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[Emily] The moon hangs, fish hook thin, suspended on the wire thin night. She's lofty, transcendent. She casts short shadows, obscures most of her face. The light that filters into the park grounds is mostly scattered, light-litter from nearby lamps, from the streetlights, overspill from the broad windows of the store fronts that face this way. It muddles the moonlight. It pushes back the magic of it all.

It's a still night, for all the heat and humidity. The air doesn't seem to move as much as it has all day. There's a steady thump, at odd intervals, of a slightly flat ball hitting the backboard or a wall. It thuds, rebounds, rolls back toward her. The court is for handball, but Emily's using it to rebound her soccer ball. The sound echoes in all that stillness, punctuates the moonlight.

She should be afraid of this place, of being out at night alone. After the first half of this year, a girl should know better. But she's there all the same, with her messenger bag leaned up against one margin of the wall, and her hair tied up in a pony tail. There's focus to this, this solitary sports game. It lets her forget the things that might weigh her down; it reminds her of the things that elevate her.

The ball hits her toe at an unexpected angle, meets the wall and careens off instead of returning to her. The girl takes off after it. Catches it. Dribbles it back.

The thud-bounce-kick pattern resumes.

[Declan] Tonight, Declan had been walking. He spent a lot of time walking. After all, it wasn't as if he had many other options for entertainment. There was more to it than that, though. A deep-seated wanderlust (gypsy king) that kept him persistently on the move. He'd already stayed in Chicago longer than he usually settled in any particular city. Usually, places passed by like a generic string of roads and buildings. They blended together, then faded into the all-encompassing fog that served as his memory.

But he hadn't moved on, this time. The routine was changing. He was changing. Change suited him.

The Orphan had been walking past a park, hands resting loosely in the pockets of a black hooded sweatshirt. The hood was down tonight (no need for protection or anonymity), and he looked up at the hazy night sky as he walked. Contemplating. (Contemplating what? Many things.) Eventually a sound drew his attention. Repetitive. Lonely. Declan paused on the sidewalk, then began to follow the sound to its source. When he came around to the other side of the wall, he eyed Emily for long, quiet moment, then offered a smile.

"Emily."

[Emily] They'd not really discussed it, but there was a kinship between the two Orphans. The restlessness; the wandering. Emily had moved on, in her past, because she had to; because she was compelled; because she could. She'd wandered by foot, by car, by bus, by light rail, by train, by aeroplane, by ferry, once by ship -- but that had been unpleasant and wasn't to be repeated. She'd wandered whenever she could, even after the necessity of it had passed. And here, now, it had been more than three months since she left the continent, or even the City.

The soles of her feet burned. Her wings ached to stretch and carry her away (sun scorch and all [how right Kage was to like her to Icarus]). She'd walked all over this city; she'd packed her boxes (twice) and yet here she was. Tethered. Kept. Contemplative of all of that nonsense (I can leave whenever I want to [I just don't want to go yet]).

"Declan."

She trapped the ball between her sole and the pavement. Stilled it so it would not roll away. Emily is wearing jean shorts and a polo. Sneakers and low socks. There's a glint of silver at her neck, a thin chain. There's a lightness to her, though, that hadn't been there before. To the way that her smile (and for Declan it is a warm smile, tonight) reaches up to touch her eyes. There's brilliance to it, muted but sure.

"It's good to see you," she says, and it rings like verity. It sings. "How have you been?"

A good night, then.

She digs her toe under the ball, lifts it up so she can catch it in her hands. This is practiced; she has done this before. It gets tucked under one arm, braced in the shape formed by the crook of her elbow and curve of her hip.

[Owen] [I'm just walkin', in the shadows, like a man of mystery. Dex + Stealth, -1 Diff Arcane]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 4, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Declan] [Oh whoops, forgot to roll Nightmares!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Declan] [Oh yay.]

[Declan] Declan had never really been good at sports in high school (and we might note the importance of the fact that he remembered this now - not just as a brief flash, but in its entirety). He hadn't been completely useless at them, mind... but it just wasn't something he'd ever put much thought or time into. Emily handled the soccer ball, not quite like a pro, but like someone who'd grown up in just about any country other than the States, where soccer was a much beloved past-time, and something of a prerequisite. She was comfortable. She looked at home in her own skin.

Declan... well, he looked tired. But it wasn't entirely a bad sort of tired. A lot had been processed in the last couple of days. Some of it was bad, some of it was good. Something had been stirred up, since his visit with Kage. His dreams (when he managed to sleep), had been even more chaotic than usual. Dark things that shrieked and clawed but never seemed to stay with him after he opened his eyes. Only the feelings remained. This morning, when he'd woken up at the chantry, he'd felt so violently sick that he'd thrown up in the sink. That was a kind of purging, just like the dreams.

He was tired. He was drained. But strangely... he didn't seem to be on-edge. Nor was he lost, as he so often seemed to be. If anything, he was more lucid than usual. More grounded. More... himself. (If there was a self to be found.)

"I... I don't know." He answered with an honest shrug. "It's a nice night, though. Glad I ran into you."

[Emily] [Alertness: I notice things? Or am I, once again, as perceptive as a rock?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Declan] [Per+Alertness - wait, there's something to notice? (-1 - nightmares fail)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Owen] It's been a while since Owen and Emily have seen one another. Oh sure, she'd camped out on his sofa that one night, and they'd argued about whether or not it was fair for him to give his bed up for her [he'd lost that bout, are any of us surprised?] before he'd given in and she'd taken up residence on his sofa. It was old, and threadbare, like most of Owen's stuff.

Worn in, might be a sweeter way of thinking about it.
Kinda like the man himself, if we're honest.

Tonight, the Chorister is haunting the park grounds. He doesn't do it for any particular reason, Owen, but that he tended to enjoy the freedom that came with walking late into the evening when it was just you, the moon and stars and the occasional fellow insomniac, attempting to find some solace in the open air of the city. He's not trying to find Emily [though perhaps he should be tending his flock more than he does] nor is he intending to intrude on her conversation with a fellow Orphan he knows but barely as another Awakened face in the night.

Still, such is the way of things that this is exactly what happens. One minute he's alone, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes focused on the pathway before him and the next -- leaves scuttle, a swing-set nearby creaks as a breeze stirs and settles, voices drift, names are caught -- there are two figures before him.

He stops, briefly, a hesitation of sorts and watches for a moment. Then, with more deliberate noise, he approaches.

[Emily] There are little cues, things to notice, on any given night. In any given encounter. For weeks, now, Emily has been less than vigilant. She's been outright oblivious at times. It's been dangerous; it has kept her insulated. Tonight that veil has parted, somewhat. Not enough for her to notice Owen's approach, at first, but enough for her to note the weariness in the man who stands exactly of a height with her.

Declan was worn around the edges, but a little more lucid. Emily was watchful again, but lighter. They were each better, somehow, than they had been before.

"You sleeping alright?" she asks, and it's touched with concern. Not outright worry. There's no intimacy between them that should lend her any call to ask these things, but the note of genuine compassion underscoring her oddly-accented words went further these days. Emily passes the ball around her back, takes it into her hands again. Bounces it.

She's not any better at standing still than she'd been in June; that stillness will take a long, long time to rebuild.

The ball gets tucked between her feet, now, and she reaches up to rub at her left shoulder idly. The cuff of her sleeve rucks up a bit. In the dim light, here, it's harder to see the thin pink (angry) lines that score her upper arm. They're healed but still fading, with any luck they will not scar.

She doesn't notice Owen coming until he deliberately chooses to make more noise. And then, she steps back, widens their circle-of-two so that she can turn her attention toward the newcomer. The ball rolls away from her a bit, before she traps it under a foot again. Yes, she had grown up anywhere but here. Yes, soccer (football) had been the rough tie that bound many a friendship in her youth. (She cannot say she remembers high school [she hadn't gone]).

"Hey, Owen," she says, when he draws nearer. The smile Emily offers him is different from the one she's shown Declan. It's softer, but no less warm. It lingers a moment longer, hangs even after her eyes have shifted away from him again.

"Have you two met?" she asks. If not, she'll make the rudimentary introductions. Just first names, no Traditions. No titles.

[Owen] A few months ago he wouldn't have smiled like that at her when she greeted him. Now, she gets the quirk of his mouth upward at one edge, that crooked amusement that served to turn him from a taciturn individual into a slightly friendlier guy. Into somebody that you wouldn't be afraid to meet in a dark alley.

He's shaved at some point, too, and the lack of stubble on his jaw gifts him back his relative youth, strips away the ragged edges that he sometimes wore like badges pinned to his clothing, badges that read out his crimes, one by one, told in the dark circles beneath his eyes, in the weariness contained in his voice, in his dark stare that was at once captivating and unsettling. Tonight, he seems calmer than he has of late. His hands aren't bruised and torn when he extends one to shake Declan's hand and offer his preferred manner of greeting: "Hey, Owen," and his demeanor isn't quite stand-offish.

The reservation was still there, but that was typical.

[Declan] Declan's first name was all that Emily had to introduce him by, in any case. It was all he'd been able to introduce himself by, for a long time. He still didn't have a tradition, but since he didn't know any better, he wasn't exactly in a hurry to change this fact. (And if he had known better, he may still have been in no hurry.)

He could have offered a full name, but he didn't. Just because he remembered these things, didn't mean he was inclined to share them just yet. (Just because he remembered, didn't mean he'd claimed them as his own.)

She'd asked him if he was sleeping alright, and just before the sound of approaching steps interrupted their conversation, he shrugged, offering up an expression that was sleepily apologetic. He didn't actually answer her, but the answer was there in his body language and facial expression. No, but... don't worry.

Emily heard Owen before he did. That wasn't a surprise. Declan turned to regard the approaching Chorister as Emily moved to one side and invited the third entity into their circle. There was a slightly twinge of familiarity, but nothing more. A face barely recognized, and for a moment he couldn't place why or where.

"Um... I think maybe. But not officially."

Owen extended his hand and offered a greeting, and Declan smiled in an honestly friendly kind of way (despite the apparent exhaustion - he had a kind demeanor) as he reached out to accept the other man's hand. His own were a bit worse for wear. They were thin and long-fingered, with bruises and scrapes. There was also an odd scar in the center of the palm, on both sides. An indentation (like he'd stuck himself through with a nail.) There was a matching one on the other hand, and another thin scar on the side of his neck.

Those weren't the only ones, but they were the only visible ones.

[Declan] "I'm Declan."

[Declan] [slightly = slight. *sigh*]

[Declan] [Oh wait, we've never felt your resonance, have we? Let's see if we can! (-1)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily] Emily's head is bowed, slightly, while the two make their helloes. Shake hands. Exchange names. Her teeth catch and hold her lower lip for a moment. As if there is something she's not quite sure that she should say, or that she must carefully choose how to phrase.

"Declan, lovely," she says, and her tone is just this side of seeking. She's being careful of something. Delicate with it. Her eyes search for his, to hold them, to share the surety of her inward calm should he need to borrow on it. There is something a little off about the other Orphan, and she knows that when he says I don't know it's more than perplexion. So she's gentle, now, as she was gentle before. And her hand finds his arm for a moment, to pull his attention toward her if it doesn't come readily on its own.

"Owen's like us. Like you and me. Different." The words come simply. They reference a conversation from more than a month before. She doesn't say Awake, in case that word is now unfamiliar.

Then her hand falls away, back to her side, back to where it's tucked into her pocket and kept to herself. The intimacy in her voice lightens, lessens.

"Riley loved the snapdragons, by the way," she adds, and there's encouragement underscoring the words. It's paired with a broader smile. A note of approval.

[Owen] Feeling out Owen Page's resonance taps into a strange and unsettling sensation; it's as if someone had come near your skin with a corrosive agent, a tiny pinprick of imagined pain as if something were beginning to peel away at the layers of your psyche, it's coupled with an intensity that seems to be harbored at its pinnacle behind the dark haired Initiate's eyes, eyes that seemed to lock on and penetrate without ever saying a thing.

That was what feeling him out brought to mind, and no matter how nonthreatening his behavior, it very rarely brought around reassurance that he was not out to harm you. Not until you'd become accustomed to his quiet, thoughtful manner. To the way he leaned away from those he stood with, kept one hand in a pocket, his expression carefully neutral, sealed off.

When Emily mentions what he is, the Singer's eyes [a very particular shade of midnight blue] flick to her, study her without comment before they shift back, and Owen is making Declan his body of study. "That's where I remember you from," Owen notes in a slightly bemused tone, "Riley."

[Declan] Someone with a more refined sense of pride might have taken offense to the way that Emily spoke to Declan just now. Like he was a child or an elderly alzheimer's patient. Declan didn't so much seem offended as... well, perhaps a little amused. People seemed to be coming to grips with the fact that his mind wasn't entirely... as it should have been. Declan couldn't have dismissed that assumption even if he'd wanted to.

She touched his arm, and it surprised him a little, despite the gentleness. He tensed, initially, but didn't pull away, and the muscles in his shoulder relaxed after a second. Then he looked at her and smiled. "I know. I can feel it on him."

And what he felt, well... that wasn't entirely a pleasant sensation. But to his credit, the Orphan didn't balk or back away nervously. He just regarded Owen for a long moment with quietly observant eyes. (They were green, Declan's eyes. A bit of a pale olive shade.)

Emily said that Riley loved the snapdragons. And Declan... smiled again. More self-conscious, this time. Happy and embarrassed all at once. He looked down, scuffed the end of his foot against the ground, and scratched the side of his neck. "Yeah."

[James] It's a quiet night, now that the thumping of a football against an immovable object has stopped. In this part of town, a person can walk down the sidewalk without constantly looking over his shoulder. Chicago isn't safe the way that a town in the middle of nowhere is safe, but there are parts that are safer than others, just like any other city. Only someone who didn't know Chicago would deign to liken it to any other city, though. It is, and it isn't.

About a block from the park where the three stand, a stark white taxi glides around the corner and pauses there, its motor humming and its brakes sighing. There it idles for several seconds while a transaction occurs in silhouette, and then the chassis of the vehicle is rocking with movement inside. The door opens. A tall young man none of them have seen before steps out onto the curb, the heels of his boots clicking one at a time as he settles, and closes the door behind him. He watches the cab as it pulls away. Atop the car, the service light winks back on.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer--he's wearing a suit without a tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone--and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. As he taps one loose, he watches the cluster of bodies. Beyond the reach of a street lamp's glow, it's difficult to make out his features.

[Emily] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Declan] [Awareness again? (-1, damn you bad nightmares roll)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily] There are nuances, here, to the gathering of Wills. There's three conversations (confrontations) trying to meld themselves into just one. And it's a delicate thing. At times it's an uneasy thing.

She gets a look from Owen, but it hardly pulls Emily's attention away from the other Apprentice. What she'd said, how carefully it was worded. The bits that were left out, withheld. All of this said something to at least one of the men standing beside her. And all of this with a smile, with warmth and a renewed grace. She is better at the balancing act, now that she seems hale.

I can feel it on him, Declan says. Emily's smile brightens, pleased. She's encouraged by this development. Which would make more sense to Declan, than to Owen. This smile is for the Orphan, who is owning his new senses. It's from an Orphan who has recently grown into hers.

"Nice!" she says, strengthening that approval.

For all of what Declan's reading off Owen, Emily is entirely comfortable around the Initiate. She doesn't carry herself carefully, doesn't avoid his intensity or his stare in away. There's a kinship there, as well, and it's easy to read. It's harder to define.

It's a quiet night, so the sound of tires on pavement and the close of a car door draws her attention, momentarily. Her mundane senses are keener than her awareness of things Other and mystic tonight, but she reaches for the stranger's resonance -- if there's any to be found. Her shoulders square, slightly. Her chin tips just so. It's subtle, but a readying sort of gesture. With everything that has happened of late, Emily is wary. This quiet beyond the storm, it will not last, but the girl hopes that the man with his suit jacket and cigarettes is not quite yet the harbinger of bad things to come.

[Owen] [I'ma be a dick and roll belated Awareness.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 4)

[Declan] Emily may not have been acutely aware of things, but Declan himself was even less so. As of now, he had yet to notice that a fourth party had arrived on the perimeter of the park. As such, he didn't glance over his shoulder to inspect the newcomer. His attention stayed on Emily and Owen. Had the light not been dim, the slight flush of color on his cheeks would have been more evident. As it was, Emily might notice it anyway, with her keen observation of his reactions. These days, mention of Riley seemed to stir some emotions in the odd vagabond. That may or may not have been a good thing, but it was a sweet thing to see in him. Better than the frantic fear and madness which sometimes possessed him. Better than the dreamy otherness that took him to distant places. This was present. This was grounded.

Emily seemed pleased that he'd adapted to his new life, though Declan couldn't quite fathom her perspective. He always adapted. And being Awake... that made sense to him. It was real. More real than a lot of things. He'd never even so much as questioned it, once it had been set down before him as a deliberate truth.

"I'm not completely useless, you know," he teased gently, reaching over to touch Emily's shoulder.

[Owen] Owen Page was a perceptive guy. Well -- at least when it came to the Awakened facets of his life, the others ... well, let's just say they were a work in progress and leave them there. So he sees into the heart of things more often than not, he reads the nuances of expression off the faces of those he cares for, and those he doesn't equally as adeptly.

His attention to detail came as naturally to him these days as breathing did. It was, in large part, the only reason he was still alive, that he'd survived an attack on his Mentor that had finished the wizened Disciple off. Owen was streetsmart, he was savvy and he tended to remain cool in a crisis -- unless someone he loved was in danger and then a sort of cold fury snuck into his voice, into his eyes and pity the fool that stoked his wrath.

Right now, those dark, intelligent eyes are focused on Declan, and more exactly on his reaction when Riley is mentioned. Owen wasn't the Virtual Adept's Mentor, or brother or anyone to be protective of her [hell, Riley had years on him] but there was still an element of keen appraisal in his eyes as he considered the Apprentice Orphan and he potential relationship to his new Cabalmate.

Emily and Owen had a connection, they had an instinctual awareness of one another that spoke a great deal toward how well they knew the other; when Emily feels the tug of another nearby, Owen's head lifts a little and he shifts his weight so that he can glance away from their gathering in the lone figure's direction. He studies it.

Glances back at Declan and Emily.

"I'll be right back." Owen speak for, I'm going to check this out.

[James] The man on the corner is unaware of the true nature of the trio, or if he is he is in no hurry to rush over and introduce himself to the others. Two of them recognize him for what he is...like them. His resonance is noticeable even to those who are not Awake, but in a way that makes him seem quirky rather than threatening. As he walks closer, closing his lighter and returning it to his blazer pocket, he brings with him the dichotomy of nature. Like a rainstorm, there is something about him that is calming, but he has the potential for great destruction in his magic. At this point in his march towards Ascension, the two are balanced. His lot are not known for being balanced, however. It won't last.

His height is well over six feet, his build that of someone who finds taking care of himself to be effortless. As he walks, he makes a lot of noise...his boots clack on the concrete, and something jingles in his pocket, and he takes loud drags off of his cigarette. It's as if he doesn't care about being silent. Perhaps no matter what he or anyone else does, silence is all he's aware of. Describing him as "handsome" isn't much of a stretch, even if he is not conventional in his attractiveness.

He's reaching into his pocket again when the tallest of the three of them looks his way. His chin comes up, and his eyes focus, but he says nothing. He ashes his cigarette, and he looks right back.

[Emily] Declan was teasing her, reached over and touched her arm. Emily's shoulder is not sore, for the network of lines that interlace (a network of lines that intersect) across her skin there. So she doesn't wince or pull away from his touch. Instead her mouth curls into a broader smile, and she laughs. It's a low and simple sound. Pleasant.

"Oh, I'm not saying you are," she counters. Her eyes a brighter, dancing. "Though I was hopeless when I first woke up," she tells him. Implies she is anything but just now. "You wouldn't believe the lines I fell for."

There's a story there, but not as much of one as her tone would imply. It's teasing, in return for his tone. Hopefully to take the edge off whatever imaginary barb he might have found hidden in her words. This levity is short lived, though. It damps down when Owen says I'll be right back.

The Orphan ducks her chin, presses her lips together for a moment. (Fine. [But I don't like it.]) Then she looks up again, having thought the better of whatever she might have said. She looks from Owen, to that lone figure in the night, and back to Declan. The Chorister gets a measured look, but she doesn't bother to say be careful before he heads off.

Instead, Emily moves the ball around beneath her foot a bit. Smiles at Declan. "Want to kick the ball around a bit, while Owen's exploring?" She tips her head toward the wall, in case he thought she meant running about on an unmarked pitch in the dark of night (I'm not quite that daft [tonight]).

[Declan] If Declan actually intended to have some kind of romantic relationship with Owen and Emily's cabal-mate, he wasn't really going about it in the best way. He and Riley's interactions had been meaningful but intermittent. Hell, Declan didn't even know that Riley had been spending time with Alex lately. A fair bit of time, in fact. That didn't really bode well for the Orphan's chances, so Owen may not have had much to worry about.

When the other man stepped away from their little group, Declan turned to see what had drawn Owen's attention, and his eyes fell on the stranger. There was open curiosity there.

Emily pulled his attention back, and he glanced down at the soccer ball she'd been kicking against the wall earlier. It... may not have been the world's best idea for him to attempt any sort of physical activity right now, but nonetheless he grinned playfully and took a step back. "Sure. We'll see if I can manage not to fall on my ass."

[Owen] Owen and the stranger are well matched for height. This, and perhaps the similarity in eye color are where the likenesses end. Owen was dark where James tended toward a fairer complexion. The Chorister did not, honestly, look to be the archetype for his Tradition. Many had pegged him incorrectly as a Verbena, or even [laughably] a Cultist. He moved without hesitation however, and it was clear that whatever else he might have been -- frightened and cowering was not one of them. The Singer had a physicality that suggested he worked hard at whatever it was he did for a living.

He was lean, but not without muscle and he walked with the surety of an alpha male, at least, tonight he did.

"Hey," is the greeting he gets as he closes, the shadows playing over Owen's features, at once masking and revealing the planes of his face. Some would label him handsome, some would believe his propensity to skulk, and for long silences took away any semblance of it. There's no aggression in his voice, but a contained wariness.

"You lost?"

[Emily] Emily is unaware that Riley's been spending as much time with Alex as she has. If she'd known, then a particular phone call or sidebar would come about sooner. It hasn't happened, yet, that oh by the way that will grow out of a note posted on the Chantry board. It's probably better this way.

"You won't end up on your ass," Emily says, shaking her head and almost rolling her eyes at him. Almost. Until she remembers a particular rainy night, and getting all but carried home by a stranger (Awakened) after a game of Horse turned far more medically intense than she'd intended.

Declan couldn't possibly be as much of a clutz as she was. She'd seen him dance at the club that night. (When she'd almost fallen on her ass, take two.)

She kicks the ball against the backboard. It's easy. It rolls right back to her. "Besides, with two people there's a lot less running." Kick it again, lets it find its way back to Declan.

Now, wherever Owen's found to talk to the stranger, that steady bump-thump-bouce-kick pattern comes back. It lets the Chorister know where they are, that they're fine, without borrowing on his attention. It gives Emily something to do, beyond stare impolitely. It keeps her moving (because keeping still is difficult).

"So what have you been up to?" she asks Declan. Easy-going. Friendly-like. The nice thing about this game is that it keeps their eyes elsewhere. It makes the questions less piercing. It makes Emily feel a bit less awkward.

[James] Neither of them appear to be typical of members of the Chorus...which, of course, depends on your definition of "typical." Expecting an aging, humorless, ranting man with a priest's collar and a Bible under his arm would result in dire disappointment. Most people don't expect attractive, intelligent young men to buy into that philosophy. Then again, given what this particular attractive young man does for a living, "intelligent" isn't the first word that comes to mind when people attempt to describe him.

For a few seconds, the two of them are in something of a face-off. They both move with assurance and grace, keeping their expressions schooled, though there is an air of nonchalance about the younger man that comes from his possession of a cigarette. In this day and age, a certain lack of caring for the opinions of others comes with smoking in public. Smoking isn't "cool" anymore. It's barely legal.

Owen's lips move, and the stranger's heavy eyebrows raise, his chin nodding upward to accompany the motion. If there were any aggression in his voice, it would have to show up on his face to be of any use. He speaks again, and the stranger indicates his ear with his free hand. First he makes the sign for Deaf. Not everyone signs, though, and so after a beat, he simply taps the space beneath his lobe twice, shaking his head.

"I can't hear you," he says, and the lack of inflection, enunciation or control over the volume of his voice only serves to prove him right. Another pause, and then he does what he was going to do a moment ago...he wedges the cigarette between his lips, and pulls a golf pencil and a small pad of paper out of his pocket.

[Declan] Emily kicked the ball in his direction, and true to form... Declan missed it. It went rolling happily through the grass, and the Orphan had to turn and jog after it. When he caught up, he rolled the ball under his foot and kicked it back in the direction of the wall, and Emily. It stopped about ten feet away from her, and this time Declan paused to judge the distance and angle more accurately. (He could do that. That was familiar to him, even if kicking a ball wasn't.) A light thump, and it sailed back to its original owner.

"See? I warned you."

But he didn't seem put out or irritated in any way. If anything, he was laughing at himself. Emily asked what he'd been up to, and he shrugged, waiting for her to send the ball back in his direction. "I've met a lot of people, lately. Started sleeping at the chantry. Do you know Kage? She took me to see her apartment."

He didn't mention the violin.

[Owen] Well, maybe not humorless, but there was certainly a likeness to Solomon Ward contained somewhere in that notion of what a typical Chorister ought to be like. So, neither of these boys are what the social norm might dictate they should be, but then, Owen, for one had never really put much stock in what the rest of the Awakened world had to say about his tradition. He'd pretty much heard every slight and insult there was to be had.

The ones about the Catholic Church and its Choirboys were up there with his favorites.
Not really.

So, he stops when he's standing in front of James the smoking figure, his hands balled in his jacket. It was black leather, old and worn around the collar, the leather cracked and frayed at the elbows and around the zipper. Beneath it Owen was wearing a plain navy blue button-up shirt and jeans. The boots on his feet were heavy duty, the kind you found on construction workers. They were built for endurance, not fashion.

I can't hear you, the other man says, and proves his point. "Oh," Owen murmurs, the movement of his lips to form the word suggestive of his response even without auditory assistance. His mouth forms the O, his eyebrows rise and then furrow together as the man pulls out a notepad and writes something down.

Owen waits.

[Emily] He was off to a rough start with this football thing, but Emily just gave him the time to prove patient with it, or get overly frustrated. If it became clear that this was a fool's errand, she'd suggest they stop. Or just let the ball find her feet and be stilled. It wasn't important, this game they were playing. Not now, at least.

"Yeah, I know Kage," Emily says, and her smile broadens a bit. There's a note in her voice that says something, hints at something. It's hidden, this extra meaning. He'll have to tease it out of her. (It's tied up in stories about magical places, fallen Kings, mystical Courts -- it's magic)

"She's one of my favorite people," Emily adds, in between the thudding sounds the ball makes against the wall. "If you're staying at the Chantry, does that mean you've met Lara?" Emily asks and oh, she is tricksy with this. There is no note of disdain in her voice, no sharpness. She hides it artfully. Instead it's an idle question, because Lara has been staying there as well (until very recently).

[James] The stranger had not given Owen much of a look-over as they approached each other. It isn't until he extracts his writing tools from his jacket that he seems to really look at him, taking in the way he's dressed, whether he poses a physical threat to him. They're both tall, both built for physical activity...even if he can't hear, the stranger with the strange resonance looks as though he could hold his own in a bar brawl.

The cigarette remains between his lips as he flips several, several pages into the notebook to produce a clean page and starts to write. There are is a thick silver band on his right thumb, a slimmer one on his left ring finger. He uses his right hand to write. Smoke streams away from him as he quickly fires off a question. After he hands over the pad and pencil, he plucks the cigarette from his mouth and exhales.

Looking for train station. Where?

[Declan] "She's one of my favorite people too," he said, and there was a sweet, tentative fondness in the way he spoke. Not exactly like the way he talked about Riley. Something was there; something... like gratitude. But greater than that. Kage had handed him the key to unlock the door. For all that his mind and memory were such heartbreakingly unreliable things, he would never forget that.

But... (Clever girl)... now Emily asked him about the chantry, and about Lara. The soccer ball hit the wall and bounced back to him, and this time he managed to catch it on the first try. He kicked it back a little harder than he'd meant to, and it hit the wall with a noticeable thwock.

"Yeah, I've met Lara. Not really, though. She's... I don't know. I don't like her. She reminds me of something. I try to avoid her."

[Owen] Owen watches the other man intently as he writes. It wouldn't be without reason that he'd feel a little uneasy about the level of focus the Initiate casts this stranger that he knows only is Awakened. When he looks up to hand over the notepad and pencil, Owen is still watching him with that damn near inscrutable expression. He lowers his eyes to the pad, and his lips move silently as he reads the question.

There's a beat, and then the Chorister beings to scribble a reply down, his handwriting something of a wild thing, all loops and deep slashes. It was, if nothing else, the indication that the dark-haired man was a creative soul, his fingertips were in fact smudged here and there with charcoal, the medium he most enjoyed drawing his sketches with on his downtime. It's quite possible when Owen eventually hands the pad back that there will be a thumb print left where he held it.

Not far. Can walk you there. You are like us, aware. Awakened. The Initiate underlines the word, then adds as if in afterthought. My name is Owen, the boy over there is called Declan, the girl is Emily.

[Emily] The ball made a louder smack against the wall. Maybe Owen, over there, with the stranger, in the dark, would hear and wonder who'd misguaged their kick. Or if something was amiss. Declan's sudden forcefulness had caught Emily off guard, and she found herself jogging after the ball this time.

She dribbled it back, mouth pursed a little, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, she's not my favorite person either," Emily says, but she doesn't kick the ball against the backboard again just yet. "There's something off about her, Declan. If you run into her again, please be careful."

The way Emily says this, the directness of it, the worry in her features and her eyes. All of that obscures a mirrored reaction, a sharpness in what she feels about (or for) the Cultist.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know she'd upset you, too. I just wanted you to know to be wary of her."

Now the ball is sent against the backboard again. It's easy; it doesn't carry the brunt of her frustrations.

[James] The stranger reads quickly, his stark eyes moving across the near-unintelligible handwriting without difficulty. They flick to Owen's face when he sees the offer to walk him to the station, and then shoot back up when he comes to that underlined word, searching the other man's expression for several seconds. There is nothing there for him to read, not like on the page in his hands, and so he continues reading.

A second time, he looks up, but it's to put faces to names. The boy is Declan. The girl is Emily. He watches them kick the ball back and forth. Whatever they are discussing remains a secret. The cigarette is stuck back in place, and he writes:

James. Singer. Appreciate help.

[Owen] This time there's definite reaction on Owen's side. There's a pause as he reads, a flicker of, what, hesitation? Fear? Uncertainty? There's something behind the dark blue eyes that's for sure. There's something in the brief dip of the corners of his mouth downward and the way his forehead furrows deeply.

He looks up at James, studies him, then sets the pencil to the next line. It scratches in the silence, broken only by the bounce and thud of the ball behind them. You're a Singer. So am I. Initiate. Monist. Currently the go to guy for our Tradition in the city. There are others too. Keep an eye out for a Priest called Solomon Ward, Disciple. Probationary member. Owen stops writing for a moment, casts a glance over his shoulder in Emily's direction for a beat, looks back.

Adds: Emily is my Apprentice, she's just joined the Tradition. I can show you where the Chantry is?

He leaves it as a question, taps the pencil against the pad, then hands it back.

[Owen] Addendum:

Rather -- goes to hand it back, then seems to recall a fact he's neglected. It's added beneath the last. There's a Deacon you'll have to meet first before you can enter, though. Her name is Ashley McGowen.

[Declan] He hadn't really intended for his demeanor to appear angry, and truthfully, it didn't. But the force he'd applied to the soccer ball, that hadn't been entirely coincidental. Sometimes his emotions came from deep places, as if they weren't entirely his own. Something was angry. Some part of him that he wasn't presently connected to. (A memory. A soul.)

When Emily paused, Declan looked up at her, taking his eyes away from the wall. He really was starting to look less and less like a vagabond these days, despite the lack of sleep and the emotional exhaustion. The care he took in his appearance was more regular. His clothing more varied. And... it was possible that the rangy starving-animal quality of his physique was actually starting to soften and fill out a bit. Not in an immediately noticeable way, mind. But his bones weren't quite so visible.

Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped being something that lived in isolation from the rest of humanity. You might not even guess that he was homeless.

"No, it's alright. I have been, anyway. But... warning duly noted."

[Emily] "Good," she says, with a little sigh. Emily's not as interested in kicking the ball, for just this moment. Instead she reaches up and rubs at the back of her neck. There's a little bleed-over now. She's not so carefully compartmentalized. It's possible that Declan sees it, the uneasiness that rises in the moments where they're talking about the Disciple. The way it tightens her frame, puts all manner of tension back into her muscles and stance. Like she's an upset cat, back arched and tail twitching.

"Good." Repetition makes the sentiment stronger, right? Emily nods now, reaches down to pick up the ball. Smooths her thumb over a seam. She casts a glance over at Owen and the stranger, her brow furrowing for a moment.

The quiet starts to stretch. It pulls tight between the Orphans. It starts to become a thing all its own in their conversation.

[James] James finishes his cigarette by the time Owen finishes his response. He drops the butt to the ground, grinding it out with the toe of his boot, then quickly wets his lips and blows the last pull of smoke out his nostrils. The smell of burnt tobacco clings to him like cheap cologne. It's offensive enough to cover any other odor that a nose might pick up. His gaze remains on Owen the entire time he's writing, moving between his bowed head and his hands. His own hands move into the pockets of his slacks. It's a suit, but it does not have a polished look to it. It probably came off the rack at a discount store. His shoes are beat to hell, polished and repolished but still scuffed and ready to fall apart.

He has to flip to a new page to respond. He does so with a deft twitch of his thumb. When he finishes writing, he tears it free from the spiralled spine and hands it over to Owen. On the paper is his name--his full name, James Blake--and a phone number with a Chicago dialing code and the message (text only) beside it. What Owen is supposed to do with it is implied rather than written down.

[Owen] Owen nods, and pockets the information without another word. In some ways, James is fortunate in that the first Chorister he has met is a man of few words at the best of times and this does not appear to be any different. Owen puts his hands back in his jacket pockets and for a moment there is silence all around. Between Declan and Emily and between himself and James, the now known Singer.

Owen turns, and with his hand still in his jacket, inclines his head in the two Apprentices' direction as if to say you want to meet them without more than the quirk of one dark eyebrow.

[Declan] Declan never minded silence. Emily knew that by now. It was never an awkward thing, between them. Her agitation was a visible thing now, much more immediate than Declan's own had been, because it came from experience rather than intuition.

And odd thing happened, then. After the repetitions, and the slight strain in Emily's voice. After the thoughtful silence. Declan walked up slowly and put his hand out to touch Emily's arm, as if to steady himself (or to steady her). Then he leaned in carefully and placed a soft kiss on the curve of her cheekbone. Barely there, and then gone as he stepped back again. If Owen happened to glimpse it, he might think that he had cause to be concerned, but in truth there was nothing ardent or desirous in this act. It was warmth and affection. Tender. (You're precious to me.) It was a bold push against his own fears (anxious, protective), and an assurance that things would, in spite of the odds... be alright.

Maybe that wasn't true, but he seemed to need to believe that, and maybe she did too.

Then... without a word, he turned and walked off into the shadows, eventually disappearing. Before that, though, when the light was still on his back, he raised a hand to wave goodbye.

[James] Much of sign language is nonverbal communication. It's steeped in body positioning, facial expressions. The same two or three signs can mean two or three different things depending upon how grand a motion is, or what is conveyed in the eyes, with the brow and mouth. It is entirely possible for two people to share important information without speaking the same language if they have an awareness of how to use their bodies.

Owen doesn't reach for the pad and pencil again when he "asks" James if he'd like to meet the two Apprentices, and James doesn't use it. He looks in the direction of the other man's tilted head in time to see the kiss and the rapid departure, and what he sees amuses him. He smiles. He waits to see if Emily is going to go after Declan, then makes an After you gesture with his arm.

[Emily] Emily is still. She was is still. Declan had leaned in, kissed her cheek, and then withdrawn without a word. The other Orphan watches him, with a furrowed brow and a bemused expression that was largely lost to the Choristers. When Declan turns to wave, Emily raises a hand but doesn't waggle her fingertips. Then she turns back toward the wall, taking the ball with her, and makes her way back to her messenger bag.

She doesn't follow Declan.

Both James and Owen are acute students of body language. From the dip of her head and the slowness to her gait, it's clear that she's thinking something through. Pensive. It's unlikely that the exchange, the last bit there, was entirely expected. Emily crouches beside her bag, lifts its strap up and over her head so it falls across her body, and pushes herself back to standing. She pulls the thing elastic band out of her hair, so her curls fall to frame her face.

Emily looks back toward Owen, and this unknown that's captured his attention. Her expression is muddled, unclear and not terribly open. Seeing that they are headed her way, the Apprentice traps the ball against the ground with one foot. Crosses her arms over her middle. Waits. She does not go forward to meet them halfway.

[Emily] ((Edit: Emily is still. She *is very still.))

[Owen] Owen, being who he is, notices the intimate moment between Declan and Emily. He sees it and no doubt takes note of it but when he eventually approaches, with James in tow, he does not make any mention of it or cast her any lingering or pointed glances as if to say what did I just witness here?, rather Owen seems a little agitated, a little pink-cheeked as if from some non-existent change in the weather.

"Emily," he says as they come to a stop alongside her, her foot trapping the ball in place and securing it there. Owen gestures with his hand in a pocket, levering to one side the open half of his jacket, the lining was a deep burgundy. "This is James, he's a Singer." Perhaps James greets the Apprentice in his own way, probably with the aid of his notepad and pen. Howsoever they are introduced, Owen allows them to interact without interruption -- intervening only to say to the dark-haired woman beside him --

"I told James we'd point out the Chantry to him, I've given him Ashley's name."

Owen makes the walking gesture at the deaf man, there's little to be found obnoxious, or demeaning in it, but rather a kind of amusing consideration. There can be little doubt that the walk will be an eventful one, more than once, the Initiate's eyes find his Apprentice's, and there is a warmth to the gaze that perhaps reassures more than words can say that no matter the time between their meetings -- their bond has not been shattered.