[Owen Page] It's not exactly sports weather.
Not for playing it the way the two Magi in the park are, at any rate. Owen had called Emily on this occasion, and asked her in his vague, undefined way to come by his apartment early that evening for some prep-work for her initiation into the Chorus [oh, he'd added, wear something comfortable]. No doubt when she is buzzed up to his apartment and the door opens to reveal the young Initiate in his sports attire, cradling a basketball under the crook of an arm -- there's some confusion on the Orphan's half.
How, anyone would wonder, could shooting at a hoop for a few hours prepare anyone for anything?
Owen had only responded to this line of questioning with a tight-lipped smile and a trust me. Then: off to the courts. Now, muscles warmed by exertion, Owen has stripped off to his gray wife-beater, his forearms damp with perspiration. He's dribbling a basketball around the court, and shadowing behind Emily in demonstration; faking one way and then another before neatly sinking the ball over their heads into the net.
As he jogs to reclaim it, he's explaining some principle or other to the Apprentice. "...of the more important things to remember. Focus." He reclaims the ball and walks back over to Emily, offering it out to her and moving around so he's out of her line of sight, his dark eyes on the hoop, lips hovering close to the girl's ear. "It's between you and the ball, make the connection."
He takes a step back.
"Forget everything."
[Emily] ((She shoots, she scores? [Dex + Ath]))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily] Basketball is not really Emily's thing, so it's not quite what she had in mind when Owen rang and invited her over for some prepartory work toward her initiation. Also, Emily's idea of something comfortable runs somewhere tangential to his, so she's standing in jeans and sensible shoes and a long-sleeve tee with a zip-up hoodie. She may have borrowed the latter from Chuck, too, as it's a bit big on her and not at all Emily-esque.
He says they're going to play basketball and one eyebrow hitches up in surprise, but the Apprentice offers him a smile and says, "Alright, Owen."
It's a patient tone that wraps around his name (Owen), gentle and humoring. This is clearly not the oddest activity she's found wrapped around or threaded through someone's attempt to educate her, magically or otherwise.
While having no long-term association with Owen sports of choice, Emily is hardly ill-acquainted with them on a general level. She'd played proper football, often in Embassy gardens with other transplanted teens. She ran, whenever she had both the time and inclination. She is not wholly inept, that is the point here, but she listens (intently) as he explains. She tolerates the dribbling example with poise, if not immediate comprehension, and when he finally passes her the ball?
The girl turns it over in her hands, hefting it a little to better judge its weight. Long fingers find the ribs, the pattern of nubs in the burnt orange plastics. There's Owen's voice in her ear, a thing heard but no longer seen and --
She shoots.
It goes in the proper direction, at least. With a generally correct trajectory. It's a little short, or a little left, or a little something else -- the ball bounces on the rim, causing the net to shake and tremble. She frowns, and if that look could will the ball inward it would. But she's not quite that advanced, yet, and so it has to find the aperature of its own volition.
It does, barely.
A basket, then, but not one that pleases the Orphan. She jogs over to reclaim the ball, passes it back to Owen with a slightly dismayed expression.
[Fallen] At this time of night, the day before the work week begins anew, Lincoln Park is relatively quiet. People come and go, perhaps those heading to or leaving a Sunday baseball game; families and assorted groups wrapping up their own outdoors activities. Mostly its just people getting from one point to another, cutting through the Park which is placed so centrally to many of Chicago's attractions and neighbourhoods. Pedestrians snug jackets closer to themselves: The evening is chill for this late in Spring and that damnable wind always has a way of kicking up at the most inopportune times. It's a little better here in the park without the rows and blocks of buildings to create wind tunnels strong enough to force you to push against it.
The basketball courts are empty now except for Owen and Emily, the last of a ragtag group of teenagers having left a few moments ago when they'd tried a few catcalls in Emily's direction only to be met with a certain gaze from the man with her... a gaze just striking enough to let them know they'd underestimated whitey. Besides, b-ball was all well and good and Emily was a fine enough piece, but there was food to be sought after, booze to be pilfered and plenty, plenty of other female fish in this crowded sea.
Basketball as preparation for mystical training? Enlightenment? A bit odd at first glance, perhaps, but there are stranger methods for learning, that much is certain. Their 'lesson' continues, Owen teaching Emily about focus in a direct manner; a way that will give her something tangible on which to associate the more ephemeral dictum's of mental fortitude.
All is going well - Emily even gets the ball through the hoop despite the natural distraction of having her mentor standing behind her, lips close to her ear so that his breath is warm and just barely moist on sensitive skin. So far as such things go it seems tonight will be a good night between them.
But there is such a thing as convergence.
Magi have a habit of attracting - or being attracted to - supernatural events, oddities and phenomena. The more Magi you put together in one area, the more likely it is to happen. To be Awakened is to be privy to a dimension of reality to which most Sleepers remain blissfully [really? there is more misery than bliss in this world] ignorant the whole of their lives. With this Enlightenment comes many wonders; but so often at the price of wading through onslaught of storm after storm. To live in the world as an Awakened human is so often to be battered... it takes its toll on too many; it makes simple moments like these all the more precious in perspective.
Some of what happens next is obvious: The lights around the ball park flicker on and off in rapid sequence maybe four or five times. Then there is a longer outage right on its heels - long enough for them to notice that the lights in other parks of the park are still on. A matter of the span of a normal inhale and exhale of breath and then back on again.
It is... odd. The feeling of electricity and though it has been raining on and off throughout the day, there is no rumble or flash of a storm to easily explain what just happened. It is more than odd: It's mildly ominous.
[Emily] ((Per + Aware))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [Per + Aware, -2 Diff, Acute Senses]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4)
[Fallen] The debris and bits of rubbish on the court are swept up in the midst of the flickers though there is no perceptible wind. Furthermore, as the power comes back after that last longer stretch of black, she can swear those scraps of papers, glass and metal seem to hang in the air, rustling, glittering, glistening. The blink of an eye, nothing more, then settled again as if nothing had happened.
But there's more. A tearing, clawing sense, coming from a distance and it feelstastessmells.... wrong. Wounding. Wailing. It is faint; so very faint she might wonder if Owen feels it at all, but if she focuses on what she felt she might be able to discern that.. yes.. it came from the SouthWest. It almost feels like resonance in some ways, but this has an oily feeling over it; like beneath it she might associate it with how she views Life senses, but Removed. Different. Other.
to Emily
[Owen Page] [What the..., let's do a quick Mind thang hurr. Mind 2 + 3, -1 Foci, -1 Quint + WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 8 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]
[Emily] There was a moment, before the teens departed, when one of them caught Emily's eye. Just long enough to catch the mix of emotion there, the pressure of fear and hatred behind immovably blue fields. Steady. Icy. In that unmoving moment, with her breath held and his eyes caught, the world held still, and the only thing she feltheardtasted was the dampness of river mud on a hot afternoon. But Owen's look was more forceful, decisive; it pushed them away and freed her from the frozen moment.
It's a thing he likely missed. (It's one she would never completely forget.) Perhaps that's why her attention was so razor-sharp when the winds kicked up and the lights began to flicker.
Face upturned, eyes uplifted, Emily's fingers spread a little as if she was reaching out for something. It's not the crackle of ozone that she finds, floating on her tongue or tingling her nose. Not the dampness of an oncoming storm. It tugs at her attention, pulling her eyes -- then her head follows, then her shoulders, and finally turning the whole of her like a weather vane -- toward the South West corner of the courts.
It quickens her heart beat, shallows her breath. The wrongness. Emily takes a step closer to the Singer. Then another. And another, and another, until she closes the ground between them. Her hand finds Owen's shoulder (I'm here), if he's not turned toward her in that moment.
It doesn't fall away (I'm frightened.) for a long moment.
"Did you feel that?" she asks, the odd stress on the verb lent it a more magical meaning than usual. They were talking of Awareness not Alertness.
[Owen Page] The lights set up around their particular ball-court flicker and spasm, dying out for a beat as wrappers and leaves are swept up in a sudden, unnatural gust of breeze. The hairs on the Initiate's neck and arms stand on end, and he's already turning, questing after the source of it even as the lights come back on.
Emily is backing up against him, her hand finding the solid mass of a shoulder, she can feel the dampness of sweat on his arm, the musky smell of him after exerting himself for a time and the way the muscles in his shoulders tense as the Chorister releases a breath through his nose, his voice a whisper. "Yeah," he murmurs, his midnight blue eyes focused now on the same South West corner of bushes as Emily's. "I feel it," he lifts his face, Owen, and Emily can feel him, then, the tug as subtle magics are worked, a certain intensity, almost a skin-crawling sensation prickling all over the body as Owen Page --
-- chants? no, wait. It's so soft its hard to pick out the words, but it is not a chant, but a prayer. The invocation of aid from a higher source, even as the Chorister abruptly ceases, and sucks in a breath as if someone had just reached out and physically touched him. It's something like sweeping back a mental curtain. First the sobbing and then, a tiny flinch around his eyes and his jaw is tightening.
"There's someone. Behind the bushes, the mind feels young, confused. Sort of snarled together. It might be a child." He reaches for Emily's hand, clasps it surely. "Stay behind me."
They walk closer.
[Emily] ((What child is this? [Life 1, extending...]))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 6 (Failure at target 3)
[Emily] ((Really now? [Life 1, retrying... +1dif, -1focus, -1 rote, still dif 3, +WP]))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
[Fallen] Owen takes the lead, moving in the same direction from which Emily felt the source of that... feeling [resonance... esq?]. To the Southwest, then, heading at a measured but cautious pace outside of the ball court proper and towards the grassy span on the opposite side of the path leading to and from the court. Here there is a small copse of bushes and seedling trees. Not much of a cover really for anyone except someone particularly small, which coincides with what Owen sensed in the mind of the person sobbing...
...sobbing, yes. Breathy, hiccuping sounds of grief and mounting panic. Emily can hear it now as they draw closer. As they draw closer and the Apprentice Orphan [soon-to-be Chorister] focuses on her own heartbeat, on its rhythm, its pace, its music [how fitting]. Before they can see anything she begins to get a sense of the life before them, hidden away from normal view but there and vibrant. Vibrant but aching. There are physical wounds here; nothing major, no single great pain or laceration or break, but instead many small hurts: Scrapes here and there, small cuts, a larger sense of bruising on the right cheek. The child - yes, Emily can see that it is indeed a child, male - has an increased heart rate; blood pressure; rapid-shallow breathing. It might reminder her of a bird more than a child, though there is nothing alien or wrong seeming about this pattern.. at least, not in terms of taint. It is entirely human.
They are close now.. a few more steps and then the decision to wade in fully or hang back, wary. Alas, in some way the decision is made for them. The sound of a twig breaking, of gravel shifting, draws a sharp breath from the direction in which the child hunches down. He pops up then... just a boy. A boy wearing what might be his Sunday best: A canary yellow button-up shirt; little khaki pants and a thin belt. He's what... six? Seven? Couldn't be older. Might be younger. Caucasian. Brown eyes and mousey brown hair. He is dirty, his clothing torn, one loafer missing from his sock clad feet. He hiccups and stares up at them with flinching fear and then something like desperation.
"Oh... oh.." his hands - still holding the last traces of preschooler-pudginess, reach out towards them. "I need help... oh please, I need help." His sweet falsetto tremours with emotion; his eyes alight with that heartrending fear and a sudden surge of desperation. Like he wouldn't normally reach out to these strangers except that he doesn't know what else to do. "Ma-- Daddy says not to talk to strangers... are you strangers? Could ya maybe be cops?"
[Owen Page] [I have the alertness of a ninja.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 4)
[Owen Page] [Really, Page? Really, that's the best you can do?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Emily] There hands meet, and her fingers curl and thread through his. Owen is starting to move forward, but Emily is holding him back. She's more cautious, more tenative. Her fingertips find a pulse point, giving her mind something to latch on to. Making her perilously aware of just how fast, how hard her heart is working...
There's a push, steady like her heartbeat, strong and Unrelenting, to her magic now. (It answers the Intensity in his.) Even as it faulters, rebuilds, reaches out, ever Reverent: a breathtaking Grace in the midst of the struggle; rekindled.
She swallows, hard, at what she sees, and the fingers tangled with Owen's tense and then withdraw. Emily is not a Caretaker, no; she has no younger siblings to see echoed in this young boy; she has no reason to disobey and push past Owen, save that the boy is young, and he's obviously hurting. That is enough; that is more than enough to bring a fire to her temper, and a steel to her resolve.
Emily moves closer, dropping down to a crouch to put herself on eye level with the boy. It's an instinctual thing, an easy manipulation. She extends a hand to him, with a gentleness that the Chorustor has not seen in her before. A softness (even as she is so, so very angry at whatever could have done things).
"Hey there," she says, her voice a warm and resonant alot to his tremulous falsetto. It's mellifluent, still touched with that far away accent. "I'm Emily," she says, welcoming him in, if he'd come. "My friend here," she glances up at Owen inclusively, "Works at the Church. St. James?" She watched to see if the child recognized it. They weren't cops, no, but perhaps they had God on their side -- or could insinuate it, long enough to help a child.
"Want to come here and tell me what happened, love?" she asks, taking a knee now (for as long as it takes).
Please note: This doesn't mean that she's unaware of her surroundings. This does not mean that she will hesitate to act with alacrity if anything threatens them. It's just that this is a child, a scared, hurt, lonely child. And even Owen's warning can't keep her from throwing out a lifeline, offering a safe haven. (Some one has to [but so often no one will]).
[Owen Page] He has, for a moment, to remind himself to breathe the first time Emily's magic weaves into the space around him, entwining through with his own and making a new entity that is at once unrelenting and intense. They both of them feed the Universe their own distinct interpretations of what it is to reach out with invisible fingertips and caress the folds of reality, to uncover and investigate what lay beneath; what was hidden.
When Emily takes the lead, the Chorister frowns, but does not instantly stop her, or call her back.
He is wary, he is instinctively wary of this [not?]child that caused a momentary electrical short out, despite what he saw within that traumatized mind, he does not drop to his haunches and croon, or hold his arms out toward him, no. Instead Owen stops a few deliberate feet from the boy and studies him, face unreadable in the darkness; those fathomless eyes of his black right now, his hands at his sides; fists unclenched.
He looks right, he looks left.
Nothing.
Nobody.
For the moment, he allows the Apprentice to console the boy into speaking.
[Fallen] The young boy eyes Emily's approach warily, his brown eyed, rather blood-shot gaze darting between her and Owen and back again, then all around them. [Trapped. Trapped. Wanna run. Gotta run. Wanna cry. Wanna be tucked up in bed, sweet bed. Wanna go back to yesterday. Yesterday made sense.] Emily gets close, dropping down to eye level and he gulps but looks up to her with such an urge for belief. For trust.
For faith.
He listens, eye darting back to Owen when Emily speaks of him working at a church. A Church. Church is good. Church is a safe place, right? [church is where they teach you god loves you and he thought maybe he did, but God wasn't here now and God never turned on the light in his closet when he was so scared of the dark. But maybe, maybe these were angels. Maybe.] Oh, how badly he wants to believe. It is written so boldly over his face and Owen can see no sign of falsehood; no notion of a trick.
Her turns his face back to Emily. There is a bruise there - what Emily sensed in her Life scan now here before her natural eyes; a raising welt as if he'd been struck a hard blow or fallen and hit that cheek especially hard. Either could be true. A split second hesitation.. then he shakes his head. He doesn't come forward, but he does hold out his hand to Emily. That pudgey, grubby, open, trusting hand. "You gotta help me, Em'ly. Please? And him, too? He's big. He.. we gotta go though. The baby. My baby tiny; my li'l sister. Mama.. I think... I think maybe Mama hurt her..." his voice breaks; the falsetto spiking as tears well afresh in his gaze and his full lower lip trembles. "Please? Maybe God will listen to you.. maybe he'll help. She needs help..."
If Emily does take his offered hand he begins tugging with a renewed urgency. Desperate. [please oh please oh please... maybe they are angels. maybe they can help.]
[Emily] ((Just a little white lie... [Manip+ Subterfuge]))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Fallen] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily] She is no Angel, no Umbrood descended from heaven above to lighten his load, to ease his burden. She is an Orphan, struggling with her Faith, aching (still) from the feeling of being left to wander alone by the same God. The same God he wants (needs) so dearly to believe in.
She draws a deeper breath, taking a moment to reach up to her neckline. To touch the silver chain there and ease the locket (Wonder of Wonders) out from her under her shirt. Emily pulls the loop of chain over her head, without taking the time to undo the clasp.
"My grandma left me this," she says, being careful to use the American terms wherever she could remember them. To watch the boy carefully, but not to look him in the eye too directly (don't challenge [don't threaten]). The chain pooled in her palm, slipped out from between her fingers. "And whenever I get scared, or worried -- she told me to hold on to it and pray." She offered him a small encouraging smile.
"I'll make you a deal," Emily said. "You take a moment to pray with me, now, and I'll go with you to find your baby sister." She did not look up at Owen. She wasn't speaking for him, directly; she didn't have to. It was non-negotiable in her mind.
When the child came closer, Emily spoke to him quietly. She let his fingers close around the locket, and covered his tiny hand with hers. Together they whispered something quiet, something heartfelt offered up unto the Lord. The thin resonance of Home spread out from between their fingers -- calm surety, belonging, compassion and acceptance.
Maybe it would seem like Grace to the boy's mind. Maybe it would quiet his heartbeat or soothe his mind. Maybe, just maybe, it would bolster his Faith for a little longer. Maybe he wouldn't have to lose sight of God the way she had.
"Better?" she asked, when it was time to pull away. Slip that chain back over her head. Head off, just a little more calmly, toward whatever lay ahead. And maybe, just maybe, they'd actually have Him on their side. (She hoped [she prayed] she was trying to believe.])
[Owen Page] The baby. My baby tiny; my li'l sister. Mama.. I think... I think maybe Mama hurt her...
Owen's expression alters, pitches for a beat toward torment. He does not interfere in whatever ploy Emily was attempting over the child, for a moment the Chorister is not even there. He is five years in the past, scrambling out of the front seat of a car, blood stinging his eyes, stumbling over glass and running toward a crumpled figure on the road.
Nonononogodpleasehelpme... Maggie!
He is cradling a dying form, rocking it back and forth.
He is -- Owen lets out a hiss behind Emily, and his fists are visibly trembling as he forcibly unclenches them, and says in a voice thickened by some unspoken grief. "We'll come. We'll help."
[Fallen] Emily hesitates a moment and then begins to cajole the boy soothingly; her intentions good; her [borrowed. battered. burdened] Faith lent outward to a young boy who so desperately seems to need it. Crave it. Yearn for it as heartfelt as he yearns for these strangers to save his baby sister from some unknown happenstance. He balks for a moment - his desperation warring with his urge to take whatever comfort he can get. In the end, though, he is only a child; barely older than a baby himself. In the end he cannot resist what Emily has to offer...
....a solid rock upon which to find foundation amidst all this [chaos. evil] slippery sand.
"Kay, Em'ly. Miss... Miss Em'ly," all the more heartrending is that he stops a moment to try and remember his manners. He comes close and ducks his dirty, curly, mousy brown hair to Emily's own, his tentative touch reaching for the necklace, then clenching it more fully as Emily begins to pray and he joins in with the only thing he can think of at the moment... "For God... God so loved us... He gave us his baby. His baby Jesus. So I hope you love me, too, God. 'Cuz my Emma. She's a baby. Like your baby. Okay?"
His innocence is still absolute.
Even among children, how often does one find such a thing anymore in this world that has gone to Hell; this world so broken and only getting worse?
He breathes a small sigh; his eyes light up then as they open, tear tracks on his grubby, bruised face, beads of it still on his long eyelashes. "Miss Em'ly! I felt it! I felt it! I felt GOD, Miss Em'ly!" Awe now as he looks between Emily and Owen. He does a double-take at Owens look, but then seems to reconcile it [he's like one'a the badass angels!] and look back to Emily again with eyes as adoring as ones that might look upon the Virgin Herself. "You ARE Angels!" Triumph. Sheer, unadulterated faith. He could fly right now, for just this moment and he seems to be making a thorough attempt as he pulls Emily away.
Towards the Southwest. Of course.
"Can you run? We gotta hurry, 'kay? Can we hurry, please? You've gotta save my Emma, Miss Em'ly, angel. Mr. Angel."
[Emily] It's eating at her, but Emily can't show it, not now. Not now that he's decided they are Angels -- and she will apologize (or not) to Owen at a later moment for that -- in the all or nothing way that children believe. How it's a soul-deep surety for them, unflagging, immovable. Emily knows that sort of Faith; she's owned that sort of Faith; she's named it, and held it, and lost recently enough that it had still left longing, gilded memories behind to taunt and torment her.
Like the adulation (Aleluia) in the boy's face and his features. It brought a dampness to her eyes that Emily willed away. Mr. (Perceptive) Badass Angel over there, were he not chasing away his own demons, would surely have seen it.
She hasn't the heart to correct him, just yet, and the child would take her arm off if she didn't follow quickly. There's a look to Owen (serious, measured, calm) and then she's following the boy and wondering just what she'd gotten herself into.
But, hey, now God's reputation was on the line too, so she had to follow through.
[Owen Page] Owen blinks as he's labeled [and surely, there is holy laughter cascading from the far reaches right now] an Angel, of all things. But not merely an Angel, but Mister Angel, as if he had adopted not merely a sword and great, majestic wings but land and titles along with it.
There's a brief flush of something near to embarrassment across the Initiate's cheeks, he meets [and holds, measured for resolute, calm for level] Emily's eyes and there's a tiny fractional nod, attesting, agreeing. He does not dispute the child's emphatic tugging on the Orphan's hand, but merely follows -- his athleticism easily keeping pace with their footsteps.
"Where do you live," a beat, "What's your name?" Ever the pragmatist, Owen. Where Emily was entertaining the child's sense of wonder in almighty powers, Owen was testing far more earthly ones.
[Fallen] Emily hurries hand in hand with the boy who is leading the way now; his scrapes and cuts and bruises forgotten. Thankfully his stride is just naturally short or they might find themselves having trouble keeping up [well, perhaps not Mr. Badass Angel]. His stride is a little lopsided, what with missing one shoe, but that doesn't stop him; no... he is all purpose now, all determination, all belief in the providence he sees in these two strangers; his own Angels tonight.
He leads them some yards through shrubbery and over flower patches and across paths; always taking the short route. They pass maybe one other perhaps - a homeless woman dressed in many layers of rags, pushing a shopping buggie and minding her own damned business. Muttering to herself and moving away. It begins to rain again, softly now, saturating the chilly night air with that wet smell; along with the scents of dampened earth that here in the park wash away the other funk and fuggs of the city.
"Um.. East 21 Bridgemont Street, Mister Angel. And, why, my name's Tony! Tony Binici." he calls over his shoulder as he pulls Emily along; before speaking is tounge had been half out in his single-minded urgency. A beat. He looks over his shoulder again. "It sure is nice'ta meetcha Mister!"
Onward still, now slowing as they come upon a offshoot of the park that is fenced off; a small private square with a plaque nearby that reads: Dr. Lucille Filmont Memorial Park and beside that a plastic sign temporarily placed that pronounces: Pardon our noise! Renovation in progress. Thank you for our patience! There's a smiley face under the words; faded from the weather and covered in childish graffiti of devil horns and mustaches. He points to the iron-work fence that is agap, half off its hinges, likely the work of hoodlums. He pulls them in and here this private park is more shaded with larger, older trees that branch out overhead. Benches. Some modest statues. And in the middle an old fountain, its base line covered in creeping ivy, and moss showing along the fountain itself a cherubic like child pouring endless water from a bowl. Or, at least, it would be if the fountain was running. As it is it is filled with water, but the pumping mechanism is shut off. The water looks scuzzy even from a distance. Fallen leaves and dead, dried up petals strew its still, stagnant surface.
"Mama was giving the baby a bath," the little boy - Tony - says, stopping now, swallowing hard as hurt and fear and confusion begin to try and creep back in. He shies back now, pressing back against Emily. Pointing towards the fountain. "Emma was crying and I told mama... I told Mama the water was dirty.. then.. then Mama hit me. Mama.. Mama doesn't feel so good... I guess... I ran to get help and no one would... no one.. not until you two... I think.." He's looking around now.. confused. Searching. "Well... maybe mama took Emma home?"
Still that tone of Faith.
A direct opposite to the growing sensation of some dreadful reality that no doubt begins to grow in the Orphan and Chorister's guts.
[Owen Page] [Per + Aware, that fountain is creepy, yo.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 4)
[Emily] ((Where did they go? [Per + Alert]))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 6, 9 (Failure at target 6)
[Emily] ((Re-rolling, +1dif [Per+Alert]))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Fallen] Emily can see that there are signs of some disturbance in the leaves and vines on the right side of the fountain from where she stands.
to Emily
[Owen Page] Nothing escapes his notice, not with those keen eyes of his.
He's bringing up the rear of their little impromptu expedition now, his skin beginning to rapidly cool now, his warmer layers left behind them on the court with his basketball. He feels the first few splashes of rain hitting his arms, running down the open v-neck of his wife-beater. If it gets any heavier, it's going to paste it down against his skin. As it is, the lack of sleeves bear the tattoo on his right bicep, the dark inks swirling together into the shape of an oriental flower.
When they pass the Memorial plaque, Owen takes note of the name: Dr. Lucille Filmont, much the way he does the boy's name, Tony. When they reach the fountain, it is Owen that strides forward now, it is Owen who is taking pride of place investigating it, even as Tony keeps explaining, hoping that his Mama took his sister away from here. Away from that sense of wrong, that unsettling creeping sensation that had nothing to do with the weather, and everything to do with this place.
Something [or one] is driving the Initiate, it's driving him from a far deeper place, at his core.
He starts moving around the fountain, around the left of it. "Tony," he asks as he does, quietly, thoughtfully. "What's your Mama's name?"
[Emily] ((Nothing I can see, but something I can -feel-? [Per + Aware]))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily] There's no meaningful look, no small touch, no obvious hand-off between the Orphan and the Chorister, but he steps forward to explore the new place where she had been more the more prominent figure when they first met Tony. The rain has started to slick down her curls, plaster them against the side of her face, down the line of her neck.
Emily holds tight to Tony's hand. Something in her stomach pitches and roils. She's peering at the fountain, around its features, with dark eyes (black now in the lowlight of a city night). "Owen," her voice catches his attention as Emily's hand points to the patch of disturbance to her right, leaves and vines disturbed.
She's holding the boy's hand, as much to hold him back as to keep him near. The Initiate would have free-reign to explore this place first, but Emily extends her Awareness to the area around the fountain, the energies and stresses lingering there.
"Owen?" This time his name was a question, a Beg Your Pardon, just shy of uncertain and tremulous. Her eyes, when they met his, were uneasier now. Not so measured, not so calm; but those sureties would return whenever she looked to the child. The Orphan's hand reaches down to rest on the boy's shoulder, warm and heavy, comforting. "Something else happened here," her voice was level. If she could catch his eyes, without alerting the boy, Emily very clearly mouths the words: Something is waiting, here.
[Fallen] Emily stands with Tony while Own begins to search around, heading around the left of the large but dilapidated fountain; large enough that Emily and the boy cannot see what Owen sees.
Then there is a creaking sound as the iron wrought gate behind them is pushed open. Tony looks back, from where he'd been pressed into Emily's side, so small, so helpless, so trusting, so scared. He stiffens slightly and then pulls free, running back from wence they came. "Mama! These people.. they're Angels! And they're here t'help you n' Emma, kay? Where's Baby, Mama? She all done with her bath?"
Yes, he runs to the woman who struck him. The woman who is not alone. She is dressed - like her son - in her Sunday best, a flowered dress a few sizes too big, dirtied and wet; her face... she looks to be in her 30's but seems.. older. Haggard. Not well. Not well at all. Her expression shifts.. pained when she sees her son; then.. [i]hungry[/i[ in a rageful manner and then an exquisite expression of struggle as she moans and seems to try to draw in on herself, jerking spasmodically as she does.
There is a man with her, a hand at the small of her back. He is tall and plain looking; a little extra weight around his middle and in his mid-40's or so; he takes in the scene before them with a somber expression, but his stance next to the woman. Is it more possessive or solicitous? His voice, when he speaks, is just as serious, filled with a deep baritone gravitas. "See there, Helen? We've found Tony... don't you have something to say to Tony, Helen?"
[Emily] ((That... doesn't look healthy... Life 1, practiced, +WP))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]
[Fallen] Both the man and the woman are alive - their Life Patterns vibrant enough though the womans seems to be in some great amount of pain, not easily explainable from the small injures she can sense on her. The man is so normal it's almost bland...
...but there is something in both of them. Something... if Emily had to guess it's like something is warring with the Pattern of the Woman and something is almost shared with the Pattern of the man. But Emily can't see anything to tell what it is; all she can sese is the discordance in their Life pattern as a whole as an indication that some other force of magic - unknown to Emily - is making a mark. Violently with the woman. In harmony with the man.
It feels very, very wrong.
to Emily
[Owen Page] It's hard to say what emotion he's feeling more. Anger, revulsion, fear. They all beat at his senses until it feels close to overload, too much, far too fast. Owen, Emily is saying his name in a manner that should garner his attention, that every other time she's said it like that has made him look at her but now, right now.
He only has eyes for whatever he's seeing in the Fountain's fetid waters.
There is the creaking of the gate, then and that has Tony reacting, running back toward his 'Mama', asking after his sister. The Chorister rises, pulling a sodden parcel out of the depths of the fountain as he does; it is not a pleasant task, and yet the manner that Owen holds it can give no mistake as to what it is that's wrapped in the dripping pink blanket.
where's baby emma?
"Right here."
Says the grim Mr Angel, staring at the two newcomers, his voice velvet soft with untapped violence.
[Owen Page] [Mind Shields Activate, Captain. Enemy ship sighted. Mind 1, -1 Rote, + WP Extended Effect]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
[Emily] From the moment the two step into the place, Emily can feel the wrongness flush over her, flood her senses and raise the hard and angry ire building within her. All without knowing, yet, what it is that Owen is tending to. What it is -- who, Emily. Who it is -- that the Chorister is pulling from the fountain.
"Tony!" It's the first time her voice registers genuine fear, when dealing with the child. Emily's reaching after him, as he runs toward the woman who has beaten him, drowned his sister. The Orphan's cry is strangled in her throat as he rips away from her; it's a harsh counterpoint to the solemnity in Owen's.
Don't look.
She can hear the water dripping off whatever he has pulled out of the fountain. Somewhere, distantly, she can place the words he's saying. But Emily can't look over. She clenches her fingers into fists, until she can feel the pulse of her heart in every too-taught muscle, and reaches out with her Will to --
-- scan, not strike, the newcomers in the overgrown park.
The Orphan takes a step back, away from them, at what she sees. Her face pales, features knot in repulsion (confusion [fear]). Rather than attempt to explain what she's seeing (there's no time for that), the Orphan offers her soon-to-be Mentor a soft apology, a barely heard I'm sorry...
And next round will try to share her Sight with him.
[Fallen] Owen dragged up the burden that seems so light beneath the sodden blanket and clothing; flesh blue-tinged, little arms limp, little head resting in the crook of his elbow... she could be sleeping. And that only makes it worse.
The man grimaces -- with distaste or shock or?
The woman, Helen, she moans; a low sound of primal distress as her hands raise up to pull at and tangle in her bedraggled dark hair; her face distorted in momentary agony -- head thrown back like she might howl, except it turns into a cackle, a hoot, a deep, rumbling, slavering guffaw of unholy, depraved laughter.
[beside her the man.. the man begins to smile; so small, so smug, so secret, so delighted]
Helen lunges for Tony, snatching him up with ease as the boy shrieks; he begins to struggle, screaming, sobbing and the woman wrestles with him with a vicious aggression.
[the man begins to murmur under his breath; thick, clotted sounding syllables and that oiliness Emily felt before.. increases.]
[Emily] ((Do you see what I see? ... extending Life 1 sight to Owen, dif3, WP))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 6 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
[Owen Page] [Mind Shield, cont.]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 3 (Success x 1 at target 3)
[Emily] ((Init: Dex3 + Wits3))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7
[Owen Page] [+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Fallen] [Man] +7
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10
[Fallen] [Helen] +4
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1
[Fallen] [[Order!]]
Man
Emily
Owen
Woman
[Fallen] Helen: Grapple with boy.
[Owen Page] [Owen
1a.) Put baby down out of harm's way
1b) Punch Man + WP]
[Emily] 1) Moves to boy + woman
[Fallen] Man: Work his mojo!
[Fallen] Man: Time Effect. Slow down Em and Owen.
[Fallen] Actions!
Man time effect: [Time 4 + Life 1.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 4) [WP]
[Emily] ((Dex + Ath))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Owen Page] [1a. Oi! You! Headed for Man. (-2 Split) Dex + Ath]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Owen Page] [1b. What whatwhat are you DOING? (-3 Split) Dex + Brawl]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]
[Owen Page] [Damage + 0]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Fallen] Things begin to happen quickly; the unknown man is still slurringseethingslathering those foul smellingsoundingtasting words, while Emily dashes over towards Helen and Tony, the boy sobbing the woman pinning him down with the full of her weight and beginning to dig in a pocket for something... shiny...
Owen rushes forward; amazing swift but the Man seems to barely pay him any mind as he receives a glancing blow that doesn't slow down the words, though his expression registers a grimace.. it just seems almost detached. A grimace then a grin, like he's holding back laughter.
Laughter.
[Fallen] Helen: Pull out knife. Attack boy.
[Owen Page] [1a. Get behind Man
1b. Choke Out.]
[Emily] 1) Take knife away!
[Fallen] [Man] Continue Rote! Reflexive defenses if Rote fails.
[Fallen] Extended Rote:
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 4) [WP]
[Fallen] [Man]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 5 at target 5) [WP]
[Fallen] Later Emily and Owen may realize that this mans 'magic' did not conjure up precisely what they usually recognize as resonance. There is something to it. At once a vortex of sheer malice and the lazy hunger of a feline who toys with their food before deigning to devour it. It is close to what they are used to feeling, but not the same. And while it feels dark and malignant, neither it is equal to what Emily has felt in the Barabi she has encountered. This is foreign. Alien. Horrible. Unnatural.
Time freezes. Or, rather, it slows down to the point where it might has well have stopped. Emily and Owen - and the boy and mother, too - are held in a semi-stasis, while the man - smirking, chuckling, licking his lips with something like interested anticipation - steps back at his leisure. Again. Again. Again. Until he is leaning at the gate again, looking quizzically at his fingernails before buffing them on his jacket. "Now this is fun." He croons. And Emily and Owen can hear him.. they just can't act. "But too simplistic. So let's up the ante -- especially with you, there, young man.. you are a little too eager for my tastes. So. Here's the deal, quite simply: Choose."
The man holds out his hand in Emily's direction and she is pushed back, back to where she'd originally stood while a broad circle of fire erupts around her about two feet away from her person on all sides. "Save the boy or save missy over here.. you're choice entirely. Either way, one is gonna die." The tone sounds.. bored. But his eyes are intent. Glutenous.
A snap of his fingers.
Time snaps back to its normal rate.
[Fallen] Woman: Same as before.
[Owen Page] Time -- slows down, right down, so much so that a single breath takes a lifetime to expend in a chest, another to pass through the lungs and throat, out the lips. Owen, fists clenched, a clean, clear fury in his eyes is held in status while the man chuckles, smirks, wanders over to the gate and addresses the young Chorister.
Now this is fun
One imagines were he capable of the reaction, Owen might be snarling, or at the least baring his teeth at the arrogant assurance of the man as he sends the Orphan backwards, propelling her flight. When time unfreezes, Owen almost staggers, his limbs abruptly his own again. He straightens, then bends forward a little, braced for some movement, his eyes flit from the woman and the boy to Emily; then back again.
Choose.
"No." It's bitten out, he rises to meet the other man's eyes. "I won't. You want to inflict pain on someone, inflict it on me. Leave them alone. They're weaker than you and I, me, I can withstand more." A beat, his intensity beats at the other man. "I already do. So, you choose. Take me, and let the boy and Emily, go."
Otherwise, it's unvoiced, but the curl of Primal energy is there, licking at the air around them; the pendant around the man's neck all but Sings of it.
[Declare: Present choice to Man! If refused, beginning to invoke Holy Stroke.]
[Fallen] It is sudden. It is forceful. It is not words though it might be; somewhere. It is the cooing of a dove; a cool breeze of benediction; it is the strongest impulse; the greatest urge.
Pray, Emily.
Pray.
to Emily
[Emily] 1) Follows directions (for once), see post. :)
[Fallen] His eyebrows raise; it is an expression of surprise though his eyes - those dark, jet, liquid-malice eyes - show nothing but a stony disdain. A mild disgruntlement that someone would not just dance to the tune he has set. He snorts then and shakes his head.
"Idiot. Little mockeries. For this.. for THIS I gave up my due?! For YOU?"
Half a snarl -- then his expression clears and he sighs. "Forfeit the life of both, then."
------
Action: Counter Magic.
[Emily] Fire sucks away the air around it, draws out all the oxygen. Hungrily. Hasitly. It is mindless and directionless. Somehow, in the midst of the winds directed by the fury that surrounds her, smething sweeter finds her. Sudden. Forceful. (Unrelenting.)
The Orphan was afraid, yes. She was frightened not just for herself, but for the boy who had already lost so much (and for Tony, as well [or did she mean Owen?]). And the half-truth she had told at the park, to calm the child, to soothe a too-quick beating heart, came back to her in a flutter of wings, in a breeze with no origin (but the heart [the soul]).
Emily wrapped her fingers around the locket that still laid above her clothes. She bowed her head, taking her eyes away from Owen, away from Tony and his mother (smothering [manipulated and maligned]). She turned her attention away from the dead babe, all of the things that had already been lost here.
There was a flutter of wings, fanning a tiny spark: an ember rekindled. She had no reason to Hope, no proof to hang her Belief on, nothing more than the thin, small bit of Faith she had guarded and hidden and held on to for so many years (so very many years).
It might turn out to be the very last thing she would do in this mortal realm: Emily bowed her head and prayed.
[Owen Page] [Holy Stroke, ya'll. Eesh, Vulgar +4, Prime +2, -1 Foci, -1 Rote, -1 Quint + WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 6 (Success x 1 at target 3) [WP]
[Fallen] Man: Countering with Prime Ward.
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 4 at target 4) [WP]
[Fallen] Woman: Stabbing.
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Fallen] Damage:
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] A challenge issued; a challenge denied. Owen faces off, working his Will; calling on powers greater than his own in the face of this embodiment of all that makes his blood boil: Don't look now, but Tony may have been correct in his assessment, at least at the heart of the matter.
Emily - against the grain of all she has suffered, all that has striven to annihilate what Faith she can must - heeds the call of the Essence within her. Head bowed while flames lick around her, their heat growing increasingly uncomfortable as the circle of fire begins to close in by increments, she prays, tears bathing her features in her own private battle. Her own baptism.
The man suddenly looks her away and for the first time.. for the first time, looks worried. A blink and then he snarls. "NO, you BITCH."
More guttural words -- the flames creep lick and dance closer, the heat making her sweat; her flesh beginning a slow protest.
...but for one moment [or is that the imagination? false hope?] it almost seems like the flames died down for one fraction of a second; it almost seems like the mans neck strained corded and tense, as if he had to work that much harder to work his 'magic' - or whatever it is.
[Fallen] Woman: Keep doing what she's doing.
[Owen Page] [Trying the strike again!]
[Emily] Swearing only makes us pray, harder, mean man!
[Owen Page] [Holy Stroke, ya'll. Eesh, Vulgar +4, Prime +2, -1 Foci, -1 Rote, -1 Quint + WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 5 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]
[Fallen] Countering!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 6, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]
[Fallen] Woman: Stabbing.
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Fallen] A burning blade of sheer Prime - the Essence of the One - glows in the Choristers hands and he weilds it with more than grace; he wields it with a bloodcurdling, awe-filled intent. Within him something had flinched or laughed when the boy had dubbed him the [badass] Mr. Angel... don't look now, Owen, but Tony was apparently more accurate than one might expect. And though the man throws up a warding to block the blow what is noted in the mans own consciousness is this: He struggled to do so. He had to push himself harder to achieve. And though achieve he did - greatly - the effort behind it displeased him.
And the Bitch. Is. Still. Praying.
And the little man? Owen? What backed his Will was a power that was anathema to the Man. It didn't matter if it was real. If it was right. They believed -- and to that he fell victim.
Could he succeed here? Quite possibly. But this is not a man who would stick around simply to find out. With a a laugh that is more pompous display than real mirth the man shakes his head. "Enough now. I could destroy you here... but I would rather break you."
Pompous or not, those words.. those words are dangerous.
He glances to the woman who is still struggling with the shrieking child and shrugs. "And a parting boon for you, then... since you are both so very, very... eager."
A nod of his head, a cutting motion of his hand -- and the woman goes slack as if all the air and oomph in her had been sucked out all at once. The fire around Emily disappears.
A lift of his hand, a broad, mocking smirk. "Ta."
Ripping, tearing, sundering...
...he is gone.
[...Pause...]
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