that's just Hawksley confusing his senses again.

They meet on the sidewalk, the three of them. Serafine leads the way. Richard goes up to her place, and meets her roommates, and borrows her shower and a great deal of her soap and shampoo to wash the grime off. He wants to borrow a razor, but the only one she has is for her unmentionables or else she doesn't have one at all, so he decides he'll borrow one from his acarya in the morning instead.

Besides; the beard seems to suit the occasion. And the occasion is puffs off a joint in her garden or maybe she has a goddamn water bong, no who are we kidding of course she has a water bong. He gets pleasantly, mellowly high, sprawled all long-limbed and melt-jointed on a bench, telling them about Calcutta or Kolkata and the people, the press of the crowds, the poverty, the teeming masses, the vibrant colors, the pungent spices in the open markets and the stink of raw sewage. About the river Ganges in the north, where he was the morning before he left, knee-deep in sacred and muddy waters. About the other places he's been, not all those glamourous and beautiful northwest-european countries where he's traveled in the course of his youth and his competitive career

(which is another topic in and of itself, somewhat later)

but crowded, hot, impoverished places full of food crises, water crises, health crises, souls in crisis. India and Bangladesh and Pakistan, northwestern China; north Africa and the Middle East and the Aegean peninsula, where the temples of some of the greatest forefathers of his tradition lay in ruins. He tells them, sleepily and dreamily, of the life you find there, dug into the cracks and the fissures; vibrant amidst the muck and the pollution. He tells them,

very seriously in the way of the very drunk or very stoned,

that life is short, guys. Life is really, really short and you can't hold on to it, no, or it won't be living at all. You have to let it play out. You have to let every moment go, from your first to your last, let it pass through you like water. Hey, water. Are you guys thirsty? I'm parched.

--

He's asleep in the garden by three, four a.m. He's awake again by dawn, wet with dew, cold, jetlagged. The priest isn't there. The roommates are asleep. Sera and Hawksley are asleep. He leaves them a note, a one-line thank-you and a phone number.

He shows up on Eleanor Yates' doorstep an hour or so later, toughened feet in battered trail sandals, backpack full of godknowswhat on his back. Bearded, still semi-stoned, smiling. Her apprentice, returned from his season in the wilderness.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Study break.


Serafíne

It is evening, it is evening falling into night and there is a sort of living warmth that still lingers in the air, the grass retains some last slivers of that strange sun-scent even though the sun itself has sunk more-or-less into shadow to the west. So here is light, twilight, which is painted in a half-dozen hues of heather and mist, which gathers in pools of shadow and spreads itself wide over a slowly waking world.

The chantry is surrounded by field and farrow and hill and dale. One could keep horses here, with enough of the right sort of work and an eye for the land. There is a gentle slope leading down from the chantry proper to one of those fields, the sort framed by split-rail fencing carefully repaired last season by someone-who-is-not-Sera, and it is on this gentle slope that Sera spread a fringed cotton-quilt likely appropriated from one of the bedrooms in the house proper, trampling down the long, still-mostly-dormant stalks of some prairie grass or other, toeing off her boots so that her feet were bare, then - well - shimmying out of nearly everything else so that she could sunbathe topless and not worry much about whether the pattern of her fishnets might be somehow tanned into her skin.

The sun's gone down, though. It's gotten colder. So, Sera has put most of her clothes back on - her stockings and her denim cut-offs, her bustier and her flannel shirt - and she is lying sprawled in the grass with her feet planted flat, her knees bent, her blonde hair spread around her face like a halo, one hand wrapped loose around the neck of a bottle of mead, the other flat on her bare, golden stomach, a rather twee picnic basket - yes picnic basket - on the grass beside her blanket. Closed, for now.

She's watching the sky change.

Breathing.

Just breathing.

Gallowglass

[Awareness.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Gallowglass

[Stamina]

Dice: 2 d10 TN8 (3, 5) ( fail )

Gallowglass

Breathing, then - just breathing is Dominic Adam Julian Gallowglass bani Bonisagus in the library of Bear House with his head pillowed in the crook of his elbow and his mouth slack and drool at the corner and his eyes gummed shut and he doesn't snore and he does look peaceful except for a crease along his forehead because he is asleep and his sleep is not nightmare-troubled but it isn't comfortable because he fell asleep at one of the library's desks. Breathing, then - just breathing is Dominic Adam Julian Gallowglass bani Bonisagus deep in the word-wood when a dull pang causes him to open his eyes and smack his tongue against his teeth and sit up, eyelids pink-rimmed, dream-choked, hair sticking up on one side and flattened on the other, and he looks around. Opens his eyes wide but his lids want to stay sloped, putting both hands on the desk's edge and pushing back.

He is Aware of somebody else near-by, not far-off, somebody who is enthralling, limimal, he can taste that liminality right now because he is still half-asleep, eyes drifting closed. He looks down at his journal, his pen and his papers, at the book he was using as a reference for notes and he closes the latter.

Clearly he needs a break if he's falling into a sleep that doesn't give him any genius insights.

Breathing, just breathing - he's just breathing when he leaves the house and comes strolling out across field and farrow and hill and dale at least across grass. The skin of his arms is goose-pimpling, cold. He looks sleepy still and just being Aware of a presence doesn't mean that one will find that Presence until one uses the Sphere of Correspondence but he has a hunch and he's following that hunch.

Sometimes his hunches are good as gold, no alchemy required. (But there's an alchemy to the mind, isn't there? Mind meeting fire, meeting - ) When he sees the little picnic, he says,

"Hey."

Serafíne

Who is that talking to me!

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 1, 2, 4, 4, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Serafíne

So, see.

It takes her a minute. She wasn't expecting him. But then:

"Hey."

Her hair smells like marijuana and oh look, there's a blue glass ashtray shaped like a leaf on the quilt beside her and the remnants of two or three cigarettes with blue paper and a scent like burnt cinnamon-clove-sugar-tobacco in the air; and also, the mustier, earthier, skunkier scent of tobacco and Sera does not stand up over even sit, she just tips the crown of her head backwards scrunching up: her golden hair and the patterned and now-grass-stained blanket and it makes her feel like an inchworm which she rather likes.

inch inch inchworm

And Sera smiles, this lazy and ridiculous and lovely smile, which is whole in the way that planets are whole, that galaxies are whole, that fucking universes are whole: everything seems contained within it.

"Have a seat." Lifting the mead-bottle in his... rather vague direction. "You want a drink?"

Gallowglass

His cheek is still creased by the attentions of his sleeve, the edge of his journal, the edge of a page from his journal; his beard is close-trimmed tonight, just a little more than a neat on his jaw and around his mouth (as if he were a musketeer). He rubs his eyes with the palm of his left hand, planting his feet into the still-fallow just-greening wisps of prairie grass, his weight hard on the heels of his old converse high-tops (navy blue), and her laziness reminds his body that it would like to be lazy, that it is exhausted, and he yawns to keep it from bothering him about that exhaustion any more.

Have a seat. He's thinking about it. He starts with a crouch, which makes him wince. Adam is not a lithe jungle cat ready for action nor is he an action hero, used to springing out've cars and scaling the sides of buildings. He's a punk ass book jockey, and they do not stretch enough.

"What is it?" he says, with a dip of his head toward the mead-bottle - tilting his brow like he'd have a rack of antlers and was using those with which to indicate. Then, curiously, "Have we ever spoken when you were not on drugs?"

Serafíne

What is it? Adam asks and,

"Redstone mead," Sera supplies, turning both her eyes and her golden head to watch him as the enormous tower of his body (from the prospective of a singularly prone position and rather Altered mind) compresses itself down into a crouch. Her eyes are half-closed but her smile lingers and it is nothing like a shadow; and there is in it no shadow of the shadows that have touched her days.

She runs a thoughtful finger down the foil broken to access the cork. Her nails are painted a deep and irridescent red-to-black color that may look like blood and may look like candied applies in the correct light, but probably seems merely dark in this fae twilight.

"And I don't fucking know," her head doesn't leave the ground. This is now deliberate; she likes the way it feels and the way the quilt bunches beneath her skull and the way "Maybe. Why do you ask?"

A moment later, tongue against the roof of her mouth, Sera, whose body feels like a warm and lazy species of sponge soaking in the whole goddamned world, looks back at Adam and inhales, as if breathing were some new and recently discovered form of sexual congress. "I like drugs. You know that Baudelaire poem, right?"

Gallowglass

[Does he? Int + Academics, I guess.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Gallowglass

The first time Adam had mead he thought that he would like it. He didn't like it. He didn't like how sweet it was how cloying on his tongue. He considers the bottle now and Serafíne's offer and Serafíne and she is gorgeous, isn't she. So many gorgeous women in Denver. The tension of a frown or trouble on his brow and he demures with this line of bullshit - " - mead is something I've sworn to only drink with one of the sídhe but thanks for the offer."

He does sit hard on his tailbone. Half-rolling to the side, because for all his basic self-assurance he is graceless. He straightens himself, grass-slicked soles re-planted on the ground. He's on the border of the blanket she culled from one of the bedrooms. He doesn't really care about sitting in the dirt.

His hands come together again, elbows resting on his knees, one forearm clasped by his other's hand.

"I know that Baudelaire poem. The martyred slaves of time one? Do you feel like a martyred slave of time?" He's curious, and his curiousity's a relentless thing. He even says it now: "I just wondered if your thoughts," a pause. "Why do you like drugs?"

He doesn't sound as judgmental as he could; just a touch fascinated, a touch careful, constrained.

Gallowglass

[Hypothetical Roll. App (Specialty) + Emp. Diff 8. + WP because I hatechoo.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 3, 3, 3, 9) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Serafíne

Does Sera feel like a martyred slave of time?

"Fuck no."

Now Sera turns her head in Adam's general direction but she's no longer looking at him because he is too close to really be seen from this perspective, so perhaps she is looking at his grass-slicked Converse soul, and she knows the stars on the underside, that familiar pattern, and finds them charmingly surprising, she would've thought that punk-ass book jockeys would be in wingtips - worn, well-worn, shabby old wingtips - but wingtips nonetheless, and that knights would wear something clanky and spurred.

"It's the rest of it I like. That goddamned admonition to love something and inhale it so thoroughly you're intoxicated by it. Let yourself be transported, right? Give yourself over to something that just - inhales you, and makes you inhale like every fucking breath you're taking is a brand new revelation."

A small shrug here. A quiet, humming grin. The flannel shirt open and framing the slice of her body, the cropped leather bustier covered with silver studs. The slightly concave curve of her abdomen, her spare torso boasts a subtle sort of musculature that is defined more by the absence of fat than by the presence of strength. There are hints of ink beneath her right breast and scrawled down her left flank; other bits more visible on her hands and wrists and palms.

"And I like drugs because I'm the grass and I'm the sky and I'm the ground beneath my head and I'm that airplane all the fucking way up there going somewhere and never coming back; and all the people inside it drowsing or dreaming or fucking or complaining about that crying baby in seat 9-a or doing some goddamned boring shit when they should be getting goddamned drunk, someway or somehow, on something that makes their heart burst and their blood quicken and their body want. All those people and everyone else I'll never see, now or in the future, Amen.

"That is why I like them in general. Why the fuck do you like books?"