Preaching to the choir

[Solomon Ward] One way or another he'd contacted the apprentice. Mundane or other wise, the man knew how to locate people, she wasn't actively hiding, and their rather small community of mystically adept people could typically be counted in ones head. The conversation would have been brief, ambiguous, and to the point. Some thing the lines of 'We need to speak, when you can. About what happened. The House ? Good'.

Straight and to the point; Much like the priest.

He'd parked his car in its usual spot, which was to say several houses down along the side of the road or where ever was appropriate in said neighborhood. He never parked in front of the house or in its drive. The Big Black Bag was slid out of his back seat and shouldered, his pocket watched checked to ensure he was punctual, and head way made for the Chantry.

One day, I'm going to put locks on this damn house and issue keys. Security system. Hungry spirits... some thing... , passed through his mind as he entered the front door and took a look around. Being as one entered in the sitting room he moved to one of the chars, sat his bag beside it, and sat down to wait.

[Emily Littleton] It's a hot and humid night. The city seems to have gone straight from cold and dreary to mid-summer with no thought of lingering in the middle ground of Spring. Emily had not lived here long enough to know if it was always this way or if this year was, as Riley called it, a year of extremes. What she did know was that Father Ward had requested her presence for an audience, and when a Priest that truly weilds the power of the One True God beckons one ought answer.

Wearing a light pink flush to her skin, Emily finds her way to the Chantry by automobile. It is not her preferred method of transport, but she can drive and often does in the colder months. Growing up in places with far better public transport options has poisoned her against the idea of individual transportation. It seems selfish, inefficient, unweildy. Usually she takes the El, walks several blocks to the station on each end of her journey -- it gives her time to think, and time to be outside in whatever the city presents. Tonight she arrives and only has the short walk from her curbside parking space to the Chantry door to decompress.

Her hair is down, framing her face with dark curls, curls which have already fallen into waves due to the heavy humidity. It is not raining at present, but the air is thick with it. A girl could drown in nights like these, swallow up her soul and never surface again.

There's a knock, and then a second one. Just two. And Emily tests the door to see if it's unlocked tonight. It's always a surprise to find the house unsecured, but she's since learned that mundane threats are the least of the Magi's worries. If it opens, she steps into the foyer and says, like last time, "Good evening," into the likely-empty space.

This time it isn't empty. The priest has arrived before her, just before from the looks of things.

"Father Ward," she says, hands clasped before her like a well-mannered school child who has come for recitation. There is respect in these small courtesies, though the other Magi may not see or name them. "I hope you are well."

[Solomon Ward] Some things about the sorcerer-priest are ever unchanging. Black shirt, black slacks, black shoes, black belt. White collar. The heat and humidity had an obvious physical toll on the man in the effect of a slightly damp shirt and a sheen along on his forehead, not yet worn off by the house's air conditioning, but he other wise didn't seem to affected by it. This was a man that typically didn't use such conveniences as AC, hot water heaters, television, and many and varied other products that day to say people took for granted.

Humility and poverty. He lived it to a degree that modern clergy often didn't consider, and it insured him to the lesser hardships of life. It shows by how comtorable he is despite the climate.

"Good evening, Ms. Littleton" he responds, standing as she enters the room. Old courtesies, oft forgotten in this day and age. The man regards her casual, but there's some thing searching in his eyes. A look that starts with her eyes and travels down, then back up again. Not leering or unacceptable by any means, and its brief. Flicker of the eyes, a quick appraisal. The sort of look that has less to do with the fact she is a young woman and more to do with he being a man used to passing judgment on others.

"I had, originally, wish to speak to you about the incident that occurred in the park. The one with the woman and man. I believe you had a companion with you... forgive my familiarity .. Owen is all I know him as ? Given the events that occurred the other night and their relation, it seemed we should finally meet up and speak. If you are agreeable that is ?"

[Emily Littleton] His eyes flick over her, and there is much to pass judgment on here. But it is hidden away, beneath a careful composure and the Old World propriety that was as much a part of her heredity as eye color or last name. Not that she always lived up to it, no, but that she could draw on it as needed to bolster and support.

She is a young woman, in her early twenties, newly Awakened and almost ready to complete University. She bears no outward signs of trauma, no grandiose personality flaws or flairs. She wears her Faith silently, keeps it close to breast and threaded through her resonance like a whisper. When Solomon and Israel had first arrived, the girl had shined like a beacon of quintessence, but she is dimmer now. Depleted. And new enough to not recognize the sacrifice that represents.

He will pass judgment as he sees fit, though the priest will likely have to ammend it many times over as he learns more about the quiet Orphan (for now). She does not readily give up anything.

"Owen Page," she supplies, filling in the gap in the priest's knowledge handily. "I believe he is affiliated with St. James' in some capacity." This is what she says, but she also know more. That much will not show in her features just yet.

"And yes, I am agreeable." There is a pause here, an unvoiced request to see if she might take a seat on the sofa. Her eyes flick from there back to him, and if he gestures with a hand or nods his agreement, she will relieve them both of the duty of standing politely in the living room.

[Solomon Ward] "Ah, my manners. Please, please, have a seat. I can also gather you some refreshment, if you require ?", though there is a sort of awkwardness in the offer. The man is, himself, not overtly familiar with the Chantry proper. He knows the library, the basement, this room, and the upper room where he recovered for several days before leaving. That about sums it up. Whether the kitchen is stocked, and with what, is up in the air. He is not a man for simple social calls, and so has never sat around the kitchen sipping cocktails and swapping lies with the young and the hip and socially fortunate.

It's always business. One has business with Solomon, or they do not.

"Yes, Mr. Page...that's it. St. James you say ?" followed by a 'hmmm; sound as he thought things over in his head. "Has he been around lately, and in good health I hope ?"

It's an honest question, though the man can't disguise the fact that he cares just as much to find and interrogate this person as he does genuinely hope that her acquittance, who suffered a horrible experience by what he has heard and gathered, is physically and mentally well. He is also absolutely unabashed that his dual natured question is obvious.

He takes a seat across from her, literally. He'll even move a chair if need be, but the man seems to have a peeve about making discussions with others in situations where the speakers are left at angles. Its..strange, but then again so much of their lives are, aren't they ?

"Please understand that as much as I've thought about speaking with you, I never actually laid out a detailed list or plan or such. Such things always strike me as overtly clinical, and human nature takes things beyond planning any way. So...

Please tell me about yourself, if you don't mind. I understand you are religious, but what exact faith ? How long have you been awakened ? What have you learned thus far ?"

[Emily Littleton] "I haven't seen much of him of late," she says, keeping her reasoning for this to herself. They'd met less than a handful of times this month, and their interactions had ranged from near indifference to an obviously intimate friendship. Now Solomon has an obvious desire to speak with Owen, and it gives Emily an opportunity to say, helpfully, "When I do see him next, should I let him know you'd like to speak with him?"

Oddly, these questions about Owen are easier than the ones that follow. The priest takes up a seat directly opposed from her and Emily folds her hands into her lap politely. They keep things pleasant, because that's what reasonable people do, but the track of questions he immediately starts down leaves her a little guarded.

Not that she's openly anxious. There's calm in those deep blue eyes as they find his. It's a calm that seems even more sure and certain in the press of adversity. There's a pride and comportment to the tip of her chin, the line of her jaw. She is unafraid, even after the recent events, to look him in the eye or sit immediately across from him.

And so it begins. Telling without telling. She is careful and yet complete-sounding in how she answers his questions. It doesn't appear to be evasion, however selectively her replies are crafted.

"I was not raised in the Church, not traditionally so. My mother's family is Catholic; so was my godfather. He has passed." A pause. It is only proper. "He was not of the Cloth, though I believe you may have had particular callings in common."

She reaches up to tuck a curl behind her ear. It draws her eyes away from the Father for a moment. The gesture evidences no worry or other hesitation, though.

"My Epiphany came last fall. Shortly thereafter, I met a handful of the city's Awakened. I learned to read life patterns from a Verbena who has since left the city. Beyond that, I can read the spatial connections between things, sense the physics at play in a given situation, and find weaknesses in some patterns." Life, Correspondence, Forces and Entropy.

[Solomon Ward] "Yes, please do" he'd answered before pausing in order to allow her to continue. Solomon watches her intently the entire time the young woman speaks. His stare alone typically isn't enough to induce discomfort in the average purpose (guilty consciousness aside...), and there seems no intent to do so in his questions. The man is merely bold and forthright, straight to the point. It nearly rivals his ability at politeness, though he maintains the sense of it out of strictest tradition and upbringing.

He also understands the need for privacy, in all its varied details and reasons. Just as he seems unconcerned at the directness of his questions, the man is also either totally ignorant of or completely understanding to her carefully constructed (but essentially honest) answers.

"I see" pausing, mulling it over for a moment. He could understand his own involvement in the situation. Israel's as well, given her particular talents. Ashley was a late inclusion... but Emily and Owen where the first to encounter the Fallen, and the man is attempting to tie it together. They tend to say, amongst themselves, that there is no such thing as coincidence.

Its a universal concept amongst mysticism. Manifest destiny, fate, skins, the Wyrd, what ever you may wish to call it. Regardless of ones religion (or utter lack of it amongst the heathens....), it all tends to draw out to the same prospect....
... Convergence. Power draws unto power. Yes, there are few things as coincidence, but the trick is finding the ties that bind.

"Are you practicing Catholic now or claim membership to a specific faith ? And you have limited, little, or no understanding of the manipulation of the Fifth Essence or matters involving the insubstantial and spiritual ?"

He'll do more than ask questions shortly. For now he needs answers to the little things.

[cricket] [LOL I could probably pull myself together to throw Owen at you if you really want him. :) ]
to Emily Littleton, Solomon Ward

[Emily Littleton] ((The Priest is asking me if I'm a practicing Catholic. ... Why is this familiar?))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 5, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] It takes a moment before the young woman responds, and in that moment she looks down to her hands and then back up the Priest. She does not seemed ashamed, or strive to let her gaze fall anywhere but on his features. It's just a contemplative pause, a little hiccough in the rhythmn of their conversation.

"No," she says, plainly. "I am not a practicing Catholic, nor do I claim membership to any particular parish or fellowship. I believe in the One True God, though it has been quite some time since His home was my own." Another Choristor had been told something similar, when he asked these questions of the Orphan.

She stops herself there, for it is enough to answer his questions. And it is time to move on.

"I am not quite sure to what you're referring on the latter, so I guess that's enough to say: No." She smiles, gently. Almost self-effacingly. There is still so much she has yet to learn, and a lot of the language varies by tradition and individual mage.

[cricket] (*dies* I actually enjoy watching people write together, is why I often lurk. But sure, if I can think up a reasonable excuse for his being there, I'll put the little Chorister in for a spin.)
to Emily Littleton, Solomon Ward

[Solomon Ward] The priest nods to her answer, though his hand is moving. Subtly. He's ticking off fingers against his thumb, as though habitually counting something when she answers about her religion. Never mind the new age and modernizing of the Choir, its open doors, and its influx of pagans, muslims, wax witches, hedge wizards, shamans, gays, new agers, and every other yokel who wants to scream out 'my god is your God too!'...

..ok, so alot of them have -always- been there. recently some one gave them hte idea that they mattered... .

There is such a thing as the old gaurd in existence. For being a relatively new member of the Chorus, it isn't hard to tell where Solomon Ward fits into the status qua of the Tradition whole. It also isn't made any easier that the priest does not have a classic 'Tradition' upbringing in regards to magic, and so his lexicon is varied and does not always incorporate terms the standard mage uses in commonly accepted parlance.

She's faithful, but follows no standard church that she admits to - Check.
She has no understanding of the Prime, which means the root of Creation for most Chorusters - Check.
She neither dabbles with, knows of, or understands much about spirits and spiritual dimensions - Check.

So far the only tie in is faith itself, initially, and even that isn't an inclusive.

Wonderful.

"Thank you for tolerating my rather blunt line of questioning. These questions may be painful for you to answer.. and personal. They will be the last I ask of you, Ms. Littleton, but I do require you answer them as honestly and accurately as your memory allows. After the incidences have you suffered from nightmares, deja vu, random fears, malicious thoughts, or other similar activities out side the scope of normal day to day life ?"

A pause, again, before he gives up on the wording of the question in polite context and just says it out loud "Did either entity attempt to gain entrance into your physical form, and if so how did you avoid or reject them ?"

[Owen Page] [Dex + Stealth, we're creeping up and overhearing tonight.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2

[Emily Littleton] ((Nightmares? Check. Outside of normal operating procedures? Not... really.))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Solomon Ward] [And..countering...]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] He requested that she answer honestly and accurately. One would naturally assume, he'd meant completely as well. But he didn't say completely, so this is the loophole that makes Emily's answer truthful enough.

Not that lying to a priest is ever acceptable, or withholding information on a serious investigation due to personal circumstances. Lives and souls were at stake, and Emily was still protecting her old hurts. She was young, and this was not the way to exorcise her (figurative) demons.

"Outside of the scope of normal life, for me, no," she replies, and those caveats will likely be the only tell he gets from her. The girl is calm and centered, gives off no clues that she's withholding or selectively steering her responses.

"And, if you are referring to what happened to Nathan, then no. No entity has ever attempted to enter my physical body in that fashion." Again, worded carefully, but this is not where the evasion shows. There are walls here, secrets that Solomon dances painfully close to. They are not of this matter, and they are not for him. Not even for his ears under the sanctity of the Confessional.

[Owen Page] There was reason behind his appearance here tonight. A Tupperware container held the answers, along with a note penned in Emily Littleton's neat script: Owen, missed you at the cook-out. Here are some leftovers from the grill. We should catch up soon. I've a meeting tonight at the House, but am otherwise free. Hope your holiday weekend was restful and quiet, Emily.

Honestly, it's hard to imagine where a man like Owen vanishes to when he does, and he does it often enough for it to have built some sort of mystique into his demeanor when he does appear, such as this evening. The boy's adolescence had taught him skills of survival and subterfuge that most Awakened would struggle to ever possess in the extremity that the twenty-three year old seemed to. He was, quite honestly, a ghost in the night when he approached the house. There was no creaking step on boards, no footsteps or hesitation at the sound of voices.

There was, simply put, no sign of incoming until Owen deigned that there should be.

"...after the incidences..."
"...either entity attempt to gain entrance..."
"...referring to what happened to Nathan..."

His hand grasped the doorhandle, and turned it. It was a deliberate interference into their conversation, his intervention at precisely this point in time. And what, then, of the tall figure that sets foot inside the Chantry? He's broad-shouldered, yet in possession of a lean frame, his clothing fashionable but scruffy, worn out at the edges, much like the soul within. The eyes were dark, almost black without light to show them for their blue origins and the jaw was strong yet shadowed presently with the lack of a razor to it.

Hoodlum had been pinned to him before, when he appeared, features set beneath a hood. The likeness was apt, presently.

[Solomon Ward] He continues to watch the girl, though now its dragging out slightly. The man is obviously going through some thing in his head. Putting details together, jigsaw puzzles, rubix cubes, what ever. Some thing is lining up as it should; On the same note some thing is not. Some thing in her voice, the syntax of how she answers, its timing. It is apparent to the priest that her answer is very literal, and very carefully worded.

He can't prove its an outright lie or one of omission, however.

"You have nigh--- I'm sorry, as I said, that was the last of my questions. Thank you for meeting with me and tolerating the bluntness of which I asked. It is very appreciated, Ms. Littleton."

The priest looks up as the door opens and a new comer steps in. Some where between the door handle turning and his inability to identify the man, the priest's hand has made its way into the left side of his coat. It holds there for a moment as his eyes flicker between the new comer and Emily, and it isn't until some form of recognition on her part that he removes his hand in a near casual manner.

[Emily Littleton] Speak of the -- No, Emily, that is entirely an inappropriate way to lead off this introduction. Solomon reaches for something under his coat and Emily's attention turns sharply toward the door. There's a tightness to her features, for a moment, a readiness that hadn't been there before. Then they relax, soften to a warmer smile.

To say she recognizes the tall man in the doorway is an understatement. The smile is not the same politically polite one she's worn so far. There's a genuine warmth underlaying it, something reserved for a few and not entirely eclipsed by her self-protective senses just now.

Emily stands, perhaps because of the resident tension, or just to keep both men in her peripheral vision at the same time. "Owen," she says, his name coming out clearly but with a resident note of surprise. "Father Ward was just asking after you."

And there, cursory introductions are made in the sweep of a greeting. The two are known to each other by the barest of indices. The girls hands are still clasped before her, and now there is an edge of nervousness that shows. Perhaps because of the conversation they have just been having, or maybe because of how this house escalates tension to a flashpoint without warning.

The apprentice looks between the Choristors, waits on whatever may come of this intrusion and introduction, and then finds her seat once more when any sign of coming calamity has passed.

[Owen Page] Devil.

Well, perhaps in another time and place it might not have been so very inappropriate. He knows, Owen, he knows that slipping this way into the Chantry is setting himself up for a disaster. The twitchier of Magi might have fired first, asked questions later. Perhaps some Devil-may-care part of himself enjoyed that prospect, maybe it stirred his blood with that lingering desire to crash and burn.

Owen pushes back his hood and there both Solomon and Emily alike can see he is no man's Devil, but perhaps someone who has been very recently tormented by his own inner version. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, skin paler than normal and for a beat, were she quick enough, the Orphan may have glimpsed a passing flicker of something near to shame skipping through those dark eyes that made their study of her, then of the Disciple.

"Owen, Father Ward was just--"

"I heard." He attests, his voice surprisingly gentle for all that there seemed an aura of quasi-hostility about him, an ebb and flow of intensity like surging power lay nearby. The Initiate studies the Priest for a moment, features unreadable, before a hand emerges from a pocket and is extended.

"Father." The grip that grasps his hand is firm, rough; strong.

[Emily Littleton] ((Per + Aware: j00 okay?))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
to Owen Page

[Solomon Ward] Solomon stands as well, again in his archaic manners. Emily stood, therefore he stands. It's rather simple, rather outdated. She makes a form of round about introduction, and until that point Solomon has said nothing. He's too busy appraising the new comer. Eyes travel over the man. Features, style of dress, the placement of feet and its measured potential towards violence or evasion. Trained eyes search for probable locations to hide weapons, and in light of who and what they are things that may or may not be useful in the arts occult.

Its practice, habit, instinctive, and very, very quick. The only tale tell is the rapidly flickering eyes, which lead back to Owen's own and stare for a long moment. The priest has the look of the crusader about him. Faithful, pious, and not above tearing down those things which may stand in the way of his chosen causes. Not intimidating. Judging.

The priest himself is average, save for that mien of violence that lays under his skin like hidden armor. Average height, average weight, average build. He's pushing the wrong side of forty-five and looks slightly older for it. Crows feet about the eyes, the beginnings of said lines around the corners of his lips. Clean shaved, close cropped hair not quite shaven, classical drab black attire suitable for his profession. By his feet lay a large black gym bag.

Solomon takes the mans hand in his own, giving it the required and polite three shakes up and down. His own grip is similar. Old school enough to be slightly forced in its firmness, but with out strain or the potential of a dick waving contest between men.

"You are Owen Page ? Practicing Catholic, Initiate of the Choir Celestial and recognized official as such by parties within Chicago and by at least Adytum or Presbyter at another location ?"

Straight, and to the point.

[Solomon Ward] (One Adytum or Presbyter, sorry)
to Emily Littleton, Owen Page

[Owen Page] If Emily is trying to read into her friend's current mental state she doesn't have to fight him on it -- which may, in and of itself be enough to warrant concern -- rather, his misery and self-loathing are all but beaconed from his shoulders. Emily may recall the manner he'd fled the scene of the nightclub, leaving his charge, the drunken female, all of them behind as if the Devil were riding his heels.

She hasn't seen him since, and from the looks of things, he's been alone, tormenting himself with his woes, whatever they may be, though he's putting on his best game face in front of the Priest.
to Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] Inwardly, Emily is very sure she ought to have left Owen out of this. Perhaps she should not have mentioned his affiliation to St. James so easily. Or given his last name so readily. She was not used to the exchange of titles in this setting, and last time it had come to magical blows.

Her back stiffens, and the lines around her mouth and eyes sharpen. There's a little pull of breath that sets her breathing on a shallower and quieter pattern. Her very frame is tense, now, ready. As if she knows that any moment now, any heartbeat, any split second things will come to violence either magical or mundane.

It's happened before. In this room of this house, and the Priest was there, too.

There's concern in the way she looks to the Initiate, in the subtle tells of how she separates her hands and rubs them on her jeans as if they were somehow damp or tingling. The Apprentice is silent, both because she has not been called upon and also because there's the faintest hope in her head that if she held still enough, if she were only quiet enough, whatever was coming would slide right over her and just keep moving.

[Owen Page] Owen's hands return to his pockets, but he doesn't slouch or glare indiscriminately between the pair of them like a cornered teenager. No, he straightens rather, and looks back at Solomon Ward with a steady, stoic expression, one that quite matched the demeanor he'd had when first appearing. It's something like swearing with a hand atop the Bible, a likeness that does not escape the Initiate -- there, is that a hint of humor edging one corner of his lip for a moment before he answers -- without hesitation.

You are Owen Page, practicing Catholic, Initiate of the Choir Celestial and recognized official as such by parties within Chicago and by at least one Adytum or Presbyter at another location?

"I am, yes. Pierre, South Dakota. Church of the Almighty, Father Peterson. Though you won't be able to check with him directly, I'm afraid. A Dark Singer took out my Praecept." It's the first time Emily has heard him use the old words, those of the Congregation. It's also about as much information about his past as anyone has heard, period.

But he says this much the way a witness might under duress, not defensively, but with quiet hope. That it will be enough, that the dredges of the past won't be stirred further.

[Solomon Ward] Emily's fears are understandable, but incorrect.
Owen's answer is, apparently, sufficient.

The priest does the oddest thing. He kneels, on one knee, head bowed just slightly though his eyes are cast upwards in order to watch Owen as he does so. One hand rests on his bent knee. The other on the ground, fingers spread, for both balance and a symbolism that it holds no weapon.

The act of difference is most contrary. He is a priest, older, and what some phrase as 'more enlightened', at least by such as formal recognition of rank ties to magical accomplishment. All the same, the man is kneeling in front of Owen.

"My name is Father Solomon Josiah Mathias Ward. Ordained priest of Roman Catholic Church. Ordained Knight, of a recognized Guardian Order. Disciple of the Choir Celestial and once archivist of the Undefeated Cabal. My acceptance to the Tradition is probationary. I hereby submit myself to you, as the ranking and recognized member of the Choir within this city. "

A slight pause... He does not sound bitter or distressed by what follows, but he does make himself very, very clear.
"I have been Awakened by for twenty-five years. I am a recognized exorcist by the Church. My submitting to your authority is in regards solely and singularly to matters pertaining the Choir and its attendant laws and traditions.
I can not differ to you in such things as may regard the Church in itself. I can not differ to you in such things as arcane, occult, or spiritual expertise. I will not defer to you in such things as may pertain in my methods of handling the supernatural, preternatural, demonic, or the Judas Conventions. "

"Is this acceptable to you ?"

[Emily Littleton] ((Surprised? Who me? Not at all...))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Something important is happening in the living room of the Chantry, some exchange of titles that presages a surprising show of deference. The fear of reprisal, of sudden violence, has passed and now she is left at the ready, taut and alert for an entirely different reason.

The apprentice, whose past is not known to either elder in any great capacity, has been present for diplomatic exchanges between conflicting countries before. she's been an unwitting ambassador, sitting next to another foreign girl at tea. She's watched countless Embassy dinners, with their nearly nonsensical rituals and traditions. What is happening here she understands, on a base level, but she cannot place the underlying meaning of just yet.

This is the brokering of some delicate balance or treaty, one that does not yet concern her but someday might. The girl's hands again clasp politely in her lap. She keeps whatever surprise or confusion she harbors to herself. Her duty here, it seems, is the same she carries always: to Witness, not necessarily to Understand.

[Owen Page] Emily may well be startled by what happens next, though she may conceal her surprise well.

Owen doesn't. He removes his hands from his pockets and stays them by his sides as the Knight takes to one knee before him and recites words the Initiate is most sure he's had to do a hundred times before. Were Owen of another faction, were he as strict a follower as some of their brethren no doubt were, this deference, this admittance of his former titles and alliances might have invoked an angry, or mistrustful rebuke in the young man looking down on the older's face.

But, he's not.
"It's acceptable."

He extends his hand to help him to his feet, there's some hint of humor again in Owen's countenance, as if he were grimly bemused by these strange formalities. But then, the boy was a Monist, it should have gone without saying that he'd find this utter need to abide by old forms and standards odd, or even on his worst day, depressing. When Solomon is back on his feet, Owen's eyes shift to Emily.

"Emily is going to be joining the Chorus. She'll be my Catechumen."

[Solomon Ward] Solomon nods to Owen's acceptance and stands, with the aid of his hand, before standing with his hand clasped before himself. Once Emily has seated and made herself comfortable, Solomon follows.

There's a moment of regard to Owen's words, and his eyes move to Emily. Again, the potential for judgment is in his gaze, though it goes unspoken. "She will be, or she is ?"

Solomon is not totally surprised, though the girl never thought it may have been important to add. It does add another corollary fact to his earlier investigation of her. Choir... the first three people to encounter this thing, or its handy work, belonged to the Choir. Dr. Atlas and the others broke that tenuous connection as a solid variable, but it was a start...

He makes no further comment about the girl's apprenticeship. He doesn't know either of them well enough to judge, and as they seem to already have an established relationship of some sort it isn't his place to add his thoughts to such in ignorance.

"The local Chantry's member's require a cabal for full access to this house", he doesn't refer to it as an Adytum. It isn't, in the strictest sense of the word, "Have you such ? I ask for purposes of understanding what our rather limited numbers are up to, and the strength of influence or resources you have".

[Emily Littleton] Uneasy, Emily is aware of their attention on her. And now there is no cleverness to hide behind in her half-answers or literalisms. It is harder to hide from Owen, on any given day, and these questions have no indirect answer.

"Will be," Emily answers, then looks over to Owen for confirmation. As far as she remembered, there had been no formal agreement made between the two of them, just yet. There was some agitation to her now, as this was not the forum for forcing what felt like personal not simply political decisions.

She reached up to tuck a curl behind her ear again, and now it registered for the hesitant gesture that it was earlier. Her mouth pursed momentarily as she considered how to phrase something, and then she appeared to speak plainly.

"I have agreed to join a cabal with two others," she said, watching Solomon first and then Owen. There was apology in her eyes when she looked to Owen. "It has been -- is currently -- our intent to ask Owen if he'd like to join. But as I said earlier, we've not seen each other in awhile..."

Her voice faded away, then, and there is something akin to regret in her expression for a fleeting moment.

"Ashley McGowen knows of this arrangement already," she says, regaining her social footing. It wasn't that she was remiss in her admissions to the Priest, no. Emily had informed a member of the Society, which was the original deal when the Chantry ruling had come down at that meeting so long ago.

[Owen Page] Owen doesn't appear flustered when he's asked about the Orphan's actual status, on the contrary, he seems more than willing to allow Emily to field both the questions that come at him, or them, in general. If he's surprised by her admittance about the Cabal, he is quite masterful at disguising it. However, so much of what passes through Owen Page's head remains a mystery, it is no wonder that other Awakened find him frustrating, or worse still, some enigma requiring rooting out, penetrating with the use of their own Mind magics.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, one of the Initiate's talents lay within that particular Sphere.

His taciturn expression, the lack of outright reaction to Emily might strike Solomon as strange, but there was no rebuke in Owen's voice when he raised it again; merely a dose of consideration. "I had meant to join one sooner, but time and circumstance got in the way." A beat, his eyes flit between them.

"That seems to be sorted, now."

[Solomon Ward] Solomon nearly chokes, though whether he's choking back laughter, surprise, shock, or some thing else is hard to tell. There's merely a boggled expression on his features for a quick moment, followed by the clearing of his throat out of some imagined necessity.

She is going to be his Catechumen, but isn't. He is to be her Praecept, but wasn't aware of her joining an outside cabal. Never mind Owen's masterful control of nuisance and expression, Emily had said it aloud. Old fashioned and archaic, it obviously has some form of affect on the priest.

Now, a little less ignorant (not much, but a little...) of their relation, he decides to speak up about it. "What places the condition of time as to wether you are or will be, Ms. Littleton ? This is not the dark ages, and we are neither the Order nor the Euthantoi. Apprenticeship isn't menial drudgery and years of study of tidbits. On the complete opposite side of the situation, it is very, very intimate for most parties. There is a strong degree of trust involved on both parties.

Yours will to be to accept his teachings. Not to a dogmatic fault, but in that he can at least guide you to your understanding of Creation and your spark of divinity in altering it as may be required as a member of the Faithful. Very few mages see Creation the same way... the cloest link you will ever find is master and student.

Mr. Page will be placing great faith in you as well, Ms. Littleton. That you are of suitable moral fiber. That you have the strength to act with compassion and faith under the most extreme potential of persecution, and that you will take all that you learn from him and use it in the name of the One True God as He finds suitable in your calling to Him.

You both appear to be off to a bad start when it comes to that level of communication and trust. Please, don't take this the wrong way... I'm not judging either of you or condemning you for what little I know. I say this out of experience...

.... sort yourselves out"

[Emily Littleton] ((Some dice.))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 8, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((Oh no. Some more dice.))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] There's a question, in all of that, and it's aimed at the girl sitting across from the Priest. The one who, up until this moment, has been so very calm and collected, who has more or less answered his questions and entertained this inquisition of sorts. No longer. No. Something he has said or inferred or implied has had a disasterous effect on that attempted openness.

Her jaw clenches. It takes a moment before Emily can work it free to some less frustrated expression. It takes a long moment before she can pull her gaze from where it is burning a hole in the floorboards beside Solomon's feet. Had he been aiming for a rise from the Apprentice? If so, he'd hit square on some sort of sore point between them.

Only by stilling her tongue completely can she keep from giving voice to the flash of anger or hurt or indignation that shows so readily in her balled fists and taut demeanor. All this talk of trust and faith, these questions after their pasts. Of intimacy. The girl's mouth works, silently, for a time.

"Thank you for your advice, Father," is what she says, when at last she speaks. She does not answer that question, buried as it was at the beginning of his opinions.

The sad thing is that their opinions are not far afield from one another. In a different venue, or phrased another way, they might not have sparked this powder keg within her. Or, if the Priest were not dancing too near truths she'd kept from the Initiate, perhaps it would have gone over more smoothly.

She doesn't look up to either of them now. Not now. As much as she would like to be a closed book, Emily knows that stronger emotions are so very easy to read from without. She will not risk meeting their eyes and telling even more than she has already. And, at the first opportunity, she will be making her polite -- one hopes -- goodbyes.

[Owen Page] (sorry about that guys, I had a phone call!)

[Solomon Ward] [No worries!]

[Owen Page] "It's not her doing."

Owen says, after a measure of silence during which he has not been looking at the Disciple but at his soon to be Pupil. He's watched with vested interest the changing color in her cheeks, the display of [somehow still polite] frustration and perhaps indignation in her eyes, hidden as best she can keep them. "It's my own lack of forethought that caused this." A brief, bitter smile stretches thin his lips, before he forces it into a gentler version.

"Emily and I are fine, we will be fine," now he meets the other man's eye, and for all his youth and perhaps, relative inexperience in comparison to this man, this Knight, there is a firmness to Owen's voice that doesn't brook argument, that is, in its own way, zealous. "She's not the only one who has things to learn."

[Solomon Ward] "None are above reproach" he responds to Owen, in quiet agreement. Solomon has a bevy of flaws that are almost ponderous, and he knows it. Then to Emily, who is upset. Never mind her politeness and social niceties or the fact that the priest isn't entirely sure about what upset her (specifically, that is... obvious it was his words. Heh), but he can tell that she is upset. One doesn't have to be a socialite to figure that out.

"You have my apologies, Ms. Littleton", he leaves it at that. She will either take them at value, or she won't. The choice is hers in its entirety. "There is some thing I'd like to show you, when you have a chance and are willing", which may or may not be.. ever.. he doesn't know the girl, what upset her, or how long she holds grudges. The tone of his voice isn't quite as stern however. A shade softer, almost patriarchal. It holds the hint of a reconciliation, should and when she choose to accept it.

[Emily Littleton] It's Owen's voice that draws her eyes away from the floorboards, his assurances that they are, that they would be, fine. The certainty of the Singer is one of the things that has anchored her in trying times before, and that will pull her back from the edge of self-doubt and recrimination now. She is looking to him, and he is looking to the Priest. It is enough to still her.

Father Ward offers his apologies, and Emily nods silent assent to them. Her expression is softer, by degrees, but not as collected or calm as it had been when she arrived.

"I will find you, then," she says, to the Priest. It is an agreement, carefully offered. She stumbles over the quiet that follows her own words, remembering belatedly to add a: Thank you.

[Owen Page] It is, perhaps, one of his better qualities, the Singer. That quiet surety that he eludes so [apparently] effortlessly. It has not come without cost, however, and whatever else he excels at keeping close to his chest this Owen cannot completely disguise -- that he has a history, that he carries deep within a shame that he will never in his own estimation, finish paying for.

He has more in common with Solomon Ward than he knows.

Or perhaps he does glimpse it, and it colors the way he interacts with the Priest, the way he is careful to adhere to words he knows Solomon will comprehend. He speaks of the Congregation with confidence, he knows of the Ages, of the ways that came before and led them to the now they were in. Whomever and however his teacher had died, by which hand that had once sung with them all, he had evidently left his Apprentice well educated enough to survive on his own.

He extends his hand to the Disciple again, noting as he does: "I work at St James, if you have need of me."

[Solomon Ward] "Of course" he says to Emily, acknowledging that it will be in the time and place of her choosing. Which means either his Basilica or this chantry. She doesn't know where he lives, and more...esoteric means of locating him can tend to be both difficult and unpleasant, if not already beyond her.

To Owen he accepts the hand and shakes it once more, adding in is own vocational location for both their benefit. "Thank you. I'm the night keeper and caretaker of the Basilica of Our Lady of Sorrows, in East Garfield"

He retrieves his Big Black Bag and holds it at thigh level by its carry handles. The weight is long practiced and the average looking man is beyond used to it. "And now I must take my leave. In the near future, those involved with the Defiant one we've encountered will be called on. Until then, good eve to both of you".

Exit the priest, stage left.
To the point, per usual.

[Thanks ladies, I appreciate it and good night.]

[Emily Littleton] When Father Ward rises to take his leave, Emily stands out of politeness. She tucks her hands behind her, clasps them there. Her expression is, once again, canted toward the inscrutable yet polite. Her eyes follow him until he has slipped past the threshhold, and only then does the tightness in Emily's frame begin to abate.

Finally released from the priest's scrutiny, her habitual pattern of pacing returns. It's gently expressed today, in a small arc of travel that only helps her burn off a modicum of frustration. It's possible that the Singer notes the slight stiffness in one of her legs, that she faintly favors her right ankle. It's more likely that he will be distracted by seeking out other cues.

She does not yell at the now-closed door, or heave any great words of annoyance after the disappearing Disciple. Just that movement, incessant, insistent, unrelenting -- it's been like this for weeks, not that he'd know. They'd not seen much of each other of late.

There's a play of emotion on her features, not quite as tightly kept as she might have wanted, but its winding down to something more manageable. More contained. Less volatile and violent.

One of Emily's hands comes to rest on the back of her neck, just below the base of her skull, where the headache resides whenever she is unable to keep her temper in check. Her feet still, until she's only standing, half turned from Owen to stare unseeingly out of a window.

[Owen Page] There's a tightness in Emily's frame that only abates once Solomon has left the Chantry. She begins to move, to pace, to expression her feelings about the man and what had taken place the only way she could, the way that felt right to her. In direct opposition, Owen goes quite still; like stone when the Disciple leaves. He levers himself down onto the seat that the pair had recently vacated and puts his head between his hands, elbows to his knees.

He remains like this, a silent stone fixture for some moments as if he too required some time to process what had just occurred.

"So," he eventually says, not lifting his head but rather leaning his entire body back against the sofa, framing his brow with fingers set against it, his features masked by the shadow cast by elbow and palm. "Cabal, then."

[Emily Littleton] "Mmmm." She rolls the affirmative sound across her vocal chords without turning to face him. Without willing it into words just yet. It's lazy, and Owen deserves better, but Emily is still deeply perturbed by some of the things Solomon has said. Her hand falls away from the back of her neck. Her arms wrap across her middle, now, as the agitation fades to something deeper.

"Riley and Chuck," she elaborates, mirroring his usually taciturn mode of speech. Now, she turns to face him. Now, she does not bother as keenly with keeping things back or hidden. She doesn't wear them on her sleeve, by any means, but the openness she affords Owen is still greater than that which she would show the Priest.

At least that much has not changed.

[Owen Page] "Riley and Chuck," he confirms, with just that touch of dry amusement in his voice. It says much of what his thoughts are, and yet really says nothing at all. That was Owen Page, ambiguous to a fault. His hand falls away and he leans forward with a deep exhale, his eyes ringed with exhaustion, his skin waxy. His misery did not chip away at his beauty, quite the contrary, solemn suffering had always suited him to uncanny degree as his former best friend would attest to.

It gave him a certain intensity, a scruffy, unshaven earnest quality that reached his eyes and filled them with the unspoken plea, the unvoiced demand. Trust me, forgive me -- because both were interchangeable, and all that he desired.

"Emily," he begins, and breathes out, and stalls. He does not know how to bridge the distance between them, but to offer some branch of friendship, some gesture that proved the Disciple's words null and void. The boy's jaw clenches, a sure sign of his discomfort, his frustration. He clasps his hands together and makes a great study of them as he speaks. Hitchingly at first, but then growing in strength, and surety.

"Did you know that the first time my Mentor came to me I threw the Bible at him?" He looks up, a strained ghost of a smile riding a corner of his mouth. "Maybe that's what you wanted to do to Solomon. I really did hit him though, square in the head." He gestures at his face, and leans back.

"The first thing he taught me was that the Celestial Chorus have fucked up, a lot." A beat, he shakes his head, letting a breath of unvoiced laughter. "This from a Priest, you can imagine my shock." Something softens in the boy's face, lends itself to a title of vulnerability, of long held grief. "He saved my life, more than once. I wish you could have known him."

[Emily Littleton] She watches him, through the whole oration, through the insurmountable heap of words he triumphs over and shares. Unrecantingly, those blue eyes seek his features, study them. They take him in, but still push to keep him out. It isn't fair, and she knows it. It aches that she does not, cannot, open up to him as readily.

She can't stay angry with Owen, though, especially when she was never angry with Owen to begin with. The anger crumbles, and only the hurt and self-recrimination remains. It's not the Singer she finds fault with, but his apprentice to be. She had never held him accountable for the recent distance, or for whatever it is that has upset her tonight.

"Owen, I..." Unsteady. Her brow creases and her fingers tighten at her sides. She frowns and looks away, then back to him. "I've made a lot of mistakes. Even in the last month. I've kept things from you, when I should have sought you out. Maybe Father Ward is right," her pitch rises slightly at the suggestion, nervous and unsettled.

"Maybe my moral fibre isn't strong enough for this. My Faith has been tested before and it faultered. I failed. You can't know that you'll be able to count on me -- and it's not that I was a child then, that's hardly an excuse."

There's a moment of silence, where she looked to the arm of the sofa. To anywhere but Owen. They are both laid bare and vulnerable. He entreats her to trust him, to forgive him; she seeks acceptance despite her wrong doings.

"You threw a Bible at a Priest?" At last, her voice breaks a bit in its incredulity. It's such an awkward segue, but they are neither one adept in this manner of disclosure. They are both struggling to trust, to forgive, but perhaps not struggling so hard to accept what they find in the other.

[Emily Littleton] (( Must. Needs. Sleep. Paused for now? ))