Something worthy

[Israel Cohen] [[Alright, gettin' Israel's rolls on.
Step 1: Corr 3, Mind 1, Prime 1 to locate Tass. Diff 6. -1 practiced, -1 taking time, -1 foci. Suxx needed: 1 to cast, 1 to specify, 4 for expansive area. 6 total. [WP] ]]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 4 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Israel Cohen] [[Extending. +1 Diff.]] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 4, 10 (Success x 2 at target 4)

[Israel Cohen] [[If need be she'll repeat this effect over the course of however long it takes to find the right Tass.
So to decide how long that takes:
Step 2: Roll 1d10 to figure out how long it takes to find the Tass. 1-3 = 5 days, 4-7 = 10 days, 8-10 = 15 days]]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Israel Cohen] [[Yeesh! Alright OVER A WEEK LATER...which, ICly, actually works out. *laughs*.
Step 3: Roll 1d10 to see how much Tass you find. 1-4 = 2 pieces of Tass; 5-8 = 4; 9-10 = 6.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8

[Israel Cohen] [[Nice!!
Step 4: Roll 1d10 to see how much Quintessence each piece of Tass yields. 1-4 = 1; 5-8 = 3; 9-10 = 5.]]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Israel Cohen] [[.... seriously!? BOO!!!! *grumps* Well, at least it'll be SOMETHING.]]

[Israel Cohen] Yesterday afternoon there was a telephone call: She'd located some Tass that she thought would work well for what Emily needed. They should meet soon - tomorrow? - to collect it as it's difficult to gauge how long such things will remain in existence. What she probably doesn't have to explain is that it isn't so easy to find Tass that teems with healing, hopeful, rejuvenating, bountiful Resonance these days. What she doesn't go into was how long it took - relatively speaking - to find just this modicum of potential.

...it should be noted that the 'Orphan' Disciple sounds tired. The usual light breathiness of her voice leaning more towards hoarse with a tell-tale tightness that is akin to how someone sounds when they are dealing with a chronic dull ache of some sort. If Emily should ask after it the other woman can only really respond that... it was a long weekend. Perhaps they'll have time to talk about it tomorrow.
There's a sense that, for now, this endeavor is providing, perhaps, a much needed distraction.

It's 'tomorrow' now. Evening - no, nightfall. A New Moon tonight - not that you ever see much of the moon in the heart of the city - and a chill night on top of it. Yesterday's rain has given way to fallen temperatures though it isn't expected to fall to the freezing point. Thankfully the cities infamous wind is quite still tonight: That wind is what makes Chicago winters so harrowing. Freezing winds fit to steal your breath away.

Tonight there is only chill and the mist of their breath on the air. Israel gave Emily a location for their meeting: It's adjacent to a Boys and Girls Club in some downtrodden portion of the city. Not one of the nests of criminal activity where two women who look like they do really have no business being, but certainly not affluent. The lower spectrum of the middle class at best.

Israel waits there, at the far left side of the front of the community building: Lights glow from within and teenagers come and go even at this late hour. Israel draws curious looks - a tiny woman with a guide-cane will do that at the best of times: A woman with her Resonance does it more so. Perhaps the Resonance will be a boon tonight, though: The teenagers veer away, responding to something they don't understand. Curiosity and good will are dampened these days -- all they know on some subconscious level is that she feels Other and they move along, move along.

She's dressed for the weather: A tailored, fitted pea coat over a jumper, sturdy utility-style pants also tailored to her shape and size. Likewise sturdy boots. Well put together as always but not in the business skirts or dresses she so often wears.
There are lines of strain about unseeing eyes: A stiffness to how she holds herself. Not overt; it does not speak of agony but it does speak of... stress? Pain? Wariness?
Not quite her usual self.
[tonight there is no denying the strength of her Sorrow[filled]ful presence. Hope is not undermined, but neither does it prevail tonight.]

[Emily Littleton] The address is not in one of the safer stretches of town. Perhaps this is why Emily makes arrangements to carry something she'd rather not have to tonight, why she leaves a message with her cabalmate to check in before it gets too late. It's not that the Singer doubts in any way the capabilities of the Orphan Disciple she's going to meet; it's that this year's harsh realities have left everyone a little more cautious, a little more edgy. If Emily and Israel meet some unpleasant fate on their journeys, tonight, she would rather Chuck had a head start at finding them than to have to struggle as she did with Nico.

Though, in all fairness, it would have to be a grave night indeed to land the two women, each capable of mending their own patterns, in the hospital's emergency or ICU wards.

Weariness, though, Emily can recognize over the phone. And she is a thoughtful child, one brought up in the company of a rotating cast of Elders that always had a suggestion for what one should do to amend or adjust one's tempers. This tea for that stomachache, that food for this type of fatigue. Rest, of course, above all else -- but the Eastern modality accepted that rest was not always an option. So Emily brings for Israel a small sachet of tea, assembled by a vendor in Chinatown that Emily knows well enough to trust. Something to address the types of bone-deep tiredness and harried conscience that she had only known in this first year of Awakened life. This, in its little wooden box, will fit into a pocket of Israel's pea-coat when they part ways.

It is not medicine, not properly, but there is ritual and art and some unawakened magic to the life (lives) that Emily has led.

She's dressed in her winter coat, which is a dark wool, and dark jeans. Emily wears sturdy boots that maintain at least a blush of feminine lines but value utility over the latter. She, too, is not entirely herself but that disquiet slumbers, coiled around her middle as if it were a boa ready to squeeze the breath out of her on not notice at all. It does not announce itself so readily.

"Israel?" Emily's voice, and likely her resonance, are the first things to reach the Disciple tonight. Followed by the sound of footsteps at the Initiate's approach. It is a dark night, but the city light casts enough illumination for them to see by. "I hope you have not been waiting long."

Emily has learned that it is alright to touch the other woman. So she rests her hand on Israel's arm, waits for the Orphan to shift and take it. There is warmth in this, a moment that is not entirely business. It is an old custom, to take time with greetings. Even here, they observe an abbreviated form.

"You sounded like you've been busy lately," she says, which they both know is politeness for tired. "I brought you some tea that might help." Emily offers the little box over. It smells of bright, clean herbs and spices.

[Israel Cohen] Her chin lifts at Emily's voice, ear inclining her way in the manner in which a sighted person might trace the source of sound with their eyes. In some respects her perceptions are simplified: Not chained by that chief sensory dependence most people have. Forced to rely on those senses left to her she, like most people in her circumstances, has honed them each in turn. Some think it uncanny to witness just how much the blind or the deaf are capable of accomplishing. Just how much she herself is capable of perceiving. At the end of the day there is very often nothing Magical about it...
...except for the very real 'magic' of human adaptability and perseverance.
There's wonder in that, if only more people recognized it. Sometimes she toys with the idea that perhaps the majority of those who Awaken are souls who do see the wonder, the mystery, in the 'common place' things. Not everyone perhaps, but many.

...her mind is wandering tonight.
Seeking some reprieve.

"Emily... no, not too long at all." Quietly reassuring: There's still a trace of hoarseness to her voice though it seems a touch better tonight. Or maybe the phone connection had made it seem worse. There is touch: Emily's hand on her arm. With her free hand Israel pats that of the younger woman... not trite or dismissive: Warm, if small. Perhaps even a touch more appreciative today than usual which is saying a lot. Like she'll welcome good vibes; good feelings; positive and close things even more than than she normally does.

'Busy' says the Chorister: Tired is what she means. The blind woman chuckles -- or would. This is more a release of breath with a certain rumble-catch to it. A passing attempt.
...the offered box brushes over the back of her gloved hand... she turns her palm about, accepting it, a slight rise of one eyebrow. Curiosity. The box lifted to draw in the traces of noticeable scents. Her lips curve - tight at the edges [pain. definitely some kind of pain, not just fatigue] - her mien subtly touched. "Thank you. I'm sure it'll be wonderful."

Then, as she starts to turn - guide cane leading her path, always - "I'll tell you about my weekend -- I think I must."
She doesn't want to.
There's part of her that wants a return to the rest of the month of October, to the peace of mind, the contentment. To building something like a stable life with the man she adored and cherished and...
...ah, if wishes were wings.
"But not just yet. Let's get what we've come for.. it'll be good to accomplish something tonight. Something worthy."
Hushed words but meaningful.

With her free hand [the box was slipped carefully into one of the many compartments of her messenger style leather satchel, faithfully slung to bisect her upper torso and nestle on the opposite hip.] she indicates the vague direction [not at all exactly on the mark, obviously] of a side gate to what appears to be a small, dark park between the Club building and a standard multi-apartment row house. A spruced up abandoned lot perhaps by the looks of it. "In there... I think - from what I could tell when I found it and investigated a bit from my house - it's a Victory garden. Or part of it. It thrived this harvest... it did well. The kids and volunteers who planted it... they did well. It has an air of victory to it but unique -- triumph over decay. Victory over waste. Dynamic Reclamation or Rehabilitation you might call it..."

[Emily Littleton] There are layers, nuances, to the many facets of their interaction and Emily is, indeed, one of the people who could find grace and elevation in the human condition, in that adaptability and thriving need to overcome. Also in the ways they reached back to help pull their friends, family, neighbors up with them whenever possible. There was something magical in the way that the sum of each individual person on Earth became Humanity, or how each person who lives on this block increases Community. There is room for grace in those moments, there is room for God in those gaps.

Israel would go back to October, Emily wants only to go forward. Forward, onward: there must be resolution to this mess she's found herself in, if she can only perservere long enough, happen upon the right combinations of things wanted and things achieved, learn to let go of hard-earned expectations that rested so squarely in the hands of other people.

"If there's anything I can do to assist you, or support you, Israel, you have only to ask. You do so much for each of us," Emily tells her, at mention of this disquieting weekend. There is a note of concern in Emily's voice that goes beyond professional or polite requirements. There is, by now, a personal investment she feels in the time they spend togehter. They are becoming friends, in small ways. Perhaps that will grow over the years -- a thought that Emily marvels at, as it crosses her mind. Years: quite the expectation.

Half a year later, the Singer still feels some hesitance to approach a small, dark, gated garden at night. She would feel better if the other dark-haired Chorister were with them, but that wish was not even worth casting out into the night. So she draws a small breath, and perhaps that anxiousness reads as unexpected to Israel. That summer park was a place of death and heartache. Perhaps this garden on Winter's edge will be its balance. She has to allow room in her heart for Hope or Fear would swallow it whole.

"It's amazing what will grow in the barest hollows we can make or afford for Hope," Emily says, with a touch of things remembered to the words. They are not quite a quote, but a weathered sentiment passed down to her from generations of her mother's family, and their long association with the Order of St. John, a humanitarian branch of their Faith.

"I think that's quite what he needs, too," she says, speaking indirectly of Nico. Not saying his name into this chill night, lest it follow her words back to him and that coldness bite deeper into his bones. "To rebuild from something broken, to reclaim: it could be good for the body but also for the mind."

So many of them were thus broken, too, weathered and wearied in their skulls, their sense of self twisted by nightmares or fears.

[Israel Cohen] If there's anything I can do to assist you, or support you, Israel, you have only to ask. You do so much for each of us...

The verbal portion of her response is simple: "I know... that I need only ask." Clarification. As for doing so much for others... there are times where she certainly feels that moment of accomplishment: That sensation of having done well. Having aided in some fashion. Something worthy, she calls it. But at her core she has yet to master the truth doctors and nurses and the like must learn in time of greatest trial; when faced with floods of wounded or desperate or endangered: You must focus on the life/problem right in front of you.
Logically she knows the truth of it: It has yet to be shouldered at her core and so always - always - there is that sense of all she didn't do. All she couldn't do.
[...from these things Sorrows stem.]

Simple words: The gratitude in them comes across in the way she reaches out - searches for - and finds Emily's bicep or shoulder and squeezes there, presses there. Taking the offering of support for a moment in a very real manner, if only briefly.

Then, gathering herself up and moving for the direction of the gate that she found - physically - earlier when she'd first arrived to wait. Nodding slightly as she goes... she moves with some restriction; with care, giving further credence to whatever aches assail her in sporadic twinges. "I think so, too." Regarding Nico. "You know him far better than I do..." Indeed, she only met the man last Saturday, long enough to 'do her thing' - he was quite drugged: He thought she might be an Insurance claims investigator. "But I got that sense of him. He'll need more than just physical care, I think..."

At the gate - by happenstance or Providence or simple good fortune it is unlocked - she seeks out its outline... feels for the latch to lift it up and push the gate open; pauses in the midst of the act. "He's fortunate to have the friends he does." Which is to say that she does not believe he'll be without people who care for and look after him. "He's blessed to have you." Clarified in no uncertain terms...

... she senses some level of that anxiety, perhaps that is why she offers up those words and then more: "It's safe. I've checked... open yourself up to perceptions of Prime and Mind if you like. The Tass is unmistakable and lovely, if not abundant. Maybe lovelier for that..."
What is rare is precious.

[Emily Littleton] [Prime1+Mind1: base dif -unique focus (prime)]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 8 (Success x 2 at target 3)

[Emily Littleton] "He is like a brother to Owen," Emily tells Israel of the ailing Orphan. There's so much wrapped around that name that is not immediately possible to unwrap the sadness or broken wants there, but there is still Hope. And fondness, and an imperfect loyalty. "I saw the two of them together I ... I could not bear knowing how they both suffered without doing something."

Emily, still, does not believe that she can do enough. That drive to be and do more, to grow to where she can support and protect the people she cares for, to where she is strong enough to extend that support to broader communities -- it is a thing they share. It carries her Unrelenting resonance toward purpose, rather than a darker end.

Israel says that Emily knows Nico far better, but in truth the man has been a friend-of-a-friend until his recent return. He has been a confidante, at times, and at least once a drinking buddy, but it's his interminable tie to Emily's cabalmate and Traditionmate that has pulled her this far into helping him. She is not altruistic, necessarily, but she has far over-stepped her boundaries in this incidence.

It is likely that the ailing Orphan would never know. It is probably that his Singer near-brother would not either. She's not looking for recognition; if they ever ask she will tell them she did it because. Just because. And also because it was an opportunity to grow. She is young enough to let because stand in as an explanation now and then.

Nico Brady is, perhaps, the best looked after unincorporated member of their community. Everyone involved has their own reasons for being so. Perhaps the heart of it was that they all needed something to do, something worthy, and unwittingly these two men had provided an opportunity to galvanize a corner of the community to action. To focus them. To remind and ready them all for Winter.

At Israel's suggestion, Emily's hands reach into the pockets of her coat. She bows her head and whispers quietly the words of a familiar prayer and her thumb runs along the string of prayer beads that were her godfathers and are now hers.

The resonance is, indeed, beautiful. It is poignant and clear. Like starbright in the expanse of a deep city night sky, it's scattered in bright points across the small garden. Rare brilliance. It catches her breath a little; it is a point of Wonder in the dark of the year.

Emily has never seen Tass in person before.

"It's gorgeous," she says, with a hint of that awe warming her words. Yes, Emily Littleton is fully capable of awestruck moments and open reverence. Her voice is hushed, like they were standing in the halls of a great Cathedral and not near the walls of a sketchy community center in the wrong side of town. "Absolutely stunning."

[Israel Cohen] In a few words Emily reiterates something like an explanation. Israel would not pretend to understand the whole of it - the whys, the therefore, the history and the tangled skein - but she is nothing if not empathic and intuitive, so when she nods as if she understands there is sincerity in its element: If only because she knows what it is to care for those beloved by those we love. Because she knows what it is to see suffering and feel moved into the need for action. Some wonder at how two such Resonances as Hope and Sorrow could embody the same individual. Some wonder at how the weight of that Sorrow doesn't drown her: To witness Sorrow and suffering is what fuels her to the Hope of its easing; its healing. These things, at least, she can understand.
That there is more to the story that she doesn't know: That she can simply accept. She doesn't need to know in order to help in this instance.

Even as the younger woman stretches her Mystic perceptions outward, so to does Israel. And the background noises of the late night city fall away. The shouts of teenagers coming and going; the backfire of automobiles; the rowdiness of inebriated arguments all set to the basso beat of music that crescendos and decrescendos with the opening of bar room doors or the passage of cars... it means nothing here and now. The awe in the Chorister's voice is a heartfelt echo of that which the Orphan still feels each time, if with more familiarity. A sense of comfort. Communion.

The Tass here is not bountiful or plentiful: Such is rarely the case anywhere anymore, even at their own Node. But it thrives here and now, what exists of it. On the border of one of small garden plots - now tilled and set to lie dormant for the Spring - from just beneath the soil it hums-shines-Resonates. Here were people took care and sought to make a better lot for themselves - figuratively and literally. So that the four glowing pearls that is the greater fruit of their Intention and Dreams as much as their toil glimmer and sparkle like so much precious metal amidst the greater dross.

"It is." Is her agreement; whispered near to the point of nothingness. For another long moment she says nothing: Letting them both enjoy the gift of its Reality. Magic here. The stuff of creation in its purest form, poured into a mundane object or bit of organics, a material shell for the Dynamic, the Extraordinary. A pure personification of what which exists in all things, in all beings, in all realms.

Then, at last: "It's taken the form of Tulip bulbs." Which, she thinks, is fitting. Promise for the Spring planted just before Winter's chill. "I've brought some replacements with me... so as not to begrudge the people their efforts." Patting her satchel were she's tucked away four replacement bulbs to be planted after they extract the manifested Tass. "Best to get to work before someone things to wonder at movement back here."

[Emily Littleton] One of the wonders of the Awakened world is that you get to see your compatriots from a myriad of unexpected angles. You see them grieving, humbled, triumphant, seeking, broken and bloodied, elevated and enlightened. The people Emily has met in the last year are some of the most vibrant and substantial presences she has known in her life. They are full-formed, broadly painted canvasses with more shading and nuance than she thought possible in friendships that were, on a mundane level, hardly more than acquaintances.

They know each other more fully, for better or for worse, than most Sleepers will know anyone beyond their spouse and possibly their children. And it is because the world is so much more immanent, more treacherous and wonderous, that these relationships flourish for awhile, that they do not burn out immediately in the heat of their own brilliance.

Emily and Israel both know that the other has courted death so closely in the past year as to come away from an encounter with far more than garden dirt on their knees. So it cannot surprise the Orphan when the Singer moves to the farthest most point of brilliance (they can work their way back toward the gate) and readily falls to her knees, mindful to not crush whatever plantings will weather over the winter to awaken with the spring. That Emily is unmoved by the threat of black dirt beneath her fingernails will shock no one here. Israel knows her, more fully, than her classmates or her coworkers.

And so they work. Emily is content to easy the bulbs free and pass them to Israel. She is happy to replace them with the decoys, careful to orient them as she'd found the Tass-bearing ones. It is a cold night, but the fecund smell of rich dirt reaches both of them. It is a warm thing. It does some good as a balm for what frays the edges of their beings.

They can take turns at being sentry, alert to sounds of outside notice, or they can share that responsibility and work side by side in the dirt. And Emily cannot help but smile, and to let that smile become warmth in her tone, something a little less pinched and self-protective.

"I see what you meant, about worthy work," she says, as an aside, when her fingertips feel all but frozen in the night air. The ground is still warmer than this chill. Not that is is welcoming, or warm enough to dispel the cold that bites into their digits. Just that it is Autumn still, not rightly Winter. "Perhaps the House needs a garden, come Spring."

[Israel Cohen] [[fade! to be wrapped up neatly OOC!]]