[Israel Cohen] A nice, quiet meeting over dinner.
Such was the goal, at the very least.
Today is her day to 'patrol' anyway, so she's been here since the early morning after seeing Ashley off. At some point one of the Twins had come by with assorted grocery items to hand over. The better part of the day had been split between working in the Library [giving a new seeing-aid gadget a thorough breaking in and quietly delighted [thrilled] with the results] and tending to the slow simmering of a classic New England clam chowder; complete with hollowed bread rounds to be served in; the bread leavings toasted in crostini with fontina cheese. Food that seemed appropriate to the burgeoning cool weather and the overcast day.
As the others arrive she's managed to lay out a serving bowl and the bread rounds and plates on the table in the breakfast nook, opting for that rather than the dining room. Dressed cozily in a dove grey cashmere jumper and simple boot cut jeans; the length of her hair swept up into a ponytail; the sound of her guide cane occasionally resonating as she moves back and forth from counter to table; finding things with [very clean] hands, sensitive fingertips; a steel-trap of a mind when it comes to memory. And otherwise biding her time for their arrival; her mood.... patient. Collected. And yet, somewhere, slightly withdrawn. Like the pleasantness of a balmy day seen through a steamy mirror.
--------------
[[Given you are 'on guard' today hopefully this works... Per+Aware.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] They rarely convene without foodstuffs; what was a meeting without baklava, after all? Emily comes bearing an assortment of small formed treats. Baklava, yes, for Israel. Some spiced pumpkin bread as well. A trio of tiny fruit tartlets, formed in nothing bigger than brioche pans, and decorated by a careful hand. This whisper of domesticity does not come in a pale pink box, this time. Instead it's offered up in a Tupperware container; home-made: heartfelt.
She is better now than whenever they last met. She can't remember seeing Wharil between this meeting and the last, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened. He has a particular slippery quality, a sort of water-through-fingertips quality to memory. It had taken months before she learned and remembered his name.
She arrives on quiet footfalls, with little more than her paired knocks at the front door to warn Israel of her approach. Emily wears a soft, cowl-necked cream sweater and pair of dark jeans. Her messenger bag is once again a faithful companion, now that her body will bear its weight without complaint. Her hair is bound back in a lazy spiral that only appears to threaten to come undone, but in reality is secured by several tiny clips. Safe.
The Singer is all smiles for Israel, warm ones at that. There's a note of weariness underlaying that, but who amongst them is not tired after this Summer's business? Who amongst them is not grateful for the apparent Autumnal reprieve?
"I brought sweets," she tells Israel, after hellos have passed. At some point they lightly touch hands, a polite hello, something more friendly than words alone. Emily offers to help with whatever remains to be done, and when it is time to gather at the table, she is quick to make sure there is tea for the table.
There are hellos for Wharil, too, of course. They are only slightly cooler, more withdrawn. A little more cautious, but no less well-meaning.
[Wharil Choc] Black coat. Pure white shirt. He's Albireo to those that know this. And those that know this know it means he's quite adept at establishing a sort of signature being. A special understanding of the minds of men, of crowds, of spirits, of the earth. He knows which strings to pull. He knows to shape belief.
This isn't that Wharil Choc. The black coat and slacks are present, but only because its almost all he has. The shirt has been replaced by a grey, faded tee. His hair was once kept neat in a ponytail. Days ago, probably. Now it is determined to escape. The only white on him is the bandage that he removes from his left hand as he enters into the Chantry. He tosses them on the first side table he sees, eying his open palm when he does. In his other hand is a bottle of wine.
The wine sets down heavily on the table, and Wharil sets himself down heavily in a seat among the two others. Emily gets a soft smile. Isreal gets what's left of it, along with a gentle "Hello, folks. Something smells good."
[Emily Littleton] [Aware/Empathy]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Israel Cohen] Yes, there is warmth and fondness in her greeting for Emily; but also with that something of steam, of fog. Barely there; easily missed. And it could be anything really: They are all tired; they are all recovering and coping. Perhaps the vagueness of distance and withdrawal is a byproduct of her own means of recovery. And if she seems a touch thinner; a little tired [does it whisper, though? that for someone with her skills in both Mind and Life to show even small signs of fatigue and strain is suggestive in and of itself?] ... well, again: Who isn't?
Whatever aid is offered is welcome [she does not suffer from extreme levels of pride and, more so, knows Emily's motives are not born of the urge to help out the 'disabled']; appreciative sounds over the scents of desserts; a quiet but touched smile at the presence of baklava.
Then Wharil is there and that makes the trio. "Clam chowder and Emily's brought some delightful desserts..." the wail of the tea-kettle; the scent of loose leaf steeping. "And tea as well. C'mon... let's settle down and get ourselves served."
"How have you been, Wharil?" This she asks specifically because she's not run across the man since the briefest encounter at Fiddler's over a month ago. No move to play proper hostess here: This isn't her home, it belongs to all of them and so moving on that degree of comfort [or in the hopes of bolstering it] she finds her seat casually [with touch and memory and other such methods of compensation.], hoping they'll do the same. The guide cane is settled against the wall/window nearby when she hears the others seated, sure it won't be in their way.
[Wharil Choc] [Charisma + Subterfuge to resist]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] They are all worse for wear in their own ways. Each Emissary has suffered their own losses this summer; each has come to aid the common good. There are no idle hands here, no blind eyes (metaphorically) turned toward the events of the Summer. Emily carries her torments a little deeper, but she carries them all the same.
She glances over to Wharil when he enters, notes the deviation from his normal attire, she notes the heavy way he settles the wine bottle on the table but finds nothing overtly remiss there. Perhaps because the force of Wharil's personality carries him, even in times of personal duress. Perhaps because Emily is just not quite skilled enough to read the man who reads them all like pages of the self-same book.
"I hear there will be more of us, soon," she says, slipping into her chair and wresting a notebook free of her messenger bag. This book sits, unopened, beside her at the table. "Molly Quincannon and Natyana are forming a cabal."
And so it begins. A little bit of information passed across the dinner table, an opening hor dourves before the main course begins. Her voice is neutral, casual; she would like to think they can behave as friends for this evening, or if not friends then perhaps as colleagues.
"I hope you've both been well," she says, and here there is no indication that she assumes they would be otherwise. There's a warmth, genuine compassion, but it does not push, does not pry.
[Wharil Choc] "Heh. I guess I'm doing as well as any of us. And badly in need of a vacation. How about you guys? Sorry. I've sort of been out of the loop recently."
Wharil finds his seat easily enough. The overcoat gets taken off of and draped over the back of the chair before he sits down. Again, he glances at that hand. Did it hurt? Maybe not. Perhaps it simply had a way of making itself known every so often.
He makes a pleased, surprised sound. "Those two? Wonderful. Mm...anyone else with them?"
[Israel Cohen] "Did they?" A conversational tone, this. Spoken in the hushed tones common to the small woman; slightly closer to husky than merely breathy these days, but still of a mezzo-soprano timbre; light. "Are they seeking full membership here?" That's the heart of the matter, really -- then, more musing. "I know Molly well." Bonded in a small manner; a sense of responsibility to the note of affection mingled with deeper resonances of concern and regard. "I've never actually spoken to Natyana."
To Wharil, [a quirk of an eyebrow; passing curiosity - what has he been up to? but she is polite; she does not press.] "Recovering each in our own right, I guess." Touch of a smile; just the uplift of one corner of well-shaped lips. Unseeing eyes that settle ahead, unfocused, on nothing -- it's her ears that incline in the direction of whomever is speaking, expressing her attentiveness. "I'm not sure if you'd heard, but Emily here is to be congratulated," Warmth; respect. Lacing of pride. Good-will. "She's now an Initiate of the Celestial Chorus."
[Emily Littleton] As the questions are traded like trinkets across the table, Emily pours tea for the three of them. She begins with Israel, then Wharil, and lastly herself. There is a practiced ritual to this, and the cant of her hands and wrists is all perfectly placed. There is a whisper of other places, other lives. Wharil might pick up on the borrowed grace more than Israel, but doubtless they've both noticed by now that taking tea together means more to her than simply sharing beverages.
"Ah, I believe they were also considering Thomas Taylor, and possibly Henri Bean," though Emily seems uncertain on the last. Molly had spoken so quickly, and rambled through so much it was hard to keep it all straight in some ways. "I only just heard yesterday, but Molly was speaking with Ashley at the time. They are seeking membership," this directed a bit more toward Israel as it was her question. "I told her that I would pass along their news to you two, and invite her to the next meeting as she will be their Emissary. I will also add them to the sentry rotation -- a few more hands there wouldn't hurt."
There is, time and again, a curious look passed Wharil's way. It doesn't linger. She doesn't pry. But she clearly wonders.
And then Israel offers up her news and Emily's smile brightens. There's also a faintly pink color to her nose, cheeks and even the tips of her ears. It's a pleasant thing, this blush; pleased. "It's true," she confirms, her voice warmer, almost gleeful still at this new shift in her life. It is the bright point of her Summer; there is hope under all of that suffering and beyond all of those trials. "And thank you."
[Wharil Choc] "Thomas. Hm. Is it close enough to a compliment if I say I'm a bit jealous about that? Between us friends The Society has holes, one of which Thomas would have been perfect to fill."
He turns to Emily, and there's the faintest hesitation before he smiles. A moment during which he simply looks at her. Sees her anew now. The Chorus. Yes. Not the Chakravanti. Not even the Lakhsmists. There's no innocence within any of their ranks. No mercy. Nowehere to call home.
"Congratulations he says with a smile, and slight rise to his posture to boot.
Fingers drum the table.
"I'll get us some bowls." he says. and does so.
[Israel Cohen] "Thomas?" Curiosity again; a smile now that suggests a memory - one she finds both softly amusing and perplexing all in one. She shakes her head; the length of dark hair pulled into a tail shifting along her back, stark over the cool tones of her sweater. "I don't know if they'll manage to snag Tom; not if they plan on being tied to the Chantry. He refuses to enter it; absolutely. He wouldn't even go past the fence when I spoke to him a week or so ago."
Wharil speaks of the Society's holes and compassion and sympathy [sadness. regret.] pass over her features; not overwhelmingly so but it's there. Her eyes do nothing for her, but they still reveal much when she isn't forcing herself to be guarded. "Daiyu's loss was a blow to us all." But not more, it says, to his cabal - especially Ashley. Then, "I'd heard that there was news of Gregor, though -- my knowledge of matters of Spirit and Shadow are minimal, but if there's anyway Solomon could help in finding him a way back into the here and now, please... let us know." The offer isn't pressing or prodding but it's genuine.
[Wharil Choc] There's a rhythm to the way he goes through the cabinets, the flat ware, the silverware.
Israel mentions Li Daiyu and that rhythm stumbles. Stops even. After he's set them for the other two Wharil places a spoon carefully on the table next his bowl. He moves it, sets it carefully further away. He moves it, sets it carefully closer.
"We...appreciate that."
He moves the spoon. Places it carefully further from his bowl. He moves the spoon....
[Emily Littleton] Wharil speaks of holes, and the whole table seems plunged into a quiet moment of remembrance. Emily glances down; there's a solemnity to her features: respect. The three of them share that quiet, the moment between Wharil's mention of the thing and Israel's reply.
Wharil's stumble.
Emily swallows, and takes a long moment to look up from the table. When she does, it's to glance toward the Albireo (another word she does not know).
"I wish I'd had a chance to know her better," is what Emily offers. She knows the proper words, the cadence of them, but they always sound hollow to her between people who know. There's an underscoring to this, a deeper regret. I wish I had been able to do more.
The Singer takes a small breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales. "I... regret to inform you both that things are a little empty on our side of the table these days. Owen Page is elsewhere, for an indefinite period of time, and Riley Poole and Alex Turnquist have moved on from Chicago."
This is not on par with Daiyu's death in anyway. It's... simply the next hole to mention, as they begin talking about losses both great and small.
[Wharil Choc] He nods to Emily, but does so before she even finishes her words. Nods continuously from the moment she starts speaking until she's ended. Yes, you're sorry. Yes, you regret. Yes, you grieve.
But what did grief ever get anyone.
"Yeah. Alex. He's...He'll be in good hands, i think. He's on the radar now." The slightest of smirks at that, as he moves his spoon, sets it down, strokes the handle, and moves on to his tea, pulling it closer. "And in good health. I've also noticed a new face or two?"
[Israel Cohen] Losses. Losses that are not all deaths, but losses all the same. Holes and emptiness, each leaving their mark in their own way. Solemnity [and more descends. Compassion and Hope hum in the woman, hum beneath greater levels of Sorrow; her Resonance is strong, the sort Sleepers pick up on more; respond to, for better or for worse. It spike now -- she breathes out slowly; it dampens.
"Ashton is also away, indefinitely. Nathan joined up with us during recent events with the Labyrinth and what came before it." Which explains why Nathan isn't here: Now a member of the Guardians, Israel is here to speak for him as well.
As for new faces... she shakes her head, a low sound; quiet humour. "I'm not the right person to ask, really. I'm playing catch up after two months lying low when we weren't--"
The words cut off. She waves a hand in the air, dismissal in darkness. When they weren't off doing what needed doing.
It's a common thread here, with all of them.
"It's because of Ashton's absence and the attack on the Chantry that I figured we needed to meet up. We're without a Chief Sentinel again. And now wouldn't be a good time to risk anyone else getting to strike out at the Node," Licking her lips -- remembering herself and patting her lips with a napkin, then laid back on her lap. "It is diminished. Catherine remains present, but in something like a state of Slumber and the Node itself isn't yielding as much Quintessence as it used to. Those who attacked brought Spiritual support as well: The Guardian spirit is also in Slumber after its struggle. Solomon has made temporary arrangements with a servant of one of the High Umbrood for the time being so that there's still some level of protection on that side."
[Emily Littleton] The girl reaches out to toy with the rim of her mug, to run the pads of long fingers around its mouth and feel the warmth of the stoneware seep into her bones. There is a pensive expression that precedes her comments; everything they have to share these days is heavy. Perhaps it is always that way, and Emily's optimism and hope for something brighter is misplaced.
"What Catherine acheived was --" A pause here, words considered carefully until she settles on "-- miraculous. The four of us were unable to hold them to the perimeter. If she hadn't lashed out like that, I doubt we would have held the Chantry at all."
Emily does not look up or over to either of the other Emissaries just now. Instead her hands retreat from the plane of the table; are sequestered in her lap.
"The only other nomination for Sentinel was Mr. Ward." Not Father Ward; Emily has learned of his change in title. "Would he be willing to step forward? Are there others you two might have in mind? Sadly, our cabal does not have the experience to offer up anyone to an Executive position. I hope you don't feel that we fail to pull our weight."
[Wharil Choc] Wharil gives only a frank blink. Things were simply the way things were.
"No objection." Wharil says. He tries not to pay as much attention to his spoon as he had been, aware that it wasn't exactly a natural thing."
"Given that, as you mentioned, our previous nominations were between the two, and no other suitable candidate has been presently identified." The technical sort of speech comes out slightly forced, and finally he sighs, giving it up.
"Yeah. No problem. Not from this end."
[Israel Cohen] There's a slight chagrin; an expression of guilt. Remorse. But also simply chastizing herself for her choice of words after Emily's response. And her own comes quietly, but firmly. "That you four accomplished what you did saved the Chantry as well as Catherine's own defenses. I doubt anyone could have done better." It isn't lip service; it's belief firm enough to becoming knowing. Knowledge.
She nods, slowly, after Emily's mention of Solomon and Wharil's claim of no objection. "He'll step forward."
Then, to the Chorister's comment regarding her own cabal - a glimmer of surprise; followed quickly but another firm shake of her head, ear once more inclining towards Emily. "I certainly don't feel that way. I don't know Mr. Carmichael very well, but I know you and all the effort you give; the great strides you've made. What more could anyone possibly ask for? No. Everyone pulls their weight as they can and you manage more than many."
Thinking better of another spoonful of the chowder she sighs then, leaning back. "This isn't easy or fun, any of it. Small wonder so many others want nothing to do with a Chantry. But... I still think it's worth it... nevermind the setbacks. The demands and.. ugh... considerations of politics and goals that always sneak in when otherwise, god willing, we might just all be friends..."
Oh, for a life where even things like friendship where simple and open and easy.
Does that life actually exist?
She likes to believe so.
"What I mean to say is.... " Rubbing a hand over her face; it's rare that Israel doesn't speak well - eloquently even. Now tiredness surfaces; weighs. "Oh, I don't know... maybe it would be a good time for -- was it a wine bottle I heard you set down, Wharil?"
[Emily Littleton] She hadn't taken any slight in their words, not really. Things were what they were; what had happened had happened. Emily understands that. She carries a deep sense of remorse for all of the things she hadn't thought to do fast enough, or all the people she didn't call on that August day, or that she was simply so much less prepared than the rest of them. She was always so much less prepared, but at least the Singer was working on that actively. Progress. Slow but steady.
When Israel stumbles over her words, Emily's voice reaches out to cover the breach. "It's okay," she says, softly. No offense taken. "I think we all wish, at times, that we could do or be more. Even when it isn't possible..."
A glance to Wharil then. To the wine. Yes, the wine would be welcome just now.
"I doubt any of us would be here on our Sunday evening if we didn't think it was worthwhile. And I'm not mentioning this as an official suggestion, but ... I've been wondering if we didn't, maybe, set ourselves too big a plan. We've seven full members -- nine or ten with Molly's cabal -- and three Executives. Three or Four Emissaries. Trying to assign unique people to all of these positions -- almost everyone will have to pro-active in ways that some people just aren't ready to be."
She's thinking, perhaps, of her own cabalmate. The reclusive Mr. Carmichael. The geek who shuns Chantry anything-beyond-rounds.
"Do you think, maybe, until the Chantry grows into its own a little more, we might consider spreading around the Executive responsibilities to a few more positions and only holding the Council meetings when we've more than a few cabals to represent? If we had, say, five Executives and no council, it might be easier to get things done."
She's rambling, a little. It's not a perfectly-formed question. It's more a recognition that they're all spread a little thin. It's an Architect wondering at the foundation they're building, and hoping it's sound enough to hold in the lean times and the abundant ones.
[Wharil Choc] "Pinot Noir." Wharil says in confirmation, and the next sound heard is him sliding the bottle further along the table toward the center of them.
"Listen. I like you guys. But keep in mind...my loyalty isn't aimed at you. That is, not at the Guardians or the House. My loyalty is reserved for the Society of the Nameless Crow. And the Society, by right of its charter document, is loyal to the Chantry; separate from the cabals within, even if not completely independent from them.
"What i mean by that is...We're all...hurting. And we'd like it if there were some kind of easy resolution to it all. There isn't. But the chantry must go on."
"Don't...don't get caught too deeply in the emotional investment."
Wharil moves the spoon. His face is stern. Fixed. Impassive.
[Israel Cohen] Truth be told Wharil isn't the first person in the last few weeks to point out Israel's tendency towards [overabundance of] emotional attachments and bonds to most anything she does. Perhaps that's just as well, because she meets the words without wince or ire; instead she nods, slowly. Not completely in agreement [the 'charter' of the Society was not something she completely understood -- a cabal built so much like a business arrangement] but with a decent level of understanding. "That's what I was trying to say, with far less success," the hint of a smile; passing. Tired. "For all of what's happened and everything else... I still want to see this chantry thrive. While the Guardians have goals outside of the Chantry itself, we are still invested here. Our desire to see the Chantry grow into what we all first discussed hasn't diminished."
The wine bottle was bushed forward.. she tracks it by sound, by the slight vibration along the wooden table. Reaches out for it - tentative and careful at first until her fingertips brush it - and she can pour herself a glass. Well, half a glass. Not knowing there was going to be wine, she's set out water glasses. A finger hooked over the rim of the glass is a fail-safe to make sure she doesn't over-fill. Then the bottle is set down and pushed forward again for anyone else to take...
...here's hoping she isn't drinking alone, but if she is she can claim she didn't know otherwise, right?
Then, to Emily, who is not at all forgotten over overlooked - she responded to Wharil first to clarify her position. "Five Executives? What would the other two positions be?" Curious and yet... musing. "I'm not sure. True, there aren't many of us. And our goals are... bold and long-reaching. But we all knew it would happen slowly. Willworkers -- we tend to set our sights high, yes? But I still believe in the idea of a Council. Even if small right now; even if it seems needless.. it sets up the precedent from the beginning that, even if in the form of a Republic, many will be able to have their voices heard, not just a few chosen. That may seem.. very redundant right now. But it may not be... a month from now... two years... who knows?"
Sipping the wine -- she licks her lips, "Good taste, Wharil. L'chaim." raised glass in his direction [To Life, good sir.].
[Emily Littleton] If something about what Wharil said upset her, Emily played it off quietly. She didn't usually tip her hand, or show her agitation. There had been days, yes, when she was worn thin and even quick to ire. But this isn't an anger, anyhow. It's a sad echo.
Wharil is telling them to not get attached. The corner of Emily's smile shifts, twists wryly (ruefully) in a remembered way. She reaches for the wine bottle once Israel has poured and serves herself a modest portion. The Disciple will not have to drink alone; the Initiate should not be drinking at all.
Her glass is raised. "To colleagues, then," she says; no rancor, if perhaps a little regret, "Who are frank about their loyalties."
"I still believe in the Council as well, Israel. I just worry that we tear ourselves thin. Perhaps Molly and the others will help with that." She does not say: It has been a difficult Summer. She does not say: The weight and worry of the others who dissent wears us down, wears us thin. There is so much here that Emily does not say; there is a purpose to that.
"She wants to put up a camera array. I've some notes about it; she left them for me yesterday. Would that matter be ours to decide, or the Dean and Sentinel's? I've thoughts on the matter, but if it's going back to Ashley and Solomon to decide, I think I'd rather let them debate it."
[Israel Cohen] [[I shall roll that Empathy for the hell of it! +2 Diff, blind. -1 Acute sense.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1
[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge: I don't feel like sharing with the class tonight.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Wharil Choc] That was all the invitation he needed. The wine was poured in Israel's glass, and Wharil pours himself a glass. Not a half glass. A glass.
"People are stupid." he says, continuing that frankness. "Individuals are smart. Wise. A large group though? A group moving in five different directions? I'd advise against providing that much potential for chaos."
And then he drinks from his glass. He raises it, of course. Slightly. Quickly. Cutting to the chase of consuming. And then he sets down his glass heavily again.
"Though...that may not matter in the future. I do have some hope. Some expectation for the future. When the cabals are restored, and possibly reinforced; then the political structure of the Chantry will have proven itself. Chicago will have a self sustaining centre and sanctuary for all its awakened. And the purpose of the Society of the Nameless Crow will have been achieved.
"At which point...we may very well dissolve...and exist only in stories that people tell when they talk about its beginning."
He takes another large gulp of the wine, and for a moment remains contemplatively silent.
"Like all the things we've lost."
[Israel Cohen] "I think I understand your concern," to Emily, that. Indeed, if the three here are any indication of the moods of the greater whole of the Traditionalists in the city, surely worn thin seems the least of it. "It's certainly valid. But... we're strong. Even thin as we are, recovering though we are... I fully believe that we'd rally as strongly as we could to meet any new threat. Let alone to keep our dreams alive: And a dream of a fully functioning Chantry - a beacon and sanctuary - is, like we've said.. something we still believe in or we wouldn't be here."
Another sip of the wine, longer this time; blind eyes closing. Savouring. Absorbing: What she feels behind what Emily says and the tenure of what goes unsaid. The silences Wharil leaves; the emphasis on certain words. Setting her glass down again, her free hand plays with the napkin on her lap; her words possessed of quiet conviction.
Faith.
"I've seen individuals enact horrors. I've seen a crowd move to to save a drowning child. I've seen hope bolstered in the worst of circumstances and despair fell even the mightiest of souls. People are people. For all of our mistakes and all of our vices; I see at the core of most a desire for good; the capability for great things."
Her lower lips snagged briefly; released, "What is a Chantry but the ideals and dreams and blood and sweat and pain and joy that its Magi pour into it? Tear down these walls and we could rebuild them. No... belief is always a choice and I believe in this place because I believe in us. And here we are: Not giving up. Not running away. Not calling it a lost cause. That is all the hope I need. And all the reason, for me, to go on believing in us."
Her lips quirk, a small attempt at levity after the hushed, somber [hope[filled]ful] words. "Good news is, last I checked belief and will just so happen to shape Reality." And she winks... or she would.
Except she never did master the art of winking even when she could see, so, really, it's a lopsided sort of blink-squint thing and it's aimed at... well... somewhere between Emily and Wharil's voices.
"As for the camera's... yes, I think that would be for the Sentinel to decide on and certainly with some conversation with the Dean about it. I'll let Solomon know. Do you have copies of the notes Molly gave you? I can pass it along to him."
[Israel Cohen] [[it's getting late for all of us and I know Dre has work and Syll has flying to do in the morning... you guys want to wrap with your lasts posts? (so final post is wharil?)]]
[Emily Littleton] ((Dre's AFK moving, at the moment. I can write us a wrap. If he's got more to add, maybe he can FPM everyone?))
[Israel Cohen] [[Works for me!]]
[Emily Littleton] Given the tenor of their meeting thus far, it is likely a quiet and thoughtful meal. At some point conversation falls away, that they might eat and sip their wine. At some point later, before they part ways, Emily is certain to hand over Molly's notes for Israel to ferry to Solomon. She spearheads the dishwashing, perhaps even starts in on it to allow the Disciples more time to talk.
There's a fellowship to this meeting that was absent at the first, but for Emily it is struck through and marred by the pragmatism that Wharil has brought. So she keeps her hands busy, not idle, and her step light, and her presence a little shaded or dimmer than it had been earlier on in the evening.
Surely they are all just tired. Just sadden. Rebuilding. Rekindling. Getting ready to rise up and meet the next big challenge head on and forcefully.
But all of that is later. Just now, on the cusp of such Hope and such Sadness, Emily has little more to offer the table than what Israel has offered. She smiles in the wake of that blink-squint and says:
"We're either dedicated or mad," a light jest. "To put so much effort into a thing, regardless of the costs. I'd like to think it's the first." That their beliefs, however different and however uprooted or shaken at times, laid along the same premises, followed along the same unwavering Faiths.
No comments:
Post a Comment