A few weeks ago, Nick was able to obtain Angela Avella's number from Grace. The Mercurial Elite has been in town for years and commands an almost terrifying amount of information: if anyone was likely to know anyone, it was her, and his supposition was a correct one.
Texting first is for people who are five to ten years younger than Nick. Now that her number is in his phone, he simply calls her. If necessary, he leaves a voice message first: that he is Nicholas Hyde, that he is Chakravanti and that he would like to meet if she is agreeable. He mentions Grant. He mentions that they probably ought to get acquainted, anyway.
Then he offers to meet her wherever she'd like in order to talk face to face. He'll have someone with him: a Hermetic, his wife, and she is welcome to bring her Chorister friend if she would like.
A cast of thousands
It was a little offputting to know precisely how much information Grace could weild at any given time. If people understood the sheer volume of it, the sheer risk involved with knowing the loads of details logged away in her brain, they would be terrified. By all means, if the city had or needed a leader one would look to Grace.
But, like an encyclopedia, Grace Evans holds no allegiances or ambitions to be someone's rock. Just a source of information, perhaps. Or perhaps she does, but the nature of Grace was not there to be debated. No, insterad, they were put in contact with a Euthanatos who, it would seem, was more than ha[py to text Nicholas about the various and sundry things that they may discuss-
Those sundries, it would seem, involved tea at her partner's apartment. The Hermetic and the Chakravanti came to meet another with her own personal Chorister in tow. Angela looked forward to speaking with him in person, and gave good instructions on how to get to where they needed to go. Not supernatural instructions, but rather, the kinds of instructions that come from giving them so regularly that they are as natural as sighing at a tired joke.
Nicholas Hyde
And so, having gotten directions, Nick arrives at the Chorister's apartment with Pen. (It is entirely possible that this visit was precluded by a scolding about giving his Tradition out on someone's voice mail. Nevertheless: here they are.)
The two of them arrive at the apartment very nearly on time, and as Nick reaches it he first texts Angela to let them know that they have arrived. He takes inventory of the outside of the building first, but he doesn't look too closely. When it comes to this sort of thing, any tactical thinking, he generally leaves that to his wife. He's not very good at it.
Penelope Mars
They take the car so Nick can drive. Pen wants her hands free during the ride over and she spends much of it drawing in a little hand-sewn journal of no particular loveliness or resting her temple against the window, gazing out beyond the pale omen of her reflection.
Because Pen is Pen she has indeed already put her mind to what her husband would call 'tactical thinking,' which is to say she has looked the building up on google earth and examined city maps, just to get a feel for space in the mundane way; it will serve her, just in case.
Because Pen is Pen, Nick did indeed receive a scolding. Imagine this: Nick leaving a message just prior to receiving a text back; Pen walking by the open door of his study; a stray word catches her attention; she reappears framed, at the threshold, leaning with her shoulder against the wood; he hangs up. She says, Did you just leave a voice mail in which you identified your Tradition by name? With your full name?
Because Pen is Pen, she looks like a painting.
The name of the painting, and its exact measure of moody loveliness, to be determined at a later date; something with smolder, of course.
"What was the apartment number?"
She buzzes for entry, or knocks on the door, or Nick's texts summon the buzzer or Angela herself before either willworker gets to it. Either way: no delay; there is elegance in action.
A cast of thousands
There was elegance in action, yes, and the grounds for the complex are neat if not a little mundane. Two story buildings connected by paths among a series of two story buildings and a set of trash cans at the four corners of the complex. They do not recycle here. The laundromat and the pool appear to be in the middle of the complex. The apartment in question is right across from the pool and conspicuously far away from the leasing office.
The person who opens the door is neither tall nor short with square shoulders and a straight posture. Her hair is back in a ponytail- held high but with the curl to it that suggests it had previously been in a bun earlier and she had not actually shaken it out. She's wearing basketball shorts and a tank top/sports bra combination. Comfy clothes, or clothes that you wear right before you're going to work out in.
"Nicholas Hyde, right?" she says when she looks at him. Offers a hand and eye contact. She talks like a cop. Talks like a detective, but the kind of detective that's used to being the good cop in the equasion. "Angela Avella."
She steps aside to let people in The room is set up like there was a twelve step meeting here. A reasonable sleeper sofa, an abundance of fold out chairs. A dining room table pushed back to the wall filled with coffee pots and plastic cups and sugar in one of those pour out containers that only come in diners because nobody actually uses them at home unless they need to pour large volumes of sugar into something but not enough of a volume to warrant a quarter cup measure. The faucet is running in the bathroom- clearly, the other person expected is here.
Nicholas Hyde
Nicholas notices that they do not recycle at the complex, in his sweeping glance to the area around him. Nicholas perhaps judges, a little bit. (He and Pen, meanwhile, have been talking about keeping bees.)
He is not as picturesque as his wife by nature, or at least not in the same manner: Nick is a dark sonnet, some swirling charcoal sketch given shape in a particularly somber mood. He wasn't sure how to dress to meet Angela and so he has come in a pair of grey corduroys and a pale pink shirt. His hair was tamed today, at least in moderation.
"Yeah," he says, and he reaches to shake her hand once it is offered to him. "Nice to meet you. This is Penelope." He gives Pen space to offer her full name, as she would like: he suspects she would like to.
As he steps inside, Nick takes inventory of the space. "Is your place where you all usually gather out here?"
Penelope Mars
Pen offers her hand, too. And part of her craft name, see, without missing a beat " - Penelope Sylvia Mercury Mars bani Flambeau ordo Hermes. I go by Pen; how good to meet you. We brought cookies."
They did, too. A bag of chocolate chip and early grey cookies, which she hands off.
Her sleeves cuff at the elbows and are diaphanous, voluminous; they suggest the shape of her arms beneath, and see, around her wrist a silver bracelet and a large semi-precious stone (a strike of midnight's blue). The sleeves belong to a blouse of interesting, artsy cut; a V neckline which plunges down and down again to the cage of her ribs, of some fragile and iridescent fabric which seems like the river; it should be fire. It is pale silver; her eyes are a purer color. Her trousers are cut dashingly, very Romantic poet, with double buttons and embroidery down the leg, disappearing into her boots.
The boots are oxblood, much-scuffed, and painted on: a design of occult significance, though it only looks like a flower garden. Over her other arm she has her coat, which is the same midnight blue as the stone at her wrist; as the pin in her hair, which has been braided, fashioned into a bright coronet.
A cast of thousands
It's about the time when someone small and severe is coming out of the bathroom. She's dressed comfortably, but professionally. Jeans, yes, but still wearing shoes and it's her apartment. Button down shirt. Hair still in a bun and some kind of necklace stuffed deep within her shirt. It's a two bedroom. There's a small cabinet in the corner that is closed. There's a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the wall.
Betwixt the two HIspanic women in the room, there is a very distinct feeling of the fanaticism that comes with pledging one's life to a cause and the hope that comes when you believe that it will end well. The determination that things Will Be.
The small woman is severe, but lights up immediately when she sees cookies.
"Oh! Let me take those," she looks pleased. Delighted
"This is Isolde Martinez-" of the Celestial Chorus, she calls from the kitchen. She's getting plates and raiding the pantry. "You and I share a tradition, Mister Hyde, but... I think you alreqady knew that."
She steps into the room.
"You can take a seat wherever. Get comfortable before we get to business?"
Nicholas Hyde
When invited, Nick moves to take a seat at one of the ends of the couch, and wedges himself back into the cushion. He'd paused a moment to shake Isolde's hand as well ("Good to meet you too, Isolde,") and leave the handing of the cookies over to Pen.
Nick flings an ankle over his knee in a way that almost appears haphazard. His eyes flick, once, to the picture of Our Lady on the wall.
"That sounds good to me," he says, of getting comfortable. "Sera told me both of your Traditions back when she told me about Grant and asked me to speak with him. She said you both initially made contact with her."
Penelope Mars
Isolde lights up when she sees cookies; Pen, who is reserved, self-possessed, and clearly passionately invested in the present (Big Personalities), smiles; it touches her eyes. "I hope you like them." When Isolde disappears back into the kitchen, "Can I help?"
And if it seems like she can help, the next paragraph is a lie, because Pen will follow into the kitchen and make herself useful carrying milk and honey and tea or platters or what-the-heck ever she can.
Nick takes the couch. Pen sits on one of the folding chairs; kitty corner to the couch, leaving it or some other folding chair for the hosts. Her posture is languid; she rests her elbow on the back of her chair, simply being aware and attentive.
A cast of thousands
"I know I talked to her," Isolde called back, pokes her head back into the living room, "and yes, I would love help."
She meanders to the middle of the room, trying to get things together as best she could for guests. She has tea cups down, but no saucers. Isolde looks at Pen desperately as she gives a quick look up to the top shelf.
"Well," Angela said to Nick. She meanders over to one of the folding chairs and takes a seat comfortably there, "we had originally tried to contact Annie about all of this- the woman who runs the chantry in Morrison? If I understood Isolde correctly, she went to talk to Annie, ended up talking to Sera, and they made arrangements to come here.
"We would have loved for him to stay but... well... the powers that be in this city aren't very understanding."
"They would have used him as a scapegoat at the first opportunity," Isolde snorted from the kitchen.
It's not a large apartment, you see.
Nicholas Hyde
It's not a large apartment, which allows their hosts to banter back and forth and also keeps Pen within sight of Nick, which is as he prefers around strangers. If there ever were any hostilities, Pen is likely all standing between him and untimely death, save whatever clever trick he could produce on the spot.
"I've actually never met Annie," he says, and then falls quiet to listen to the rest of what the two of them have to say. He glances back, once, toward Isolde as she cuts in. "Sera told me you both didn't think you really had the means to keep him safe," he says. "He's doing all right, at this point. He's safe up in Sera's cabin. He and I have been talking pretty regularly."
A beat. "I'm not sure how involved you'd both like to stay with him at this point, but I'd like to have him released into my care once we've assured his safety from his father. It'll be easier for me to help him have a life he actually wants if he lives in the city."
Penelope Mars
The look of desperation is eloquent enough. Pen, who is taller than Isolde, goes on her tiptoes and brings down whatever is to be found there.
She has an ear on the conversation in the other room just as Isolde does and she says, "Pardon me, but safe from who or what? Which 'powers that be' do you mean? A scapegoat for what sort of thing?"
A cast of thousands
[Isolde: I. Am. Not. Angry]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 7) ( success x 1 )
A cast of thousands
"Evelyn Murray," Isolde all but spits. It's about as much as Angela can do to wince and stay completely impartial, or at least stay informative but the inhalation of breath and the careful tension says that they've had conversations about this.
"The heads of our current chantry, Evelyn and Landon, are pretty wary of outsiders. There was... an incident a couple years back that ended with our previous leaders, Melissa and James Ivy, dying in a technocratic ambush. It was before my time," she says apologetically, "but since then Evelyn and Landon have ben really wary of newcomers in the city. We have a few now and then- maybe more than our fair share, but they never seem to stay long."
"I just don't want to see a kid with as much riding against him as Grant did getting thrown under the bus, that's all," Isolde clarifies. She presses the pedal on the electric tea kettle. Down.
"We'd love to stay in contact if he wants to keep in touch," Angela replies.
Nicholas Hyde
[I'm sensing some layers here. Perception + Empathy.]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 2 ) [Doubling Tens]
A cast of thousands
Oh no. Evelyn is not a topic that Isolde likes. Nope. Nope nope.
Penelope Mars
[:D Do Iiii get to be more full of empathy here? -2 'coz eyesight and I'm lookin' at you IS-OL-DE.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (1, 3, 3, 3, 10) ( success x 1 )
Penelope Mars
[Damn it!]
Nicholas Hyde
[Oh Pen. You had your chance.]
Penelope Mars
[Pen: I'll have it again. :< ]
Nicholas Hyde
A few days ago, Grace told Nicholas about Evelyn too: he was drunk or well on his way to it, and drawing information out of Grace is a long process that requires untangling all the information she presents, but he knows enough to let it inform Isolde's reaction. There is a smooth arch to his brows which appears as Isolde says her name.
"He doesn't know very many people so he'd probably be happy to stay in contact with you," Nick says.
There is a look cast from his Traditionmate back toward the Chorister in the kitchen, a thoughtful thing. "Another Denverite told me you both have had some trouble with disappearing apprentices," he says. "Was that what your concern was for, regarding his safety?"
Penelope Mars
"Your current chantry?" Pen asks, with subtle (curious) emphasis on 'current.' Is there a refrigerator, and in that refrigerator, milk? Let us say there is. Is there a ubiquitous cow creamer? Perhaps; Pen handles the milk. It's the ballad thing to handle. "Do you mean to say you might leave it; or it is rather newer, built on the foundations of some other?"
That plus Nick's question re: apprentices is enough for now; Pen is attentive! She is so (ardently) attentive. Mr. Darcy has nothing on Penelope Mars.
A cast of thousands
"When Melissa and James went, most of the actual resources we have went with it," Angela clarifies.
Sure enough, there is cow creamer. Cow creamer and an actual glass bottle of milk. She probably bought it from an actual dairy farmer, too. Isolde Martinez doesn't seem to mess around when it comes to produce and dairy.
"Until we can figure out precisely what is doing it and why the newest of us are being picked off, we tried to keep people in different places. I have someone sleeping on my couch right now that apparently survived the shit show of an experience that was going on in Montana-"
"Wyoming?" Isolde called back, like she wasn't sure which it was.
"One of those. I get them mixed up. Big place, lots of space... anyway, since Grant and Lydiahave something in common we weren't sure if they should meet each other or if they should be in the same city... She asked about him, but..." Angela looked confused, uncertain. She gave a raise of her shoulders, eaches back to tighten her ponytail. "It's... I feel like I'm floudering. I don't know what to do for both of them at the same time so Isolde and I decided to figuratively divide and consquer."
She makes a face, knows it isn't the right word.
Nicholas Hyde
Nick watches the tea and milk as they emerge from the kitchen, glancing from time to time toward Angela as she speaks. "What happened with Lydia? If she knew about Grant, did they have some sort of connection to each other beforehand?"
He is biting the inside of his lower lip; a little divet has appeared there below where it swells. His gaze wanders out and back toward: the room, the picture of the Virgin, the kitchen. Wherever it goes. "Is there anyone else at the chantry who is doing much about the missing apprentices, or is it mainly just the two of you who seem concerned?"
Penelope Mars
Pen does not add anything after Nick's questions. Pen helps bring tea out, not for Nicholas, Isolde can give Nicholas his tea, but for herself and for Angela.
"Montana?" The state's name finds an echo; Pen's eyebrows have drawn together, sharp, but other than that implicit question (what the fuck happened in - Wyoming?), she doesn't pile any questions on top of Nicholas's, for now.
She drinks her tea with a tiny, tiny bit of sugar, and a tiny, tiny bit of milk; fortify.
A cast of thousands
"Lydia... there is- or rather, was, a video of Lydia floating around the internet of her awakening which, had she not done so, she would have been the next moneymaking star on the Mortis Cafe website," Angela says. Honest and direct and to-the-point, "she said that she had a few meals with a kid named Grant. She was worried about him."
"Grant said he had a few friends online, it turns out he and Lydia's boyfriend did a few hacking endeavors online together," Isolde shrugged and carried the cup over to Nick. It's a small cup with a smaller chip inlaid with gold across the rim. There are flowers in the cup, on the cup, flowers at the base inside like roses but not quite. Not real roses. Not real anything, those flowers.
Isolde takes a seat on the couch, doesn't prop her feet up there.
"Mostly, we're a two woman team. Since Angela and I are on the force we're the missing person's unit, usually... not that anyone really gives a care."
Nicholas Hyde
"Ah," Nick says, and up until now he had not known the name of the website. "Thank you," he says as he accepts the cup of tea from Isolde.
Nick then leans forward to take up a spoon so that he can add to his tea a liberal amount of sugar and milk. Not to the point of making it cloying, but: evident that he likes it sweeter than Pen does. "Now that I've talked to Grant more he seems a lot less interested in doing hacking-type stuff anymore," he offers.
"Gives a care? Have you not seen a lot of help?"
Penelope Mars
Pen listens, see, is a good listener, even, with her air of reserve, her self-possession: as if where ever she is, she is home; even though the world doesn't quite suit; she suits the world. See? Pen does sit in one of the folding chairs; fills out the square so they're as neat as red diamonds at the corners of a playing card.
"You said Melissa and James were killed in an attack made by the Union? Were Evelyn and Landon caballed with Melissa and James? Do either of you share Tradition with them?"
A cast of thousands
"Good," Isolde says, a little like an irritable mother, "that boy needs to go outside more. He's like a ghost, sunshine is a blessing. I was lucky to get him to come out on the porch, though."
"James was Isolde's mentor," the taller woman informs them, "his wife Melissa was an Ecstatic. It was James and Melissa in a cabal with a Hermetic named Odhrain along with Evelyn and Landon. They... it was a big divide in the city. Evelyn and Landon said it was Odhrain's fault-"
"But Odhrain wouldn't do that because I knew him and he wouldn't betray his cabal-" Isolde spoke quickly, exasperated at what seemed like a raw nerve. A fresh memory.
"Whatever the case, Evelyn and Landon had a lot of evidence on their side. Odhrain's gone, Evelyn and Landon are holding the city together now..."
Isolde took a moment after listening to what it was Angela said. They were both quiet for a moment. Both women measured but one of them visibly shaken, visibly passionate. It was Isolde, though, the chorister with the bright and devoted and final feeling about her that was so invested here.
"You have to understand, you have to- people? People have a lot of bias against the Chorus, the fact that James was able to lead the city at all was a big deal. In order to gain trust you have to be beyond reproach and... well, you get it-" she gestured to Pen, Penelope the Hermetic. Penelope who shared a tradition with the man who sounds like he got run out of town on a rail.
Nicholas Hyde
Nick furrows his brow as he listens. Part of the appeal of Denver to Nick has been that the community is smaller, more intimate, less structured than the one they left; in New England there had been a sprawling community and the Hermetics and Choristers had a tight hold on many of the chantries. This is the other side of having a small community: the divide, the infighting, the pick-your-sides.
"I understand that," he says to Isolde. "So it sounds like neither of you trust Evelyn and Landon very much, especially not after this happened."
Penelope Mars
"Odhrain, hmm? What was the rest of his name?"
A cast of thousands
[1-2-3: Tytalus, 4-5-6: Fortunae, 7-8-9: Bonisagus, 10: Flambeau)
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (10) ( success x 1 )
A cast of thousands
"My vote is still out on them," Angela informed Nick, "the data doesn't make her look good, but I don't have anything solid. You can't act on a feeling, especially when it could be wrong and you uproot a whole city."
Though, there was the question of Odhrain's name, and Isolde looks like she really has to think of it, "Odhrain Arthur Reinhardt, house Flambeau."
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