Society of Ether 101

Nick
In other parts of the country, December and most of January were unseasonably warm.  In Denver, there have been numerous blizzards already, light winter snowfalls that rival some of the worst ones he saw back in Connecticut.  Inside the house it is warm, still ah, fragrant with the sharp smell of new paint and cardboard; their resonance has not had a chance to seep into the floorboards yet, hasn't had a chance to make this a place of sacred passions, of brilliance.
Nick has just collapsed on the tarp-covered couch, dotted here and there with paint, which now dots Nick here and there; it doesn't matter, he was spotted anyway.  "I'm done," he calls into the other room.  He could have just made some wordless groan; his voice alone implies his done-ness.
Pen
Penelope swans in with a tumbler of Lagavulin. Classical music is playing in the other room. Liszt, that rockstar. Her hair is up, her bangs are floofy, and she is wearing a Sex Pistols t-shirt. Just over the threshold, she looks around admiringly.
"I hope it looks good dry."
Nick
Where he'd been a puddle, he lifts himself on an elbow, roused perhaps by the sight of the Lagavulin.  Pen admires, and as Nicholas pushes himself back into a sitting position he says, "If it doesn't, let's just cover it in someone else's paintings."
He discovers, as he lifts his hand to unfluff and smooth down his hair (sweat is as bad for it as humidity), that there is a large mat of paint.  He does not have the energy for horror, only resignation.  "Either way, I think I'm done today."
Pen
Pen laughs (brightly, too) at Nicholas's expression after giving him a moment of study, and she wanders over to the couch. Sinks onto it with one knee, and offers him her tumbler. "Crow with a blaze," she says, of the paint in his hair.
"You did very good work. There are paninis in the other room..."
Nick
Nick takes the tumbler and, lifting it, scents the alcohol first before sipping from it.  He then hands it back to her and rises.  After brushing his hands over his shirt and shorts and examining the bottoms of his feet to ensure that he isn't about to track wet paint into the rest of the house, he starts to wander into the other room.  "I'm always surprised Thane didn't end up with a bird name," he says, with a sidelong glance and a smile.
He has reached the kitchen, where he reaches into the cabinet for another tumbler.  "I never told you.  I ran into the first new Willworker I've met here last night, at that party."  Implied: the one he did not drag her along to, thinking that two magi in the room would make for chaos.
Pen
"He would be Kingfisher, or Merlin," Pen says. She lingers in the just-painted room, which she did not help with, looking over everything with great satisfaction. While she is doing this, Nicholas in the kitchen will see Pen's work (Work) spread out over the kitchen table, diagrams and some shopping lists of ingredients she needs. Two china blue and white patterned plates on the counter, one with half a sandwich left and mostly crumbs, the other will a full sandwich: but what is it? Wild foraged mushrooms, sliced heirloom tomatoes, an avocado and red onion pesto with a bit of sriracha tang, and cheese: two kinds, one smokey, one creamy, dripping out of the side.
"Who did you meet?"
Nick
"Merlin would delight him, I'm sure."  Nick splashes some of the liquor into his tumbler, swirling it in the glass and (heathen) adding a drop or two of water from the sink.  Pen can't see it: his gaze fixates for a few seconds on the swirl, lost in thought, before he wanders over to the table.
He drops down at the table, and the pause is so long she could begin to think he'd forgotten to answer.  No: his mouth is just full.  Then, finally, "He's an Etherite.  Works in one of the morgues, actually."  He flicks one of the mushrooms that had fallen into a plate into his mouth, and then, "There was some sort of punch there that disgraced its ancestors and he made it into sangria.  You need to show me how to do that."
Pen
"Swift bright bird," Pen says, softly, and to herself; she is thinking of Thane.
Only comes back into the kitchen after Nick begins answering her, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe rather than coming near. Her eyebrows leap up. Works in one of the morgues, actually. Shadow across her gaze; sword, catching somebody else's movement. "That's one place to get materials for free, if you're sneaky," she says, and then:
Laughs, again. "I don't know how a Society man would do it, probably some fiddly little machine, but I can show you how a Hermetic would."
The right way, her tone says. "What was he like?"
Nick
"He had a lot of things that jangled in his pockets.  I have no idea how it would turn water to wine, but it did."  Nick has to consider her question then: he and the Etherite didn't necessarily talk all that long, after all.  First impressions are first impressions.  He chews while he thinks: he is making quick work of the food.
"Sad," he says, finally.  "But in a way where his sadness has grown into and along with him.  He's chicano.  Short friendly guy."  A pause, and he offers in addition, "It sounds like his wife died and was Verbena.  I got the impression he's here because the Technocracy destroyed a Grove that was important to her."
Pen
[Eh, chicano Etherite married to a Verbena who died. there could be loads of them, the country is huge. but Wits one jump ahead to see if she's like HUH I WONDER IF IT'S THAT GUY.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6) ( success x 1 ) [Doubling Tens]
Pen
"Hmm."
Penelope doesn't say much more for a time, content to fondly regard the paint splotch in Nicholas's curls while she thinks about the Sons of Ether -- pardon her, Society of Ether men and women -- she has known, and the Verbena. New England is small, and eventually one knows everybody.
Nick
Nick has finished the sandwich; there are a few crumbs left, but nothing resembling any sort of vegetable or splotch of cheese or pesto.  The spot of paint in his hair, the color of the sun at twilight, has been forgotten.  He has turned his attention to his glass.  "He suggested dinner, at some point.  Had you heard about the Grove?"
There is the tiniest flash of what could be pride: perhaps he knows someone before Pen, and this is news to her.  This rarely happens.
Pen
"I don't think so. The Verbena were hit hard here in Denver, back during those good old bad days the Masters are always talking about when the War was a smoldering coal heap of burn your fingers off battlefields, but as far as I know it was some time ago. Tell me about it!"
Brief pause. "Dinner, hm? Did you like him?"
Nick
There is a nod when she talks about Back When; the war wasn't that long ago, but it still feels distant to him at least.  He did not Awaken into it.  He has a good sense of continuity, of the idea that Fate is one long thread that can be pulled forward or back, but it doesn't always assist with personal investiture.  "I don't know much about it other than that it's gone," he says, regretfully.  "That's all Andres really told me."
As to whether he liked him: "I liked him enough.  It seems worthwhile getting to know people here."
Pen
The (Enchantress, remember [gloaming around a fairy hill]) red-haired Wizard leaves the doorframe, perhaps because her scotch is finished now. Clink, as the glass hits the counter; clink, as she knocks it with her elbow in turning to face Nicholas. "You should make friends," she says, with a grin.
And then, and this, as she drops into the chair opposite him -- full of languid gracelessness, even her gestures are sometimes flamboyant as fuck. "Andrés Sepúlveda." She hasn't quite settled into the chair; the name is just a memory, her wits and intention haven't caught up with her mouth or her memory.

Nick
Pen drops into the chair opposite him; Nick has stretched his legs back in front of him, tilting his chair back onto its hind legs.  There's something relaxed and content in his expression, and paint-splattered as he is it may not be difficult to imagine him as the daydreaming child he probably was once, each teacher of his despairing and telling him he was going to fall back and crack his head open.
Mention of the man's name brings him fully present, his eyes settling on Pen with a sort of surprise.  "That's him.  Do you know him?"
Pen
[.... >.> I CAN HIDE THINGS. From Nick, anyway. HEH HEH.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4) ( botch x 1 )
Pen
[Damn it, dice.]
Nick
[Oh how the tables have turned!]
drone
[oh  my god]
Pen
"I don't, um, hm. He's not, certainly I would not say that I don't know anything about his wife's death or the abominations against the natural order of, necromancy no, I - what? I think; did you hear that?"
Penelope's gray eyes are quite wide and she hooks a thumb over her shoulder, half-turning her head. She looks very earnest in what is probably the worst attempt to lie or at least conceal be tempered that she has had for a while. "Did we get a dog?"
NoreallyNickdidyouguysgetadog? Brief pause.
"I think - are we getting a dog in the future? Because I; wait, what was the question? About Sepúlveda? No. Wait, know him? As in ..."
"What?"
Nick
[Don't laugh.  Laughing is mean.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 6, 7, 7) ( success x 3 )
Nick
"Hear...what?"
The lie is so terrible that it almost works.  Nick's eyes, amber etched in smoked quartz, even widen a little as hers do, as he follows her thumb, and then - Did we get a dog?
Nick has to suck in a breath.  He is steeling himself against what would otherwise have been teary-eyed, side-splitting laughter at her expense.  What comes out instead is a shadow of this, as he lifts his hand to grab at his lower lip, partially hiding his mouth and his smile along with it.  His eyes betray him but then again, he wasn't trying to hide it.  "Pen, are you...it sounds like you know something you're not telling me."
Pen
Wide, wide eyes. They are brilliant in color. "What?"
Bat, bat of dark lashes. Total innocence, really. Absolutely convincing.  "It does?"
Brief pause. "But the dog," and her voice gets all wandery, because she knows. She knows he caught her. She knows how terrible that was.
Penelope drops her face into both of her hands.
That way no one can see her shame, or at least she can't see her shame. Her face is very, very hot.

Nick
She has done one thing, which is momentarily distract him from the fact that she used the words 'abominations against the natural order' and 'necromancy' (but yes, of course he will bring it back around, gone does not mean forgotten).  Pen covers her face with her hands, and Nick leans forward, letting the legs of his chair clatter back against the hardwood, and lays a hand on her knee, giving it an affectionate squeeze.  "You almost had me," he says, because it's almost true.
A beat.  "So does this mean we're getting a dog?"  His own look of wide-eyed innocence.
Pen
Face still hidden. "Do you want one very much? Perhaps you can take care of one on a trial basis."
Pen thinks dogs smell, but she has liked a few.
"And then we can get a cat."
After she meets Red, 'cat' will become 'a cool Spirit familiar.'
Nick
"I like cats," he says, with the easy tone he often has when discussing his general vague warmth toward most things living.  His hand has moved to the side of her arm, and should her hands loosen, he'll pull one of them back into his and away from her face.  "A trial basis it is, then. I would hate to make a liar out of you."
There is conspiracy in his smile, a warmth that takes any sting out of his words.  "You were going to tell me about Andres?"
Pen
"I was going to," with a very, very generous portion of rue. Her hands do loosen, did loosen, and he can keep one of her hands if he likes -- she won't pull it back -- but she rests the elbow of the other on the table, and then rests her cheek on her fist. Pen usually wears rings, but that never seems to bother her. Her expression is set on wary, rueful dismay.
"I liked him back when I knew him," she says. "He was like a sparking fuse, kind of a dick sometimes but not a bad man. I think a very good one."
Nick
He does keep hold of her hand; his eyes are intent on her but his fingertips are absently tracing the lines of bone that splay out from her wrist.  His are dotted with orange, slightly callused, without adornment other than his ring.  "But?"
Pen
"Well..."
Pen's gaze has taken on an imploring cast, but it hardens: hot metal usually does, once it has cooled; been proper-forged.
"It is gossip. I didn't, you know how Willworkers are when they're not talking about themselves. His wife - I knew her, too! Better, actually. Rob knew them both as well." She must be off-balance if she's saying Rob's name in their house. "There was a misadventure. But ... well, she died horribly, and he -- "
"I mean, you know, I think Frankenstein is a starter textbook for the Society."
Nick
Pen tells Nick that Sepulveda's wife had died horribly; to this he nods, because he had already been told as much by the man himself.  But perhaps he's thinking of that exchange - It sounds as though you've tried.
Nick's intuition about that sort of thing is rarely wrong, even when he doesn't know the particulars.
And yet still, he is a little beside himself when he blinks at Pen.  "He used necromancy on his dead wife?  What...what did he think would happen?"
Pen
This is a deeply uncomfortable subject for Pen to discuss with Nicholas for a number of reasons. They haven't been married, themselves, for a year; only since May. Mathematics. Nicholas's devotion to the Wheel is not a devotion that Pen has, at least not explicitly, and if any Tradition is going to arrogantly flout the Laws of Nature:
well, the Society, sure. But the Order likes to command reality, forcefully.
"He didn't use necromancy, per se." Pen doesn't often get pedantic, but unsettled and off-guard she is in this moment. "He didn't want to communicate or find the future. He just, well he tried to resurrect her. And his effort did not go well, it went quite the opposite of well according to what I remember hearing."
See. Pen liked Louise, and her fingers tighten on Nicholas's. Spasmodic; sorrow-curl. "What came back was a monster, you see."
Of course he'd expect that, Nicholas. Any Euthanatos.
Nick
Pen explains, though the explanation is not strictly necessary; this is how these stories always end.  The Wheel doesn't turn as it is supposed to; Nick has made the process of helping other people accept the natural turning and pass on a part of his everyday life.
But the truth is, the subject is uncomfortable for him too.  Maybe she can't tell.  But there are things that vows frequently cave beneath, even if one knows the likely outcome; he can understand this, even if it flies in the face of everything he has been taught.  His fingers tighten back around hers, reflexively.  "I see."
And he does.  "That explains a lot.  That's a terrible thing to have happen."
Pen
"I would be quite wroth and beset if you came back wrong," Pen says, seriously.
And then, musing, "I wonder what he is working on. Did he, well. Dinner, hmm?" Brief pause. "I am not expected to cook, am I?"
There's no horror in the question. Pen is a motherfucking Hermetic of course she can follow a recipe perfectly unless gremlins get into the kitchen, but the house is far from being ready for other Magi to visit. That requires a lot of legwork.
Nick
Pen's serious voice, and her serious statement, draw his eyes to hers.  In Nick's mind, there is no other way to come back, no other possible outcome; even if there were, the manner in which it would affect the Wheel would make it selfish, at best.  He doesn't say that.  "I don't want you to ever have to experience that," is what he says instead.
At her question, he shakes his head.  "No.  I can, or we can go somewhere."  Nick can't follow a recipe, but that is mainly because he learned to cook from his mother.  "It probably doesn't even have to be dinner.  That was just his suggestion."
Pen
"Are you okay with that?"
Blunt. 'Tac nukes' they call Flambeau, as in 'all the subtlety of a.'
Nick
Nick rolls the question over in his mind.  "If it's more than gossip," he says, "he made a very human decision, and he suffered for it.  People do those things because they don't understand the Wheel.  I can't hate a man for ignorance, or for acting out of grief."
Pen
Pen considers Nicholas for a long moment, then drags his hand across the table toward her and starts like she's reading the lines of his palm.
"Do you think you'll ever dye your hair orange, Nicholas?"
Nick
She pulls his hand toward her on the table, flips it so that she can trace the curves on the inside of his palm, which is broad and deeply lined.  Tiny specks of paint cover him here too, tangled in the dark hair along his arms where tiny droplets splattered as he used the roller on the walls.  There is a laugh as she asks him, and the reply, "All signs point to no," only slightly tongue-in-cheek.
Nick sits there quiet for a time that seems far longer than it is, and if his eyes have gazed off somewhere in the distance it's not for yearning: at the moment, he is a man content right now with where he is.
They will talk about that later, and perhaps he will recall this then.
But for now, after a few moments have lapsed he curls his hand in again, as though he were bringing her forward, and grins and says, "So about the dog."  And the conversation will turn to other things, and he won't give another thought to the future, sprawling out ahead of them like still-distant mountains.