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.