North and Southie

[Thomas Taylor] So here he was a proper Tea shop. Thomas had the pot (of course) of tea in front of him, sat on one of the tables outside. They had many different brews in there but he went very vanilla as it were, he should have brought some teabags over really. Still the Englishman had been in worse moods. He has an ashtray close to him, a cigarette in there smoking away as he takes a sip of his brew.

His eyes close and he takes a deep breath his face in ecstasy “THANK FUCK!” He shouts, then looks around nodding his head to an older couple close to him “Sorry folks, decent brew at last, trust me the last few you think the bags came from sumwhere far lower.” He winks “Anyroad, sorry to disturb, ‘ave a robin day...” He picks up one of his biscuits (You cannot have afternoon tea WITHOUT biscuits) and devours it whole after a through dunking.

And that’s Tom, he has on a black T-shirt, ripped jeans and some scruffy converse, his accent was London cockney, and he was loud or at least not ashamed to make his voice heard...

[Emily Littleton] Emily is chatting with the counter staff, ordering something that sounds vaguely honeybush masala, without sweetener, with cream. She's friendly enough, with a curious accent that carries smalltalk easily past the weather and the time of day. But everyone in the shop stops, looks toward Tom, and levels him with a pointed look when he exclaims THANK FUCK as clearly as daybreak.

Then the chatter picks back up and people seem to forget, let the crassness fall away, get swallowed up by their meaningless prattle and the girl at the counter, who is round five-foot-nine and thin like a beanpole, gathers up here teapot and her own biscuits and makes for a table near the familiar accent.

"It's hard to find a decent cuppa here," she tells him, settling into the table beside his. Her accent is not so strong, but it is clearly British. He can hear the Manchester undertones to it, but they are pulled this way and that by other places, other sounds. "There's a place in Lake View, isn't bad," she offers, helpfully, but there's a wry cant to her smile and a piercing clarity to her blue eyes.

She's testing him, gently but testing nonetheless. Emily is amused.

[Thomas Taylor] His eyes glance to the woman when she speaks, watching her sit down on the table next to him, he grins “A northerner, my word must ‘ave been over the pond a lemon, gone an lost that midland tint you ‘ave pet.” He picks up his cigarette and places it between his lips.

“Pet, it is a bloody sin, these heathens callin’ sum crap tea...” He rolls his eyes the smoke coiling from his nose as he looks back to Emily. “Well I got all these biccies that won’t eat themselves, pull up a pew North, take a load off.” He raises his foot up and kicks a chair out for her as his hand pushes the biscuits between his chair and the one he kicked out.

“That is unless you cannot bear to sit down with a southern trolley pusher...”

[Emily Littleton] She was going to settle in at a table all her own, but he kicks a chair out for her and challenges her grab a seat by a Southie. That wry grin curls yet further into something openly amused.

"If you're going for nicknames, most call me Little," she says, perhaps in response to the pet[i] ([i]but no, actually, Emily doesn't mind that at all) and more likely the North. But there's a familiarity to the cadence it keeps, and she drops into the chair he's kicked out, drags its metal legs over the hard floor to slide up the table, and grins back.

She adds her plate of sweets to the collection. They're not traditional biscuits, but spiced somethings -- lots of cinnamon and cardamom against a plain background.

"I don't draw regional divides on this side of the Pond," she tells him. "Seems sort of silly when there's so many damned Continentals to contend with. I'm Emily," a name, now, and a slender hand extended his way. "Always nice to meet a fellow exile."

[Thomas Taylor] He takes her hand, his was worn for his age, rough “Nice to meet ya north, don’t mind me callin’ ya north right?” He carries on like she does not “From wat I gather, America ‘as north an south right, there was a bloody war!” He smiles to the woman sat opposite him as he lets go of her hand

He slides his smokes over and gestures that she can help herself. “Fairly new to this side of the pond pet, but settlin’ in nicely, lots of fuckin’ heathens though, I mention football and they talk ‘bout rugby for puffs!” He rolls his eyes, passion in his voice

“Wankers!” He smirks “Sorry pet, lil’ outburst there, but sure you understand even if you are a bird.”

[Emily Littleton] She pours out a little of her tea into her cup, moderates it with some milk. It's a rosy color, pales with the addition of some cream. She doesn't sweeten it. She doesn't add lemon. There seems to be some precise shade she's going for, because Emily has such certainty about how she takes her tea. She glances at it, quickly, adjusts and it's all second nature. Practiced and effortless.

"You can call me pet if I can call you poppet," she says, and the word is liltingly light and playful on her tongue. She doesn't seem to mind his rough hand, or the acrid cigarette smoke that shrouds him. But they are each what they are, and it's likely that, in touching her, he picks up on the subtle note of her resonance. It's a Push, a press, a thing Unrelenting; a quieter nod toward grace, awe, Reverence.

"Were you here for World Cup? It sours my ears to hear them soccer this and field that. As if no one's ever heard of a football pitch. Though American football has its merits," she says, in an unconvinced tone. "Or it must. If they cleave to it so."

He calls her a bird, and he does indeed get a hawkish sort of look from her. But she doesn't say whatever rises to her lips.

"Recently arrived you say? Where from? Where to? Whatever about Chicago has drawn you here with her muggy summer allure?" She makes that word into two ah-llure, drawing it out so, leading.

[Thomas Taylor] He looks to his hand with the spark of her nature pushing at him. “Oh pet, you can call me whatever you want, poppet is just dandy...” He seems a little overcast suddenly, like someone might be getting ready to steal his balloon or tell him santa is not real. She would have noticed his eyes wandered, he seemed to have some motion about him constantly and he was consuming, tea, cigarettes, biscuits the new sweets...

“Pet, am gonna cut sum of this out, an it ain’t me bein’ rude trust me, you ‘ad alot of valid questions like, no I was in me pope for the cup, an yeah I’ll soccer sumone alright the bastards...”

She was English, he was English... “Please for god’s sake tell me yer not a potter, these amricans ones are all right but...” He stops leaning forward, voice lowered “..an take no offense pet, but most of ‘im over the pond cud do with a jolly robin’ slap.” His head nods slightly, hoping she picked up on his meaning with potter

[Emily Littleton] A potter, now, that takes awhile. She looks at him curiously, and her brows knit for a moment. Thomas cannot know how rare this is, confusing Ms. Littleton such that she shows it outwardly. North doesn't lip to tip her hand, see, and this is precisely what she is on about until -- Oh! The mischief touches her eyes with recognition and brightness and she laughs a little.

"Ah, no. No no, not me," she tells him, avers that it is not her way, this Potterism he is so worried after. "Not cast of that clay, I'm afraid." A play on words here, lighter and less ingrained than his.

"If I have my way, I'll learn to Sing, but I'm between homes at the moment. Orphaned, if you will."

[Thomas Taylor] He breaths an audible sigh of relief as he sits back relaxing as he takes the final drag of his cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray “Pet, that’s robin news, real robin, be a real shame for me to slap ya...” He grins, a cheeky look in his eye, he was joking.

“So, you always been this way or you ‘avin’ a sulk in the basement cos of sum fallin’ out with da boss?” He then stands and bows “Sorry pet, as were doin’ it, Tommy, Hollow, order of the council estate.” Some people look at him but he had that effect where he was quickly forgotten or over looked, it was how he could be who he was.

“Take it then you know Jimbo? He likes to sing in the choir, though in all fairness be more of a conducter...”

[Emily Littleton] This is, quite possibly, the most pleasant set of magely helloes and how-do-you-dos that Emily has had to date. Thomas does not need to stand on ceremony, there's wit and lightness to the wordplay, and she has good tea to boot.

"I woke up on my own one morning and had to find myself some new friends," she told him, and for the lightness underscoring it, it could be a chat about misspent youth or perhaps an ill-fated one night stand. There's nothing about their chat that screams magic to an outside observer, and perhaps that's why she finds him so easy to talk with.

"I've known for awhile what part I want to sing, but auditions seem to take forever. James has offered to help me with it," she says, keeping this all of a vein. On a theme. Musical, it seems. "My last tutor left, recently, so I've been preparing on my own."

There's a beat here, and then Emily's grin broadens further yet. "I told him to ask around before he takes me under his wing." Her eyebrows go up, warningly, though there's little about her that speaks to threat or even wanton mischief. She sips from her tea, sets it aside, plays with its rim with her fingertips.

"Hollow, you say? That's a new one to me." No judgment, just observation. She's clearly not heard all the stories, yet. Thomas the first Hollow One she's met.

[Thomas Taylor] He listens to her intently, he nodding to her words, a glance to his tea and sip here and there. “Jim seems sound as a pound, teach ya real robin pet.” He looks around “Me island got too small for me, I was just wanderin’, few places to rest me plates pet, needed a new start meself...so one big bet, on the ferry an bang ‘ere I’am...”

He leans in with a conspiracy tone to his voice as his mouth and eyes seem almost cheeky “You a German full pet, bit naughty?” He winks twice with an audible click from his mouth.

“I isn’t yer normal hollow pet, I ain’t goth, I ‘ate the crow, razors are for shavin’ not cuttin’ an latex makes me berlins itch...” He grabs at his crotch in response to the last one. “But I ‘as the passion, the want, the need, the gypsy romance, but most of the cunts don’t like Footie, makes conversation dry...”

He takes a big gulp of his tea, pouring himself another “I ain’t ‘ear d yer name on the vine pet, an Tommy does quite well at findin’ shit out.” He taps his nose. “So were you been hidin?”

[Emily Littleton] Maybe she doesn't understand that question when he leans in all conspiratorial and then winks are her. Clicks. Because Emily, who reads a little more to the prim and proper side of British says, without levity, in all utter (seeming) seriousness:

"I haven't had in German in me for awhile."

Just like that. And if he misses the side-long look she casts him, with that subtle twinkle in her eye, he'll be searching for the double entendre for awhile. And she will already have moved on, slipped back into that comfortable lilt and the playfulness of their banter.

"How good are at findin' shit out," she asks, "If you haven't heard of me." It's not hubris here, but she plays it up to be. A coquettish smile, tossed his way just before she sips again and sets her teacup aside. This with a little ah-hah, a gentle epiphany. "It's because you're asking after North, isn't it, poppet."

She runs her tongue over an eyetooth. This, see, it's a challenge. You hear that. She doesn't believe he's all that and finding shit out, but she's good enough to tease it out of him, test him, push. It's that echo of unrelenting that comes up to back the surety (cock sure [just damned certain]) in her eyes. It colors her smile.

[Thomas Taylor] He blinks, his mouth drops but then he lets out a hearty laugh “Pet, that’s sounds dirty even if you don’t use the slang!” He slaps his knee head shaking with the laugh as he settles down again. “German bands pet, means hands, or in yer case perhaps you were referin’ to German sausage”

He winks to her “Pet, Tommy ‘as been ‘ere just a month, I know lots of shit...like the lil’ two step dance the two footie teams are doin’ around our local, sum shockin’ fan possession in the street, met Ash, Soot, got a list of names me chalk long.” Left hand points to right arm. “The art to robin business is being a robin middleman, putting folks together...” He reaches over and pulls the pack of smokes back “Obviously, you work in mysterious ways north, gotta respect that.” He taps the pack of smokes against the table with a knowing wink

[Emily Littleton] "Oh, hands," she says, seemingly unperturbed by his outburst. Still seemingly innocent of her double meaning. Though her eyes were bright as he laughed out loud. "Am I a bit of a hand full," she translates, slowly, for effect.

"I suppose I can be. It's not why he left." And then onward, to other topics.

"So you know then," she says, easily, as if it were not big news, as if it were not a looming threat, "To mind your manners with the local blues? Friend of a friend of mine's got a bit of a stalking problem, if you catch my meaning," she tells him.

There's been a little shift her when he says he's met Ash, because that can be one of two people and both of them are significant, somehow, to the girl at his table.

[Thomas Taylor] He nods “Aye pet, ‘eard that from Info-slut, thats Molly to you, been doin’ me own investigations, workin’ the streets the underground as it were since we found this fella dead. It paid off I met ‘is boss, lots of street level thugs, found out ‘bout sum bad pigs. gave ‘er this crooked cops badge number to check out for me, still waitin’ on ‘ere to get back to me ‘bout that...”

He frowns, fingers tap on the table “I just get the feelin’ ‘ave been kept out the loop, an trust me pet, it ain’t easy doin’ wat am doin’...” He rubs at his chest like it hurt. There was a hardness there suddenly when he spoke of being used, of being out of the loop but it passes quickly with Tom.

“Pet, I bet yer a german full...” Another wink to her “Yer a northerner, a tree hugger!”

[Emily Littleton] There's a little surprise here -- not that Thomas knows Molly, see, this doesn't surprise her in the slightest, but that the piece of information that most informed Emily's recent research had come not from the Info-Slut (oh how very fitting a moniker) but Thomas.

The world is a small place. Increasingly tightly interwoven. There's a note of fascination that plays openly across her features as Emily weighs and considers, thinks, and then draws out the moment just to be a bit of a pain.

"A tree hugger?" she says, voice petulant and eyes drawn down a little. "You wound, Southie, you wound me. If we're to sling insults you might as well call me Yellow," she tuts, clicks her tongue at him, lilts the word as an intimation of something he does not yet know, and might spend awhile guessing at.

"The badge number you gave her," Emily asks, and there's a more serious note here. "I ran it down a couple nights ago, along with some other things -- names, firms, things," and that's an ominous word, the way she shapes it. "Riveira ring any bells?" she asks. It's the name attached to the badge.

She's testing him, openly now. Waiting to see what he comes back with, who he may turn out to be. There's no room left for playing, now.

[Thomas Taylor] He shakes his head to the name; he too was in the game now focused. “Pet, I was watchin’ Harold at the lemon, he was Mr Imley’s boss, an Mr Imbley was the one we found dead with....Jacob...” He frowns, struggling to remember and not from forgetfulness, likes Thomas he had that ability to be forgotten.

“I ‘ve infiltrated sum of the more seedier places around ‘ere, startin’ at the bar we met Jacob, the same bar he was too meet Mr Imbley in, Mr Imbley was an info broker...any road, long story short after 16 hours of watchin’ Harold through a touch of corrie he was talkin’ to two bent pigs, about Mr Imbleys death, the unusually circumstances of it ,thats when I focused in an got the badge number right before reality blindsided me, took me out to the shed took off it’s belt an wen ‘Thomas, you’ve been a bad boy...’”

He pulls out a smoke "So, I am out the loop..."

[Emily Littleton] The more Thomas talks, the more Emily realizes the necessity of the little meet and greet she's been planning at an undisclosed location in the near future. She rests an elbow on the table, leans her head into her hand. It shifts the dark curtain of her hair, as it falls behind her. She digs the other hand into the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a 'Berry, which may be a little more tech-savvy than he expected out of North (the Singer to be). Emily types something into it, waits on it to bleep in response, and then smiles.

There's a wince for the remark about Paradox. Emily still hasn't made piece with that particular sting and aftereffect of what it is they do. But then her smile widens a bit, and she extends an unexpected offer.

"How would you like to get back in?" she asks, eyebrow raised, all very I'll make you a deal. "To the loop, that is," she clarifies, before he may mistake her meaning.

"Ashley says you're good people, and I know people who know people," she draws a little pattern in the air with the index finger of the hand holding her phone. "There's a little meeting, and I can put you on the guest list. Show and tell, type. You could meet some of the players," she says, as if she knows something he doesn't.

[Thomas Taylor] He has learnt to not judge anyone, the Berry does not surprise him, she seemed a bit posh did Emily; all the posh birds had them. He nods to what she is saying but seems a little put out.

“Well in all fairness, this is the first I ‘eard I was out the loop...”A finger taps the cockneys chin, a roguish nature suddenly apparent, the need to wander seems to fill up the space between them, fight or flight...

“But as far as am concerned I was never out, am trackin’ Harold, I know sum of his boys, ‘is men, am startin’ to gain trust...pet you need me, not I need you...” He winks; a cocky wink but it had some cheeky undertones to it. “If there player I ain’t met I’ll come do me show an tell, all back of the bus, be robin to be on the same page with everyone else....”

He nods to Emily but she can see he is not happy, he feels used, left out to dry. But that was an issue with Molly not Emily and he puts it aside the face leaving him.

“Oh an if I ‘ave a tale followin’ me, I ain’t seen ‘im yet”

[Emily Littleton] She leaves her phone on the table, now, between them. As if she's not worried about it being out in plain sight, or readily available to another mage. She's not. It's not a stock phone; it's been tampered with by a Tradition that knows its way around security, one that can make the Info-Slut blush. So it's a thing she doesn't worry about amidst the sea of this she does worry about. An after thought.

"Look, I tracked that badge down, and I'm happy to tell you what I know. I don't know if Molly got any further, see, she likes information to all flow inward but it's hard to get back out again once she has it. Or the wrong things come out at the wrong moments. No filter, she has." It rubs Emily the wrong way. Enough so that she picks up his cadence for a moment, if not his slang.

"All I can do is welcome you to the party, Southie," she says, and the burr of irritation there is not for him. "It's a droll party with a lot of bickering and bitching, but it's the best we've got and they get shit done." She exhales a little more sharply than she needs to, closes her eyes for a moment to block out a bit of harshness that isn't his.

"I'm not sayin' you've been out or in, but there's a new loop forming, one that might just move mountains. If you're in, you're in. If you're out, 's fine by me."

[Thomas Taylor] “Pet, Tommy’s all back of the bus, if this lil’ movement of yers can get shit done, great, if not I’ll just carry on me own way, no ‘arm, no foul...” He winks to her pulling out a smoke feeling better.

“I learnt to late Molly ‘as got no filter, you want sumthin’ to get around tell ‘er, you want sumthin secret keep it to yer self, she is a fuckin’ suicidal machine that stupid girl, ‘ell who am I callin’ girl she is like 8 years older than me...” He sighs bringing a cig to his lips and lighting it with an old brass lighter, that consuming nature flares as the cigarette burns down.

“Give me a lemon an place I’ll be there....” He rubs his short cropped blonde hair, then feels his chin the rough stubble there...he could do with a shave, it was amazing at what times these things came to you.

[Emily Littleton] "Sure thing," she says, sliding out of her chair. "Watch my things?"

It sounds like a question, but it's more of a statement of expectation. She expects that Tom won't let her tea, or her phone, or her biscuits march off in the small amount of time it takes Emily to ask the counter staff for a pen and to pick up a business card from their display near the register. She writes something down in her neat, careful script and then hands the pen back to them with a pert little Cheers.

Wandering back to their table, she slips back into her seat and holds the card out for her, balanced between two fingers of her left hand.

"A personal invitation," she says, smirking faintly even though this is serious mage business. "From the Emissary of the House of Leaves herself." What lofty titles, though they are little more than passing words to Tom. As he became more acquainted with the political structure, it may fit in.

[Thomas Taylor] Politics, Tom avoided them like the plague, odds are you would never find him at the clubhouse, there were no firms here, and he too knew he was at the moment a very lonely Hollow One. He takes the hand with a deft grab, his fingers touching her briefly that consuming nature of his wanting as he looks at it then slips it in his pocket.

If anyone had touched her stuff he would have knocked them out, Thomas was that kind of man in some cases, in England they called him a hooligan...what a title, he was no hooligan, just common and misunderstood.

“North, yer titles longer than the Queens, watch yerself.” He smiles to her. Thomas was easy going in most cases, just do not cross him. He sips at his tea “So do I need to bring any shit or is there gonna be a secretary an agenda?” Oh yes, look at that potter experience.

[Emily Littleton] They touch, and it's likely that his wanting calls up something in her. It's a tide she's kept concealed through all to of this; a sadness: loneliness. It's a flicker, just a quiet note in answer to the kiss of fingerprints, and it's neither something she calls forward nor something upon which she will dwell. It casts her as suddenly very human, perhaps even fragile -- and then it is gone, and she's smirk-smiling at his comment about her titles. Laughing in an easy way that belies whatever she keeps apart, holds back, keeps separate.

"Just yourself and what you know," she says, with a bit of a shrug. "Last one of these was less fore-warning. Middle of the night type. Rouse everyone out of bed and get straight on the warpath. It might go like that, mind, but I somehow doubt it. Last time was a demon, this sounds like only the folly of men."

It's possible that she is being figurative. It's the safer bet, really. He'll sleep better at night if that's what he assumes, and he's got reason to it -- she's been playful so far, teasing, light -- if he chooses to take it that way. But there's a weariness too, that's older than she ought to seem.

She says something then, in a faltering tongue that isn't her own. It's a phrase learned by tone and pitch and shape, not fluency. Then she translates it: We live in interesting times.

[Thomas Taylor] He takes it all in, listen to her watches her. “Heavy is the weight we carry pet, you cud do with a sit down, ‘bout 48 hours of sleep an a man, or a woman, ‘ell sum Duracell to take a load off...” Another wink, that wandering nature kept him in motion. “War eh, I’ll bring me sword...aww shit left it over the pond...” A joke, not very funny but he tried.

You be amazed how well Thomas slept at night, as much a flaw as a blessing but he always slept. Demons, ghosts...he had a health respect mixed with a sprinkling of fear for the things in the night. But he knew the world was fucked, it was going down the drain and they were all stuck in that whirlpool, best to just make the most of it and enjoy what was left.

“North, always a pleasure never a chore, Tommy will be there I gurantee!”