Wicker Man [STing]

[Kage Jakes] There are two points. They're destinations. Point A and Point B. Point B may very well find that it is just a launching point for a journey to Point C or back to Point A. Point B may very well find that there isn't much to the point system at all. That the points are irrelevant; that the points are all the relevance there is. That maybe the constellations aren't constants, that there is no purple in the stars, and no map of a life. Then again, there is also this: what lies between two points. Kage is on a walk from Point A to Point B. Not, this time, a walk toward solitude, to sanctuary, crowded and lonely at once, but a walk through one of Chicago's borderland neighborhoods. Neighborhood not far from theater; neighborhood not far from poverty. Neighborhood on the cusp, abutting an old graveyard maybe, a warren of alleys, of secret pools of shadow, of slick, glossy office buildings, Minotaur-proud,

and the lake. The lake which is a shadow; the lake with is a tangible darkness, disturbed only when the wind kicks up. Kage is on a walk, and the walk is taking her along the lakeshore, past old warehouses, dock-side things full of echoes, gates open to the elements, wanderers, and the smell of Indian food or seafood or something else, something unnameable, coming from the civilized side of the street. The side that isn't by the lake; lakes aren't civilized.

They remain mysterious, even when well-trawled.

[Harvest Moon] Kage is on a walk while Jupiter traverses, high overhead, in the most mysterious of ways. This tenth house planet, this keeper of luck and opportunity, this opener of doors and gold-paver of ways, he comes closer to the earth than he has in twenty-two years. And this, on the day when the night is its equal. And this on the eve where the full moon rises opposite the setting sun. This is an auspicious night for a walk, of all things. This glory and exultation, wasted away on the people who know nothing of its worth.

She is fat and golden on the horizon just now, seemingly candescent, lantern-faced, broad-smiling. She is slowly climbing, hand over hand, up the rope ladder to the heavens. She is rising; she is risen, and lo the long nights will come again. Feel the last crowing of the sun god's herald as he sinks, green flash, subsumed by the long-distant sea.

Equinox. Autumnal. 2010 CE.

Kage is going from point A to point B, or perhaps really from point A through point B and on to point C, or perhaps yet just from A to A again with a meandering in the middle of no great repute. For argument's sake we shall say she trends right to left across this section of pavement. And there, going left to right in a most unabashed fashion, a gaggle of hoodlums -- no, just early teenagers -- laughing and running and weaving in and out of one another's paths.

This is not unusual, no, not at first. But they were carrying sticks, and a piece of a pallet from a warehouse not far away, hoisted between two of them, causing them to lope awkwardly compared to the other boys. They were almost all boys; there was a tomboy among them.

And does she continue, with the scent of Indian food or seafood or something else, unnameable, wreathed around her rowan-crowned head, like an aura of civility, a talisman against the long-dark night shadows cast by the rising Full Moon? Or does she stop, perchance yell at them to slow down, they'll put an eye out, causing one to look over with glassy eyes and laugh (calling up after thoughts of crows calling) as they run past?

[Kage Jakes] [Am I Aware tonight? Are there things, to be Aware of? How will I know, unless I am Aware?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Kage Jakes] Given two choices, Kage will take the third. Every time. Every time she wants to. Which is to say, she does not yell at the boys with sticks running past (fast, fast, swift) and she does not notice and then put it out of her mind. It. See. There is a gaggle of hoodlums -- no; nay. Not hoodlums; unusual teenagers, a group of boys, one tomboy. Kage watches them come up, watches the Mummery of their weaving, with a gaze that tarnishes up into something questioning, reflective (nothing here to see, fellas, but your own true selves). Kage is wearing her blue as smoke, blue as the gloaming caught all in morning fog, blue as the pavement, wet with rained, bruised by sky's shadow, that blue, yes, that coat, her blue coat, and her hands are (comfortable [home]) in her pockets, and there is something about the sweep of it, the line of it, elegant, careful, measured. At odds, almost completely, with the unruly order of the kids.

When one runs too close, she whistles, sharp and shrill, a warning, a word, a commentary, and maybe she'll wonder at where they're going. She won't follow them, but she is in their wake, and she'll keep her eyes open, watchful, and take a deep breath of spice-scented, thunder-brewing air, taste the autumn on it. Maybe she'll glance over toward the moon again, as well, yellow as a ghost, as gold, as corn, as a treat.

[Harvest Moon] [ pause! for bedtime! reconvening later, at a room near you! ]