Gone fishin'

[Atlas Mason] Dusk, a beautiful time where the sky is often filled with brilliant hue's of red, orange, purple and red. Even on cloudy days like this one the sky and the light within it still give off a brilliant show, and down by the rivers edge was one of the best places in the city to watch the show.

Most people however were not in this lovely little lake view park for the show in the sky, in fact most never even took the time to notice it unless it was particularly strange. The people moving through the park were more intent on more pressing matters, ice cream from a mobile ice cream truck that had pulled into the parking lot for instance. The people flocked to the truck and its jingling bells and the friendly man standing in the window ready to sell until he ran out of stock.

Almost everyone had ventured to get a frosty desert while it lasted, except for one man, he sat at the rivers edge on a piece of concrete that jutted further into the water then anywhere else in the park, as if he were trying to get into the river, without getting wet. The reason was apparent though, as the man sat with an old and apparently hand crafted fishing rob in his hands, and an odd beaten brass tackle box beside him.

The man himself sat staring up at the sky, aquiline features framed by black hair that was slicked back against his head. His deep water blue eyes were peaceful as he watched the hue's dance across the atmosphere. The man seemed...somewhat out of place, just as his chosen hobby was, he too was a bit out of date. He wore a crisp white shirt, and a pair of brown corduroy pants held aloft by a pair of black suspenders.

[Emily Littleton] The van played out its jingle-jangle sound, and the clouds kept it trapped down tight against the park grounds. It seemed to echo through the trees, blend and butt up against the chirping of crickets and settling of songbirds. Behind the blanket of grey, the fat and lazy full moon crested the horizon, tugging herself up into the sky, hand over hand, as if it were a great and laborious duty to surmount.

Twilight brings a kind of peace, a fuzzy margin between day and night. It's sacred-soft like dawn, but without the promise of a new day. It is the winding down of all things terrestrial, the gateway to the celestial supremacy of nighttime. The shadows they throw are long and dappled, gentled and made hazy by the indirect light. The pond's surface shimmies, feathered and rippled by the early evening breeze.

Along the margin of the water way, a young and dark haired woman walks alone. She favors one foot, slightly, throwing her gait just a little off balance. She's wearing jeans, sandals and cerulean shirt -- something that calls forth the deep color in her eyes, which will soon slip away to just dark in the dwindling light.

There are people who walk like they've a destination in mind, can hold it in their mind's eye and see it even as they step out onto the path. Others amble, directionless and weavingly. This one walks, as if drawn along the path by some invisible string, pulled to an inevitable destination with no sense of hurry or expectation. She is going somewhere, she is not idle, but she is not single-mindedly focused, tonight, either.

Her path brings her toward the outcropping, to the piece of concrete that juts out like a finger placed into this tiny sea. There is a man, feet dangling, line in the water, pole in his hands. She smiles to see him, and if he looks her way, Emily offers him a little smile. The sky-colors hung high over head, painted in broad brush strokes of vivid and relentless color. It's echoed on the water's surface. It casts the color, palely, to his crisp white shirt, brings a pinkish glow to her pale skin.

If he looks over, she'd even wave back, shyly, silently, as if she, too, knows how easy it is to scare away the fish.

[Atlas Mason] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Atlas Mason] The man seemed lost in the show, as the colors shifted and flowed through the atmosphere high above their heads he seemed to smile to himself its a secret smile, one shared only with yourself in times of contentment and leisure. He does not immediately notice the raven haired woman who walked by herself, away from the crowds who gathered for their nights treat.

A faint breeze blew in the man's direction spreading ripples out across the calm river waters, the soft lapping of water on concrete amplifying as if it would try to drown out the clang and jingle of the ice cream truck beyond. It is in that brief moment that the man's eyes are drawn from the heights of the sky, back to the earthly plane about him.

Those deep water blue eyes moved as the man's head turned and came to rest upon the woman who stood there, watching him. Her smile quiets any concerns however and the man returns it in kind, an amiable warmth spreading across his lips as his eye's narrowed bringing a twinkle to the orbs within.

His hand came up from the rod again, and motioned towards her, inviting her perhaps, to join him, if she so pleased.

[Emily Littleton] She is young; even from a distance he can tell how the too-thin lines of her frame are still firm with youth. How she moves, despite the small limp, with an ease unburdened by the aches and palsies of later years. Her hair is unbroken by grey strands. Time has not taken her, ravaged her, bent her back or clouded her eyes. And why should these things matter, why should it surprise him at all?

There is a brilliance to her, a shining and boundless wonder. It is bound up in the very heart of her, in the deep-raptured places that made Emily whole. Fundamental, pure: Grace, and the quiet surety that surrounds it (Reverence). It is still soft enough to go unnoticed by the Sleepers she passes; she cannot have been Awake too long. That certainty builds as he takes in the second note, seeking and pursuant to a purpose beyond her mortal, mundane means. It is a press, a push that can be fluid, like the unyielding flow of water, or resolute like rock sunk deep into the earth (Unrelenting). She is growing into them, still, these resonances. These flavours, like quarks have, her native up- and down- spins.

He beckons, and the small smile she is wearing shifts. Broadens. Softens as it grows. Tender of her injury, Emily makes her way wordlessly out to where he sits. She is a creature that knows silence, can speak her helloes and how are yous with the shape of her eyes and the cant of her head. It is a lost art, to many, companionable quiet, but this is her first choice of greeting when she finally finds herself beside him.

And there they are, perched on the outcrop of unyielding land, thrust into a tiny but calm sea, with the heavens above reddened and already withering of light. Breathless -- or if they weren't, then they should be. Her thumbs tuck into her pockets, her posture takes up a gentle lean to take the pressure off her foot. There is the sound of the bugs, the ice cream truck (dwindling now, as it recedes toward the city), the stir of night air, the calm slop of the water against the shore.

In a week when nothing has felt peaceful, nothing has gone quite right, there is this: Grace, beauty and the company of kind-seeming strangers. It is a start. It is enough.

[Atlas Mason] The water continued to sooth their ears and fill the comfortable silence as it lapped softly at the concrete, slowly, lovingly welcoming it, asking it to join it, and in time, years from now it would just as all things eventually returned to the water, to the ground, to the planet upon which the sat.

This friendly stranger, this lone fishers smile broadened, and crooked slightly to the side into a friendly almost charismatic smirk as she joined him upon his perch. The silent welcome complete the man slowly turned his gaze from the woman, to the water and then..almost as if he were fighting the urge, returning his gaze to the sky above.

Being so close, and undistracted by the nuances of conversation or direct interaction, Emily can notice things that others might not. He seemed young as well at first, his body was still in its early thirties, a fully grown man in all respects. He was tall and just on the side of lanky, but he was firm, and healthy. The man smelled of salt water that unavoidable smell you only found in the wide open ocean. Mixed with it was the hint of rusting metal, a biting edge to the pleasantness of entire aroma.

But it was in his eyes that she might find the most interesting features, those gateway's to the soul were deep, so deep, as if within them you could sink forever, these eyes had seem years and years beyond the man's body and within were equal measures of wonder, and horror.

[Emily Littleton] ((Awareness))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Atlas Mason] [As her awareness bubbles up and out, hidden senses examining the world around her like a sixth sense, it catches upon the man's form, it begins as a pulse of warm light, and as her senses attuned themselves to his presence, it became a steady, luminous glow that rose from his skin and illuminated her senses.

But even as this warm light pulsed and danced to the mans own inner tune, a darker almost malignant feeling crept up from within and displayed itself like a lizard bathing upon a warm stone, it was a deranged flicker of essence which lived within the brighter warmer glow. Both were well hidden, unnoticable to the sleepers who would walk by, but she could tell...they were old, so very old, the man had worn these skins, these resonances, for what seemed an age.]
to Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] The girl behind does not stare at his regal nose, or push at the gates of his soul. Such gates stood open, wider, in the inbetween times. So his sidelong glances take her in in profile -- dark lashes, dark eyes, pale skin, straight nose, pink lips, slightly tucked chin. There are no clear clues, yet, to who and what she is. No definite knowledge of her personality or person to break his awareness, to distract from the subtle clues he has as to who she might one day be(come).

He wears the sea on his skin, the scent of salt-weathered metal. Hers is clean, faintly scented of vanilla, of jasmine. Faint, Oriental notes to lead him eastward, leave him guessing. His eyes were deep, soul deep and expansive. She seemed far flung, but not scattered, as if she might have come from everywhere at once.

This quiet between them might have stretched thin, become untenable in its unbroken silence. Between two sharp people it is often this way, tense and tearing. As if they cannot keep still, as if they cannot keep their mind's hands to themselves. They must devour the moment, chew it up and spit it back at one another in the tiny fragments words make of great ideas.

It is comfortable, the quiet, the way she wears it so completely. Perhaps she has no voice, perhaps it has been stolen from her by illness or defect, by misuse or impairment. It's a thought he entertains, at least for a moment, even as a small shudder of breath (surprise) shakes her shoulders, tightens the corner of her eyes: Discovery. And then it settles, and the quiet resumes, though she looks at him as if she were taking this all in anew. Eyes opened to the luminosity he brings; to the danger therein.

To the things she wears into the evening, akin to his own resonances and spins, that might be equally brilliant, equally terrifying.

[Atlas Mason] His eyes are once more drawn earthward at the slight sound of her breath shuddering from between gentle lips. Those blue eyes casting looks of curiosity and concern in her direction, his face, asking if she is alright, but then he comes to the conclusion it seems, knowing that she too, has sensed the kindred existence within him.

It is at that moment, that moment of familiarity between them that the man holds up one solitary finger as if to tell her to wait, to hold on for just a moment. He reels in his line, the sound of nylon wire sliding into the brass spool upon the hilt of his rod. The shaft is laid beside him, away from Emily, leaving her personal space comfortable and safe. He turns slightly, his torso shifting to reach for the metal tackle box, the release is odd, almost fanciful, it is a wheel of copper, etched with designs of fish, and mighty boats stylized in an art deco render. He grasps the wheel and turns it, before pulling outward, revealing what was certain to be one of many drawers within the box.

A heavily calloused hand dipped within, and after a moment withdrew three small lengths of wood, and as the man carefully fitted one into the next, it became clear that it was another rod. Silent moments later, a reel was attached, a lure set, and the box closed once more, before the fisherman turned to his companion and held out the rod, offering not only his companionship, but also his hobby.

[Emily Littleton] He holds up his finger, and her brow knits in query, head cants (curiosity). The expression softens, though, to just something quizzical and amused as he rummages in his tacklebox and withdraws puzzling pieces of something -- Oh! She is quick to understand, once the first piece is fitted into the next, even before the line is strung, or the reel attached. The satisification of discovery shifts into something warmer.

He offers his company, his hobby. She offers acceptance, companionship. It is never an even exchange, but these transactions are not written into some celestial balance sheet. He holds out the rod, and she reaches over with one long-fingered hand to accept it.

Emily has not grown up on these waters, has not fished for her dinner. But she has walked, one foot in her own life and one foot always immersed in a land of Other. So she watches him put his line out into the water, mimics the movements until she begins to understand them, until she can own them.

He teaches, without speaking. She learns, without asking. Before long, she is sitting beside him, pole balanced between her hands, eyes trained out over the water with a peaceful expression. He's given her peace, for a moment, and Atlas cannot know how much she has needed it -- unless he is fluent in the subtle shift of rounding shoulders, in the deepening breaths, in the steady quality to the quiet that has joined them as a third party to this sunset.

The moon peeks through the clouds far toward the Eastern horizon. It casts a pale cut of light across the rippled pond. It sharpens the ascent of the ripples' edges, it deepens the shadows of their troughs. For a moment, the thin line casts a whisper of a shadow on the undulating water.

Thank you, says the sidelong glance she offers him. And the water laps quietly against the concrete bar that holds them high, lofted and undamped by the pond.

[Atlas Mason] Now they shared an interest, if only for an evening, in many ways, these simple acts meant more then an entire conversation, one simple concept relayed through expression and sight alone stronger and more memorable then many dialogues ever would be.

The man seemed to teach her the skills easily, an old craft handed down to young hands. As he does so, showing her how to hold, how to cast, how to jink and reel. She could see him as a kindly professor, a doctor in hallowed halls handing down information like it was candy. His own gaze, and a curt friendly nod spoke of his welcome, and of his own thanks for the company.

Lessons complete, and both of them settled once more, their lines now hidden by the blanketing darkness that encompassed them both they settled once more into a comfortable stillness that to the observer, made them seem almost as surreal statues. It was a quiet, a peace that many could not understand, could not even begin to grasp in this bustling age, this time without time for anything but the constant rat race of life.

The stars began their own show now, starting to sparkle through the clouds as the sky begun to turn a deep blue as the last vestiges of the sun slipping over the horizons, off to the other side of the world to spread color and light to those who needed it elsewhere.

[Emily Littleton] Outside, time slows. It thickens, runs like molasses toward this little nexus, this quiet place where they are tethered by thin lines to the surface of the water below. In the darkness, the girl beside him softens until Atlas can tell that she is still on the cusp of adulthood in many ways. Still waiting at the gates for the surety and confidence of knowing who she is and who she might to rush forth and claim her. He appears to be in his thirties, and she is at the early half of her twenties.

For all that youth and uncertainty, she is carrying something. It's apparent in this careful pursuit, in how she can set aside that burden to immerse herself in this new study. Fishing. It lets her focus on something outward, and so the set of her shoulders relaxes and the tautness of her jaw recants. There is wonder sprinkled at the margins of her eyes and her smile, he can see it still, almost touch it there. Beautiful, unbroken.

It had been hidden, until now. Until she sat down beside him, pulled her sandals free of her feet and set them beside her on the concrete walk. Until her hands held that fishing pole and her eyes kept watch at the moment where the line slid beneath the plane of the water touched its own reflection and doubled back -- Emily exhales, slowly, deeply, almost as if she's been holding her breath for hours, days, weeks.

Now her gaze breaks away from the plane of the water. Steals a sidelong glance to him. From his features travels upward to search the shapes of the heavens, to name its freckeled face of constellations where they might peek out from behind the clouds.

This is a timeless pursuit. She is more anachronistic in it than he. It must be an odd reversal, in such a hectic world as this. He is the fixed point about which the moment turns. She is the periphery. Here they are close enough to touch. His line tugs. Hers remains still. There's a plinking sound from the water that draws down her interest, and strong ripples surging outward at the same lazy canter.

[Atlas Mason] She was relaxing, and opening up like a flower that opened only at night to show its beauty to the moon and stars. It was a hidden beauty, a show that was not meant for the eyes of the many or even the few, only a select group would ever see such a sight, much as few were ever to see the man's secret smile, the restful way he sat when he fished.

Something had happened here at the waters edge, something rare and intimate, both of them shared something of themselves that would not have been shown otherwise, that would have been guarded and secret in a world so full of danger and secret enemies. Perhaps it was the simple act of fishing, or the intimacy of teaching, more likely it was a million smaller things, things that had happened here, and elsewhere that brought together this moment, a moment they might not forget for some time.

As soon as it had formed, as soon as it had become so real it seemed as if they could hold onto the moment for as long as they wished, reality changed it all, the line tugs, and as a fish pulls the tension and vibration pulls at the rod, and at the man's hands in turn. He can feel that life force on the other end, hungry for food, hungry for life. Just as all things that moved and breathed hungered.

For a moment, the man does not react, and in the next he pulls on the line, hooking the fish silently and begins to work and reel at the form hidden beneath the darkened waters. A silent battle beginning just as that moment of silent clarity ended.

[Emily Littleton] A secret kept so tightly, never let loose to see the starlight or to play across features, was a thing dead and lifeless to the world. It became nothing. Meaningless. The secrets Emily kept, the places threaded through her accent, accenting her mannerisms, they were far too important to her to let linger entirely in the worlds between. They surfaced, revealed themselves, forced her to struggle to contain them or sublime to loosing them and letting them slip away.

Atlas had seen her wonder, the brilliance that perserveres.

There is a struggle building. Emily gaze is torn from the flipping fish, the flick of thrown droplets settling again at the turbulent water's mirror edge. She looks to the man beside her instead, weighs his side of the war, the violence and humanity. The practiced adeptness, the calm ease.

A life is struggling, but she doesn't seem perturbed by it. Anymore than she is by the rising moon or the setting sun. Emily resettles her fingers on the pole, looks down to her own line. She shifts, to make sure he has the space he needs to address his task. She is more restless than he; she is the turbulance that breaks the steady calm.

The fish fights him, darts and feints and jerks the line. It is willful, as much as a simple thing can be. It does not wish to yield, to rise above the water, dangle from his line. The hunger has hooked it, but the battle is not yet won.

[Atlas Mason] The battle is a worthy one, the battle for food, for freedom, for the continuation of life things that everyone strove for daily in all the many ways of the world were distilled into this fleeting moment, made simple and plain before the eyes of those capable of seeing it, those who had not become so blind to these simple facts of life.

The fish is willful as much as it can be, but the man...the man is a veteran of this battle, both here in this moment and out in the world beyond. He allows the fish its slack when he must, and jerks at it when it must take a moment to rest, slowly draining it of the fight, and slowly but inevitably drawing it to the edge of its world, preparing to pull it into a world it cannot survive in.

He is calm and he is sure of what he is doing, and he is happy as well. It is not a malicious glee at the fishes suffering, or a desire to devour this simple creature, but of a kind that exults in the lives of both the fish and the man, drawn together in their struggle.

His eyes flicker briefly to her, watchful for only an instant, before his gaze returns to the task at hand, drawing and releasing, reeling and waiting, until at last the moment is right, and a slap of water breaks the silence as a small but feisty fish breaks the surface and begins to rise, gasping for air.

[Emily Littleton] The man is a veteran of this war and the fish is far to small to be anything but a fresh recruit. It writhes and dances in the air, suffocating as the dampness dries from its gills. There is not enough humidity in the night to swim in, though it is warm and muggy and smells a lot like summer. The line shudders, sways, contorted by the erratic palsy of the captured foe.

She watches, for a long moment, and then Emily looks away. Her expression is inscrutable, but that alone is enough of a tell. There is something fragile to her, not entirely comfortable with the writhing suffering of the caught (kept) creature. Though Atlas is not cruel, she would rather not bear witness to the totality of its demise. She takes in the starlight, reaches up with one hand to pull her dark curls over one shoulder. Exhales, again, like she is breathing out something and drawing in a new, fresh beginning in its stead.

There is anonymity, here, at the margin of his struggle. He cannot focus on his quarry and the nuances of her attention. Some thing must suffer his inattention. Her own line tightens, but it is not the tug of a willful creature on the other end. It is a constant tension, directionless and fixed. She has caught up on something. The tip of her rod dips, trying to generate enough slack to loose the barb from its confines. It rises, hoping to find her pole freed. Now she is embroiled in her own quarrel, between the girl and the pond floor or some rock. Her brow creases thoughtfully, mouth thins a little as she presses her lips together. Intent. Concentration. She is capable of these things.

[Atlas Mason] The fish flops and shudders, clinging to life as it holds on, seeking to draw breath in the air from which there is nothing for it to breath. It is drawn in, brought into Atlas' waiting grasp. His fingers close about it, a terrifying thing for the fish, as if some strange and terrifying predator was sinking its teeth into it.

But it is no grisly painful death that awaits this young fish, this young pulse of life, only the brief and painful removal of a hook, a spasm of pain for the poor creature, before it finds itself gently lowered once more into the waters below, and released so that it may breath, and live.

The man smiled as the fish jerked, and the sped off into the waters below, a rare second chance given to an animal who by all rights, should have become a meal in someone's belly. It is only once the fish is gone that the other commotion is brought to Atlas' attention, the woman, his companion struggled with an opponent she could not win against. Atlas smiled to her, a reassuring smile that this battle was unnecessary, and his hand slipped into his pocket, and pulled out a pair of pliers, ready and capable...of cutting her line, and freeing her from this battle.

[Emily Littleton] This is the wisdom that comes with the depth behind his eyes. To know when to let a fallen opponent swim free, when to cut the line and accept your losses. The rock will not yield, and while she is relentless, she is not unreasonably stubborn.

His reassuring smile returns a small, somewhat apologetic nod. As if she is embarrassed, slightly, to have looped his line around some impediment, to have been less than fluent in their shared hobbie for the evening. Patience and subtle awareness is not something easily taught or acquired in the space of the evening. It's possible that the less obvious restlessnesses in her have led to this point -- the faint tremble to her hands, which is unexplained in her calm demeanor, or something deeper and unseen.

She seems relieved that he has let the fish go, this small mercy pleases her or calms some inward agitation. If he cuts her line free, she will offer the pole back to him. In case he wants or needs to save it from her inept attentions.

It is still quiet between them. Neither clutters up the night with words. It is not necessary, just now, to discuss what has happened or is happening or the weather. It's a relief, in many ways, but also a burden. The silence has taken up momentum, built itself into a character in their scene. It would seem irreverent to break that now, to shuffle off their third player as he had released the fish.

[Atlas Mason] The tension in the air is palpable, as if something in their dynamic was indeed demanding that their silent partner be shuffled off stage, and the purity of the moment tarnished with words and gestures and all the noise of human life.

The line, caught between its wielder and the unyeilding river bed, was a symbolic representation of that tension, but for that the man had a solution. With the briefest of motions, and the sudden snap of the line, the rod is freed and the remains of the line are lost beneath the water, claimed by the river.

The scholarly man does indeed take the rod from her outstretched hand, but the mirthful smile that is barely seen in the light of the evening, reassures her that she is not inept, merely untrained. He carefully takes the rod apart, and stashes it within the beaten housing of his tackle box, before once more turning his gaze to Emily, a pleased look on his face.

[Emily Littleton] He is folding away their small moment, sequestering it safely in the tackle box alongside a lifetime of memories. The line, reel, rod segments; down they all go into the belly of the box, segmented into their compartments, held tight until they are needed once more. To rest, to teach again another day.

There is moonlight in his mirthful smile, silver-lined and secretive. The same moonlight touches her skin, makes its native paleness something argent. His mirth calls forth the warmth and laughter in her eyes, which are merely dark now in the lowlight and no longer call forward echoes of the color of her shirt. Emily eases herself to standing, cautious of the ankle that's given way twice in the past week to send her sprawling.

When she has righted herself, and before she turns away, the girl places her palms together, turns her elbows away from her center and offers him a practiced bow that bends from her waist, not just nods her head. This, mingled with the earlier cues of jasmine and vanilla, perhaps substantiated by her dark hair -- but only maybe -- deepens the East/West conflict surrounding her. Either way he takes her background to be, the bow is a show of gratitude and respect.

And there is a smile, difficult to read the nuances of but warm and welcoming. Her eyes meet his, hold them for a moment. Then it is time for leaving, and when he gives her leave so shall she go. The fish one way, the girl another, leaving this kind-eyed man in the company of their mutual friend: quiet.

[Atlas Mason] The man does indeed wonder at this woman's heritage, where was she from, who were her people? What did she do, and what did she do to get that limp. All questions that had begun to bubble up from deep within his mind, but he knew, or at least was certain, that there would be other days, other times to learn such things. They were bound afterall, sharing similar paths.

She bowed, a sign of respect and gratitude, he...he isn't quite certain how to return the gesture, it takes him a few moments as he puzzles out a response, something she would understand, something that would mean just as much.

At last he has it, and as her bow finishes entirely, the man straightens his back, and slowly, crisply salutes her. He is serious, and it is only as the hand falls that his smile returns, wishing her a warm evening, and a safe trip home.

When she turns to go, he turns as well, his gaze returning to the water, the sky, and all the possibilities contained within both, endless....beautiful possibilities.