[Emily Littleton] He's in her space; he's jovial, laughing -- this is one of the things Emily has to offer the world, an unexpected thing, a quiet grace. Thomas isn't the first who has been honestly something around her, it's not the first unusual friendship she's cast, however temporarily, in the Chicago sands. There's something genuine in the way he's laughing; there was something honest in Owen's smile; there was something less icy in Jarod's expression.
Maybe it's that none of them, even Emily herself, expect this to be more than a passing moment. It's honest, but there's no expectations. So when he nudges her shoulder, she grins back, and they're off to find a pint without it being more than that. Or less than that.
Impermanence makes each moment all the brighter, all the more precious.
There are a couple pubs on campus but Emily shies away from them, explaining that they'd get accosted by her students -- or worse, classmates. And there's a sorcer-owned Irish pub on the Mile; not bad, but a little stuffier than the HD&Q, which itself isn't that far away. Or there's a couple lower end places, sports bars with ratty cushions in their booths and scraped seats to their barstools. Emily doesn't seem to mind these or the HD&Q. It's really all the same to her. Whatever Tom prefers will set the tone for their afternoon.
"I see there's no love lost between you and Info," she observes, feigning some sort of surprise at this as they move through the sea of people and into less frequented thoroughfares.
"To be fair, if it wouldn't just bollocks everything up, I'd not talk to her much either. Anytime Chuck comes up she gets defensive as all hell. Any time politics come up, I start grinding m' teeth." Uhoh, his cadence is bleeding over to hers. Soon she'll be dropping letters all over the place. "It's not enough to be Awake, 't seems. Have to be pleasant to everyone as well."
Exasperated sigh. Exaggerated eyeroll. Emily wasn't the type to be pleasant when it didn't directly suit her. Well, she was, but only because she understood the long-game usually revolved around who you hadn't pissed off yet. Or recently. Or sometimes even just today. She tried to keep that list as long as possible, just in case.
[Emily Littleton] ((edit: a *sorcerer-owned Irish pub))
[Thomas Taylor] He bounces back from her shoulder as he grins to her. “Pet wats that...” He brushes some of her hair behind her ear and pulls from it a cigarette. He smirks as he puts it in his mouth, she might notice the make says ‘Black’ just before the tab end as he places it in his lips. Thomas was an easy going guy, it was hard to be black listed but when you were [b]you[/i] really were, the hollow one had a dark side, it was the most hollow part of his soul. None of that was present now, indeed Emily had a grace to her, unrelenting reverence would make it hard for anyone not to warm to her.
Thomas is happy walking, seems to be letting Emily dictate there route it was hard to get Thomas to seemingly commit to anything, but that was the wanderer in him, anything he might suggest would be tying himself down.
She mentions Molly and he brings out an old brass zippo, it look very old and very worn but there was reverence to it, it belonged in his hand it did not look out of place and he moved it like his own flesh. The cigarette is lit and it is placed back in his pocket as the other hand comes up to rub at his eyes with the questions a groan from his lips.
“Wen I met ‘er first she seemed sound, but as I kept runnin’ into shit with ‘er I realised ‘ow bloody curious she was an ‘ow she ‘ad a soddin’ death wish...I get the heroic ideal pet, but sum lemons you look at the big picture an go thats the pete idea. Then she get ‘er hat up ‘cos your not doin’ wat she asked, an goes out an does it on ‘er todd. She thinks she can take on the world an she cannot. Info goes in ‘er and you ‘ave to crowbar it hat out.” A deep sigh, but it was an echo of the emotion he has had over it, the book was closing for Thomas he had already moved on. “I ain’t got lemon for the angst crap, I ain’t got lemon for that selfish crap, an she can take that holier than you attitude an stick it up ‘er cunt.” He looks over to Emily “’cos, am robin to ‘er face, but I’ve just taken to stayin’ out the way, if I need sumthin to be said to ‘er or action take ‘ave started pullin’ strings ergo no meetin’s.” Theres a snort as he stops smoke blown upwards the cigarette wandering around his mouth like an old friend. “I’ll say ‘gain, cannot believe Chuck jumped from you to info...but then again, takes all lemons, never know might be star crossed lovers a few years down the line.”
“We start drinkin’ now, we can do a gar an make it to this sorc gaff you got yer Strawberry, an old skool crawl.” With letting her speak he drags her into one of the ratty sports bars. It was a dive but before she can protest he has her dumped in a booth smuggled away in the corner and is at the bar ordering them drinks, in record time he is back with two pints of larger and two shots of black sambuca.
[Thomas Taylor] ((you))
[Emily Littleton] She's a diplomat's daughter, so Thomas might expect all manner of complaints about a seedy dive bar. She's also a girl who made a teenager career of misbehavior, so there's a part of her that isn't all that unfamiliar with these spaces. Except that everyone here spoke English -- not Queen's own, but close enough -- and not some Eastern European language with its grating consonant and slip-sounded vowels. Or Chinese, where the sing-song pitch was even more important that word itself at times.
Emily jams her messenger bag between herself and the wall of the booth. If there's a universal rule about dive bars, it's to keep your body between everyone else and the things you'd like to remain yours. When he drops back into the booth with their drinks, she's still smiling. She seems comfortable, both with him and with this pub crawl they were beginning. No complaints, no arguments.
"Cheers." For the drinks; for the company. There's the slip-shaped smirk, still riding up one side of her mouth more than the other. "But before you give him too hard a time, the split with chuck was mutual. I even brought it up. It's not so much a trade, this thing with Molly, as it is the next chapter."
And it was not Emily's fault that the next chapter's heroine was the Cultist. She'd not suggested or encouraged that behavior.
"I just hope he's happy. Can't say I like her my-way-or-the-highway spiel; or the need to push every button in Creation. It makes me nervous, having a Cabalmate tied to her antics, and she doesn't seem to see how her actions affect everyone else. Things last summer might not have gotten so hot so fast if she'd not gone snooping about without backup. For all she talks about communication being paramount, it seems to only apply to raw data. Not coordination or cooperation -- which are the bigger purposes."
Emily shrugs.
"If you ever do want representation in the meetings, let me know. I'm happy to bring your concerns forward."
[Thomas Taylor] He nudges the sambuca forward first as he holds his and listens to her speak, he had no idea she was a diplomats daughter they have not known each other long enough to have explorered pasts but as for the misbehaviour if he picked up anything of her banter with Catman it seemed she could find it, and after all he commented on her being a ‘germans full’ for a reason.
He notes the bag jamming, a wise move but if anything was to happen you could not be in better hands than Thomas, he fought like he lived, loud fast and in your face. Skills he did not like to show in front of potential friends it really seemed to sour then when you realised your sat across from a man that had the potential to go dark side unleash the inner hooligan and start breaking peoples faces....anyway moving on.
“Cheers pet.” He taps her sambuca with his and downs it, cigarette held in his fingers as he slams the glass down and his head twitches to the left with a cringe. “Tidy...” In a slightly croaky voice as he swallows nothing but air then places the cigarette back in his lips.
As for Chuck and Molly he only has to say. “If I was Chuck I’d ‘ave skipped to the end, to decide if it was worth goin through with it...” Theres a moment pause as his face becomes blank when she speaks of a joint separation, of the next chapter “I ‘ope they make it.” A very simple statement, but yet full of hidden promise and passion all captured in what are 4 very simple words. The eternal romantic was Thomas, then again weren’t all Hollow Ones.
When she continues his nods in agreement, hands raising with the words of ‘highway’ and ‘communication’. Then she talks about politics and Thomas just blinks as the smoke seems to settle around his face for a moment so Emily can only really see the right hand side, his eyes looked focused his lips taunt as if time had caught up again the smoke suddenly drifts upwards and just wanders away. “’pprecatie the offer but no need pet, ain’t got nuthin’ to do with the clubhouse, not gonna go in it, not gonna join it, an...” He holds out a hand as a peace offering first “...an if you folks at the round table wanna cum an tell me wat an ‘ow I sud be doin’ it, then we can wait for that day to ‘appen. I spoke to Ash ‘bout this, I ain’t ‘ere to screw the pooch...” He grins, was that an Americanism he just used...oh yes the cockney is learning
[Emily Littleton] Thomas's inner hooligan wouldn't scare Emily half as much as he might expect. Considering the young man she was pining after had punched someone to death at their ill-fated first meeting, and that she herself was becoming quite a lethal force to be reckoned with given a firearm and a little time to throw together a quick rote.
Magi were rarely just what they seemed on the outside. Sometimes it was hard to reconcile who they'd been with what they were becoming, or what the believed with the things they had to do. The worlds they had to end to keep on building their own.
He's not here to screw the pooch.
"I never said you were," she replies, then knocks back her Sambuca with surprisingly practiced ease. No, that practice doesn't keep her from pulling a bit of a face herself -- but not much of one. Or from exhaling slowly through her mouth, to keep the burn of it off her nose.
"And I know you don't need it, now, but if you ever do the offer stands. You're not affiliated; Kage isn't either. Catman isn't." Oh, there's wickedness in how that nickname trips off her tongue. Playful and horrible wickedness. Like it would be used to no good end, no good end at all, but the whip-thin and often smirking Singer across the table from him. Like it was a dangerous thing, a sharp blade (cuts both ways), ribbon-thin and agile he'd armed her with. "Some of the more level heads in the city stand apart. Makes you wonder about the rest of us."
Quirked eyebrow. Tweak of the smile. Lift of her lager. Pull.
"I don't care what you do or how you do it, save as your not stirring pot just to kick up trouble. And you don't, from what I can tell. We've no quarrel." She motions between the two of them, conspiratorially. There's an easy warmth to Emily, away from the stuff-shirted-ness of the House, or the meetings, or some of her other friendships. It borrows from his, builds on it, reflects. She used to be just that: a mirror, a thing reflected, but now there's a warmth and a grace all her own to offer back. Candescing more than just luminous.
They've no quarrel... for now.
[Thomas Taylor] He states it as if he has to a motion to it as if he has been asked it a thousand times ’you here to cause trouble...’, as if when he wanders into town they try and lynch him. Called the Hollow Plague by the Potters, known as the Wandering Magician to the Hollow Ones. Each a title something he has taken and added to his own, he was not even a Taylor anymore not that anyone actually knew his last name, in this place he had only ever said Thomas, Tom or Tommy...or Superman if you include Seer.
There a naughty smirk as she says Catman, he had not armed anyone he just calls folks by what seems to suit them and it carries on “Grimm is sound, me an ‘er ‘ad a run in with sum spooks, was pretty ‘airy.” Still he was not sure if he settled on Grimm or Lewis, she was a riddle was Kage he was trying both on. She mentions about the level headed ones standing apart and there is a flicker of his eyes as the smoke is exhaled slowly pondering if that was a casual mention or a hidden potential compliment.
She takes a pull as his gulp drains a quarter of it, if Emily thought this was going to be a causal drinking session she had best get her game on. Thomas had met someone from the motherland he expected them to keep up. “Fair play pet, I’ll bear it in mind an no quarrel pet, wat ‘appened in the past stays there, we ‘ad an issue it’s over, captain closed.” His hand comes up and takes the cigarette from his lips as his eyes wander around past Emily before focusing back on her, his eyes look intense then, like they in and of themselves could consume her.
“So pet, last lemon we met yer popeless an now yer a singer, ‘ows that workin’ out for ya?” A very open question, and one that could be answered even in a bar with careful wording. There was a hidden charm to Thomas, yes he was brash, loud and obvious but he carried a charming honestly if not more than a touch blunt. Here and there Emily was met with a cheeky glance, a charming wink and a knowing smile and he always seemed open with conversation. He wandered from topic to topic consuming what was offered. The banter with Emily, there was a warmth to it, a cheekiness that he played on.
[Emily Littleton] He downs a fourth of his pint in one go. Ah, she sees how it's going to be. Most days Emily would just politely let herself lag behind in this game; she's not out to get pissed anymore. Not usually. She'd been on better behavior since she moved to Chicago, on a whole. There'd been moments (months), but she'd been growing out of it.
Given everyone who'd left of late? Everyone who'd come waltzing back? Emily wasn't feeling particularly well-mannered. And getting shit-faced with a fellow ex-Pat, all cheeky and chummy like? It would probably do her more good than ill. At least it'd be some sodding release. At least it wasn't likely to lead to more regrets than one hell of a hangover, and she could manage those better than most these days.
Emily drains a third of her pint to put her back in lock-step with Thomas's next pull.
"It's working well," she says, with a bit of a shrug. There's more to it, of course. She glances aside for a moment, before regrouping and answering a bit more fully. "It's been a long time coming. Owen and I started talking about it in, what? God, back in early March. Half a year." She shakes her head a little. There's a rueful tinge to her smile at the mention of the absent Singer.
"Doesn't change much, 'cept that I can officially say I Sing now. Rather than holding m'self apart until the redtape settled. Isn't something I talk about much, either. What jersey you wear doesn't say shite about your skills on the pitch, right? Everyone has to make their own name, their own way, despite or regardless of their Tradition, in my book."
She's saying, of course, that joining up with the Chorus hadn't changed how she felt about the Orphans or the Hollowers. It hadn't made any Traditionalist more or less legit. People were people; being a mage was part of being a human being; being a Traditionalist was part of being a mage. They were all bigger (higher) than the magic they tossed around.
"Why? How's it strike you? Hopefully not too out of character." This is emphasized with a smirk, and a lift of her pint. Tommy boy was fixed on drinking himself silly with a little ol' lamb of God. Did that change things in his book?
[Thomas Taylor] He watches her drink up a touch, Thomas was all about consumption, everything had the ability to be consumed to be taken inwards. Of course she had hidden her problems from him, when asked it was all put aside under her mask that she wore well for Thomas. He did not even spot it being put on. He flicks his cigarette out of the open window as the smoke gets blown sideways and as she speaks about her training to be a singer he picks up his pint and drains it dry to the last drop putting it down with a small burp as she finishes.
“Pet, if an ‘onest I don’t know ya well e’nuff to make the call on if it suits you, an to be fair it don’t matter you need to find yer own frog, were a being not a doin’ pet ‘member that.” He winks to her “An I’d be a touch put out if you joined a new mickey an suddenly thought differently, yer solid North don’t fret.”
“I ain’t got an issue with the word if that’s wat you believe; each to their own faith is an amazin’ thing.” And for him that should settle things about god. Being a hollow one was about being an individual it meant Thomas was open to a vast understand of other people, he did not have to agree with them but in that understanding he did not need to argue with them, his beliefs were not there’s and he knew this. Any mage knows this just most believe they can force there belief on others and that’s not how it works.
He did pick up on something though, it was a drop in the ocean of information she told him but it seemed to carry the most, it had a facial expression. “Owen, ain’t met the fellow though Info gave me a the downlow, take it you an ‘im are tight?” He crosses his fingers and taps them on the table between them
[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge: Tight? I supposed. Once upon a maybe.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Per & Sub, was that a...))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] Thomas is all about the Consumption, and Emily knows it for what it is. She knows how to feed a thing until it swells, until it builds, until it obscures all the other Things you'd rather not talk about, not think about, not deal with just now. She knows that the thing you feed doesn't have to always be the same thing. The addiciton is the feeding. It can be drinking, drugs, reckless behavior, physical intimacy. It can take all sorts of socially acceptable guises.
Emily knows all about Consumption. She can feel it off him same as breathing. She knows how it gilds the taste of cheap lager on her tongue, how it eases her toward missteps with Jarod she shouldn't take. She knows how far it will bring her down, and yet she's drinking. Drinking and side-stepping questions that could lead to deeper truths.
It's just like old times. She could be in Majorca, in Santorini, in Kiev, in any of a dozen cities where she'd given in to the same hungers, same needs, same drives, same willingness to forget.
Her eyes follow his fingertips when he taps them on the table. There's the barest hesitation, a tiny inhalation that might seem out of place. It's rolled into an easy shrug and a heavenward glance. It's easy. It conceals the ache that holds fast to some space inside. The Hope she can't shove off long enough to let herself breath; just fucking breath. It's all hidden. It's all undercurrent. It's just the undertow she keeps them both from getting caught up in right now, unless he pushes them both under, pushes too deep, and leaves her for drowning in it.
"We were. Once." A little pause, as if she's got to qualify that, recant a little. "It's not easy to tell with Owen." That much is truth, but now the truth she's making it out to be. "He left a little bit before the trouble this summer, with the Labyrinth and all. Just after the Edom thing." Why yes, we mark time by regional calamaties.
"I get a post card here or there." There's a note a gratitude in her voice for that; it's feigned, but covered so well he cannot tell. The postcards cut deeper than the separation. Emily is fluent in Goodbye, but this wistful waiting is the stuff of stronger romantics. She is not cut from that cloth; it wears her out, leaves her empty. "That's all, though. So 's a bit hard to judge right now."
She gives him nothing to indicate that they were more than just friendly. Nothing but the over-abundance of words. Emily hadn't wasted even that much breath on Catman, with whom she was evident flirtatious if nothing more. She had not confirmed or denied the rumor that they'd been anything more than just -- whatever.
"Molly probably said he's scared of cupcakes." A change of topic, toward something that required no lying to bring a smirk to Emily's mouth. "'S more than he's shy, and she's... Molly."
Nuff said.
[Thomas Taylor] ((Cha & Perf, you will have to wait and see...))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] He nods, it is small and barely a thing really. He taps her pint “Drink up...” Sounds more like an order than request, there seemed to be a casual seriousness to the hollow one now if there ever was such a thing. Friends lost always made for good drinking
She tell him they were just that ‘friends’ he had heard that more was ‘apparently’ going on, but Emily acts like that is not the case and pulls another fast one past him. “Well mates wander pet thats wat they do, like the lemon tick follow tock tick follow tock.”
He stands as she drinks (Hopefully)) and the cockney offers a charming smile and his arm almost like the gentleman as he seems to take on a completed different persona and in a VERY Manchester accent states.
“Now darling, drink up your pint, we have plenty more establishments to be heading into, and I want to see us both a fucking wrecked by the end of the night, and that’s not going to happen with your very limited drinking skills. So come on, get it down and lets get a move on we have not got all day” He could actually be from Manchester, the tone the accent is all shifted so easily as he coughs into his other arm then winks to her voice normal.
“Cum on North, I think I just lost a year of me life with them antics...on yer bike pet.” He tilts his head backwards towards the door as the arm gets pulled inwards and he starts walking backwards looking at her until he shifts and turns and is heading for the door expecting her to keep up.
[Emily Littleton] It is very difficult to laugh as hard as Emily is laughing whilst downing one's pint. Really. It takes practice. And luck. A little misstep and it comes right out one's nose. Unpleasant. Or one aspirates it into one's lungs. Wretched. So she gulps, alternatingly, lager and air, and the pink cast to her nose and the apples of her cheeks is amusement just now as she's nudging her should against his and casting that darkly amused glance his way.
"Don't ever do that again," she says, with mock seriousness. It's almost level enough to read true, but the mirth in her eyes tells a different sound. She digs deep, now, for the unadulterated accent some of her family carries. And that tilt to her chin comes with it. "You sound quite like my brother, Thomas, lovely, and I shan't have it."
Clipped. Brisk. Not at all the North he's used to. That falls away to the smirk she wears and it's clear, once more, just how muddled and marred her accent truly is when she asks him, "Where to now?" as she matches his stride and doesn't have to hurry to keep up.
They're nearly of a height; there's a scant four inches between them and Emily's build is long-legged and athletically thin. Morgan's got more muscle, but Emily's no slouch at sport. She's used to keeping company with men whose stature tops out around Thomas's height, so there's no awkward crane of her neck upward while they hustle down the block to the next 'Establishment.'
"Who'd've thought, Southie, that we'd make a nationally-displaced pastime of pub crawling, here. We should round up the others someday. Make it official." A wink, and that cheeky grin. Hey, if they kicked up any trouble, they could plausibly blame it on Basil anyhow. In fact, slightly tipsy Emily tells Thomas so in her next breath.
[Thomas Taylor] He of course grins when she laughs, he likes to humour others, humour was as much a part of him as anything was, he was always funny or found something funny in everything. The key was to take note when he was seriousness he either had a very valuable point to make or was very close to letting himself go both deserved equal notice.
He was not walking fast and she easily keeps pace with him, there next stop would merely be the next pub on their path, on such a venture the place did not matter as much as the company and he found himself in a good one.
“You need to join the Tuesday Night Regulars; I set it up, Ash as been a few lemons on the trot.” He looks to her and grins, it might or might not surprise her to realise he had already set up a drinking crew and a night for it. “In fact last lemon we did it we ‘ad Ash, Lewis, Le Fay, Doc, Catman an this new chick, forgot ‘er name...”
There’s a moment when he raises an eyebrow “’ave ‘eard of Basil pet, never met ‘im...an most likely best I don’t, from wat ‘ave been told we get into a barney an fight...” There’s a smirk like he would actual enjoy the encounter “He is like all the potters hat pope an I got no lemon for it.” His teeth grind a moment and a darkness comes over his eyes, fleeting but it was there. Emily cannot help but think that back home Thomas did not receive the same kind of conversation he has here in Chicago.
He takes her arm and pulls her into to the next bar, more grimy than before full of old men that have nothing better to do than drink, moan and hope to get a woman drunk enough to have sex with them, once more she is placed in a booth save this time Thomas takes a moment to look around and meets every glance that focuses on Emily (The young attractive thing she is) until everyone that did have an interest is aware that if they want a piece they go through Thomas first. He goes up to the bar and after waiting a few minutes and some casual glances back to Emily he comes back with two bottles of bud and two shots of whiskey.
[Emily Littleton] [Favorite dice pool! Need to buy it up! dif+1, booze and recent experiences]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)
[Thomas Taylor] He puts them down and settles back “No pints pet, don’t fret I got yer hat.” A wink as he picks up the whiskey and holds it up “To friends old an new...”
[Thomas Taylor] ((Per & Sub because he might notice at some point))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] "Tuesday nights?" There's a hitch in her voice that makes Tuesday sound vaguely unacceptable. "Maybe I can go half in. I've classes in the morning, and study work with Fathe-- Mr. Ward." She catches herself, corrects mid-title. It's a minor stumble. A recently changed title. "I'm pretty sure I get in trouble if I show up hungover to either."
And yet here they are, pub crawling on a weekday. Apparently makes exceptions when she wants to.
Thomas pulls them into the next bar and it's darker in here. The wreath of smoke hangs lower over the lights, even though the local laws forbids such nonsense. The ration between the sexes is skewed, and she's quick to notice the lecherous looks. She keeps closer to him, here, does not make eye contact with anyone else. There are small cues that make it seem like they're closer than they are -- all more subtle than Thomas's steely glances across the room. Hers are the cant of her body position when they sit in the both, the way she tenders a curl behind her ear, and obscures her face from the other patrons for a moment. She's only got eyes for him, these little tells show anyone from the outside. They're all but invisible in conversation.
And yet there's a rigidity to the way she's tucked into that booth, and he can catch sight of it in the cant of her shoulders. Emily feels the weight of every stare tossed their way, every lingering look, and her outward demeanor is indifference; she's beyond noticing, she won't give them the time of day. It's the wrong sort of haughtiness for some groups. It might be the wrong type for this group. It conceals the way her heart beats all the much faster, here, and the worries rides up at the back of her mind.
Her fingertips toy with the rim of the shot glass as soon as he sets it down. There's an impatience there. A little ritual, a little stress. Thomas settles back, Emily rests her arms on the table and leans forward a little bit. She lifts her whiskey to his toast.
"To unlikely friendships..." she adds, and whatever she's hiding is covered by the smirk, but Emily glances aside when she drinks. Keeps an overtly watchful eye on the worst of the lot in this place. There's a readiness, a taut and tense thing, just below her skin that the alcohol does not even begin to slake.
"He's a bit of an ass," she says of Basil. There's an understated note to this. Emily is saying he's an utter wank. Then she pulls off the bud and grimaces a little.
"'S a crime, really, calling this beer." Ah, yes, Emily's foodie snobbishness applies even to pub crawls. "I'll buy next pint, but none of this American shite." A little face, the tip of her tongue sticks out in dislike. "I don't know how they drink it. And, further more, what brilliant bloke came up with light beer?"
[Thomas Taylor] ((Dice because we love dice))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 2
[Thomas Taylor] ((More dice))9
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Dice))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 4 (Botch x 1 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] They came in and committed as it were. There was darkness and light in the world, unfortunately more of the former than the latter, this place was a dark shade of grey. He down the whiskey with her, eyes watching hers.
“Well i get to judge if I meet ‘im, at the mo I ain’t met him.” He looks to the bud and sighs “Yer isle of course pet, wat was I thinking.” Did he notice her glance, her stare the ridge of the back, how she seemed to make herself smaller in this corner of than the last maybe he did.
“Lets move on, like the monkeys in ‘ere.” He stands not waiting on her to protest as he takes her elbow and moves with her out of the place which is when it happens...
“Hey sweetness....” A man nearly twice her age stands between them and the door, he grins with a greying beard, a few missing teeth. His eyes do it though, probing, looking at her like she was just a piece of meat, something for his pleasure “I was thinking your little man could go away and you and me could...” He reaches for her and then it all hits slow motion....
That was all he said, Thomas fist clenched up and he moves her back behind him and his left hand comes up and hits the man under his chin with such a resounding –crack- it sounded like his jaw broke, the man body actually leaves the floor, blood sprayed from his mouth as his mass lands on the bar and he slides over it landing with a bang on the other side. Thomas’ face is cold as if made of steel and there is a hollowness to his cheeks, his knuckles are red from the impact as both hands go in his pockets one leaving Emily’s arm but he is literally next to her. Some people step back, other look shocked another man that could have been ‘Knockouts’ friends just presses himself against the bar as if making himself small hands up on either side.
When both hands come out of his pockets one puts a cigarette in his mouth the other drops a $20 on the bar. “For the clean up...” The voice had no mirth, no jovial aspects it was dark anger and very much begging anyone to give him a reason. A moment passes as he takes Emily’s arm (Very gently like before) as he leads her out.
Once outside he lets go of her arm and lights his smoke, a few steep and deep drags eyes closed as he tries to relax. “Let move on eh pet...”
[Emily Littleton] [WP: +2dif, oh so very many reasons]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 6, 6, 9 (Failure at target 8)
[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge? +2dif, same very many reasons?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7 (Failure at target 8)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Per & Aware as empathy))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5 (Failure at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] [Oh! Belatedly, but for post-writing purposes, Dodge!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] He reaches for her --
-- Emily steps back. It's as instinctive as the way Thomas breaks out swinging. There's no ambiguity in the movement, no subtle way of shifting it so as not to raise a scene. She doesn't know quite what the Cockney's response will be -- they're moving in the same moment, see -- but Emily wants no part of this proposition. In fact she's gone pale and stock silent even before Thomas turns back to her.
There's a hollowness to the Singer girl's features, the way her eyes won't quite focus on the older man slumped over the bar, however long she looks at him. And the readiness hasn't broken; perhaps she expected something like this. Maybe that's why the tension between her shoulder blades piqued when they walked in and even the alcohol couldn't slake it. Even the cheery, cheeky friendship they shared.
Thomas put his hand on her arm and Emily, instinctively, steps out of that touch as they move out the bar. It plays so nicely into how he guides her that he might not notice at first. Might not see the white-knuckled grip her hands have on her messenger bag's strap, or how the pink of her cheeks hasn't come back, or the dance to her eyes.
They're out the door and he stops to light a cigarette. Emily doesn't stop. She's five, six paces down before she realizes he isn't at her shoulder. Then she stops. Turns. Waits on him to catch up. She doesn't backtrack. She won't. She's stand there, a fixed point in the press of people who wander up and down the street; an obstruction they must make their way around; a thing immoveable. But she will not backtrack.
There's a ragged exhalation, now, now that they've been out of the pub for the space of a dozen heartbeats. She feels every one of them, pounding against her ribcage. Hard against her lungs. Bird in a cage, beating its wings, beating them bloody. Emily swallows hard and gestures for his cigarette.
Emily doesn't smoke. She's smoked, a bit, in the past. It was never a habit, never her vice. She pulls a drag off it, only coughs a little bit when the harshness hits her lungs. Exhales, not in clever wreath, miasma of blue-grey, no, but in a thin, steady, purposeful stream of toxins and occluded light.
She hands the cigarette back to him, rakes her fingers through her hair. There's nothing steady to her, just now. Nothing quiet. She's not said a damned thing yet, but her hands won't keep still. They're either clenched to moon-white knuckles, or fidgiting for a place to land.
[Thomas Taylor] Thomas had the one drag his eyes opened and most of the blue was gone it was all black pupils as he walks up to her the unstoppable point and hands it too her as if he knew she wanted it, needed to consume it. He takes it back as his eyes start to return to normal, but it had all changed in the actions of an old pervert. But that was the roll of the dice, it was the way of the world. The singer might not know it but Thomas did, the world was ending, it was all coming to a final finish and these were but the portents of the end.
Thomas was blind to alot of things, he struggled to notice the small things but the actions taken in that place could not be taken back, the horror being that if she had not been there he might have tried to take on the whole bar, revelled in it...but if she was not there then it would not have happened. It was because she was a woman...and that in itself was so wrong that it sickened him, for her to be treated as an object.
There was suddenly space between them where there was none, a silence descends between them. Thomas has been here a few times, more than he like to admit he knows what happens next, his eyes wander around as the cigarette in his lips rolled into the corner and the smoke blown from it like dragon fire threatening, a warning to any that might have followed them out. None did however as he looks back to Emily. He was not sorry for his actions, he knew what he did, he understood his reaction his instincts and in turn her revulsion.
He nods to her “Wander safely North” She was safe now, no one would follow Thomas was sure of that and this was the point where it all fell apart. He offers a smile it is weak and carries none of the charm she is use to seeing. What happened in there was his darkside and it came out more than anyone knew he tried to hide it from the awakened, all friendly was Thomas but he carried it with him. She had seen a moment of it and he was hoping he would not pay for it.
He winks out of habit and starts to wander away
[Emily Littleton] "Thomas."
Her voice is soft, but there's an entreating note to it. It's just loud enough to carry, and to carry her gentle confusion at his parting. There's no revulsion to it, but a vulnerability instead. A frightened thing. A place oft hidden that she could not pull back out of the sun.
Emily hasn't moved, but there's a deep furrow in her brow where she looks after him. And if he doesn't stop. If he doesn't turn at the sound of his name -- not some nickname, not some epithet, not some lightness, some levity, some playing-at-things -- if his footsteps don't slow, then she'll hurry to catch up with him, and the sound of her footsteps will draw closer until a hand alights on his shoulder.
Lingers for a moment.
Requests.
Then slips away.
"Thomas." His name again, said like a thing valued, like a thing prized, like a question, and an answer. With a quiet reverence, and a debt of gratitude.
"Thank you."
And no, North is not okay. And no, it has nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with the hollowness, or the coming of the end. If he finds her eyes with his he'll see at least that much. He has not frightened her; she will not step away because of this. There is no piper to pay, and still not smile just yet. Though she tries, this strawman thing, this whisper of a smile she stretches across her features.
There is real fear below it, not the simple shock of seeing one man hit another. Not the surprise or disdain that such darkness riddles through the world. There's a deep understanding of all of that written into the Singer's bones already.
If he hesitates, in any way, or seems to mistake her, then Emily's hand will find his arm again, touch lightly, reassure, reconnect. There will be a bend in her smile meant to be genuine, striving for warmth. But there's a temerity to it, too, and he's never known North to back down from anything, until that moment in the pub. Divert, yes, sidestep, sure, but push-come-to-shove recant? No, it's not in her nature.
[Thomas Taylor] He doesn’t stop at the first mention, he walks a touch taller though not as small as he makes himself appear as his hands find his pockets the crowds ignoring him as they always did reality putting that blanket over him he was not expecting the call that first mention of his name was missed his own internal thoughts filling his mind.
She touches his shoulder and he does not manage to hide the surprise she has caught up with him in time, a deep gasp as the cigarette get a heavy toke taken from it as he half turns, his head tilting to her...his eyes become accepting, consuming as he prepares to accept her wraith without flinching...
Thank you
Words he never expected and it shows as his body turns more so he is facing her as he reaches up and with a forefinger strokes her chin just slightly before it finds his pocket again “Perhaps I sud ‘ave threatened ‘im first...not in me nature though...”
There’s a moment’s pause then as people walk past them, wandering to their destination ignorant of the two beings that could be gods in their midst. “Just, if it ‘ad not ‘ave stopped there more cud ‘ave got involved...if you wanna make peace prepare for war an all that jazz.”
He has never been caught up before after he let himself go he has basis for how he was meant to react, he stands there the cigarette in his lips smoke encircling them both before itself wanders away...
“Yer welcome...” It sounded strange from his lips like those words had never been uttered before, like a child that thought he was going to be scolded and wasn’t
[Emily Littleton] He starts to explain, to say what he should have done or what might have happened, and she's shaking her head already. If there's a firmity to this moment, it's this: Emily does not mind what he has done, nor his methods. She's finding her feet, slowly, in this relative anonymity of being the two fixed points in a stream of wandering someones passing by.
"No," she says, when he's explaining. Not no that she disagrees, but no he doesn't need to explain. If anyone does, it's Emily.
"It's happened to me before," she says, and the words are so plain but they're not quite level. She glances down the street to the pub door again, there's an open grimace on her features. It's a smear of something darker than hate that flickers and fades in the space of time it takes his smoke to part ways form his lips. "When there was no one, like you, to stop it."
She exhales, glances down. There's a hardness to this. Emily reaches up to rub her hand against the back of her neck. To make the world spin a little less acutely. To bring her blood pressure down. It doesn't work. The memories rise like storm tides. They flood. Her lips press thin, so thin they almost disappear into one taut line.
"More than once. So no, don't be sorry, and don't explain, and don't justify -- not to me. Because it didn't go further today, and that's all on you."
And if he'll hand it over, she'll take another drag off that cigarette. Another something to help suppress, to draw off the edge, to make it a little easier (ironically) to breathe.
[Thomas Taylor] ((Cha & expression to make her know she is protected))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 3, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] “Oh” it’s the first words from his mouth, he blinks after he said it realising the first words could have been so much better, his head looks to the left briefly and then to the right as if he was looking out for someone or something. He looks back to her a tilts to his head as he raises his hand up slowly as if she might be afraid of his touch Too use to dealing with Morgans problems this one.
It rests on her shoulder and gives a gentle but meaningful squeeze as if he could pour his strength into her, build her back up to what she was before they wandered into that place. He cannot of course but will equals desire so he tries anyway.
“Ain’t no one thanked me for letting the hooligan loose before.” He does not say dark side, he says hooligan as if it has some meaning, something from his past that he offers to her to consume, to move past the current event onto something else. A life line.
If she does not stop him he puts an arm over her shoulder, it is not romantic unless she takes it the wrong way it was meant as a friendly gesture. “I cannot change the past pet, an am sorry to ‘ear this as ‘appened before, but it didn’t this lemon an you can take this to the tank with Tommy by yer side it won’t again, I will kick the seven shades of shit outta any bloody fucker that dares lay a german on ya!” His eyes are intense his voice steady sure and confident.
He starts leading her out of sight of the bar, onwards towards the next one not intending to stop the bar crawl now you know what they say about falling off the horse.
[Emily Littleton] Emily has her issues with touch, with being touched, with extending it. And had this been the year before, she would have backed away from that hand on her shoulder. Had it been a year before, she would have turned tail and not spoken of any of this until it came out, awkwardly, at a future moment to be waved away with a little dissuasion and a bit more panache.
A lot has happened in the past year. Catman and this mythical Owen have changed a lot of her base reactions to other people and the well-meaning glances of their fingertips against her skin. His arm slips over her shoulders and Emily snugs in beside him. Like mates. Nothing more. She's not reading in, and she doesn't even worry that he might see something there between the lines that isn't intended or implied.
"I appreciate it," she tells him. Its intensity matches the note in his voice, even if her words sound such much more innocuous. She's Unrelenting as much as she's reverent, and maybe that's why the hooligan doesn't trouble her as much as he'd expected it to. There was, after all, a time and place for everything, even that.
And then onwards they go, with Emily bogarting his cigarette from time to time, and her pointy elbow nudging him gently in the ribs sometime before they duck into the next pub.
"No more of that American shite," she teases, lets her accent flirt closer to his, borrows on it as much as she borrows on his comfort and the easy swagger his confidence brings. "Real beer from here on out."
There's a warning lift of her eyebrow as she passes the cigarette back, as if this statement is not a thing to take lightly. It is a fundamental truth for the rest of their evening. No piss-poor beers, no half-asses lagers, none of this fuckery called Corona.
It will take awhile more, but she'll right herself. And they'll get back to laughing, and telling stories, and talking smack about the other Awakened. Joining up with the Chorus hasn't kept Emily from her opinions, or sharing them in the imagined confidence of alcohol-based camaraderie.
[Thomas Taylor] He only keeps the arm on her for another block before she seems more sure of herself and then it slips away, he lights other cigarette off the flame of this one letting her have it. She might not smoke it to death like him but it was hers to do with as she will. No Emily need not worry about him reading between the lines his heart pined for another, but that in itself was a story. A story Thomas felt would end badly for him, beneath the surface they both wanted another.
He just winks to her fast becoming the cockney she has met before, that side of him subverted forced down but it was there she had seen it even for a moment but the fact she accepted it had put him at ease. North was gaining rapid ground in Thomas’ eyes fast becoming...what? A real friend? He had only one of those that he admitted to and here she was someone from the mother country accepting him faults and all. It rang bells on his soul endeared her to him, put her on the fast track to being one of his favoured.
“No more shit” He concurs with her view, if they have poor beer it will only be shots from here on out. A fundamental truth he will take forward from this day out, she can take that to the ‘tank’.
“Yer sound North, don’t let any cunt tell ya otherwise, an you got any issues Tommy ‘as the tissue be it a ‘ear to listen to a fist to smash into sumone.”
He leads her into another bar, this one more like the first it had students in, it’s atmosphere carried a different vibe and on the whole seemed more welcoming.
[Emily Littleton] The ashen-pale has faded, color returned; Emily's nose and cheeks are pinked a bit with her less than sobered footing. She's slipped back into the cheek and playfulness, that wicked mischief, that hint of something more just held out of reach. Emily was Other to everyone she knew. Branded by her accent, her past homes, her beliefs (and, at times, her lack thereof). There was a resonance to back that Otherness up, now, to make it something more than the slip of a tongue and the cant of her chin, but it's been real to her for quite some time.
As long as she can remember.
Maybe that's why there's no carrying on about North and South here, except in nicknames and mock fights and moments of whittled and honed words. They're both Other, one step to the left of all the Sleepers that fill up this pub and the radio silence they put off in the world that Emily and Thomas walk through these days. They are the only two Awakened pings here, possibly on this block or even in this sweep of the streets near the Mile. They occupy a space both here and somewhere far away -- he wears his wanderlust on his skin, she carries hers in her litany of hometowns.
"You're not too bad yourself, Southie," she says, but there's no jibe to the nickname. It's becoming affectionate. She's starting to wear hers as a badge of pride, not just a thing tolerated for the sake of friendly conversation.
This is a safe pub, with a decent microbrew selection, and people who think that her accent is wicked cool and let her weasel a student discount out of them before happy hour rightly begins, so she points him toward a booth with a little nudge, but not before counting off his only acceptable options. "Red, Brown or Stout?"
Ahh, the hard questions in life. She counts them out on her fingertips, then turns her hand around to waggle those fingers playfully while he thinks. Then it's off to the table with him, and she'll be bringing back pints and shots for them -- another whiskey round -- when she slides into her side of the booth.
[Thomas Taylor] He picks stout unafraid to mix his drinks, after these the alcohol might start to show on him but only slightly he has a hardy constitution and he had been drinking for 5 years now (He was only twenty you do the maths). He heads over to the booth offered and falls into it with a bang and slouch. He had not hung out in the student area before, he has no idea if his accent would be wicked cool or if they would look at him like an outsider. He does not care either way, the same way he does not care on how he dresses. He does it all because he has courage and individuality the main trademarks of a hollow one, the courage to be yourself and express yourself truthfully.
He was fast become fond of Emily, a truth had been exposed earlier something from each of them others did not know it always helped to forge a bond with such (hidden) things even as accidentally as it was done. He watches her slide into the booth and takes his whiskey holding it in his hand his tongue playing over his lips his eyes glancing to her then the drink as if they wanted to consume both.
“So pet, we got the violence outta the way, lets do the casual talk, an don’t take this the pete way but any blokes on the horizon, an for the record yer spankin’, yer tidy but no pet I ain’t askin’ you out.” A wink and a taunt. If he was not smitten with someone already Emily would have to watch herself Thomas could have easily fallen for someone like her, even a God loving singer. But it was not the case, not at the moment (Lucky Emily perhaps). It is offered up not as something to be drawn over but as something deeper than casual chit chat, a solid piece of personnel life to be exposed to let this (potential) friendship blossom and not wither.
Of course it was all in her ‘germans’, Thomas would not force it the moment might pass them by.
[Emily Littleton] [Stam: How tipsy is I?]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] [WP: Owen, Owen who?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] [And how well do I lie about it? +2 been drinking, been frightened, it's been a long night already]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 7, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Per & Sub))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] She passes him his drinks and settles herself in the booth. It's high time for Emily to loose the spiral of dark curls she's kept caught at the base of her neck and she does, spilling the curtain of nightfall and shaking it out with her fingertips. She laughs a little, too, hah-ha, like something he has said was funny. Like that wink and that taunt have been caught out for what they are, and have struck her funny bone. It's a warmer laughter; something genuine. He as something truly hers to hold fast to now, not a mask, not a polite redirection.
Emily draws her lower lip into her mouth for a moment, caught between her teeth just so, picture of a picaresque heroine, darkly amused, richly warm. Autumn is her season, she wears it well. Another truth that hardly anyone knows.
And they're both too many drinks in and early on in the evening, but Emily holds it well tonight. She's carrying it lightly. It loosens the coil of her muscles, puts slack where there was only tension before, and maybe that's why there's laughter first as a response. Then a playful quiet before she answers, and that answer is thus.
"Oh," wistful, hopeful, long-suffering, languid. "To blokes on the horizon," a shot glass lofted, a wishful (hopeful), easily spoken toast. "Would that there were, Tom, but, no. My dance card's empty."
Drink taken. Hands spread wide (what can you do?). There's no bite to this, no niggling hint of who, but there's a sadness at the coner of her eyes -- a thing imperfectly concealed as she breathes out the fire water vapors, tries not to breathe them in again. They mingle with the smoke-tar caught up at the back of her throat. She's a bad lamb, today, dabbling in all the wrong habits. Her voice is smoke and tinders, an alto resonant but not overly innuendo-ed. This is just Emily, the poignance and the slip-step of half truths, and the way she holds the empty glass a moment too long before settling it down.
"And you?" Eyebrow quirked, then softening to a smirk. "Not blokes, of course. Unless it is blokes, and then, I suppose, the question stands. But it was Le Fay, weren't it?" The rambling question resolves, but it doesn't push. Doesn't pry much. It's easy; it steps away from her and turns back toward him. Emily's fingers drum on the table top a little. A pleased rhythm. Then still.
[Thomas Taylor] ((Cha & Expression, to tell it well))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Sorry reroll 10))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Failure at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] “But yer ‘oldin’ out aint ya.” He counters, with warmth mirth, he does not mention Owen by name, the fact she said her dance card was empty came with a short surprise. He even looks it as she tells him like he cannot believe it. “Shame I didn’t meet you before ‘er ain’t it.” A wink, both playful and perhaps meaningful reassuring Emily she was both an attractive woman and desirable.
She twists it onto him, and he decides to open up the table and be honest as she might do so as well afterwards or perhaps that was it there was no dance card to be filled. His tale was hardly joyful, he coughs before he starts like a Ballard.
“I fancy the pants of Le Fay, I mean am not sayin’ I luv her...tis a strong word, I like ‘er, she makes me smile every lemon I see ‘er, I lust after ‘er but the ‘L’ word comes with all sorts of stuff, but the potential is there am sure...” He sighs it is both hopeful and also final so mixed. “But...well it cannot ‘appen, not really...an you know why.” He pulls out a cigarette and places it in his lips, eyes look down a moment and there before her seems to be a poet, his face carries every expression you can imagine and none all at the same time. “I can never follow ‘er. She dreams, wants and needs to be a judge, it is ‘er goal, her nelly, ‘er end all be all” He stops the zippo brought out regardless of smoking laws as he lights it, a deep breath taken inwards and held there before released. “I cannot be that with her, I cannot follow in them steps, my path ain’t bein’ a potter, ain’t livin’ that life style, I cannot am just too...common. Am me, she is ‘er but I treasure these moment isle now, an in the lemon we only ‘ave now” There’s a grin, both sad and yet hopeful. “An these bloody moments are few an far between, but she ‘as ‘ad a tough life pet, as we argued ‘bout...but in the lemon if anythin’ was too ‘appen she’d ‘ave to leave me behind, an to be fair she is posh totty an look at me” His arms spread as he offers himself onto the altar of example. Ballard over
There’s a sigh. “Were mates but I think thats all it will be an you know wat” He doesn’t even pause “It’s robin for me ‘cos she is sound, Le Fay...A potter” he stresses that as if it has meaning “’as become the one thing I ain’t ‘ad in over two years. Me friend, an I wud not jeopardise that for the word. Plenty more Lilian in the sea pet, just waitin’ for me bloody noggin’ to get that isle and move on.”
He goes silent as eyebrows come together and his cigarette seems to slow down in reverence of his situation, and then the wandering starts and it moves onwards and he looks to Emily
“Am new to actual friends pet, am lettin’ you in on this ‘cos I think we shared sumthin’ hat then, but if you go blabbin’ this ‘bout I kid you not north, you’ll bloody regret it...” He sounds passionate about it, a defence set up over years of hurt and being let down...Thomas obviously has trust issues.
[Emily Littleton] [Some dice]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Emily Littleton] [Some more dice]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Thomas Taylor] ((Man & Sub, my heart is not on my sleeve you know + 1 for drinking and being honest))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 7)
[Emily Littleton] It's dark back here in the corner, nestled into the the relatively clean and relatively comfortable booths. It's safe, too; the throng of college age kids cushions the mischief that might break out. Emily and Thomas are likely the two biggest troublemakers in the place, just now; if they only knew...
"It's always worth it," she says. There's a firmity within it. It's gentle, but certain. Like water rushing for the sea. He can push that thought around around, divert it, subvert it, build up barriers, dam it back -- it would find home again. Again and again.
She's not looking up when she says it, her eyes are hooded by the dark sweep of her lashes, but there's a resonance to her tone that few get to hear. She's a diplomat's daughter; she's a world wanderer; she's a girl with no hometown. But Emily, Singer-Emily, Orphan-Emily, outcast-Emily, she's known how to sing far longer than she's been Awake. She could draw down the moon, some nights, lift up the sunrise. It's not as much practiced as innate and it's kept hidden, it's kept quiet, it's kept secret from almost all of them.
"It's a big word, and a hard one and I hate it with every fibre of my being for the promises it makes, and the chains that sweep in on its heels. That it isn't enough on its own. To Love. That it's not enough of a gift, in a moment, even for just a moment." There's a deep well of emotion in her, a passionate soul, a drive to underlay and inform that reverence she finds in everything from the All Mighty to the mere mortals around her.
She's talking about Morgan and Thomas, but Emily is also talking about herself. She's telling him this because Thomas is the type who might understand. He has Balladry in his bones. So many of them do: Kage, Ashley, Thomas, and even Emily.
Her fingertips toy with the glass of her pint, streak the condensation from it, make it rain down in fat drops here and there. It gives her something to focus on, a midpoint between them.
"I sound like a Cultist," she says. Small snort. Derision. Emily shakes her head, flicks her gaze upward to meet his eyes for a moment, glances away. "For a long time I landed where I could -- because I was never here, wherever here was on that today, for more than a moment. It never lingered. I became fluent, proficient in goodbye. I know all the rules -- no promises, no false hopes, don't cry until you're on your own again; it isn't fair. I know them all, Thomas." A little smile, a weak thing, a hard-earned truth.
"Then I came here. And I stayed here long enough to be the one left behind." A pause. A sip from her pint. "First Jarod..." A deeper breath, thinly exhaled. Ancient history said the cant of her smile, the distance to the wistfulness in it.
"Now Owen." A beat, just long enough to draw breath. "And, God, if I only knew why, but I'm waiting on him. And it's killing me. Because people don't come back; that isn't how goodbye works. But I want him to. And I hope he might. And he sends me these damned postcards --"
She closes her eyes, chuckles a little.
"I'm a right mess over him, lovely. And I've no idea what to do for it. And you know, and Kage and Ashley do, but I'm keeping it mum from the rest." A pause, a little sideways glance. "Oh, and I told Jarod." Bittersweet, this. "Because he asked a question, and that was the only fair answer."
[Thomas Taylor] His heart goes out to her, in the truest sense as in that moment of weakness his hand reaches out and moves over hers. He was only twenty but his hands were worn, callused from a lifetime of fighting but yet still warm welcoming, understanding. “People wander.” It was the honest answer. “Everyone ‘as their dreams an goals, sum lemons it works but that is the rare case, romance can transcend all bounds, star crossed lovers pet...” A wistful sigh from the man as he squeezes her hand. “He sends you post cards, he strives to keep that wanderin’ path as short as poss...pet ‘ang on, I think he will be hat.” It was not words for her, no fake motto he seemed to mean it.
As for Jarod and the rest it helped to focus on what mattered to her now, he takes what she has given him and tries to phrase it right. “You can care, even luv more than one person, tis a bittersweet thin’, most folks don’t understand but the ‘eart wants wat the ‘eart wants an in the end we are folks, we need comfort in all aspects. Companionship even if a fleetin’ thing is just that, sharin’ with another” His hand withdraws as if he touched on something he did not want to expand on.
“If am ‘onest in a year I don’t think I will be ‘ere, am a wanderer pet, a vagabond, it’s not that I will not want to stay but that I cannot me nature will take me onwards.” A self truth given to her as an explanation for those that have already left her as he can tell it weighs on her. “I will promise to stay in touch though, swear down.” A sweet endearing, enticing smile offered . Then a shrug “Can you say in a year now yer a singer you will be ‘ere, you cannot I reckon, life moves on an we with it, leaves in the wind pet”
He taps his chest “The ‘eart want, you want Owen, he will either return or he won’t, you’ll ‘urt if ‘e don’t, you cling on until all reasonable ‘ope ‘is gone...in sum ways you might ask yerself if you can follow ‘im...” Theres a pause as his eyes flicker from her to a space just behind her “But I think you cannot, yer destiny is tied ‘ere you ‘ave sum things to do, like me an Le Fay. She ‘as ‘er goal an me...”
There’s a snort as he takes in a deep breath, smoke blows from his nose his cheeks hollow, his eyes become hard and for a moment he seems solid unrelenting as a wanderlust stirs up around them everyone pushed on by his nature seek to consume that around them. Thomas becomes very real like a untouchable moment in time as if this was certain and unavoidable “Am just ‘ere to see ‘ow it ends!” A growl of defiance that passes by and he takes a another breath.
He fingers the stout turning on the table “At least yer gettin’ post cards...” A small mirthless grin “Gypsy even options Catman is hat an wantin’ you...”A rare show of jealously from him, it is slipped as quickly as it comes out. “I ain’t even got options...” He laughs
[Emily Littleton] She takes in what he offers, and Emily doesn't push back on the things that hurt. she doesn't shy away from the vulnerable and careful topics. It's kept close here, low voices and secrets spilled across the board. It's kept close, and kept quiet, and kept between friends -- as they were now. And as they'd be in the future, even if they were yelling at each other on a Chinatown street corner again.
"If I'm honest, I don't know where any of us will be in a year. Who will still be standing. Who will have been called home." She's unafraid to meet his eyes, now, and there's fewer veils between them. She's a girl a long, long way from home. They know a wanderlust deeper than most ever would. "Life brings people in, and it takes them away. Trick is holding on to every good moment, every shining piece of glass and facets, every kiss and every heart-skipped-step, all of it, even the bittersweet, and not letting it tarnish with goodbye or moving on."
Her hand reaches out to catch his, to hold it for a moment. A little squeeze. A slow retreat.
"I'm not saying I know what's best, but if you care for her so. If she gilts your words and lightens your step, best hold on to it, all of it, for whatever you can. Hold it up. Love the moment, if not all that comes after it. It all slips away so quickly," she tells him. There's no sadness to this; acceptance, understanding, but not a sadness.
On Owen, though: "It would have been easier, lovely, if he'd just said goodbye. And maybe I'm not due easy, this time around, but it's a lot of Hope to put in someone, a lot of Faith in a person, see, to think he might be coming back. To think he might want to come back, for me. What hubris, this! So, no, but thank you, I'll take my postcards and I'll hold my hope and if you tell anyone I'm besotten over a Singer boy what bends faces with his fists when he gets tongue-tied, enough so as to leave a porch light on and hope against hope, I'll deny it like madness."
She pulls hard from her beer.
"Like Madness, Southie. I'll keep your quiet if you keep mine." Another sip, and she sets it down.
[Thomas Taylor] He is silent a long moment after she speaks, his drains his stout the moustache now licked off as he smiles small and faint. “Ah pet, but there is romance in the unrequited luv, an bein’ hollow is appreciate emotion in all it’s forms, even that which is unattainable.” Not said as a certain.
“Pet wat is said ‘ere between you an me is only between you an me, Tommy ‘as a outh on ‘im but you can believe me wen I say are talk is as private as me an Le Fay’s talks.” There was a deeper meaning to that she might not pick up on. He likened her to Le Fay, not in the romantic sense but in the trust sense. One had become two and god forbid Emily if she broke that.
“Ah pet, but sum lemons we ‘ave to let the ‘eart go.” Still enough of that eh. He understood romantics more than most, he had enjoyed there talk but too much and the mood would completely sour and they would be left tearful at home left to be humbled to the night. This was NOT the night for that.
There’s a snort “An pet, I swear down, mention me woes to anyone an you’ll find out why the potters called me the Hollow Plague.” A daring wink to her as he chinks her glass .
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