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.