Just Mr. Ward these days

[Emily Littleton] If there is a constant in the young Orphan's life, just now, it is the House of Ill Portents. After having arrived there in a most outlandish fashion on Tuesday evening (so late it was rightly Wednesday morning), she'd stayed long enough to feel herself unwelcome. It's becoming a fixture, again, the Chantry. And that fixture was rarely a wondrous and elevated thing. It was a place of hard work, of study, and of infinite conflict.

Tonight she approaches the house on quiet footfalls. They are not so quickly cadenced, not so surely placed. The girl has slept, she's rested, but she's not yet made herself whole again. That work takes time, takes Will, takes the stuff of inner glory. She's running thin on all of those these nights.

Emily knocks, twice, on the heavy wood door and then swings it open on quiet hinges. She does not call in Hello, the House but rather casts a quick glance around the entryway and then steps inside. The crown of her head is damp from rainfall; the dampness leaves a little coronet, a halo, a thrice-round-the-head thing of caught light and spun crystal. She runs her fingers across it, disturbs it, smooths the brightness down to nothing again.

Moving slowly, carefully but not with a paranoid alertness, Emily finds her way to the sitting room to wait on Father Ward. She is not carrying her messenger bag, just now. The strap crosses her body in ways that hurt. Instead she's carrying a small handbag. She's wearing a light sweater. Her jeans are clean, neatly pressed; her shoes have been scoured of all that Nephandic gore, but she still reeks of it. The resonance has not quite faded from her person. It clings to her like a soot, like a black and sticky cobweb-tar.

[Solomon Ward] He sits at the kitchen table. Most of the Chantry is, this evening, empty. The lights are low. It's quiet here. Not depressing, but the usual activity, the usual attempt (even if it often fails, even when it works) of homeliness is missing. The kitchen light is on, and that is where he waits for her. Seated in one of the table chairs with a half empty glass of milk near his left had, a small variety of metallic rods and brush ends and oils at his other. The revolver is assembled and freshly cleaned. It sits next to an open and well worn Bible that he thumbs through slowly.

Solomon has seen better days, but haven't they all? What room does one have to complain to another who has seen the same, or similar hardships? He's never been one to complain much any way. He hasn't shaved in days, which while not unusual of late is worse that he has neither trimmed it neatly nor shaved his neck and throat as well. He's haggard looking, wan skinned and dark eyed. His shirt is rolled to the elbows, and only half buttoned. Bandage wrap is plain around his chest and one shoulder, and where it covers his sternum it stains a soft pink of light bleeding being absorbed by dull white.

"Come in, Ms. Littleton" he says in that not quite rasp. Not a harsh quality to his voice, but it isn't the same as when they first met, before the facial scar. His Resonance is harsh tonight, overbearing. It practically flares up like a small fire in response to the taint that lingers of their skins. His has been burned away by sheer intensity of his own, or maybe just his art, but its responds to her all the same. It projects. It protects.

"I wanted to speak with you. Every one, who was there really, but you most importantly of all. How are you doing? I know its such a simple question towards such a horrific ideal, but you have survived where many have not in the past and it speaks well for you... but survivors... scar. The dead may rest, and the living continue to try to find meaning in things that, tragicaly, don't always have an answer to find, or an answer worth finding... . So please, have a seat. I would speak with you, as long as you are willing".

[Emily Littleton] Emily finds him in the kitchen. She smells of rainwater. It helps to push away the overbearing taint. There is a slowness in how she moves that is borne of lingering injury, though hers are not as obvious as his. Her sweater is light, cream colored with three-quarter length sleeves. The faint glimmer of a thin silver chain is visible around her neck, but the bauble it suspends hangs between the sweater and her skin.

She wears bruises, but they do not show through. The weariness has pushes back, somewhat, from the lineaments of her features. She is calmer, now, if not entirely collected. This whole week has a certain gravitas, a solidity to it that will not move, will not budge: it weighs them down. Solomon. Emily. It wears them both down.

He calls her Ms. Littleton. She nods a little (bows [respectfully]) and names him Father Ward. These are small, old world greetings. They always have a place between them.

"I'm healing," she tells him. There's no deception to it. "And I'm having trouble sleeping. But I really can't complain," she says, with a firmity behind it that he has not heard before. An understanding. That healing is better than six-feet-under, and a little trouble sleeping is preferable to slumber.

"I'll put the kettle on," she adds, when he says he'd like to talk. "Do you take tea? I'm thinking Darjeeling." This too, an old world custom even if it speaks to her other heritages as well.

If he agrees, she'll fill and place the kettle on the stove. Set it to boil, and then rejoin him at the table. Emily lowers herself gingerly into a chair. She does her best to cover the carefulness, but it is not enough. They both recognize it in each other. The week was ungentle.

[Solomon Ward] "It's Just Mr. Ward, these days" he corrects her, as he stands, though it has a quiet quality to it. Not a scold or a condescending fashion, a simple and straight forward matter of fact that is laced with weariness, tinged by pains. "Yes please, tea would be fine". He answers that part first, the politeness and etiquette that both of their personalities demand out of years of training, habit, life style. There is no sense of haughtiness to his side of it. It simply is what it is. Anachronistic manners, at least in this place, in these days. Its why he stood when she entered the room, and does so until she is seated.

"The sleep will take time. It's only natural, and I learned long ago that a full day of labor goes long towards allowing for it. If that isn't an option, due to life's requirements or injury, a little magic goes a long way in peace of mind. I'll not pry, but if ever the burden grows... heavy... . Well, I'm around." He has never, ironically given his last profession, been a man for the masses, for crowds, for public speaking. Often he is his most emphatic in scenarios such as this. One on one. Personal. He neither pushes nor leaves it vuage, a simple choice left in her hands should she ever need or choose it.

"I wanted to speak to you in the matter of joining the Celestial Chorus. I understand Mr. Page hasn't been present much lately, and that the two of you are close? I wanted to express to you that these things in the city.. Edom, and now this... this is not what we do every day. Not what most of us do, every day, anyway. Do you mind if I smoke?"

He indicates his pipe and a small pouch on the table, but being indoors and in a place where he has never seen any one else smoke, he asks. Certainly it isn't a quality habit, but it isn't as ..rancid.. as cigarettes, but all the same the presence of a lady requires her permission.

"We do not often find ourselves in such dire straights, and there is no requirement to do so all the time. Part of the time... ever again, even. We do quite a bit, mundane and mystical. You have seen things I'd not wish on any ones young innocence, but I do not want those things to taint or impinge upon your ideas of what and who we are."

"Having seen what you have, and done what you have, and knowing what you have been taught by Mr. Page... having seen the worst of what it has to offer, while being denied so much of its beauty so early on... do you still wish to join?"

[Emily Littleton] It's just Mr. Ward, these days, he corrects.

Mr. Ward, then, she replies, with the same little incline of her head. It doesn't seem to have changed her respect or esteem for him, or the mannerisms with which she attends to the politenesses between them.

Solomon gives her a lot to think about, and a lot to respond to. Usually, Emily is quite cagey with her personal opinions and her personal life; after this week there seems little reason to be, just now, in the emptiness of the Chantry, taking tea with a like-minded Fellow. This is Fellowship, a sacrament. She knows it well, she names it, it is a duty they have to one another.

"Mr. Page is away," she tells him. She copies his form of address and usually there would be a warmth underlying Owen's name. Tonight there is not. There is a weariness that bleeds through; a sort of emotional fatigue. This is all she says on it, all she offers up. It is enough to confirm that they are close, were close, might still be if he were to return. It's also enough to tell Solomon that Emily is not hopeful on his returning.

"Mr. Blake had offered to teach me in his stead, but he has taken his leave of the city as well." It is politer to phrase it this way. To talk about it in the clipped British niceties. But there's a little hurt for that too, the abandonment. Small, as Emily is quickly moving past it.

He asks if she minds if he smokes, and Emily makes a small shake of her head, a dismissively allowing gesture with her hand: she does not mind. It will not bother her.

"We are always on the anvil," she tells him, assuming that he can fill in the remainder of the quote by memory. By trials, God is shaping us for higher things. "I have, in some ways, come to assume it is part of the sacrifice we yield to be privvy to such higher things. To see and touch the truer natures of things? Perhaps it's an idealistic way to think about it, but just now, after times like this Spring and Summer, it helps. That there is a purpose behind this; that He has a task to which he is honing, shaping, directing us. If we have not Faith than we have nothing, right?"

There's no zealotry to her words, but Emily seems more Faithful than she had when they first met. These trials have brought her back to that quiet surety, the steadfast belief. It is why her resonance, upon Awakening, had called to Reverence, to Grace, before any other. Even as an Orphan.

"Having seen what I have, having done what I have done, do you truly have to ask me?" Her eyes find his, meet and hold them. Diminished as she is, there is no Unrelenting push behind them. They are deeply hued and keenly intelligent; they are steady. "I do not think I could be anything other."

[Solomon Ward] "Indeed" a simple answer, left hanging at first. He draws tobacco from the pouch and tamps it into the pipe. He opens a kitchen window, though there's an utterance of some sort of incantation as he does so. That flare of resonance that marks him as it does. Some sort of working, simple and honed by enough use and practice that the words alone serve as his foci. No physical prop needed here, not for this act. The cracked windows allow in a slight draft, cool but overly so. It helps with the bluish gray smoke as he lights the pipe, and cleans up the odds and ends of his pistol's cleaning gear as he does so.

"Within the Chorus there are several factions and orders. Ironically, for the Tradition that clamors about Unity the most we are most fractious of them all, I believe. Various faiths and religions all trying to over power the others, or ignore them, in the point of exactly what the One is and how we should view it. We stand on many common grounds, but its a ground divided by rifts and canyons. Some are deeper than others. I myself am a wonderful, and ironic, example of such. We have theological orders. Guardian orders. You are not expected to join any, but many do, and you may find yourself thus labeled by default of beliefs, religion, activity. Many of us hold to out dated distinctions out of tradition or belief in our faith over another" he waves a hand dismissively. He claims it to be neither right nor wrong It is simply how it is.

"I'm unsure of whom they may send to record and perform the initiation. I stand as the ranking member of the Choir now, and have had my suspension revoked so as to be a full member. That sad there must be witnesses. One will be a woman from my Order. She is very stern, and as traditional as I... my Order has few women and she is a Tradition breaker, but that aside... well, you get the point. The other I do not know. I can not tell you what to expect."

"I often divide Singers into three groups. My own labels, my own biases. There are those that are... hypocritical. All faiths bear such. They act or think as if their actions will buy their way into Heaven. Some are merely misguided, a roll over of mundane faith. Others are ... less than that. This is a minority."

A puff, a drag. Smoke hovers about him in a haze, and a soft cough deepens the pink of his bandages by a subtle degree. "Many are simply people of faith. People that believe religion isn't merely an upbringing or a philosophy, but a way of life. The Hermetic Order believes in a Divine, in a Creator. Did you know that? They simply place the emphasis on their own Will, their own personal power and accomplishment and meaning in the universe. The Singer finds the One, and lives according to his or her faith in Him. We see and do things most mortals cannot. We know God to be true.. how can we not live our faiths, daily?"

"And the last... also a minority. The martyrs. The anachronistic and the defenders. Some of them, like me, do so literally. We shed blood and expend bullets and we do it because no one else can or will. Others bleed just the same, but in other ways. The care and feeding of the needy. The requirements of parent-less children. Most Singers have a chosen cause, but we take ours to extremes. We ask find a cause until that cause is over, and then we find another. And another, and another. These are the Guardian Orders, who bleed and die in an unremembered act of martyrdom. Often selfless, rarely remembered by the greater world. We make no history books because we do not exist, and our lives are often over faster than most. In a world where people often question God, we gain our answers faster than most men can ken, and we do it the hard way, upon His door step."

"All things in life, no matter the hurt, are for a reason. If not for Faith, than we have nothing. These things will have allowed you to find its measure, and in such your place as only you can choose it."

[Solomon Ward] [Forces 2, Coincidental 3 = 5 -1 foci, -1 rote. Sound barrier. 1 to act, 1 duration, remaining to strength]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 9 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] They have been focused on their own tasks and troubles, so there is much to catch up on. Solomon is filling in the gaps left by her past teachers, building up to something or simply setting the stage for what was bound to come soon. Come next. Sweep in before Fall has completely settled and the next falling leaves knock trouble back onto their doorstep.

"I have been between mentors," she tells him, which must seem neither here nor there for a moment. "But I have not been idle. I met another Singer, here, who was only passing through. She is a Knight."

The word, however anachronistic, does not stumble from Emily's lips. It's well formed, resonant. It does not seem so out of place between them. Perhaps, in some small ways, she has already settled into her place in the Chorus despite remaining uninitiated for this long.

"We spoke on the Guardian Orders a little. While I cannot say I am comfitted to think my life will be like this often," she spreads her hands a little, to encompass the whole of her first Awakened year (which is not rightly over yet [another two months to go]), "I likewise cannot abide the idea of standing idle, standing by while these horrors consume innocents or fellow Traditionalists."

She exhales. It is a heavy thing, weighted with serious thoughts and sharpened by the ache it brings to her physical form. She winces, faintly, then rises to check on the tea with a small polite excuse.

When Emily returns, she is carefully balancing the teapot and two mugs. These she sets down between them before returning for a small pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl. She takes her tea with a little milk, but only after it has steeped a bit further.

"I do not fancy myself a martyr, Mr. Ward, merely a person who finds in unconscionable that such iniquities exist. Faith alone is empty without service. What blessings we are given, we are given to share. My godfather was a Knight of St. John; he lived a life of service, even in the most mundane ways. I am neither as holy nor as disciplined, but I hope to take those lessons forward with me.

"If that places me in one Order over another, so be it. I only hope that He, in His wisdom, provides me with the mettle and might to survive long enough to do some measurable good. And perhaps, in time, to find some happiness of my own."

[Solomon Ward] "You're well beyond your years, Ms. Littleton" he says with a soft chuckle, though it does pain him visibly. The tea he takes with out milk or sugar or honey. He is, in his own way, an ascetic. Many of the little things in life he goes with out. Many of them he almost doesn't remember. "God willing, we could all serve in the most mundane ways.. and there's nothing wrong with that. It was one of my points. None of us want to be martyrs... what I mean to say..."

A pause, a consideration.

"Unconscionable. Exactly. Perfect. Following that is a question of extremes, Ms. Littleton. How far can you go, are you willing to? Can you physically carry it through? All a matter of extremes. That sad, were you to choose Knight Order, I would happily give you my endorsement".

[Emily Littleton] How far could she go? Emily places her hands flat on the table. Her nails are short, neatly kept, unvarnished. There are nicks on some of her knuckles, a bruise just showing under the sleeve of her shirt. These hands do not tremble, today, under the weight of the question. Mark, though, it is a weighty question.

There is a moment, when her head is bowed, when her eyes are half-closed and her lashes are a curtain between the blue fields and his own gaze -- There is a moment when she is quiet, contemplative, when she is suspended in this thoughtful place. It will always be a thoughtful thing, a quiet place.

"It is a matter of extremes, but also one of balance. I've taken a life, now." The words are cold, but not unfeeling. There is regret to it, still, even though she's come to accept the action and its consequence. "It is a heavy thing. No lighter than nearly giving my own. Twice, this year, it's been a real and present threat. Once with Edom, early on; once again in the Labyrinth. He has not called me home, so I must have work left yet to do."

There is a faint curl to her lips. It's not really a smile, but it's meant to be warmer than resignation. She knows, now, what the sacrifices might be. She can name them, touch them, own them. She is not the person she was when this year began; she is stronger than she thinks.

"You told me once that it is the righteous path we walk, but that we are not absolved of the sum of our actions' consequence. There is extremity to what we are, and any time one thinks himself an instrument of God's will, or an extension thereof, there will be grave consequence. I suppose my question is, then, is there joy enough to balance that? Do your actions do enough good to warrant them? Are the things you Guard safer, stronger, healthier, hale because of what you do, what you give?

"Is it worth living at the extremes? Do you wish you'd taken a gentler path?"

[Solomon Ward] "I don't think I could have ever walked another, to be honest" he says quietly. Thoughtful. A moments pause as he puffs the pipe and inhales from the growing cloud about his head and shoulders. Long enough to choose his words with caution, not so long that they are dishonest or concealing.

"The truth is, we will never know. Not in its entirety. I can look on a victim and say to myself 'I saved his or her life' and there is truth to it, but I know not what they will make of it in the long run. Wether they absolve their pain and trauma through Him, or a needle... a year down the road, five. A life time. I don't know. I do know, with absolute certainty, that I have ended things and people and situations. Things that were a poison to the human soul and human morality, for all its flaws and weaknesses, things that could dwell deep inside those flaws and make them worse. Is it enough to save the world? It shall never be. Is it enough that I may have, perhaps, saved a single soul?"

"Yes. And that is enough. One alone is enough, a legion is too many to hope for, and all others in between is a legacy that I don't hope for with hubris, but would give my life to make possible. Just one is enough, Emily. Every one is a Gift. That gift is the joy, in the end. Many, viewing in from the out side, would assume me to be joyless and hollow. They don't see what I see, and where I find my joys."

"I believe, with honest certainty, through my age and experience, that this was my calling more than the Collar itself. If I could go back though, and consciously choose... no. I'd do it all again. It would be selfish in light of what I have helped achieve."

[Emily Littleton] Emilys fingertips toy with the rim of her mug as she listens. She does not scour his face for cues, try to weave any empathic undercurrent she might detect through what he says to her. His tone and his diction are enough. She does them both the decency of listening without pressing too hard, just now; without prying.

"I would not call myself a Guardian," she says, hesitantly. As if the word itself is unfit, but still somehow apt. There is a little furrow to her brow, gentled by consideration and composure. It is there for Solomon to read plainly; these nights she is an open book. "I do not have the perspective to say, either, that I am Called. But I have spent a lot of my life seeking Home -- some purpose, or some place to belong -- and this is where I find myself: in a Chorus of the faithful making ready for an ever-present war.

"There is work enough for everyone, but it is good work. And there is Fellowship. Perhaps, at moments, there is even Grace." There's a quiet reverence to her words just now, this is a private thing between them. Emily's revelation is not for many, not shared easily. "I am, maybe, the least prepared of any who have sought entry to such an Order, but I think it is where I belong. It is, undoubtedly, what He has placed before me."

Emily lifts her mug to her lips and drinks carefully. She can feel the weight of it down into her ribcage; her body is still sore and protesting. She is not used to this limitation just yet.

"I would like to be a Knight one day. I would like to know how to be a good one, a righteous one, and to hold on to a sense of reverence and balance. It is not an easy path, but I think it would be worthwhile."

Here she looks to him, more for his opinion than directly for comment. Instead of asking after anything in particular, the girl lofts an eyebrow beseechingly. Waits. Drinks from her tea again.

[Solomon Ward] "The Knights are the Guardians" he clarifies. "Guardian Order is a term for the various militant factions of the Choir.

Another puff of the pipe, a sip of tea. They sit across from one another battered and weary, pained and thoughtful. Is it a reflection? Could it be her future? He is aging and scarred beyond most belief, though the rolled sleeves of his shirt show only some minor burns on his right wrist. His face is marred though, as is his voice. He bleeds amongst bandages and under that there is more. A life time of service, an unusual history of violence writ in the flesh of some one most would not have expected on the surface. Not when he wore the Collar, anyway.

"It is for some. Some take it up after having explored other pursuits. Some have had the calling always, and some will be called else where and leave it, having found other ways to serve. I can't speak for you or any one else, and experience plays the greatest part in it.. but it is, for many of us, worth while..."

"Ms. Littleton... I understand you've had several teachers and various levels of relationship with them. You're own Cabal, with its own wants and goals. I can't say we'll ever be close, or that we'll never be close. I don't know in the least if my own Order's criteria would accept you... no fault of your own, we're considered very extreme even by the other Orders. That said, if it is a path you wish to pursue, I would train you. Nothing official, for now, though I don't mean that in a negative or patronizing matter. Simply that, should you decide to seek Knighthood, there will be skills you will need. Arcanology, warfare, academics, to name a few. Things not taught in mundane colleges and things that take a life time of study. If you are willing, I will induct you into these things once you are a full Singer. You may study and practice the more esoteric and dangerous of them under my tutelage until you find whom or what may suit your needs and calling best".

[Emily Littleton] She nods. It is the only acknowledgment Emily gives for some time. In that interim, she is still. Her breathing is shallower today, now that the hurts have set in long enough to make careful breathing habit and not a thing thought after.

"I would like to learn," is her way of accepting the offer. She nods a little, in agreement, as well. Emily does not know what Order she will call home, ultimately, or for how long, or even if that might change throughout her association with the Chorus. If the years continue on as this first has passed, these will be skills she will need regardless of her affiliations. The do not, in many ways, mirror what she is learning in University.

Hopefully the two pursuits will balance and inform one another.

"I would appreciate your guidance."

She pauses a little, then adds haltingly, as if she is not quite certain of it just yet. "Ms. McGowen has named me an Initiate. I have learned to influence Life patterns, primarily my own. As a student, I imagine this is the sort of revelation one shares with a teacher?"

And odd thing to ask, perhaps, after all the mentors she has cycled through, but Solomon was correct in alluding to non-standard patterns in each of those relationships. She seems more reserved, now, than he might imagine given her (alleged) past. Perhaps she is only tired, mending.

[Solomon Ward] His words were never judging, never overbearing. It was merely a statement that she had been closer to some mentors than others, and that he was aware her interest did not always lie in the Choir Celestial. As to the exact matter or nature of those relationships.. he doesn't know.

He doesn't seem to care.

"Indeed it is", though his chuckle is short. Short of length, short of breath. He tamps the pipe down, killing its last embers as he does so." Though I had guessed at it. When many of us reach a critical point, we change, in subtle ways. Some times from mundane things, usually from mystical ones. As we grow into power or ability, it typically becomes more noticeable by those that know what to look for. Also, while I wasn't aware of its total source you seem much stronger of late. You present yourself as such a little more, a little abler, even weakened physically.

"I need to rest, and by the looks of it so do you. Have some thing conservative" not that he needs to warn her, "for the ceremony and I'll contact you with greater details once I know whom the presiding party is. I swear, I think they're hiding it from me... . Anyway, do take care of yourself young miss and please do let me know if the trouble sleeping continues. We'll talk later about training and goals and your learning desires. I do appreciate your time, Ms. Littleton. Allow me to drive you, if you would, given the weather."

[Emily Littleton] He tells her to have something conservative for the ceremony and there's a part of Emily that fondly remembers Church going Sundays (the last of which was only in April [so not so long ago]) with what passes for her family. She is the only person she knows, here, who bothers to cover her head and shoulders in the Basilica or the Sanctuary of St. James'. So the smile is simple, honest and its accompanying nod is quickly offered.

"I will accept the ride home -- if you'll do me the favor of not telling the others where I live just yet. I've recently moved house; the relative quiet is quite restful." There is no chuckle here, but she assumes that he will take the mirth underlying her words as wry enough to impart their innocence.

When they rise from the table, Emily goes about cleaning up the tea things quickly and quietly. She wipes down the counter and readies herself to go. Just these small movements leave her more winded than usual, drain some of the color from her cheeks. The Initiate (no longer an Apprentice) is not as well as she is pretending to be, but she will make it back to her flat and she will rest -- if not dream sweetly.

She is not a person who feels the need to fill up a car ride with chit-chat or passing observations. Emily is quiet, because of her fatigue and because she is thoughtful. There is nothing immediately pressing that needs saying until they part ways, and she offers him wishes for a good evening, and a thank you, and goes into the building with its front doors (that lock [an improvement over the last]) that face the street. She climbs the flights of stairs to her floor, and heads into the apartment that is so newly hers that the carrier boxes still dominate the living room floor.

Perhaps, in time, she will learn to defend this space with something better than a deadbolt and window latches. For now, it is the closest thing in the city she has to home. And Solomon is the only mage that can find her, mundanely.