How does that make you feel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet another, slower sip of the tea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I meet him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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