Sanctuary

[Emily Littleton] The fire fell away, receded with a whuff and a rush of fresher air. Cooler air. It was all the Orphan could do to keep from falling to her knees, sobbing, shaken, for a moment. The air around them reverberated with the Intensity of Owen's magic; with the temerity of the Man's threat, his magic, his wrongness; with the thin, thready Reverence of Emily's own.

There was a rush, and before she could find herself falling, Emily pushed toward the child. There is a wellspring deeper than even Faith, buried within them all; it is sometimes all that separates them from death's doorstep. The rain fell down around them, as Emily and Owen pulled Tony free, pulled him away from the husk of a woman he had known as Mother, averted his eyes from the cold, blue fingers (still curled, holding fast) of his baby Sister than peeked out from the sopping pink blanket.

She can't remember, now, what it was they said to one another. Just the warmth of the boy's tears as they fell against her shoulder while she carried him. (And he's not heavy...) Just the smooth of his hair beneath her fingers as she cradled his head. The slow, steady slip of so many meaningless words as she let her voice, and her heartbeat, and her own warmth form his shelter against the rainy night and its torments and demons.

This child would fear the scent of rain-logged mud, of foliage crushed under foot; his guts would wrench to wretch at the sight of algae-choked water. It would linger long after the sharp pang of loss had dulled, numbed.

She sat with him in the sanctuary at St James while Owen spoke with the Father in hushed tones. While the sodden bundle disappeared from view. She watched after them for a long while, while the quiet music streamed into the sanctuary and the crucifix on the wall loomed, larger than life.

She lit a votive at the little display. Whispered something to His ears alone. (For the nameless.) Lit another. (For the innocent.) And a third. (For the one[s] left behind.)

In time this night will be nothing more than snippets, moments of too sharp clarity interspersed with smeared and hazy memories. She will remember the too cold hallway, and how it's window is always standing open. The way Owen's door swung open to let them into the apartment. Stepping out of her shoes beside the door, carrying the boy in (a heavy, warm weight) with aching arms. No complaints.

Wiping the dirt from his face and hands, soothing the bruise on his cheek, coaxing him to take the cup of juice into his tiny hands and drink something (please, Tony...). Slipping him under the covers of Owen's bed.

Emily would remember far more than she wanted to. She sat on the bed beside the boy, running her fingertips through his hair and humming quietly to him. It was a foreign melody, one she'd learned by heart about his age. Her voice was untrained but mellifluent, worn and wearied but enough.

[Owen Page] There is a price to pay.

[Lord, make me an instrument of your peace]

For all that he had acted out of a desire to protect those he cared for, those weaker than himself, those already tormented by dark forces, by the very world around them, those who were only just yet beginning to open their eyes to the world around them -- for all that he had acted out of heroism, some desire to stop what was seen as wrong, as a form of devilry in man's clothing, there were still consequences. And they were these, as if the hand that delivered Owen the sheer strength and tenacity of will to shape the universe around him, around the brilliant, glowing force in his hand also had the power to remind him --

You are so very human too, my child.

[where there is hatred]

As the fire extinguishes itself, as the unknown Man vanishes, the Chorister known as Owen Page drops to his knees and braces his weight forward on his palms; violently trembling. There is something like an explosion of sensitive energies flowing outward from his near-exhausted form, wet and muddied against the ground. What was once a bare whiff of intensity has suddenly re-made itself stronger, more powerful.

And it settles around the young man's shoulders this night like a cloak; heavy and foreboding.

It is enough to drive the young traumatized boy further against the Apprentice's skin, to turn his face from the sight of his Angel as if terrified that pure force would come after him next, that force that rolled off Owen's powerful shoulders as they made decisions; absent, wearied decisions about what was to be done, now.

What came next?

[where there is injury]

Next came St James' [Sanctuary] and a sodden parcel carried in a wet young man's arms, but this was nothing divine and nothing blessed. This was darkness, and despair. Owen cannot recall where he found the strength in his strung-out muscles to dig a grave for the infant girl-child named Emma. He cannot recall all that he spoke to Father Benedict about but that conclusions were drawn about the fate of the boy, Tony, and phone-calls made, some long-distance and some not so far at all.

It was in the stillness of the after that the true extent of what had occurred will reach them. Up until now, even at the Chorister's apartment there had been things to do, every second had been occupied, there had not been time for tears, or hysteria or the realization on the Initiate's behalf that he had allowed an innocent woman to go to her death because he refused to play a madman's game with him.

He was not considering this yet, but the ideas pressed against the back of his skull like a dull drumbeat; he felt his skin drawn tight, too tight over his features as he made the final arrangements for a safe place for the little boy to recover -- if it was ever to be had, after what he had witnessed.

And -- as he finally turned and made his way to where Emily hummed a lullaby to the child he delivered the final piece of comfort he could to the boy, even now, as he shrank away from the dark-eyed Angel's touch. He pressed, gently, against the boy's mind, and drew a curtain between the night's events and the present moment; casting soothing, pleasant emptiness in its place so that when his eyes drooped shut over lashes, his tears would dry and his dreams would be of nothing more harmful than ever they were before.

It was the last thing Owen had the strength for; and as he removed his palm from the boy's head, his eyes met Emily's.

"He'll sleep, now." It was a ragged whisper, a threadbare noise.

[not so much seek to be consoled but to console]

[Emily Littleton] The boy is young, his features till rounded and softened by childhood, his lashes long and casting dark shadows on his chubby cheeks. Sleep claims him, and he exhales a heavy, languid breath that leaves the little body lax. The lines of tension, of fear, of loss smooth and fade away.

It is not so for the Chorister and the Orphan.

(where there is doubt)

Emily's hand rests on the blanket above the boy's shoulder. The press of Owen's resonance beats against her skin, it echoes inside her head as if she were nothing more than an instrument, a hollowed out drum answering out to his cadence.

It is unlikely that she would have looked away from the child, had she not heard the weariness in Owen's voice. For there is shame there (I should not have waited...), and pain; there is also anger and outrage; fear; loss. These things are named, known, marked and kept hidden far away from the boy that needed their help, rattling around like beads in that empty drum for a head of hers. They are shunted aside at the threadbare whisper, set down so that her eyes can lift to find his.

(to be loved, as to love)

It is Emily, tonight, that reaches out to lay a hand on Owen's arm. The backs of her fingers are cold (shock, numb) but she's been rubbing her palms against the blanket, against her jeans, whenever she has a chance. To keep them warm, to gentle their touch.

"Thank you," she says, her own voice hoarse and heavy from the nearly constant whispers, consolations, murmurs. She says it as if Owen has done something for her, not just for the boy, in this moment. But if he searches her eyes for explanation, there are blessed few cues there to help him.

Emily looked away, back to the boy in Owen's bed. Her hand falls away from the Chorister's arm, so that she can tuck a lock of hair behind Tony's ear. Emily leaned over to kiss him temple gently, and pulled away. She was careful to slip off the bed without disturbing him, to take a quiet step away without her footfalls growing too clumsy or heavy.

(for it is in giving that we receive)

"Do you think he'll be alright?" she asked, before they took their leave of the room, heavy as it was with whispers and grief (and Hope). There is hope still, or the vestiges of it, threaded through that too-thin voice. There is Faith, or something that speaks faintly to it.

[Owen Page] Owen's apartment, small and cramped as it is does not offer so much in the way of privacy, or solitude. It was a place intended only for one and so the bedroom, which was really not a room at all but an alcove carved into place with two extended lengths of wall is not excused from their quiet conversation, but their voices are muffled, the further they draw from it. Owen had not spoken aloud in response to Emily's gratitude, but that perhaps, was not unusual.

What was unusual was the level of perceptible feeling that crosses his features as he lowers himself gingerly, as if he'd taken a physical beating and not simply a mental one, when she asks after the boy. The Chorister has no simple answer for her, and no single reply that is going to set her mind at ease; Emily can read that as clear as day in the blood-shot blue eyes that meet her own from beneath a hand, settled against his brow, elbow propped on the arm of the old sofa.

"That'll depend on him," he says huskily, his voice a dry sliver of its usual smoother timbre. "His strength of will, his resilience. He lasted this long, so who knows." A beat, Owen raises his face to examine her dirty countenance, he does not speak for a moment; but the thrum of his resonance penetrates the air unflinchingly; without remorse.

"How are you?"

[Emily Littleton] She has forgotten that she is dirty, that the mud and muck from the boy's clothes now clings to her own. Emily has forgotten that the curls that usually frame her face have flattened, stuck themselves to her skin and began to peel away again as they dried. She has lost touch, entirely with the little details. She knows her socks are damp, and that she leaves tiny, fleeting whispers of paw-prints behind her as she moves across the wood floors. They dry almost immediately; it is not a problem worth tending to just now.

How are you? he asks, and Emily offers the ghost of a smile. It tugs the corner of her mouth up, just barely more than a twitch, a lifts a little of the veil from behind her empty (hollowed [hallowed]) eyes.

There is little warmth to it.
There is even less answer.

He is aching, sitting on the couch with his hand shading his eyes. She is quietly restless. It is not immediately apparent, but the effort of keeping calm, keeping still, keeping steady for the boy has been heavy and now that it is lifted, now that he is safe and sleeping, there is nothing to tether her.

She crosses to the kitchen, opens and closes cupboards quietly until she finds two glasses. These are filled with tap water, which she lets run until it is cold against the inside of her wrist before filling the glasses. She brings them back with her to the living room, offers one to Owen. Wraps long fingers around the other.

Holds it, without drinking, for a long while.

"I'm okay," she says. The words are level. There is no sudden flicker-peak of emotion to color them, no giving of things away. There is a reason for this, one that becomes apparent as she turns the question around to him. "Are you?"

Softly. Worried. There is a slight furrow to her brow, now. (Every emotion thinned, shadowed, fainter and harder to read [withdrawn]).

When she can no longer find a reason to stand, Emily settles herself on the floor beside the couch. She leans her back against it, so her shoulder rests near Owen's knee, her arm lies parallel to his leg. So he cannot see her face (her eyes), and she cannot read into his. It is a small mercy, softened by the comfort of their closeness.

[Owen Page] He's watching her as she gives him that ghost of a smile and turns to fetch two glasses of water. Ordinarily, Owen's gaze is felt, but the pressure of it is bearable. Right now, the pressure is enough to make Emily's skin crawl, to make her feel, were she not already aware of many of the unnatural things in the world that she were being watched by some entity, some malevolent spirit.

He is not quite that.

His punishment from on high to balance out the forces he had invoked has not been that bad, not this time.
He was lucky. They both were, in different ways. Helen, on the other hand, had not been. She had done to her death knowing that she'd drowned her daughter -- and for the life of him, Owen cannot escape the torment that it brings him, considering what he knows of himself; of what he had wrought in his darker hours.

When Emily returns Owen is sitting forward with his arms braced on his knees, his palms flat against his scalp, fingers buried in the still-damp spikes of hair. He had not returned to reclaim his basketball, his jersey. For all he knew they were both still sitting in Lincoln Park, sodden and awaiting him. For all he knew they'd been stolen by some passing thief, some homeless passerby.

He knows she's lying and he knows he should call her out on it, but for the thunder of his own thoughts, pushing clear that reasoning; instinct is far closer to the surface at present. Instinct, and a former master itching beneath his skin, clawing its way free, back into his throat, drying it, demanding satisfaction that water will not bring. She settles herself near to him, and though she cannot glimpse his face, she can guess at the expression that must twist it as he speaks, roughly.

"No, I'm not okay. I want a drink." It's admittance; confession, and it seems appropriate that his chain is hanging clear over his shirt; glinting in the dark. "I want to drink until I can't remember what it feels like to hold that baby in my arms, so tiny and helpless and... I want to stop remembering how angry I felt in that moment, staring at that man." He trembles, she can feel it.

It vibrates into his words; and like some horrific tidal-wave that had been unleashed, he finds he cannot stop the words rushing out, once he begins. "I wanted to kill him, Emily. I wanted him dead, not breathing. What kind of a person dos that make me?" The anger is turning inward, inverting back onto himself. "I got Helen killed tonight because I was so sure I could handle everything, I nearly got you burned alive, for God's sake and all I can think about now is that I want to forget and that I'm fucking envious that she gets to die, and not live with the knowledge that she killed someone she loved."

There's a long, long silence, broken only by Owen's breathing, rattling in and out.

His voice breaks a little, struggles with itself. "So no, I'm not that okay."

[Emily Littleton] ((*sigh*))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
to Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] His resonance and his grief flood over her, dragging her down until she can hardly breathe, pulling at things within her that Emily has put away for not-now and not-here. Like a bloodstone around their necks, sorrow; like a dirge in their veins. It closes over her skin, fills her mouth, shuts out her eyes -- intense and overwhelming -- but she does not pull away.

The child knew better, he shied away. Most anyone would. But the Orphan (for that is still what she is [that may ever be all that she is]), is a steady shoulder pressed against his leg. (Not enough, not nearly enough.) And as hard as his resonance pushes against her, hers pushes back Unrelentingly. It is softer, only an echo, a faint repeat; it is steady.

At some point she sets her untouched water aside, tucked behind the leg of the couch where it cannot be accidentally overturned. She lifts herself up, slides on to the couch beside him. Rather than pulling away, Emily slides an arm around him and pulls him close. (Protective [certain]).

Too often it is Owen that comforts her, his strong arms around her shoulders, his surety lent to steady her. It may surprise him to find the same solace in the thin and newly-Awakened Orphan. What she cannot match in physical strength is echoed in a (fierce) tenacity and unquestioning (unquestionable) loyalty. And Owen is shown no less compassion than the child sleeping in his bed, given no less succor or open-armed good will.

He trembles. Her arms tighten somewhat.

"You didn't get anyone killed," she says, and her voice is low and striving for steady. It is thinned and hoarse, still, but solid. Immovable. "You saved that little boy's life, Owen Page. And the woman was gone, she was tortured and gone before we even got there."

Her voice breaks, Emily stumbles over the words and has to resettle them against her tongue.

"You are not responsible for what he did -- to that woman, to the little girl, or to that boy. Especially not to me. And if we had to do it all over again, God forbid we'd have to -- but you'd save him just the same, Owen," and you'd let me burn. She doesn't say the rest of it. She doesn't need to. The Innocent always, always comes first.

She is not okay either. But her arms hold him tightly, so he cannot feel her own tremors. And her breathing is so carefully metered, so he cannot feel it rattle in her chest. And she is so certain of what she says, because there is no room for hesitation or for quavering.

If she gets only one things right tonight, it must be this: to be there for a friend. (Brother. Warder. Friend. [Not yet, but maybe some day...])

[Owen Page] [WP: Owen, don't do anything stupid.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Owen Page] That's the thing of it, however.

Put the man in the same situation over again and the likelihood is he would have made the same decision again. It had been instantaneous for him, the refusal once Emily had been put in danger to sacrifice her for the better good. He had not even considered another option -- there had been no weighing of what ifs or how abouts. There had simply been flat refusal and a declaration that he would not give up either of them -- but he would give up his own soul in exchange.

It's worth thinking about, how readily Owen was willing to allow his own form, his own Avatar be twisted and blighted were it to spare that of the others, even the Sleepers, present.

It is not even honestly an act of heroism on the young man's behalf, it seems more a complete lack of caring about the shell he inhabits. Were he to die, it could be fairly reasoned, especially right now as he sits, trembling and broken down by events and his own demons, rushing to the fore, blinding him with his own despair, his own mistakes, that Owen wouldn't mind it so terribly much. He would be freed, in his own estimation, of the shackles of making amends.

His face is pressed into the Orphan's shoulder, she can feel the heat of his skin, his breath against her. There are no tears, though his voice had cracked [that impassive demeanor he kept so solid and impenetrable] he does not give leave for that much lack of control. He was not a small boy to dissolve into tears at the first traumatic thing he witnessed -- God knew he'd stood witness to worse -- he had only ever truly sobbed once, and that had been over the grave of his sister.

Alone.
In the dark.

Now, he lets the tremors lesson, he allows himself if not total abandonment in the euphoria of Emily's arms the comfort of wrapping his arms around her smaller frame and keeping her close to him; they both smell like the rain, like washed away grime and the faint aftertaste of magics, twining together. His resonance beats at her, her own rushes against it as if she were the shoreline to the tidal-wave of his sudden surge of grief.

They remain like this for some undefined length of time. Owen has no idea how long it takes, but that eventually he can breathe regularly, that he can loosen his iron-clad grip on the girl's body, that he is not threatening to, by the sheer force of his desire to forget, about to plunge past his own strictly enforced barriers into a situation that could lead them both to a state of ruin. He pulls back, dark bruises ringing beneath his eyes; he looks like the recently reanimated, a waxy corpse given life.

It's too much, too intimate for a moment, he cannot reach words, cannot grasp and form coherence, then Tony sighs in the bed across the way, turns over in his slumber and it shatters the intimacy of grief, of shared trauma. "Isn't this meant to go the other way," he says, turning his body from her, scrubbing hands over his face. "Aren't I meant to comfort you?"

[Emily Littleton] "You have," she reminds him, gently now that her hands are her own to mind and she is gathering them into her own lap. Now they are idle, with no one to comfort and nothing to cling to and Emily finds herself drawing a deep breath, trying not to fidget. Keeping still is harder than keeping quiet.

"You will." There's the faintest tinge of her usually wry smile underlying the words, and a certainty -- that much seems unshaken, resolute.

What he could not see, or hear, when he was held tightly in Emily's arms was the silent flow of tears that started. A dampness she could not hold back, all the emotions she refused to voice finding exodus in this soundless transgression. Her eyes are bright with them, her cheeks damp, but there is no rush of deep emotion to marry to them.

Owen's grief welled up, threaten to overtake them both; Emily's pulls her down, away from the surface, swallows her whole. There is tenderness in how she looks to him, now, but that too is quickly pulled away and kept quiet.

Emily shifts on the couch, presses her back into the corner made by the back and the arm, draws her legs up so she can wrap an arm around her legs. Rests her chin on her knees. It makes her seem so much smaller, folded up like a toy, like a nothing little slip of a thing.

There is something she wants to say, but holds back. Motivated by fear, or by friendship. It's kept close to her teeth, held down by her tongue. Instead she offers:

"You're my friend. You can't scare me off that easily."

A small smile. It almost touches her dark eyes.

[Owen Page] She might hold it back, but that doesn't mean that it will stay that way, stay within her never to be released. She knows him better than that, better than to expect that he'll just let it go, that he was going to drop whatever it is that she's not telling him for fear of making things worse [if that was even possible at this point]. She shifts back, he sits forward and scrubs his palms over his face.

He lowers them when he realizes they still smell faintly of the fountain water; of decaying infants and the dirt he'd buried a baby in tonight. For a beat, the Chorister can only look at them, and flex his fingers back and forth as if testing to see if the smell were physical as well, as if the length of time he held that child in his arms for had some how infected him, infected all that he was.

He twists, then, turns to face her.

"Am I?" Your friend. The eyes drop away, a strange shyness creeps over him, words become weighted down, harder to form in an instant. He closes his eyes, sees the flashburn of jeering men and the moan of a soul being forced to look on what another had made her do. Owen's eyes open again, and he studies Emily for a long while, quietly, then:

"Tell me." What you're thinking, what you're holding back; the gaze is clear, but within the tired midnight blue eyes is a need she hasn't seen before. The need to comfort, as he had been comforted.

The need to discover solace, and perhaps give it in return.

[Emily Littleton] ((I really gotta sleep this off... like, nao. [WP] ))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 3 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] What had been a small smile trembles when he challenges her. (Am I? Your friend.) It erodes the thin foundation to which she clung so fastidiously, so very tightly. It pushed her closer to the chasm of deep, dark fears and deeper, darker feelings.

Emily looks down and away, to where the dull light in the room casts broad and fuzzy shadows on the floor. Unlike Owen, she does not close her eyes. The silent tears stream down her cheeks and she hugs her knees to her chest.

She can feel the weight of his gaze as it rakes over her, pulls free the thin deceptions (I'm okay [I will be okay]) that she has woven to keep herself steady, lays her bare. He studies her, and the press of that interest is almost more unbearable than his resonance...

Beating against her.

Tell me, he says, and she flinches as if he'd reached out to strike her. It is an instinctual reaction to the grief, and the fear, and the longing that he is treading too near. Something in the Orphan cannot imagine that he would push that close, prod that plainly, without judgment or chastisment.

Emily shakes her head, No. She hunches her shoulders up and curls tighter in on herself. Her breath rattles in her chest, comes in great swallows of air that she cannot measure or mete enough to keep them from turning to sobs.

When she closes her eyes, she's greeted with the jeering face of the nameless Man, the leap and crackle of flames still near enough in memory to feel and touch and smell against her skin. The jeering, nameless faces of Men, the warmth wet smell of river mud, the concussive memory of closed fists...

Beating against her.

"I..."

"I'm such a stupid, stupid bitch," she says, pushing the words out in a harsh whisper, self-scathing and intolerant. There's pain and fear behind them and no gentleness for her own weaknesses.

"I shouldn't have--" she doesn't finish the thought; there are so many ways to finish the thought. They all end in her hands balling into fists, in her swallowing down a lump in her throat. "And it's not even that, I mean, he would have... He would have killed me, back there, and that's, that's not even it."

She reached up and slid her hand around to press against the back of her neck. Her tongue felt heavy and her eyelids like sand. Emily was having trouble separating six years ago from now, having trouble with the feelings of impotence and helplessness which had resurfaced with a vengence.

"If he'd taken you," she said, but couldn't look over at Owen. "Owen if he'd..." her voice trembles, falls away, falls in on itself. "I couldn't have... he wouldn't have just let us go. I couldn't have done anything about it. Not a fucking thing. All of us, we'd all have died there...."

There was no veil between them now. Emily could not hold back the rush of things-unsaid and things-unwanted. She laid her head down on her upturned knees and cried. She was too spent to pray, not worthy of reaching out to God or to the Chorister (friend?) just an arm's span away.

She was alone, again. (Orphaned.)

[Owen Page] It doesn't make it better when he calls on the very tools that had spared [some, but not all] of them earlier tonight. Emily calls herself a bitch, calls herself stupid and Owen's lips part to protest but nothing more than something that might have formed a vowel, or the beginnings of Emily, no emerge from between them.

He makes some noise instead, and his fingers, the fingers that feel clumsy and heavy tonight close around the chain, slide right down to where the cross had been pressed, hot to his skin. He holds to it, and the overwhelming stifle that is his resonance this night seeps into the room again; like some invisible roll of storm-clouds growing over the horizon, they build, it builds but it is not enough; there is strain showing on the Initiate's face, sweat beading in his hairline as he tries to call on a higher power [god make me an instrument] but cannot sustain it.

It is too much.
Too soon after.

The pressure eases after a few seconds and Emily is still crying.

"No," it's a whisper, but it's there, and it demands so much with its utterance, there's a vehemence behind it that is enough to startle, to shock. He slides closer to her now, urges her to fold against him, to fold into his arms and take some measure of comfort as she had just done to him. Strange that he now felt calmer, like he had had his own faith put to the test a few moments ago and weathered the storm, arrived, beaten and shaken on the other side.

A hand strokes through her hair, a voice whispers down to her as she is pressed close enough to hear the constant vibrato of his heart beneath his shirt. "You are none of those things. You helped me tonight, you saved that little boy's life."

He tightens his hold on her a little, slides a hand down to link their fingers.

This close, this strung out and exhausted, there is no more room for his shame, or his fear of being too close to her, of allowing her past his defenses. For right now, she is well beyond them and he cannot muster the strength to resist.

He needs her.
She needs to hear this.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

[Emily Littleton] His resonance pushes across her skin again, sluices down her curved back and sloughs off any last pretentions she held on to. Its intensity makes it hard(er) to breathe, stills and stiffles the ragged sounds of her breathing. It forces an awareness of something other than her own tumult.

It is comforting in its own, unrelenting way. Beating against the vestiges of her composure; it's all Owen's, it speaks to his nearness and his solemnity, his Faith and surety. It leaves her well appraised of precisely where she stands; it pushes; she pushes, and it answers back.

It's steady, in a moment where nothing else seems to be.

A rock.
Safe harbor.
Strong arms to enfold, to hold.

Emily rests her head on his shoulder, lets the tattoo of his heartbeat underscore each word that he says. Even without her expanded senses, she is intimately aware of him. Of the marks and memories that the night has left on his skin, his person, of its effects on her as well. Of the fragile, needy place they have both fallen into.

The sobbing abates. She no longer shudders against him, but the warm flow of tears does not stay just yet. His fingers find hers and Emily's curl around them. They are colder than they should be, a chill brought on by the night and by the shock and withdrawal.

He needs her.
She needs him.

"Don't go..." she says, softly. As if it's too much to ask, even here, even in a hushed whisper against the skin of his shoulder. "Don't just, just up and leave..." (me behind [like the others have]).

Any other night, she would have been too careful to speak it. Any other night, Emily would have left that insecurity and fear as just a shadow on her mind. It wouldn't have come out in a pleading whisper. Her fingers tight on his (please), but this time she does not start to pull away before he can answer.

Unveiled, unsettled, unguarded -- it is too much, too soon after, and it leaves her raw (but quieting [calming]).

[Owen Page] He's all but pulled her onto his lap in the quest to provide some semblance of comfort for what she [for what they both] have been through tonight. One arm looped around her shoulders tightens in response to her words [don't go] as if to reflect the meaning behind them [stay with me]. He turns his face, his lips barely brushing against the crown of her head.

"I'm not going to."

It's a vow as much as anything he's said to her is, a pledge spoken aloud that means a great deal more coming as it does on the heels of such an event. He rubs her arm absently, a gesture intended to soothe and then the movement lessens, stills and it, and he simply become as she needs them to be right now.

They become a safe harbor.
A fixed point to which she can navigate herself to.

Don't just up and leave.
"I wouldn't."

He murmurs, and the Chorister's voice is thick, drowsy with exhaustion that he has been striving to fight off for hours. She can feel the slackening of his grasp on her, the way his breathing slows, becomes a steady rise and fall. She can sense the stillness that means he's sleeping; his brow is unlined for once, years of worry and regret stripped away by the vulnerability of slumber.

Owen sleeps, and holds on to her, as long as it takes.

Keeping Court: an exchange of riches

[Emily Littleton] The time has come, the Orphans said, to talk of many things...

Winter had broken, receded in fits and starts, leaving a rainy, windy Spring in its wake. The ground thawed, gave way, yielded, broke, (nurtured) let young shoots break through, to grow, stretch (yawn), reach : this was the Season of rebirth, of rediscovery (rekindling). The trees in the woods were thick with leaf buds and flowers, anticipating still warmer days, ready to spread again their canopy over the walkways and paths that threaded through the area.

The time for seeing clearly through the trees was almost past.

The time for gentle shade and fragrant breezes was just beginning.

Emily wound her way out the Court, to where the fallen Kings (trees) slumbered, to where they'd met before to talk of things both great and small. She carried a blanket this time, so that the wet-damp would not wick through to their clothes so quickly. She brought tea, in a thermos, and sandwiches to share. Simple fare, bright and clear flavors: Basil, tomato, mozarella with just a hint of balsamic and garlic. She brought Reverence, Unrelenting and ever building.

She looks for the rowan-haired Other as she approaches, the Other who comes down the opposite path, paths that kiss and then turn back away from one another like reluctant lovers. In the distance a bird calls out, stirs the quiet with its rolling voice. She looks up; she looks back down, and keeps walking.

[Kage R. Jakes] Emily reaches the fallen oak (king [lord]) before Kage does. Not long before, but before. Emily has time to note the transformation. They'd met here in autumn, the trees wearing summer's last-crown; the trees russet, bare, undressing to be shriven (naked [and unforgiving]). They'd pilgrimaged in winter, the air so cold it drank their breath and re-cast it, sketched delicate calligraphy in the air, and more than once.

Now it is Spring, and the earth has resurrected gold from the dead and dying earth: the delicate gold-that-is-green that a brush of breath'll bruise. Now, it is Spring, and trumpets have thrust out've the earth; there are carpets of purple, there are flowers, there are bees, bumbling and heavy in the honey-light of the late-afternoon, and yet still. Still.

Emily reaches the fallen oak (lord [king]) before Kage does. Not long before, but before. And perhaps she's already settled in when, down the familiar path, around the winding road, the red-haired, rowan-haired, blood-haired creature comes, pale-skinned and almost, for a moment, a lovely thing, says, grinning: "Hail, and well met -- and too long between true meetings."

[Kage R. Jakes] [and, just because! percept+awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] The sunlight is different; its hue shifts in the late afternoon as the year passes, as time goes by. It was a deep umber-amber when they'd met; it is honeyed now. The in-between times it was clearer, colder, bluer. In the summer it will be hotter, whiter, scathing.

"Hail and well met," the raven-haired (raven-hearted?) returns, with a growing smile that is mostly warmth (thawed) and less wry than oft before. The accent lingers, an unsteady constant amid a sea of change. "I hope the time has treated you well," she adds.

She is not the same as she was. She does not expect Kage to be, either. But there is a blanket laid out, and buzzing bees, and the relative stillness of an amber afternoon.

"I bring offerings of sandwiches and tea." There is a little flourish to the words, if it does not reach her hand that much can be forgiven. It is a beginning, much like their other beginnings.

[Kage R. Jakes] The (not for much longer) other Orphan is not the same. Kage looks at her, and sees [and hears (and feels)] the thrum of reverence wash across her skin, press against her eyelids, against her mouth and throat, against her pulse, but it is also unrelenting, relentless; it is also stronger than it was before, differently-nuanced, and the red-haired woman studies the dark-haired, looks at her, and then smiles. This is the sort've smile that draws lines around her eyes, around her mouth; that creeps into her dark eyes, illuminates them, touches them with a transformative radiance, so that, briefly, she is all gorgeousness.

"Well, well," she says. "Look at you. I'm glad I brought the good desserts on which to feast each other, because -- Emily, you're different. You've, well; you feel different, so something important must have happened. Are you glad? Does it feel right?"

And Kage, who has approached, and is now folding herself down to sit on the blanket, settles a box tied with string in which there is -- well, something delicate and delicious, something wealthy, something that tastes of decadence, something that will make the tongue yearn -- dessert down on the blanket, but off to the side. Today, in spring-clothing, she has a light blue sweater, knit, but skimming off both shoulders, and she also has a knapsack of some random print, which she lets drop behind her.

[Emily Littleton] She thinks, perhaps, that she ought to have been chagrinned, embarrassed at how easily they all could tell, how they just knew -- but there is happiness underneath that, overbrimming and eroding the shyness, negating the desire to look away. Instead there is a twinkle to her dark blue eyes, a lightness to the little lines that frame them.

"I am glad," she says, as if it were a great surprise to find herself so. "And it does feel right. Ashley called it Seeking, and she seems to think it's a good thing."

She takes up a place on the blanket, across from Kage. It has been a busy Winter, and Spring presses on at a fittingly unrelenting pace. Emily pulls to white-wrapped bundles out her bag, hands one to Kage. When the paper is pulled away, there is a finely crafted sandwich within. Fresh bread, fresh herbs, fresh tomato, fresh cheese -- it celebrates (elevates) the season without ceremony.

"And you? Have you had any great adventures? Memorable conversations? Forgettable flings? Journeys that take you away, so that you can return again?" She asks, she pushes without truly meaning to. It is not as uncomfortable as Owen's intensity, or as Hungry as Ashley's, but it is pushing (Seeking) still.

[Kage R. Jakes] "It is a good thing. And difficult. And private, but I'm curious, and we're friends, so I'm going to ask anyway. Did you meet your avatar? Did you Seek on purpose or did what wanted to be Sought find you?" Before Emily can answer, Kage has taken a bite of the sandwich, and she has closed her eyes [rapture (quiet)]. Kage, when biting into something that tastes delicious, that is simple, but full of homage, Kage doesn't make a sound low in the back of her throat, doesn't make any sort've sound at all: just closes her eyes for a moment, quiet, and stops breathing for a second. Then she breathes again, something approaching mischief in her gaze. "This is good. What deli did you purchase them at?"

"And, oh. There have been adventures, and memorable conversations, and if I had any forgettable flings, I am sorry to report I must have drunk deep of Amnesia's draught, because I do not recall them. Oh! I did get you something in L.A. Do you want it now, or shall I save it until after we've supped?"

And then, quiet. Not pushing, but still: quiet, a place for Emily to lay her own words down, answers to questions, more speech, more talk.

Tea and candor

[Emily Littleton] The apartment is taking shape, turning from a blank slate (and oh how literally she means it) to a place that one might imagine calling home. It is not yet Home, it may never be, but it masquerades as such far better than in previous weeks.

An invitation is extended to the Hermetic, who bore the brunt of most of the organizational headaches for the Awakened community, who was warmer than she thought, who was a better friend (even in passing) than most of the people who wandered in and out of Emily's life. Come on over, if you like -- it started. My place is only half together, but I can make tea -- it offered.

When Ashley arrives, the building is a mostly maintained brick walkup. The buzzer at the front gate is broken, and Emily told her to just come on up. There is no elevator, only a stairway that leads to the second story of flats. Emily's is 2F; the door is slightly ajar.

The Orphan's apartment is wood-floored and not terribly spacious, but the derth of furniture makes it seem far more open than it otherwise would. There are two bookshelves in the living room, and before them a couple carrier boxes still waiting (begging) to be unpacked. There is a beautiful wood rocking chair, with a throw blanket draped over one arm and a book (The Witch of Portabello) in its seat. There is no sofa, no television, no arm chairs. Clearly a work in progress. What is most impressive, though, is the unbroken line of dark-framed pictures that extends across one wall, wraps the corner and continues down the next. They are small, individually, and the frames are mounted so that they just touch edges -- each contains a single photograph or clipping, each annotated in Emily's careful hand with a city and country.

Ashley could spend hours studying that progression of pictures, but now her attention would be drawn on to the small dining space, where a suspiciously IKEA-looking table was surrounded by equally IKEA-esque chairs. The table was draped with a cheerful linen and topped with a mason jar of fresh flowers, which softened the Swede-modernity somewhat.

And Emily, herself would come readily when she knocked (there was no bell to ring), with a smile and a little wave. "Come in," she'll say, and pull the door open a little more.

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley's heard from several other magi (mostly her father, the Akashic, and her Euthanatos compatriots) that things happen in cycles. And they do, sometimes. When she arrives at Emily's there's a bag tucked in against her hip, small and undecorated, and several months ago a different Orphan visited Ashley's apartment for the first time and brought the gift of tea.

They're Awakened. Perhaps she views it as a chiminage, of sorts, even subconsciously. You bring a gift when you visit the home of another.

When Emily answers the door and invites her inside, Ashley is shuffling about outside the door, gaze wandering up and down the hall. She invites other people to -her- home more often than not, and this is one of the only apartments she's been to. It's with the air of one unaccustomed, of someone mildly uncertain and running through potential topics, that she waits.

"Hi, Emily. Thanks," she says, stepping into the place once invited. And when inside, she embarks on a quiet study of the room's furniture (IKEA, Swedish, modern and severe and softened by the throw blanket) and how barren it looks. She's a little surprised, and it shows; it's not how she would have expected to find the abode of someone who gives off the sort of feel that Emily does.

After a few seconds she remembers to extend the bag. "I brought you tea. From a shop downtown. But I, uh, it occurred to me just now that you might not have stuff to prepare it" - properly - "so if you don't, sorry."

[Emily Littleton] The trappings of her flat (home? [not quite yet]) were at odds with Emily's personality, and Ashley wasn't the first to notice. Most of the defining pieces had been gifts, without any input or advice from the Orphan herself. One of the boys had done significantly better than the other in picking out substantial moveables for her place.

The surprise catches Emily's eye, and she sheepishly counters: "I know, I know. I'm still working on getting it put together. I've never had my own place before, so all I had was my futon when I moved in."

There's a little laugh, self-deprecating but easy, as she closes the door behind Ashley. Emily's shoes sit neatly beside the entryway, but she doesn't ask Ashley to take hers off.

The gift, chiminage or etiquette or well-wishes, whatever it was or represented, Emily accepted it gratefully and gracefully. "Thank you," she says, with genuine warmth. Not the thin-lipped but still smiling thank you the IKEA boxes had received.

"I can put the kettle on, if you like. Don't worry, I've a teapot, a strainer and glass or ceramic mugs, which ever you prefer," she added, quickly. The Orphan would not have survived long in the company of their mutual Verbena acquaintance had she been less finicky about things like tea.

"It's nice to have another tea-snob around," she admits. "Owen keeps making me Lipton from a tea bag, and I haven't the heart to tell him is tastes like steeped cardboard."

[Ashley McGowen] Emily doesn't bid her to take her shoes off, but Ashley does anyway, tugging the knots in the laces free and wiggling her feet out of the canvas and rubber shell. She leaves them near the door, near Emily's, as she steps further into the flat.

While Emily talks she's looking at the pictures, studying them, reading the story that they provide. A mage and her Will are the embodiment of a concept, of a Word. Of a story. Ashley often finds that it plays itself out in some way in their homes, in the way they impress themselves upon a space that is theirs alone.

"Sure, I'd like some," she says as she peers at a few of the images. Emily's mention of tea-snobs gets a grin, a quick fleeting thing. "And a ceramic mug, please. Morgan tends to bring me tea from coffee shops, and I feel the same way about it, but I don't really have the heart to tell her that. A couple of people here actually know how to make it properly, though."

There's another look back to the pictures, and investigation of the other objects within the flat, though she never actually goes so far as to touch anything. Curious (hungry) thing, Ashley is. "How've you been? Get things figured out with Owen?"

[Emily Littleton] There are very few pictures of Emily, but it does not take long for Ashley to surmise that the pictures are arranged on a timeline of sorts. The oldest are marked Manchester, England and then they range as far as ChengDu, China, Tokyo, Japan and San Francisco, United States. There are many other places represented, many times and people threaded through, but no place seems to stay prominent for very long. The last two pictures in the series are a picture of the Chicago skyline, and a broken frame (the glass has been pieced back together with strong tape) with a picture of two feathers: one white, one black.

The more carefully Ashley looked at any one image, the more deeply personal it seemed. These were the secrets that Emily didn't share, didn't even allude to, spread out across her wall so innocently. There's a newspaper photo, in a frame marked Prague, Czech Republic, of emergency vehicles parked on the banks of the river. It's followed by another picture from Manchester, England, a collection of high school age children in private school uniforms. Among them is Emily, looking faintly haunted, in a blazer that fits none too well.

But those are then, and this is now:

Emily finds her way to the kitchen, pausing only slightly to pull one of the chairs away from the table enough to be inviting. She fills the kettle, lights the burner, and sets the vessel down with practiced, easy movements.

"I've never quite gotten used to taking tea in paper cups," Emily admits with a softer smile. Tea seems like something they could discuss as almost equals. "And I've been well. Good, really."

There's a pause, but it's just a little hiccough. Ashley tends to push at things others would leave alone. Something in Emily can relate to that, too, and so she shrugs at it rather than bristling. "We're figuring it out. I'm meeting him later on in the week for some some prep-work toward joining the Chorus."

Emily does not yet know this means shooting hoops in the park. She doesn't know what will come afterwards, either. The Orphan does know where she's stowed her mugs, and she brings two down along with the teapot. Sets them on the counter. Measures out the tea with an unmarked spoon and a careful eye. Waits.

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley does tend to push at things that others would leave alone. At times she doesn't even seem to be aware that she's doing it, much as she seems to be unaware of whether or not her close inspection of these photographs is invading Emily's privacy. They're out here in the open, after all, out for anyone who cares to look and put everything together. Ashley bothers to hide very little of who she is: she assumes that others do the same. She assumes that if there is a subject that is barred from discussion, they should be assertive enough to say so.

She's remembering, now, to pull off her coat, to shrug it off of her narrow shoulders and cast about for a place to put it. She settles for a place near the door, over one of the doorknobs. Her frame is still a little too small, a little too thin. Sinewy and hollow in a way that it wasn't when they first ran into each other last November. But a lot has changed since then.

Emily mentions, though, that she's joining the Chorus, and the Hermetic looks over at her with a twitch of the corner of her mouth. Something approaching a smirk. "Chorus, huh? I called it," she says, and it's not without some pride that she says it. "What did he say to convince you?"

Emily is taking down mugs, measuring out tea, and Ashley wanders away from the photographs so she can stand closer to the Orphan while they talk. Close enough that she can read lips if it's necessary (with some words it is), close enough that Emily's voice doesn't give off a faint but disconcerting echo in the empty flat.

[Emily Littleton] The accent likely doesn't help Ashley parse the Orphan(for now)'s words either. The mouth shapes are slightly different, too.

Ashley hides very little; Emily gives little away. It's possible (probable) that the Hermetic learns more about her from a cursory survey of the pictures on Emily's wall than she has in all of their conversations to date. At least about where she's been, who she's been, and a vague hint of where she's headed.

I called it.
Emily's hands still at whatever she's doing. She looks up and over at Ashley with a thinly-veiled smirk. It blossoms into a grin at the note of pride (approval).

"It's not so much what he said," Emily offered, tentatively at first. As if she was considering each word carefully. "I think it's just where I'm meant to be, and he let me figure that out on my own. It's what I kept coming back to, when I think about which group to join -- though some of the Chantry politics of late have made me wonder if I'm better off as an Orphan..."

This is lighter, almost jesting, but with just enough gravitas to hold (worrisome) weight.

"We get along well enough, and can talk about these things without too much distraction or drama. It's a beginning, at the very least." She looked over at the stove to check if the water was boiling yet, then removed the kettle from the burner before it started screaming.

[Ashley McGowen] "Chantry politics applies even to orphans," Ashley says, stepping over to just inside the kitchen. There she leans a hip into the counter, rests an elbow, would look casual and relaxed but for the perpetual tension that finds its way into the lines of her back, her shoulders. It's not nervousness. It's readiness, the sort of preparation to fight or flee that is ingrained after long years of training and Awakened life, the sort that becomes so natural that it's subconscious.

She's not a warrior or a soldier, but sometimes she carries herself a little like one. A Tytalan can do no less.

"I'm glad you have someone to teach you. I don't know Owen too well, but he seems like he's reliable. He isn't a coward," which, from Ashley, means something. "And you'll probably be caught up with him sooner than you think, if you've already been Seeking. It usually takes most apprentices a bit longer than what you've managed."

It's with some approval that she says it. An acknowledgment that Emily has managed something out of the ordinary.

[Emily Littleton] Emily is slowly becoming more alert, more ready. Give it another few more months and she'll start carrying a similiar readiness, a taut awareness to her frame. Give it enoguh time and she will likely be, like Owen, like Ashley: less startled by every thing that comes her way.

The Awakened world was not as safe or straightforward as the mundane one.

"He's... solid." The younger woman seems to consider that word for awhile. It's not what she wants to say, but it's close enough. She's not sure that there's a word in English for what she wants to say, or a word at all. "Steady. But I get the feeling he wouldn't hesitate to protect the people he cares for."

She's pouring the hot water (just below boiling) over the tea, letting it steep while they spoke.

"And thank you," Emily smiles. "I think. But I have a long way to go to catch up, I think. Even if things seem a bit more settled, now. I went to see Owen after, ah, Seeking and I quite stuck my foot in my mouth. He seems so much better adjusted to all of this," a little chuckle. Just a small one.

Emily pours the tea out into two mugs, straining the leaves from each as she pours. One is offered to Ashley, the other she keeps for herself.

"Any way, I've not told many people about joining, the Chorus that is. Owen says we'll go down to the Church soon... and make it official." There's a gently lifted eyebrow, and the shadow of a smirk to that. It had taken Emily a couple days to pick up on the joke (she'd had to come down after her Seeking first), but she passed on the quiet look at Owen's sense of humor with open amusement.

[Ashley McGowen] She quite stuck her foot in her mouth. Ashley had suspected that the Seeking had something to do with whatever happened between her and Owen. The way people interact is part of her environment; the way they relate to each other is, too, and so she is naturally curious about it. She wants to know, can't leave questions unasked or unanswered.

"Official?" she asks Emily, raising her eyebrows as she watches the Orphan pour the tea in to steep. "I'm surprised you guys would have to take vows in a church or something like that. Well, I mean, I guess I'm not that surprised, but I didn't think a lot of members of the Chorus necessarily were affiliated with the church anymore." She muses, over this.

"Anyway, of course Owen's better adjusted. You've only been at it for a couple of months, really. Just starting to wrap your head around the fact that the world isn't what you thought it was." She remembers having that confusion very well; she also remembers taking a while to adjust to the fact. Though she had some additional complications that Emily does not have.

Hermetics shed their old lives, their old selves, when they Awaken and begin their studies. For some people the manner of Awakening can't help but provide a solid divide, a clear schism in identity.

[Emily Littleton] "I met Owen at St. James," Emily explained. "Well, it was the first time we really got a chance to talk, so I"m not counting the night at the Chantry..."

The Orphan, for now, brought her mug toward her center, let the scent of the tea permeate her senses. This was comfortable, for all Ashley pushed. It didn't seem to knock Emily off-center today; it was an improvement.

"I'd gone to the Church to see if it still fit, in any way, in my life." She focused on the rim of her tea mug for a moment. Thinking. Reflecting. "I met Owen, and we talked a little. I asked about the Singers..."

Emily sipped at her tea, then offered Ashley an abrupt change of subject and a smile. "This is quite nice! Thank you!" Ahh, a fellow tea lover and a new tea to enjoy. The flat was feeling a bit more like home every day.

"After that we ran into each other a few times, like people seem to do in this city, and when I got back from Manchester we talked about it a bit more definitely. Maybe, soon, I'll stop being surprised by every new thing. I think that should be my next goal," she floated the idea past the more established mage with a smile.

[Ashley McGowen] "You're welcome. It's one of my favorites," she says, accepting her mug from Emily and listening while the Orphan talks. She doesn't sip from hers yet, just holds it by the handle and keeps it flat against the palm of the other hand.

The Hermetic can't be said to put people at ease. She's not a people person; she doesn't go out of her way to be friendly or acclimating or even to reassure them that she cares when she asks them questions (much of the time, she doesn't, and to say so would be disingenuous.) Yet most people are surprisingly open. Maybe they're aware that she'd offer the same, and as freely, were they to ask questions of her, or maybe the well-meaning and compassionate just feel inclined to feed the hungry. (Less inclined to threaten if you offer it those small bits.)

"That's going to take a while," she tells Emily. "Because there are some pretty strange things out there and we haven't even encountered that much of it in Chicago yet." There's a bit of a smile as she lifts the mug finally, tests it carefully before taking a longer swallow. "Besides. Once it all becomes commonplace you'll start missing the days where things used to surprise you."

[Emily Littleton] There's a sea-change, here. A turning point. Emily has offered up some things -- the pictures on the wall of her flat (Ashley is the first who's really looked at them, who's studied them at all), a small look at her friendship with Owen -- and now it's her turn to ask some questions.

"So how do things look from your side, then?" Hesitant. Emily isn't quite sure what the formalities and strictures are in this new society, but she hazards that even Ashley's rank might need to talk now and then. Or just to opine. "How's what you and Wharil laid out at the meeting working out? I don't really have much perspective on the things you're trying to get sorted, but it sounds like it could be frustrating work."

She doesn't say: Especially with arguments like this weekend's at the Chantry. She doesn't say: With how hesitant every seems to work together. She just asks, inexpertly, and hopes for the best.

[Ashley McGowen] "It seems like it's working out all right," Ashley says, and here there's another sidelong look toward Emily. Maybe she's noticed the way Emily and Riley and Chuck and Owen often seem to be found in one another's company. Maybe Chuck said something. Either way, it's almost a certainty that she's passed her thoughts on what's going on there along to the Euthanatos.

"I sort of figured when we tried to push people that they just needed to be given permission to go out and do things. I didn't think Willworkers would need a lot of direction," Ashley says, after a few moments. And there is indeed frustration in her tone. A little contempt, maybe, though not at Emily per se. It's not politic, what she says there, but Emily commented so she replied.

"But it seems like things are starting to come together, or at least Wharil thinks so." Ashley, the more skeptical of the two, the more cynical (only in some ways) is reserving judgment. "There are a lot of things that need attention but I was glad Israel called that meeting."

She was relieved, in fact, though she doesn't say so.

[Emily Littleton] There's a sidelong look, but not a question. So it gets answered with a glance of Emily's dark blue eyes, looking over the rim of her mug. (Who me? I'm not up to anything.)

"There's a lot of energy getting expended on one problem or another," Emily observes, with a little scrunch of her nose (disapproving) and a slight shrug. "But then everyone gets caught up on posturing, egos, or rehashing stupid shit that happened before..."

Oh, look, a candid opinion. The Orphan, Apprentice, bottom of the heap, had noticed a problem with the power structure, too. And it wasn't too far from Ashley's contempt.

"... momentum falls away, and then it seems like things stew forever. I'm glad we had a meeting about the Blue Horizon stuff, but I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner -- like while I was away.

"What do you think of Israel?" Emily asks, seemingly all curiosity and devoid of motive here. But that's not true. She was at the Chantry this weekend, witnessed the altercation between Basil and the elder Orphan. Emiliy was curious, too curious for someone merely inquiring after an emerging leader.

[Ashley McGowen] Posturing and egos, Emily says, and the Hermetic just shrugs. It's something she's used to, being a Hermetic - and yet somehow their Tradition manages to be incredibly organized, reputed to be the most organized of them. "It's only until people figure out where they stand in relation to each other," Ashley says. "It's going to happen. Until there's a hierarchy established in Chicago. And then after that, most people will know where they stand."

And hopefully the stupid and spineless ones will be put in their place, her tone says.

She takes another sip from her mug and looks thoughtfully around the kitchen, absorbing what there is to absorb in here too. Much less detail than the pictures outside, but she likes to notice things. Likes to put a picture of a place together in her mind. Then Emily is asking about Israel.

"She seems like she has a lot of experience, which is appreciated," Ashley says, after a moment. "And she's insightful." There's a thoughtful pause as Ashley orders her thoughts, notices Emily's curiosity but doesn't think much of it - she, after all, questions incessantly. She does wonder, though, how much she should say. In the end, it doesn't stop her. She's honest. "...Very convinced of her own righteousness, and too willing to martyr herself," she adds, after a moment. "I get suspicious of people who claim to altruism. They're never nearly as selfless as they want to imagine themselves. Tends to make them more dangerous, more often than not."

[Emily Littleton] Emily's kitchen is well put together, considering the relative incompleteness of her flat. There's a copper jug beside the stove, filled with wooden spoons, a narrow whisk, and a few spatulas. The counters are clear and uncluttered. The kettle perches on the stove, as if it's home were there. As if it never left. There's a neatly folded towel beside the sink. It's clean there, ordered, but it's the room she's most moved into.

"I was there," Emily says, letting on at last to what had motivated her to ask. "For the argument with Mr. Gillingson this weekend." This was the only mage Ashley had heard Emily describe as Mister this or Miss that outside of a meeting. It's possible that she doesn't remember Basil's name.

"I was curious as to what you thought, since you've likely heard what happened by now." Emily's tone seems to hold approval, for how Ashley had answered. It's not overt, but it's clear enough in her expression and easy-going tone that Ashley should have no trouble picking up on it. There's a pause, but it's not quite long enough for Ashley to get a thought in. "I don't think it was the best introduction to any of them; and I almost asked Owen if I'll have to learn some sort of God-fu when I join the Chorus."

There's a smirk, but it's half-hearted and not entirely warm. Emily didn't really like the idea of punching anyone (at this moment [there were some moments when it sounded like an excellent idea to her, but not now]).

[Ashley McGowen] Emily brings up the argument with 'Mr. Gillingson' and Ashley's eyes roll heavenward. Briefly, but they still do. Ashley, presumably, can't state her feelings on Mr. Gillingson, the Seventh Lightning Strike of Jorvika and whatever else, but to anyone who observes those first few seconds, she doesn't have to. "Yeah, Israel called me right after it happened. It could have been handled better," she says. "But it was bound to happen at the chantry sooner or later. It's even beneficial in its way."

It's particularly beneficial to Ashley, who would much rather have the Quaesitor occupied with a vendetta against a rival cabal than observing her too closely. Conflict happens. The flexible benefit.

"I'm not going to get involved. Basil's dealings are his own, as far as I'm concerned, until it becomes an issue of chantry safety," she says with a shrug. Another sip from her mug, which is rapidly draining; she uses it to fill up pauses in conversation, points where she needs a little time to mull over her words before she says them.

God-fu, says Emily, and the Hermetic grins. "I think they're pretty much like any other Tradition. You've got a couple of people with a martial bent, but most of us aren't action heroes."

[Emily Littleton] "Would you like some more tea?" Emily offers. It's a polite thing, easily observed. Whatever lessons or parenting had shaped Emily's etiquette, hospitality was clearly hammered into her on one level or another.

"I suppose when you have a handful of people who can shape the world around them, there's bound to be conflict and outbursts?" Emily ventures, seemingly content to let it lie for now. She'd had time to calm down, after what happened. She didn't show favoritism to either side, either. (My father works for the Embassy.) Another thing that had been all but beaten into her at an early age. Staying the hell out of it, when needed.

"In many ways, the Awakened world doesn't seem all that different. Just that everything's turned up to eleven, and every threat is that much more immanent." Oh, Emily. How little you know. Just the next evening, she and Owen would be closer to that truth than she'd ever hope to be.

"I wanted to thank you, again, for being patient with me. And pushing me. It's not always easy, but I feel like I coming away from our conversations with something new, or something to pursue -- it's been really helpful."

"I hope your cabalmates push you, too. Well, in helpful ways that is."

[Ashley McGowen] "Please," she says, when offered more tea, and sets the mug back down on the counter. While Emily goes about that she folds her arms, raising a hand to tug thoughtfully at her lower lip as she leans back against the counter.

"There's conflict anytime. Trying to avoid the fact is kind of pointless, and harmful besides. You don't come to any greater understanding of your Will if you don't allow other people to challenge you," she says. Mild amusement when Emily says that it's not that different, just turned up.

She might have something to say to that, but then Emily is thanking her for her patience, for pushing her, and the Hermetic almost seems surprised for a beat or two. The kind of surprise that says that she's more used to people getting irritated with her for such things. "You're welcome," she says, after a moment. "I didn't realize it was helping that much. And...yeah, Wharil and Gregor have been helpful. Now that we've sort of figured each other out. Putting a cabal together isn't really easy."

[Emily Littleton] Ashley seems surprised, but Emily's used to being pushed, prodded, picked up and taken out of her comfort zone over and over again. Usually by surreptious relocation, not usually by demons in the park or electrified Hermetics or strange winged imagery taking over her mind and seeming so damned real. There's part of her that thrives on that challenge, that is greatful for the break from the growing complacency of being in one place, pursuing one goal, for two and a half years. She's Dynamic, and that's manifesting in her magic now as something Unrelenting.

She pours them both more tea. Ashley first. There's a lightness to how she handles the teapot, to the single finger that weighs down its lid. She learned to take and pour tea in an Asian home first, and the mannerisms come forward at odd moments.

"No, I can't imagine it would be," she says, handing Ashley's mug back to her. "If finding a mentor has been this... complicated..." There's a little shrug. She sips at her tea. They're beyond her expertise now, and soon the quiet starts to build.

Before it can grow to sizeable, Emily catches herself with a little oh! and excuses herself for a moment. When she comes back, she's carrying a fabric-wrapped something with quiet a bit of heft to it. The fabric is a soft green color, with black and white lines that trace out interwoven and overlapping leaves. She hands this to Ashley, and it is immediately clear what's hidden within: a book.

A book with a curved corners, with a gently arched spine.

"You asked me once about the stories I'd grown up on. I found this in my room of the old house, back in Manchester. I thought you might like it. It's easier reading that you're used to, I'm sure..." She's rambling, and Emily takes up her tea again to quell the sudden social nervousness.

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley wasn't much of a reader, before she Awoke. It would probably surprise the magi she knows now, because it's what she spends so much of her time doing, immersing herself in stories and Words, shuffling through the hundreds (thousands?) of books she keeps lining her walls at home. It's the closest she comes to touching something she's lost, rifling through pages and watching how words blend into a whole (like a symphony,) lying on a concrete balcony in Berlin recounting old tales because they had to leave their books at home and the showmanship involved.

So she isn't as familiar with a lot of the stories people know growing up as one might expect. She raises an eyebrow when Emily extends the gift forward, accepts it and pulls the fabric away. "I'll read just about anything," she tells Emily, slightly amused, when the Orphan worries that it might be too easy. "And I haven't read a lot of kids' and young adult books that a lot of people talk about."

And, once it's free of its wrappings, turns the cover over in her hands and flips through the pages, running a thumb over the curved corners, getting a sense for what's within.

[Emily Littleton] It's an old book. Old enough to be heavy-bound (leather, not oil cloth) with many of the letters rubbed off the binding. Old enough to be typeset in an unfamiliar font. Old enough to have pictures that look more like ingravings, woodcuts, art pieces in and of themselves, than just illustrations or figures.

It's a book of Celtic and British folklore, retold by local historians and members of the oral traditions. A people's mythic history, in their own words and tongues. It's not the mythos that Ashley follows, but it's from a place of similar depth in the Universal Unconscious.

"I grew up reading the stories of whatever country we were living in at the time. My father said it would help me better understand their cultures, be a better ambassador for our own." There's a little eyeroll, but it's mixed with a fondness as well. "But these are the kind of stories I came home to. I thought you might like it. It's hard to find things like this here."

[Ashley McGowen] "Thank you," she says, already flipping through the pages and reading the headers at the beginning of each story. "...This is probably fairly valuable, actually. I probably know some of these already, but they tend to change the more they get retold," and there's enthusiasm there, of the scholarly sort. "I did a section on the evolution of folklore as part of my thesis, actually."

She restrains herself from that particular tangent, though - she's at least aware that the vast majority of people do not find supermemes and social evolution nearly as interesting as she does - and glances back up at Emily. "Thanks. Are you sure you want to give it to me?" This, only because Emily did mention her father, that he gave it to her.

A beat. "Did you grow up in an embassy or something?"

[Emily Littleton] Ashley seems pleased and it brings a warmer smile to Emily's features. It touches her eyes this time, brightening them noticeably.

"I'm sure," the Orphan says, with certainty. "There are so many books in the house that no one even looks at, much less reads anymore. If you'll enjoy it -- and it even sounds pertinent to your studies -- then it'll find a better home with you than with me or locked up in the study."

She'd asked Gregory before taking the book. They'd agreed that it was time for some of the things in the house to find new homes. This was just one of them items that would be reshuffled. And it hadn't been her father's, but that was a question for another time.

"In Embassies, or Embassy housing, or just whatever hotel room was available in whatever city we were living in at the time." There's a pause, a natural hesitation at opening this avenue of her life up to another person. Emily's eyes strayed to the living room, then back to Ashley. "I saw you looking at the pictures earlier? They're all from places I've lived. All either photos I've taken, or my parents have, or were taken in the timeframe when we lived there."

She takes a swallow of tea. It hides the nervousness, somewhat.

"We always went home to Manchester. It's where my mother's from; where my godfather and brother lived. But I don't really have a hometown, or memories of going to school with children my age. I didn't have my own room, or play sport, or any of that. I've lived in Chicago, now, for almost as long as I've lived anywhere else. We were in China a little longer, but not in the same city."

[Ashley McGowen] "I'd wondered about your accent. I'm usually very good at placing them," Ashley says, closing the book and folding it in between her elbow and hip. Emily's gaze wanders over in the direction of the living room, back toward the photographs, and Ashley's follows. She doesn't really need to look again to recall the images, to recall all of the places Emily seems to have visited and lived in, imprinted on her consciousness with clarity.

Emily adds that this is almost the longest she's lived anywhere, that she seems to be settling, and Ashley takes this in with furrowed eyebrows as she looks over her shoulder at the mostly-empty apartment. Emily is freely offering all of this, and it doesn't go unrecognized - that she's sharing information she usually doesn't. Ashley doesn't quite understand why, but she soaks in the details regardless.

"I kind of find that surprising," she says. "I sort of expected...you struck me as having a place in mind that you wanted to go back to." Hesitant, because she isn't quite sure of how to describe the feel of Emily's resonance, the essence of her Will that she leaves behind; all she knows is that it makes her think of Boston.

[Emily Littleton] "I know it doesn't look like I'm putting down roots," she says, as if the Orphan could read beyond that furrowed brow and into Ashley's thoughts. "But I've not owned more than would fit in my car -- which isn't that big -- since I moved here. It was all in few carrier boxes, my suitcases, and my futon when I got here."

She glanced at the table, chairs, at the rocking chair (of of these things is not like the others) and the still mostly-bare bookshelves with a humoring smirk.

"All of this stuff is hard for me to take in, at times. It weighs you down. I couldn't walk out that door tomorrow, if a phone call came that said I needed to. I'd have to find something to do with these things, some way to get them too Good Will or just leave them behind for the landlady to sort out." The latter didn't seem to please Emily, who liked to leave without loose ends or unfinished business.

"And I do, have a place in mind that I think I'd like to go back to. But every time I go home, it's different. People pass, or leave, or change. The home you return to is never quite the one you left," is near enough to a quote, but Emily has jumbled to wording somehow.

Emily sets her mug down on the counter. There's a little rasp of ceramic mug against ceramic tile.

"You asked about Owen, earlier. About what he'd said that made me choose the Chorus?" Emily's mouth purses a bit, and her brow furrows. "He feels like Home. I'm not sure how to explain that in any logical way, or in less subjective adjectives. But he feels like someone I could trust and be comfortable with trusting." Like Family, of her choosing but not her birthright: Emily is not bold enough to say so just yet.

"But I made a horrible mess of trying to tell him that, so please don't go repeating it." She smiles, again with the lopsided smirk and the hint of self-deprecation behind it.

[Ashley McGowen] People pass, or leave, or change. Ashley raises the mug and takes a long draught from it at those words, blue eyes wandering away from Emily and toward some indeterminate point in the living room. They return again in a matter of seconds, listening, intent. If she is surprised that Emily is being so open it doesn't show.

Most people are, if you give them time. It doesn't require a particularly sympathetic demeanor - she certainly does not have one. But sometimes people talk because the words need to be said, because they were just waiting for someone to say them to who is receptive. She takes them for what they are. Often she forgets to give anything back.

"I don't usually repeat what people tell me," she assures Emily. She raises her mug again, thinking on the other words. There's some momentary amusement, wry, before she adds, "If it's hard for you to do, chances are that means that you're doing what you should be doing."

[Emily Littleton] "Well then, I am most certainly where I belong and doing what I ought to be doing," she says with no little amusement, though it is contained. It is so often contained, and whatever Emily is giving away so freely tonight there are volumes upon volumes that she is keeping away. (Some times the easiest way to deceive is to give someone exactly what they think they want.)

"Except offering you something more than tea." A slip, that was. And she's momentarily embarrassed by it. "Would you like something to eat, or to sit, or..."

This falls away, too. Perhaps the younger woman is nervous, now, after how much she's disclosed. Perhaps it is another segue, to move away from building up the quiet spaces that end so surreptiously in Good bye between these two. There's nothing overtly awkward, tonight, to pull her away from the conversation, save that Emily doesn't know what to ask, now, or where to steer things. And that leads then back to quiet.

[Ashley McGowen] Emily's been self-conscious, throughout this entire discourse. Has explained herself and part of where she's come from, and once Ashley has made that statement that verges on reassurance, there's a coming quiet. Truth be told, Ashley doesn't know where to steer conversation either: it's difficult, when it's not work, when other people aren't asking her questions.

"I'm fine," she tells Emily. "If I wanted something, I'd ask."

There's a pause, after those first few seconds tick away. Ashley drains the rest of the tea she has in her mug and reaches behind her to set it on the counter, and then there's a sidelong look to Emily out of her right eye. Perhaps she has other inquiries, other things she noticed in the photographs that she would ask about. But she doesn't tonight.

"One thing you might want to start doing now that you have a place here is set aside a room where you can do Willworking. Or a place you can concentrate in," she says. "It'll make it easier to get into the mindset. Let me know if I can help with that."

[Emily Littleton] "Like a sanctuary? Or a study?" Emily asks. "I will definitely have questions about that."

Clearly neither Owen nor Jarod had spoken to her of Sanctums, or their purpose in magic. Soon Ashley might be asking pointed questions, not unlike Nathan's, trying to get after just what mystical information they had imparted. The girl was growing, that much was certain, but not with overmuch guidance or any true oversight.

Their conversation continues, until it finds a natural breaking point. Perhaps they no longer want any more tea, and there is no place comfortable (yet) in Emily's for two people to sit and talk. Perhaps it just grows late, and they both have school schedules to respect. Or a phone call pulls one or the other aside -- these things happen, and there's no magic to them.

What will surprise Emily most about the evening, when she looks back at it, is how much easier it was to talk with Ashley. Maybe she'll pin the credit (blame) for that on her Seeking; having taken in both aspects of her Avatar, made peace with herself, she has less to hide. Maybe it will go to Riley, or Owen, or Chuck, new friends inspiring her to trust a little more deeply, clearly. Either which way, it's with genuine warmth (and a little surprise at that) that she bids the Hermetic adieu, with a "Thanks for coming by," and a "You're welcome, any time you like."

The flat, though it is Emily's own, is not for her alone. She can't imagine taking up so much space (all 650 square feet of it) on her own without extending it also to others. It is decadence, after one has lived in half of a subletted bedroom or out of a string of hotel rooms with three people crammed right in.

Talkin' 'bout the boys

[Emily] The meeting had gone as well as Emily expected: someone besmirched someone else's Traditional aims; someone said Technocrat and raised everyone's blood pressure; the boys had been silent, leaving the girls to do the heavy-lifting of interacting with the other Magi. Politics. She hated them. Awakened politics even more than the international politics that surrounded every waking day of her childhood and adolescent lives.

They stick around to chat with Israel about the medical data, and then Emily and Riley -- who entered together -- leave, together. Two tall, dark-haired, techologically apt, twenty-somethings with their messenger bags, sharp attention, and likely paired headaches.

Emily suggests Chinese for dinner and invites Riley over to unwind from the ever fun Chantry-visit. If the other geek girl approves, they swing through a market in Chinatown and fill the basket with odd greens, tofu, some neat sauce-fixings, and a block of tofu.

Back at Emily's, it's amazing how unIKEA her flat is looking now. Riley's influence has toned down the Swede-modern flair that Chuck's gift brought forward. And the pictures on the walls add splashes of color, structure, and personality to a space that had been empty just a few weeks before. Owen's gift, the rocker, has a throwblanket draped over one arm and a book resting in its seat. It's obviously used, obviously loved. It fits into the space so much better.

There are fresh tuplis in a glass mason jar in the middle of the table, a bright and cheerful Provance table cloth adds some old-world flair and distracts from the harsh lines of the fold-away table. It's beginning to look a little more like home, except the lack of certain expected furnishings (still no sofa).

"Make yourself at home," Emily says, flicking on the lamps at the switch by the door. She steps out of her shoes and carries the groceries toward the kitchen. "There's milk, juice or beer in the fridge. Wine's in the pantry. I can make tea or coffee--" It's perfunctory; by now the Vdept knows her way around Emily's kitchen as well as the Orphan does. And Emily is easy going about sharing the space with Riley.

[Riley] It was a difficult meeting for the VA towards the end, though perhaps not for the reason anyone would suspect. Aspersions were cast vaguely in the direction of her chose Tradition, questions were raised, and Riley.

Riley happened to glance back at one point to see a dark-skinned woman standing in the corner. She looked vaguely familiar, but that's not what had the Italian woman's dark eyes widening as she very quickly looked away and willed herself to stop thinking about the woman. And the eight-legged creatures desperately trying to reach her.

She's removed from that, now. They're not in the Chantry and they've gone to the market and they're in Emily's apartment. It's peaceful here, calming. There is furniture and personality and the stamp of Emily Littleton where a few weeks ago the apartment was a blank canvas.

Her black and white Converse high-tops are left behind at the door, her bag left atop it, her hoody bundled on top of that. It makes a nice little self-contained pile. Minus these details, Riley is dressed in a light blue peasant top with white flowers, the sleeves falling just past her elbows. Her jeans are the same bootcut she usually wears, but a darker, grey wash. Or maybe they were black once. Her socks are yellow and pink. Riley Poole loves color.

"Thanks," she says. The tension she'd shown towards the end of their visit to the Chantry has vanished, and she is once again the laid back, almost even tempered woman she very nearly always is. In the kitchen, she doesn't go for the booze, doesn't ask for coffee or tea. She finds a glass and pours herself some water from the tap. She doesn't linger in Emily's way as she goes about readying homemade Chinese food, but steps just outside the kitchen and leans against the nearest solid object.

"Man, if I never go to another one of those meetings, it'll be too soon."

[Emily] Emily's busy to one side of the sink, deftly wielding her Chef's knife toward some vegetables and far less agitated now that significant time had passed since they were stuck at the meeting.

"Ditto," she echoes, trying out the slang once again. It felt odd in her mouth, but it might help her assimilate better over time. "Every time I'm at that house there's either a meeting -- which rarely end well -- or some horrible act of violence."

She's not joking, however light her tone is and however stable her wry smirk seems. Em's being level and serious behind that affable exterior.

"I wonder if we can work something out so we can just send Chuck and Owen, and get them to take notes for us," she offered, looking up from her work with a conspiratorial smile. "Think it would work?"

[Riley] Riley takes a sip of her water. Locks of hair slip into her face, and she jerks her head rather than reaching up to tuck it back. It'll fall forward again, but at the moment she's content to watch Emily chop vegetables.

And laugh.

"Yeah right, after that scene today? Hardly any one spoke up. It was like being back in high school."

[Emily] She glanced up at the other girl for a moment, then back down at her work. The amusement faded, slightly, but it was nothing worrisome. Deft hands continued with well-practiced motions. Emily did not cook from a recipe, or with measures. Everything she was putting together now was from memory, from scratch (or nearly so), and comfort food of one form or another.

"I can only imagine," she said, when Riley mentioned high school.

Emily turns away to hand a few things on the stove. Many things go into her one big soup pot -- chicken broth, mushrooms, bamboo shoots, sliced chicken, red chili peppers, black peppercorns, some strange pickled something that Emily had explained as just don't ask. She stuck the lid on top and turned back to Riley.

"Hey," she asked, conversationally. "Have you heard of anyone grouping up? At the last meeting, Ashley wanted everyone to join cabals." The word was foreign, still, and neither Apprentice likely knew its full meaning.

[Riley] She shifts her weight, this time using her hand to push her wavy hair behind her ear. Her mouth quirks to the side, and she tilts her head. The mystery of the strange pickled thing will have to wait for another night.

Then she sort of gives another laugh. This time, it's not so infectious. Her smile is self-deprecating, the sound that makes its way out of her throat almost sardonic.

"Like I'd even know? The only people I hang out with are you and Chuck. Very very occasionally I run into Owen. Even more rarely I run into other mages. And I haven't talked to my Mentor outside of class since February." She doesn't mention that she doesn't speak up anymore, or that she's counting down the days to the end of the semester. "So unless any of you guys are caballing it up, I've got nothing."

[Emily] ((Something you're not saying, love? Per + Aware ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Riley] [contesting? hahahaha]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily] Riley doesn't mention it, but whatever she's not saying is spoken clearly in the space between them. The Orphan looks up for a moment, calm and deeply blue eyes seeking her friends features for a moment. It can be unnerving, something Emily well knows after her extended association with one Mr. Page, but it doesn't last. It doesn't push too far, tonight.

"See, I figured they'd be in and out of your pockets, too," Emily says, not directly addressing whatever it was she'd seen in Riley's carriage or expression. "A couple weeks after I Woke Up, suddenly the whole city's crawling with mages. Pretty much everyone I met, for awhile, was Awake." She rolled her eyes, out of (mostly) feigned irritation.

"It's taken me a long time to settle in to a group of people I trust and would want to work with. You, Chuck, Owen, maybe Kage...."

Emily's voice dropped off here. She was slicing bell peppers and onions for another dish, focused on her work and not overly scrutinizing Riley.

"I had a Mentor, sort of," It's complicated, that tone of voice says. "It didn't really work out, and then he left," there's more the story, Em's expression gave a little away. A sadness at the corner of her eyes, quickly swept away with her forearm and easily blamed on the onion.
"I think I'm going to work with Owen now, though, actually." She said it as if it were still undecided, still a bit of a surprise to her. (After all, it wasn't "official" just yet.) Then the vegetables went into a hot pan with some garlic, and it was Riley's turn to opine for a bit.

[Riley] "Yeah," she says in a way that sounds like she completely understands. She doesn't, not completely, but she guesses. And she can relate. Riley feels much the same about Jon. Sort of Mentor, complicated relationship, except he's not gone. He was at the meeting today, and Riley stayed behind to speak with Israel without so much as a glance in his direction. Awkward, that. The way neither of them will go to the other and say the words. It's been two months since Riley has said a word to Jonathan Kincaide that didn't have something to do with databases and design.

"I feel the same way. I really like you guys. Haven't met Kage, but if you like her I have a feeling I probably will, too," she adds with a grin, turning to lean her back against the wall, or her backside against the counter, whichever is more convenient. Almost from the moment she met Emily, and even Chuck, she's felt close to them. They meshed well. Especially with Emily, Riley can tell this is one of those lightning-strike friendships that will last.

"I had a feeling you would, though. With Owen, I mean." Like how I thought you'd be with Chuck, she thinks, doesn't say. Sometimes what is gradual to some is abundantly obvious to those around them. "He suggested I ask Chuck to mentor me." She puts it out there gently, delicately, like she's sliding a smooth stone across the table for Emily to inspect and she's worried the Orphan might think it's just a rock.

[Emily] They could relate; really, that's all Emily was trying to say. That Riley is not alone in the confusion of Awakening. That she's not the only one trying to figure things out, moving in, rebuilding, rethinking, reworking. It's a constant process: redefining self, seeking center.

Regarding Kage: "I doubt she'd want to group up," Emily says, oddly thoughtful about that point. The knife stilled; Emily even set it aside for a moment. Laid her palms against the side of the counter. "She's an Orphan. Been one far, far longer than I have." Emily's teeth find her lower lip, then release. "She was there for me from almost the beginning; if she asked me for help, I'd go in a heartbeat.

"She's good people," Emily had said this before. Would say this again. Would hold to it whether or not she joined a Tradition herself; whether or not she got pulled into the politics of the Chantry. Orphaned was where she had begun; it was what she might one day return to. There was nothing wrong with it.

"You'd probably like her," a smile now. Warmer.

Riley slides something out into the conversation, carefully. Gently. Emily doesn't seem like she's going to respond to it for a moment, but her brow is furrowed in thought as if she's weighing it carefully, turning the idea over in her mind until its edges smooth and she can see it for what it might be (what it is).

"What do you think of that idea?" she asks, first. There's an opinion, of course, but it's withheld just now. Emily's eyes find Riley's, blue to brown, and wait on the Adept's reply. There might be a small smile behind the curiousity there, if she looked hard enough for a clue as to what Emily truly thought.

[Riley] [percept + aware: I'm lookin' I'm lookin'!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Riley] Whatever is in Emily's blue blue eyes, Riley misses. If there's a smile, or a thought, or an opinion, it's kept within the depths of those eyes. Not that it would color her judgment either way.

Riley sucks in a breath, lets it out on a sigh, her eyes going to the pot on the stove for a moment, as if the words she's looking for might be written there in the steam.

"Well, I think it could work. Maybe. I mean, I think I'd definitely want to see how it goes before I commit to anything. When I Awakened, I didn't realize how many others there were in Chicago. With Jon things got so complicated so fast. I'm pretty sure that wouldn't happen with Chuck. He can be arrogant sometimes, but mostly he's..." Simple? "Uncomplicated. And we get along really well, which is always a good thing."

[Emily] Set aside, for a moment, that they're talking about the man Emily is seeing. Her boyfriend, if it was really fair to assign a label to something so new and unformed. She dries her hands on kitchen towel, turns the heat under the aromatics down to low so she can talk with Riley without being distracted by dinner.

It takes a little effort to speak plainly, to strip away the small deceptions that comes so easily (thoughtlessly), that protect Emily in private moments, keep her from giving too much away. This is not a time for self-protection, she knows it, and so she pulls away those natural talents and leave herself bare.

"I think you're already good friends," she said, for starters. There was a note of encouragement underlying her tone, but no judgment to be found. "That you work with him; that you trust him -- and that's vital." Emily doesn't go into why, but there's a solemnity to it that both Apprentices would understand. The Awakened world was not as simple, as safe, as the one they'd left behind.

"Chuck's a good guy, and he will always have your back, and if you think you can learn from him, work with him on this level? Even better." Now there's a smile, soft and tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The Orphan looks down at the counter for a moment, shrugs a bit, and lets that uncomfortable honesty pull back to something more familiar. "I'm not too far down this path myself, but if there's anything I can do to help, just ask." This gets an easier smile; it's meant, but it's almost meant to not push Riley in any way.

[Riley] They could easily be talking about something so mundane as what courses by which professor they should take in the fall. In a way, it's exactly like that. Weighing the merits and flaws of changing a course mid-semester.

That's what it's like, discussing Chuck Carmichael, Emily's boyfriend, Riley's friend and partner in crime. It's that easy to move off the topic of Jon and onto the other Virtual Adept, the Cypherpunk. So Riley doesn't tell Emily how things got so complicated, and Emily doesn't tell her any more about her former Mentor.

"He really is," she says when Emily says Chuck is a good guy. He helped her after that mess in someone's basement. He bought her milkshakes for weeks after someone else slammed a door in her face, cutting her off from joining her friends. He really meant well when he bought IKEA for Emily. Good to a fault, is Chuck Carmichael, and at last no longer a card carrying member of the Friend Zone.

"I'll give it some more thought before I make a final decision. And thanks," there's that warm friendly smile. "I really appreciate it. I'm really glad I met you and Chuck. You've both been a big help for me to adjust to this new facet of the world."

[Emily] If Riley wanted to have a night where they barred the boys from coming over and laid bare their experiences with their first mentors, then Emily might tell her more about Jarod. Might tell her inviting a co-ed back to his place for tea turned into a one-night stand; how that one-night stand turned into a habit; how that habit started toward a friendship; how he left before they ever found a word for what it is that they were (becoming).

She never said I love you; she'd left him at New Year; she'd pulled back and watched him walk away, swept out with the tail end of Winter. Emily might tell Riley -- on the right night, after enough alcohol, with no other witnesses at all -- how she'd finally found someone to trust with the one secret she told to no one, and how they'd left not a week later.

If Jarod ever came back, it would be more than awkward. She was on the cusp of joining the one Tradition he could not abide. Taking a Mentor he would never accept, never understand. And Own had strong opinions about what little he knew, so a friendship wouldn't flourish in that acrid soil.

There's a lot they don't say, even if it's written in the subtle cues just beneath their skin. There's a lot they don't see in one another, but that's okay. What they do share is enough. This is something she'd re-learned with Jarod, practiced, honed; something she had to remember with Owen (patience); something she had to set aside completely with Chuck.

The Cypherpunk was a singular entity in Emily's life and, to be fair, he was likely better in tune with Riley's personality and past. There were reasons that Emily thought they'd work well together, encouraged it. He needed someone who was good to a fault, loyal and steadfast and quick to defend him. That might not turn out to be Emily.

"You two have been good for me, too," she says, turning the heat up under the vegetables and stirring in some chicken to stir fry. There's a pungent black bean sauce that goes (sparingly) in once the meat's set up a bit. "It's nice to have people around who understand, but who are friends first. Aside from an early-Chuck rant that started with Oh, sweetheart and proceeded to call the others-- what was it, pointy hats?-- I haven't gotten any pressure to choose one way or another. That's been nice."

[Riley] For the time being, Emily appears done with the prep portion of making dinner. Riley steps into the small space of her kitchen, sets her by now empty glass of water on the counter, and leans back against the sink. She doesn't cross her arms over herself, doesn't close herself off by posture or by expression or by action. In fact, Riley moves her hands to curl her fingers over the edge of the counter as she leans. A quick jerk of her head, and her hair is out of her face, back just enough so that it doesn't obscure.

Riley couldn't be more open in her posture right now if she tried, and she's not even trying. This is just who she is.

There are things left unsaid between the two brunette women. Both have barely scratched the surface of who the other is or what they've been through, but what they know only ever seems to draw them closer. Riley doesn't mention an attraction for Chuck. There isn't one. She's far, far more likely to put him in a headlock and forcibly ruffle that unruly hair of his than anything even remotely romantic. And right now he's Emily's boyfriend. Emily may not know it yet, but Riley values that connection, protects it in others, will bend over backwards to stay out of the way. And Owen isn't even a topic of discussion.

Riley respects and values the friendship she has found in the younger woman currently frying chicken in a pan. She doesn't push or pull or try to make her give up information she isn't willing to give. And she's the last person to try to push someone into a Tradition, whether they want to go to it or not.

"Heh, that doof. He really needs to be taken down a notch of twenty every now and again." It's spoken in jest, no hard feelings, no real annoyance. Between the two of them, it's likely Riley is the better to fit that role. Maybe that's Riley's role for all of them. Keeping them all grounded, reminding them they can be better without being arrogant, that they can be open without letting all the secrets out.

"You should go where you want to be, Em. Do what makes sense to you. If you do that, I won't make anymore snap decisions about who should teach me all this stuff."

[Emily] There's hot and sour soup, chicken with black bean sauce, and Emily will quickly prepare a greens and tofu dish just before they sit down to eat. For now, it's quieter in the kitchen. They can just talk without any small activity pulling her attention away.

Riley jests and Emily chuckles; the Adept brings an easier demeanor forward in her, with a more resonant laugh and a brighter smile. She's nicer when Riley's around, as if the older girl's charisma was infectious.

"I'd tell you we have a deal, but it's not fair to you," Emily says, lifting an eyebrow slightly. She'd already made up her mind.

"I've found my way home," she says, and it's resonant (reverent) and wonderous. This is no small miracle, however plain it seems or sounds. The smile spreading across her features speaks to that.

"It's your turn now," she adds, reigning in the joy behind her smile just so. She was still processing her seeking (Rapture. Raven-heart. Reverent. Relentless. Rekindled.) but whatever had happened had left her stronger, more sure and stable. Even in the wake of the argument with Owen, who was not a topic of discussion at the moment.

[Riley] Emily says she's found her way home, and she practically glows with the admission. Revelation. Riley can't help but smile for her, be happy for her. She's not envious, though. Emily has found where she wants to be, the direction she wants to go in.

Riley has known where she wanted to go since she was six and her father put an Atari joystick in her hands and left her alone for an afternoon. There have been changes, alterations, slight deviations of the course, but for the most part she's gone in a straight line toward her goal. Working for Best Buy may not be the end of that road. Working in tech support, hacking, none of that may be where Riley eventually stops, if she ever does stop going forward.

"Oh," she says, stepping past Emily and finding plates. She's smiling in a way that is diminished compared to Emily's, who has recently come into her own understanding. Riley smiles like a woman who knows who she is, is more or less settled and aware, grounded. "I know exactly where home is. It's just a matter of finding the right teacher. Maybe that's Chuck. It's probably Chuck. We'll see. Do you have chopsticks?" She asks, helping to get things ready for them to eat.

[Emily] Of course she has chopsticks, pretty wooden ones with designs on the thick end and neatly tapered points. They set out dinner without much delay. Soup, vegetables, chicken dish -- Emily hasn't made rice. Maybe Riley would ask after it, and maybe Emily would share a six-year-old's insight (Rice is the stuff your parents make you eat, so you're too full to eat the good stuff.). Maybe she just hadn't wanted to dirty another pot -- or, given the state of Em's apartment when Riley first saw it, it was reasonable to conclude that Emily might not even own another pot.

Regardless, they had food that felt like Home to Emily. And a friendship that was anchoring her ever more to this city in ways that didn't frighten her, didn't keep her up at night.

"You've got plenty of time to sort it out," she says, sliding into her chair once they're both settled at the table. "Chuck doesn't really push, much. So you can take whatever time you need."

There's a slip, there, faint but still present. Emily's well-practiced at hiding such things. Their talk moves away from mentors and magic and meetings (oh my!) and on to the sort of simple, mundane things that cement a friendship. Life was, after all, about far more than merely Awakening or any particular spiritual struggle. They couldn't know that it would be the last, easy-going and amiable dinner for awhile. Or what was coming to test their friends and friendships, as soon as the next night.

For now it was a tasty dinner, in a nicely decorated corner of her flat (thanks to Ms. Riley Poole), with good company and absent boys to gently torment (ears should be burning!).

"To figuring things out," she offers, lifting her water glass in a toast. And if Riley agreed, she'd let the glasses clink and drink deeply.