Birthday wishes and super soakers

[Molly Quincannon] The sign about the DANGER - HIGH VOLTAGE is still on Molly's door, though she does reassure people that right now it's just 'static electricity shock' level rather than the massive frying surge it was during the height of the Nephandi debacle. So the outside of the place hasn't changed very much. Inside, however ... inside has changed a lot. When Molly, with a sheepish, 'thank you for saving me from the brain-wrong of my workday' grin, lets Emily into the former auto garage, it ... really doesn't look anything like an auto garage anymore. There are posters all over the walls and silk scarves across the ceiling, though the scarves are overlaid by bits of multi-coloured HabiTrail, through which one apparently particularly spastic ferret is racing while the other bats something jingly around in a playpen in the far corner. There's more furniture, up to and including a dining table, and an area separated out from the main living space by pretty silk screens contains a bed, a chest of drawers and a sign reading "ELLIE'S NOOK".

Beyond that, though, it's still computers humming and general geekery. It's just now as much home as it is geek-den, eccentric though the 'home' is.

Molly doesn't comment on all this new, though; not until asked, at least. Instead, she ushers Emily in with that grin and a comment of, "My hero! You have rescued me from oh my gods, how did they get their jobs? Seriously? I keep meaning to ask the people in haitch-arr what they were smoking when they hired people and why they aren't sharing. Anyway, hello! Come in! Can I get you something to drink? And how's your day been?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily Littleton has never gone trick or treating. She's been to masquerade balls, but that is the extent of her dressing up in costumes, and those costumes were really just elaborate and ineffective masks. She knows All Hallows more in a religious connotation -- All Saints, Day of the Dead -- and it seems a little macabre and insensitive, to her, to send small children out in the guise of hobgoblins and superheroes begging for sweets.

Then again, it's also one of the few holidays that inspires creativity (homegrown costumes being what they are) or exercise (running around neighborhoods in the cool of night must burn off some of the sugar calories). She's heard her coworkers tell stories of optimizing their routes as children, coming home with pillow cases full of pilfered sweets which where then rationed and bartered along a universal sense of quality and preference.

Chocolate and peanutbutter, when combined, command a fetching price on the free-market candy trade.

That Molly was born in the middle of all of this seems neither odd nor fitting. It is. It likely means her birthdays have been a flurry of black and orange, costume parties and over-sweet cakes. Emily does not think the Cultist would mind these things. In fact, after her extensive research into things Halloween, she has made home-made chocolate peanut butter truffles for the Cultist. She's also made cut-out cookies in the shape of pumpkins, dozens of them, and royal icing in brilliant orange and greens. She's collected candy corn for eyes, and various sweets to make mouths and noses, and put them all together in a cookie-decorating-kit for Molly's upcoming party, complete with instructions on how to re-wet the icing.

But these are silliness and sweets. There's also a small-form book, wrapped in white fabric, tied with a silver ribbon. This, when opened, is a book all about teas, tea-taking practices, tea-growing practices, the tea-trade and some customs that survive to today. Molly had been curious about it when they last saw each other, and sometimes it's nice to have something more tangible than the Great Google's search results page. There's also a ceramic mug, painted green and with raised paint to look and feel like PCBA traces. And a collection of small jars of different tea types.

All of this is handed over in a couple carrier bags to Molly, with a loft of Emily's eyebrow and a slight smirk. There's no Happy Birthday! to speak of, but as she goes through the cloth bags, Emily is sure Molly will figure it out. The Singer is dressed in something more business-like that Molly is used to seeing. She's in a slight heel, dress slacks, a pressed shirt. Her jacket and scarf coordinate. Somehow this ensemble makes her messenger bag look a little smarter.

Emily also has two very strongly steeped Chai tea. They're in one of those cardboard-ish carrier trays. The scent will reach Molly before she has time to ask after them.

"I like what you've done with the place," she says, and it's genuine. It reads true. She accents it with a lookabout, noting the HabitTrail installments with a smile. "And my day's been like my week, exhausting. I tell you, there's something about this time of year that drives everyone a little bit mad, don't you think?"

There's a slightly rueful expression, but no wry chuckle. Emily is a little subdued, slightly frayed for all she is so very carefully kept on the outside.

[Molly Quincannon] It'd be hard to explain to Emily that Molly's birthdays are best known for the arguments ("No, Mom, I am not going as some Disney princess; I wanna be Bumblebee! The Transformer, not the insect! I know I'm a girl; I don't care!" and so on. Until she gave up and started saving up her allowance for her own Halloween costume every year) and being ignored by her peers in favour of class Halloween parties until college, when it was all about the drinking. She'd never tell, though. The people who know that Molly had a singularly unhappy childhood can be counted on the fingers of one hand. That was then; this is now, and she enjoys Halloween, and that's the end of it.

"Thank you," she says, gesturing the tidy Singer towards the poofy red loveseat (the least ratty of her living chairs, in deference to her outfit) in an offer of seating, and prods in the bag with a bright-eyed curiosity that would put her ferrets to shame. "I had so much fun putting that all together. They've got a sleeping area in the bedroom-workshop, food spot in the kitchen and it dumps out to their litter box in the bathroom. So how's the kitten whose name I don't know yet but would really like to? Has she--- Oooh, cookies. Oh, man, those smell awesome. I will not eat them all before the party but it will be a chore, I can tell you; I don't suppose I'm lucky enough that you included the recipe?" She blinks and takes her head out of the bag, not quite having got to the non-edible (but in some cases drinkable) presents yet but being sidetracked by questions. "Ahem. Right. Sorry; has she eaten your cables? I'm sure she hasn't because you'd have called to yell if she had, but I thought I'd ask."

[Emily Littleton] Having a conversation with Molly is a bit like how Emily imagines playing paintball might go. If you hold still, even for an instant, some brightly colored (and thus seemingly imminently avoidable) topic would run smack into your midsection. You'd be marked by that surprised expression and dismay. Of course, Molly would have a semi-automatic paintball gun, capable of delivering multiple colors of questions all in one bit flurry.

She's getting used to it. She's also too tired, just now, for it to bother her much.

"An's doing well, thanks. She doesn't seem to want to eat cables as much as she's claimed the rocking chair and refuses to share." There is fondness in this, the way she speaks of the kitten. And note, please, that this is quite possibly the first time the rocking chair has been the rocking chair, not Owen's rocking chair. It will progress, quickly, into An's chair. The kitten is usurping the other Singer in her home. "She's made a mess of the pillow I kept there, but it's better for her to ruin one silk than the whole flat."

Emily's lack of concern for her material things may read as indifference. It's actually a measure of pragmatism. Small creatures wreak havoc -- kittens, puppies, ferrets, children -- it's to be expected. If contained to acceptable losses, she won't complain.

"I'll scan and email you the recipes when I get home," Emily says, her smile warming a little. "Though I won't be able to make the party, I'm sorry to say. A friend of mine asked me to help with his daughter's birthday outing -- two pre-teens to one adult is not really a fair ratio -- this weekend. I get to go trick-or-treating. Should I be worried about that?"

She's giving herself a hard time, and Emily's mouth and eyes are touched with mischief for it. As little as Emily knows about Molly's childhood, Molly knows likewise little about Emily's. Now, though, she knows that the Briton has not dressed up in costume and gone house-to-house on any previous 31st of October.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly gives the question serious consideration, for all it was spoken in teasing self-deprecation. "Depends on the area," she finally says. "Suburbs a complaint-worthy commute from cities are best. If it's a short bus-jaunt, you'll have teenagers who don't bother to dress up harrassing people and tee-peeing the houses or worse. But then again, you're awesome and can handle yourself, so I'm not worried." She blinks and looks over at her front door with a frown. "I ... wonder if anyone's going to even try trick-or-treating at my place."

Then she smiles. "Glad that you and An are getting along and that you don't want to make furry slippers out of her or anything. She really did just ... seem like she'd be a good match for you when I was out and--"

She's been nosing through the other bag, and untied the ribbon on the book-shaped parcel, and ... instant silence for a moment. "Oooooooh..." She flips through the book just to get a quick feel of it, beaming. "Thank you! My bookshelf wasn't feeling nearly eclectic enough and sometimes Google points to websites made of fail!"

[Emily Littleton] "We're going up to Madison, apparently," Emily says, as if a car trip of that magnitude was negligible in her life. There's a little shrug. She finally settles in the red chair, and pulls one of the chai teas free of the holder. The other is left for Molly on whatever passes as an end or coffee table.

The tea is unsweetened, and has just a touch of milk. Molly will want to prepare it to her own tastes. Emily, today, takes hers strong and without honey.

"You're welcome! I thought you might want some IRL bookmarks to go along with your search returns." There's a smirk, here. Emily doesn't often show it, but she's earned her geek stripes. She can blend in in most social circles, but the geekery is a natural undercurrent. A thing unfeigned.

"And she's sweet, An is. She's helping. It's been a rough week, and there's something nice about coming home to an unconditionally loving unrelenting ball of fur that does not take no as an answer to plaintive cries for cuddles."

[Molly Quincannon] "Oh?"

Molly looks up from her cooing over her new mug, and her sip of chai (which gets an involuntary face pulled; Molly likes things sweetened, and will be going for honey in a moment) and looks over at Emily, evidently concerned. Of course, vague statements the likes of 'a rough week' are going to tweak Molly's curiosity even if her affection for Emily didn't draw out her 'how-can-I-help?' instincts. So even as she smiles at the mental image provided by the comments about plaintive cries for cuddles by unconditionally loving ball of fur, she still looks concerned. "I realise that asking 'is everything okay?' would be really stupid if you're copping to having a rough week, so I think I'll stick with, 'why the hard week?' ...I mean ... well, I guess I just mean I'm here if you want to talk. I'm not an unconditionally loving unrelenting ball of fur, but ... y'know, sometimes having a human to vent to helps."

[Emily Littleton] "You know," Emily says, with an odd cant to her smile and a small what can you do shrug. "Sometimes I think that He forgets we're only human, under all of this magery and magic."

She sips from her tea again. The spices come across almost as savory without the sweetness of honey. Cinnamon tastes sharper, and decidedly woody. Most days she would sweeten it, too; most days she would need to. Today was not one of those.

"And I don't want to get too far into it. Suffice to say that the details, well, they'd easily be triggers for someone like you or me. I think other people forget that, sometimes, as we try to deal with one another or help one another. So Nico, that friend of mine you met at the park? He went off-grid last weekend and I, being quite the fool, went looking for him. Found him, and Owen, who, by-the-by has been in town for a bit and just not coming 'round to say hello, at Mercy, in ICU. But that's not the whole of things, no, far be it for our lives to ever be that simple," sarcasm, it's a deft and delicate thing when wielded by the Singer.

"The things that happened while they were away? Ashley thinks they may have Jhor. And, since Owen's cabal and Nico might as well be, Chuck and I are responsible for them. Which is wonderful. So I've spent all of my freetime this week coordinating efforts to get Nico well and out of hospital, and learning about death taint -- at least it's seasonally appropriate, I suppose -- and now I'm going to try and not feel guilty for going out of town for the weekend. If I stay, I think, I might implode."

Her voice has stayed very level, almost matter-of-fact calm as she rattles off the litany. Hey, Molly wanted to know. Emily has it handled, apparnetly, she's called in the cavalry, mustered whatever forces she needed to, but these things take their toll, even on those trusted to be Emissaries and spokespeople. The reluctant Diplomat is now abandoning her post for a weekend away, where wrangling small sugared-up children will be a break for her sanity.

She's also just as capable as Molly of info-flooding a conversation. She just usually chooses not to.

[Molly Quincannon] One thing that has to be said for Molly; as much as she talks, she also really listens, particularly when it's important. Which it clearly is now. As Emily talks, Molly listens, and takes in the implications, and after Emily has finished speaking, Molly sits for a moment and considers and analyses her own thoughts on the whole matter, not because she's at a loss for words but because she wants to say the right thing, or at least not entirely the wrong thing.

Molly listens; she doesn't just wait for her turn to talk.

When she's listened and considered, she says, "You have nothing to feel guilty about. We're all guilty of forgetting that we're human, given the ... erm, optional extras, or whatever? And however strong we are, we can't keep it up indefinitely. We all need to recharge, and if getting out of town for a weekend will recharge you, then ... for their sakes as well as your own, do it. When I wasn't at my best, Nat pushed herself too hard and the resulting mess nearly cost us our friendship and our respective sanities. You're doing a smart thing, and the best thing for all concerned. And," she adds, with a sheepish little shrug, "I'd offer being company for those two, or at least to check in on them, while you're away, but I'm not sure how either of them would take that. Only time I met Owen, properly? He kind of ran away. Though the cupcake might have been responsible."

Then she sighs and, abandoning the chai for a moment, leans over and puts a hand on Emily's shoulder - briefly, and lightly, but a show of support nonetheless. "I ... don't know a lot about Jhor, I admit - a few bits of gossip, nothing more - but ... you and Chuck will help them through. I'll help if I can, and if you want me to. Even if it's just to come by and ... y'know, vent or have some time off or both. 'Kay?"

Then she frowns as a thought occurs to her. It's not that she's not curious about what happened to both boys, but it seems that Emily doesn't want to go there and her curiosity can be bent in another direction: "How does looking for Nico make you a fool? He's your friend; you were worried about him. He looked awful after the last time he went off-grid and ... surely it's not foolish to go looking for him if he's your friend and you were worried..."

[Emily Littleton] "Honestly, I think the best thing you can do is to be there for Chuck, who hates dealing with all of this. He's trying so hard to be everyone's best friend, that I sometimes think he forgets to be his own best friend too. If you can give him something to do other than worry -- or fret, or hack -- that would probably go further than trying to give the dynamic duo any direct support."

She rolls her eyes a little, but the warmth Molly's shown her has not gone amiss. It helps. It small steps, but it helps. Just like the kitten does.

"And I've been plenty a fool. Usually I don't tip toe into illegal waters, at least not technologically, but yours truly forced the issue a little with hospital servers to find him. And yes, I covered my ass. Thoroughly."

Most of what Emily does falls under subtle guises. And she's used all of those subtler guises this week, too. She's lied her ass off. To people of all walks of life. It's a delicate and exhausting thing.

"Maybe, when I'm back from Madison, you can tell me all about the party. And what your bravest of the brave trick-or-treaters were dressed like?" Emily hazards. "And at some point this Winter, I'll be presenting my research project. If you want to be geekly support, I wouldn't mind the cheering section."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly takes that suggestion on board, then nods with a smile. "That, I can handle. If Chuck can't remember to be his own best friend, I'll have to pick up his slack, won't I?" She's teasing, but ... well, that's her prerogative. All the same, there's concern for Chuck as well - it's just not as immediate. Emily's sitting right here, after all. Chuck, she'll see tomorrow.

The mention of the trace via not-quite-legal means gets an impressed sort of look, but no direct comment. After all, Molly is the last person to be judgemental about someone else's hacking, and Emily probably doesn't want questions about the backdoors into the hospital records system or anything like congratulations. All she says is, "I never thought you wouldn't have covered your ass. You're not a reckless freak like little old me, are you?" And that's the end of that.

The hazarding gets a smile and a nod. "Actually, I'll be over at Chuck's celebrating my actual birthday for some of it," she says, "so maybe it's not so bad that people will steer clear of this place. I'll tell you what the kids think of whatever Chuck does for decorating, though, and who made my top ten best costumes. And I'd love to be geekly cheerleader. I can make pom-poms out of strands of fibre-optic cable! Just tell me when and where."

[Emily Littleton] "Oh, that's not even what I meant," Emily says, when Molly calls herself a reckless freak. There's a good-natured eyeroll to go with it, too. But no, Emily also does not want to exhange trade secrets, or pretend that she does this as more than an emergency means to an end.

But she had to learn some how, and given the places she's grown up there's likely no good story to tell about how and when.

"Thanks, Molly. And, really, I didn't come here to dump. I wanted to bring birthday cheer and sugar -- which, I sense is never remiss in this household. And I'll let you know when the committee picks a date, time and room. It'll be on campus, though. Probably in the dark, dank halls of the engineering department. They reserve the shiny conference rooms for graduating doctorates," she winks a little. "Not us poor Master's candidates who just want approval to go spend grant money on our hunches."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly greets the good-natured eyeroll with a laugh. "Hey, I know that's not what you meant, but I own my shit, y'know? I am a reckless freak. I'm learning, but Rome wasn't built in a day. It burned in one, but that's a whole other kettle of miscellaneous swimming things. Suffice it to say that if I can't laugh at myself, who can I laugh at?"

Then she shrugs and gives a sympathetic smile. "Look, I don't mind you dumping, mmkay? And it's not just to feed the maw of insatiable curiosity, either, because ... y'know, it's not like I view this as gossip or anything." (That is, quite obviously, to say I am not going to talk about this, even if provoked.) "It's just that ... y'know, I consider you a friend, and as such, I want you to be as well as you can be. Sometimes that means dumping. So dump away. I have broad shoulders and infectious good humour."

Then, utter change of subject, and a giggle at the wink. "I don't mind on-campus, and dank, dark halls can be dealt with. Ah, engineering departments, I remember them well and almost miss them. Or at least I miss the redecorating with LED displays and then claiming that it's my mid-term project. Speaking of, what is your project that requires such approval?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily's smile gentles and broadens.

"Oh, I've been with this lab most of my undergraduate years. So I'm working on my Master's project, in conjunct with my last year of undergrad. But since I have a couple years of independent research already, the department's willing to sign off on more money, provided the abstract should be publishable at the end."

Eyebrow waggle.

"Access to grant money means so many more LEDs. It's also made a bit of a butt of my labmate, who thinks I'm not committed to the research since I have other, off-campus studies. We've moved desks, even, so that his cube isn't next to mine. All very mature. It certainly puts the Chantry shenanigans in perspective."

Another eyeroll.

"But all of that," she gestures inclusively, "And all of the usual Awake-and-perennially-under-assualt drama, paired with this boy trouble -- Aiya. I understand why some members of the Chorus go Hermit and Monk. Aside from the fantastic kung-fu overtones," laughter, here, in her expression, "I think fewer people might make life infinitely simpler. Or at least that I'll be smarter about boys in a few years' time."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly chuckles. "For the record? No one ever gets smarter about boys. There's always going to be drama, there's always going to be complications, and maybe fewer people might make life easier, but it'd make life harder too, I figure. The constantly-under-assault bit, in particular, would be way harder if there weren't other people. And this is me saying it." Sheepish, eye-rolling grin. As she says, she owns her shit. "All the same, I guess it's less being smarter and learning from the big issues so that they get put into some kind of context. I mean ... it's just guys. It's sad when stuff is going weird or they're being difficult or life is making the pairing difficult or whatever, but all in perspective? It's either worth fighting and ... I guess evolving for, the relationship, or it isn't, and either way it's not the end of the world. It's kind of nice, though, to know that we can still consider that kind of stuff the end of the world, even though we see preludes to the real thing on a quasi-regular basis."

Then, different kind of eye-roll. "Oh, man, your labmate sounds like such a Scrooge. I mean, there is life outside labs! Is it wrong that I want to prank him?"

[Emily Littleton] "I think I'm giving up on Owen, a little bit," Emily tells Molly. There's a wistfulness to it, and a sadness, but it does not linger. Emily is describing a symptom, not the root cause. "And if he's ill, it's entirely the wrong time for it and -- oh, no, I'm not looking for sympathy, or even really advice I just, had to said aloud, you know, to someone who wasn't invested one way or another. I remember being happy, and I care for him, and that's not it at all it's just -- I don't think I'm patient enough, or gentle enough, or sure enough to wait, to keep waiting knowing he's here and hasn't come by, to just find him, like that, at Nico's bedside."

She exhales. Everything tastes of chai just now.

"I get that there's difficult pairings. I just also, wonder, if sometimes things are frictional because they're not at all right for one another."

She glances at Molly.

"Don't prank the labmate, please." There's patience underlying, this, though. "He's new to the group an uncertain. And not at all used to being outdone by a girl."

[Molly Quincannon] The look Molly gives Emily ... clearly, she knows where Emily is. She's been there, it seems - whether it was with Chuck or someone else, she has been there. There's more than sympathy (because that can be taken for pity, and what is written in big friendly letters on Molly's face is nothing like pity); it's empathy. "I know," she says, and that might actually be an understatement. "It sucks and it's hard, I know. You've got to do what makes you happy and comfortable. Sometimes friction ... is. Only you can decide whether it's worth it. So no advice or anything; just ... y'know, friend-comfort and if you ever need one of those girlie nights with chocolate or gummy frogs or tissues or silliness or whatever ... tell me, okay?" She's not going to push - she knows how self-contained Emily is (or tries to be), but she wants that offer out there, on the table - a gift, freely given, and she won't be offended if it's not accepted. It's there, and it's not going away, that offer. If Emily needs Molly, Molly will be there. End of statement.

Then the bit about the labmate, and the wrinkle of nose that's amusement rather than disgust or anything - her cute-grin-mischief face. "Oh, all right, since the request is coming from you. Doesn't stop me wanting to. And to be honest, the whole thing about not used to being outdone by a girl? That only makes the wanting a little worse. But that's just my damage, y'know? Too many years being told by peers, teachers and even parents that I can't do anything that requires a brain because I'm a guuuuuurl. Y'know, 'Oh, you can't take advanced math classes even though your grades seem to back it up and maybe we'll let you just because you've browbeaten the guidance counsellor into it' and 'Why would you want to touch a car engine? That's a man's work!' and 'The only reason you should want college is to get your MRS'..."

She realises she's ranting, and sounding more bitter by the second, and shakes her head, chuckling at herself. "Sorry," she says. "Like I say, my damage entirely. Mostly I'm over it. Not like I didn't prove the nitwits wrong, huh?" It probably explains a lot about Molly, that whole tirade - the frantic need to do something, to prove something, to never be seen as anything less than capable.

[Emily Littleton] "I appreciate it. And I'm sure I'll need it, sooner or later, probably when Mr. Page decides it's time to remember he has friends again. He's going to be all sorts of lovely to deal with when he meets Jarod." Another eyeroll. It seems to be the expression of the day. And Emily thinking about marrying those two personalities into a single conversation can do nothing but thank God for the distinct opportunity to polish her damned social skills.

Clearly, that's the only thing He might have had in mind for her, giving her these two men in her life at any given moment.

"I don't plan on being any less amazing around the labmate. He'll have to deal. But I don't plan on rubbing his nose in it either. I don't know his background, or his damage per se. Maybe he has reasons for being an ass. If he can overcome them, that's enough for me."

[Molly Quincannon] The bit about Owen meeting Jarod gets one of those looks - the sort that presages the need to make popcorn and book tickets. "Seriously. Those two. In a room. Together. Seriously? I mean, the guy who ran away from me when I was bearing a cupcake and the guy who offered to compare tattoos? That ... just ... I should not be there when that happens. I would not be able to keep my mouth shut. Curious as I am, I should not be there." Then a thought occurs, and she eyes Emily, thoughtful. There was a lot of flirting from Jarod, after all, and now Emily is ... well. "Your taste in men is wide-ranging and I can only salute you," is all she says. After all, it's not as if she really responded to any of the flirting.

The bit about the labmate gets a shrug. "Hey, whatever his damage is, he's your issue to deal with. I wasn't really serious about the pranking. I can wish and daydream, but you're way more charitable than I might be. Personally, I'd be all up trying to find out his reasons for being an ass. But ... well, that's just me, I guess. I probably wouldn't make many friends doing that." She grins. "I'm glad my labmates at college weren't like that, though. I lucked out."

[Emily Littleton] "Oh, I should not be there either," Emily says, and the laughter reaches her eyes a little. It tastes of mischief, is a dark thing, a warm thing, a place she rarely dabbles with other mages. It's been pulled forward, along with a host of bad behaviors, throughout October. "If only I were gifted enough to watch, from afar, like the eye of Sauron..."

Oh yes, Emily just said that. It was paired with a wicked smirk.

"And, thank you, I think. Mind, things between Jarod and I were a long time ago, and not many know of it."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly winces, chuckles and tosses one of her text-speak-speech-bubble cushions (one that reads LOL) at Emily, giggling, "Oh, don't! I am that way gifted and the temptation would just be too much! Also, you're very welcome, and don't worry about it; I know I come across as the world's worst gossip but I don't really go around talking about other people's relationships unless it's a matter of ... y'know, security or something. Like ... oh great Google, Nat living with Lara now. I just ... I'm trying not to make a deal of that, but given the whole deal with Lara, and how she threw the last person she had who was as devoted to her as Nat is under the proverbial bus..." She shakes her head, manages a smile. "All that to say, I don't always meddle or spread other people's business. So 'things between Jarod and you' will stay a not-many-know-it thing, seriously." She chuckles. "Probably just as well. The man comes across feline but he's a hound, seriously. Nice enough, but..."

[Emily Littleton] "He's viciously self-interested," Emily agrees. "I never forget it." There's no bite to that, it may even come off with a good-natured affection for the Verbena. But the comments about Nat and Lara bring about a bit of a wince.

"Oooh, I don't envy you that one. Staying out of the middle of anything that involves Lara seems best practice, but I was edgy and irritated when she stayed with Chuck, so I can see how you feel about her and Natyana."

And that, too, would stay quiet until it was absolutely necessary to disclose it. Emily was not Fort Knox when it came to information, but she was often something very close.

"To headaches in the guises of close personal friends," she says, and lifts her tea a little in salute. "I'm beginning to think we ought to take over Chuck's consoles sometime soon and just skin the faces of all the annoying people onto zombies or something. It'd be so cathartic."

[Molly Quincannon] That last from Emily gets a full-throated laugh. "We don't need Chuck's consoles for that! He's got me buying the damn things and tweaking them. The only reason they're not out here is because I'm ... erm, improving them. The three-sixty is going to be red-ring-of-death-proof by the time I'm done with it, I swear. How do they let consoles out with such crappy quality anyway? Oh, right, money." She rolls her eyes. "No pride in workmanship anymore. Feh."

The bit about Jarod gets a smile. "Eh, he's not the only one, with the vicious self-interest. He strikes me as ... a different sort of self-interested than the kind that worries me, though. I dunno why. Just a feeling." She has, in fact, seen genuine emotion from Jarod that she has never seen from the people who she'd label 'viciously self-interested', so perhaps that's it ... but that's Jarod's information to disclose or not as he sees fit, that one flicker when he heard about Daiyu. "Anyway, he at least seems friendlier than that Vito ass, and there ought to be laws about guys that attractive."

[Emily Littleton] "There definitely should be," Emily agrees. Ruefully. Perhaps remembering how it was that she fell in with that particular man round about this time last year. Oh, well then, that faint blush that stains her cheeks and nose and ears confirms a little more than Emily otherwise would have.

"I just... ah..." Emily stops short, is quizzically quiet for a long moment, then continues. "Don't fall into thinking he's safe. He is a special sort of something that's for sure, but he can be ruthless. In an unfairly gorgeous sort of way."

A little exhale.

"Do you see, though? Regardless of what happens, Owen's going to be a little furious about Jarod. And Jarod will only take that as an invitation to push buttons because he can. I think I'm going to move back to China, and not tell either of them. True story; it seems like the simplest answer." There's a bit of laughter underscoring this worry, but moving is something Em's given a bit of thought to.

[Molly Quincannon] Molly wrinkles her nose again, amused and concerned. "Oh, don't go moving to China. I'd miss you. Just hide out here. It's not like either of them can come in without my say-so, with wards and electrified doors and all, and you can screen calls. And we can stand on the roof and throw water balloons at them if they make trouble. Or I have a Super Soaker. One of the big ones with the backpack water tanks." She's kidding. Mostly.

The rest gets the shrug. "Oh, I'm not going to snuggle up and be comfortable and share my deepest darkest with Jarod. But I'm not going to go around being too-wary-to-be-allowed with him either. Everybody deserves a chance, and just because I'm not going to come anywhere near the perfect-trust deal until or unless he earns it doesn't mean I'm going to treat him like a ... a panther escaped from the zoo. I think that's kind of what he wants, y'know? And I'm not going to buy into the image when the man's more interesting. In an unfairly gorgeous and potentially dangerous sort of way. Besides," she adds with a small grin, "if something goes wrong and he ever hurts me? I can just vent my spleen on unfairly gorgeous zombies. Or punch him in the nose. Or sic Nat on him. I love my overprotective HellPopple cabalmate."

[Emily Littleton] Emily rolled her lower lip between her teeth for a moment. The thought of throwing a water balloon or aiming a Super Soaker at Jarod was, it was, she couldn't ... it was almost too perfect for words. It's the sort of thing Emily would never do. Like goading him into playing football in the park at night in the mud in that lovely perfect white shirt of his.

Hee.

And the thought of doing the same to Owen, now that Owen wasn't carefully wrapped in the mental gauze of all her good intentions. It was. Well, it was slightly less gleeful, but still rang through as devilishly appealing. Why did the summer have to be over, already? Threats of snow made poor timing for water fights.

"If only unprovoked assaults with water cannons did not result in so very much explaining later...." Wistful.

The thought of Jarod hurting Molly pulled something at the back of Emily's neck tight again. She exhaled a little and closed her eyes for a moment. "Well, let us hope that a weekend away smooths everyone's rough edges. Speaking of, though, I'd best go pack. I've been all sorts of pressed for time this week, but I did want to make sure you got a proper happy birthday, and something sweet for your party."

[Molly Quincannon] It's rare that Emily shows amusement so evidently (even though it's not necessarily that evident to most, she knows Emily), so Molly feels quite privileged and proud that she's got Emily so close to laughing over the mental image. That had, of course, been most of the intention. "I don't need explanations," she tells Emily, beaming broadly. "I am a Cultist. People expect me to do unbelievably stupid shit for no good reason but my own amusement. It's that or wait for actual winter and then lob snowballs at them from the roof."

At the comment that Emily needs to pack, Molly nods, though there's another light touch of the Singer's shoulder when her neck tightens a bit - a sort of reassurance. Molly can, of course, take care of herself, but it's still nice that someone cares. It does for a hug, as well; she's never entirely sure, is Molly, how much of a hugging-person Emily is. "I really do appreciate it, Emily; I needed the break anyway. Now I can go back to the code-from-hell I have to debug fortified by tea in a truly awesome mug! Safe travels, and cuddles and ear-scritches for An on my behalf, okay? And remember to give me a call when you know when I get to be all Dallas Cowgirls for your presentation."

She sees Emily to the door, of course - there's manners in her, sometimes - and barring further comment, the two geek girls are left to go about the rest of their days.

How does that make you feel?

[Emily Littleton] It is easier to find the other Chantry members these days. Sentry rounds bring them each through the house every week and a half. They all pass the bulletin board, they all eventually take meals in the kitchen and dining room, and they all traffic the library and node as part of their watchfulness.

Emily has also been visiting to read and study with Mr. Ward. She's been tired and worn looking. The summer's toll is a heavy thing, and it has not entirely lifted.

Today is a chill day, brisk to the point of requiring scarves and coats and threatening the need for gloves. So long as the Singer keeps her hands in her pockets, her fingers keep from going numb. She mounts the front steps to the porch quickly, stamps her feet on the doormat, and then opens the front door without fanfare.

It's like coming home. To the most gruesome memories of a living room that she can imagine. The House is still not a happy place for her, but she's grown into feeling more than just a sense of dread toward it. There's also responsibility. A little bit of pride and protection.

Emily is unwinding the pale pink scarf from her neck as she makes her way back toward the kitchen. This is the ritual: make tea, take tea with whomever is on rounds, and then go about her business.

"Hullo," she calls, friendly and warmly enough to the lower level of the house. "Anyone home?"

[Wharil Choc] This was still Autumn. Wharil was coming in through the back door, kicking the corner of the door to shake the leaves off his feet. A rake rests on the patio railing. Lawn bags spewing leaves through their knotted corners rest near it. He tugs at the gloves on his hands and buries them, along with his hands, in the front pouch of the hooded sweater he wears. Its still only Autumn, but Wharil Choc still doesn't know the difference. There are two seasons in his year. A building up, and a breaking down.

He sniffs at Emily in greeting. There might have been a nod in there somewhere, but all his movements seem to be slightly stiff with the temperature and wind. It was like coming home. No big whoop. No outrageous greeting. Oh, you're here. This is expected. Wharil also looks a lot different than the last time Emily might have seen him. His hair has been cut close to the scalp, revealing the pale skin that sun rarely reaches. And he looks as though he could use some sleep. But still, there's that resolute look, and those engulfing eyes take in Emily.

"Hey." He says casually. And stands there as if waiting for more.

[Emily Littleton] [Aware as Empathy: Holy crap, you cut your hair! Is this like when girls do that? Are you making major life changes? Are you okay Wharil?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Things are different about Emily as well. The jeans and sweaters she usually wears have progressed into slacks and nicer sweaters. Into blouses, and colors that contrast just nicely enough to be planned. She's being careful about her appearance, but not because the Chantry or University require it. She's filling the kettle when he enters. Her messenger bag's strap is still slung across her body, its bulk rests at one hip. There is a fat textbook laying on the counter beside the stove.

Wharil looks different, and so Emily turns to face him once she's lit the stove. She leans back against the edge of the counter, lets it brace against her back. It is cold. Autumn has finally sunk its fingers deep into the house.

"Hey, Wharil," she says. The informality of it is somewhat suspicious, seeing as she's studying him closely for a moment. Then her smile warms a little, broadens to something beyond polite.

"I was actually hoping to find you here. I've some questions, and Ashley said you're the best to answer them. If you're not busy, that is," she adds, with a glance to the outside activities.

"I've put the kettle on, and there should still be some of the pumpkin bread I made this week. Do you take tea?"

[Wharil Choc] Have you ever been away from a house for a long period of time? Of course Emily has. She knows how a place can change drastically and suddenly when the sun rises a few degrees away from where it once did. Rooms that felt spacious turn smaller and cramped. Rooms that were cozy turn dark and drafty.

That's kinda what Wharil is like. The man is still there. While Emily focuses on the emotions coming off him, its hard to shake the familiar nervous, jittery feeling. Jittery to the point of unravelling. Only now, it was more like unravelling, and becoming nervous as a result.

As for what Wharil might be feeling: There's cold. Discomfort. Something in his eyes, in the V between his brows, spells out concern. But a long term concern. Nothing to do about it now.

And perhaps suspiciously, there's nothing else to be found there.

"Mm. Pumpkin bread." He pronounces, as if he'd only just remembered it. Wharil goes about arranging chairs. It seemed they were in for a chat.

"Yeah. Sugar. Not too crazy about the cream. What is it you wanted to talk about?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily takes the loaf out of the fridge while Wharil arranges chairs. She slices off two pieces, warms them in either the toaster oven or the larger oven, depending on what is available at the house just now. She is quiet in these movements, thoughtful. There is a sense of unraveling about her, too, but it is not as pronounced as Wharil's. It is not as clear.

She pulls down two mugs, and the teapot, and two small plates. She sets up the tea to steep with something dark and richly spiced. A tea to pique the palate, to brighten up a cold and dreary day.

This keeps her hands busy, which makes it easier to speak with grace and clarity. There is a surety about her now, a building grace, it's hard to miss even when she is shaken or worn through.

"Nico Brady and Owen Page came back to town," she says, matter of factly, just like that. No echo of the missing, and the waiting, and the worrying -- okay, well, maybe a little of the last. "Ashley says that they've been through a lot. That they were captured, held, tortured by some woman..."

She is light on the details, so she offers what she knows without restraint. This is a strange thing for Emily to do. It doesn't read as uncomfortable just now. She begins ferrying things to the table.

"Ashley is concerned that they have taken on a death taint. She called it Jhor. I don't know anything about it, beyond what she's said, and I was hoping you could teach me. So that I can try to help, or encourage them to find someone who can. Right now, Nico's in hospital for some rather grievous injuries, too. I can't imagine that would help."

It's when she settles into a chair at last that the edge and nervousness around Emily shows. It is easier to keep quiet than to keep still. She has never been very good at keeping still.

[Wharil Choc] "Nico" He intones, and repeats it as well. "Nico. Nico." As if trying the name on his tongue to see how it tastes. Meanwhile his eyes search the ceiling for the memory of the man. Owen he knew. Nico, he was still working on. Simply being unsure, simply not knowing, seemed to make him look that much more tired.

When Emily mentions the death taint, that concerned 'V' in his forehead deepens.

"Hm. I forget sometimes. You're so bright, and you seem so sure of yourself lately. I forget that you're still only just learning. Yeah, Jhor. The Death Taint." He puts an emphasis on the article, suggesting there wasn't really any other. "Do you remember when i mentioned...hmm...about energies. Energies that rub off on everything around us. That rub off on us as well. It was the day I gave you and Enid the notebooks. Remember?"

[Emily Littleton] "I remember," she avows. Emily still has that notebook. Right now, it is sandwiched between other books in a carrier box in her new living room. She can still recall most of what she wrote down in it. All of that was a time far more confusing than this one, not that Awakened life was ever simple, or straightforward, or clear.

She pours tea for them. First for Wharil, with a spoonful of sugar, and then for herself with no additives at all. The first mug is passed across the table. There's a whisper of old mannerisms, of far away customs. It pervades her. Even bright and sure of herself, Emily is Other. She will likely always be.

"Nico is an Orphan," she tells him. "An established one, rather like Kage was." She does not think the man is a Disciple, but they've not really tested one another's magical depths. She doubts he is an Apprentice. She's certain that he's stable and fixed in his Traditional unattachment. Like Kage.

"Do you think, then, that they may have picked up some negativity or morbidity from the things that happened to and around them? Ashley said that Jhor makes it hard to appreciate life and living. That they need to do things that make them feel alive or reaffirm their reasons for living."

There is a deep concern painted across her features as she wraps her long fingers around her own mug and lets the warmth seep into them. Thaw them. Emily draws her tea closer to her, where she can inhale the spiced steam, where it can come closer to warming her center. This ritual, tea-taking, is a comfort to her.

[Wharil Choc] "Exactly. Entropic resonance specifically linked to death eventually leads to jhor. Now, really, when most people think of jhor this is what they mean; the state of being affected, almost burdened by that kind of resonance. In reality, most times, this only means you're on the doorstep. Actual jhor is...well, much worse. And usually requires something very powerful to push you over the edge. And take it from me; if they were captured, held, tortured, they may have tried to do just about anything to survive. Which means...they may have gotten that push."

The last words spill from Wharil's lips just as the teacup raises up to them. He takes a sip, then another longer one, and sets the tea back down, eying it for a minute.

"That's good. I like that. I like that a lot. Hm. Where was I? Oh, right. Uh...not all jhor manifests the same. Yeah, sometimes there's an obsession with death. Sometimes there's the apathy. But sometimes there's rage. Sometimes there's obsession. Revenge. Mania. Its a little hard to predict, which makes it a little hard to treat. One thing that remains constant though, is that it is the sufferer, and no one else, who can provide a solution. A troublesome thing considering, in other manifestations, he or she might not even want to acknowledge that there's...that there's a problem."

And yet another, slower sip of the tea.

[Emily Littleton] This is a good way to talk about things. It's very academic. It's carefully clinical. That doesn't stop Emily from reacting to the cues that come up that tug at her conscience or her memories in uncomfortable ways, but it makes it easier to school those reactions, swallow them down and focus on the task at hand: learning about a magically inflicted illness. Learning how to help the people she cares about.

She's not a Caretaker, but Emily is an Architect. She firmly believes they can build something better, a community where people look out for one another is a cornerstone to security and sanctuary. She is responsible, too, for the two she's asking after. These are her people, her cabalmates, her friends. So there's pain to her expression, and worry. Heartache. Headache. Recovering was not the same as surviving; it was harder yet.

"Alright," she says, slowly, as she sips from her tea. It all seeps in. Percolates. There's a shadow-slip of smile when Wharil says he likes this tea. That pleases her. It's a bright moment in a difficult conversation.

"Does Jhor affect Sleepers as well? And should we be worried about more of the people in town, after the thing with Edom and the Labyrinth? There has been a lot of death and many burdens placed on people this year. Is there any way to tell, with certainty, if someone has stepped across that threshold?"

These are the easier questions to ask. They don't threaten to make Emily's lip quiver or her eyes go damp again. They don't bring forward the frustration that was so painfully evident to Ashley at this same table not too long ago. So this is where she starts.

[Wharil Choc] "Not true jhor, no. As I said, true jhor requires something very powerful. Something that would normally break a sleepers mind, probably. No, I suspect the average sleeper would resort to suicide or go completely insane before it got to the point of hobgoblins. A awakened, on the other hand, is a much more dangerous thing.

"You can help of course. There's no magic in the world that can bring them out of it, but while they're still human, they've still got human minds. Human psychology. This why the positive reinforcement, the 'finding something to live for' works. Left unchecked, there are few ways that I know of that will detect actual Jhor. And even then, only when its too late. But, you can keep a watch out. Notice the signs that put them on the edge. Offer counseling. Give support. This is also what the Euthanatos do among themselves.

"There's one other thing. Certain techniques can offer aide. A bullwark against the death taint's affects on the mind. But they are rare and usually very difficult. Perhaps...Ashley might actually know a way. Even if she does it, I imagine she'd be capable of learning."

He doesn't answer that one other question. He simply sips his tea and lets it slide under the rug.

[Emily Littleton] [Per + Subter (Evasion): Are you... hiding something, Mr. Choc?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Wharil Choc] [manip+sub : Who meeee?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 3, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] "I worry about Owen," she tells Wharil, and there is something in her expression or the shape of her words that lends an intimacy to that, a fondness. Perhaps it is the way the other Singer's name curls on her tongue. Gentled. "Don't get me wrong, I worry about Nico as well. It's just that I know Owen better, and what he's been through. He's lost a lot, I --"

Her eyes close. Emily exhales a breath that is more like a sigh. It is heavy, bothered. She shakes her head a little.

"What they've gone through is enough to break a Sleeper. I would know. It's also close, very close, to something that happened to me. I worry that I won't be able to help them find their way out. It has taken me years, and Awakening to face that darkness."

This is candor. It's unveiled and unabashed honesty. She will not meet his eyes for a moment, but instead lets the stain of emotion on her features speak clearly between them. Emily holds so much back that it's hard to remember, at times, that she is a warm and expressive woman. She is well on her way to growing into the Emissary role she's been pressed into. But she is human, she is still so very human, and young, and frail in her own way.

"So help me," she entreats. And not only because the person she cares most for in this city is involved. "If, say, you were suffering from a similar thing, what might I do, or say, to help you? Who would you go to for counsel -- Ashley? Your peers in other cities? So many of us have become like islands in our struggles and our grievings. Sometimes I don't know how to cross that sea, or where to even begin."

[Wharil Choc] Once upon a time this would have required a hug. There would be a curly headed meso-american descendant wrapping his arms around Emily Littleton as a cue that it was okay if she sobbed just a little bit into the fabric of his sports coat.

Now, though, a man with a shaved head in a hoody twists his nose slightly as he chews pumpkin bread. "Starting to taste like fridge." he whispers before popping another piece into his mouth and leaning back in his chair. He's still chewing a little while when he begins to speak.

"Emily, you and Owen are in a position that's unique among the majority of awakened in this city. At least the ones in our circles. You belong to a tradition, one which maintains its structures and practices even to this day. And you have others of your tradition, higher ups, right among you. Usually right under this roof. Have you spoken to Solomon?"

[Emily Littleton] "No," she says, perhaps a little more sharply than intended. It was a misstep, one softened quickly to: "Not yet. I've spoken to Israel, though, and Ashley said you were the best person to ask so I came to you next. I will, though, speak to Mr. Ward when I next see him."

"I have also been busy," she notes, "With trying to find a way to get Nico out of hospital and well. Which takes time, and is not as simple as I would like it to be."

This is pulled back a little. Less open, less directly intimate. There's fewer overtones of warmth or friendship. Because he criticized her pumpkin bread, or rebuffed her to seek counsel from her own elders, or maybe it's just that he's avoiding the all to evident elephant in the room.

"You're right," she says, shrugging a little. "I'll seek counsel from the Chorus."

Once upon a time, this might have warranted a hug, but in that same space of yesteryear Emily would not have confided openly in him. So they grow, and they change, and the things that bind them shift and torque.

[Wharil Choc] "Guess he can't be out of the hospital until he's better, and can't be better if he's out of the hospital. I suppose you've already thought of having him transferred somewhere else?"

[Emily Littleton] "We're looking into that. It would be easier if Ashton wasn't away just now."

There's a small pause, and then Emily ruefully admits to one of her least favorite options.

"He can also check himself out, as long as he's stable enough to get out the front doors and they don't rule him mentally incompetent. That, though, will be awhile. He'll have to get off some of the medications, and down to fewer monitors."

[Wharil Choc] "Medications." Wharil says, and twists his face in disgust at the thought of it. "That's probably not the best idea. What kind of medication are we talking about here? How bad is he?"

And then, as he downs the last of it, there's the final one.

"Can I meet him?"

[Emily Littleton] How bad is he? Wharil asks. It's a reasonable question. Emily hasn't told him that Nico is in ICU. She hasn't told him about how she found the Orphan, what it took to get up to his floor, who she found at his bedside in tears. No. So she sets her mug down and spreads her hands a little. It's a gesture that reads like the little ingress of breath before speaking; it's a thing that prepares, forewarns.

"He's lucky to be alive," she says, without any hint of exaggeration. These words are stark. Naked. Ungentled in any way.

"If you'd like to, yes. I'll bring you to see him during visiting hours. He's at Mercy."

Emily finishes the last her tea and sets the mug aside. She has not touched the pumpkin bread, which is beginning to taste like fridge. It is not the first meal or snack she has skipped.

[Wharil Choc] "Alright. Sign me up for visiting hours then. What about Owen? How's he holding up. And what...what exactly happened to them?"

[Emily Littleton] "I don't know," she tells him, and it answers both questions. It also has a bit of a burr to it. Emily doesn't know. Wharil can take from that what he likes. She isn't elaborating.

"Whatever happened to them in Pierre is not what put Nico in the hospital, not directly at least. And no, I don't know what that was either."

[Wharil Choc] "Hm." He says, and his head cants to one side. Eyes that see things, even things that aren't visible, scrutinize her face for a moment.

"Well...that makes it something like a mystery then? How does that make you feel?"

[Emily Littleton] "Aha," she says, and there's a visible amusement (deflection) in her dark blue eyes. It's a wickedness and a mirth, rolled into one. A dark thing. A recent resurgence. It is not entirely bad, but it is not entirely good either.

"Let's focus on getting Nico well, and clearing them both of this Jhor suspicion or taint, and then, perhaps, we can talk about what I'm feeling. Or what you are. I'll make you a trade, Wharil. Your thoughts for mine. Seems fair enough."

She smiles. It is warm enough, bleeding into something warmer. Something knowing. Emily rises to take her mug to the kitchen, but places a hand on his shoulder as she does. This is not a thing she would have done before. He's more closed in, she's more likely to reach out. They balance, in some ways.

"Do you want anything, while I'm up? I think there's still sandwich fixings in here. Maybe they won't taste of fridge."

[Wharil Choc] Emily losses eye contact with the man at her proposal. Something about him talking.; about the suggestion that there was something to talk about, sets his mind drifting. Wharil pics a spot on the table at which he can focus his...whatever it all was. He wasn't saying. Not for a long while.

Do you want anything? Emily says and Wharil is standing before she can make it to her punch line. Oblivious, he murmurs "No, i should get back to work."

Walking between worlds [STing]

[Samhain] The year draws to a close. Kaeley can feel it down deep in her bones. She can feel the shift of the world against the Veil, preparing to slip into darkness, waiting to be reborn from that cold, silent place. She can feel the long nights settle about her shoulder like a mantle of spiderweb and nightfall, hushed whispers, the innuendo hidden in a candle's fickle flicker-flame. It calls to her, the ebbing sun tide. It pulls her forward.

This is the season of the Witch.

There is no appointed day when she plans to meet up with the Hermetic in Chicago, no appointed hour when she must call to continue the Adept's tutelage. These things, too, have an ebb and flow. They happen when they happen. The Disciple wakes one more and feels the promise of frost nipping at her window panes. It is the rumble of a far off train, felt but not yet heard. Not even yet a light in a tunnel. Not the promise of safe passge. Her bare feet on wooden floors tell her that the time has come.

She packs no bags beyond her usual satchel, but gathers a worn-smooth staff from beside the hearth. She does not lock the door behind her when she goes. There is a rumble, a hesitant and sleepy sound that growls from the old farm truck when she coaxes it into first gear. It complains under her guidance, just as it had complained under her father's. It is still dark when she sets out for the place where this world thins into the next, where the margins can be eased open, where she can slip sideways and Walk between worlds.

It is still a chill and dewy morning when she breaks out of the Path of the Wyck and into the woods beyond Chicago. She has not called for the Hermetic by modern means. There is a chill in the wind today. The floors will be cool beneath her feet. Perhaps a shadow cast by a dark bird, overhead in the sky. If Ashley wants to learn about Life, she would have to listen to its rhythms and subtle cues.

Kae does not doubt the Hermetic will come. She seems content to wait, perched there on the flat seat of the King, staff proped beside her, staring out across the water at the reflected glow of Autumn colors that dapple the far bank.

[Hunger] Ashley has been awake.

She has good days and bad and sometimes the worst times are when she lies alone at night and tries to clear her mind so she can sleep. She tries not to use magic in order to shut herself down and Will her mind to rest, but sometimes there's no other option, and she doesn't have the luxury of exhaustion. It doesn't always keep her asleep for the entire night though.

It is still dark when she rises, noticing delicate patterns laid across her window as though someone had breathed on them and then carefully sculpted the result. Her eyes wander over the fine white feathers frozen over the edges of the glass. In an hour it will melt; autumn frosts are brief. She's discovered, to her chagrin, that inviting a cute kitten into bed soon means one has a fully grown and quite permanent bedmate. Right now it's cold enough at night that she doesn't mind; her floors are hardwood. She sits up on the edge of the bed and then half-propels herself, half-jumps the two feet to the rug to spare the soles of her feet the shock.

She appears in the Court fully-formed and in jeans and a cargo jacket, the snaps buttoned up against the chill of morning, the collar flipped up against the breeze that stirs the bare branches. Kae has already arrived, her truck stilled at the beginning of the path. Ashley has her black messenger bag with her, but it doesn't carry a laptop and a notebook and two or three poetry volumes today.

Bran Summers is in town. Ashley is a little weary, though he was useful in helping her with some of the things she put together for this, so she won't complain too much about his presence. On the back of one of her hands an intricate, almost beautiful, symbol in some odd alphabet has been painted in blue. Otherwise she appears much as she always does.

"Morning, Kae," she says.

[Samhain] "Good morning, Ashley."

The Hermetic may not hear music and longer, not in the way that she used to, but there's a decidedly tonal lilt to the Verbena's voice. It's a sauntering thing, not a swagger, not a boast. Comfortably lyrical. As if she could be nothing else. It is also resonant, redolent; it speaks of feather-thin frosts and warm blankets and starry nights. She is the season, all wrapped up in her tan cargo pants and heathered blue vest. The arms of her tee are white, and stand brightly out against the morning.

She does not look like she's dressed for much magic, even if it is still wreathed through the faint and tousseled curls to her hair.

"Would you care to walk with me?" she asks, without even beginning to lift herself from the tree's bulk. It is an idle question, when taken in the context of her hiking boots and staff. It is a resonant one, if Ashley considers their previous conversations.

Kae smooths one hand along the worn yew limb while she waits, draws it closer to her as if she is preparing to set off regardless of Ashley's answer. Or maybe that is only the edge of Anticipation, this build up to a breaking storm that surrounds her in the quiet of early morning.

There are silver rings on most of her fingers.

There is a small, carved wooden charm lashes to her left wrist like a bracelet.

[Hunger] Ashley hooks a thumb underneath her messenger bag's strap, adjusting it so that it fits a bit more comfortably on her shoulder. The response to Kae's question is not verbal so much as a nod, a step forward that indicates her readiness. She doesn't have any hiking boots (just sneakers) but the Woods aren't that big a place, really, and it's unlikely to be highly intensive. If it is, Ashley will manage. She always does.

She also does not look as though she is dressed for magic. Her clothing is as ordinary as it always is; her sole ornamentation are the two rings she always bears on her left hand (thumb and middle fingers) and the chain that's assuredly tucked beneath the collar of her shirt.

She seems awake. Chill fall mornings will do this for a person, no matter how poorly they slept the night before. It reminds her of being walked to the bus stop holding on to her mother's hand and meeting Justine at the Boston chantry; it also reminds her of this time last year, when she and Wharil and Rene were Working together for the first time. When she and Jarod bumped into each other and decided on a whim to go explore an old house and danced along its rafters to trawl through its memories.

She seems awake, and her eyes are alert and bright as she lets an arm rest along the side of her messenger bag as though to protect whatever's within. It's nothing particularly fragile but much of it is sentimental; the gesture is instinctive.

Now that the Hermetic is closer, Kae can recognize the symbol on her hand as an Enochian one. The woad is the color of her eyes. She's quiet, and perhaps it's all she can do in the face of this woman who feels like portent, who feels like a storm feels just before it breaks apart, is wait with an expectant sort of gaze while she falls into step next to the Verbena.

[Samhain] Ashley steps forward. Kaeley stands up. She's not a tall woman, but there is a palpable presence about her. It is sharper now, nuanced and deeper for the nearness of the holiday. She, too, nods a little. It is a welcome. They have reached some sort of silent agreement.

The symbol on the back of Ashley's hand garners Kaeley's attention. It holds her gaze for a moment, pale like sea glass, soft and remembering. It is recognized for what it is, but not what it says. Ashley is wise enough to know the difference. Kaeley tips her head in one direction, then sets off across the fallen leaf litter and soft ground, retracing the steps she'd taken when she arrived.

This hike does not take them down the soft-black paths that wind and wend their way between trees. It is a direct and yet seemingly aimless thing. The Verbena wanders as if there was some lodestone in her center, a compass pointing ever toward the thing she seeks. And that place is but a rough place in the woods where the birm of one tree's roots rises up and the shallow of a wash cuts through and there are rocks and sharp things to run up against if one should stumble.

It looks like nothing.

It feels like lingering fog and daybreak.

Kaeley glances over to make sure that Ashley has followed this far, then, without a word, she turns the ring on her left finger and bows her head.

For all they have spoken on ritual, for all they would continue to talk about ritual today, there is no trapping of it to what she does. The shallowing, here, thickens but not by any direct manipulation of the Guantlet itself. Kaeley still has not learned to manipulate or visit the Spirit realsm. But she knows how to find the places where the paths stitch this world and the next together, where they thread like silken threads between the remnants of space-time that make up Between.

Kaeley knows everything about thresholds. This is one. Where the tree rises up and the riverlet runs down and the world exhales like one great, creaking sigh toward sleeping. There's that prick of not knowing what may come next, the shudder of someone walking over your grave and suddenly something is different. Nearer. Less discrete.

Kaeley offers Ashley her hand.

"Stay close," she says. "And do not wander off the paths. I cannot find you if you do."

And so they begin. Not with a lecture, nor with an explanation, but with the open invitation for an adventure. With a ritual and a birthright. A Mystery and a rite.

[Hunger] The child of Wyck offers her hand to the Hermetic, who knows less about these natural thresholds and more about the ones that the living have imposed. The bounds of territory, barriers of Will, and the mutability of the physical. (Only she's not quite so sure, anymore, that it is as illusory as she believed it to be once. Even for an Adept, there's room for reconsidering, room for learning new things.)

Ashley takes the proffered hand with the same readiness with which she'd stepped forward into the woods in the first place. There's a trust implicit in this: Ashley doesn't know where Kae plans to take her, but she seems content that the Verbena isn't going to harm her or lead her astray. It's the sort of trust that's buoyed by confidence in her own abilities, and the sort of trust that isn't because she expects that others' intentions are pure but rather because she knows she'll be all right if they aren't.

If she's abandoned, she'll find her way. She always does. There's no reason to worry.

Ashley's eyes are like blue marbles, wide and attentive to everything that is going on. She has gone Striding from one way to the next, like cutting a hole through a curtain, many times on her own now. She's never done it with anyone else. She doesn't know whether it'll be different, whether it'll look and feel different, and it can't help but pique her curiosity.

"I'm ready," she says, just in case Kae required some verbal affirmation of her.

[Samhain] Kaeley is not leading her off through some dark path in the woods to leave her alone to fend for herself. Whatever Ashley thinks about Life, and how it is chained to the struggle for Survival, Kaeley has little patience for such teaching methods. Truth be told, Kaeley has little patience for teaching. She prefers to welcome others to walk beside her, to learn from one another, to Live alongside one another, and to part ways when the time comes.

She has taken few Apprentices, but she has taught many, many mages and young Seekers of the Truth. Her hand fits Ashley's well. There are light callouses on it. She works; her life leaves its markers on her body and skin.

This use of the Art is older than striding. It is easier, because it manipulates paths that are already there. It does not require Ashley's mastery of the sphere. An Apprentice, so inducted and aware of the proper shallowings, could do the same. This is where a little ley knowledge compliments a foundational magical skill. It is finesse and compromise over ultimate control.

Stepping sideways is like slipping through water. It is chill-cold at the margin, and then comfortable once they are inside. There is little distinction between where one's body ends and the open space begins. It would be easy, too easy, to stray without a guide or a well-worn knowledge of the pathways.

Some people say the paths are laced with lakelight. Some say they're paved with the bones of the dead. Some say that your footfalls come fall like soot and star ash. Some say the spirits of ancestors and loved ones draw near to birm the margins, to stay your will to stray, to guide you from one waypoint to another. There is, ultimately, a lot of emptiness here and Ashley sees whatever it is that she imagines lies just beyond the boundary of this world and the next.

For Kaeley it is a place of quiet, of soft-fallen snow, of footsteps that fill in and disappear as soon as they are made, of wind, of silence. It is winter. A place of Air. A place where the Mind triumphs, because it is all the conscious separateness she has left to hold on to.

They walk for awhile. They cannot have gone far. Distance is impossible to judge. The path does not seem to fork, but Ashley is conscious that there are intersections that move past just over head or below, distractions from the thin thread they walk.

Before too long, there is a thickening again, a place where the world beyond comes close enough that shapes appear, fuzzily at first and then in increasing detail, until they push through that boundary again.

This is the low point of a field laid fallow after harvest. There is a wire fence to one side, broken and falling down around its wooden supports. There is a dip just beyond where their feet meet the soft earth, and it's filled with water the color of mud and sky. The air smells of mown grass, of dust and cold. Beyond the fence slumbers the rounded shape of an old-bodied farm truck. Beyond that a gravel road that leads back toward paved throughfares.

The sun is further into the sky, now, and several hours seem to have passed.

They are not in Chicago any longer.

Once Ashley has righted herself, taken her bearings, Kaeley looses her hand and moves toward the truck. The doors are unlocked. The keys are in the ignition. In the passenger seat there are two apple turnovers and two thermoses of black coffee.

There is a Forces Ward about them to keep them warm.

[Hunger] It's not a disciple's magic that she uses to walk between worlds. Ashley's gaze is intent while Kae opens up the paths in a way that she hasn't seen them opened before. For Ashley, she is there and then not, and it all happens in a moment, but this is much less instantaneous. They Walk, and her breath catches in her chest when that chill rises around her and swells over her head.

For a moment she feels like she's going to drown, before breaking into that open space.

For Ashley there is no real world Beyond. There is simply the physical and the realm of pure thought, and this is an odd state somewhere in between, something she would never have imagined existed. But something that she has, perhaps, been seeking to understand: she knows, now, that somehow there's a bridge between them, that the physical world is not wholly false but some sort of extension of thought. She just doesn't understand what that bridge is yet.

And here they are, among paths that connect the two. Her hand is a delicate thing, slim and long-fingered, but the grasp on Kaeley's remains quite firm while they enter this place.

For Ashley it's water and they undulate their way through it, wind through roots that reach all the way to Nothing and continue into a tree whose boughs are infinite. This is how she sees things in her own Mind sometimes (though always, before, on the surface.) There are things half-glimpsed through the veil of ocean, pure Words and those tendrils into the physical that embody an aspect, but they weave and blur.

Though Ashley is silent and composed, Kae can feel the minute trembling of her body through the tremors in her hand, something that would be imperceptible were they not touching. It's not fear. It's excitement. It's Wonder.

And then her head breaks through and they're back on the surface again, and Ashley runs her free hand back through her hair as though expecting to find it wet. They walked for a long time; her legs are a little tired and the growling of her stomach has reached a pitch it only reaches when she really hasn't eaten in a while, not since last night. So she's altogether rather happy to see the apple turnovers.

"What was that?"

[Samhain] The yew staff is placed in the bed of the truck, probably about the same time that Ashley is finding the turnovers. Kaeley hefts her messenger bag in with it. She pats the body of the truck as if she's greeting a familiar horse, or other pet, some living thing. There's a fondness for it. Her rings clink against the metal body.

She leans against the truck near Ashley's door while the Hermetic finds the still-warm food and coffee. Kaeley says nothing, but this is another ritual. A simple thing. Cakes and Ale. Shared food and drink. The words are May you never hunger / May you never thirst but that is not today's lesson, and Kaeley cares very little for words on a whole.

The truck's body is cold where is rests against her. She rubs at one upper arm with a be-ringed hand as she answers.

"They're called the Paths of the Wyck. They connect shallowings and nexus points throughout the world. Some reach between continents, others only within the same city or county. They travel between, though there's much argument as to between what."

A slow smile shapes her mouth. Something faintly Southern has come out in her voice. It's subtle. It just barely distends her vowels.

"Some of us take our titles rather lit'rally," she tells the Hermetic with a self-conscious humor that is meant to be taken lightly. "Among the many rites know is this one. Walking between worlds. Or one step to the left. Some also call them the middle paths. Any Child of the Wyck can open them, with even a rudimentary knowledge of Correspondence or Spirit."

She pauses for a little, then tells Ashley with all seriousness: "It is a birthright."

[Hunger] It's a birthright, Kae tells her, and Ashley doesn't look as though she doubts that. But she does look mildly aghast, and her mouth hangs open just a fraction before she remembers to shut it. It seems like something beyond what an apprentice should be able to accomplish, and she can't fathom how the Verbena have kept this to themselves through the years. How the Order of Hermes hasn't come across it or something like it and made study of it.

She too, after a moment, sets her bag down inside the truck and reaches up to rub the space where the woven band wore a knot, digging her fingertips into it.

"What do you think it's between?" she asks Kae as she reaches for one of the turnovers, holding it lightly between the thumb and middle finger of one hand while she leans back against the open door so that she can make room for Kaeley to reach in. She doesn't eat yet; she is waiting for Kae to bite into the food first. It's one of those mannerisms - a ritual in and of itself, really - that is as much politeness as it is a sort of caution, lingering in the subconscious. The provider always partakes first.

It's appropriate that Kae does not speak the proper Words. Asking Ashley to never Hunger is like asking her to never breathe. The moment she finishes eating, she will still be hungry. (This is, in fact, the very thing that causes her to lose weight during her low moods: it's hard to see the point in eating when she knows the act will garner no satisfaction the moment the last crumb is gone. It's hard to see the point in anything.)

She lifts her eyebrows, watching Kae.

[Samhain] Kaeley takes her turnover, and one of the thermos's of coffee. She does take a bite, chews it thoughtfully, swallows slowly. This frees Ashley to eat at her own pace. It frees Kae up to consider the aghast and agog look the Hermetic was just wearing withing something between amusement and self-satisfaction. She tries not to let that permeate too much of her expression.

No, the Hermetic Ways are not the Only Ways. They are not even the Oldest Ways. Nor are they always the Best Ways. But there is a hubris to all walks of magic, and Kaeley recognizes the swell of pride within herself for what it is and puts it aside.

"There are many places your spirit and mind can go where the body cannot follow. Some traditions talk of four-fold manifestation -- intent, then ideation, then manifestation, then realization within our tangible world -- and others suggest that all the empty space between here and there is really no bigger or smaller than the space between thoughts." She shrugs a little, works the top free of her thermos, balances the lid and her pastry somehow in one hand while she drinks with the other.

"I don't think the shortest distance between two points is always a straight line, the way we conceptualize it. There's always been a lot more to life, for me, than the things we can touch and know and explain through science. So I can't tell you definitively what the Paths are, but I can show you that they exist. I can walk them.

"I suppose that's why we call these things Mysteries."

She lifts a brow in an expression suggestive of long-suffering laughter, or perhaps a challenge for Ashley to return with her thoughts on what she'd experienced.

[Hunger] The moment Kae takes a bite of the turnover, Ashley raises hers to bite into it too. For the feel of her, the manner in which she eats is not a sloppy gorging; she eats in small bites, tries to prolong the satisfaction of taking in, in the manner of someone who knows that there will be other things to be had. In the manner of someone who knows that devouring won't make her full.

It's something she's learned to do: during her first years Awake she was young and heedless, bolting down whatever happened to currently occupy (whether that was food or sex or a book or art or some new theory) and dashing on to the next with the kind of intensity that was borne of the hope that this next thing might just be the thing to...

But it never was.

When Kae indicates that she should articulate her own thoughts, her brow furrows. "I'm not sure I fully understand what was there either," she admits, but it was new to her, after all. "There's Pure Thought, which is infinite and in which our Wills push up against every other Will and concept that exists, and then there's the physical reality - which is mutable because it's an illusion, just an extension of each of those thoughts. An aspect of a greater Form or Word, if you want to think of it that way."

There's some thoughtful chewing before she swallows, following it with a sip of the coffee. Once the thermos is set down she idly reaches up to flick a crumb away from her shirt, even though she hasn't finished yet. "There's something that connects the two, something that isn't quite thought but not quite physical either. And I'm not sure what that is. But I saw water, like I do when I dream or when I speak to my Avatar."

[Samhain] Kaeley nods. Ashley's answer is as good as any she's heard yet. And it is the Hermetic's own, which is more important than anything else at this point. It's good enough. And for all they're not necessarily comparing symbolism sets just now, Ashley's lines up well enough with Kaeley's own. It's a pleasant surprise.

She pushes off of her lean with her shoulder and her hip. "C'mon. Let's get going," she tells the Hermetic, circling around the truck so she can climb into the driver's seat. The bench seat is old and though the upholstery has held up well, its springs creak when the women settle in. They're small things in its belly. It swallows them up in a cumbersome sea of metal. The dials on the dash are worn in places, were once chromed and bright shining. There's an orange needle to the radio tuner, and its numbers are printed in a long-forgotten font.

They can talk on the short drive back to the farmhouse, but first Kae has to get the truck moving, which is as much as art as it is an exercise in will, but the Disciple manages. Some things in life remain trying just to test and hone her patience, she is convinced.

"There's some interesting theories, I think they're Vedic, maybe, about the interplay between the layers of reality, and what it takes to manifest something in the physical real. First there has to be an intent, then that intent is formalized into words and concepts, then those begin to take shape and fall into place, fit in with their causation and consequences, and lastly they manifest here. And the idea that this world is malleable, by changing the underlying idea or conceptualization or even the placement or timing, any of those factors before it lands in the tangible world is an underpinning of some schools of magical thought. They're not really Awakened paradigms, usually, but they're a driving force behind measuring things like whether there's a quantifiable pyschological or physiological effect to some mind-over-matter exercises, or precognition."

Her sentences just ramble, piecing together these thoughts and ideas like things remembered at a distance. She talks about these things like they're common knowledge. Like they're something she encountered so long ago she can't quite remember where any more.

The gravel road gives was to asphalt. There are trees along the roadside now. No signs. No lane markers. The road is built up, so there is a drop off to either side of the pavement. They go less than a mile before Kaeley turns out onto a dirt path that winds up to a large white farmhouse with a broad barn. The barn door is partly open. The house is quiet. There are no animals or other cars.

[Hunger] [pause!]

She does not come empty handed.

[Israel Cohen] Israel has never actually met Nico Brady. She's heard of him, but even then only vaugely in manner passing at best.

Up Monday night, that is. Monday night Ashley had called to talk about the same fellow - and somewhat of Owen Page as well - and now, some time later, Emily has called as well to speak of at least one of the same men. What she's heard has her concerned, of course. She's a feeling [empathic. intuitive. and, at the core of it all, softhearted] woman and hearing such things as 'may be Jhor tainted' and 'hospitalized for a motor vehicle accident' [though Ashley didn't seem to think it was a 'MVA' at all] was certainly reason for concern. Indeed, she's somewhat restless over the matter: She'd agreed to wait on checking the man out [for twofold reasons] to avoid suspect super-healing [even a sudden rapid recovery can cross the boundaries between 'Coincidental' and 'Vulgar']. As for the Jhor.. she wouldn't even have to be in the same room with him to check that... but it wouldn't do to Weave from afar and alarm the unknown Magi with the sense of alien, foreign Magic being Worked on [or against, he might think] him.

So she's been biding her time and Hoping [praying] for the best. Now this call and some part of her feels guilty for not having done something by now. No matter the logical reasons behind it; the safety measures, ethics and considerations... she is a patient woman, but loathe to know someone may be suffering while she waits for the right time.

Just because she knows, logically, that she cannot remotely heal everyone she'd like to doesn't always make it easier.
[less so when Sorrow crescendos within her: pain and drive all in one.]

Emily was no doubt punctual. And finding the home wasn't difficult: By the El it was only two blocks away from the last stop on the Red Line in Rogers Park. By car traffic wasn't so bad this time of night and this older neighbourhood was relatively quiet for the city. She's not all that far from the Chantry, Emily might note. Around the appointed time, Israel had waited for her out on the steps of the small porch. The blind woman's greeting was warm - she'd go so far as to place her hands on Emily's shoulders [hands that are noticeably full of warmth, the kind of rich, smooth, enveloping heat one might feel from sunbathing on a fine late Spring day] and touch her cheek to the taller womans. Fond and, yes... attentive. Concerned for more than one person at a time.

The house isn't overly large but it makes good use of its space. A split-level main floor. Stairs leading up to a fully converted attic space that serves as Library and study. She speaks of a basement as well as she ushers the younger woman in, guide-cane lightly in hand. She has the place memorized but she uses the tool anyway; comfortably. Second nature by now. In terms of decor the furniture and such are all quite nice: Contemporary in colour and style but comfortable. Matching canisters and dish sets and the like in the kitchen: Colours Israel approved but has never seen herself. There is a decided lack of visual decor outside of the basics. What exists in the home that make it her own are scents and textures and the like. Traces of the scented oils she favours - [honey and myrrh and soft notes of spice]. The split-level layout that helps to mark out the boundaries of the room for her. Variances in hard-wood floor and tile and rugs. Flowering plants [Emily can spot some orchids blooming splendidly among other things; a few fruit-bearing dwarf trees on either side of the split-level stairs that lead to the bedrooms and bath. it's not like walking into a garden but the plants make their impact on the senses: They thrive.] and somewhere the barest touch of pipe smoke [perhaps she notices some signs here and there of a male presence in the home, like running shoes near the front door].

There's a decided smell of decadent dessert in the air: Once she has Emily in the house she leads her to the kitchen area, beckoning for her to take a seat at the island counter where she is in the process of assembling a tiramizu: The scents of things like mascarpone cheese, coffee, well-aged rum and cocoa powder lace the air before she can make out the sight of the ingredients themselves [laid out just so, in bowls with custom ridges that help her keep ingredients marked; the home is very tidy, very organized].

"I made some a couple of hours ago that we can have now if you like," she's saying with a smile, her voice soft-spoken, just-slightly-breathy as ever. "Solomon and my family are fond of it so two seemed more prudent. Or, if you haven't had dinner, there's cold cuts and stuff in the 'fridge."

Hospitality is important to Israel, but her next question doesn't at all have the tone of 'just polite small talk' to it; she's too earnest for that if gently so, "How are you, Emily? It's been... what, a couple of weeks since Grant Park and, ah, 'Lord' Bedlam?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily does not come empty handed. She is a thoughtful girl, well-raised by parents who have dabbled in many world cultures. She is attentive, and shrewd, and kind-hearted -- though don't let the latter slip around anyone but close friends and particular acquaintances; it isn't something she admits to often. So she offers Israel a small but weighty package when they are done with greetings, and those greetings are warm if a little worn tonight.

Because Israel reminds Emily of Old World things, and because she cannot always bring baklava, she's brought a container of densely spiced cookies. They're only just so sweet, redolent, the sort of thing that delights a delicate palatte and warms the body from the inside out. There's also a clutch of small, sweet clementines. It's early in the year for them, but the weather has just begun to turn chill and even Emily needs a break from the ubiquitous apples and pumpkin. There is also a soft thing, a smooth and fine-spun shawl. If Israel asks, Emily will say she thought of Israel, up studying or speaking at work perhaps, and thought it might be nice to have something for her shoulders.

Emily always covers her shoulders and head at Church. She knows that Israel keeps to old customs as well. The color, if the Disciple could see it, is a natural cream. There is the faint scent of lanolin. It is wool blended with something softer. It will keep warm in the winter.

She does not come empty handed, and neither is she thoughtless in her comments about the house. She mentions how nice the trees are, how beautiful the orchids. She comments also on how clever the flooring is, to break it up like that -- does it help? You see, Emily does not know what it is like to go without seeing. She is curious, but not insensitive. She finds it remarkable the subtle and overt ways that Israel fashions her life into something more manageable. Emily has done the same with her own life, until now. She has made it more manageable, all the uncertainty and the restlessness. It worked until this last year. It is failing her now.

They are both restless about the Orphan who lies in a hospital bed. They both wish they could do more, do more now, do more sooner. Remedy things that have no solution but time and patience. It is hard to be patience when another suffers. It is harder when that suffering percolates out to the people who love him, who worry for him, who watch the watchful and sorrowful from afar.

"I would love some," she tells Israel. It's followed by an offer to help. "May I help put the kettle on?" This carries no expectation; if Israel wants to make tea on her own, Emily will not get into her workspace to confuse or distract.

"I've been well," she tells Israel. It is not a complete answer. It conceals, and imperfectly, and they both know this. "Well, as well as can be expected. Some things take time," she says, and the note of sorrow is evident. The Singer is still mending from this Summer; she has carried other worries forward into Fall. There are compounding worries now. For the most part, these are counterbalanced by Grace. In the last week or so, the balance has swung too far to one side.

She can only hope this means that the pendulum will swing the other way before it rights itself. That there will be joy in abundance as well.

"Perhaps the fairer answer is that I have kept busy. And in keeping busy, I have been well. enough. I hope you've faired better. Is the Autumn being kind to you?"

[Israel Cohen] Emily doesn't come empty handed: No, indeed, she comes with something of abundance. This doesn't exactly surprise Israel, because Emily has always struck her as thoughtful and perceptive. From what she knows of the younger woman [younger but taller; like the 'bigger little sibling'] she isn't taken aback that the newly formalized Singer knows something of the Old Ways; the old customs. This is rare, though -- rare for women of their generation, that is. Oh, the closest of friends might bring a trinket. Or if invited to dinner, something nice to drink; dessert or the like. To come with gifts though is rarer to come by these days.

She is pleased by them; genuinely so. Pleased and, if not surprised by the gift-giving itself, certainly not expecting quite the amount or loveliness. Oh, Israel is a foody -- it seems people have certainly caught on to that. So the cookies and the clementines are delighted in - "What heavenly spices," and "Oh, I adore clementines. We'll share a couple with the tiramisu -- the sweet-tang will lighten the richness of the dessert." - but the shawl is something unexpected. She does ask after the colour out of curiosity and pragmatism both; but it's the feel of it she draws on, rubbing the fabric gently between fingertips and over the smoothness of one cheek. She isn't an excitable person most of the time; even here her gratitude and pleasure are hushed things. But while her eyes are useless for seeing they express much and in them her sincerity is plain. "It's lovely, Emily... thank you so much."

Yes, she explains, the differences in flooring - from materials and texture to structural design - is very helpful. A sense of space is important to her: Since she cannot achieve it with sight she uses other means. Besides, she'll go on, it keeps things from getting boring... just as a Sighted person might grow tired of the same curtains or wall decor, she likes to cater to her remaining senses as she can.
The responses are devoid of embarrassment or chagrin: If anything she seems charmed when someone thinks to ask. To learn.

"Yes, please?" Regarding the kettle: Which is used often enough that it sits on a tile holder in the centre of the stove top. "The tea is in the cupboard to the left of the stove. There's a nice Rooibos there if you like or some other selections, too. Not so varied as yours or Ashley's I'm afraid." But just varied enough to have something like rooibos at all.

So they settle into companionable activity: Emily sees to the kettle and the brewing while Israel finishes constructing the second tiramisu after washing her hands thoroughly. Cleanliness is important for any cook, but for a blind one it's even more so -- she often has to use her fingertips to determine placement and boundaries and avoid spills, etcetera. While it goes on she listens... listens and, finally, nods.

"Keeping busy is good... but I hope not so busy you don't have time to think at all." The words are kindly spoken; considerate, not pushy. Little does she know that she'll be having quite an in depth conversation along those lines with Ashley in just a couple of nights. On the difference between keeping busy... and sheer avoidance. Then, "And it is... being kind to me. I'm still recovering as well but... I've had the Blessing of greater peace of mind and refreshed goals in the last few weeks. It's been good for me."

[Emily Littleton] There is a ritual to taking tea, just as there is a ritual to bringing gifts, just as there is a ritual to many of the small social graces that their contemporaries would rather look beyond, or skip over with some ready technological tweet or text or beamed bit of information. Israel, Solomon and Emily are relics each in their own way. The keep traditions that have fallen to the wayside. They force people to remember, to take time, to find the small treasured moments in their time with other people. Emily has not perfected this balance yet, but it easier to feel like herself (in some ways) around the Guardians.

She is ever in the middle, ever Other, even at her most settled and comfortable. Perhaps it isn't a bad thing after all.

There's a graceful thoughtlessness to the movements for setting the kettle to boil, preparing tea to steep. To be in a kitchen is comfortable to her; it is a lot like being Home. They move around each other with a certain awareness and respect for the other's space. They do not need to see to manage this; they do not need to speak. It is a quiet respect and regard for the other that fuels it. They are both thoughtful people.

Emily voice curls into a smile when she answers. It's wreathed with memory and amusement. "I was just telling Molly about red tea a couple weeks ago," she says. It's the sort of conversation that friends manage. It welcomes and invites reply, but does not assume to know overmuch of the other. "Just before she surprised me with a kitten."

"Who has a surprising amount of energy at two and three in the morning," Emily observes, with a growing fondness for her unexpected pet.

There's a shift here, that moment of candor leads to a pivot point that brings them back around to their original topic.

"I'm glad you've been well." There's a little pause here, and Israel can hear the girl's breath presage her next words. "I've purpose again, I mean, beyond studying and school and the Chantry." These are tighter, there's a subtle worry that underscores them. She's told Israel a little of what's happened with Nico, but the months of waiting and wondering are all but impossible to keep from Emily's tone around the more observant mages. "I envy you the peace of mind," she says, lightly enough but with an uncanny honesty.

"Though Ashley did tempt me into a game of football last night. So there's that." A smirk. It's audible in the twist of her tone. "We didn't do too poorly, for all it was pitch dark." She exaggerates a little, but it's not far from the truth. They played more by their magical senses than their native ones last night.

[Israel Cohen] Her laughter is mellow - a balmy thing - when Emily speaks of Molly and surprise pets. "A kitten? Yes, a very surprising amount of energy... then again, you are lucky: She could have given you a ferret like her Neil. They tend to make kittens look like layabouts."

Comfortable is suitable for the atmosphere between them. They are not especially close - perhaps something Israel regrets. Given the Summer and recovery of the Autumn so far, though, these chances for comfortable, informal companionship have been few and far between. Enjoying the company of fellow Magi - the chance to let agreeable acquaintanceship become genuine friendship - is a more recent development that, she Hopes, will continue.

That the conversation shifts into a more somber terrain when Emily speaks of purpose [with worry and the strains of waiting and wondering subtle but present in her tone, her feel] doesn't put a damper on companionship so far as Israel is concerned. While she has more of a sense of humour and love of simple fun than most might accredit her, she is undoubtedly a poignant, empathic woman, used to the merits of deeper levels of conversation. Concern flickers over her features again as she listens then, pausing slightly in dipping the fresh lady's fingers into the amber-glowing rum for bare second before laying out the last layer of them...
...then a twitch of her lips in amusement at the thought of Ashley and Emily playing football [she knows Emily means what Americans call soccer] in the dark. Contented to think that they enjoyed themselves.

"I think peace of mind is like happiness itself: It comes when you are ready to welcome acceptance." The turn of her lips now is sweet even with it's touch of wry humour. "Which is rarely easy to achieve and usually comes with a lot of turbulence along the way." Softer then, "But it'll come to you." Her Faith is her Hope and, like most else, neither are flashy things. It flows around and through and back again from some source within her but with a sense of firm foundation -- no less solid than her male counterparts if less hard-edged than his.

"What new purpose - or drive - have you found, then?"

[Emily Littleton] The young Singer is building up her own surety and firmament. It is solidifying around her, without becoming sediment and stifling. It is a weight and a gravity; it is almost a steadfast and solid foothold. She is more tangible, more real than she was this time last year when she Woke Up. There is Faith to her yet, and from that Faith comes Hope, and from that Hope springs Works because Emily's hands are not idle things. She is not content to res to her laurels. She does not stand by, is not content to merely observe. There is always movement to her, like the soft rustle of feathers in the wind. This movement is why she's happier in Fall and Spring than Summer or Winter; Emily cannot abide waiting.

It is easier to quiet than to keep still.

"Helping Nico," she declares. It will come as no surprise, either, that these words rush into, "And hopefully, in turn, by helping him to also help Owen." It will comes as no surprise, either, that these words do not follow but are implied and hopefully, in turn, by helping him to also help myself.

There is still a fondness to the way she shapes the other Singer's name, but it is now bittersweet. Riddled through with worry, with uncertainty, self-doubt. Emily is still young and, for all the deftness with which she can bend social situations when she wants to, there is a fragility to her relationship with him. An unsettled thing. A thing worn down by the months of waiting, and amplified by the circumstances surrounding his return. Israel will need no magic, no great feats of intuition to know this about the younger mage, who tends to the kettle with a preternatural awareness of the point just before boiling that is best for steeping tea.

"It makes me wish I had studied harder, though I have been busy. And I know, rationally, that its beyond me just now to have been able to help him when I found them on Saturday. And that I shouldn't have, even if I could have, because he's in the hospital and it's dangerous -- it would leave behind too many questions, and records."

There is the weight of memory, too, backing Emily's concern for the other Initiate. There's the empathy borne of similar experience. Standing in Nico's hospital room was the first time she'd walked into an ICU room since she'd spent so many months in one herself. This she does not speak to, will not acknowledge.

"There is always something just beyond my fingertips that seems so important, Israel. People I cannot help, things I cannot avert before they becoming undoings. Nico is like Owen's brother. He's the closest family I think Owen has left. I would do anything for my brother, even though we are not true siblings. I can only imagine he feels the same."

[Israel Cohen] [[paused at the kiddos demanding. :( ]]