Unrelenting. Unyielding.

[Solomon Ward] Solomon was a busy man, even when it didn't such. After all, old fogies with no real hobbies of interest have to be continually entertained by something, don't they?

First was the business. A three story gray brick building in the Magnificent Mile that was some what older than some of its surrounding buildings, though not by much. It had been burnt down and rebuilt twice. Tall and some what narrow looking for its height, wedged immediately against the store to one shared wall and with a narrow alley on the other side. The front was mostly glass and gray smoked that images inside appeared shadowed and indistinct. The words were rather clear though, painted to the glass and, like it's owner, straight and to the point.

Ward's Books LTD.
Specializing in refurbishment and repair,
rare trades, appraisals, and authentications.

Not the standard Barnes and Nobles.

So when she enters, as the door is unlocked and the sign says 'Open', Solomon is behind the counter, staring down at a fat ledger book through small, rounded, spectacles and penning some thing carefully into it by hand.

For the most part the store is relatively unimpressive. It's a mater of taste, and education. High book shelves flank the left and right walls, requiring built in rail ladders to reach the upper tiers.
The far back is taken up by a counter, with an antique register. Behind that is a shorter book shelf, not as full, but occupied with content similar to the rest of the store.

Antiques. Limited editions. Rare misprints. Classic literature. A few originals, though semi valuable 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th print series of older authors more classic or well known works. A small fortune for a true bibliophile.

And of course, Solomon, glancing up, watches expectantly every time the door opens.

[Emily Littleton] She has changed since she stepped away from the city for the Winter break. Emily is not the same girl that she was before she went home, went back to her family, went back to the root of some of the things that have haunted her. That is apparent from the moment the door swings open, ushering in the sweep of cold air and the sound of her boot heels clicking quietly on the wood flooring. Her foot falls are evenly paced; even in the wake of his delightful summons, she is not harried or hurried. She is calm, and certain.

Gone are the jeans and tee shirts of last Spring, replaced by slacks and demure sweaters. A dark winter coat that hangs open, as if she's just come from around the corner. Her car keys still in her hand. Messenger bag's strap slung across her body. Emily's hair is bound back in a bun, neatly at the nape of her neck. Her eyes are bright and clear and show no hesitance when they meet her Praecept's from across the room.

She closes the distance between them promptly. Emily deposits her keys into her pocket. She does not take off her coat.

"Mr. Ward." A little nod of her head, politeness, an echo of her Asiatic roots. There is a bow, and formal enough to supplant a handshake.

"You wanted to see me?"

Her accent is as crisp yet muddled as ever. She carries a sense of Otherness about her, not only for what they are but for how and where she has lived. In the wake of her query, Emily glances around the shop. She takes in these details, the high bookshelves, the worn register, the way its appearance and seeming is canted toward the wares he peddles -- though she would never use this word with Solomon, to peddle, it sounds too trifling for the Disciple's endeavours. Before long, though, her attention comes to rest on him with that same polite distance, calculated warmth, and careful attentiveness.

[Solomon Ward] "Indeed", which is all he says for the moment. Ledger, and spectacles, placed under the counter, and well away from the old steam radiator mounted against the wall by the register. It's all he says as he goes about the doings of any business at pause. Moving around the small coffee table and two seats that make up the whole of the interior between bookshelves. Door locked, sign flipped to 'Closed' for the time being. There are no established business hours indicated any where on the store front. He triggers an alarm, one of the few 'more modern' things obvious in the room, and with that indicates the narrow hall behind the counter to Emily.

The hallway, like the building, is indeed narrow. One door indicates it is a rest room. Another a supply closet. It opens up to a larger backroom that has several desks and lamps, large mounted magnifiers and the assorted tool and materials used in book binding. Some are antique machines. Some are new presses. Much of it is for doing by hand.

One corner of the room though, well not quite a corner, has an old spiral stair case of corrugated black steel. To this and up is where he leads her. The second floor occupies the same dimensions, though designed differently. A large open living room style apartment with a small kitchenette in the corner. What may be a closet. A small hallway to another door, likely the bedroom area if such a place has as much. The building was origionally designed when many shop keepers lived on or near their labors.

Like any domicile Solomon maintains, it is bare and minimal. A wooden crucifix adorns one wall. A garish and cheap looking (so out of character for him) painting of the Perpetual Virgin adorns another. It looks as though it was haggled for at a Mexican 'Catholics'R'Us' Bodega. The seating arrangement is similar to the store below. Two wing back chairs, a cough. A small coffee table. End tables. A lamp. A radio. No Tv, no personal bric-a-brac. The place almost feels...disposable. Unlived in.

"Have a seat please. I'll put water to boil, if you'd like tea?"

[Emily Littleton] She stands to the side while he closes up the shop for the duration of her visit. Emily remains still, hands in her pockets, patient. She's gotten better at keeping quiet and at keeping still. When he gestures for her to proceed through the narrow walkway, she does, and ducks her head slightly out of habit even if the ceiling height does not drop for the aperture. Then it's up the staircase, which is taken with ease despite the heel to her boots. The Diplomat's daughter has more practice in some things than she often alludes to.

"Yes, thank you," she says to the offer of tea. Solomon is one of the few in the city whom she trusts to prepare it with any sense of attention to detail though others are, surprisingly, coming along nicely in their appreciation of simple things.

She notes the crucifix and the garish Madonna with the same weight, the same momentary pause of the sweep of her dark eyes, before she takes up one of the wingback chairs and folds her hands in her lap as she waits. This position could not have been coincidental. It gives her access to watching wherever he may settle. It creates a subtle sort of space between them.

"I trust your holidays were pleasant," she offers, as they've not seen much (or any) of each other since Israel's working near the Solstice. This is idle chat, though. Politnesses to fill the time it takes to make tea, the space until he is ready to address whatever has caused him to summon her here.

They both know it. They both recognize the importance of keeping some social rituals, if not others.

[Solomon Ward] "Sadly, no. I had pressing matters to attend. Pleasantries were scarce, though Christmas day was enjoyable enough. Yourself?"

It was known that he had a respect for Basil, if not a likeness for the man. A professional understanding, if one will. Their duties and methods and techniques often overlapped, even if the purpose or overall design of belief in how it worked clashed. Both were studious of detail and function. Both were potentially violent men.

Men like that have to respect each other; other wise one gets maimed. Or worse.
How many of the locals had noticed the man hadn't been heard from since Christmas Eve?

The water was set to boil and saucers and cups prepared, though the glass jar of tea, with the seal and latch to ensure freshness, stood waiting until the water was ready.

"Ms Littleton, I'll be straight and to the point per usual. There is a strange cabal in our city. A strange cabal on a mission that is potentially unbalancing to Chicago's situation of security. Led by a Singer, I hear, no less. I've become aware of it by more than second hand means. This happens. My chagrin is that I understand you have known about this, and through some awkward loss of etiquette, failed to inform me post haste. Why?"

The syntax is polite. The words themselves calm and measured, even from his damaged larynx. The last word, however. The Why. Not as pleasant. The tone of his words never really changes. The inflection to the question is simply.. menacing.

[Emily Littleton] He asks about her holiday. Emily doesn't answer, as there is almost immediately a more pressing matter placed on the table before her. She shifts a little in her chair, as if preparing her thoughts -- this is not uncomfortable for her, no. He has put her on the spot, but it does not catch her unawares or force her to stammer or stumble.

She rests her elbows on her knees, speaks comfortably. There's a poise to her that he may not remember unless he digs back to the early moments of the night in Edom's hedonistic and profane attempt at parley.

"With all due respect, Mr. Ward, I notified your contemporary -- the Chantry Dean -- and was informed that one of the Emissaries, Molly Quincannon, was already involved. So clearly the Council and Executive branches of the House were both aware. I used my time to gather further information, rather than, through some awkward loss of etiquette, assume others had not done their due by repeating their efforts."

She pauses. They are both busy people. There are protocols in place to ensure that they do not waste their time repeating things twice and thrice and more-fold, simply so that everyone they know is made aware.

Emily waits, assuredly on another so-intoned query. She does not seem distraught at his tone, or his directness.

[Solomon Ward] "Don't you dare play the fool with me, Ms. Littleton."

Straight to the point, per usual. It's little wonder the man isn't often well received. There's an odd contrast between his voice and tone, compared to his body language and his actions.

He's gone to pouring the water over tea to steep, even as he sets out milk and honey should she care for such. Body language is relatively neutral, though some what tense... then again, when does Solomon not have a tense feel to him?

His actions cease for the moment however, noting the time so that the tea steeped properly. Not too long, nor too little.

That said he turns to face her fully, watching her carefully and with out an attempt to be subtle about it. Measuring. Judging. It's nearly impossible to keep that second mien of his from showing just under the skin. That look the man carries constantly that says his life is more violent than books nor stocks nor Church activities might hint at. He's learned to live with others respond to it.

Right now though, it isn't a pleasant thing.

"I could, nine days out of ten, not really give a rats ass who at the House knows what or intends to play what games with one another. That being said you are far more intelligent, or so I had assumed, than to attempt loopholes with me."

Where is he going with this? It's coming...

"If I am to be your Praecept, no matter how intermittent or semi-official, one would think I could be politely informed from the source. I do not care if you addressed Ms. McGowen or if you were instructed to stay out of Chantry politics. There are two Singers in this city. You. And me.

That said, which of us is in charge?

The merits and benefits of both Tradition and mentorship are not with out either cost nor responsibility. Now, describe to me, in detail, this man and his cabal."

[Emily Littleton] "I am not playing the fool, merely pointing out that I am no longer embroiled in the imbroglio of the House Council, and that your ire might also find other targets before it is spent."

The look he gives her is withering. She does not cower or bend away from it, though the Singer girl does clasp her hands and watch him back with the steady slate-blue fields of her eyes. He does not Yield. She does not Relent. There will, in time, be many such moments of willfulness between them. He is testing her; she is surely testing him in return.

Her hands part, a small expansive gesture, an she sits back in the chair.

"His name is Gabriel, and cleaves to the Monists. He is an impassioned speaker, so much so that he has given some talks here. He was in the city June last for the same. They believe themselves to be messengers of the Rogue Council, here to carry out its missive.

"His Cabal is a quartet, one of which being slippery to the mind. Evan, I believe is his name. He is their spook -- forgive the parlance, their technically proficient party. If a cursory awareness of them is sufficient for this report, his skills rival or surpass the Virtual Adepts' I have met, and my own.

"Another, Anya, is a Cultist, excitable, unpredictable. She's tied to him in a way I do not yet understand, but expect to more about after Thomas has spoken with her. Nora, the fourth, is Verbaenic. She and Gabriel are the social front for the group. Ms. McGowen plans to speak with her shortly."

She pauses here, to swallow slightly, to whet her vocal chords and begin again.

"They have followed a rogue Technocrat, now separated from the Union and cut off from his support and research, to Chicago. His particular project was for a group called the Progenitors, working on a chemical to supress Enlightenment. His work, to date, had been largely a failure, but Gabriel deems him dangerous to approach from any means.

"I have spoken with the other Singer, built a rapport. I believe that, at least in part, he trusts me. I've tested him -- this is not a rote assignment or perfunctory mission for him. He is emotionally vested, not only motivated by belief. The Messengers, as I've referred to them for lack of a proper title, will push this through to an end whether or not we get involved."

Here she pauses, considers for a moment whether or not to append this, and settles on:

"I do not think that Gabriel is used to speaking with people who are not easily swayed by conviction and charisma. He is dangerously compelling, absolutely unyielding in his resolve, motivated by an emotional cause that will blind him to most attempts at reason.

"I have reason to believe Ms. Quincannnon aims to contact the Technocrat, Benjamin. Knowing her track record, she may already have."

[Solomon Ward] "Ms. Littleton, I'll not warn you again. This is not about House or Council. Play that ignorance card again and I'll bury you so deep in lessons that you'll be thirty before your next kiss and your family will put out rewards for your whereabouts before you surface for air. Your telling me that you not once considered it to be of import to the ranking Singer, or knight order member, that we have a Technocratic head hunt conflicting with our already present situation?"

The rest of her information is taken as is. He may question it later. He may not. It depends on how it compares to what he already knows. Admittedly there are some holes to that. Admittedly, she is playing a fine line... so far his arcana has not detected any thing outright. Still, the man is 27 years amongst an Order of conspirators and power players... . This diplomats daughter knows better than the poor excuse she is putting forth.

Or Solomon believes. Perhaps he merely overestimated her.

"And your conversation with Ms. McGowen? Any thing in it not covered by what you informed me?"

[Emily Littleton] "Would you like to use me as a glorified office assistant, as little more than your eyes and ears in a city too vast for you to monitor within the reaches of your own cabal, Mr. Ward? Because your warnings sound more to me like frustrations with a system at large, of which I am admittedly part. Bury me, if you will, but then you'll have one less pair of able and acute eyes on this city. Which apparently you need or you wouldn't have me report and recite my findings like a schoolchild."

Yes, she is brighter than what he thinks. And yes, she's better at this game than he knows. She also does not have the patience of a Saint, nor the Temperence of one either.

She draws a card from her pocket. It has Gabriel's cell phone number on it.

"He is familiar with the Lake View church of St. James. Gabriel's contact information. Lead time is about a day on replies. If you need me to call and arrange something," ah, here a nod back to her comment about being an office assistant, "I can."

"Ashley is willful. Molly is brash. Between the two of them, someone will decide the Technocrat is being persecuted and needs to be protected. I phoned Ms. Quincannon and offered to go with her when she speaks to him.

"This way someone will know where we are, when we are there, and whether or not we return. As when I met with Gabriel -- Ms. McGowen knew when, where, and with whom."

She exhales a bit, her features pinch for a moment.

"I won't dissuade you from talking to the Messenger, Mr. Ward, but you may want to consider your methods. He is deeply political. This --" she gestures between them, "Will not work with Gabriel."

There is a query, underlaying that last bit. It is a very plainly unspoken: Are we through?

[Solomon Ward] Not by a long shot... .

"I assure you, my frustrations are nothing to do with the system, Ms. Littleton. My eyes and ears obviously go far enough, because I knew most of this with out your part. Of which you were completely willing to leave me in the dark about. Your attempts to push my attention in other directions or insult my cabals potential do not change the facts, Ms. Littleton."

"You did not warn, nor advise, nor seek counsel from, nor notify, the ranking member of your Tradition and your current Praecept. Tell me, in simple words, that the thought to come to me directly never crossed your mind. That you told Ashley and that was the end of it. I want to here it."

Because he will know.
He expected her to be good at this game, but she has herself trapped. That was not glossary, not a conversation in description.

"As it is, I would not consider them able eyes in the slightest. Able implies useful, and you are being neither with both your girlish attitude, or your complete and utter disregard for your responsibilities as a Faithful Catechumen."

A pause.. he's still more or less calm. Angry, but the man doesn't yell. When the yelling starts, well, that's when things have totally gone down hill. He's no where near that point yet.

"Understand me very well, Ms. Littleton. This is not a threat. This is the sad truth of the situation. You are an apprentice... perhaps a an Initiate by commonly construed format, but you are still learning both the arcane and miraculous, as well as the governing laws and traditions of the Singers. You expressed a desire to perchance one day join a guardian order. I've even gone so far as to teach you pistols, because you've had need of them in the past, and you show a talent for them."

"Which Order do you think is going to accept an intentionally neglectful, diplomatically manipulative, Knight-Aspirant who doesn't even have the common courtesy to respect rank, structure, or chain of command?"

This is NOT. This is Solomon being frank, and calm, and asking an honest to God question.
This is bad. She may not care, or perceive, or fully realize it. He isn't sure. Solomon Ward is a ranking member of one of the Choir's most conspiratorial, and connected, Guardian Orders. He has a small inkling of how these things work.

[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge (Evasion) +WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 1

[Emily Littleton] "I offered your contact information to Gabriel," she says plainly. There is no deception. And it's not so much that Solomon's words have laid heavily against her conscience, or that his threat (or the certainty of its followthrough) has unsettled her as much as it should have.

The unvarnished and plain truth she has not shared with him is this:

"The Guardians have, in the past, gone above and around the other members of the Chantry, on their directive alone. They've been uncooperative, or when they do cooperate its with the express understanding that others will be compelled to follow -- for whatever reason. I did not come to you with this because it is delicate and political in the information gathering stages.

"And I was asked not to involve you yet. Because of your past actions within this city. Because of the tenor of this very conversation."

She rises.

"You do not trust me or my methods. You don't even think I have a grasp on basic politics. That's fine. But if this is a War Mr. Ward, then there is a place for someone like you and a place for someone like me. We will not always see eye to eye."

His threat does not seem to have bothered her. Her head is proudly held and her shoulders are square. There's no tension to her jaw. For everything she has told him, plainly, there is much of her own thoughts and motivations that she's holding back just now. Things she will not address with him now, and may never again. But he will not find fault in her words.

"I am leaving now," she tells him. It's not a question.

[Solomon Ward] "No you're not. Sit down, and enjoy your tea. It's ready."

Plainly said. Simple. Not quite commanding.

"We have a little more to discuss, and then you may be dismissed"

True to his word he takes up both saucers, placing them on a tray that includes a small pitcher of milk and a jar of honey, with ladle. Solomon will, of course, take his black.
"Who asked you to blackball me, and why?"

Said as he places the tray on the coffee table and takes a seat in the opposite chair. It's usually Israel's chair, but Emily has occupied his own. Either way hte position works.

Solomon is, perhaps, surprisingly calm. Most of the anger in his scarred baritone voice has faded. The woman is obviously frustrated, and despite common belief, the man is perceptive and caring of such things. Now that he more or less has what he wants, there is little reason to play such a heavy hand.

"Please describe to me when the Guardians have gone above or alone in the past? The Node situation? We discussed the situation, as a cabal, prior to the meeting. That upset Ms. McGowen, I believe. Luckily we live in a free society where there are no thought-police. Yet. I was more than amicable to listening to, and accepting, other potential solutions. Reasons I did not: None were offered. A lot of nay say, but no viable alternatives. Not even suggested alternatives. Simply out right disagreement. Have I railroaded others into my leadership before? Admittedly, yes. usually if and when it involved gunfire. I don't listen to amateurs when it comes to doing what I have to do to stay alive, Ms. Littleton. You find a man, or woman, in this city with half my experience with Nephandi, I promise I'll listen."

These are simple truths for Solomon Ward. The man is rarely boastful, and never petty. Human? Indeed. Controlling at times? He freely admits it. What he wants to impress upon her is why. He's making an honest effort.

"You're absolutely right, Ms. Littleton, that this is a war and that we both have our parts to play in it. I agree with you. To say that I do not trust you is inaccurate. To say that I can not trust you, after you agreed to some one elses power play, is more accurate. I understand you have a deep seated history in political knowledge. You've displayed it very well here. Had you simply informed me of the situation, and that it was at hand, I could have easily left this to you... truly. If you had been willing to keep me appraised."

A small pause, a sip of his tea before he goes on.
"I'm forever perplexed at the 'loose cannon' mentality some perceive me with. I have resorted to a lot of violence over this last half year. Every life reaped that I will stand accountable for on the day of my Judgment. Do you think it comes so easily, to me, Emily? That I am incapable of rationale thought or community safety? My only interest in this is the fact that one of those cabal members was described to me as seemingly unstable. That they are hell bent on getting what they want, a technocratic, or former Technocratic agent, when the Technocrats are reeling from the strike we laid against them. A strike which not only denied them a Node, but stopped them from pushing bombs into the spiritual realms and possibly ripping that gateway open instead of sealing it."

"So here I am, supposedly in charge of the safety of the Chantry proper, and no one thinks I need to know, my part-time apprentice included, that one wrong move on these strangers parts may very well bring this down on all of us?

I understand I can be abrasive, Emily. What I'm failing to understand, and admittedly even a little hurt by, from you and you alone" fuck Ashley " is that all you see is the violence that I have to save and protect members of this community, and never even considered I may listen to reason or your appeals for it. I have more respect for you then that. If I didn't, I wouldn't be teaching you. I gave you a chance to come clean with me, and you made me drag this out. If you can't conceive being loyal to me, if for nothing more than solidarity, then tell me.

I'd really like to know."

[Emily Littleton] He tells her to sit.

She doesn't. Emily stands, with her hands at her sides, calm for all intents and purposes.

He asks her for a concrete example, and this is what she offers:

"Last summer, when Molly Quincannon went missing, the Guardians went off to rescue her without so much as notifying another cabal within the city. I would know; I sat on the council at the time. While you were away, the Chantry was attacked, compromised, a Disciple fell, Catherine exerted herself to such extent that she has fallen into slumber."

She leaves it at this, waiting for him to address the matter before seeing to any of his other points.

[Solomon Ward] "Indeed, we did. Ms. Littleton, you saw that Labyrinth. You were there when we struck it"
She has a point, perhaps. He'll concede that much.
"How horrible it was. How.. surreal isn't even descriptive. Unreal. Unholy. . It defies all that you and I and others believe in. Even those of Traditions now our own believe as much. It was under our feet, and Nephandi had a woman. An injured, protection-less, woman in their grasp. A woman with ou names and face, but most importantly a fellow mage whom they treated as a play thing."

"The Council, which you sat on, had voted Ashton as their Sentinel. It's protection was my secondary concern to retrieving Ms. Quincannon, alive or otherwise. It would have been morally unconscionable to do other wise... including waiting for a Council to vote on how to do it and when."

"The Chantries security has always been a concern for me, but it was not my duty, and the Guardians brought that woman out alive. There were able bodied mages in that Chantry. Neither Catherine's slumber nor that Akashic's death were at my neglect. As a matter of fact, the night that happened, we weren't even at the Labyrinth, rescuing Molly. We were at a cabin owned by Israel's family, fighting for our lives as well."

[Emily Littleton] "You asked for an example that supports the public view. I offered it. I am not here to split hairs over its accuracy, or that of your own views. I am here, apparently, to report things you already knew and apologize for failing to abrogate my own conscience in deference to standing protocol."

Emily's mouth purses for a moment, and then she adds.

"Besides, it weakens your position to answer such an assertion. If you plan on speaking to Gabriel, don't give ground where you don't have to. You're both accomplished, and compelling in your own right."

Her hands go back into her pockets.

"Mr. Ward. I know you are capabale and able. And I know that you have the capacity to lead by intimidation, and occasionally by example. What you do not possess is the charisma or apparent willingness to connect with the rest of this Chantry. You are not a Leader of Men; you are their Sentinel: gruff, and direct, and that is enough to be servicable. You make no effort to play nice with others, as the saying goes. Perhaps this is why they except you from situations until they escalate."

She shrugs.

"Do you want loyalty, or servility? Because one is inspired and the other compelled, and I am not quite sure which you aim to effect today."

[Solomon Ward] "I didn't ask for the public view, Ms. Littleton. I asked yours. Besides, if the rest them are unable to match facts and dates, such is life... . Nor am I giving ground. I am attempting to make amends with you. There is a distinction, though if you think I need to be made aware of it, then so be it. If you can not tell loyalty and servility to Tradition and mentor, nor have any innate sense of it, I really need neither."

Plainly said, and with out guile. Solomon is good at manipulating long term situations... individual people..not so much. He doesn't even try.

"Very well. Lessons are, for the time being, suspended indefinitely. Do as you like, Ms. Littleton. The only thing I will ask of you as that while you are more than welcome to be diplomatic and represent any mages in this city who care for it, that you never speak for the Choir as a Tradition. My last and only question, which you have continued to avoid. Whom asked you to leave me out?"

[Emily Littleton] "No," she says plainly. "You are not attempting to make amends with me. You have summoned me, and challenged me, and lectured me, belittled me, threatened me, and cajoled, but you have not attempted to make amends with me. This is not a resolution, peaceful or otherwise, between two parties. It is, at best, a dressing down and dismissal."

Plainly answered, and likewise without deceit.

He severs her catechumenate, and forbids her from speaking for the Chorus. And after all of this, he asks, again, for her to offer up information.

"Do your own fact-finding, Solomon," she says, with the edge of frustration showing through at the clip of her consonants. He has nothing left to hold over her head, nothing to keep her standing at attention or offering up favors. Unless he stops her, Emily's tenure in this small flat is over.

And so she leaves.

[Solomon Ward] "If that is how you wish to perceive it." The ifrst half had been a dressing down. the rest? He didn't have to explain a God damned thing to her, and she knew. If that was seen as a position of weakness or failed to be viewed for what it was, so be it.

Solomon is done playing.

The effect is simple, and time honored. It isn't much different than a shield one might use to stop bullets, or catch yourself from free fall. A shield, placed over a portal, such as say.. the stairwell. It isn't seen nor visible, simply felt.

"I'm not so intensive nor cruel as to do some thing drastic, Mr. Littleton. But I'm old... I have a lot of practice at waiting".

[Forces 2 + Vulgar w/o witnesses 4 = 6 , -1 rote, -1 resonance, -1 foci (unyielding)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 8 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] [Counter! +WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 8) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] He throws up a magical impediment to her departure, borne of one of the Spheres that she is most familiar with. Something so natural to her line of thought and methodology that she Woke Up with an awareness of it. There is a flare of will from the Initiate, fueled by her frustrations and the Unrelenting note that has so horribly run aground his Unyielding one.

But it is not without balance. There is still a touch and build, a rise of Reverence in the snap of her countermagic against his rote. She pushes it aside; her jaw clenches.

Emily does not look back. She takes the stairs quickly and marches out of the bookstore with her resonance still drawn up around her, eddying in her wake, echoing in the old space until it becomes thready, thins and falls away.

[Solomon Ward] She leaves, to the hollow sound of Solomon clapping, though like much of the mans statements or gestures, it sounds rather..genuine.

"Very good, very good. I have to say, better than expected. At least the girl learned one thing during all of this. Now as to the rest... . "

Well, Solomon had things to do. A lot of them.

Exceptionally well spoken and remarkably controlled

[Emily Littleton] Soup's on, just as promised. It's a hearty thing. Something that will fill up even Hunger, and still leave leftovers to send home with Emily's fellow graduate student. The apartment is warm, and the near perpetual fire burns low in the hearth. The drift of paperwork at the uncomfortable table has shifted, but yielded no ground: the war wages on, ever onward.

The Singer is wearing a soft blue-grey sweater and a pair of jeans that are dark enough to not show their grain. She wears socks, a slight acquiescence to winter and hard floors, or kittens and claws. Her hair is down, and falls in loose waves: they are better kempt; she has cut it recently. The kitten has sated her voracious appetite for the destruction of textiles by shredding a toy Emily brought her from the pet store. An is stretched out in its fabric remains, basking in the warmth of the firelight, leaving her chair seemingly open for occupation (it is a trap). Her tail twitches back and forth, but her eyes are lidded and her whiskers still.

The door stands a little ajar, letting the smell of fresh baked herb bread and simmering soup draw in Hunger without requiring her to stand on ceremony. When Ashley knocks, Emily will call for her to Come in, and then start toward the kitchen to see about setting up two big servings of dinner.

They'll pass in the entryway, and Emily will smile.

"Make yourself comfortable," is more than lip-service in her flat. "And do you want butter with your bread?"

[Ashley McGowen] By the time she's gotten to Emily's floor Ashley can already smell bread, and it's mouthwatering. Something she doesn't seem to get sick of, in spite of all of Morgan's baking over at her apartment (Morgan tends to make much more sugary fare, generally.)

The semester has already run Ashley a touch ragged. She's managing two classes now, and that means double the coursework and double the office hours and double the papers and quizzes to grade. Still, even so, it's probably better for her than not having much to do at all; Ashley may complain but she's the sort of person who does much better when she's kept busy. When her hands aren't left idle.

That always gives her a lot of time to think about things.

She, too, smiles a little when she passes Emily in the entrance to her flat. Inside the door Ashley pulls off her coat and scarf, hanging them up in the closet (she knows where to put it) and then bending down to tug off her boots, which is easier said than done. Each comes off with a bit of a jerk, and once her feet are finally freed, she passes into the flat's main room and looks at the cat near the fire. "Sure," she says, as she settles down on the couch. She's not fooled by An's seemingly relaxed pose; Ashley has enough experience with cats these days to know that it's an act, that she'd probably spring upon Ashley's hand like a beartrap if she leaned down to pet her.

Then she leans over to watch the Singer, her hair cascading down in front of her face while she does so. "How're you, Em?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily usually serves the Hermetic more than she imagines Ashley can reasonably eat, plus another spoonful of something, with the sinking suspicion that it will still not be enough to sate her. Then again, she also assumes that Ashley, who is more a friend than anything else these days, will ask for or serve herself seconds if some gnawing lack still echoes in her stomach.

"Pretty good," the Singer answers. "I'm keeping busy, and trying not to develop too sharp a disdain for undergraduates while I am technically still one of them." She smirks; it's a familiar and welcome expression. Dark amusement touches her features, brightens the corners of her eyes.

"Here. I need hands. You'll have to carry your own," she tells her, setting the bowl-sized mug and its companion plate of warm bread out for Ashley to claim. The travel between the kitchen and the couch is not far, but Emily wants to serve her own meal rather than transit repeatedly.

"How about you? Is your semester going well?"

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley has never described the push of her Avatar to Emily. She often does look unsatisfied after meals, regardless of how much she's given; this is largely because once things are finished, no matter how much she eats, that feeling returns. She could eat until she burst and it would likely still not be enough to quiet her stomach, or anything else.

Emily's suspicions are correct. But Ashley seems happy enough to get what she gets.

She gets up to go and retrieve her bowl and plate when beckoned, accepting one in each hand and making sure that her grip on the soup mug is quite firm before she accepts the plate. It's all too easy for her to gauge distance the wrong way and trip and fall, or at least spill a little, though thankfully after ten years such occurrences have become far more infrequent. "Thanks," she says once she's accepted, then starts back over toward her seat on the couch.

Her semester. "It's had its good points," Ashley says after a thoughtful moment. "Very busy, though. I'm kind of wondering how I'm going to fit everything in once I start on my doctorate next fall."

[Emily Littleton] Ashley has never described her Avatar to Emily, but Emily has had Ashley inside of her mind. It leaves a certain impression, and understanding (an uneasiness). She forgets sometimes that Ashley's depth perception is not completely whole. She doesn't think of the Adept as anything less than that, adept, even given her handicaps.

Emily brings her own meal to the table. Its portions are notably smaller, but not scant.

"Are you staying on at Northwestern for it, or will you be changing campuses?" Emily asks. It is unusual, she has been told, for a person to do successive degrees within the same department of the same University. Of course, Emily is continuing on at the same department, so it cannot be all that unusual. She suspects there is as much misinformation and misdirection about higher education as their is with the magical Arts.

The Singer settles herself at one end of the couch so that Ashley can occupy the other.

[Ashley McGowen] "I was accepted there for a five-year program, actually," she says. "With the understanding that I would be staying on for my doctorate." This is done more frequently in the social sciences, at the very least. "So yeah, I'll still be there next year. Here for at least the next three, probably." Hopefully. Ashley has heard stories of people who had their dissertations rejected, who spent a year or more reworking it and a year or more putting off other plans.

Still, failure is not an idea Ashley readily entertains. If a person begins to doubt their Will, they've already conceded, and it has been indoctrinated into her for almost ten years now that there is no room in a Hermetic's life for such things.

She settles herself on the couch and picks up a slice of bread, dunking it into the soup before taking a bite. "So," she says after she's had a moment to chew at it, thoughtful, "Gabriel. What did you find out?"

[Emily Littleton] So.

Gabriel...

Emily takes a moment before answering to collect her thoughts. She's done this more since she returned from wherever Winter took her. It's a positive change, but it heralds something else in her that remains to be seen, just yet. The Singer runs the tip of her tongue over her eyetooth, then says:

"He's exceptionally well spoken."

This is no starry-eyed fangirl's appraisment, but a wary remark. She has sized up the Messengers' front man in many ways during their brief conversation, and she's telling Ashley that he is dangerously charismatic. That Gabriel's commanding presence, and his command of it, will be a problem for them.

"And remarkably controlled. I pushed -- on purpose, mind -- and he stayed on message. Even when it got personal. And, mark this Ashley, it is personal for them, especially for Gabriel. This is no missive from above, or it is no longer simply such. They'll see this through, with us or without us; he's fully committed to their path."

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley had suspected this, the moment Emily thought to compare him to Bran. It was why she was so wary the moment the association clicked for her as much as it did Emily. Convicted men with silver tongues can get people to make all sorts of sacrifices, when it comes to their cause. When it comes to their agenda. If they seem like a visionary so much the better.

"Yeah, I thought so," Ashley says, and her mouth thins just a little. "I also didn't think they'd be easily put off. Which is going to be a problem if we decide not to kill the Technocrat."

It has the potential to carve severe lines through Chicago's magi, really. Ashley doesn't necessarily mind - she does not shy away from conflict, and all told she thinks it will probably be beneficial - but the thought of dealing with it right now has a bit of tension collecting between her eyebrows. It'll work its way back around the left side of her head, to down beneath her ears and to the base of her skull. Just give it some time.

"Did you get an idea of what the personal bit is?"

[Emily Littleton] [Subterfuge: No, I have no idea at all. And it's clearly not clouding my judgment in the slightest.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Ashley McGowen] [Really?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 8)

[Emily Littleton] This is part of what Emily did. Bartered on the good will she built up with people. Bent the edges of the truth, subtly obscured things. Sometimes it was necessary to move things along, and other times it was to protect or gentle a situation for someone she cared about. Tonight, she fails to answer the Dean's question, her friend's question entirely.

"No, he really didn't get into it," she says. Which is true, line for letter. But she'd taken far more information away from that interchange that what Gabriel said alone. "Like us, they keep some things very quiet. But he didn't have to say much to get that point across, you know?"

Emily lilted the question Ashley's way, and then changed the subject to something a bit more concrete.

"He is absolutely adamant that Ben is dangerous, and anyone that approaches him will be in direct danger. Which of course, leads me to think of Molly. I got called out on for being short sighted when I said some of our own may want to talk to him directly -- I didn't name names with him. His reaction to the mention of the possibility that was had impetus and well-proven recklessness on our side was strong enough for me to know better than that."

This bit rings true. There's nothing held back or abstracted. It is part of the redirection, but it's a good lie. It holds a kernel of truth that cannot be disputed. Emily is good at what she does; tonight Ashley is better.

[Emily Littleton] Whatever Emily is holding back is important. Maybe not contextually, but to the Singer. It is a thing she identifies with; it's something Gabriel has said that binds her to his purpose. In talking, the Choristers found common ground.

That much is not surprising.

That it leads Emily to make an emotionally-motivated omission, for a near stranger, in a dangerous situation should be at least unexpected.

[Ashley McGowen] There's something gnawing at the back of Ashley's mind that, at first, she could probably have taken as the (anticipated) start of one of the migraines that happen all-too-frequently (one doesn't sustain that kind of head trauma without lasting aches.) Emily's words ring true enough. They ring like Emily's words, and generally Ashley isn't too aware of the Singer's talent for misdirection.

She has been misdirected or has successfully overlooked what Emily wanted her to overlook so often, you see.

But there's something troubling about all of it. Ashley wouldn't be able to describe what it was that made her suspect if she tried; that just isn't how she understands the world around her. What she does know, suddenly and in her gut, is that this is not all of it. She knows Emily and she knows charismatic, cause-driven men.

"I'm not terribly inclined to just take his word for it," Ashley says. "Any Willworker is dangerous." And, just like that, it isn't too hard to imagine her taking Ben's side just for the sake of opposition. Just so she isn't going along with someone else, someone better with other people than she, just for the challenge. Ashley does these things. Some people have dismissed it as a tendency to be contrary; perhaps that's all it is.

There's another moment where she eyes the Singer. She's stopped eating. "You're lying to me," she says, flatly, and with utter certainty. There's no anger there, and no threat. But she doesn't sound happy.

[Emily Littleton] "I'm not lying to you," Emily says, flatly. "I'm not disclosing someone else's personal matters. Especially when I have only suspicion, and a few suggestive phrases to go on."

Her expression pinches for a moment, and she brings her hand up to smooth her thumb against he curve of her brow. It feels like a headache of her own, brewing just behind her eye.

"What if I told you Ben kicked his puppy and he's irrationally motivated based on that? Or that someone in their cabal had been used for testing this drug? Or that someone he loved was involved?" Each question seems equally unlikely, the way Emily phrases them.

"It doesn't matter the particulars of the motivation, just that it's there. And it's immovable. And a thing we'll have to deal with, if you, or Molly, or Kage, or anyone else decide that protecting the Technocrat is worth going up against a highly-motivated, road-weary, and emotionally-engaged group of Traditionalists."

[Ashley McGowen] There's a shift. Subtle, but present. "If someone else's personal matters might potentially put this chantry in danger, you had better tell me. You know why, and you know it will be useful in securing things here."

Each question seems equally unlikely, and truthfully, Ashley has no idea what Gabriel might have told Emily. She has no idea what personal stake there might be in this; there could be any. She's heard a lot of stories from Traditionalists the Technocracy has hurt. She's fought against them for a long time.

Her former cabal sought, for a long time, to start a second Ascension War. She knows.

"If we end up killing him or handing him over to them anyway, fine, but I'm not going to kill him just because some Chorister with a way with Words says so, and I won't have my hand forced."

[Emily Littleton] "Ashley, I brought this to you specifically because it endangers the Chantry. And I told you that there's an emotional motivation beyond his connection to the Rouge Council and that it's significant enough for me to consider him resolute and immovable.

"We would not be having this conversation if I wasn't aware of the very thing you're bringing up. I don't know what, precisely, it is that happened that's made this personal for them. He wouldn't tell me. Only that he'd made a promise to someone he loved, and that that takes precedence over full disclosure to strangers."

This is everything she knows, laid out, coolly, clinically, with a measure of contained frustration. The last bit, though, that someone he loved had bound him by promise somehow, this is the thing that she had kept back. It is not so very great, but it's easy to see what it might be compelling to Emily in context.

"I have also told you that he is compelling, that that very quality makes him dangerous. We're not on different pages here. And I'm not asking you to follow anything he's said, or necessarily oppose it. I am trying to warn you, not to make any decisions for you -- I know how I feel about things, but the information I have is likewise incomplete."

She does not give the Hermetic the satisfaction any other outward signs of frustration. Instead, Emily breaks a little piece off her bread and dunks it in her soup before eating it. She is not Molly; she has not run off into something without telling someone where she was going, without checking in immediately after, and without offering up what she knows freely.

[Ashley McGowen] It's easy to see why it would be compelling to Emily, and once she senses that the Singer has told her everything she knows, that flare of Hunger fades away. Or, more appropriately, redirects itself back to the food in front of her. She pokes for a moment at the slice of bread with only a bite taken from it, considering.

"I suppose it doesn't entirely matter what it was he promised to do," she agrees, after a moment. "But it's probably better to get some idea of what it might be, in case things come to a head with them."

It's something that probably isn't easy to be reminded of, when it comes from a friend. Ashley regards information about other people as just that: a commodity, a tool. In most cases. Most of the time it's debatable whether or not she really regards most other people as people, or whether it's just a certain few, a handful, who have earned that distinction from her and have become more than part of her environment. More than part of the reality around her to be bent to her Will.

"Once we get a hold of Ben, I'll see whether it changes anything. It probably won't. If it doesn't, as far as I'm concerned, Gabriel can have him."

A beat. "Don't lie to me again."

[Emily Littleton] Don't lie to me again, Ashley says.

Emily goes not promise that she won't. There is a pointedly silence, in which the once-Orphan's expression is easy to read, and seems to ask whether Ashley really wants false promises in lieu of self-aware truths. Emily would lie to her again. And it would likewise be about a small part of a larger tapestry. Ashley would push buttons again.

They are what the are.

"I'm working on things with Gabriel. I called an apologized for pushing; he returned my call. If we can develop an understanding, then perhaps we'll be able to work together on this. But that would mean our side would have to attempt some sort of cohesion as well, and I don't speak for the Chantry, nor can I pretend to any longer as an Emissary.

"Politically, I have no footing to influence this, but they don't have to know that. If you can work with the other Cabals, I'll try to bridge the gap with Gabriel's group."

[Ashley McGowen] Mention of the other cabals just drives the furrow between the Hermetic's brows even deeper. Ashley sighs and sops up more of her soup with the bread, and there's a pause while she chews. Not very long; soaked bread passes down quite easily, after all.

When she does speak, her voice sounds a little bitter. "I doubt working with the other cabals will give us much," she says. "I haven't heard from Wharil in over a month. I barely see Gregor. The idea of giving Molly's cabal terribly free rein on this might be one of the worst passing notions I've ever had and if we involve the Guardians, Solomon is going to force our hand. Probably by shooting someone. Or everyone."

One hand sneaks up to her left temple, pauses a moment and then lowers to the hinge of her jaw. She digs her fingertips into the bunch of muscle there and works it carefully. Then she says, "So in other words, do what you need to do. I'll try to develop something cohesive with the people we already have involved, instead of taking it into cabal territory."

[Emily Littleton] [WP: ... Just because Ashley's right, and it sounds like a particularly cliche movie pitch, does not mean it's okay to laugh in a serious discussion.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] Ashley sounds bitter about local politics, and it is all so very familiar to Emily who -- through her magnificent sense of self-restraint -- only allows the wry amusemsen she feels to manifest as the curl of an echoing smile, a flash of laughter in her dark blue eyes.

"Alright," she says, managing to school the amusement from her voice as well. "I should probably touch base with Thomas and Lara to see what they've learned. But if we don't want the Guardians involved, then we probably need to make it seem like we have things handled without them. Present a viable alternative leadership -- that's you, or maybe you and Kage or even the three of us stepping forward to say We've got this, fill us in on what you know and we'll handle dealing with the Messengers. Several people take things to Israel as a sounding board, and that leads to getting Solomon involved."

A beat. And a smirk.

"And his guns."

[Ashley McGowen] "I'm going to be talking to Nora soon," Ashley says. "So I'll let you know if I find anything out on that front."

And when mention of the three of them, her and Emily and Kage, is made, Ashley looks a touch wistful for a moment. "Maybe," she says. "I mean, I agree with you as far as it goes with Israel and Solomon. I think the Guardians want a little time off, though."

Understandably so, really; they've been the frontliners in the last few major conflicts the city has had. Ashley does not begrudge them that. She, after all, often gets involved but it rarely puts her life on the line.

"I do more shit with the two of you than I do with my actual cabal."

[Emily Littleton] "That's because we're awesome," Emily says, with a little faux-modesty for show. "And we have good food." The grin she offers serves to soften the wistfulness Ashley's showing, to mirror it and to let it be an easy admittance. She won't tell anyone that Ashley hoped, for a moment, something she didn't even dare to disclose.

Occasionally Emily knew when to keep her mouth shut. Discretion was the better part of valor.

"I imagine they'd like a break, too. So we'll just keep in touch, and hope this thing doesn't go off the rails before we sort it all out. Let me know if you go looking for Benjamin. I usually don't get caught up on my... omissions," she admits, verbally tipping her hat to the Hermetic.

"It may be worth considering going at that interview as a team. I'm sure, between our strengths, we could learn quite a bit from him."

[Ashley McGowen] "I have no interest in going to look for him myself," says Ashley, who leaves any response she might have to Emily's lighthearted remarks unsaid. Apparently whatever she'd hoped, even she doesn't dare to disclose it. Perhaps there will be a point, someday.

"I was hoping to get you or Kage to go along with Molly," she adds, after a beat. "Molly's probably getting impatient, so the sooner I can send one of you along with her the better. But I don't want to talk to some guy who is cowering and hoping that the globe-spanning conspiracy doesn't notice him. I doubt he'd talk to me, and I doubt I'd have much to say to him at first."

Better to let someone else coax him out of hiding, as far as she's concerned. Someone gentler. "Or I could just go track him down myself and pull everything we need to know from his head, and leave it at that."

Which isn't just an idle thought. She gives it a moment's thorough consideration. "But maybe after you guys have made contact, we can try going as a team after that."

[Emily Littleton] Ashley is doing that thing, where she puts it on the table that someone should go with Molly. And then waits for volunteers. Neither Kage nor Emily had volunteered last time they spoke. Emily's not volunteering now. This was a very simple manipulative ploy, and she wasn't falling into it.

Not without making Ashley work for it, just a little.

"Mmm, well you'd better sort that quickly, then, as I doubt Molly's waiting on volunteers if her past record says anything." Then a pause. "Did you ask her to wait? Did she say that she would?"

"When did you speak with her last?"

[Ashley McGowen] "She didn't say so explicitly, but I mentioned that it would be better to hold off until we could get someone else to go along with her. Someone doing that kind of thing alone is just asking for her to get picked up and turned over and then the Technocracy has a lot of information and..." Ashley waves her hand dismissively, and has picked up her spoon now.

"I talked with her about a week ago. This probably isn't the kind of thing that should wait, though."

There was a flicker of impatience when Emily suggests that she'd better sort it quickly. Or perhaps less impatience than simple irritation or frustration. "I'll ask Kage," she says, after a silence. "Or...fuck. Anybody from Molly's cabal, I guess. Atlas usually has a level head."

[Emily Littleton] "Ashley, if you want me to call her, just ask. Explicitly. I'd be happy to, but I'm not going to volunteer to be responsible for Acts of Molly. It's against my better sense of self-preservation," Emily says, in answer to that flicker of impatience.

And if Ashley asks her to, rather than implies until she is forced to accept it as her duty by proxy, then Emily would be happy to call the Cultist and sort things.

[Ashley McGowen] "If you want me to start ordering you to do things, I can and will," Ashley says, with a sidelong glance toward Emily, "but I'd rather not. I'm not asking you to be responsible for the Acts of Molly, I thought you might want to step up and do something instead of complaining when things don't go your way, like half this fucking city does. You should be able to do things without me telling you to do it."

And, again, that irritation. "If you don't want to go, then don't let me obligate you."

Perhaps it's lashing out; some might call it petulant. Perhaps it is both those things, influenced at least in part by the fact that the Dean (or Deacon - whatever others might prefer to call it) feels a little worn thin, at the moment.

There's a beat, and another flash of her eyes in Emily's direction. "Go with her."

[Emily Littleton] [Unmarked Rolls!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 7, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] [Oh my!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]

[Emily Littleton] There's a quiet. It's a long quiet. It stretches. It's tense. It breaks.

Some people might look to Ashley with a note of concern, to push a bit to find what source or origin that flash of anger stemmed from. Emily, tonight, is not that person. Instead she bites back her first response, swallows it down so tightly that it may not have ever even threatened to surface. She says, carefully, with her clipped consonants and her Manchester vowels: "There's a difference between telling and asking, Ashley."

It is very calm. Too calm. Calm enough to be warningly so.

"I'll call Molly in the morning," she says, and rises from the couch. "I'll pack you up some soup to take home."

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley, perhaps, does not understand the difference between telling and asking. She never has. Ashley is not the sort of person who asks for things. Victoria Kurtz told her once, very early, that reality doesn't bend because a Hermetic politely asks it to do so, with a please and thank you. It bends because it's forced to change. It has stuck with her since.

It's not easy to have a friend with this kind of mentality. It's not easy to remain friends with someone with this kind of mentality. Ashley might understand that, if Ashley bothered (or were capable) of seeing herself from the perspective of someone else; she isn't though.

It might be that Emily's response meets with a little skepticism, or perhaps it's just cynicism. "All right," she says to Emily. "I'll tell you what I find out, from Nora." She's almost done, but she eats the rest rather quickly.

A dismissal, at least, she recognizes.

[Emily Littleton] It is a dismissal. Emily is not really as patient as the Monists she's known. She lacks that abiding sense of ablution and calm. She is a sharper thing, gentled by the politenesses she chooses to keep, softened by a bent truth here or a careful omission there. There are reasons she is called to the Guardian Orders and they have nothing to do with volunteering herself for losing propositions or weathering the abrasive sides of other people's personalities.

Except that she likes Ashley, nine days out of ten. Even in their worst stretches, she likes her three of five. It's still a solid majority, when you whittle down their differences and stack them up against their strengths. She takes the Hermetic as she is, strange and willful reluctance for leadership and bald social skills. Ashley, in turn, takes Emily as she is -- mostly.

She packs up some of the soup in a take away container and seals it. She wraps up a large hunk of the bread. She's angry enough to send Ashley away, but she still sends her away with gifts. Emily doesn't lose her sense of self to the anger, and she doesn't try to argue with Ashley's feelings.

"We'll touch base in a few days. If you don't hear from me, send a search party." Here her mouth twitches upward at the corners, just slightly. "Start at Molly's..." She hands over the leftovers once Ashley's shrugged into her coat and once again, they part on sharp terms. It seems to be their lot.

Conquest. Reverence.

[Reverence] The Church stands on a patch of hallowed ground in the heart of Lake View, not far from the residence of one Kage R. Jakes. Not far from the one-bedroom flat of one Emily Littleton. Not far from the studio once (and now) kept by another blue-eyed Singer who has since faded away, become a ghost of a name on someone's lips, beyond that, to nothingness. To dust.

There is a stiff wind off the lake, and whatever hint of humid mustiness it brings in the Summer has been replaced only with cold. It is cold, the breath that touches the stone of this place, and cold the air alight from the warmth that echoes out from within. There is a small garden and God's acre (graveyard) attached to the grounds and Emily has come early enough to stand before a low and unmarked patch of ground that only slightly billows up from the surrounding plane. She lays a single lily over its highest peak and closes her eyes for a moment in remembrance.

If Gabriel arrives early for their planned meeting, then he may find her there, moonlight in her hair and breath rising in thin steaming tendrils. He may bear witness to the dampness at the corners of her eyes that does not burgeon to tears. But this is not for him. Her fingertips touch the frozen ground before she stands and smooths the fabric of her winter coat. This is not for him.

Emily makes her way back into the sanctuary, taking a side door known only to the few who are overly familiar with these grounds. The Monist who keeps the church nods to her and she bows her head in return. Father Benedict disappears to his study. The hard-backed pews and dim-lit sanctuary is theirs for the night.

The future Knight pauses at the alcove to the rear of the church body. She lights three of the red-cupped votives. Each is accompanied by a silent prayer, words shaped by her lips but not given voice. The Singers eyelashes part, her gaze lifts and she steadies herself.

Emily does not wait for him by the mouth of the church. This is a holy place and its doors are unbarred. He, a man of Faith and observances, should know how to find his way to the sanctuary where she sits, hands folded in her lap, head covered in an Old World style not oft observed here, and alone. There is ample room beside her in the pew. Emily watches the wooden icon with a sort of detachment at odds with her resonance. She raises her eyes to meet His as if she might challenge Him. She is not quite humble; she is no longer afraid.

[Conquest] Gabriel did not arrive early to their scheduled meeting, so he would miss the quiet moment that Emily took for herself outside. She would have the place to herself (but for the Priest) for awhile yet. Long enough to linger on memories. Long enough to pray. Long enough to let the silence settle in around her.

Then the creak of the door signaled another's approach. It was soft, for he moved with grace and care in places such as these (Holy places.) As were his footsteps as he crossed the floor to join her. His resonance preceded him today - he made no attempts to hide the shining notes of ardent triumph, and for a moment the whole Church seemed to glow with it. Even silent as he was now, he was a passionate force. Such qualities could easily be turned to righteous vengeance in a person with little grounding or self-control, but as of yet Gabriel had not displayed those qualities. (It remained to be seen if he would.)

A hand came to touch the center of his chest, just beneath his neck (to make habitual contact with the thing that lay beneath the fabric of his shirt,) and he closed his eyes for a stretch of time. Ritual before pleasantry. Then he opened his eyes again and looked at Emily, offering what seemed to be a sincere smile as he slid in to sit beside her on the pew. His facial hair had grown in a little since the last time she'd seen him.

"I'm glad you called. It's nice to have a moment of peace amidst all this."

[Reverence] He gives her time for it, but Emily does not come here to pray. Not in the way the Gabriel might recognize it. Not even in the way the Jarod might fear, once he comes to know of her deepening association with the Church. She comes here to be silent. To be still. She wears no cross or marking of a particular religion, and while she carries prayer beads they do not bear a crucifix but rather the Cross of Malta. They are in her pocket now.

She still wears her coat.

It is unbuttoned, but she has not shrugged out of it. Her dress is a demure and monochromatic pattern, with a respectable neckline and a hem that comes just to her knees. Her shoes have a slight heel. None of this is important, though, as he slides in beside her, argent and shining, confident, a Crusader and Conqueror cozying up to Reverence Unrelenting. It will be no wonder that the pews, tonight, remain empty. It will be no surprise if the room resonates, for awhile, in the wake of their conversation. This is a holy place, sanctified anew by the attention of two such Singers.

"I'm glad you came," she offers back, with a small smile of her own. It's more at peace, here, than it had been in the pub. She is not striving for something; she keeps just as much occulted, just as close to breast.

"How are you finding Chicago?" she asks, pleasantry before business. And really, Emily's only disclosed business was to offer sanctuary and witness to another Singer. A sympathetic ear. A place to come and be calm, quiet. They are political people, but here they can set that somewhat aside without the watchful eyes of their coteries and friends.

At least she hopes that to be the case.

[Conquest] "Truthfully I wish I had more time to experience it, and under different circumstances. Chicago is a vibrant city. I was here, oh... June, was it? Over the weekend for a conference. I didn't get to see much of it then."

He called the city vibrant, where others had called it savage. Perspective was an interesting thing.

They both left their coats on. Gabriel's was unzipped, so that the white henley beneath was visible, as was a tiny glimpse of the cord about his neck. A light dusting of tiny snowflakes were slowly beginning to melt against the expensive leather of his coat. His gloves had been pocketed though, and when he leaned forward he rested his elbows on his thighs and laced his fingers together. "How is our presence here? Are there many of the Chorus in Chicago? I'm afraid I haven't heard much."

[Conquest] [Edit: "and when he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, he laced his fingers together."]

[Reverence] "Well," she begins. "There's you, me, a Monist and a Knight," she lists them out verbally without any sense of place or priority. He leans forward, but Emily stays as she was. Her hands slide back to find the pockets of her coat, rather than remaining her in her lap. Four, and that number only because his presence bolsters it, is not many. Emily doesn't remark on the oft-absent Monist or how her personal aims often run at tangents to her Praecept's. Within the Chorus as she's known it, such things are kept quiet, kept close.

It is all too familiar. Her eyes follow his whenever he looks her way, and when his attention is elsewhere Emily looks forward, or up at the ridgespine. Their voices mingle with the soft music piped into the sanctuary.

"There were more, briefly, last Fall. I was honored to have three others join our number for the night I took my vows."

He had been here in June, for a meeting. Emily does not mention Edom. Does not allude to the torment her city was under. Speaks nothing of the Host that appeared to her in the Chantry's basement.

"We are a small presence, but strive to be an active one. It is not always possible," this last is spoken with a measure of regret.

[Conquest] Only three of them, excluding himself (and he was only a weary traveler.) No, this was not a large number, especially not for a city of this size, but Gabriel didn't frown or seem displeased by her answer. Instead he merely nodded, his expression thoughtful. His eyes moved between the wooden fixture on the wall and Emily's face, listening to her speak, then glancing up as if to include an invisible third-party in their dialogue.

"Two Monists now. For awhile, anyway." He smiled a little when he looked at her again, turning his head to fix his gaze over his shoulder. "What Order is the Knight?" At this, he seemed curious. "In my youth I had dreams of joining a Guardian Order, but our views never... clicked. Philosophically, that is."

[Reverence] Scripture aside, Emily did not really believe that the Spirit was with them whenever they gathered. She could understand the appeal of such things, but she was still a Child of God that struggled with her Faith. That had to let it overtake her at times, and recede from her at others. Always, though, always was there a respect and reverence for what their works meant. Always. It was what sustained her.

"Templar," she answers, plainly. "I hope to join the Order of St. George, in time," she adds. In her pocket, her thumb smooths over the eight pointed cross worked in cold stone. Her gaze slides back to him again. There is a long pause, almost bated, still and stretching.

"Gabriel?" His name hangs like a question between them. It is soft spoken, gently, wrapped in that same reverence and a sense of familiarity that she would not have extended at the pub the other night.

"Tell me about Ben," she says. It's clearly a request. She's made it a personal thing by naming him rather than letting the man remain a faceless quarry. It tells Gabriel something about Emily, but exactly what that tells may remain shrouded for now.

[Conquest] There was a gentle furrow of brows - a wrinkle of distaste that showed in his expression when she mentioned the Templars. He was not fond of them, though the specifics of his dislike were something that he kept to himself. This wasn't a moment for giving speeches. Instead he let the lines smooth out and offered Emily a more gentle expression when she stated that she'd like to join the Knights of St. George. "A more enlightened choice, I think."

And then there was that question. She asked him about the technocrat. She used his name.

He was quiet for awhile, and sat up to lean back against the pew as he tilted his head and gazed at the ceiling. "We don't know much more than was sent over in those files. He was part of a team of Progenitors. Pharmacopoeists, I believe they called themselves. I don't know how familiar you are with the organization and structure of the Technocracy, but the Awakened among them tend to group up based on ideology and skill, as we do. Benjamin Roberts was the lead on this project, but I'm sure he got his orders from higher up. They've been trying to find ways to stifle the miraculous for generations now."

He'd used the man's full name. It was more clinical (less personal,) as was the bulk of his response.

"We were sent to destroy the facility and take what we could find of its research. The drugs didn't seem to be working, but they were harmful. The people who took them... it's like they were lobotomized. They didn't feel anything. I'm glad we were able to stop them when we did. This man we're looking for, if we don't find him, he'll just start it up all over again."

[Reverence] [Awareness as Empathy]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Reverence] [Per + Subterfuge (Evasion)]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2

[Conquest] [Manip+Subterfuge - I am maintaining professional distance from this subject]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]

[Reverence] [No, seriously. Re-rolling. My father is a Diplomat. I spent more than six months dealing with Jarod. Seriously, dice-roller, this is what I do!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Reverence] Emily studied his features while he spoke. Now and again, the dark fields of her blue eyes alit on his, but mostly they took in the cant of his head or the set of his jaw, the lineaments and traces that moved or didn't when he spoke. She studied him, like he was some piece of art in motion. Or like he was a person she might have hoped to call a friend. Like he reminded her of someone, or of some promise, some thing. The weight of Reverence's attention wasn't an easy thing to bear, but the Monist had likely endured worse.

"Are you certain?" she asks. There's a resolute tone under the query, hard like bedrock, immoveable, unrelenting, but the question itself is like quicksand. Uncertain. It yields and breaks away. It is not the whole of what she wants to ask.

"Does he still have ties, funding, labspace -- these are not easy to come by, unless you have powerful affiliates." She pauses a little, redirects. "I ask because it's good to know what we're up against."

She said we. Emily did not say you.

[Conquest] He might have said that it didn't matter whether or not he was certain, because his orders came from higher up as well. Perhaps that answer was expected. It seemed like the sort of thing he might say, especially if he truly believed, as he'd hinted at in the past, that God was speaking to him through the Rogue Council. (It doesn't matter what I think. I am not the hand. I am only the weapon.) Except that Gabriel didn't seem like the kind of mindless fanatic who didn't bother to analyze his decisions before making them. Passionate, yes. Blind? That much was unclear.

For whatever reason, he didn't try to assign responsibility to the Rogue Council, or to God. Instead he looked at Emily for a long moment and said, "I am certain that he will try. That is all I really need to know." There was a pause before he continued. "I believe that he's been cut off, for the moment. The local technocrats are keeping their heads down. It's entirely possible that they mean to use him as bait, or maybe they've decided he isn't worth the effort of trying to protect. I hate to think that, because if so... it means they have a backup of his research. But yes, I've noticed that he's operating with limited resources. If he wasn't so determined, we'd have caught him by now. We will catch him... soon."

[Reverence] She listens to the certainty, that that unwavering purpose, to the surety in his voice that shines like silver, burns like lamplight, is vibrant and clear. He is passionate where she often seems cold and he could be (may be) a great leader of men. She is a once-Orphan. She is a once-Apprentice. Emily whets her lower lip for a moment and looks thoughtful. She reaches up to pull the wrap away from the crown of her head, to draw it down like one lowering a cowl, to let the dark of her hair gleam dully in the low-light.

"I am not going to lie to you," she says, which is the crux of the best and boldest deceptions. It is brazen to say, if she plans to mislead him. It is, at best, a mid-way between trust and skepticism. She holds out both for him to take note of. She believes him; she believes he will tell her what he needs to have her hear.

"There are those within our ranks who will want to speak with him, with Benjamin, directly. They will want assurances that he is not being persecuted merely for his place in something greater, for nothing less noble than following orders as you are -- as I might. If his own people won't help him, and our people are hunting him, then there is something amiss with this equation."

She pauses, then admits with a certain sort of candor: "I'd be determined, too, in his position. He has no reason to be anything less."

[Conquest] [Aware-as-empathy: we talk of trust, but how much can I trust *you*?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Reverence] [Subterfuge: Leading the witness, your honor.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 6, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Conquest] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8)

[Conquest] [Cha (Inspiring) + Expression]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

[Conquest] I'm not going to lie to you, she said. And given the nature of what followed that preface, it was probable that this was true, because Emily had to be aware on some level that her present companion wasn't going to be happy about what she was saying. But if there was anything hidden behind her words - some secret subversiveness - he couldn't tell one way or the other. She seemed honest enough, and she was a Tradition-mate, though... that did not make her a friend. (Would that the world was so idealistic.)

His jaw clenched for a moment, but not in anger. More like... worry. And there was a subtly troubled cast to his gaze.

"And do you believe, then, that those who follow orders are not responsible for their actions? If you spoke to him, what would this do for you? Do you think that he would reveal some fundamental evil or goodness of character that would make a decision more easy to come by? He may only be one man, but he is still dangerous. He has hurt and killed innocent people. And he will do it again, because he believes that everything that is bright and beautiful and sacred about this world is an aberrant. He would turn us all into empty husks, and that is worse than death. I do not want to kill him, but if we let him go and someone else is hurt... then that will be on our hands. Don't fool yourself into thinking that anyone who's been a slave to a false ideology for that long has any hope of redemption. I wanted to believe that once, and it was a mistake."

He took a breath and stood up.

"Please believe me, Emily. He is not a good person, and if you try to find him on your own, you'll put yourselves in danger. I don't want anyone here to get hurt."

[Reverence] "Gabriel..."

He rises and Emily's hand comes out of her pocket, reaches forward to rest on the arm of his jacket before he can stride away. It is a gentle weight, a human thing. A connection that is bridged just as clearly by touch as by his vehemence and inspirational tone. She has much simpler tools, but they are no less resonant.

"Stay. Please," she entreats, and there is no command to her voice. It is a request. It does not lead anywhere back toward the pew beside her. "I meant no offense."

[Reverence] [edit: It does not lead anywhere but back toward the pew beside her.]

[Conquest] "...I know you didn't." He looked and sounded a little sad. "I believe that your heart is in the right place. This is just..." he sighed. "This is very personal for me. For us."

He seemed torn for a moment, but finally he lowered himself onto the pew once more, reaching up to massage the bridge of his nose with both hands.

"The days have been long, lately."

[Reverence] "So tell me about that," she suggests, offering him a small and somewhat sympathetic smile. It is warmer, now, after his outburst than it had been before. A bit more accessible now that he has told her his take on their ideological differences. Since he's let his passionate side over-brim and spill out into this empty sanctuary. He burns with it; she warms slowly. Like stone. Like a thing frozen and not yet through thawing.

"I understand duty, Gabriel. I know what it means to take a life to protect something higher than we are. We've struggled, in this city, for the entire time I have been awake. We lost people, good people, to twisted and dark things. I should not, by any reasonable means, be sitting here beside you today.

"But I am."

Her voice falls away. Emily does not have the same draw that Gabriel has, but it's close. There's a vibrancy to her, a pull that may someday grow into a presence like he holds. There is also a softness, something that can no longer be considered naivete, something she is unwilling to lose, that keeps her human. (Humbled. [Reverent.]) Grace.

"It's personal, for you, and unless you share that with me, with at least one of us, that will endanger us just as surely as any ideological difference. You say you don't want any of us to get hurt. So tell me. Trust me. And we'll go into it together, aware of what that means."

[Conquest] She asked him to tell her his story, and there was a click from the hinge of his jaw as the muscles there tensed again, briefly. Emily went on to tell him that she understood a part of what he was feeling - that she and everyone else here has known what it was to struggle, and that by all accounts they should not be alive. He looked at her when she said that, and his expression softened. They were all brothers and sisters in this struggle. He seemed to understand that (perhaps better than many.)

"I can't, Emily. It... isn't a story for me to tell. I gave a promise to someone I love very deeply, and I won't break her trust. Only know that everything I've told you - all of you - has been the truth. We were sent to complete a task by those who would see this world become the place it could be - something better than what we, in our selfishness and ignorance, have allowed it to become. And I've given you all of the information that we've collected, because this is bigger than myself and my cabal, and you deserve to know what's happening. That's the important part. The rest is just... a story that's better left untold."

He stood up again, and this time he didn't give Emily the opportunity to easily halt his departure. He nodded to her, a silent goodbye, then turned to go. When he reached the end of the isle, he turned around and touched his chest again, mouthing something silently to himself.

Then he left, and Triumph wavered, leaving only a lingering song of ardent keening.

[Reverence] Reverence wears a mask, to keep her Truth and her Word and her Self from the world. She keeps it separate, for reasons that Triumph cannot know, but for a moment that mask softens and the separation between them is not so very great and clear.

I gave a promise to someone I love very deeply...

Emily draws a little breath, nods just once, and exhales. There are more words that come after this. A Testament. She Witnesses. It is one of the only gifts they can give each other as strangers. Fellowship. Belonging. Here is His home, which has not often been her own.

The blue-eyed Singer watches as he rises, she takes in the play of the light on his jacket, the pain in his eyes when he nods his goodbye. His eyes are clearer in this light than hers; here hers are only dark. Dark like her hair, like her coat, like the patterns in her dress. He leaves the sanctuary, and the swell of victory rushes out with him. The old church exhales. Relaxes.

It is a moment before she leans forward in the pew and rests one hand on the back of the one before her. A moment longer before she, too, rises to leave. For a time, her gaze lines up with that of the idol's. She watches, but does not challenge. Wonders, but does not ask. After this quiet, Emily shakes her head, bows it slightly and slips her hands back into her pockets.

She will leave through the same door as he has. Reverence will sweep out behind her. Father Benedict will close and bar the door and the Sanctuary will be just that: still, sacred, solemn.

She has made promises, too. Some, she's not been strong enough to keep.

A place beyond politics

[Quentin Doyle] It's just another pub, stuck on a street that has plenty to offer. The windows have some stained panels and lead work. Doors are heavy wood, stained too, with a thread of panels down the sides, dark colours, brighter when the sunlight streams through them from the outside.

Inside: dark wood lines the floor, the bar, makes the stools and the booths. There are hints of mahogany and navy, with gold in some patterned materials for the booth lining, that dark rich burgundy for the stool chairs and there's a few small armchairs with circular tables in the corners up the back. There's a fireplace opposite the bar, but it's not currently in use. Overhead ceiling fans sit higher then the few iron lanterns that glow at night - but there's small down-lights too, placed to direct spots of light on polished bottles on the shelves. A flat screen television mounted on the wall to the side of the bar, situated close enough that those sitting at the corner can view it from the counter, and those in a few tables and chairs scattered around can have a view of the current sports channel or highlights of the hour.

The smell of wood stain is fainter now. Doyle’s has been open for a good number of months. Aroma's from the kitchen (when it‘s open), however, are stronger and certainly more enticing. A fully stocked bar lines the one wall, imported and local brews and spirits. The place is new enough not to have a single speck of dust, to not be worn yet by the scuff of chair legs across the floor or worn patches on booth materials.

[pics in my gallery - I think!]

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[It's there, yep!]]

[Ellizabeth Zhao] The generally quiet, unassuming woman makes her way into the pub, giving a look around as she comes through the front door. Her backpack is resting over a shoulder and she certainly looks cold--she's wearing nothing heavier than an old, battered windbreaker for Christ's sake--but she doesn't seem to be complaining. The cold, like all things physical, is just a challenge for her to overcome. She makes her way to one of the tables nearer to the door, taking a seat so she can let her body warm up.

[Emily Littleton] It's bitter cold outside. So cold that Emily has acquiesed to wearing gloves. Cold enough that the scarf wrapped around her neck is more for warmth than show tonight. Her heavy wool coat is a dark fabric, and obscures the lines of her dark slacks and the cling of her soft, amethyst-hued sweater until she unfastens its buttons and peels it away in the entry to the familiar pub.

There is a faint smell of varnish, the warmth glow of lamplight on dark woods. The bar is well-stocked and the seating ample, but there is a draw about this place that is beyond the immediately apparent to her. It reminds her a little bit of home.

The Singer girl's boot heels click on the floor as she crosses to the bar. In these shoes, she stands an imposing six foot even. Her eyes are a stormy blue grey, so deeply hued that they seem nothing more than dark unless the lowlight catches them just so and the warmth to the brown of her hair is likewise hidden.

What calls her out as Other, more than anything else, is the muddle of her accent that is neither here nor there, touched with hints of very far away places and predominantly Manchesterian. British, but unclearly so. Only mainly so. Only mostly.

"Good evening," she says to the barkeep. Emily always says her helloes and politenesses aloud. She smiles, and it is warm enough to seem polite but not truly gregarious. "Newcastle, please, if you have it on draught."

This is what she always orders. And like always, she casts a glance about for the owner and proprietor. They are not quite friends, but rather polite acquaintances. His conversation is a welcome thing.

[Quentin Doyle] He's a big man. Black hair. Angular lines. Clean shaven.

He's sitting at a table by himself. The shirt he's wearing stretches across his shoulders along the back, but the few buttons undone along the front leaves some more room for his chest. There's a white undershirt under the black of it. The sleeves are folded up his forearms. He's reading from the news paper, spread out across the table. His plate is shifted to one side and he's eating a towering burger from it that manages to look smaller in his larger hand. A dark beer sits mostly untouched in its glass. He has a napkin spread across one thigh. His jeans are blue, worn across the thighs, faded from off the rack. Leather loafers have a thicker sole and no laces.

It's Friday night. The Pub closes at three in the morning. The night is still filtering the crowd on the dinner hour and will be until about nine. People move about. There's plenty of chatter. Music somewhere over some speakers. Later he'll light the fireplace, but for now warmth spreads through vents from the ceilings, keeping the chill out. It's comfortable inside.

[Quentin Doyle] Andy's on. He's in his late twenties and native to Chicago. He works most nights, and he gets Emily her usual.

"Cold out?" He's making small talk, really small. It's busy.

[Emily Littleton] [Awareness: Who's out there tonight?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 7, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] ((When you guys get a chance, please PM me your resonance info! And/or just include in an upcoming post. Likewise, you can roll Awareness + Perception to pick up on Emily's. This is usually how we identify each other ICly in meet & greets!))
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Kim J

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[Per+Aware: 'cause all the cool kids are doing it]]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[Already on it. :D]]
to Emily Littleton

[Kim J] Normally she wasn't bothered by the weather, but this was excessive by all counts. But she wasn't worried about that right now. Right now she was concetrating on raising current kharmic standing, at least in regards to alcohol comsumption. A blonde haired woman in her late 20's, the most immediate thing that the catches eye is her dark tan. She's attractive and fit, though that's hard to see under the new looking winter clothing.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] The Amerasian woman at the window table gives off a Resonance that makes its presence known and then backs off a little...not completely pulling away, but certainly receding some. It gives a sensation like two opposing forces wrapped around each other; light and and dark perhaps, or maybe masculine and feminine.

[Kim J] ((Percep+Fail))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] "It's headed for the single digits," she says with a grimace that further identifies her as an alien in these Midwestern states. Emily doesn't say that nowhere has felt this cold since Kiev. She doesn't have to. Instead she unwinds her scarf and slips off her gloves.

"Doesn't it bother you?" she asks him, as he pulls her pint for her. "Or are you innured to the bitter Chicago winters?" There's a wry tilt in her tone, something that matches the way one side of her mouth curls upward more than the other. She is friendly with the barkeep, but not overtly so. It's a charmingly casual sort of banter, something to keep the evening light. He'll have plenty of customers across the hours; she strives to be one of the less irritable sorts.

To the blonde at a table by the door, there is a sense of Grace to the woman chatting easily with the barstaff. An uplifted sense of Reverence, threaded through her very bones, a brilliance. It is a steady thing, a sure and Static thing, but it does not come without movement. It is Unrelenting, and does not give ground or abate.

"Thanks, Andy," she says, and slips him more than enough to cover her pint and a generous tip. She's always tipped Quentin's people well. There's something to be said for taking care of the people that offer her a sense of home. She collects her pint and carries it over to the broad-shouldered man's table, stopping just before she comes to close for politeness.

"Good evening, Mr. Doyle," she says. And the formality is more to be wry and somewhat different than her usually Hello, Quentins than it is meant to distance them. But Emily doesn't ask to sit. She doesn't motion to a chair across from him. There's a something, tugging at the edge of her awareness that makes her watchful and threads a subtle tension through her frame.

This is Quentin's pub, but she feels moderately protective of it.

[Emily Littleton] [I totally got confused on where Kim & Elizabeth were... so it should have been more like "to the blonde AND the woman at a table by the door" ;) ]

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She straightens a little bit as Emily's Resonance registers to her, her attention moving from the window toward the direction of the sensation. The contrast in the mystical quasi-pheromones of Resonance between what she feels and what she knows her own to be certainly intrigues her. She takes another glance out the window, as if checking to make sure she's not about to be ambushed or the like, and casts her eyes back inward, eyes tracing to the source of the sensation.

[[No worries. :) ]]

[Quentin Doyle] Emily gets his attention the moment she approaches his table. It's hard to overlook someone like Emily, for many different reasons. He hastily sets down his burger and lifts the napkin from his lap, wiping his mouth. It all happens as his chair scrapes back and he moves to stand up. Growing taller, broader.

"Emily." He greets her after his sure he doesn't have any food in his teeth, prying such free with a quick probe of his tongue.

Gesturing to the table, of which has another three spare chairs, he invites her to sit. "Please."

Once she does, or if she does, he follows suit. The paper is folded over, then folded again. He pulls his beer and plate to his side of the table, giving her some room and sets the paper on one of the spare chairs to leave more space. "How are ya? Yer lookin' good, as always." His smile for her is honest and the warmth genuine.

[Quentin Doyle] The man with Emily, his resonance isn't as strong as others. It's faint, but what is there is the sort that garners some attention. It's that primal energy, something extremely masculine with a fierce edge to it. Not unlike one might attribute to the male of a pride of lions. Not inherently bad but potentially aggressive, but also protective. Either is not very idle or soothing.

[Emily Littleton] It has been hard to overlook someone like Emily since long before she Awakened, but the Diplomat's Daughter is ever more a beacon and shining star (for better or worse) these nights. She is easy to pick out in a crowd, if one only knows what to look or listen for, and she is easier yet to identify for what she is once you've found her. Her resonance gives her away as readily as her accent does.

"Please," she says, as soon as he starts to rise. "You don't have to get up for me." But they both know he always will, and that she will always incline her head politely and appreciate the Old World mannerisms that bind them together in a common kinship. She sets her coat in one of the free chairs and then lowers herself into another.

"Thank you," she tells him, for the compliment. "It's always a pleasure to see you," she says, and the warmth here is genuine. It's deeper than the politeness she shows even Andy and other familiar faces. It touches her eyes.

"I trust you've been well?" she asks, as she sets her pint down on a coaster. But even as she settles herself, Emily turns a little so that her attention can embrace, if perhaps peripherally, the unknown presences scattered throughout his pub. It's an unusual distraction, one she doesn't bring to their meetings often. And the way that her attention strays, now and again, toward the parties near the door is telling, in her own subtle way. She does not call attention to it, but it lingers. Like a subcurrent. A thing that will be addressed, soon enough, and in its own time.

[Quentin Doyle] "I'm doin' well. Not much a fan of the weather, but wha' can you do?" Reaching for his glass, he lifts it to his mouth and takes a long but slow drink from it. It helps wash down the burger he's been eating, and which now sits untouched. He can always get it heated up later or something else from the kitchen. It is, after all, his pub. It's why he often eats here. Why should he make something at his apartment when he can stroll into the Pub and have something from the menu. He treats his staff well and they never complain about feeding the boss.

His green-blue eyes follow her gaze, flicking from her face over the crowd, trying to guess at what she's looking at. He doesn't know her well enough to read her, and isn't trying to probe beneath the surface. He knows only she is distracted by someone or something. It's enough to get a small rise out of him, alertness sharpening.

"Everything okay Emily?" he asks her, voice lower. Concerned.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She looks over at Kim as she enters, giving her a little courteous nod and smile, before she turns her attention to examining the bar itself. She seems fascinated with the decor, or at least with looking it over. She stands, rubbing her hands briefly without realizing it--if she did realize, she would probably be a bit irritated with herself at conceding to the cold--and walks along further away from the door, taking in place's dark woods. About the only thing she doesn't pay attention to is the television.

[Emily Littleton] "Mmmm," she says, and it's not entirely an answer at first. It's a low and resonant, thoughtful sound mulled across the back of her throat before she turned toward him and smiled a bit more fully.

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. We've some strangers in town," she says, very lightly, as if it were no worry at all. Emily reaches for her pint glass and further punctuates that easy (seeming) indifference with a pull from it. She sets it down, precisely in the ring of condensation it had left on the coaster in its brief tenure there. When Emily speaks in the royal We, Quentin has probably come to take her double meaning by instinct more than clear understanding.

"You have some unfamiliar guests," she notes, with a delicate raise of her eyebrows. She taps the fingertips of one hand against the rim of her pintglass. "If it's alright with you, I plan to introduce myself."

This is not a passing pleasantry. She is truly asking his permission before bringing Awakened business into his business (Home). They had spoken on the political lines and climes before, and Quentin had wanted no truck with it. Of everyone in town, Emily has done her best to honor that. If he tells her not here and not now, she'll let it lie. Watchfully, of course, but patiently.

[Quentin Doyle] He considers, and looks over the crowd again before turning his gaze back to her. There's less warmth there now, but it's not been redirected into anything negative. It's simply serious under his furrowed brow. "I'd prefer if ye were to, then do so with me around." Not meaning to imply that she couldn't take care of herself, but, it's also his instinct to protect a woman. Quentin is simply like that. Men are for firing lines, women are not.

"Want me te come with you, or should I wait right 'ere?" He knows that if he walked up most get intimidated simply by his sheer size and the air he can give off. He makes an excellent deterrent for trouble, at least under normal circumstances.

[Emily Littleton] Quentin's protective side would have to wrestle with Emily's chosen place in her Tradition sooner or later. Like as not, the man sitting across the table from her has no idea whatsoever how many times the future Knight has faced her own mortality in the past year. Or how often it has been sheer Will and her Arts alone that has spared her. The Singer does not come into his establishment armed with anything more deadly than her presence alone and the few foci that never leave her person.

Still, that fiercely protective instinct of his makes itself known and she smiles rather than taking offense. Emily is young enough to be headstrong, willful and still convinced of her own immortality -- yet she doesn't seem to exhibit these tendencies directly, more than another Initiate might.

"Don't let me break up your dinner, again," she protests, indicating his half-eaten and now-ignored burger. She does not seem to be expecting any trouble. Her confidence and surety carries easily across the table, but she does slip a small string of stone beads from the pocket of her jacket and into the pocket of her slacks. For the Awakened present, their meaning is unlikely to be missed.

"I'll be right back," she assures him as she stands, abandoning her pint to his keeping as part of that promise, and makes her way unerringly toward Elizabeth.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She continues on her path to the back of the bar, taking it in. It's nothing so severe as a close-up examination, just a slow walk through the place as she looks here and there. She also throws a couple looks over at Quentin and Emily, though no more than cursory ones. They are not her focus at the moment; she merely keeps them in her field of vision.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She turns when she sees Emily approaching and smiles politely. Her hands fold in front of her, resting in a relaxed, nom-defensive state as she allows Emily to approach as close as she would like. Her head and shoulders dip in a small bow to the woman, eyes remaining directed at her throughout. "Good evening. My apologies, I did not wish to disturb your conversation. I imagined that I would take in the decor while you talked...and I hope that I am not intruding."

[Quentin Doyle] "If yer sure." He wasn't about to accompany her against her will. But he does watch from where he's sitting. On his glance around the Pub he had noticed a woman earlier. Her dark tan had caught his eye. She had been pleasing to look at. Maybe she would still be around after. But for now his attention stays on Emily and Elizabeth.

[Emily Littleton] Emily stops a polite distance away from Elizabeth, and her smile is polite without being overwarm. There is no direct challenge to it, beyond the watchfulness of one Awakened soul meeting another by chance (if you allowed for such things) in a friendly establishment. Anyone who had stayed in Chicago for some time began to acknowledge the uncanny way that magi clustered, in parks, in pubs, and least often of all in Chantry meetings.

Emily returns the bow that Elizabeth offers her with a practiced ease that can only come through long association with Eastern culture. It is too seamless to be affected or mere mimicry.

"Oh, no. You're not intruding at all," the Singer assures her. "I just thought I'd come over and say hello. I haven't met you before," she explains, in a way that inherently implies she is a well connected member of the local community.

"My name's Emily," she offers, extending a hand in a more occidental greeting. "I'm with the local Chorus." She gestures back to the table where Quentin is, no doubt, hawkishly but subtly still watching them. "The proprietor of this pub is a friend of mine. He's elected to stay out of politics, so to speak, so I consider myself off the clock while I'm here."

This is all it takes to establish some sort of implied requirement of good behavior and politeness whilst on the premises. Though, to be fair, Elizabeth is quite unlikely to be the sort than needs this kind of reminder. There's a lightly self-deprecating wryness to Emily's admission of being off the clock. They never were completely divorced from their mystical requirements. But it's good to know there were friendly places where one could expect to be spared a side of metaphysical politics with their favorite pints. Unlike the Hung, Drawn & Quartered, which was pretty much an extension of Chantry Office Hours.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] Elizabeth listens calmly, her posture and stance remaining courteous. It shifts just a little, becoming more open in body language, when Emily introduces herself. Certainly not that she was looking especially guarded, but the woman had traveled too long and been to too many cities to let her guard completely down without making some introductions and getting to know people. She smiles and reaches out, taking the offered hand with a firm but friendly grip.

"A pleasure to meet you, Emily. I am Elizabeth Zhao, of the Akashayana Sangha." She follows Emily's gaze to Quentin, giving him a brief but courteous nod of greeting, and then looks back.

"Of course. It is good to have places where one can go to and be 'off the clock,' as you put it. And no, you have not. I am a new arrival to the city; I came in last week. I have met a few people thus far, and am honored to add more to that list."

[Quentin Doyle] [brb - post around me]
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton

[Emily Littleton] "Likewise a pleasure, Elizabeth. And welcome to Chicago. Though it's a brutal time of year for first impressions. I hope you don't judge the city too harshly for her uncompromisingly snowy demeanor." The wryness here lifts Emily's smile a little, as she welcomes the Akashic to her adoptive home town.

Elizabeth is polite, and she is well-mannered and grateful for new acquaintances. This only improves the standing her first impression has left with the Singer who is, let's be honest, possessed with a certain fondness for Eastern social habits.

"Why don't order something, and then come join us?" she offers. Quentin can't argue from this distance, but she doesn't think he'll mind overmuch so long as discussion doesn't dip too much toward magely things. He had gotten along with Kage just fine, deigned even to build lego castles in the sky with Emily's rowan-haired Other who is both argent and burnished. Elizabeth is less overtly struck through with magic and awe-threaded oddity. They should find no quarrel.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "Of course...I would be delighted." She nods, appreciative of the offer. As used to sitting alone as the woman is, she never minds the opportunity to converse with people...in fact, her typical solitude just makes her all the more happy about the opportunity. She heads to the bar, asking them politely if they carry any types of non-alcoholic tea. If not, she simply gets a soda and makes her way toward the table.

[Quentin Doyle] Having flagged down one of the waitresses cleaning off the tables, he gets her take his plate with his dinner on it back out into the kitchen to be rid of. He does so with a smile and an appreciation, even if the woman is being paid for it.

By the time Emily and Elizabeth are coming back over, he's moved the newspaper from the spare chair so that the new arrival can sit. He rises up as the two Magi join him, glancing from Emily to Elizabeth for introductions. He even extends his hand to the stranger. "Quentin," he offers her. He's careful of his strength.

[Emily Littleton] Emily shifts her jacket and various winter things from being unceremoniously dumped into a chair to hanging neatly over the back of it. She takes the chair nearer the wall, leaving the more readily available one for Elizabeth. The smile that Emily wears, now, is more relaxed. It says see, no problem at all, but there is a note of relief to it that Quentin, being who and what he is and well attuned to the subtlties of Emily's apparent moods, will readily pick up on.

"Quentin, this is Elizabeth. She's just recently moved to Chicago." Perhaps it will seem strange that her introductions go this way, the mage presented to the sorceror's attention rather than the other way around. But he has offered his name, and Emily is bringing the Akashic into their narrow circle. She is vouching for Elizabeth, like she had not directly done for Hunger. Reverence hopes this meeting goes over better than that one had.

While they make their helloes, Emily waits then seats herself once it is polite to do so. These mannerisms that hearken back to older times and places surround all three of them. It creates an envelope of pleasantries and politeness that can help carry strangers toward friendships. It soothes what remains of the Singer's hyper-attentive wariness.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She takes the offered hand with a friendly smile and an inclination of her head. "It is a please, Quentin. As she said, I am Elizabeth. You have a wonderful establishment here."

She takes a seat in the offered spot, finally setting her backpack gently on the ground. "How long as it been here?" It's said in a matter of curiosity, just a tough heightened from idle chit-chat. She's not making an excuse to fill dead air, she is legitimately and sincerely interested in the answer.

[Quentin Doyle] "Thank you."

"Please, sit." Gesturing for Elizabeth and Emily to sit, he does so only after they have.

Questions about his Pub has him caught off guard temporarily, and he tries to count back, giving up quickly. "Oh, a bit now. Less than a year. Six months mayhaps?" It's been a rough year. Speaking of which...

He had wanted to ask Emily some things today, but it would have to wait until another time. This is only the second time that they have come across each other in awhile. He's noticed changes in her. Things have gone missing. She's older now. Much older then how he remembers her, and he'd wondered if it was his own memory and projections of what had happened to make such a change.

Another time.

"How are ya enjoyin' Chicago, Elizabeth?" She's such a tiny thing.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She sits down and nods at his assertion of the establishment's age, as if that makes sense. "I am enjoying it very much, thank you." She smiles. "I have mostly been exploring the city. I have some familiarity with it, after a certain fashion, and it has been nice to see what has been..." She pauses for just a second. "...viewed via someone else's perspective."

She settles in her seat, looking between them. "Are you lifelong residents, or immigrants to the city?"

[Emily Littleton] When Quentin had met Emily, she'd been just on the cusp of being the happiest she's been in recent memory. Perhaps in distant memory as well. She'd found a Tradition to call her own, made peace with her God, begun to grow into her own as a mage, been accepted to graduate school and had started, tenuously, to develop a Faith in people as individuals not just an idealized and synergistic mass.

That was before Daiyu had died. Before the Labyrinth. Before the exodus of last Fall. Before... She had gone away over the break to put so much of the Summer and Fall behind her that it's no wonder he finds her horribly changed on her return. She's still Emily, but Winter has set her back to her naturally guarded state. It has encouraged the walls she builds to firm up, stand straight and tall. Spending several weeks with her family has hardly helped matters.

So they have much to talk about. Or to notice in each other and politely let slip by. She settles into her chair and draws her pint toward her as they make small talk and observe niceties. Poor Elizabeth is dwarfed by the giants whose company she keeps. They three are stepping stones. 5'4", 5'9", 6'4". Even seated at the table, Quentin could seem imposing.

She takes a sip of her beer just as the Akashic raises a question to the table.

"Ah, no," Emily says, in response to Elizabeth's question. It's a brief thing, a thought paused before he elaborates. She sets down her pint and expounds: "I've lived a little bit of everywhere, but I came here for University. It's been three and a half, going on four years now for me."

[Quentin Doyle] "I'm from Boston," he tells Elizabeth simply. There was something in the way she had asked that had made laugh lines appear by his eyes and a smile curl his mouth. But he doesn't laugh at her.

Whatever else is interrupted. Andy catches his eye by the bar, making a gesture with his hand to his ear, indicating that there was a phone call that needed his attention. He shifts his leg, digs into his jean pocket and pulls out the cell phone he's had on silent. There's five missed calls.

Pushing his chair back, he covers his phone with the palm of his hand and looks to each of them. "Scuse me ladies, I've got te take care of some business."

Standing, he nods to: "Elizabeth. Was nice ta meet you."

And to: "Emily. Good ta see you. Maybe we could 'ave dinner sometime?" Pushing his chair in gives her enough time to respond before he's excusing himself again and heading for the staff door to lead into the back sections of the pub. He had work to do.

[Quentin Doyle] [sorry folks. I have to bail for a few hours! Thanks for the play.]
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton, Kim J

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "Ahh, of course." A little smile, as she leans back. "I understand the city has some excellent schools."

She looks at Quentin as he gets up, nodding to him. "A pleasure. Thank you, Quenting."

[Kim J] Let's try this again. She couldn't believe how cold it was here, normally those sorts of things wouldn't bother her, but this, was something else. It seemed pervasive, going so far as to interupt what should have been a warm, joyful affair of hot food, wine, a comfy bed and good ole fashioned American television. But Necessity had other things in mind in the form of frozen pipes, and so in a bit of a huff at this dour turn of Fate, Kim set off onto the streets.

And so she ended up here. It seemed like a good place, nice atmosphere, and warming spirits. When the tanned blonde pushed through the door, she immediately felt something strange. Intense blue eyes bore outward, finding the table in question. She normally didn't notice these things, but she did this time.

[Emily Littleton] Quentin pulls out his phone and Emily's attention flicks to it for just a moment, and politely pulls away. She nods in understanding when he explains why he has to go, and then her smile warms notably when he asks after dinner.

"I would like that," she tells him, which can pass for an exuberant yes in Emily's understated world at times. "I'll ring you sometime soon," she promises, and follows his exit with her eyes for a moment before switching that attention back to the woman beside her.

"He runs a nice place, and it reminds me a little of home. It's good to know a few safe havens," she says, in passing perhaps, but in the way that long-wearied travelers might exchange notes on friendly establishments. Emily has been in Chicago for several years, but it is not home. It doesn't really come close to that for her. She's a wanderer at heart.

The door swings open to admit a taut, clear-eyed blond woman. Something about their table draws her attention. Something about her entry tugs at Emily's awareness. The Singer's brow furrows slightly (again?) and she glances -- casually -- yet again tonight.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "I most agree." She nods with a little smile. "I have done extensive traveling over the past several years, and there is nothing more useful than such a place." She also follows Emilys gaze toward the door, briefly, to see the blonde looking their direction. She looks back at Emily, head tilting just a bit.

[Kim J] She thinks about it for a moment, habitually glancing around the rest of the joint before deciding on a direct approached. A smile breaks out on her face despite her impulses otherwise, she was still pretty bad at hiding things, and this something to be excited about.

"Hi, may I join you?"

She's not local.

[Emily Littleton] Emily is less excited about the influx of new people, alarmingly clustered two to one evening and quick on the tail of a four-in-one with alarming repercussions. Emily is also better than Kim at keeping her disquietude separate. So the Singer's smile warms a little, to be polite and welcoming but not entirely gregarious or friendly. It serves a purpose, well at that, without overextending it.

"Hi," she echoes. Then glances at Elizabeth before answering. If the Akashic is alright with the addition, she'll go on to add, "Be my guest. I'm Emily." She lets Elizabeth choose her own introduction.

While Kim is getting settled, she adds as an aside to Elizabeth: "I'd be interested to compare travel notes, sometime. It's rare to meet someone as broadly wandered, and always a treat."

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She seems perfectly fine with Kim joining them, and nods to Emily in agreement. "That would be wonderful. I would be happy to exchange notes."

She then looks to Kim and offers her a little nod and a smile. "Good evening. I am Elizabeth." She extends her hand to Kim.

[Kim J] "Thank you.. I'm Kim, it's nice to meet you."

Taking the offered hand, she smiles while trying to figure out what exactly to do next. Clearly not having anticipated this sort of occurence. Eyes dart from one woman to the next, suddenly a little anxious.

[Emily Littleton] Emily reaches for her pint glass again. She draws a sip off of it and then sets it down again. Each time she lifts it, it is returned to the same circle the condensation left on the coaster before. One could surmise she was the particular type, perfectionistic, bogged down and bothered by the details of things. It would be fair, some days.

She notes the anxiety on the newcomer's features and not without sympathy, so Emily, who is the closest they have to a local host tonight, rolls out what little of the welcome mat is still hers to offer.

"It's a pleasure, Kim. I'll hazard a guess that you're recently arrived as well?" One eyebrow arches upward. She glances over at the bar to make sure Quentin isn't around to overhear her brief foray into local politics.

"If so, then welcome. I'm a member of the local Singers, and can put you in touch with the House management, should you require introductions." A warm smile here. Genuine. Easy. She's acquainted with the power structure, and happy to leverage it to get things done. "A friend of mine owns the pub, and as a courtesy to his distate for politics we don't usually talk shop. But if you have questions, feel free to ask them."

Hopefully that takes the edge off for Kim, helps the nervousness abate.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "A pleasure, Kim," she says, picking up her tea for a quick sip. She is about to ask if Kim is new in town, but Emily beats her to the punch, so she just smiles in a friendly manner. She recognizes anxiety easily enough--the woman is deeply familiar with it, as a matter of fact--and adopts a slightrly more open stance, to set Kim at ease some.

[Kim J] Kim almost breaks into a bit of a giggle, it had never occured to her that she may need to mask her, affiliation, in a public location. A sly grin takes over her pretty (well, better than average) face.

"Oh, that's really cool...."

pause

"...uh, I do... Risk Assessment."

Another pause, as she waits for that to either sink in, or require further explanation. Whatever her training and path, she got caught flat-footed. Which in it's own way was rewarding.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] That clearly doesn't compute, but Elizabeth doesn't appear overtly worried about it. Specifics regarding Traditions and such can wait for another time, after all. She just nods a little bit. "Where are you from?"

[Emily Littleton] Risk Assessment sounds appropriately euphamistic for a few Traditions. Emily nods a little, feigning a clearer understanding that she truly possesses, but not wanting to delve too far into clarifying that just yet. She sips from her beer and lets her attention flow between the two newcomers. Now and again she glances over at the bar, and then back.

"And what brings you to Chicago in the middle of our glorious and inviting winter weather?" she asks, letting the wryness it her voice lighten the inquiry away from something more pointed.

[Kim J] Well, that clearly didn't work. She smiles anyway.

"I help people get where they need to go."

She nods, deciding to leave it at that.

"Well, I'm from Virginia but I'm coming here from Africa."

[Kim J] ((hiiii))
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton, K. R. Jakes

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "Africa?" She certainly looks intrigued now...not that she wasn't before. "What brings you from there?"

[Emily Littleton] ((Kage is awesome, if you have not met her yet. :) I hope you guys will like her, ICly! I told Jess that you two were awesome, so she came by to join us.))
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Kim J

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[Works for me!]]
to Emily Littleton

[Kim J] "Mmhm." A nod. "I'm here to check up on an aquintance for a friend. Also..."

That grin again,

"Africa sucks."

[Emily Littleton] "It seems like we're all wanderers," she says, in an inclusive way that seems to draw the group together. It's an artful little aside, that also nods toward Elizabeth's question. Though Emily doesn't ask what Kim was up to in Africa. Pairing Risk Assessment and unstable corners of the world makes this Diplomat's Daughter all too aware that her position there may have been for moving, shall we say Actionable Targets?

"Well, then Chicago may be a step up," Emily conceeds, with a glance toward the winter and the bleak outside weather. "But I'm not really sure." Again, a wry twist of her mouth.

"Anyone I might know?" she asks, when Kim mentions a friend. Emily is rather well connected. There's a chance she might know someone, or someone who knows someone.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She seems curious at that. "I would imagine it might depend on which part of Africa...but why is that?"

[K. R. Jakes] Doyle's Pub is renowned - at least in the mind of one twentysomething woman with hair as red as autumn in a children's book illustration and eyes as murky as riverwater - for its 'chips.' They've a good belgium ale, too, something gold and late summer, something that goes down smooth and then kicks, pleasing to the tongue. And sometimes, one is actually able to indulge in a craving, because one has a restful, wide-open afternoon and evening, no plans, no plots, no schemes and no work due on Monday because, hello, it's the evening. Which is all to say, the heavy front door opens and Kage walks in, warm enough to steam, to burn like a torch, reaction against the Chicago cold. Once inside, she rubs her (gloved) hands together and heads straight for the bar.

She's not destined to get there without incident -- or at least, she's not destined to get there without noticing Emily and her two aquintances (friends [who knows]) at the table near the bar. If she catches Emily's eye, her mouth quirks, a wry question and a nod. She isn't so discourteous (or unreserved) as to flop over and pull up a chair, but she slows a step, and after she orders her ale - to say nothing of the fries! - and the ale is in hand, she'll tuck her purse (a small thing, today, more or less) under her elbow and against her hip, then wander over to say at least a quick hello.

And that's that. Enter, K. R. Jakes.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[Flips the Awareness Switch]]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 4, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Kim J] There was a catch of course, but we all have a Destiny to fulfill. A nod at Emily.

"Wharil-something. I've got it written down somewhere... but, yeah."

As she ruffles through a pocket on her coat, her eyes catch Elizabeth's for a moment.

"I would read these books, when I was high school. Written by some Dutchman or Frenchman or whoever, they would always say the samething..."

A pause, as she takes a breath

"...things... happen there that don't happen anywhere else. In some way it's very forgiving. But it's hot. And dusty. And sometimes it's humid. But mostly it's hot."

Kim grins, relaxing a bit more.

[K. R. Jakes] [I ... also flip the awareness switch, shall I?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Kim J]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 6 (Failure at target 6)

[Kim J] ((Legit))

[Ellizabeth Zhao] He looks over at Kim, recognition filtering into her eyes at the mention of Wharil. Not the kind of someone who knows someone personally, just familiar with them. She seems just the smallest bit wary. Then, Kage comes in, and she feels that tickle at the back of her brain. She looks over in her direction, watching for a moment.

[Emily Littleton] There is something burning, amorous and immanent, something candle-flame flicker and rowan and burnished, something story-tale tatted and wreathed with lace-like, with lace-light. There is a Kage in the building and it shifts the cant of Emily's shoulders, and of Emily's smile and ...

... the guests at her table play witness to the difference between polite smiles and genuine warmth, erstwhile friendship. Blue eyes, dark as shadowed rain-deep puddles, stormy, flecked through with shale and slate, they sweep over to find the ruddy tinge of Kage's hair in the lowlight of the pub. Her eyes find the Orphan's and her head tilts, mouth curls, it come hithers in silence.

These two are friends. More than. They've ventured forth together; they've held the line together; they've fallen in together -- they are friends, without an euphemistic overlay.

Her attention has been briefly torn to elsewhere, but it comes back to Kim at the familiar and slippery name. Wharil. Yes, there can be but one of those in the city, assuredly.

"If you have a card, or a contact number, I can pass it along at the House," Emily offers. "Wharil is a member of the local council," she explains.

Of Africa, Emily has only to offer, "I've only been twice, and not for very long. It's astonishing how far even a little funding and effort will go there. It's harrowing how little it seems to change anything at all."

[Kim J] Kim follows everyone else's gaze, but doesn't quite get it. At least not immediately. Looking back to Emily she nods with an appreciative smile.

"That would be great, actually, thank you! ... Yeah, yeah. It just goes around and around. It's not that bad though really."

Like, honestly, with a laugh. The scrap of paper deemed irrelevant, she digs for another bit of paper that has her information on it.

"I'll be ready to go back in a few months, I'm sure."

[K. R. Jakes] Emily's nonverbal response is invitational and the two (intense [and then: tidal; tide goes out]) women with her promise to be interesting, one way or another, and either way, Kage takes the invitation in the spirit that it's meant, and when she (ale in hand) stops at the table, it's with a brief (courteous) smile.

When there's a break in the conversation -- pauses, lilts; this is the music of our common tongue, of all our common tongues, scattered when the Babel-tower fell -- she says, "Hello, Emily. And others. I hope nobody minds if I sit. Should it put anybody at ease, I am going to be followed by a big plate of chips."

And, seat-taking -- unless, of course, someone jumps up and goes NO back VILE DEMON -- she adds, "I'm Kage."

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She smiles to Kage, giving her a polite nod. "Hello. I am Elizabeth. A pleasure to meet you."

[Emily Littleton] "Oooh, chips."

The Briton's tone is positively pleased. This remark presages even her well-mannered and -meant salutations.

"Well met and good evening, Kage," she says, to the lady with the name like a trap. "This is Kim and -- " well, Elizabeth has just introduced herself, so Emily's tongue stills. "We are dancing around the mullberry bush about the House, as Quentin is decidedly against politics. And sharing our recent travels."

[Kim J] "Hi, nice to meet you."

A smile and a friendly wave.

[K. R. Jakes] "Is there a Quentin?" Kage glances -- over towards the kitchens, perhaps, or the restrooms, or whereever a pub-owner might absent himself from a conversation for a moment. Her expression stays courteous, because -- and both Elizabeth and Kim will probably be quick to pick up on this -- the self-contained woman is very, very courteous. This isn't always the same as polite, but it's usually similar enough to pretend. She'll offer her hand to either Kim or Elizabeth if they seem like hand-shakers. Otherwise, just, "Pleasure's mutual, I hope." A beat. "So if left to my own devices, I will probably ask questions already covered, like, Oh, new to Chicago, huh? What brings you here? Do you want to stay? Do you like it? And," with a glance for Kim, "Go back where?" Kage scrunches her nose up, slightly, and a note of (somewhat sardonic) humor touches her gaze -- tarnishes it: "So carry on. I'll catch up on the thread of conversation soon. The House is a good place to start."

[Kim J] "Um."

breath.

"Yes, checking in, don't know, it's cold, and Africa. That was all of them, right?"

Lifting her eyebrows, immediately taking a like to her.

[Emily Littleton] "There was a Quentin," Emily explains. "But a phone call called him away." More explaining. A pointed look toward the empty chair that had once supported Quentin's paper and is now lonely, waiting for a Kage to come and fill it up.

"I think we were at Opinions on Africa, before you came in," she tells Kage, "With a brief digression to Mr. Choc and the House shortly there after. Kim is acquainted with one of his friends, I think. And Elizabeth travels. I travel, too. It's your turn to share, I think. Do you travel?"

Emily's mouth curls a little, it's almost playful. She verbally baits the Orphan as she catches her up, but it's one part save-me and a second part hello-there.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She smiles for the moment, just listening as the three talk. "I am new to Chicago...after a fashion. It is...complex, I suppose. I know the city, but not perosnally."

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[Apologies for my slowness, things got a wee bit busy for me.]]
to Emily Littleton, K. R. Jakes, Kim J

[K. R. Jakes] [Heh. Random can-we-pronounce-Wharil's-name-linguistics-dex-roll-just-for-kicks?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Kim J] ((Rightous))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] [I know better than to roll these dice. Em knows him well enough to not need them. *gavel slam*]

[Kim J] ((I'm just gettin' the fails out of the way early))

[K. R. Jakes] She chuckles, soft-sound -- smoke and river-reeds; moon-shadow on water. Amused, it'd seem! "Kim, right? Yes, I think that's all of them. I'm a native, but winter always sneaks up on me. If I could convince it to go visit California for a while, I'd be very pleased indeed. Aquainted with one of Wharil's friends?" And, baby - she NAILS the outlandish pronunciation of Wharil, she could be a godamned native speaker of whatever language (dry-grass-burning-season) his name comes from. "D'you have people in common, then?" Euphemism: why, are you a Euthanatos too? She offers Emily a harmless smirk: "I do indeed travel, Miss Emily. Although never as quickly as the day, and never as quickly as the night. And - Elizabeth?" - the note of query is just to make certain she has it right; she knows she does. "So you know the city, but not personally. How'd you two not personally meet, then, if you'll allow me to shamelessly pry."

[Emily Littleton] When Kim manages to answer all of Kage's questions in quick succession Emily thinks, for just a moment, that they may have found an answer to Molly's rapid-fire info-dump style communication. They could pit the friend-of-Wharil's-friend against the Cultist geek girl and see which out-efficiencied the other.

But that would be for later. After Kim has met Wharil and figured out whether she wants to stay in the Windy City.

"It gets better in the Spring," Emily offers. It's really all she can say. Spring had been the best season of last year, even with that Demon issue, and the Soul Harvest. Technically, all of that had been Late Spring.

Early spring had been taken up with smaller dramas.

"There's a few really nice weekends in summer." A little pause. "Some of us play football in the park, in the summer. Do you play football?" she asked the two newcomers. This is perhaps an innocent question. More innocent than Kage's are. They new pair, they are tag teamed by the raven- and rowan- haired Others. Emily pulls from her pint again, and eyes the kitchen to see where Kage's promised chips are.

She's almost as impatient Ashley.

[Kim J] "Yeah, yeah we do."

A nod to Kage, before glancing down at her coat again, frowning as she her phone out. Taking a look at it she puts it back in to the pocket. The good news, is that she did finally find that scrap of paper with her relevant info on it.

"I'm so sorry, I've got to go..."

Sliding the paper towards Emily with a finger, she grins.

"Call me."

[Kim J] ((Thanks you guise, you're the bestest!!!))
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton, K. R. Jakes

[Emily Littleton] The Singer reaches across the table to take the surreptitiously slid paper into her care. She glances at it, and then folds it once and slips it into a pocket.

"I will. And I'll pass this on. Have a good night, Kim," she says, before the blond disappears from their table.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She breaks out of the small fugue that she had entered, more of a space-out by outward appearances than anything else. She watches Kim go and nods. "Good evening." Her attention shifts back to the two at the table, and she flushes. "My apologies. I did not mean to...go away for a moment there."

[K. R. Jakes] ooc: Oh, guys, BRB!

[K. R. Jakes] Kim gets a courteous nod, somewhat grave-eyed, although the smile/smirk stays in place. To Emily and Elizabeth, she says, "Bet Wharil will no doubt be happy to have someone with a similar world-view to yammer at, again." And then, more specifically to Elizabeth, she says, "It's no problem. Are you all right?" Just in case. Sometimes people aren't. With hardly missing a beat, there's this, "You were going to try to explain how it is you and Chicago've met before, without meeting? Or you were going to tell me to stuff it."

And look, a waitress brings the french fries and vinegar bottles, sets them down at the table. Kage pushes the plate towards the center, the offer to share unspoken.

[Emily Littleton] There is enough going on at the table that Emily hasn't noticed Elizabeth's fugue until the Akashic mentions it. And then the girl beside her, who is notably younger than anyone else left at the table at this juncture, frowns a little and asks:

"Are you quite alright?" There's a clipped note to her syllables, but the concern comes through clearly. Warmly. Kage is echoing the same sentiment. And then there are fries, and Emily suggests, "If you're feeling lightheaded, maybe a few chips will help. It could be low bloodsugar."

[Ellizabeth Zhao] "I am fine." She pauses, finding it a little off to explain in the current environment. "A bit of a...mental debate, I suppose."

[Emily Littleton] [Maybe if I'm reaaaaaaally expressive, you'll catch my meaning with just my eyes: Do you think she's bonkers? Like... more'n one person in there? She seemed so nice!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 9 (Failure at target 6)
to K. R. Jakes

[K. R. Jakes] "Ah," Kage says, not without sympathy. The woman doesn't seem too concerned -- but nor does she seem like she's going to keep pushing at Elizabeth, when the diminutive woman is just regaining her footing, so-to-speak. "I hope it was an interesting debate, if nothing else." It's just a metaphor, sure. But Kage likes metaphors.

[Emily Littleton] Mental Debate.

Emily glances over at the Orphan. Holds her eyes for a moment. Tries, and fails, to communicate some sort of mindspeak with nothing more than her features. The Singer might as well by trying to draw complex sigils with child's fingerpaint. It does not translate.

Kage says Ah and Emily decides to, rather than commenting, snatch a fry from the plate of deliciousness occupying the center of their table. They were excellent for mollifying failed attempts to spontaneously grow surreptitious super powers.

[Ellizabeth Zhao] She smiles with a bit of amusement at Kage's comment. "They always are. I believe I am actually getting better at them, though...I am starting to win an occasional one." She sips at her tea, respectfully declining the opportunity to partake in the food.

[Emily Littleton] (I am having a ridiculously hard time concentrating just now. I apologize!)
to K. R. Jakes

[Emily Littleton] (I am having a ridiculously hard time concentrating just now. I apologize!)
to Ellizabeth Zhao

[K. R. Jakes] ooc: Erk, sorry again for the delay -- just received some workish emails. Don't stand on post-order!
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[It's totally fine. Like I said, I got a bit busy so I am too. I can hang in through it if you can.]]
to Emily Littleton

[K. R. Jakes] ooc: (guilts) Sorry sorry.
to Ellizabeth Zhao, Emily Littleton

[Ellizabeth Zhao] [[No Worries, I'm still a bit busy too, so it's all good.]]
to Emily Littleton, K. R. Jakes

[Emily Littleton] This was not quite the evening that Emily had planned to have and, in truth, the polite politics of meeting new people took more out of her in her uncertain state of Chantry membership than she might otherwise admit. It raised spectres. Perhaps Elizabeth was not the only one battling a mild distraction, at the moment.

Emily reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a blank card and ballpoint pen. She writes her first name and cellphone number on it, and offers it to Elizabeth.

"I confess I'm a little jumbled with all the comings and goings tonight," she explains, starting with an apology. "I should get going here, soon, but if you'd like to get tea some time and talk travel -- probably not about Africa," a little smile here, tucked into the corner of her mouth, precious and darling, wry, amused, "I'd love it."

And to Kage, darling Kage, bearer of pomegranates and speaker of poetry: "I'm thinking of heading out to the Court this weekend. If you're game. It's been awhile..." she says, wistful, almost. There's a great sadness for Emily in those woods. Heavier than anything she'd disclosed to the heartbox yet.