Michelangelo's Marble

Nick
Nick has heard, vaguely, something about not using screens within an hour before sleeping, or trying to: there is something about the type of light it emits that is supposed to interfere with the sleep cycle.  He is not sure he believes it, but it's the sort of wisdom that gets passed around between his new-agey coworkers who Fucking Love Science.
As far as he is concerned, sisters are far more toxic to a natural state of rest; its de facto enemy, in fact.  And yet, here they are.  "I was worried your life would be more exciting than mine.  Last night Jerrold and I just got drunk and watched Netflix, completely in the 'get drunk and watch Netflix' kind of way.  Have you seen - "
The house is warm, and the study is suffused with a gentle glow from the screen of his laptop, clashing with the warmer yellow lamplight that puddles on the desk a few feet from his elbow.  Also on the desk: a few stacked books, a few apple cores (browning, oxidizing and smelling vaguely cidery - they've been there for an hour or two), and a notebook that has seen better days.  It was bound in a light blue cloth binding, in the manner of old hardbacks before cardboard became the norm; the cloth binding is ragged and the pages look well-flipped.
There are still a few boxes in the corner.  He has meant to unpack them, and he will for sure this weekend: gods' honest.
A very large face is in the center of the screen of his laptop.  Anna has a tendency to get unnecessarily close to the camera when talking.  " - anyway, so glad you're in Denver, Nickle Pickle!  You have to let me come out and visit before Viv, okay?"
Should he reveal annoyance, it will only egg her on.  He knows this.  "Okay.  You might want to wait though, people keep rumbling here.  I just met someone who described it as a hellmouth the other day."
Yes: sometimes the universe just sets things up this way.
Pen
>.> let's do a stealth test +1 diff, drunkdrunk
Dice: 4 d10 TN7 (4, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Nick
[Perception + Alertness?  Pen, is that you?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 3, 5) ( botch x 1 )
Pen
The rental house is still in its transitional stage. There were walls to paint. There were handles to install and improvements to make. There was the workshop with Pen's forge for metal-working and carpenter's table to set up and the rental house is home now, now that their resonance is beginning to seep into the wood now that rugs have been shaken out've boxes and thrown out with their smell of old home, but it has a long way to go before it feels like it is really a house of wizards.
Quietly the door shuts behind Pen who of course looks like Millais should've painted her or Waterhouse but who is also more (Glamourous) elegant than is usual, because tonight was a meeting of the Order of Hermes, and the only thing to do is put on the finery: tonight that means this pale glistering dress that could've been 'the dress to look like the stars' or a dress out've lake-light samite fine chain-link mesh for some elf's armor something that is fine but otherwise simple lines and she trips over her skirt but manages not to crash into anything, or Curse, maybe because of the hand she clamps over her mouth and of course the frozen stillness after the trip helps the stealthiness really stick.
Pen has had quite a bit of whiskey, and surely she beguiled Orrin into giving up one of those bottles he'd had laid out for his Hermetic guests -- so once she puts down this Mystery bottle she --
What passes between this moment
and the moment she languishes across Nicholas's lap must perforce pass unremarked upon. As far as the sharp hearing of the Chakravanti goes, not only is his wife not home yet and probably shan't be for hours yet and the silence is that empty silence which denotes complete and utter solitude, but he Deeply Certain that he is alone with his Skype conversation.
"My Crow," she says, most passionately. "My very handsome crow. Nick Nick Nick Nickolai, they're so," and still half-buried - his shoulder, or his abs, or under his arm; whatever feels the most languishy, she raises one hand to make it talk a la look it's a goose shadow puppet. "And the other," moves shadow-puppet goose hand to flap over here, "And now, oh my god, the people are so, but it's very bad, it's very very bad, I can even tell you about it freely -- I must! right now, but there was this one who just, and there was a talking fox!  Well he wasn't really a fox. But he was still a fox and he talked. Spoke. Grammar, Penelope."
Maybe she will now notice that Nicholas was talking to his sister.
Nope.  "You look so good did I tell you today that I love you like lightning loves, wait what does lightning love?"
Nick
There could be all sorts of unwelcome houseguests that could have crept in just now without Nicholas knowing it.  Had Anna's face not been shoved up in front of the camera, maybe she would have seen Pen somehow manage to stealthily (she is wearing fine chain links - how?  how, Nick?) glide around the door of his study and across her brother's lap.  Anna is no help.
He is in a white T-shirt and a pair of boxers: perhaps part of the reason his leg has a mind of its own the moment some unknown weight drops into his lap.  Pen startles him enough that, had one of his hands not anchored him to the edge of the desk, his leg that kicks him and his (high backed, red leather [it too has seen better days]) rolling office chair away might have sent her tumbling to the floor in her drunken state.  His other hand swoops down behind her shoulders to hold her where she is; she may be drunk enough for absolutely none of this to register, as evidenced by -
oh. shadow puppets.
Nick's expression does not know whether it is affectionate or jolted with adrenaline; this is however not uncharacteristic of his relationship with Pen.  "The open sky," he says, and he is amused, about to comment on her drunkenness -
"Oh wow, is that Pen?  Penelope, you sound shitfaced, sweetie.  It must have been bad."
Pen
The open sky! Pen is about to take that to the next level, see, when - Oh! There is someone Else here. Penelope braces herself (roll, roll desk chair; that could be a fun game) on Nicholas's thighs and then peers around toward the desk. Her hair is not in disarray; it is pinned quite firmly in its elegant coiffure.
"Anna? No, you cannot be here right now. I am likely going to need this desk surface when I ravish your brother's bones; your forehead looks very shiny, and I am sure you will hear about it," Pen is frowning. "But for now, good night!"
Then she shuts the laptop; has allowed herself to actually sink onto the floor, unless Nicholas is very invested in keeping her from doing just that, and she runs her hands over her face and takes a deep deep breath. Ends with her thumbs under her chin, her fingers steepled in front of her mouth, and a wry half-smile in place. and takes a deep breath.
"That was rude of me, wasn't it? I know I am drunk, but I am not very drunk. I was rude on purpose."
Nick
when I ravish your brother's bones - 
At this distance, they can see every pore in Anna's nose when it wrinkles, or could if the screen resolution were better.  "You two are gro - "
And the lid shuts.  "Good night, Anna!" Nick calls, belatedly.  There is silent laughter there in the lift of his cheeks and eyebrows, and it's quiet insofar as an expression can be quiet, something that could be missed by someone who did not know him well.  He allows Pen to slide to the floor, leans down so his gaze follows her there.
"Anna had that coming," he says, and then, "You look amazing, by the way.  I don't think I told you earlier."
Rather than waiting for Pen to pick herself back up, Nick instead slides down off the chair to sit cross-legged in front of the chair, on top of the rug that covers most of the room (swirls of green and black and grey, brings to mind tangled vines and ivy.)  "What's this about a talking fox?"
Pen
"Thank you," Pen says, swaying and ducking her head so her head is mostly behind the steepled fingers; the half of her smile which is visible is arch. "I know, but thank you," very deliberate, Pen. Wait. He asked her something.
The talking fox. Pen's gaze drops to her knee. Then she resettles, so that her weight is on her hip, and her legs beneath the glittering dress are at the mermaid angle; she smooths the fabric under the palm of her hand; is bracing herself up with her other hand. Then she studies the ceiling, and then plunk eyes drop right back to fix on Nicholas's.
"His name is Red. He dipped his muzzle when he said it was a pleasure to meet me. He is a familiar; so not really a fox. But a fox nonetheless."
"Nicholas, the Order is declaring a state of war."
Nick
[Holy shit.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Pen
[O_O +1 diff]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Nick
Pen spent much of her early Awakening in a cabal with a Tytalan, and Nick is certainly not nearly as skilled at schooling his expressions as many of that House: and yet, still, he is somewhat practiced.  There are times when it is useful to him, though it comes secondary to other skills he has honed over the years.  Pen can tell this though - he is keeping his expression neutral.  His reaction is a very specific state of Not Reacting, purely because he does not know how to react yet.
That statement may have just shifted his entire world.
He has arranged himself in a manner similar to her, shifting his weight onto one of his hands; maybe this mirroring was intentional, or not.  He forgets to follow up with a playful question regarding the familiar, as he might ordinarily have done.  Instead he says, "So something happened that was bad enough to merit a declaration."  This is not a certain thing, this statement: there it is, testing.
"What will the Order do?"
Pen
"The right thing, I hope," Pen says, and this is passionate too, one can almost hear the unspoken by God. Pen runs her eyes over Nick's cheekbones, nose, mouth, then casts her gaze up again, lonesome on your rock.
"Listen, right now the declaration is just," and it is not a just, not given where they are from, "Boston and New York. But Denver."
"Denver is this place," she holds her two hands like claws, like she is shaping a ball, "this place that -- oh god, and you should have heard them talking about it! As if: no, no, in order. I am sorry. Apparently, Denver is where one third of the medical supplies," she is speaking carefully, very, "for the people, I mean, the non-cyborg, well I don't know, the ones who are made of flesh and blood, this is where a lot of the medicine is produced you see. And we have intelligence that the aggression on the East coast is going to kick up to volcanic levels, and spill over into other cities. Soon."
"The war is against the Union; should I have specified that?"
Nick
The war is against the Union; Nick does not seem surprised to hear this.  Not given what he has heard, and all of the people he has heard it from.  He has shared what he has heard (from Andres, from Grace, from Serafine) with Pen, and no: there is nothing that shouldn't have indicated to him that this was coming.
He absorbs all of this: one third of medical supplies.  Those who are flesh and blood.  Aggression on the east coast.
"What sort of aggression?"  He has not moved.  His questions could be taken as reluctance, but they are not that: his expression is searching, he is trying to understand.  "What non-cyborg people?  Technocratic agents?"
Pen
"Yes. People," Pen says, again.
"The people who work and fight for, whatever they believe on that side. Nick, I'm sorry. You know the sort of aggression, don't you," Pen says, sounding weary; and perhaps she looks a touch apologetic. "Snatched people, vanished somewhere traceless; skirmishes."
"Anyway, that's what this meeting was about, what we're going to do here in Denver and whether or not we'll have any allies."
"Oh, and there are apparently vampires. I think that's what the january man was talking about with his cryptic don't go out at night remarks. Oh! And a teenager who might be a Nephandus, but is not actually a Nephandus, I'll be getting the whole story on that in the morning I hope."
Nick
He, too, appears suddenly weary, as her words give him context.  Conventions and Traditions go to war: it is people who die.  There is still something of the Disparate in Nick, something of the young man who did not join a Tradition until he found someone who could explain to him why his soul was unraveling at the edges, and how to weave those loose threads into something new and bright.  He has done this again since then, shaken off the Quiet that had settled into his bones; he will likely do it again.
"I know the sort," he says, of aggression.  As she tells him about vampires, Nephandi, subjects on which he is far more clear cut, he only nods.  He shifts so that he is cross-legged again, centered, and his chest and stomach expand visibly as he draws in a breath.  "What do you need from me?"
Pen
"Quit your day job," Pen says, "Become invulnerable."
Nick
It is evident in the way he pauses and levels his gaze at her, his breath only partially drawn in (not released, not yet), that this was not a request he was expecting.  "If the war spills over to affect the Sleepers in the city - which it will," certainty here, "I'm going to be needed there."
Pen
Penelope languishes, again. This time not over Nick's lap, but across the rug, lying on her back with one hand on her forehead; she stares at the ceiling, ferocious intensity just focus on the ceiling.
The request was meant to sound flippant; but too much wistfulness woven through it, and that level look. An inhale; the star dress glitters. An exhale; still, it glitters. The stars don't become other than they are because of a shadow.
Nick
[Empathy seems real useful here.  Yeah.]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) [Doubling Tens]
Nick
Pen languishes; Nick's study is dim with his laptop (and Anna's too-bright forehead) extinguished, particularly down on the floor where they are: yet Pen still shines, as though with lakelight.  It's not a new house, and there are swirls and faded spots here and there where the ceiling was cracked or patched: water damage a long time ago, perhaps.
Nick watches her as she flings back, hand on her forehead, and then, his movements slow and deliberate, lowers himself so he can stretch out on the floor next to her.  He is on his stomach, half-raised on his elbows; this allows him to look down as she looks up, though she'd still have to look over, too.  "I'll help you make sure we have allies," he says.  "Some of the others might not understand the Order's decision, right away."
Pen
Nicholas married a woman who belongs to a martial House of ancient name and storied (Mythic [Legendary]) past. Their reputation is, whether fairly or unfairly, one of aggression, of battle-prowess, of force and vigor. They are generally thought to have quick tempers and slower-than-your-average-Hermetic minds (which is still better than your average Mage, but c'mon). "Mm." Penelope's ribs expand. Otherwise, stillness. Her fingers bury in her hair, but her hair is still pinned close, so she (having ruined the elegant wave at long last, but undone nothing) rests her hand on her belly instead. Other arm is up, wrist above her crown.

Now the sting is diffuse. Now she can speak again. She doesn't turn her head to regard Nick yet.

"Even the Order doesn't understand the Order's decision right away. We do not have the instincts of the honey bee or the ant. But to hear some of the others, -- especially one of the others, who I -- to hear them explain Denver is to think that if I, an Order Mage, said one plus one equals two, the other Magi would shout that I was oppressing their mathematical style and how dare I just decide one in addition to another one would get the value of two, shouldn't I have brought it to a committee first and heard what the committee decided was appropriate before making up my own little bitty mind? My god, Nicholas.

"I am as democratic as the next Mage: oh," her voice goes silky, "and how democratic is that? I am more democratic than the next Mage! But I find it so unconscionable."

Nicholas is on the floor too. Pen finally turns her head to look at his face again. The dimness of the floor and the soft light of the single lamp turns her to dusk-light and her tone is burnished metal tempered tempering, her eyes are extremely expressive.

"Unconscionable to hide and wait, at a remove, until after -- assuming there'd even be an after. Unconscionable to possess information like this and regulate one's own power to choose a possible course of action to a subordinate position merely because, because others might need to be convinced or might dislike that you dared to have your own thought on the subject. Unconscionable to,"

Penelope is getting worked up; she is drunk, remember, so untethered. Not that she usually hides (or hides well) it when she is feeling passionate about something, anything. She props herself up on her elbow. Misleading languor in the sweep of her arm, dragging sleeve a-glitter glister,

"be so unwavering, so inflexible so head-up-the-asshole and strangling in your innards choking on your prostate something that you don't communicate with others who will be or could be or might be touched or helpful or just, just present, or worse and most dishonorable and foolish and justridiculous of all, you don't listen to other opinions and alter your own if something better comes along, and it's also absolutely unconscionable to just -- to do nothing! Nothing at all, Nicholas, for fear."

Nick
Perhaps it occurred to him, moments ago, when Pen fell to the ground that - ah yes, he could have made his point more gently, that there may not have been a point to be made.  He feels a small pang or two of remorse still, fleeting as the flakes that catch in one's eyelashes during snowfall: maybe later he will express this.  At the moment he is watching Pen, who, unbridled, is magnetic to him in the way that the open sky draws lightning.

"They didn't hear you."

Nick does not have a fury like this.  Not that he is never angry, and yet his is a transient thing, something that tears through him and is gone and leaves his insides jumbled in its wake.

"Nothing is still a choice," he says, and there is something wistful in his voice, a sort of rueful concurrence, "but I don't think most people realize that."  His eyes, too, are expressive when they meet hers, his hands folded together in front of him where he's half-raised on his elbows.  Among the things they're expressive of: a sort of thoughtfulness, something that has caught because it was unexpected.

"This was a meeting of people only in the Order?"  He asks because he has to ask, and perhaps that won't be lost on Pen.  There is a flash of gentle humor, affection.  "Because I always imagine them all like you.  The ones I haven't met yet, anyway."

Pen
Pen nods in response to Nicholas's question. The tiny gold cross she wears sometimes is tangled up, and she rather impatiently slips two fingers through the chain and pulls to straighten it out; this only tangles it further in wisps of hair and the almost-hidden zipper of her dress and she is trying to work that mess free. There is no answering flash of humor, though Nicholas knows that she'd once not even a full year ago have made a joke at their old cabal-mate's expense after such a remark.

"They," abrupt stop. ZIPPER, BEHAVE. FINGERS, UNDO THE ZIPPER. Penelope is not actually close to using her grasp of certain Spheres to solve the problem her dress is currently presenting her, but she does think about it. The wand is in her boot; the wand is almost always in her boot.

There is a moment when her expression becomes remorseful; the fervor in her voice dampened. "They did listen to me. These meetings are never easy, they're never a marriage of true minds, they are always a testing ground; you know? But they did listen and we did wind up discussing some first things first items to put on our To Do list. I, well I bullied the Adept Major Quaesitor into having breakfast with me tomorrow and also into agreeing to take up a leadership position if that cabal they kept discussing who runs the place out in Morrison was willing to parlay with him, and jesus fuck. Why did I say eight am? I said that, nobody made me."

She sounds horrified; she has to wrench herself from the horror.

"But there was one man there who ..." She trails away; her gaze is focused on nothing, turned inward and outward at the same time; a twilight gaze, like she's trying to catch at something. "Might as well try to catch starlight on water with a sieve," she mutters. "He..."

"I don't even know how to talk about him." This sentence ends on a grave, thoughtful note; not an exasperated one. Her voice goes down a register, like if she just plunks her voice deep enough she'll find the words.

Nick
Somehow, the small gold chain and the burnished copper threads of her hair and the silver zipper have all tangled, about to make an ugly sort of alloy.  Nick lets Pen struggle with this for a few seconds before sliding himself a few inches across the floor and reaching for the zipper.  He has to give it a few careful wiggles to dislodge the chain and her hair.

"Well done," he says, with a quick little laugh, as she talks about bullying the Adept Major Quaesitor,  Frustration nearly sends his eyebrows colliding a second later as he realizes he is going to rip a few hairs if he helps any more with the zipper: better to leave this to Pen.  "How did this even get tangled?"  He mutters this to himself moreso than to her.  Nick does not wear jewelry (other than the lip ring in college, as his sisters happily told Pen and new partners he brought home from age 22 on) and he is amazed at its tendency to somehow snag on everything.

Once he was forced to cut Liz's hair out of her coat zipper; the memory is still a deep pang.  Their old cabal left its marks on them both.

He is still listening, as he frequently is even when his hands are busy.  He looks around at her as she mentions this other man, starlight and sieves.  "Was he unconscionable - " some connecting of the dots here, she'll tell him if he's wrong - "or just untested?"

Pen
"He is not untested."

"He seems to mean well and to have a good heart, but he said so much just to say nothing. He is a house brother but he is not Flambeau; he has lost his heart. He has forgotten that 'the true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.' That you fight because you love not because you just want to fuck things up. He has forgotten that the ideal of peace is something to fight for, but there is no peace; the only peace there is is death."

Nick
Pen says he is not untested; Nicholas nods, a single slow tilt of his head and chin.  As she speaks he flips himself, in one smooth rocking motion, to his side instead, so that he can rest half-raised on his elbow and hip bone.

The only peace there is is death.  He is quiet for a moment, regarding her.  Then: "Do you think you'll have any opportunity to remind him?  Do you think he would listen?"

Pen
"No. I mean, he was earnestly trying to prepare me for the fact that my friends might take dumb risks they don't have to in order to keep me safe."

The Look she gives Nicholas, side-long and level and sword's edge cool.

Her shoulders rise and fall when she sighs. "He talked about how the mages in Denver won't be ruled, won't be organized, but as soon as something goes wrong they'll all flock to try and salvage or save or step up; it's a whole lot of reactive thinking. But," wistful. "He seemed really drained. And wrong, obviously; and shifty. Not shifty; I don't know what it was. He just didn't answer questions for clarification on information with details. I think. But mostly he seemed drained. Like I'd like to feed him. Just eat, man. Just eat something. Some mac n' cheese. Something. But I just don't know why he's so disheartened."

"There. Disheartened. Perfect word. Disheartened and heartless. Not cruel just without heart."

Nick
"I have never taken a dumb risk," Nick says, and this look of studied innocence, the one that perhaps makes others imagine he is a Choirboy before he identifies himself: it has some levity, yes, but only because the sentiment behind it could be heavy for both of them.

He listens, earnest, to what she says next, smiling as she suggests feeding the as-yet-Nameless Hermetic.  "Maybe something happened," Nick says, and he is surmising because - well, if it comes down to two possibilities about a person he will frequently pick the one that casts them in a better light.  He knows, always, that there are answers he doesn't have yet.  Then, "But if not, it's difficult to see people give up their power without purpose.  I'm sorry, Pen."

Pen
Warmth (ardence) in her eyes, for his studied innocence.

And then, attentive. Focus. The kind of focus that has her leaning forward and forward and forward because she is not quite paying attention to gravity, though she doesn't actually fall forward; it just looks rather precarious. Appearances can be deceiving, even when they don't mean to be.

"I despise condescending men; perforce, I am delighted by you." Pen reaches out to play with one of Nick's curls, pull it out until it is straight then let it sproing back; maybe wrap it around her finger. But she does this really

really really reallyreallyreally really really

care

full

y. Rocket science, the art of not pulling too hard and staring at the gleam. Pull out! Sproing back. Pull out! Sproing back.

"Let me see. The Manifestation might be able to broker some sort of deal with rumored Union rebels, or at least a faction within the Union which does not want to blow this Cold War into a hot one."

Nick
"Well, some social ills even Awakening doesn't cure."  He goes through phases in which he lets his hair grow more or less as it will, before growing impatient with it and shearing it short again.  Now is one of its longer phases, and it doesn't so much spill down over his forehead so much as coil and kink slightly in front of.  It's quite easy to grab and sproing in its current state, in other words.

Nicholas tolerates this well.  His mouth bowed somewhat in amusement, he watches her gently tug then release.

His eyes are intent while she muses about potential courses of action, or at least as much as they can be at the moment.  "That's a possibility.  The Storm has also ended, and Grace tells me a few things have come through here.  Weakening the Veil near their compound could also distract them from us - or remind them that we have common enemies, at least.  Though it would be very difficult to control, once done.  We might be better served to broker peace and bolster our defenses."

Pen
"I doubt it would be peace." Pen stops there, one of Nicholas's curls coiled around her finger. Her gaze is distant, but it is of course concentrated; roman blown glass, gone ashy with smoke, a glint in the gloom. She swallows, audibly.

"I do think it worthwhile to ask who stands to gain the most from a war between our states, and I do not think it our allied states. I can't speak to what the conventionalists must be like, but I must imagine them as hot of a mess as any government in the modern age. And I would love the chance to speak to potential allies within that organization, understanding of course that nobody scratches anybody else's back just because they like scratching backs.

"But even if they exist, we're to trust some strange half-explained mindscape Manifestation? No, I'm sorry. I'm going in circles. The idea is to get ourselves in tip top defensive shape, but I just think there is danger in always focusing on the defensive. Working with allies to save on loss of lives isn't necessarily defensive, it's just another kind of offense. "

Yeah. She is absolutely a Flambeau.

"There might be something to your weakening of the Veil to distract them, or at least multiply their problems. What things did she say have come through?"

Nick
"It's always better to deal with individuals than an organization," Nick says, "and I'm sure there are potential allies within the Technocracy, or its offshoots.  Reaching them would be the difficulty."  How, after all, does one go about finding a few sympathetic minds in what appears to be a monolith?  There's a question for Nick to fixate on.

He shifts somewhat, resettling his weight so it is less allocated toward his elbow.  This happens to lean him slightly toward Pen; he is brushing his fingers over the samite and chain links, almost without thought.  "Grace called it an 'Umbral lord of terror' and said that it summoned monsters through.  She wasn't specific.  But things like that do exist, well past the Shadowlands or places where thought and memory reign.  Some older texts talk about things that are so alien they can't really be described."

He hesitates, considering his words before he speaks.  "There might be something to it.  But it could also be us lighting a long fuse without understanding what it's connected to."

Nick: he's gotten more comfortable over the years speaking at length, at least with Pen, of sharing what he knows.  If nothing else: perhaps she's rubbed off on him, or merely exposed something he otherwise never would've guessed was there.  "Tell me about the Manifestation."

Pen
The phrase 'umbral lord of terror,' do note, causes Penelope Mars to frown and the distance in her gaze to ebb. By resettling his weight her hand lost his curls, and braces herself on her palm instead. Her gaze stays on Nick while he considers, but it is also present now, traces the curve of his eyebrows, the line of his nose, the angle of shoulder and neck, his expression.

"A lack of imagination," Pen suggests, re: some older texts.

Listens, intently. And then, "I certainly don't advocate summoning any 'umbral lords of terror,' or even minor lords of terror; not, at least, until I know how to command my own spirit henchman."

And then, ladies and gentlemen, Pen groans. She'd begun to languid-settle back toward the ground, slowly drifting listing as if she were going to stretch out on the floor again, when Manifestation: and she sits straighter, begins to take the pins out of her hair and let it loose.

"The Manifestation. It identifies or is identified as male. It apparently tried to warn Boston about something to do with the Technocratic Union, and then it tried to warn people here. Or perhaps it just dropped by for a chat. I don't know the connection."

Nick
Pen suggests a lack of imagination; Nick's smile is quick, but it fades at the edges, because he finds it hard enough to describe the Shadowlands, the only place to which he has been (and that, by accident, by stumbling through a door that shouldn't have been open: an apprentice's bumbling).  "Maybe."

He watches her as she begins to pull the pins from her hair, as waves tumble once freed down to her shoulders.  He has tilted his head a little to rest his chin on his shoulder; it gives him an even more faraway look than usual, though he is perhaps more present than he appears.

Boston and Denver: two places with very little apparent connection to one another.  "It sounds like the warning lacked detail, however its appearance here connects to Boston."  This may be a sort of agreement: he does not trust it either.  The little line that has formed between his eyebrows says as much.

"This Adept - " pause, but yes, he remembers - "Major you're meeting with in the morning, is he likely to stay to help with planning?"

Pen
"I would like it if he did." Penelope puts the pins, gathered together, on the edge of a box. There they look like twigs from some dark metal flora from Fairyland; break them, and they might turn into anything. They won't be broken; this is a cold world, with no time for myth. But imagination, eh?

Zipper Battle, take two. The thing is stuck, but Pen isn't as nice about ripping her hair out as Nicholas is, so rip and rend and two red strands threading in the dark from the metal teeth and the back of the gown eases open.

Pen stretches out on her stomach and rests her chin on her forearms, folded one over the other. "But he is here for personal reasons, I gather. Perhaps after tomorrow I will know."

"Crow, what do you want to accomplish in this city?"

Nick
"Mm."  Nick is thoughtful; how many personal reasons does an Adept have to be in a city that seems to have a fairly small population, fairly loosely connected, with little apparent political maneuvering or sway?  He'd asked Sera, when meeting her, whether she was the deacon, and the Ecstatic's amusement had told him everything he needed to know about the state of Denver's organization: there is none.

Wilderness and frontier, indeed.  Manifest destiny is alive here, folks.

Pen resettles onto her stomach and Nick shifts his hand to settle over her back, between the shoulder blades, his nails lightly tracing circles while he considers her question.  It is not an easy one for him to answer; it is not something he has thought about at length before.  He may have gotten used to Pen questioning him in turn, but it is still a struggle for him to articulate his own desires, at times.  "I'm here to learn," he says, "and practice my craft.  I would like," a pause here, to consider, "to focus on maintaining balance here, and helping other people reach their potential."

He is rarely grandiose, Nick, for all of his here-not-there farawayness; his goals are often centered on here, now, and living.  Perhaps Quiet taught him that.  Perhaps he's simply not very ambitious.

Pen
Pen slips her chin from her upper wrist to her lower. Mouth hidden for a moment. Part of her nose, too. Only the gloaming eyes, clear as a cup of water clear-sighted even see smoke from an oracle's censor, hint of some metallic silver and pewter around them something with lilac undertones, because fancy glistering starryknight dress also means makeup. This is delay. Delaying, delayed. Because she has to think through her impulses, consider her urges. Here, now, and living. The point of any life: the only peace is death.

A request: "Unsnap me."

Bra under the gown, annoyingly near his nails. Enough delay, and Pen sighs. Pen is often honest, is usually honest; is usually willing to say what she believes is honest, even if it will not be pleasant to do so. She is not good at hiding her thoughts when they'd be stamped on her face, but she is also not a clear book, easily read at all hours of the day: sometimes her expressions are subtle things - nuanced. Like now. Tinted.

"Your potential is important to me."

Nick
Many magi Awaken sometime during adolescence, that period when the mind and identity are still forming and still soft around the edges, when people are not only beginning to understand things as they are but what they could be.  Nick cannot put his finger precisely on when he Awoke, and he has said this before, but it was later than many (if twenty-four can be considered late, by any measure).  He was in graduate school: he had plans for what his life was going to be, and they did not include shouldering the burdens of tending the Wheel.

He did feel peace, for a while.  He has been searching for it ever since.

There is something in her expression, a shadow, something that he could guess at if he cared to.  Pen requests that he unsnap her bra, which he half-rises to do, with only minimal fiddling.  He uses this to gather his thoughts, to consider her words, as he settles back down.

His eyes find hers then, and there is something searching in them in the few seconds before he says, "It's important to me, too.  And so is yours.  Did you have something you wanted to accomplish while you're here?"

Pen
And it is a relief to have the band undone; Pen exhales, quiet vocalization behind the movement of her breath, because the freedom is a pleasure. But she stays chin-on-her-arms, except for that she tilts her head when he asks her that question so her cheek is lying against instead of her chin.

"Yes, I know, I don't know; how is it important to you?"

Nick
Nick smooths his hand over the plane of skin that was beneath the band, and he is no longer looking at her but somewhere past and down.  His eyes are not focused on anything specific there, and if they could turn inward, they would.

Her question has given him pause; perhaps he did not expect it to be reflected and turned back around at him again, serpent-quick.  With anyone other than Pen, he probably would have gotten away with his nonanswer.  "There are things that need to be done, and they need people to do them," he says.  "I want - "

And here his words jerk to a halt, idling.  Nick has to consider what things he definitely does want, which is perhaps why it comes out sounding something like a list.  "I want you, and our life together," he says.  Nick is a clever man, but perhaps these are the times when it's clear that he feels far more often than he thinks.  "And I want to do the things I swore I would do.  I - there are a lot of people who don't know what to do with their suffering, and there aren't enough people who can witness it and not look away.  I do something for those people.  I want that to be enough."

Pen
Rob took Pen aside before she married Nicholas, but after they were engaged; he had a, for the other Hermetic, frank conversation. He predicted this conversation Pen and Nicholas are having just now; he predicted this, and others like it. He said -

But it doesn't matter what he said. He isn't here, and Pen isn't thinking about him. Pen is thinking about Nick, the warmth of his hand on her skin, the questant distance in his eyes; the color the study light has turned them. Pen is thinking about Denver, and what she wants.

"'Enough'?" Pen echoes him; props herself up on her elbows, hands clasped loosely before her. "What does that mean?"

Nick
There is a breath that rushes out of him, noiseless, wistful.  "It means that I know it's not," he says.  "But I want it to be."

Pen
The palely a-glittering gray lake-fog gown slips down her shoulders. So does one of her bra straps, but it is a slow, inevitable slipping, like it is remembering very clearly how recently it was fastened in place by the snap at her back.

"It's important. It's just..." Pen trails away, and then, "Does it strike you as well-balanced? By looking at what you... Your potential, my darling. You can haul people up from the top instead of always being a leg up from the ground, you know?"

Nick
There is more hesitation, here.  The Chakravanti are a far more loosely connected organization than the Order of Hermes, more lone magi and small groups than they are part of the political machinations of many cities.  "Pen," and his voice is careful, this eliciting of her name perhaps meant to grab her, perhaps the prelude to a small confession of sorts, "do you know what the top looks like, for someone like me?  Because I don't.  And I have seen - "

Pause.  Start, stop.  "My life needs to mean something beyond butchery.  I've seen too many times where someone didn't, and lost sight of what it's for.  One time would have been too many."

Pen
Pen looks - well, and here is the complexity of human emotion at work, obfuscating and occulting even when nothing is meant to be. She isn't concealing anything deliberately, but that doesn't make her easier to read. Except insofar as actions might lend themselves to expression: Pen reaches out for Nick and pulls him near, going on her side as she does so, though she is still propped up by one elbow; her fingers will find whatever she can of his skin, be it wrist or throat or jawline. "Your life does mean something beyond butchery, and if you ever did forget, I'd remind you; Nickolai, you aren't afraid of becoming more than you are now because of what paths other people have taken, are you?"

Nick
Nick allows himself to be pulled in close, and when the friction of the rug makes this difficult, pulls himself forward an inch or two to make this easier. He lets his forehead come to rest against hers, though angled; his gaze is still elsewhere.  Her fingers find his jawline, and there is a soft exhale, which does draw his eyes back around to hers, though they don't rest.  His expression, too, is opaque.

"I am afraid," he says, and there is some emphasis on these words precisely because he needed someone else to say it before he understood, "because I don't think they knew where the line was when they crossed it.  I think they thought it was always in front of them."  A pause.  "They wanted meaning.  If I find a reason to let go of who I am, I want to know that it's not...becoming more for the sake of becoming more."

Pen
"I like who you are." She smells like whiskey, unsurprisingly. "But you're like Michelangelo's marble;" Pen, she traces her husband's jaw slowly; then frowns. "And like Michelangelo; we all are, or must be. I think we are. Or must be. If you ever crossed the line, I'd set your old man sweaters on fire."

Nick
There's a whisper of dark stubble along his jaw, testament to the lateness of the hour; Nick looks back at her again, and his smile is more in his eyes than the subtle pull of his mouth.  "I know you mean that, and I have no intention of calling your bluff."  His eyes fall shut for what is only seconds: again that passing weariness that is not a desire for sleep.  "I should always know when you start asking me questions that it's going to end with me telling you that you're right."

His words fall through an exhale that can't decide whether it's a laugh or a groan.  Then: "But I do want to hear what you want."

Pen
[Hmm. LazyJessaskstheDice. Char + Expression + Specialty, yeah!]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 5, 8) ( success x 1 ) [Doubling Tens]

Pen
[thank you thank you THANK YOU.]

Pen
He wants to hear what she wants.

Pen finishes considering his jaw with his fingers and considers the shape of his mouth instead. And then his cheekbones, and his eyebrow. His eyelashes. His collar. And as she is considering these things, she is considering how to be eloquent. What she wants. Pen isn't shy about sharing her goals (as long as she is allowed to tell [an Order woman]), but there are still things she doesn't think to share. She feels like his answer deserves a response in kind and this is a new city.

"I want a lot of things; there's so much to want." Beat. Stirred up fire, now. "I want you." And a smile, hand on the back of his neck now. She smells like whiskey, which is a fiery woodsmokey smell in its alcoholic way. "I want you on the desk, so I haven't made myself a liar tonight."

"Kiss me."

And thus, gentle reader and/or viewer, passed one moment into the next, until morning (eventually) came.

A Fellow Pilgrim

Grace

[Because it is nearly a trite cliche now that mages meet each other in pho restaurants, and you were jealous of mine. I'm hope to make everyone who reads this hungry.]

After spending three weeks in Australia in the middle of their Summer, returning to Denver after a massive snowstorm? Well, it's just plain wrong. This snow shit is the kind of thing Grace was trying to get away from.

There is only one thing to do (besides layer oneself in thermal clothing topped with a baby penguin t-shirt) to fix this. Pho.

Her bowl of spiced broth, noodles, and beef steams in front of her while she prods it with a fork (because she is a heathen) and the rest of the table is covered with a tray of add-ins and a condiment turntable. This kind of food is highly customizable, like a sandwich shop that sold you an open-faced bread-and-meat plate along with a separate spread of veggies and a selection of cheeses and ten different sauces in squeeze bottles. Very do-it-yourself. And most importantly, hot. Grace has, perhaps, overdone it on the hot. There's some chili paste in there and some jalapeno slices and sriracha, like capsaicin is going to make up for the temperature outside.

But enough about the soup. Let's talk about the woman who doesn't seem to try very hard to look like one. Wind-tossed hair of about three different colors is a mess on top of her head that she doesn't care about as long as it stays out of her eyes. In her ears are two stud earrings in the shape of coffee beans, and around her neck, a chain with a flat metallic pendant. The jeans-and-t-shirt uniform has been augmented with warm layers and a coat that's slid across the back of her chair sideways. If you could see it properly, it is actually a decent-looking, expensive, red wool coat with black plastic strips sewn into the hemlines, increasing its sharpness. She herself is a sharp thing. The way she locks her keen eyes on rice noodles and strips of brisket make it seem like there's really a bird-of-prey feasting atop the table, about to make a mess of the fish sauce with the beat of majestic wings. 

She seems happy, if quite alone at her table. No end-of-the-world scenarios have popped up yet. The vacation did its job but good. Who could complain?

Nicholas Hyde

They say it takes around a year to fully settle into a new job.  Technically this job was a step up for Nick: better pay, fewer crises, and greatly reduced chances that he will have to assist with putting someone in restraints.  None of this takes away from the fact that Nick still works with dying people and their families (when they have families) day in and day out.  He works with a lot of other people who do this, too.  In fact, since he is a counselor, he is very frequently also the one who makes sure his team is operating smoothly.  This is an unspoken part of his job description.

One perk of a hospital, though, is that it's better staffed; he has time to take a long lunch occasionally when he needs one (he skips lunch often enough.)  He is alone today.  There are coworkers who would have come, if he had asked, but right now he just wants to not talk about his clients.

So: pho.  It's not too far from the hospital.

He pushes his entire body against the door to get it to open: not totally necessary, but it perhaps betrays his enthusiasm to both get out of the snow and cold and to get something in his stomach.  Nick's hair is tumbled in a way that suggests the wind has been running its rough fingers through his curls; snowflakes are scattered in among its dark mass like clusters of stars.  He walked here.  He regrets it.  He is pinching his heavy coat closed at the collar to keep the wind out; for him, not even his scarf is helping.  He's mostly neutrals: his wool overcoat and gloves are a deep charcoal grey, his skin a light brown.  But his scarf is a purple slash of color at his throat, his cheeks ruddy with cold.

There is something unsettling about Nick, even with the sweet, if somewhat wan, smile he directs at the staff.  Something of his work lingers about him, a sense of otherness; he is Hallowed, in the manner of virgin forests and burial mounds.  The staff respond to his friendliness, though; before long he has a large bowl of broth and pork and his own estimation of a healthy amount of capsaicin, which is a thing he and Grace seem to share.

He has no sooner stuffed a large bite of meat and noodles into his mouth than he's noticed her.  His eyes draw toward her; perhaps they make eye contact just then, and then he's not likely to get away.   So he just inclines his head, the soul of easy courtesy.

Grace

When the two make eye contact, Grace has noodles hanging out of her mouth, and pauses in the midst of shoveling them inside with her fork to widen those eyes. Oh. Someone new. Curious.

She resumes shoveling noodles in her mouth and regards the new guy as if she's trying to figure him out. Well, he doesn't feel much like a Technocrat. One would expect them to seem less... mystical. It's a point in his favor. She can't yet tell if he's wearing a suit, that would be a point in his disfavor.

Well, okay. Maybe not everybody who wears a suit is awful, right? Mike wears them all the time, just because he understands fashion about as well as she does, and he thinks suits are the easy way out.

These are the things her mind focuses on while she chews and stares at Nick -- suits and whether the people who wear them are automatically wrong and to be considered Technocrat until further notice. Eventually, she decides on a waggle of eyebrows. Yeah, you're spotted, Nick. If you weren't already very well aware of that.

Even if he is a 'Crat, the setting isn't one for a battle. There's people here. It's lunchtime. And if he expects to brainwash her, he'll have another thing coming, right? Right.

Nicholas Hyde

There is a handgun stowed away in the glovebox of his car that he has never used.  This would surprise many people who know him, perhaps even people who know of the Tradition he keeps: Nick just does not seem like the sort of man who would want anything to do with weaponry, or who would keep a pistol on hand.  There is perhaps even some distaste he himself feels for the fact that he has it.  Yet - it is the only weapon he has even a remote understanding of how to use, and he knows the world is dangerous.

He thinks of this now because he is realizing, not for the first time recently, that he is alone in a new city with an unknown mage in the same room with him.  There is no version of reality in which Nick could be considered a coward, but he is aware of his vulnerability; he is aware that if she is not his friend, he'll need to talk his way out, and if she is, well, he'd just like to talk.

Grace waggles her eyebrows at him, and Nick smiles, in spite of himself.  He chews through a mouthful of sprouts and noodles and cilantro, and then, having made a decision, picks up his bowl and moves across the room to Grace's table.  He sets the bowl down and gives it a gentle nudge to center it in front of one of the chairs, more to soften how abrupt the gesture could seem than anything.

"Hello," he says.  "I think we might be coworkers.  Mind if I sit?"

If she gives assent, he reaches up to tug his scarf free, unknot it, and hang it over the back of his chair underneath the coat, which he unbuttons and sets on top of it.  He is wearing a dark blue V-neck sweater, and under that a mustard yellow T-shirt: no suit.

Grace

Grace, well. She has a gun. Kalen has about fifty thousand of them, and they're all basically anyone's, because that is the nature of Kalen. She has enchanted bullets before, but never had to actually use them. Her weapon, the one she's used to kill more often than anything else has been information. The worst possible thing for your human smuggling operation would be her, breaking into your emails and giving them to your enemies and a few Hermetic Chantries. I mean, why think in terms as small as a bullet and a gun when you can go big?

She doesn't look much like it. The baby penguin t-shirt is that disarming, honestly. But she feels like a thing that isn't afraid to go rampaging.

Coworkers. That word has her grinning when he says it, at some private joke she's about to make public. "CoWorkers?" she laughs. "Never heard it put like that before. Sit where you like."

She loads her spoon with noodles and meat and broth, starts to take a bite, but pauses. "I haven't seen you before."

Nicholas Hyde

Grace grins at him, at the turn of phrase he uses, and as Nick pulls out the chair to seat himself he flashes a smile back in her direction.  Some slightly conspiratorial thing.  Some magi enjoy being part of a world that is invisible to the other people around them, who enjoy keeping their secrets: Nick is one of those.

The other mage has loaded her spoon with noodles, and Nick is occupied with adding more sriracha to his.  He looks up at her as she comments that she hasn't seen him before as he's gathering some noodles up in his chopsticks.  "I only got into town at the end of December," he says.  "I started a new job last month, so I haven't had as many chances to get out as I would like."

He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and then says, "Nick Hyde, by the way.  It's nice to meet you."

Grace

Grace doesn't wait until her mouth is but half-empty to mumble out "Mmm Grace." Not really one for manners, she...

"I've been in Australia," she adds, when more articulation can be made. "Escaped the cold for a while, at least."

And everything. She escaped from everything, for a short while.

"It is almost always nice to meet someone new," she says, gives him a little smile. Almost always. When it isn't nice, it tends to be horrid, but you know, such is the way of things.

Nicholas Hyde

There is a noise that Nick makes that ranges somewhere between sympathy and a sort of dryly humorous understanding as Grace says that she was in Australia to escape the cold.  "I'm from Arizona," he says, "and I've never gotten used to it."

Nick is a person who doesn't appear to mind pauses in conversation, even with someone who he has only recently met.  There's something natural and unhurried in how he speaks: he is a man who does not force topics, and does not speak merely for the sake of having words out there in the wind.  Grace says it's nice to meet someone new; he nods, accepts that for what it is, and spoons up some of the broth.

It helps that he was just really hungry when he came in, and that his cheeks are finally warming to room temperature.

"So what's Denver like?  Have you been here long?"  Perhaps easily interpreted as smalltalk, and it is half that.  Nick's eyes are striking in their way, the same light brown color as his skin, and there is an intent sort of look that he gives her then that implies he might be asking for reasons other than simple politeness.  "I haven't had a chance to make it to the chantry yet," he adds, perhaps as a means to make the questions less off-putting.

Grace

"I'm from Phoenix originally? So I totally get you there. You don't get used to it," she says, shakes her head sadly. "You just learn to tolerate it."

She goes back to her food, and it might seem to Nick that she's way more interested in it than in him, but she is listening at least, such that when he mentions the Chantry, her eyebrows raise and she sniffs, happy at having made the correct guess.

"Denver is a hellmouth," she says, with the air of someone still discussing the weather, like she is making with some kind of casual hyperbole. She isn't. "It's about to get a lot worse, too. But, that's part of the reason why I stay, you know? There's always a challenge here to be undertaken."

Nicholas Hyde

Denver is a hellmouth.

This is something no one recently arrived in a city wants to hear.  And yet: the same could have been said for small town Connecticut, or for New York or Boston.  Nick has to remind himself of this in the seconds in which he feels his heart sink into somewhere near his lower gut.  This is the world in which they Awakened into: it is brutal, and it is dangerous.

"I'm from Tempe," he offers first, because it is easier to cleanse his palate with that lighter topic.

He appears to be processing what she has said as he chews.  Finally he asks, not without humor, "So on a scale of 'Los Angeles at rush hour' to 'precipice of darkness,' how much of a hellmouth is it?  I have heard," he takes a sip from his drink, "that things are going to get worse, but no one has been very specific as to why."

Grace

"Well, there was the time when an Umbral lord of terror summoned creatures out of a movie theater screen. That was pretty 'precipice of darkness'," she says, again with the air of someone discussing the weather.

Speaking of the Umbra...

"You know, the Storm has passed, right? Things that have been stuck behind it for many years, they're coming back," she says, and then stuffs some more noodles in her mouth.

Nicholas Hyde

Ah, yes.  There is just enough surprise on his face that perhaps Grace can tell that he is not used to other magi often having much knowledge of the Storm or the Umbra.  It is a topic that many often speak of in generalities, mainly because it can't be seen, partly because many people (even Willworkers) have some trouble wrapping their minds around that Otherness.

"That's another thing that I've heard said," he says, "though mainly just from what I've gathered from spirits, so far."

Nick is not quite as cavalier in speaking of these things as Grace; there is a natural weight to many of the words he says, a sort of gravitas that is always present in his mein.  She may notice that often when she is speaking to him, his attention seems to drift inward, or elsewhere, and he rights himself again to focus on her each time she speaks.  "Has any effort been made to strengthen the Shallowings in the city?"

Grace

There is a difference between them. Grace does not often take anything seriously, save when something is actively hurting the ones she cares about. That Umbral lord of terror, she renamed "Thakky" in order to give it less power to terrify. It's hard to be afraid of Chibi Cthulhu.

"I wouldn't know. You could ask Kiara about that, she does spirit-y things," she says with a little wave of her fingers. "But I don't think that it would help much, with the kinds of things that I've... got intel on. Beware of inhuman, spirit-y Black Hats. The Borg, you get it?"

Oh, man. Pho broth is just the best...

Nicholas Hyde

There is no sign of familiarity there, when she mentions Kiara.  Nick has not yet been able to meet many of the magi who call Denver home, though this will come in time.  For as much as some of them disdain the Disparates, the Traditions themselves tend to be rather scattered when it comes to organizing and communicating.  It's to be expected, among so many strong personalities and unshakeable Wills.

"I get it," he says, letting some of the broth flood into his spoon around a nest of noodles.  Nick exhales a breath he had not realized he'd been holding, down in the lower depths of his lungs.

"Thanks for being straight with me, Grace," he says, and his tone is genuinely appreciative.  "It sounds like you know a lot about what's going on."  Pause.  "So how was Australia?"

Grace

Her mood raises when he brings up Australia. A little light of joy in her eyes as wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "We went and took a lot of pictures of animals. My friend, he's going to hold a charity auction of his photographs, right? Did you know Australia has teeny penguins?"

She digs around in her pocket, makes a scrunched-up face about it because the pocket is holding on to her cell phone. But soon enough, it is freed, and a few finger slides later, she has up a gallery. It is nothing but little penguins. That is, in fact, the literal name of the species -- little penguin. Some of them are wearing tiny sweaters.

She shows Nick the front of her cell phone, with a look of manic glee. She is just the type of person to go from talking about horrible things to talking about penguins with the flick of a switch, almost.

"They're actually really hard to take pictures of, because they're nocturnal. We got there right when the chicks come out, so there's lots of teeny tiny fuzzy ones," she says, and it's obvious someone is in love, and also that she probably won't stop talking about them.

"They're also called fairy penguins. Isn't that just... eeee?"

Nicholas Hyde

Grace becomes visibly excited when she talks about the tiny penguins.  There is a way in which Nick's brows animate, as though something has been lifted off of them, that indicates that he shares her excitement, that he isn't just pretending to be interested in something this stranger likes because it's polite.  He leans over to look at her gallery as she scrolls through, showing him small penguins, and small penguins in sweaters, and small fuzzy penguin chicks.

He is the sort of person who can process someone, without warning, switching from horror to a topic that gives them joy, and can reflect it back.  "They are very cute," he agrees.  "Who put the sweaters on those penguins?  Do they like the sweaters?"

Nick does not know a thing about penguins.  "Are they specifically what you went down to see?"

Nick also asks a lot of questions.  He asks them almost without thinking, gives the impression he'd keep asking as long as she has answers.

Grace

"The ones in sweaters I just swiped from Google. That's for if they get in an oil spill, right? Keeps them from eating oil when they clean themselves. But they were so cute!" She grins.

"They were, pretty much, what I went to Australia for. A totally spiritual pilgrimage to meet the original Linux Penguins? Yes," she says, with fake grandiosity. "They taught me all sorts of lessons about myself and the world, and I have come back from my holiest site with great wisdom to share: Penguins are adorable."

Grace is a woman who likes making fun of the grandiose. But she isn't exactly lying per se. She did come back from her vacation with lessons about herself and the world, and studying the penguins helped.

She nods a Nick, like he is a fellow pilgrim. "I don't think they like sweaters, though."

Nicholas Hyde

There is a sage nod as he acknowledges that in all likelihood the penguins do not like the sweaters, among the other answers to his questions.  Perhaps he can tell that for all that Grace uses humor and hyperbole to express a truth, it still remains a truth.  "I'm glad you got to see them," he says, and means it.  "It sounds like getting away from Denver was a good thing, too."

He has picked up his chopsticks again, has gathered up another bunch of noodles and vegetables between them.  "So do you keep a Tradition?"  He transfers the whole lot to his mouth, his gaze flicking up at her briefly to hear her reply.

Grace

"Mercurial Elites," she says, soft into her bowl. "Huh. As if I 'keep' them, right? Keeper of the nerds?" she laughs.

She mostly keeps them out of her shit. This is more an unspoken rule of mutual destruction than it is anything solid. Their kind aren't much for rules, really.

The phone with its pictures of penguins gets snatched away, and placed by her bowl of pho.

"I'm glad I got to see them too."

Nicholas Hyde

Nick lets out a quick little laugh as she offers up her Tradition and her commentary; it's a short sound, spontaneous.  "I think most Traditionalists are kind of nerdy in one way or another," he says, fishing a piece of pork out of the broth.  "Esoteric, for sure.  Chakravanti," he offers, because this is the polite thing to do.

There is a second in which he regards Grace where it's clear that something is going unsaid, that he is trying to connect a - 

"Ah!"  His eyes light up, just a little, the physical translation of the lightbulb moment.  "My wife - Pen - she was very excited about the possibility of the battle-ring.  That was you, wasn't it?"  

Grace

"Pen pen pen, pen pen," she says, thinking. "Oh! That lady! You're her husband?"

And a Chakravanti, at that.

The way Grace seems more excited about meeting the other half of a unit suggests that she isn't very put off by that fact. He is also doing a great job of not minding the fact that she is a technomancer. Some do.

"That was me, yes. I have a robot turtle that needs a sparring partner."

Nicholas Hyde

"I am," he says, and he is obviously pleased with himself for having been able to recall the details of that conversation, for being able to connect the discussion of Grace's Tradition and her mannerisms and her name might belong to another Tradition.  Grace doesn't know it, but Pen woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him about her.

"Well, I can't promise," he says, "that anything you tell me about the robot turtle won't be used against you.  In the interest of fairness."  This, said with some levity, with an air of sportsmanship.  "Are there not any other Elites in town?"

Grace

"There is a guy, Sam. He's kinda being antisocial right now? I don't know. Maybe he'll come out and say hi?" She sighs, at Samir and the world for fucking with him.

"We're all a bit... sometimes antisocial perhaps. Goes with playing on our computers too much."

Nicholas Hyde

"I don't remember ever meeting very many in Connecticut," Nick says, though: Grace's explanation certainly makes some sense.  He, too, has run into his fair share of Traditionalists who look askance at technomancers, who see them as a step away from Technocrats or at the very least some gross bastardization of the Conventions and "true" magic, children who aren't willing to put away their iPhones to learn something new.  Perhaps it's that they don't feel especially welcome.  "Which is a shame."

Sam's name he files away.  He's been hearing a lot of new names.  This, to be expected when one moves to a new city.  "I won't say anything so trite as 'we all should stick together,' but if it's getting as bad as you're saying, it's good to know people."

Grace

"Yeah," she says, in assent to his suggestion that it is a good idea to know people. The connections between people like connections in any system make them more resilient. It's why they were formed in the first place, survival. And now, the big bad wolf comes.

"You want to swap digits? If anything happens, I'll let you know."

Nicholas Hyde

"Sure," Nick says, and reaches behind him to pull his phone (one of the larger Androids that has the look and size of a mini tablet - the better to read on during breaks at work) from the pocket of his overcoat.  He offers his number to Grace - it's a 480 number, evidently one that he has never switched over since apparently acquiring it in Arizona.  Many people carry their phone numbers with them that way these days, as much a mark of where they're from as photos, souvenirs and old scars.

He'll take Grace's number too, when he gets a chance.  "Get a hold of me anytime.  Pen and I are still getting to know people around here."

Grace

"Get a hold of me anytime. I have a safe place to be, if needed. There's cats and laser tag. Not to mention all the defenses," she says, bright and cheerful.

Defenses are a happy thing, right? Everybody loves a place with security cameras, thick steel doors, fantastic locks, and dehydrated food...

Well, okay, when she'd first Awakened, she'd thought Kalen might be a survivalist nutcase, but it's not nutcase behavior when they really are out to get you, is it?

Nicholas Hyde

Grace: she's hard to dampen.  Perhaps her name could have belonged to another Tradition, and yet in a bizarre way she seems to embody it all the same.  There is a way in which this cheerfulness, her ebullience, reminds Nick of another person, but these things are far away and not as long ago as they seem.  "Good to know," he says.  "Especially since we're still in the process of securing our place."

Or: Pen is, at least.  Nick's usefulness when it comes to things more grounded in the material realm is in doubt.

Nick glances down at his watch, a metal and silver affair with the gears visibly working inside the face.  "I was actually on my lunch break from work, and I should get back soon.  I'm glad we ran into each other."

Grace

Grace crinkles her eyes at him and gives him a little wave with her fingers. "I'm glad too. Glad you are who you are. Stay you!"

This is followed, of course, by the crunching into a jalapeno slice, which crunches up the rest of her face and starts turning it red. She doesn't really care though. Heat is good, heat to counter the cold to which she, too, will soon return.

Bonfires

Pen
[Char + Esoterica (Enochian).]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 10 ) [Doubling Tens]

Pen
[Oh my god, what?!?!]

Nick
[Pen's magnum opus is a bonfire]

Pen
[Arete. Forces. Vulgar. -3 for Enochian-roll. WP, because it would just be too tragic to botch this roll after that.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (5, 7, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Pen
Out in the backyard Pen is lighting a fire. Late afternoon in winter and the day goes to dark like a piece of silver, much-tarnished; gray gloom already, for in January (where we lay our scene) the days are short and sharp. Nicholas is due home from work or errands soon. Pen is shivering, because it is cold. But that's what the fire is supposed to fix, and her wand is inside on the wandstand inside. So she pronounces a phrase in Enochian, which is one of the angelic languages spoken by celestial beings, and she pronounces it so perfectly and so clearly, no tripping of the tongue or awkwardness of the jaw, and she pushes with such force, that in the middle of the backyard in the middle of this rather dreary mundane street in the middle of this dreary mundane month where the ice is cold blue and gone dangerous and the snow barely remembers being a fairy tale there well in the middle of all this a Wizard speaks fire into a fire pit and holds her hands out to it. The fire is resplendent. All fires are. The fire begins a hopeless melting gold, and then as it connects to the wood it burnishes up: orange and red, barbaric colors, and Pen's pale skin grows flushed.

Nick
The sound of the car coming up the drive will reach Pen's ears shortly after she has sung the fire into existence, summoned a flame so perfect she might as well have stolen it from the gods.  The sound comes hushed: it could perhaps be the tendency of resonance to seep into whatever it touches, or it could just be the way snow itself tends to muffle, to mellow.

Either way, Nick appears in the backyard not too long after the sound of the engine has faded away in the garage, though longer than it would take to simply walk through the house and out the back door.  A heavy dark grey overcoat hugs his frame and he has in hand two mugs; steam curls from them and he hands one to Pen as he comes out to stand next to her by the fire.  He breathes in deep, woodsmoke and winter, and leans over to kiss her cheek.  "What prompted the bonfire?"

Pen
"The fire pit looked so cold," Pen replies. Her mood is one of reserved solemnity, but kiss on the cheek means a quick unbidden smile; wakes herself out of the trance the flames, and the deep satisfaction of knowing she made them herself, have beguiled her into. "Tea?" as she peers into the mug she took, leans close enough to slip her hand in the pocket of Nick's overcoat. "Oh. I met another one!"

Nick
Nick wraps an arm around her, gently pulling her into his side; this is ostensibly for her benefit, but it is likely he wilts far more in the cold than she does.  It's been years since he lived in Arizona, and yet.  "It's going to be nice to have in the summer," he says, of the fire pit, and then, "Cider."

Which is evident as soon as she breathes in the steam.  He glances over at her, questioning at first, then, "Oh, who else?"

Pen
"I don't know his name; we didn't exchange them. He felt new, just a touch of winter in the bones about him; but man, he was really sharp. Pegged where in New England I was from, just by ear." Her voice warms as she remembers, struck-through with light. "Down to the state!"

Nick
There is a way in which his brows pull together, thoughtful, but only for a moment.  So many that are new, and so few that are more experienced than Pen and himself.  Still, he is impressed.  "I still don't think I can do that."  The cider is rapidly cooling as the slight breeze sucks the heat from the mug, so he takes a long swallow.  "Where did you run into him?"

Pen
"He also guessed that I was a poet! He was like a magician," Pen says, with a bright curl of a grin, a bit of remembered wonder; firelight in her teeth. She turns to nestle into Nick, attempt the daring and potentially hazardous (for him) move of sipping her hot cider over his shoulder. Success! "Some coffee shop. Anyway, he felt new, but he acted like an old hand; cautious, you know? Warned me about going out at night."

Nick
"Another old soul, maybe," Nick says, and this is with rueful amusement, tongue-in-cheek; people have been calling him this since he was old enough to talk, would look at his somber eyes and small mouth and comment on his particular sort of gravitas long before he ever Awakened.  He does not know his father well: his father's family, on the other hand, is fond of things like homesteading and crystals.  "You'll have to introduce us, if you run into him again."

Pen
"I believe vampires were implied." Beat. "I wonder if he could guess your accent? Or if time with me," wickedness!, "has corrupted it."

Nick
Nick laughs once, twice.  "That's a distinct possibility.  My mother comments on it every six months or so like it's new.  Maybe it'll stump him."  Truth be told, they aren't something he has much of an ear for; Pen, to him, sounds like Pen.  "We both seem to keep running into people everywhere here except the chantry."

Pen
"I haven't been to the chantry," Pen says, another dangerous daring sip of cider. Does it not have whiskey in it? For shame, Nicholas. "But I bet William would take us so we could freely oh! Did I tell you about William? I never did, did I? He is adorable; he is wonderful! We nearly got locked in a wardrobe, the teal claw-footed one outside the bathroom actually, and he's just," Pen hugs Nicholas reflexively, in explanation.

Nick
There almost feels as though there is more coat and padding to Nick at the moment than there is Nick to Nick; Pen's description makes him smile as he glances sidelong at her.  They're almost of a height.  "Should I even ask how you both ended up crawling into a wardrobe?"  His own sip of cider is made far less daring as he has it in the hand opposite his occupied side.

Pen
"We were discussing making one's mark on the world, and Narnia," Pen says, which is the answer. There aren't nearly enough Mages who are content to be really, really weird; Pen is always happy when she finds one who is her kind of weird. "So I got in and he followed, and we hashed out whether or not one another was Awakened and what kind of Awakened like that."

Nick
Pen mentions what they were discussing, and there's a side glance down at her as she is pressed into his side in front of the fire, and Nick leans a few inches down and kisses her forehead.  The fire has lent his face a soft glow; he's just overcome by affection, see.  "What kind of Awakened is he, then?"

Pen
"Ooh, shall we have another riddle? Do you believe you are up to such a challenge?"

Nick
"I can see through the worst of your riddles, Miss Mars.  Though it does seem stacked in my favor when there are only ten options, doesn't it."

Pen
"Nonsense. Let me see. What is three, one, and nine at the same time?"

Nick
Nick goes quiet for a moment, turning this over in his mind.  There are a few Traditions he can eliminate right away; he's a deductive reasoner, Nick, moreso than someone who particularly excels at abstract thinking.  "I was going to say Chorus," he admits, "but I don't know what the nine would have been, so let's go with Hermetic.  Well?"

Pen
A sip of cider, judicious. This is not a dangerous sip; she lets her arm leave its place around the Chakravanti's shoulders, though she slips it between his arm and side instead, hooking like so. Then the judicious sip, and the fire is warm; the fire is even hot. It would turn them both to ash. Hermetics know that every fire is like the heart of the sun. "Yes," after a moment, let him dangle; a laugh: "What do you think the three and the one is for the Order of Hermes?"

Nick
He is obviously always very pleased with himself when he figures these things out; the Chakravanti are demanding in their own ways, but riddles and logical reasoning typically are not exercises provided to their apprentices.  "Thrice-great Hermes, I thought," he says, "and the one Order?"

Pen
"Thrice-wise," Pen says. "Also, three words in the name," and here, a quick flash of a grin; something that'd catch the firelight and flash it right on into the eyes of an enemy, break daylight in two smash. "And you do you know what the nine is, right?"

Nick
"I couldn't completely pin that one down," he admits again, and while he is smiling maybe she can pick up this: he is perhaps the slightest bit nervous.  Intimidated, even.  "I thought nine mystic Arts, or...you also have nine ranks, right?"  Right, Pen?

Pen
"We have ten. No, it is nine houses; though to be fair, one of those houses encompasses many minor houses. Still, they are folded up into Ex Miscellanea for a reason," and she sounds airy, of course, airy and serious at the same time.

Nick
His smile turns rueful, though only momentarily.  "Well, close enough.  So you found another member of the Order in town, then?"  And they locked themselves in a closet talking about Narnia.  Somehow this does not mesh with his impression of the Order from Connecticut, but, well.

Pen
"Mm." Assent.

"Do you miss having, do you want other members of your tradition to speak to and practice with?"

Nick
This was something Nick has been thinking about: that he has heard nothing of other Chakravanti in the city (though that doesn't always mean they aren't there.)  "Yes," he says, "though I think I work a lot differently than many of them."  Attributable, perhaps, to his time as a Disparate; either way Deliliah did not attempt to change him.

Nick is quiet for a handful of seconds.  Then, "It would be good to find someone who knows more than I do, in particular.  I never really know where Delilah has gone."

Pen
"If we practiced any of the same Spheres," and this, this is teasing, though there's an actual spark of genuine passion beneath, stirred see, "then we could Work together. Alas!"

Brief pause. And then, "Perhaps you'll find somebody at the chantry, or somebody who knows somebody."

Nick
"Our practices are complimentary," Nick says, with good humor.  Though: he catches that spark, too, wonders whether he ought to breathe on it.  "I would like to do that, someday," he says, but in the tone of someone who has no idea how to conceive of this.  Their magickal styles are quite different, after all.

Regarding the chantry, there is a thoughtful, "Hmm."

Pen
A side-long glance, turns her head in the end; makes her leave off fire-gazing. A beat, and she tweaks Nick's chin between forefinger and thumb.

Doesn't say anything, no whys or wistful musings or half-baked plans, no topic jumps. She just stands, arm looped through Nicholas's, content to drink her cider in the gold resplendence of the bonfire, burnished glow sun-bright as the afternoon shades into gloaming proper.

Of course, the cold is prevalent; wicks its way in at her back, and after one or two shudders, she'll worm her way under Nicholas's arm and suggest going back inside. Or he'll suggest going back inside. He'll probably suggest going back inside. Nick, do you suggest going back inside?

Nick
Nick had finished his cider some time ago, and whatever warmth it lent his body has long since been absorbed, has fed the great furnace of his heart and been reduced to cinder.  Pen tweaked his chin; the response was a look that was earnest, only a little bemused.

He tries to tolerate the cold for as long as he can, because the flames shining red and gold through the darkness, casting their brilliance onto the snow that blankets the area around the two of them, they're beautiful.  But his tolerance for the cold wears out before Pen's does, and with an air of the vanquished says, "I can't really feel my ears anymore, or my...anything.  Do you want to go in?"

And maybe even though she's cold too she'll tease him (she has been out here far longer than he has, after all), but after not too long they'll make their way inside, on to dinner and (likely for one or both of them) perhaps more Work.  They'll trail the scent of smoke in along with them and for days afterward when they pull on their coats to go back out the scent will stir from the fibers, even as white flakes pile up outside over the charred bones of the bonfire, burying them until spring.