Fear in a handful of dust (moodpost)

Deep in my heart / I do believe
We shall overcome / Some day
-"We Shall Overcome", gospel song

*** *** ***

If on a winter's night a traveler ...
Looks down in the gathering shadow ...
On a carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon ...
What story down there awaits its end?

24 December 2010, SeaTac Airport, Washington

Holiday travel is ever the same.  Emily leans her head against the wall, listening to the lull of activity that marks the early morning of Christmas Eve in an international airport.  Those few weary souls working late into tonight will either be there for the overtime, or following under-represented religions -- or no religion at all, a thought that perplexes the Singer perhaps a little less than it should.  There is one last push before Christmas, a press of Humanity that will ramp up in the post-dawn hours and then taper off into the evening.  Right now, with the sun rising somewhere behind the cloud cover, there's an artificial peace. 

A quiet.

Emily fingers the edge of her maroon-covered passport in her pocket, thinks on the over full pages, wonders about the weather in France.  She does not think about a blue-eyed kitten, or her (lonely) empty flat, or the exclusive milieu of the Chantry.

Early dawn casts faint shadows on the tarmac.  The elongated shape of a wing, angular and crisp, slanting toward resolution, becoming clearer and clearer as the sun lofts into the sky.  The lumbering and awkward echoes of jet-ways and sky-bridges.  Mere smudges from raised lamp housings.  Stick-thin whisper-shades thrown by bracing and uprights.

These urban woods are lovely, in their own ways. Dark and deep with shadows.  But she has promises to keep, and miles to go before she sleeps.  Soon this will all be behind her; soon she will be chasing moonrise yet again.

*** *** ***

26 December 2010, Marseilles, France

Marcus Littleton was on holiday.  Not a working holiday, no, but rather a vacation with a clear schedule (now pronounced sheh-shu-elle, after long association with Europeans).  He aimed to spend some quality time with this oft-absent daughter, Emily, and equally oft-absent wife, the lovely and compassionate Ceci.  Ceci, though, had descended upon Provence with a flurry of calling cards and telephone calls, and disappeared into the Boxing Day morning without delay.  This left Marcus with Emily, and a growing chasm of silence between them.

He'd already asked her about school, and come to the quick realization that her field was beyond his fledgling interest in whizzbangs with LEDs and microchips.  She'd already fixed his iPhone after a firmware download gone awry, and aided him in getting his latest iTunes purchases from one computer to the next.  That paperclip thing no longer bothered him in Word, now, and Emily has pronounced his Anti-Virus as adequate -- which Marcus presumed was more than sufficient for anyone outside of the Company or Bureau.

"Have you given any more thought to joining the service when you graduate?" he'd asked her, mid-way through their second cups of coffee.

"You mean, do I want to be a spy when I grow up?" she'd asked, mouth pursed in a clever (wry) smirk, eyes dancing with merriment.

"I'm technically a Diplomat, not a spy, Emily."

"Oh, but I'd so much rather answer my father's a spy when someone asks what it is you do.  Diplomat sounds so... stuffy."

He shook his head and chuckled softly.

"Double-oh-dad.  Doesn't that have a nice ring to it?" she asked, painting the words in an arc with one hand, curling her coffee mug toward her chest with the other.

"So you've considered it, I take it," was his only answer to her trouble-making.

"Quite."

"And?"

"Well, I could tell you," she says, then drops her voice a little lower. "But then I'd have to kill you.  And Mum would get mad if I did that, so let's just go with No -- and before you ask why, I'll say because then I'd have to renounce -- and where did you get this coffee? It's delicious."

"Sulawesi.  And are you sure you won't reconsider?"

"Were you there, or just trading about the office? And yes, rather certain."

And so it goes, intermittent silence punctuated by bouts of serious(ly nothing) conversation between Littletons.  At least until Cecilia returns and they can settle in for a mid-day meal.

*** *** ***

I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
- T. S. Eliot

28 December 2010, Praha, Česká republika

Snow had built up, even along the banks of the river.  It was muddied and brown where the snow bank tapered down toward the water.  It was cold enough, even, that Emily's nose had begun to run and the dampness at the corners of her eyes stung from windchill.  If she didn't keep blinking back the wetness, it might freeze for a moment. Hold her eyes shut.  Leave her at the mercy of her memories.

And perhaps it was a mercy that she'd come back in winter, when the ground was too frozen to smell of river mud and the scent of everything was tamped down by the dry chill that pulled all moisture from the air.  There was no scent of river mud, and no heavy smell of humidity, no swell of ozone -- these senses were stripped from the dark eddies of the water below her.  The stone of the bridge held her up, held her safely away from the blank tableau below.

There is a dark bird in the air above, turning lazy circles in the crisp and sun-bright sky.  Its voice is clear, unabashedly loud, irreverently abrupt.  It casts faint shadows; its claws are sharp and honed.

She'd found the policejní stanice mid-morning, arriving with an Embassy interpretor to help explain who she was and why she was visiting.  In truth, arrangements for this visit had been coordinated weeks in advance, by her father's aide.  It had taken time to find an officer who'd been serving that summer, seven and a half years ago, somehow who remembered the Diplomat's Daughter.  Someone who would tell her about the dark places in her memory, and walk her through the streets she'd more often dreamt about than seen.

He was a polite man, about a decade her senior, with gentle brown eyes and a slow smile.  He hadn't been much older than she was now, not all that much more world-wearied.  Though they spoke through an interpretor, it was clear that the events of that June had changed both of their lives.

He told her it was good to see she had recovered, and done so well for herself.  He did not understand why she would travel all this way, in the middle of winter, to walk through old fears alone.  He has a daughter now, born that same fall so many years ago.

She told him it was good to finally be able to say thank you, to shake someone's hand and offer back something tangible.

Before they parted ways, he asked: "What was it that you feared most, in those three days?"

The corners of her mouth twitched faintly.  Her eyes softened a little before she replied: "That I had been forgotten.  That I would die and be little more than dust, not even a name."

"Of that, Emily, you should have no worry."  Her name was slanted toward his native pronunciation and, in truth, it felt most comfortable to her to hear it that way: translated or transliterated, shaded by happenstance of birth that separated her from the other people she'd met.  It spoke of Home, where Home was anything but a single, familiar surety.

"No, Jiri," she replied, still looking out across the water.  "I suppose I should not."

*** *** ***

31 December 2010, Manchester House

There is a fire in the hearth of the sitting room and it burns low, with glowing embers that give off steady heat.  They've pulled a pair of wing-back chairs over close, draped themselves across their seats with throw blankets and mugs of spiced (and spiked) cider.  The year dwindles away to nothing.  The old house settles and creaks.  In the rafters roosts a small pale bird, her beak tucked under one wing, her coo and sleep-sounds lost to the silent, cold world outside.

"Gregory?" she asks, waiting just long enough for him to make some sound, or stir, or otherwise give off a hint that he had not yet fallen to sleeping.  "Do you remember when we were young, and Cedric would tell us that the whole of the world sang one great song -- and we thought he was being figurative, or speaking of the Holy Ghost?"

The words ran together but remained clear.  Emily did not bother with over-enunciating or making herself clear.  She was dredging up memories of cold days in the decaying Abbey up north, or summer sunsets by standing stones, or the hush that preceded every Sunday's visit to the Cathedral grounds, or the purposeful activity within the oriental shrines.  She was pulling up thread of that Reverence, even now, that quiet grace, that thing of Becoming interwoven into all that she knew now.

"Mmm," he replied, digging one elbow in beneath him to prop himself up so that he could look over at her, the way the lowlight lifted warmer tones to her hair and bronzed the bridge of her nose.  The way it softened the hushed pink at her cheeks -- he could always tell how much she'd had to drink, even if Emily was wily and kept her secrets to herself.  Gregory could read her like an open book, but was wise enough to keep that wisdom for himself.  "I remember."

She didn't glance over.  Emily shifted in her chair, brought both hands together to cradle her brandied cup against her sternum.  She was thoughtful and with that thoughtfulness came a heaviness that settled about her shoulders.  Gregory recognized it for what it was: responsibility tinged through with regret.

"Is this about the last year, your new friends, all the things you can't tell me?  If it is -- and don't think I mind, because I've seen more of you than any year I can remember -- you can tell me, Emmy."

He cajoles.  One corner of her mouth twists ruefully, but it is only faintly, just a moment, then it fades.  Smooths.  She exhales slowly, until the whole of her breath in gone, until she can feel herself hang in the moment before her body might begin to panic.  Where she is empty, but not yet yearning to be filled up again.  Where she is just a vessel, nothing more and nothing less.  But then she breathes in again, and it cannot be without purpose; now that this has begun, she cannot even breathe without it carrying a sort of knowing weight, a promise, a spill of things unsaid just waiting to be given voice.

"It is," she says.  There's more, but she leaves that be for a moment.  "And I will," she continues, each of these small statements seem to preface a but or other unweildy conjunction.  Instead Emily spans them with silence, pointed and meaningful, the sort of quiet that could only speak so clearly between siblings of the heart and ... Here she faulters, looks down, rolls her thumbs out in a small but expansive gesture (does not lose control of her mug).

"It's the sort of thing that I can tell you, and I will tell you, but only if you wish it.  But it's not a safe thing, but it is a glorious thing, and -- it's the sort of thought that changes everything..." she says.  Emily is not prone to flights of fancy or exaggeration.  She does not follow fantastic whims; Gregory has never known her to so much as espouse belief in something unseen or unquantifiable since her late teens.

"You sound like you've suddenly found God, Emily," he teases her, gently.

"Sort of," she says, with a quixotic and confused smile.  Her eyes were just a bit too bright to be teasing him.  "Except that He's real. And so is the Song.  I can hear it again, now, like I could when your father was here, when we were young.  And it's beautiful, Greg.  It's gorgeous and resonant, like it could lift you up to heaven by your soul alone -- it's amazing and terrible.  It's all real.  All these years I had no idea, but it is.

"I've spent the last year learning about all of this," she says, shaking her head a little, as if it's still just a little out of reach for her to eloquently set it into words.

"All of ... this?"

"Yes," she nods, a little. Just once.  Only once.  "But that's the thought, Gregory. I can tell you about it, all of it--I can show you some of it--but you can't put it away and forget it when we're done.  You'll either think me mad, or your life will start to shift," and here is the regret.  "There's no middle path."

One of Gregory's eyebrows rests higher than the other.  He regards his sister with a calm, level stare.  For all the cider they've had tonight, he's remarkably sober just now.  He stands, and crosses the few feet to her chair, leans over and kisses her forehead gently.

"All right," he says, and there's acceptance in those simple words. It wraps up the whole of what she's told him and accepts, wholesale, the strangeness of it and the gravity it has for her.  He can accept without belittling; he can be warmer than she often is.  "But let me sleep on it.  We'll talk in the morning, but for now?  Tonight?  Just be Emily."

Just be Emily, he tells her, and she smiles. Beatific and warm. Almost laughingly bright, almost, but not just quite.  Just be Emily, he says, and in this one place, this house, this city, it is enough.  She is enough.

She is Home.

Before the Quickening [ritual]

Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.
-George Iles
*** *** ***

The Singer girl is a profoundly private person, one who keeps the windows to her soul shaded, one who keeps the garden gate locked down tight.  At times it seems there are opened doors, outstretched hands, offers of kinship -- but there is always some thing she keeps back for herself.  It will surprise no one at all when Emily lays the armband across her upturned palm, closes her eyes and bows her head in silence.

She is the least of them, in years served and battles won.  She is still new, rough-hewn from her Sleeper self and imperfectly formed.  God is still refining her into her new and argent self, shining and brilliant, like a silversmith mid-process, bent to His work.  And yet...

And yet.

There is a Reverence that stirs around her, that clings to her curves and softens her silence.  It stirs the vestigial faith that they all must carry: Faith in something higher; Faith in their own Wills.  Belief of the highest order.  It builds, consuming the stillness, the apparent inaction of what working she manages.

Emily is not able to draw down the essence of the moon, or pull unseen spiritual strength from the world around her.  She has to give only what she can carry, what last bit she has drawn in from the Node before being stricken from its access list.  She is like a beggar before a Prince: unburdened yet by too much majesty, too many trappings of ritual and ceremony.

There is joy in what they are gathered to do but Emily is not in a joyful place this year.  Perhaps that lends a necessity and a sense of immanence to the art.  She knows these dark depths intimately and how even the smallest spark of Faith, of Hope can hasten the journey back to someplace hale and whole.

And because this feeling is universal, because the ache is poignant for all of them, it is a thing that ties them together in their humanity. It is no different from the need for love, or shelter, or food.  Hope is essential, in the same way that happiness is.  Even a small measure can sustain them through great trials.

These are the things she thinks about while she holds that small strip of handiwork aloft and unmoving, the small things that call her back, that make her remember: the whisper of wind through autumn leaves, the chill of snowflakes on her eyelashes, daybreak, a blue-eyed Singer boy, the Manchester House, the way gravity seems to shift when a plane takes flight, a candle flame, laughter, coming Home.  And this is what she repeats, over and over to herself, while she weaves these small and oh-so-simple things as much into her own thoughts as the bracelet: just open your eyes. It's right there in front of you. Just open them, look around, remember. There's always something, right there, to hold on to.

When Emily raises her head and passes the bracelet on, when she opens her eyes and looks around, there is indeed something worth holding on to before her.  Her eyes are bright and somewhat damp, and she excuses herself before long to regain her composure.  The Singer girl is deeply private, and keeps the pathways to her heart like secrets, warded shut.  

She cannot stay too long, and does not wish to discuss her offering with others, but it has been given freely and of her own will.  She has a westward plane to catch, you see.  New horizons to explore and friendships for her future to cement.  Part of rising up above the conflict and the sorrow is keeping busy, and never keeping still too long.  She will move forward, and in moving forward she will move past this.  This perseverance is part of what makes her also Unrelenting.

Mazel tov

[Israel Cohen] [Dex+Ath. +2 Diff [blind], -1 Diff [acute sense: hearing] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7) [WP]

[Israel Cohen] It is not uncommon for one to accompany the other on their nights of Sentry Duty -- at least for a portion of the time spent at the Chantry. If nothing else they tend to share their evening meal together and tonight Israel had called him [wherever he was -- with Solomon who knows. The book store? The house boat? Her house? Working on the Ophelia house? Business meeting? Clandestine associations with various unknown contacts? Sorting out the latest rises and falls of the coffee market?] to ask if he would bring something for dinner. She was craving something hearty and savory tonight: Stuffed chicken Marsala [her favourite Italian bistro is, of course, owned by Jews of Italian descent: They serve all of their meals in Kosher variations when requested] which, of course, means tiramisu to enjoy afterwords.

So it is that she waits for him while, effectively, babysitting the empty Chantry house. And the truth of the connection between them - mystically bonded among other things - is that she has a sense of him when he turns onto the block in his car. Which affords her enough time to hastily grab her coat, gloves and cane [but not her hat and scarf] and slip out the front door. Some snow is grabbed from the banister, but she doesn't stray too far from the front door... after all: He can sense her just as easily. A feeling of her near the front door shouldn't go amiss. She's expecting him after all. And so he'll make his way up the front walk without concern [or, at least, more wary alertness [paranoia?] than usual], she hopes... affording her a moment to listen to the sound of his foot steps...

"Hullo, Sol," Is her greeting in that softspoken voice of hers. The warmth of it tender... though there's something just beneath it...

..a slight huff of effort and she hurls the snowball at him. And if perhaps it sounds as though she giggles while she does it, let us assume that was only his imagination.

[Solomon Ward] [Oh Shit?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 4, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Solomon Ward] It had been unexpected, of course. Not the phone call, nor the request for food. The girl could eat her way out of a situation, if it had involved food of some nature. The idea of 'eats like a bird' truly rang home with Israel. Not the idea that birds don't eat, but the fact that some eat their body weight, and then some, most days...

I'm going to have to look over her aunts and get an idea of what age to expect her to start plumping...

Perhaps the snowball was a sign that he was not being as cautious as he usually is (Solomon? Hardly. Wishful thinking). No, no, twould be better to say that for all the sparring and challenges and training he and Israel put in from time to time, the fact he is juggling still hot bags of chicken and sides while contemplating her potential future weight, as well as high stepping through the snow lest it wet his trouser hems or leak into his shoes, and then...

Snow.

Specifically, a snow ball.

He'd almost ducked, not at the huff or the ball itself, but at her very tone as she greeted him. That was her 'Watch me do this' tone, her surprise! tone. Not ducking kept the snow out of his face. A slight side step kept most out of the front of his coat, literally, and that was about it. It bursts along his right shoulder and neck line, sending flecks of cold and wet and iciness against his neck and cheek and along one arm, to near instantly melt with wet plops as it runs down the warm bag.

"I suppose that was not unexpected. No matter, little bird. I'll have you pay for it later" some what cheeky tone, but this Solomon. No, must have been her imagination. The small smile as well as he indicated the door with a tilt of his head, despite her blindness.

"Care to eat now, or shall I drag you through the lawn first?"

[Atlas Mason] You really wouldn't think that driving a motorcycle in the middle of december would be a very smart move, but for some it was a choice, the hardest of the hard riding because if was their life and no small amount of white stuff on the ground would stop them, even if it was covering black ice. For a rare few however it was not a choice, but a necessity a few people only had a motorcycle and Atlas found himself snugly in the latter category. Not because it was a choice to do so, but simply because he hadn't bothered getting around to putting together a car yet.

And so down the road the rumble of his motorcycles engine began and slowly but steadily built into the roar that was so characteristic of the ancient machine as it drew closer and closer to the chantry. By the time it reached the chantries driveway one might very well wonder how Atlas has any hearing left, or how he had managed to avoid noise violations for the vehicle, all that aside though Atlas began the slow crawl up the driveway angling to park the bike off the drive, just incase someone else with a car happened to come along.

The roar died away as Atlas shut the machine down and stepped up and off, his helmet coming free with a click of the helmet strap. He smiled in his amiable way and waved to Israel and Solomon as he tucked the helmet in the well of the sidecar. "Israel, Solomon this is an unprojected temporal occurrence, I had not projected that your physical chemical biological structures in conjunction with your noospheric actualizations would be located at this nexus at this particular juncture within space time."

He commented as he stepped towards them, his riding boots crunching in the snow.

[Israel Cohen] She cannot watch the explosion as the snowball makes direct contact: She can, however, hear the slight changes in his breathing and the sound of impact itself. The tone in which he response which - for the man - is plenty cheeky enough and elicits a rare grin from her. Israel smiles often: A true grin that reveals the shallow dimple at her right cheek, however, is distinctly less common. It brightens her countenance considerably. While she doesn't quite disgrace herself by clapping her hands and jumping up and down, she does bounce just slightly on the balls of her [untied] boot clad feet.

"Silly Easterner... absolutely no contest whatsoever up against a good Midwestern girl." Light; teasing and more besides, though her voice is made slightly hoarse in the night air. It doesn't take much to strain that breathy voice far. "Let's eat -- I'm starving. You can device sinister ways in which to make me pay while I consume the nutrients I'll need to fend you off."

Feeling for and finding the door handle she gives it a turn and lets the door swing open: In a rarity of events she is the one motioning him to go in ahead of her. Because he has the bags of course.. not because she doesn't want to expose her back to him. Not at all.

Though going in is delayed somewhat at the roar of Atlas's old motorbike, then the sudden quiet [relatively] when the engine is cut, to be broken by his characteristic and unique speech patterns. Israel smiles in his very general direction [he is moving and it'l take a moment for her to 'hone' in on him with hearing and Awareness alone] lifting her free hand in greeting... towards him. She hopes.
"Hello, Atlas. Not too cold driving around on that, are you?"

And, in an aside to Solomon before Atlas comes closer - a bit of concern [ah, Israel] in her voice, "I don't know why we never think to order enough food for ourselves and five others when we're eating here." Somewhere between worry at not being able to be generous to others... and sadness that she'll have to wait to eat as it would be rude to eat in front of others when there isn't enough to go around. As if in testimony of the last her stomach grumbles slightly.

[about in her early to mid 40's is when Solomon might expect her to start to 'plum up' if she follows the trends of the other women in her family. earlier if she stops her normal exercise routine but given her lifestyle that isn't likely]

[Emily Littleton] Winter has settled onto Chicago again, bringing with it a bundle of anniversaries to celebrate or let slip past like sand through fingertips. Emily has been Awake for over a year now. She's been frequenting this house of dreams and nightmares for almost a year now. She's been on God's green Earth for twenty-three years and that recently passed annum whas been fraught with periods of community-building and soulful separatism. She is in the trough of one of the latter lulls, tonight.

Her boot heels click on the pavement, where her footfalls connect directly with the solid ground. Emily's heavy winter coat is dark, and the pale scarf she wears stands out in contrast. Her hair is pulled up demurely, pinned in place. She visits the Chantry now, not as an Emissary or a full-fledged member, but as a guest. As the Diplomat's Daughter. It is a meeting house, but in many ways it is no longer her meeting house. This melancholy comes with her, swaddled and wrapped up behind her better behaviors, her careful presence.

There is a gathering on the porch, still, when she mounts the front stairs. The smiles she offers each of them are warm enough, well enough.
"Good evening, everyone," she says, and her voice is clear, unfettered with troubles or emotion, unwearied by worry. There is still and always her muddled accent, touched through with places not here and not now. Perhaps the oddest thing is that the Singer comes, tonight, empty handed.

[Solomon Ward] "Georgia is in the South, dear" he comments dryly, though there isn't a hint of Southern twang in his voice, nor never was for that matter. All the same its where he considers himself to be from, and his occasional lack of imagination shows through in his dry tone, though he does heft the bag slightly and shake it a bit, contents jostling plastic to make noise for her.

Never mind all he has ever said and done for her, the Tradition, Chicago, or his endless Crusade against...well, the world.

Given an option of being shit, and the cold, Solomon would rather be shot... .

The motorcycle is some what of a surprise. Not necessarily its presence, nor that of the man who rides it (ok, slightly, the man doesn't come to the Chantry often), but the fact that any one is driving such a thing out in this weather... . On the flipside, sane and Mason rarely go together in a sentence, so... yeah, not as surprised as he could be, though his general hatred of all things wet and snowy do impart some sympathy for the man.

A nod to Atlas, and another to Emily as she arrives.

"Good evening, both of you. How have you been?" a hand moving to push the door open wider than for merely himself at Israel's behest, indicating that they should proceed before him "Please, do go in out of the cold."

[Atlas Mason] Atlas smiles to each of the individuals in turn, first Israel wasted as it might be and then on to Solomon and at last Emily as she joins them all on the porch. Atlas is empty handed tonight much as Emily was but it was likely this had intended to simply be a quick layover, checking the boards, wander through the library and then off to god knows where once again, that plan only changed now because well..there was people.

"Such a convergence was deemed unlikely recieving a ration of only five percent, however it's formulation is not in the negative aspect of social convergences, greetings to all. Emily, it is of notable positivity to acknowledge your actuality, it has been several cycles, your's as well Solomon."

He says in that oh so chipper voice before stepping inside the chantry proper. As he does he removes his boots before stepping off to the side to allow others to enter, you had to be courteous afterall.

[Emily Littleton] There is a note on the Chantry board that proclaims the dissolution of Emily's former cabal, the House of Leaves. Miss Littleton has been less a fixture in the Chicago community over the past month, owing to personal obligations, and finals and her waningly brief political career. When Mr. Ward asks how they've been, her smile is a little warmer but no less carefully guarded.

"I've been well, thank you. And Happy Christmas." She directs this specifically to Solomon as she steps inside the Chantry and begins to unbutton her coat. Emily does not hesitate to get out of the cold, however little it appears to bother her.

"I hope you've all been well. It seems winter has found us," she says, offering a small, rueful smile at that as she unwinds her scarf from about her neck. Her gaze lands on Atlas for a moment, and the corners of her mouth flex into a slightly warmer smile (It is good to see you too), before they are all ushered deeper into the Chantry's warmth.

This is about the time when Emily might have reached out to touch Israel in greeting. That doesn't happen tonight. The Singer has pulled back a little, retreated into a more professional and reticent demeanor.

[Israel Cohen] Were they alone she might have a dry retort for her once mentor, always friend, now-much-more... as it stands there is not just one new comer but Emily arrives as well [and yes, she does wonder what you chances of success may be were she to order more food and attempt to cajole Solomon into going back out to get it. these seem slim: He is not a men easily cajoled and does, indeed, abhorr the cold].

"Hi, Emily," words spoken with warmth and something else, just a touch -- something searching? Not so much open concern as an underscore of connection, of I care enough that I wonder if you are well after things I have heard. "I'm glad you've come over tonight; it's been too long." Which echoes what has been said of course but doesn't make it any less true.

They are stepping in now - Atlas moving out of the way; she is careful with her guide cane so as not to inadvertently whack anyone [somewhat assured that Solomon won't try some kind of treacherous ambush in reprisal now that there are others present] - and she removes her loose boots as well, "Same with you, Atlas. Things get so busy, I don't see half as much of most people nearly as often anymore."

Then, "There's some tea steeping in the kettle in the kitchen if anyone is interested. And I set up the fireplace successfully..." At that she inclines an ear towards Atlas with a quiet smile, "A skill I finally managed to learn thanks to Atlas."

[Solomon Ward] "Merry Christmas to you as well, and you Mr. Mason" as they enter the warmer climate of the house. His coat, wet both from regular snow earlier and the attack by Israel is removed and shaken out the door for a moment before he closes it behind them all, then hangs the coat. He continues, per usual, to wear the suit jacket inside however. At least, tonight, he does unbutton for a bit more casual comfort. As casual as the stiff starched shirt and vest underneath it are, anyway.

After that is settled he picks up the bag once more and takes it towards the kitchen, settin git on the table and speaking up and down the passage way as he begins to prepare it.

"By all means, get some thing warm to drink. I usually order extra, as Israel tends to eat small villages dry this time of year, but between this and whats in the refrigerator I'm sure I can arrange some thing."

The disbanding of the House is hardly commented on. He'd never seen it as much of a cabal at all in all honesty, though to mention such verbally would be rude.

[Atlas Mason] Atlas had removed his own coat as well in the time it had taken the others to enter and remove any unwanted items such as shoes, hats, coats and the like. The coat was hung next to Solomon's and the man moved down the hallway towards the kitchen in his usual white shirt and suspenders combo, because every occasion is done best with suspenders.

"The inability to initiate a basic chemical oxidization reaction resulting in a ignition event resulting in a continual matter to heat combustion reaction is simply unacceptable, every personage should have the sufficient data to do so, Israel was quite proficient when suppiled with the prerequisite data packets." He comment's as he moves down the hallway.

Atlas was also aware of the situation with the house of leaves and its recent disbanding and he gives Emily a slightly wider smile inspite of himself, but it wasn't something to be discussed in public, it was more for quiet moments between two people and not aired publicly. "Those of you who do enjoy frequenting my vessel should do so at your nearest convienience." He says casually as he steps up to the coffee pot and starts prepping it to run. "As the exponential increase in aberrant factors within this cityscape have facilitated the necessity of relocating the vessel identified as the lafette to another locality not so easily obtained by standard means."

[Emily Littleton] She threads her scarf through her hands in an idle movement. Emily has always had more trouble with keeping still than she has with keeping quiet. There are echoes of angels and demons and deaths splattered among these walls for her that she feels more keenly in the chill of the year. She does not take off her boots; she will likely not go barefoot in this place for many years to come.

Under her open coat she's wearing dress slacks and a pale pink button down shirt. There's a glint of silver at her throat, as always, but the college kid persona has been neatly exchanged for something with a little more gravitas again. In many ways, Emily has grown up over the quiet of Autumn. She has struggled and not always triumphed, but her repose has returned at long last.

"Tea sounds lovely," she tells Israel, and there's a little warmth in her tone that wasn't there for the others. It's thin and fleeting, but present nonetheless. "Would you like me to pour for everyone?" she asks, lifting her eyebrows and scanning the others for yeas and nays before heading toward the kitchen.

The sight of a holiday tree in the living room draws the cadence of her footfalls to a slow, and then to a stop. She glances at it, then back at Solomon, and then heads on to the kitchen. This pointed look is all the commentary Emily has to offer on the holiday decor.

"I'd like to visit again, Atlas," she tells him, but he can already hear the conjunction creeping into her voice before she gets to: "But it will have to be when I get back from holiday. I'll be away for a couple weeks," she tells them. Then offers a weakly wry smile and says: "I suppose it's convenient that I do not need now to get my sentry shifts covered."

And the taboo conversation topic has been acknowledged, touched upon lightly, and put behind them. Just like that. Emily sets her scarf on the counter and pours out the prescribed number of mugs of tea. She holds on to her own while they talk. She doesn't take off her coat. She doesn't claim a seat as her own. (She does not intend to stay.)

[Israel Cohen] As Israel tends to eat small villages dry this time of year...

As is often the case when she finds herself pointed out in some manner, Israel still has the old tendency to colour slightly, hearkening back to a much younger woman who was painfully shy -- a young woman only Solomon remembers so far as the Magi in Chicago go. She doesn't seem distressed or discomfited, though, and smiles along with the mild blushing; even snorts slightly. "Like all of God's creatures do in the Winter, I am simply going about adding on a few healthful pounds for added warmth," is her vocal retort, gently wry.

Before leaving the door she hangs up her own coat and slips off her gloves to place them in her left coat pocket. Either Atlas or Emily may then - or at some point after - become aware of a new [and rather noticeable] piece of jewelry on her left ring finger: A round diamond solitaire, about three fourths of a carat in size; enough to be distinctive and lovely without overwhelming the finespun, delicate build of her hand. No, she doesn't wave it about; she doesn't spend her time caressing its newness on her person, but it is there for those who spot such things.

Moving in after the others, her head tilts slightly at Atlas' last comment, "Where have you moved it?" Where does one move a ship of that size is the unspoken curiosity.

Then, to Emily, "Please, would you?" In regards to the tea and there is, yes, a soft undercurrent of relief there. Israel tends to feel such responsibilities so far as playing a good hostess goes [and, being on sentry duty tonight, perhaps she feels the need] but pouring out steaming hot tea - while not at all impossible - is not precisely easy for her, either. There is gratitude in her response... and again that subdued undercurrent of concern [but not pushing it] when she asks, "When are you leaving? If you will still be in the city around the 20th there is something I've been meaning to ask of you."

[Emily Littleton] [Alertness: I notice things?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Israel Cohen

[Solomon Ward] Solomon goes through practiced motions. The sort of man that enjoys the continuity and discipline that are born of routine. The movement of hands that are some what rapid and yet well practiced, even here in another kitchen, of doing things himself. Grab this, pour that, set these to the side sorts of things. It isn't long before various glasses and mugs are poured and steeping and bits of honey or the milk or sugar are set aside for when they're ready. Chicken removed from bags, small stacks of fixings in Styrofoam, simple things.

"Yes, you taught the sight impaired to set things on fire. Thank you, Mr. Mason", though his tone his well humored, dry, but all the same. The hint of rough gravel in his damaged throats doesn't detract from the slight grin he wears, which only pull at his scarring slightly. "And no, Ms. Littleton, but thank you", he says.

Doubtless it won't be to British standards of the beverage, but Solomon doesn't half ass any thing either.

"I see. Mr. Mason, are you capable of placing far-viewing wards in the sphere commonly called Correspondence?"

[Atlas Mason] The women could have their tea but Atlas would have his coffee, regardless of how long he had spent in the United Kingdom Atlas was still very much a coffee man. He put the grounds into the coffee maker and nods in Solomon's direction. "The skills required to initiate actualization diffusion and metaphysical negation are within my noospheric and scientific capabilities Solomon, such defenses are already actualized aboard the Lafette in a variety of manner's." He says as he puts the pot back in its place and starts the coffee machine letting it percolate.

Atlas turns then and nods to Emily. "Your convergence upon my vessel will be eagerly anticipated and initial preparations for a suitable visitation shall be made prior to your arrival Emily. As well necessary arrangement's for suitable transportation to and from the vessels current locality will be necessary, given that it currently resides in the primary water body of the geographical feature identified currently as Lake Michigan, with its current security and privacy guidelines, the Lafette should be relativistically safe from intrusion until such a time as true submersion can be re-actualized."

Its as he talks in his long winded and scientific way that Atlas spots that nifty piece of jewelery upon Israel's finger, perhaps it was the shift of the light through the diamond, or maybe it was the distinctive color of the band that caught his eye, but the particulars and meaning of such a ring upon that finger stopped Atlas in his tracks, the man looking for a moment at Israel as if trying to piece something together, before he turned quickly back to the coffee maker.

[Emily Littleton] They've each noticed, in their own ways. Emily's gaze lingers on Israel's left hand for a moment, and then the edges of her mouth curls in a faint but pleased and sentimental smile. However difficult the close of the year has been for her, personally, there is always room for another's joy. Borrowed on, perhaps, but not beggared by the sharing.

"I was thinking of flying out tomorrow afternoon, but I can push that back," she says, as if changing her flight arrangements was hardly worthy of being even an afterthought. Emily handled travel quite differently than most people. Boarding a transatlantic flight was of little more consequence to her than taking the El was to most of them. "What did you have in mind?"

She brings a mug of tea to where Israel is standing or has settled. This she sets near the Orphan, and is clear enough about how she puts it down to leave an aural placement in Israel's mind. "I put your tea here," she says, out of kindness so that the unseeing one did not bump her hand into a mug of hot liquid. There is the scent of vanilla and clove to Emily tonight, faint but still warming against her skin, and the damp smell of melted snow against her wool coat.

Quiter then, she adds: "And mazel tov" before moving away to find a place to stand that is outside of the traffic flow. Unintentionally, she has taken up a stance not unlike Mr. Page's customary lean and scowl -- with a little less scowl, and a little more watchful inclusion.

[Solomon Ward] "Well, just be careful how they are.... actualized..." he says, though he chooses to ignore the differences in paradigm and theology and philosophy behind these things, for the time being. The general gist of what was needed was the same. "Apparently a satellite photo designed to look for such things noticed areas that couldn't be easily read, so they've been indicated as zones by our friends out there", though the meaning of thew word is not its definition, not in his tone at least.

"So either stay mobile, or, and I'm not insulting your skill or ability, go back over your weaves or formula or however you do it and make sure it isn't just a wall block but some thing subtle. They've noticed a lot of Wards around this city".

Then to Emily, turning about to lean against the counter now that he'd passed out all other mugs and prepared his own as well, sans sugar. "Going some where for the Holidays?"

[Israel Cohen] Solomon is moving about getting together plates and food servings; Atlas is making himself coffee as she can ascertain by the scent of the ground beans and then the sounds of the coffee maker in action [she has no means at the moment, however, to notice his pause when he notices the ring - or to notice that he sees it as reacts at all]; Emily moves in closer and places a mug of tea beside her, adding new aromas to her immediate awareness, all of them well received and contentedly inhaled. A Mazel tov is spoken and Israel responds instinctively in Hebrew, "B'Karov Etzlecha," Emily may or may not know that this literally means 'Soon so shall it be by you' though it does not necessarily mean she wishes Emily to be engaged to be married soon, but rather that soon a similar depth of blessing and good fortune should find the other woman as well.

She says it in quiet earnest, reaching out a hand to lightly brush over the younger woman's arm - a brief squeeze of her hand - and then, before she moves away, "It is something of a private matter. I'll talk to you about it a little later?"

Then, to Atlas after Solomon speaks of the need to be more careful - and clever - with Wards, "If you need any help with tweaking or adjusting the Lafette's Wards I'll be happy to offer whatever help I can," spoken with easy candor, quite oblivious - at the moment - that anything might have taken the man briefly amiss.

[Atlas Mason] Atlas had been staring quite intently at the coffee maker as the conversation had continued around him. He nodded in regards to Solomon's suggestions but made no vocal confirmation of plans to do so or not do so. He was waiting diligently for a cup of coffee yes...coffee would make things better, much better.

But then Israel offers aid, it is a direct statement, one that requires an answer more then Solomon's words and he pried his eyes from the machine before him and turned to face the Orphan, his face twisted slightly as he opened his mouth to speak. "I..." He pauses and he shakes his head for a moment. "I will return to this locality within one or two temporal unit's." He manages as his composure shifts once more. He turns briefly to Solomon as if to distract himself. "Disengage the liquid-vegetation amalgamation device within the next forty five standard seconds would you?" He says quickly, before equally quick paces carry him out of the room.

[Emily Littleton] Emily sips at her tea while this discussion over the artful use and subtle disguising of wards unfolds. Her attention flicks back and forth between her Mentor (for all intents and purposes, though they do not draw that relationship out formally for all to see) and the Etherite. Whatever she thinks or feels about this, though, is keep carefully concealed behind her own social camouflage. One imagines that Emily, with her art for verbal misdirection and her intellect, might tuck this conversation away in memory for another date, whereon she may practice ward making on her own. That was still ever so slightly beyond her grasp.

"Certainly, Israel," she says, in answer to the other woman's aside. Then her attention flicks back to Solomon. "I'm visiting Miss Carraway, and then going on to see my family in Provence. I should be back in the city around the New Year."

The region's name is said with the proper inflection, a thing learned but not quite understood. Emily speaks a few words of French, and most of those are please and thank yous or impolite invectives. Solomon can surmise why she might be visiting the other Knight. Emily has made her interest in the Guardian Orders clear during their on-going training.

She looks over in the direction Atlas went, then drops her gaze back to her tea and sips from it again.

[Solomon Ward] Emily isn't the only one to spare a glance to Atlas, though Solomon's lingers a moment longer than her own... . He didn't quite understand it. Not really. After all, the man was rather intelligent, despite his oddities and obvious insanity. Astute was an understatement. He had to have known, it was rather obvious... .

...so how does a man who dabbles in awkward sciences and complex theories study a coffee maker so hard?

Surely he knows how it works... .

"&+1502;&+1492; &+1492;&+1489;&+1506;&+1497;&+1492; &+1513;&+1500;&+1493;?" to Israel, lightly, before he turning back to finish the plates and set them on the table, all the while addressing Emily. "I see. Well, be careful and safe travels. I do hope you enjoy your visits. Do stop by before you go, however. I have some books for you to take"

Because if you're leaving town, you're still not leaving the man's rather rigorous regime of study and theory and theology. Nope... it isn't that easy.

[Atlas Mason] [Pass Atlas this turn]

[Solomon Ward] (is 1 am and I have baby duty in the morning, so Im gonna have to cut Solomon out soonish)

[Israel Cohen] She may have missed the sudden stop or Atlas starring so intently at the coffee maker; but she certainly doesn't miss the way his words catch, the halting quality to them; almost a stammer. As soon as he begins to speak that way she begins to pay more attention, head tilting to one side in that supple feline manner she has; a slight frown furrowing her eyebrows vaugely with surprise and concern and...

...he wanders off; excuses himself. Solomon speaks to her lowly in Hebrew - a query - and Emily sips her tea [keeping what is private blessedly private]. Israel's neck and cheeks drain of colour just slightly, like someone who receives something of a shock. Then colour builds again, now in excess and to Solomon's question she responds - almost absently - "&+1488;&+1504;&+1497; &+1500;&+1488; ... &+1500;&+1488; &+1497;&+1493;&+1491;&+1506;" And there is, yes, a point in which she speaks one word then changes it... her lips twist slightly and Sorrow spikes in her; Sorrow and an expression that speaks of not really knowing what to do at the moment. A rarity when it comes to trying to help people but there it is... she is, there and then, at a real loss of how to proceed.

In the end she stands rather lamely... clears her throat; blinks slightly and speaks again at normal [for her] levels, "Provence? I've heard it's lovely there.. I hope you have a happy Christmas with your family." The right words; a good attempt to move back into the conversation but the attempt is pale.

[Emily Littleton] [I sort of need to go soonish, too. My head's hurting with all this conversation within a conversation stuff. Maybe Em should go get her study books from Sol and pack for going away?]

[Israel Cohen] [[Yeah, it's late here all around so *laughs* I guess we can all wrap up? Er.. somehow?]]

[Emily Littleton] [Let me try to wrap us!]

[Atlas Mason] [sure!]

[Emily Littleton] Emily's not emotionally unseeing, she just keeps a rather clear line between her feelings and everyone else's. One could imagine that she is overly aware of the repercussions of muddying that division, just now. Still there is an awareness in her of whatever spikes in Israel, and her gaze follows to the hollow that Atlas has left behind once more, even as she speaks to the Orphan.

"I'll bring you some lavender." There's a gentleness to her voice, it's meant to help soothe the awkwardness of the moment. "The French are excellent at indulging all of their senses. I'm sure I'll find a few good things to brighten up your winter spice rack, too."

She glances down at her tea and finds it nearing to empty. Emily places a hand on Israel's arm, briefly. Her fingers are warm to the touch from holding fast her mug.

"I'll ring you about the twentieth. I should get going though, and give you two some time yourselves." Now that smile is shared with Solomon, however briefly, before it turns into a nod as his continued (constant) admonishments over her studies. In truth, Emily is a diligent student, despite the other claims that her mortal life holds to her. "I'll stop by before I go, and I'm sure we'll find a way to keep in touch while I'm away."

She washes her mug and sets it aside, then winds her scarf around her neck and buttons up her coat. Emily bids them a good night, and wherever she finds Atlas on her way out of the Chantry, she wishes him a Happy Christmas, and offers him a small and sympathetic smile.

This is Emily, herald of holiday cheer, wishing Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. It's an odd role for her to fill, perhaps, but also fitting given her return to the ranks of the openly Faithful.

[Emily Littleton] [Jessiah says their net dropped, so they're not going to be back on AIM or in chat tonight to wrap their characters. And to tell you thank you for the scene!]
to Atlas Mason

[Atlas Mason] [Sounds good, we can call it with your post. so thank you for the scene Syll and ill catch ya later!]

A mutual decision

[Molly Quincannon] It's been a rough few days for a lot of people, and Molly's no exception. (It's likely to get rougher, seeing as what's at this moment being shoved under the crack in her front door by people who have no consideration for 'DANGER: HIGH VOLTAGE' signs, but that's for later. Now is now.) But a certain note on the Chantry bulletin board indicates that there's more sudden bumpy road for various people in a lot of ways, and Molly is concerned as well as curious, so investigations are in order.

One she doesn't know.
One she has no contact for.
One she can't call (until and unless he calls first).
And Emily's the one she's most worried for anyway.

Therefore, there's a call for Emily asking if she's okay, and if she wants to meet up for coffee and chat. She gives a time and a place (she names the tea house that she knows that Ashley and Emily frequent; Molly's more partial to Joe's but this is for Emily, not her) and arrives on the early-ish side of on-time after an appointment with the optician in which she got mroe than a little bit of a funny look for how hard she apparently is on her glasses. She's still wearing the old pair, in point of fact, while waiting for the new ones to get made - the nose-bridge is mended with electrical tape and the lenses are scratched, probably by whatever impact caused the fading bruises on her face. She's a bit of a mess all around, is Molly - Ace bandage on her right wrist, oil stains on her fingers that she's tried to clean but will probably take a few more scrubs to remove and a slight stiffness of bearing.

There's a pot of the peach black tea that she and Emily both have a fondness for on the table, as well as a couple of pastries courtesy of the tea shop. One can tell they're not Molly's work because they don't look like they've been assembled by a five-year-old, a hallmark of Molly's cooking. With comforting things set out, Molly waits.

[Emily Littleton]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 6, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
to Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] It's deep into winter weather, now. The blizzard over the weekend had dumped piles of snow all over the Midwest, closed airports, collapsed the Milwaukee metrodome. Winter was in full swing, and so Emily's coat is buttoned all the way up and her hair is pulled back low at the nape of her neck so that it won't get tangled in the weave of her hat. There is a scarf wound around her neck and ...

... no, she has yet to really acquiesce to gloves. So her hands stay in her pockets, and she has developed the usual graduate student hunch against the cold. Her messenger bag keeps close company to her side, even though the school term has finished. When she doffs the coat, and scarf, and hat, though, runs her fingertips through curls that are neither unruly nor perfectly kempt today, and settles into the table beside Molly, Emily is every bit her father's daughter.

She is smiling, just warmly enough, just like she always does, not quite warm enough to be friendly, perse, but leaning that way. She's always insinuating friendship where it doesn't quite yet seem ready to blossom. Emily is not naturally warm the way Riley is. Was. Probably still is, somewhere.

"Hey, Molly," she says, settling into her chair, pared down to just her sweater and jeans she seems almost like the Emily Molly first met. Her eyes are calm, clear, a little less encumbered than when they usually met. "Happy Holidays," she adds, not insinuating a particular religious flavor to the greeting, though Molly could guess at Emily's personal preferences.

There's a touch of concern in her features when she takes in the tape-mended glasses frame, the bruise on Molly's face; it deepens when she sees the wrapped wrist. Emily's smile shifts slightly toward a displeased frown.

"Are you alright?" she asks. The tea and cookies and comfort things can wait, just now. Emily may not be an Emissary any longer, but she is concerned about her fellow magi. She is still ready to stand beside them and fight, however wearying that can become, and perhaps, today, it is more about the warpath than she had expected. "Is everyone else alright, too?"

[Molly Quincannon] "Hey, Emily. Merry Christmas." While Molly isn't particularly religious (though, oddly, she celebrates the entire season as Yule), she knows Emily's preferences, and is flexible enough in her holiday well-wishes to give a specific one where preferences may be. The season means a thing to Molly, and it means another to Emily, but it all comes down to the same root, so she's not going to be a PC Nazi about the whole thing.

Emily's concern-query injects a certain amount of sheepishness into Molly's smile, and a bit of pain, and a bit of pride. Never let it be said that Molly's in any way simple. "Oh, sore but surviving," she replies. "It wasn't Cloudy-With-A-Chance-Of-Doom stuff. The face and the glasses was ... you don't read Failblog, do you? There's an unfortunate picture of my poor TARDIS after a run-in with a patch of black ice, some kid's snowman and an outdoor, decorated Christmas tree. In that order. Thanks be to Kibo for air bags, is all I can say, and that'll teach me to drive when I'm upset. So I'm still working on the repairs and the wrist is only slowing me down. Nathan's teaching me to shoot and encouraged me to show off by firing one-handed. It ... didn't go very well. Though the rest of it did. I guess all that Duck Hunt as a kid paid off."

There's been enough explanation of why Molly's not immediately hefting teapot and pouring, but there's a certain amount of 'tea can wait; questions nao kthnx'. "But never mind me and my various levels of low-key owie. I saw the bulletin board. You seem to be doing pretty well, considering. I mean, I know that came up when you and I talked last, but ... well, last time I talked to any of your erstwhile crew, that ... wasn't exactly what we had to yell at each other about." She shakes her head, getting back on topic. "I mean ... how'd that one go over?"

[Emily Littleton] Molly doesn't pour tea, but Emily does. About halfway through the explanation of why Molly came complete with minor medical accouterments today, Emily took up the teapot and began pouring for her. There's a delicacy to her wrists and elbows whenever she pours tea, a whisper of grace from somewhere not here and likely not England either. It's a hallmark of one of her borrow traditions that she wears like a second skin, and sets aside without remark.

She does pause, though, and glance over at the mention of the outdoor decorated Christmas tree. There's a little wince of sympathy. Then she finished pouring for them both and sets the teapot aside.

Emily makes a small, dismissive gesture, then takes that hands on to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It's easy, effortless. Her smile broadens and warms slightly.

"Oh, is that what you were worried about?" she asks, as if it had come as a little surprise after all. "No, really, it was a mutual decision --" which is, for those of you following along at home, precisely how she worded her break up with Chuck all those months ago, "-- and probably a long time coming. But now he doesn't have to do rounds, and I'm free of Emissary meetings."

There's an easy lilt to her voice, a comfortable cadence. Emily takes up her tea and sips from it, then glances at it approvingly. She likes this flavor.

"You'll be down to three again, I think," she says, of the council. "It should be easier to find a majority vote now. There's a thing." She lifts her mug a little, as if to toast the simplification of local politics.

[Molly Quincannon] The glance she gets at the mention of outdoor decorated Christmas tree gets a shrug and a sheepish wince. Maybe someday she'll laugh about the time she's spent (and will yet spend) digging Christmas tree lights and tinsel out of her front bumper. Today is not that day. Tomorrow doesn't look good either. (And let's not mention the roof-mounted snowman head. Even if every commentor on Failblog did.)

But at least that is not what they're talking about today. Yes, Emily seems fine. Molly doesn't doubt for a second that the Chorister is fine. But you can't read that from a note on a bulletin board, after all. "Well, that's good to hear. Well, not good, exactly, 'cos it's not exactly puppies and rainbows when a crew breaks up, even if it is a mutual decision, but..." She shrugs, picking up her tea left-handed. "Well. You sounded a bit upset by the prospect when we last talked, was all, so when I saw that, I thought I'd check in. Y'know."

She sips her tea and then sighs. "Man, Chuck's having a worse week than I am. And in some ways, it's the same damn week. I'd feel sorry for him if I weren't so angry with him. As to majority votes and all ... I dunno. Maybe that's a good thing, maybe no. I admit, I think I liked the idea of someone as diplomatic as you seem to be on the Emissary Council. Just now, I dunno what we're going to end up left with. I think Wharil's having a rough time right now, for one thing. But then, I haven't even been to any meetings yet. Though I guess you're just as well to be missing the next one. Atlas is on me to basically dismantle the whole system for one he likes better. When I haven't even been to a meeting yet. Politics, man. Never thought I'd be up to my neck in it."

Then she realises that she's more or less complaining when that wasn't the intent. "Sorry. Mainly I just thought I'd check in. Hard to tell how someone you're fond of's coping via bulletin board message, y'know? And everyone needs tea and a change of scene now and then."

[Emily Littleton] "Israel's diplomatic. You'll do fine. And Wharil? Wharil knows how to stick to his principles, and that's the heart of everything the Emissaries are trying to do," Emily tells her, inequivocally. There's surety in it, and a measure of calm now that Emily doesn't have to deal with that process herself. She had never wanted to be part of the Council to begin with, but the Singer had a hard time shirking responsibility when it found her.

"Though I appreciate the concern. Thank you," she tells Molly, even briefly makes eye contact as if she has nothing to hide. Emily sips from her tea, now, too. "Mmm, and on that change of scenery -- I'll be out of town most of the month. I'm visiting another Singer to try and study up on a few things, and then I've holidays in Provence with my family." This earns another wave of one hand, like a forgettable thing, something imminently unimportant.

"Are you traveling for the holidays or staying here?" she asks, happy to shift the conversation away from her cabal's quite implosion. Blessedly, Emily does not venture toward the failblog-worthy conversation topic either.

[Molly Quincannon] When so reassured, Molly smiles a little, with a tiny touch of nerves. Overconfident she may be, but there's a difference between I can survive this and I can be taken seriously. Still, she doesn't go into it. She doesn't know what's up with Wharil, but if Emily's sure that he'll be fine Council-wise, she'll respect that. After all, she knows nothing about these kinds of things.

The thanks get a shrug and a more sure sort of grin. "No problem. I try not to fuss, but I think Israel's rubbing off on me. Her and Ellie, who fusses like whoa. Anyway, sounds like fun, the fuss and Provence. Never been out of the States myself, so I'll hope you can find it in your heart to send me a postcard. As for me, I'm staying here. At least it's not going to be me, a microwaved turkey dinner and my usual overdose of Christmas shmaltz-movies this year, which is kind of novel. Ellie and I are going to try to roast a duck or something. And then there will be shmaltz-movies. Possibly A Muppet Christmas Carol."

[Emily Littleton] Molly hasn't been out of the States at the holidays. Emily tries not to be in them. Her travels are the stuff of magic and wonder to some of the other magi, but really it's just the lifestyle she's always had. So last year was Taipei, and this year is Provence, and few, if any, Christmases have been spent at her family home since her grandmother died. Where Emily would like to be? That's bundled up in front of a fire at the Manchester house. Where she will be? At her mother's side, dressed like a Diplomat's Daughter, using her fussy Northern accent to sound a little more impressive than she actually is to people who couldn't judge her full merit if they tried.

This is the first year she'll be celebrating Christmas, reborn into her place within the Church and Chorus. Still she smiles at the mention of schmaltz movies, or roasting a duck, or the general conviviality that people associate with holiday good cheer.

"I'll bring you a postcard back. Maybe even a Christmas present," Emily tells her, with a smile that is warmer than patience but quieter than mirth. "It sounds like you've found a family-of-sorts in friends. It's a good thing. I wish you well with your duck," she says, as if it's quite the undertaking. Emily has been supportive of Molly's forays into the culinary world. Emily is, usually, a fairly supportive person.

"I've a favor to ask, though, if you wouldn't mind? I need somewhere for An to stay while I'm away. Seeing as having Chuck look in on her went so well last time that she all but mauled me for attention when I got back after a week -- perhaps not again, non? And just dropping her at Owen's flat would be cruel, to them both. Might you be willing to look after her for the two weeks I'm away?"

[Molly Quincannon] "Thanks." That's first, and sincere. "Oh, and speaking of presents, seeing as I wasn't sure you weren't going to be around, I brought this from under the tree at the House." From her laptop bag comes a wrapped parcel - it's roughly square, about the size of a dinner plate and kind of squashy, suggesting that something of cloth is inside. It's wrapped in green wrapping paper printed with 'CAN HAZ' in white LOLcat font. "You can feel free to open it now, or wait until actual Christmas. And yeah, I'm lucky in my friends and their family-of-sorts-ness. Haven't spoken to my blood relations in over ten years now - by choice, so ... y'know, no issue - so I feel blessed to have people I can share the seasonal warm-n-fuzzies with. Especially people in a smiliar boat to me."

Mention of An gets an agreeable chuckle. "I think I can manage having An dropped on me, seeing as I'm the reason she needs a place to be dropped in the first place. Neal and Hardison are pretty contained, so that's not an issue, and if Ellie can take Hardison spazzing through the Deep Roads, An won't be a problem. I'll reinforce the playpen and hope An doesn't find my beanbags as tasty as she does that cushion on that rocking chair at yours." (You see, Molly doesn't know that it was Owen's Chair. She barely knows that it is An's Chair. She just knows that it is a chair.) "So just give me a heads-up when you need to drop her and her bits and pieces over at my place. I'd offer to do pick-up, but I'm kind of nervous about driving the TARDIS in this weather until I at least get the muffler fixed and the snow tyres on."

[Emily Littleton] "I'm pretty sure she's just being spiteful with that pillow, but I'll bring it along so that your beanbags are saved," Emily tells her, with a low chuckle underscoring her words. There's a fondness for the kitten, now, but Emily has not grown into a pet person overnight. She is an Architect and a Perfectionist, and these do not jive with small, fuzzy, self-interested bundles of free-ranging teeth and claws living in the same apartment as she does.

The Singer tests the gift, squishing it slightly with her fingertips with its texture yields. Not firmly enough to crinkle the paper, but just enough to give a hint of the gift inside.

"Thank you, Molly. For the gift, and for kitten-sitting."

Molly doesn't know it's Owen's chair, so she can't use it as a segue to ask after the other Singer, so Emily is spared yet another round of politely demuring replies to another person's concerns. In all fairness, the rocking chair should have slipped from Owen's to An's by now. There's still part of Emily that wants to bring it back to Good Will and let it find a new home to warm. But she can't, just yet. It's not that she's hoping on a Christmas miracle or anything so self-centeredly silly. It's just that she isn't ready for that dwindling bit of hope to be extinguished, just yet.

These are things she doesn't even hint at, though. They're quiet sadnesses she's carried for so long that they don't even merit mention. They don't rise to the planes of her eyes, or darken the corners of her mouth. They're weightless. Soon to be forgotten.

She sips at her tea.

"I hope the Tardis is mended soon, as is your confidence. Driving in snow is particularly wretched. I try not to do it, but public transport in winter isn't all that much better. Six of one sorrow, half a dozen of the other misery."

[Molly Quincannon] The bit about kitten-'spite' gets a laugh. "I'm convinced that pets do that kind of thing for attention. At least she seems to keep it to the pillow?" It's an honest question; she's hopeful, always, that An isn't wreaking havoc on poor Emily's house. Still, they seem to be getting on well enough ... though with Emily, it's always hard to tell if anything's actually bothering her. "But you're welcome, anyway. For the gift, and for kitten-sitting."

Emily has a kitten. Therefore, Emily knows 'circumspect watchful anticipatory' looks. When Emily tests the gift, that's the look on Molly's face; clearly Molly is going to respect Emily's decision to open it as and when she likes, but ... curious Molly wants to know what Emily thinks of it. (This time of year must drive a certain Cultist absolutely crazy.) But she smothers that with another sip of tea and a moving on to the other point of conversation. "Oh, it's not the confidence thing, exactly. Like I said, that's what I get for driving after an argument. I'll know better next time and keep it out of my head while I'm driving. Just I don't want to hit a bump I can't see for the snow and lose the muffler entirely. And yeah, public transport's brutal this time of year. The delays, man, seriously. Freezing my butt off on an El platform is not my favourite way to spend time. But we persevere."

Then, another line of questioning. "So how's school, anyway? It's about finals time of year, isn't it?"

[Emily Littleton] There, again, is the dropped mention of an argument -- Emily can guess with whom and about what -- that Emily lets slide right by. She doesn't furrow her brow slightly; she doesn't tip her head quizzically. It's mentioned and then it's passed them by, all in one heartbeat.

"I'm just glad you're okay," is what she says, instead of asking. It belies a sort of concern that does not really need to be spoken. It absolves her of asking after anything more personal. This is a fine line; Emily is familiar with walking this tightrope.

"I finished last week, and I finished grading this weekend," Emily says, about school, with a palpable measure of open relief. "Now my mind and my time are my own until the new year. It's a good feeling. I could find things to do in the lab, if I really needed to, but I want out of this city like you cannot imagine. So Seattle will be a good break. And Provence is always lovely. And maybe, by the time I get back, I'll actually be ready for the new variations on the Dog Ate My Homework routine."

She smiles. It's warm and generous today. There's laughter behind it, even as she mocks the undergrads who try to tell her that the email server was down -- or some such nonsense -- each year at this time.

"Speaking of the El," she says. "It's my ride home tonight, so I can't stay too late."

[Molly Quincannon] Molly doesn't actually want to discuss the argument - not with Emily, and actually not with anyone. She did her venting with handguns. (And one very big shotgun, even if it was loaded with blanks. And a kerboom of epic proportions courtesy Nathan's newly-acquired skill with Matter.) She's as over it as she's going to be until whatever happens next ... well, happens. It's just A Thing What Happened. So she smiles and says, "Hey, we all know it takes more than that to flatten me completely. But again, thanks for the concern." A blanket statement, which covers the physical, mental and emotional. It'll do.

Mention of Seattle ... okay, so Molly doesn't bother to hide a bit of a cutting her eyes away from Emily. There's no offered explanation, as it's only a tiny moment, as her gaze returns to the here and now when conversation turns to Provence. Then the mockery of the undergrads, which gets a chuckle - Emily's smile might have laughter behind it, but Molly's rarely content to leave laughter lurking behind her eyes or smile. Laughter, she believes, should be free-range.

Then she nods acquiescence to the bit about not staying long. "I can't either, really - my new glasses will be ready for pick-up soon. No more electrical tape! But enough time to have tea and pastry, if only briefly. And hey, at least it means I got to touch base with you before you leave this snowy wasteland we call Chicago. We'll try not to burn it down in your absence."

[Emily Littleton] "Well that, there, is cause to celebrate," Emily says, with a smile that finally blossoms into a full grin. "No more electrical tape!" It could be a rallying cry, possibly had been one in her lab at one time, could be again whenever she gets back to it. They both seem in good enough spirits, all things considered. Perhaps they two were a testament to the mind-over-matters powers willworkers necessarily had.

"I've been a little out of touch with everyone, lately," Emily admits. She doesn't press any lament or relief into that, so Molly's left with the impression that the Singer thinks these things happen. That she thinks these things will mend themselves in time. "Thank you, again, for calling. It's good to see you. And I hope the new glasses are all sorts of lovely, and that the wrist mends soon -- even if only so you can wrestle the duck in and out of the holiday oven without it becoming a team sport."

There's warmth enough in Emily to carry them to the end of the tea-and-pastries meet and greet. There's grace enough to get them out the door and back into the blustery Chicago winter without any touch of sadness or awkwardness.

This is what she does, or, rather, it's what she can do: smooth things over until the rough places seem less abrasive and immediate.

Honey & spices (paused)

[Emily Littleton] There are few things in Emily's life, just now, that take precedence over a phone call or message from Nico saying he's been released, against medical advice or otherwise. Office hours at the very tail end of the semester is not one of them. Much to a few freshmen's dismay, she cancels hers and heads for the Park instead. No doubt her department has noticed that she's not the most diligent about her teaching responsibilities outside of mandated class times, but it hasn't endangered her fellowship. Yet.

She's gotten her winter coat out of the closet now; the first snowfall ushered it back into her rotation. It's heavy, wool, with warm pockets. There's something hidden in one of those pockets, just now, that keeps a corner of her mind pre-occupied.

Emily's messenger bag is slung, shoulder to hip, like aways. Her gate is a little slower, but not overtly burdened. The snow falls, so she bows her head a little to keep it out of her eyes. Her scarf, today, is a pale pink. Her jeans are a dark blue. That's pretty much all he can tell about her when she finally finds him.

"Hey," she says, first, looking him over pointedly. "How are you?"

It's a perfunctory question, but there's warmth behind it. A genuine regard. Some might call it caring. She's no caretaker, but her friendships are meaningful, they're resonant, they're important. There's no crushing hug, not immediately, but if he shows signs of wanting, needing, or even being open to an embrace, she'll hug him. One armed, and not too intimately. But hugs are good. Emily's beginning to recognize their merits. Hugs are rather good things, indeed.

[Nico Brady] According to the text message Emily received at some point in the last seventy-two hours, Nico was released Monday morning [with no mention of whether or not it was with or against medical advice] and returned to work this morning. It's the first of December, an entire month after he was supposed to return to work originally; somehow he wasn't able to do so when he'd been in a motor vehicle crash that left him in the ICU for over a week. Imagine that.

It started snowing today, the vast majority of the Northeast and Midwest thrust into a scene that is either a peaceful winter wonderland or a version of frozen Hell depending on who one decides to ask. Back home in South Dakota they would likely be under two feet of snow already, and the wind that whips across the plains is just as horrible as the wind that comes screeching off the lake at intervals. God knows why Nico wanted to meet at the park. There are restaurants and coffee shops around here, and it's within walking distance from the halfway house that so graciously allowed him to return to his position after being absent for four goddamn months.

Nico's left arm is still in a sling, despite his protests and assurances that he's fine, really, he can move it. This makes wearing a coat somewhat difficult. He has a knit ski cap pulled over his head and a gray parka half-assedly situated on his torso. His right arm is through the sleeve, its hand holding the other half closed across his body. What she can see of his lower half suggests that he is scheduled to work today: he has on sturdy shoes and khakis.

They find each other eventually, snow falling in a hush around them, and Nico smiles. She had noticed this the last time she came to visit, that the pallor and glazed gaze were gone. He looks healthy, even if he has lost some weight over the last month. That smile isn't forced. He hugs her one-armed not out of restraint but because that's all he has at his disposal.

"Compared to last month," he says, "I really can't complain. How are you?"

[Emily Littleton] He's doing better, and not just because he's no longer confined to the same ward, the same grey-shaded walls. Damn the snow and the traffic jams it's causing, Nico is smiling. That's enough to warm up Emily's afternoon, at least by a few degrees. Progress is progress. She'll take what she can get, these days.

"It's good to see you out and about again," she tells him, in the midst of that hug. It's a warm sound, genuine. He can read her well enough to know when she's evading, and when she's not. That it's good to see him is truth.

The rest of this? Well...

"I'm good, thanks." She smiles. It's warm enough, there's even some ember burning at the pit of her stomach that keeps her a little more vibrant than usual. That it's controlled frustration, well, who's really counting just now? "I went home over Thanksgiving. It was good to see family."

When they separate, Emily's hand reaches into her pocket. She wraps her fingers around the small vial there. The Singer swallows back something, not ready to share it just yet. Not sure how to. Thankfully there were customs to keep, helloes and how are yous, polite things, before the quiet descended too clearly.

And she kept looking at him, the way that people look at friends who've been gone too long, or people they didn't expect to get back from death's doorway. With relief and happiness and a little guilt. Emily tries to school this away, but it lingers.

[Nico Brady] If he's processed the fact that he almost died, that if that creature had hit him an inch closer to midline or the swipe had gone horizontally instead of vertically he would have bleed to death or been decapitated, Nico hasn't spoken to anyone about it. Beyond telling Ashley that he was scared, in the midst of a medication haze, he has kept his feelings or his worries to himself. Somehow even though he was the one confined to a hospital bed, he couldn't fall apart in front of Owen. Too many memories and fears were brought up for the Singer. He thought of Maggie nearly every time he saw Nico in that hospital bed, full of tubes and dead-eyed.

(Owen can't stand that Nico keeps things from him, but the counselor can't bring himself to tell his best friend that he keeps things from him because he doesn't believe he can handle them.)

They separate, and when Emily looks at him, Nico can see, even in the gloom and gray of the afternoon, that there was a decent chance he wasn't going to survive in the first place, let alone recover. His eyes search her face, but he comes up with no proof that she is trying to affect an emotion that she doesn't feel. The cold has his cheeks flushed with blood.

Still, he asks, "What?" Prompts her to explain the expression on her face, the guilt that's visible underneath the more positive emotions.

[Emily Littleton] They have something in common, then, in the things they keep from Owen. Emily's lost track of the things she hasn't told the other Singer about; she's stopped expecting that she someday would. The last time they'd really talked had been his birthday, and now hers was only a handful of days away. Things had changed.

Emily rolls her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, then draws a hand out of her pocket. There's something small and red hidden behind her fingers, and this thing is pressed into his good hand. It's a small cut glass vial, with a cork stopper. If he moves it, there's the slosh of a thinly viscous liquid inside. It smells strongly of cinnamon and spices: chai.

"I wanted to get this to you sooner," she says, and that's the guilt in it. The Wonder she's surrendered is nothing more than a healing charm, but it's taken her time and a great many favors to craft it. She'd learned new Arts, to be able to bring this to him. And it is still too late, in Emily's estimate. "I had no idea how long it would take me to make."

She breathes out a little, and her cheeks are faintly pink, from more than just the wind. Emily digs in her messenger bag for a thermos -- it's the only way she's found to keep her drinking water at a comfortable temperature in this cold and with her penchant for being out doors.

"If you focus, not just your will but also part of your essence, it should help with the rest of your hurts. I've water for you, too, since it'll taste a little like tree bark."

Israel used honey. Emily used the spices she associated with warming the body and conviviality. Between the two of them, someone was going to choke on a healing charm one of these days.

[Nico Brady] Nico doesn't react, overtly, to the appearance of the vial. She had mentioned wanting to craft such an artifact the last time she had come to visit, but he had not been banking on it any more than he had been hoping that someone would descend from high above--or make the trip from the Chantry in the North Side to the hospital in the South Side--to mystically heal him of his injuries. It wasn't exactly his fault that he was in this mess to begin with, unless one would care to argue that he and Owen could have run, or that he shouldn't have stood in front of his best friend just because Owen had a broken wrist in a cast, or that there were any number of things he could have done differently.

Hindsight turns out to be more of an annoyance than anything else. Turning back time isn't impossible--just costly, and difficult, and more likely to cause irreparable damage rather than the intended good. He hasn't been dwelling on what happened. It happened, and so far as he's aware the creature is still out there doing Christ knows what. Whether he intends to go after it he hasn't said, but what got them into that mess in the first place was his refusal to just leave it alone.

When it comes to him, Nico takes the vial, tilting it to examine the contents. Emily explains that she didn't know how long it would take, and Nico frowns, more out of sympathy or forgiveness than consternation.

The tourist season is just about over, at least insofar as trips to the park go. There are very few people out here today. It's too damn cold for most hot-blooded creatures. Nico chews the inside of his mouth as he thinks.

"Is this going to get you hit with backlash?" he asks, lifting the vial for demonstrative purposes. The wind tugs at the unsecured half of his jacket.

[Emily Littleton] "Probably," she concedes, but Emily has never crafted a charm herself by now, so she isn't entirely sure. She shrugs a little, as if it's not a thing worth worrying about. "I've already taken some, so don't worry about it."

Nico wasn't there when she pulled herself out of the Node room, still reeling from the bruises that blossomed down her left leg. Thankfully, no one was there to see the Singer hobble-step to her car. And gratefully, she has an automatic and could still get herself home.

Who knew that being His instrument would result in so many purple-blue reminders of her own human frailty? Emily has had her share of Dox this year; backlash no longer frightens her. Not unless she's doing something wildly fantastic; that's largely out of her grasp, just now.

"You may as well, but if it's like what I took before, it'll be bruises and inconvenience. Which is still a step up, right?"

She's encouraging, here, but would understand if he wanted to take it later. Or somewhere less public. Emily has no sanctuary to offer, no way to shelter them from Dox's far-reaching hand.

[Nico Brady] [Pause, yo.]

[Nico Brady] [PARADOX IN YO FACE]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 7 (Failure at target 6)