All of the things that shine

senobnaws
a saturday and Nick's wife is gone on mysterious errands and Nick is at his leisure to work in the garden dying now autumn not dying but preparing to be fallow there is a wild brown rabbit which nibbles and nibbles and Nick is at his leisure to go on errands there is a pop-up market not too far from their home hosted in the courtyard of a derelict building empty store fronts except for a church a smoke shop a record store with questionable hours and a breakfast place which seems to be rarely open but enjoys a bustling hipster surgence come sundays there's that nice courtyard with a little creek over stones and the pop-up market has all sorts of knick-knacks and then of course there's their perferred grocery store and a nearby park too the park is very nice and it has water and the water sings songs like come to me come to me come to me and the only thing which is certain besides death and taxes whoever said that didn't know but the third thing which is certain is that Nick's keys have been filched are missing not where he put them and though after a protracted search he'll find them sticking out of the garbage disposal.

crow
It's autumn now and so the time for gardening is drawing to a close.  Nick has just finished turning the compost heap, which has yet to produce any real compost but will by the spring.  He is pruning the mums and the ivy which has burst over the backyard, ground cover will hold the soil in place during the bitter winter and looks nice besides.  They're coming up on their first year here in the house, aren't they?

Nonetheless, he eventually finishes what he is doing in the garden and goes upstairs to shower and prepares to go on errands because maybe there's something he can find Pen in that little pop up market.  He is dressed and his hair drying by the time he begins looking for his keys, which are nowhere to be found.  Not for lack of looking: he searches the little keyhook by the front door first, and then he looks around the shoe rack in case they may have fallen.  He searches under the end table and in its drawers.  He searches his coat pockets even though he cannot recall having worn his jacket just yet.  He looks in their bedroom, rifles through the pockets of yesterday's pants and the soil-stained carpenter jeans he was wearing while working outside.  He flattens himself out on the floor and looks under their bed and finds only a lone dust bunny.

Eventually his search does indeed lead him to the kitchen, where the keys are: there, sticking out of the garbage disposal.  Nick blinks at them for a moment as he stands at the sink, and then reaches to grab the tip of one of the keys and flip them up into his hand.

crow
[Alertness?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )

senobnaws
and the key is cold when he pinches it between his fingers and as he flips them up into his hand it appears that somehow someway some mechanism some trick some uncanny knack of ill-luck the garbage disposal catches and turns on and grinds his key chain not the keys chomping it an unholy groan of a noise until look there's the switch for the garbage disposal still switched to off but a switch on and off again will turn the garbage disposal into silence and hush-a-bye and go on put your fingers in there Nick check to see if it's broken why don't you

crow
Check to see if it's broken.  Nick's face screws up in to displeasure, and later puzzlement, at the unholy scream of the disposal against his keychain and he is quick to flick the switch and shut it off on off again.  It must be broken.

Best not to stick his fingers in if it's catching; Nick crouches down and opens the cabinet below the sink and peers in at the underside of the disposal, at its motor, as though that would possibly tell him anything.

senobnaws
the motor looks very much like a motor and it does not turn on again at its own whim although there are bits of key chain fluff if nick's key chain was fluffy if it is metal there is nothing it is fine and it is good and he has his keys and the house is safe and silent and something is dripping upstairs drip drop drip-drip drop drop drip

crow
Nick's brow is furrowed as he inspects the underside; he had a metal keychain and so there is nothing, it appears to be fine.  He raises himself and winces as his knee pops, and he gives his leg a shake before -

oh.  There is a noise upstairs, something drip drip dripping.  The ridges and valleys across his forehead deepen, a tectonic shifting, as he pads his way up the stairs to go and investigate.

senobnaws
He will remember of course that time his wife fell asleep while reading and the entire hall was flooded; this is not that bad. But the drip drop, drip drip drip drop drop, drop drip, that sound it is coming from the bathroom, and when he looks inside he will see the sink is full of silver-light water so full that the water trembles above the edge of the sink and each drop sends another two or three or four-five-six drops splishing over the side running to the floor where there s another tiny puddle and it seems as if the faucet just wasn't turned off enough and then look somebody pulled the tab so the sink wouldn't drain oops.

crow
There are tiny puddles and there is a noise of dismay from him, here; Pen is not home to banish all the water away.  He doesn't know how the sink got clogged; he is too dismayed at first to do anything but question how the hell two things could go wrong at once.  Terrible luck, isn't it?

Even for magi sometimes the mundane is so ingrained in them, is so human, that they don't examine such things straightaway.  Instead he only strides over to the sink and lifts up the tab so that the sink will drain all the water away before it becomes a flood.

senobnaws
There is a truly terrifying slurp as the drain is lifted as it gapes a vortex mouth slurps on the water a drowning gasp sound and if Nick doesn't hold the tab the entire time the drain will keep closing so nothing drains but turning off the faucet would stop the drip for now anyway and where did Nick put his keys is he still holding them are they in his pocket they are not in his pocket where are they?

crow
Nick doesn't think to turn off the tap just yet; after a moment he does, after he realizes the tab is sliding closed again.  He turns the faucet off; he holds the tab closed long enough to allow the water to drain.  His keys are in his pocket except - where are they?  Once the sink has closed and he reaches for them he realizes they are gone.

He breathes a curse and there is still damp on his fingers and he is standing in water and so it is easy because this is a gate a door:

[Spirit 1, diff 4, -1 for instrument.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (3, 4, 9) ( success x 3 )

senobnaws
Nick on a gate at a door Nick on a threshold Nick in the water river-dark Banshee's young gentleman Nick looks through and sideways and he can still see the bathroom but the bathroom has that cast it gets when he is looking at the spirit world (one day he'll show it to Pen, right?) that lick of vibrance here and there while other things are faded and more wan especially in a building and sometimes there are eerie shades those who should be gone and utterly gone wheeled away and sometimes there are mischievous spirits gamboling interesting grotesqueries phantasms and right now the room Nick is in it is empty, it is utterly empty, right maybe right?

crow
[Alertness?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 7, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

crow
Right now the room appears to be utterly empty.  There is an uneasiness that stirs in his stomach as he slides his hand again into his pocket, balls it up around what should be his keys but there are no keys there.  He looks around the bathroom, which because it is their home always carries a certain vibrance for him, looks brighter, the towels fluffier and the shower curtain carries a certain romantic gauziness, a glow.  It is not an eerie place to him, and nevertheless he cannot help but feel very alone just now.

senobnaws
There are things he notices, sharp-eyed, bright-eyed, he notices three shadows bird-shadows winged-shadows that are not in themselves a spirit but an echo echo of presence and intention slipping still slow and delayed out of the room across his shoes the tiles the water and one of them has something dangling they might be keys and he can hear this human sound, this childish laughter, this laughter that might be mistaken for a child's, coming from: oh, somewhere - downstairs; downstairs, he thinks, then no: the bed room.

crow
He notices: bird-shadows, dark wings, and his uneasiness carries down into his legs which stir him away from the water.  They carry him to the bedroom, and he is reaching beneath his shirt out of habit and finding that he left his bags in their bedroom as he often does when he is only running to the store or otherwise about some non-magick business.  He is not Pen, who carries her weapons on her.

"Hello?"

senobnaws
[stealthy stealth]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )

crow
[Alertness!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

senobnaws
he definitely sees the stealthsome creature which is creeping up on him he sees its winged shadows whisking eddying around his feet like leaves pale flags he sees also the mischief they have done unlatching one of the curtains the pole looks like it will crash should anyone tweak the curtains which are askew and it would indeed fall if anybody did do that fall right on their head and the creature well this is what it looks like a handsome man's face where a bird's face should be the handsome man's face being somewhat grecian clay figure fine in mien and nick might recognize his own eyebrows and its body is that of a mockingbird iridescent blue feathers and darkness and a star at its breast and instead of clawed talons it is walking on human arms and around the left is a little bracelet of something resembling coke tabs and its wings are very long and very pretty and it is stealthily creeping up on him walking on those hands about to launch itself and fly at his hair as it leaves the room entirely it does not think it can be seen he does not think he can be seen

crow
Nick does recognize his own eyebrows in this creature of air and darkness, sees something of himself in the sweep of its wings.  His mouth is a thin line as he notices the curtains, and he lets out a hard sigh through his nostrils.  And the creature does not think it can be seen.  He is frustrated and weary enough from the disposal and the sink to nearly call after it, to let it know that he knows it's there; at the last moment he bites his tongue.

Rather than follow it right away, Nick walks down the stairs; he opens the garage and reaches in to retrieve a watering can.  As he closes the door, he listens.

senobnaws
He can hear that same sound; distant, muted laughing - this time it is coming from the kitchen again; it is followed by the sound of the garbage disposal, catching on something metal, like keys.

crow
It is laughing and he can hear that his keys have probably gone back down into the garbage disposal; perhaps it is inclined to repeat its tricks.  Nick wanders into the half bathroom downstairs and begins to fill the watering can, glancing out every now and again toward the kitchen.

senobnaws
The garbage disposal gives one truly terrible grind-sound of suffering and then noise stops; this probably means the garbage disposal is broken.

The spirit does not reappear, and the laughter has faded. There is another little spirit in the shadow corner of the house: something like a snail, but not; instead of a snail's tail it has a spider's many-segmented legs and it pushes itself forward in quick bursts, rolls over, explodes into a little spray of fur and runs out away from the light and the water.

crow
The laughter has faded, and Nick's brows are one long line so tightly are they pulled together as he steps into the kitchen to look at the poor garbage disposal.  There is a full watering can in his hand, and he cannot tell where the thing has gone cannot tell what else it was in the house.  He glances down into the disposal to see if he can tell where his keys have gone.

senobnaws
His keys are down, caught up and mangled in the blades; he can certainly see the glint of them. There is no spirit. The kitchen is empty. There is no drip drip, drop drip, drip drip drip drop drip-drip drop. There is no laughter; there is only silence; the weight of the watering can in his hand. Maybe there is a drip, drop; but it only comes from the can itself.

crow
There are a few spare drips from the can, though they fell on the floorboards on the pathway from the bathroom to here; Nick glances 'round the kitchen.  And he sees nothing.

There is a sigh and then he sets the watering can down on the kitchen counter and retrieves a pair of tongs from one of the drawers.  He leans down over the disposal, and he can see the glint of his keys there.  He reaches down into the disposal for them, passing the tongs close to the blades almost gingerly.

senobnaws
The keys are, unfortunately, quite caught in the mangle of blades, and do not seem to want to pull free with any ease; it is an arduous, fifteen-or-so minute piece of work to get them out just using tongs, but it is possible. They do not look great, the keys, but they are still keys; they hold their essential shape.

crow
The keys are still keys, though it is somewhat likely that he will have to get them remade: keys are delicate things, see, and a burr where there isn't supposed to be a burr, an errant nick, can make them much harder to turn in the lock.  He has to work and wiggle them about to free them from the disposal, and as he holds them up he lets out a little sigh and tucks them back into his pocket.

Nick leans against the counter and watches, and listens.  Perhaps it's gone.

crow
[Are you gone, spirit?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

senobnaws
He is alone in the kitchen.

It is possible the spirit, having had its fun, having laid its pranks, having messed up this and that, has had enough and has flitted elsewhere; it is also possible it is in another room, waiting, sleeping: when something like this decides to take residence, it can be difficult to uproot.

crow
It can indeed be difficult to uproot, and he has no idea what might have drawn it here.  Nick sighs and wanders back up toward their bedroom so that he can fix the curtains, before Pen ends up bringing the rod down on her head later tonight.  He texts his wife as he ascends the staircase:

New friend in the house, pulling some pranks.  Text when you get home before you come in.

senobnaws
But does he look where he's going as he ascends the staircase? There is a sense of air currents, moving; a sense, too, a back-of-throat tickle an impending cold a sense of what is it: some Thing. There is no other sign of the spirit; there is, however, one of Pen's necklaces on the floor, a glittering bit of dazzle, easy to trip on; go falling, head-long, heedless.

Pen texts back:

?

Bad friend?

Do you need me to come home?

crow
[Do I notice it?  +1, distracted.]

Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 3, 5, 8) ( success x 1 )

crow
Pen's necklace, with its dazzling workmanship, is on the stair and it would be easy to trip, to have it roll underfoot and send him pitching back down the stairs from whence he came.  It is only the stirring air currents that draw Nick's eyes away from his phone and to the necklace.  He stops, and he lowers his phone and for a moment absorbs this, what's in front of him.

Then he leans down and carefully hooks the necklace through a finger and lifts it off the ground, carrying it with him back upstairs.  When he texts Pen back he stops and leans against the wall in order to do so.

Not a good friend.  Not sure if it's bad necessarily.  I'm okay.

senobnaws
There's a wire loose in the necklace; if he is not careful, it will prick him; draw blood. The wire has never been loose before; Nicholas has taken this necklace from Pen's neck before; has clasped it, too; it knows his hand. This is the first time it has betrayed it.

Once again there is no sign of the spirit. Perhaps that was its last mischief, truly: that necklace, left as it went on its way - elsewhere? Or nearby.

Pen's text reads:

Should I come home?

crow
Nick is not easily fooled into thinking it is gone; he has to hold the necklace carefully, and after a moment moves the necklace around so that he will be less likely to snag his skin on the wire.  He texts back one-handed, tapping out buttons with his thumb.

Maybe.  You won't be able to see it though.

senobnaws
Her text is concise:

Ugh.

And there is no sound from below, no sudden re-animation of the garbage disposal, no garage door opening, no regular door slamming, no flood from a faucet, no car turned on. Only the usual house sounds.

And wind outside, wind howling: hard.

crow
Nick's return text, too, is concise: a frowning emoji.  And then he tucks his phone away in his pocket because the house is gone quiet again, without any sound other than the occasional creak of floorboards or the shifting of an old house as it settles.

Save the wind.  And now he is not really planning to go out on his errands, after all.  The day's plans have changed.  He isn't even really sure precisely what it is he's dealing with, yet.

senobnaws
He has seen it; that's something. He's seen it and he's seen its shadows and he knows that it can manipulate things on this side of the gauntlet; he does not know where it is. How pleasant their house is; it has a certain smell, their house, in autumn; when his wife goes on cooking baking binges of lonely homesickness; it has a smell, anyway; outside one of the neighbors honks very rudely which must mean both sets of neighbors happened to want to go somewhere at the same time.

crow
He has seen the Irvings and the Kidds both at the end of their respective driveways, honking at each other when they are each trying to turn in a separate direction.  Old roads are often also narrow ones.  Nick likes the Irvings and he likes the Kidds; he likes them both separately.  Very much separately.

Nick walks to the spare bedroom which overlooks the front of the house and glances out the window, expecting to see the wind tearing at the branches and also Paul Irving's mustache bristling in range.  He pauses with a hand on the windowsill and peers out.  The necklace he still keeps hanging from a finger, as it has not yet occurred to him to walk into their bedroom to put it away again.

senobnaws
the necklace glimmers and gleams, luminous and milky in its radiance, and outside the wind is bending trees back has sent a sign or three skidding across the cul de sac it has sent a wash of brown leaves ragged leaves whisking through the gutters it is making wind chimes clamor one against the other it is

well outside nicholas can see a shadow a shade a ghost a mourning woman a woman all in white faceless with three little shadows clustered at her ankles a matryoshka line of possible children and each of them bearing some hideous mark one with a noose the other dripping blood which doesn't ever pool in a larger pool than just behind its ankle the other one leaving ash soot flecks of it as if it were burned the other trailing water and a final one difficult to tell it seems sleepy maybe drifting and the mourning woman tall tall tall she has blood drenching her robes wet and they are walking and walking and of course nobody sees them and what else can he see he can see a frog spirit bright eyed and cold somnolent autumn's coming and frog song is at its peak and he can see little moth spirits white diaphanous coming together creating a shape the shape might almost be a rune he can see the spirit of a house that was burned down superimposed over another house and he can see raven hanging out further down the road because raven hangs out quite often doesn't he and

of course the irvings and the kidds peeling away and he can see a dog with a leash running away from its owner its owner being a ten year old kid who is chasing the dog down while his parents stroll behind unconcerned in spite of the traffic

crow
Nicholas can see a mourning woman of the sort that would have left him wide-eyed and nightmarish during his first few months awake, the first few months when he kept his visions to himself.  These were the things that sent him chasing after anti-psychotics, after alcohol, and in his darker moments after a noose; in the end he took none of them, but he thought about them more than he likes to think about now.

Nick can see a lot of things when he looks out the window.  He breathes out, a slow exhale, and then begins to walk back to his study.  Midway his feet carry him to their bedroom instead so that he can set the necklace there on the dresser, each of the stones arrayed out like dewdrops.

He moves to his study next, and he kicks up the corner of the rug that lies over the ring scribed in the wood below: and of course without any idea of what the creature is it will be difficult to call to it, won't it?  Far more difficult to summon it.  He could ask Raven, he could, and he might pay for the answer even if they are friends.  He lights candles with a long wick.  It will grow dark soon enough and and inside his study it looks like a temple, like a churchyard.

crow
[Spirit 1 + Corr 2 - can we find our friend anywhere around the house that I can't see?  Base diff 5, -1 for instrument, -1 taking time.  WP.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (7, 8, 8) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

senobnaws
He can find the mockingbird with a man's Grecian face a man's muscled arms instead of talons he can find it indeed nestled in Pen's jewelry box one of her jewelry boxes folded up with his three shadows under a pall a mystery a secret no spirit here not doing anything nope but of course Nick is a magick-wielder he can find it he finds it he sees it.

crow
He can find the spirit there; unfortunately, figuring out what to do with the spirit once it is there is more difficult.  There is no way to trap it, see: he lacks the knowledge of how to do such a thing, how to bind pattern to circle so that nothing can move through.  He lacks the knowledge of how to target this creature specifically.

He could ask another spirit to eat it.  More bargains, more borrowing.  He discards the idea as he moves back toward the bedroom and leans on the dresser next to the jewelry box.  "Hello there."

crow
[Charisma + Empathy?  Trying not to spook you, yo.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )

senobnaws
the creature goes very still when it becomes evident that nick can see it is seeing it and look it cranes its head up his head up stares at nick but just in case doesn't move maybe nick is just testing the silence sometimes humans do that sometimes even shamans do that and it is funny it doesn't mean anything anyway nick finds himself examined, sharply, shrewdly, though its eyes wander to the glittering necklace

crow
Nick can see its eyes wandering to the necklace; Nick's hand moves in that direction too, and he hooks it again around his finger (carefully, see; he remembers the barb.)  "If you're going to wear peoples' necklaces you ought to put them back where you found them," Nick tells it.  The stones glint in the light of the bedroom; now the smell of warm beeswax is beginning to join the other smells mingling in the house.

senobnaws
"you can see me so you must give me your eyes," the spirit says, testingly, because it wants to see whether nick can hear it too; it lifts itself flies up and flies closer and closer to his face and it doesn't have a beak with that man's face instead but a man's mouth can still bite out an eye

crow
Nick is quick to draw his face back, and most of his body in fact, and so the necklace recoils along with him too.  "It seems maybe you ought to just get better at hiding," he says.  "What will you give me, for the use of my home?"

senobnaws
"I won't eat your eyes when you are sleeping," the spirit says, tries. It circles Nick's head once, and twice, and three times, and its three bird-winged shadows lazily follow; then it flits behind him and lands atop the tall mirror Pen sometimes draws out and looks down at Nicholas.

crow
"I would hope not.  You've already been a very poor mannered guest," Nick says, gesturing with the hand that is holding the necklace.  "Why should you want my eyes?"

senobnaws
"Because they see me," the spirit says. "Maybe you are the guest. This is my home now, and these things are going to be mine. I will have them all."

crow
"Mmm," Nick says, and his eyes sweep up to the spirit perched on top of the mirror with something akin to amusement.  "And how are you going to accomplish that?"

senobnaws
"I'm going to nest in them, and frustrate you, and when enough things go wrong you witches will move and I will have everything," the spirit explains, patiently.

crow
"Do you not have a house of your own, that you should want mine?"  Nick, too, seems patient; innocent, even.  "Are you not concerned that we might be dangerous to you?"

senobnaws
"Things are less dangerous when I take their eyes out," the spirit says, feathers fluffing up and out, and see, its fingers tighten on the mirror. A crack does not quite appear, but there's a sound which resonates on both sides of the gauntlet of some thing bending. "I will take yours out and hers and you will not be dangerous. I will have this house."

crow
"I may still be dangerous without my eyes," Nick says.  "She and I are both witches, like you said.  Raven is nearby, and Owl.  I could ask them to take your wings and give them to me as payment for my eyes, even if I were blind.  Wouldn't you rather have a house that was less dangerous for you?"

senobnaws
"I would take your tongue, too," the spirit says. "I would take your tongue and leave its meat in your eye holes, and then you would talk when you tried to see," and it cracks up, highly amused by this image.

crow
The spirit cracks up and Nick, despite the stomach churning image, cannot help but smile because he shares mirth with other things.  "That doesn't sound like it would be very helpful in making me less threatening.  But we don't need our eyes.  I knew you were here, without my eyes.  I could trap you in a box, or if you took everything from us maybe our skins could come and find you while you rested.  They could wrap around you and make you soft and human.  I don't know what you would do then."

senobnaws
"I'd eat your skins," it says, and clicks its teeth together, soft. "But you want to make a deal with me, I can tell you do. You want me to go away and have nothing."

crow
"I want you to go away and leave my house in peace, yes," Nick says.  "But I don't see a reason why we couldn't find you another house instead."

senobnaws
"I want this house."

crow
"What would it take for you to want a different house, then?"

senobnaws
"This house to be less what I want," the spirit says, and it laughs again. "Or you could give me something better than a house."

crow
"What would be better to you than a house?"

senobnaws
It yawns; it yawns very big. "I can't tell you everything. You either know or you don't and I stay forever and I get all of the things that shine and all of the fire too; it is all mine."

crow
Nick sighs and pulls his phone back out of his pocket: and here, taps out another text to Pen.

It's not leaving.  It says it wants the house.

"I suppose we'll just have to live here with you, then," he says.

senobnaws
"Eventually you will leave," the spirit says, confidently, although with an air of melancholy. "They all leave. Do you agree if you don't know I stay forever and get all of the things that shine and all of the fire too that it is all mine?"

crow
"I don't agree," Nick says.  "But it sounds like you've been in other houses before, so how can you stay forever?"

crow
[Wits + Alertness]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 10) ( success x 1 )

senobnaws
His phone vibrates or buzzes or dings. Pen's response: Too bad. :(

The spirit, meanwhile, takes this moment to go slicing through the air, tearing through it right at Nicholas's head. If he thinks it is going to crash into him, he would be forgiven; it does not crash into him. It veers past and flies into another room, its three shadows weaving together.

"Forever will tell us when we get there," it says, over its wing. Now it is preening on one of the light fixtures. "Do you agree you must give me a house of things I ask for if you keep your eyes?"

crow
For a moment Nick does think that the spirit will crash into him; he swings his head away and to the side, out of its path.  It is too much like the Owl that tried to claw at him once, might have done him harm if it hadn't been weaker than he.  "That depends on what you ask for," Nick says, once he has turned to face it once more.  "I think if you meant to take my eyes, you might have taken them already."

senobnaws
"Then I can take them?"

Nick
"You may not."  Nick folds his arms, watching the spirit preen from where it roosts.  Then he glances back down to his phone.

Heard of a creature with a man's head and a bird's body?  Hands and arms instead of claws?

senobnaws
"I don't want a different house; offer me something better."

The phone rings, or whatever ring tone Nick has set for Pen sings out, in Nick's hand. The sound of it startles the spirit creature; he looks sharp and intent toward the phone, serene mask, unreal.

Nick
His eyes on the spirit, Nick answers the phone.  "Hello?"  A beat.  "Our friend is here with me."

senobnaws
He's probably very smart to keep his eyes on the spirit. The spirit begins to creep closer. Its three-shadow birds sift up, a sound like autumn leaves re-settling.

"Is it doing anything dangerous to you, or to the house? I could certainly list off incidences of bird-creatures with human characteristics, but I'm not certain how helpful that would be. Perhaps you should take a trip to the ranch house?"

Nick
"It wants to drive us out," Nick says, and as the spirit begins to creep closer he takes a step back.  "It's been playing malicious pranks and threatening me a lot."

senobnaws
The spirit's eyes brighten up, like silver coins given a good polish. They have a malicious glint.

"I see. Can it do that much?"

Nick
[Wits + Alertness]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

Nick
"I'm not sure, and I'm not sure if I want to find out," Nick says, and with another half a step back now that he has noticed the glint in the creature's eyes.

senobnaws
The creature rushes Nicholas: wings out-stretched, lovely; dripping iridescence which shivers in the air after it like a strange photo-realistic effect, a flaw in the computing software -

[Dex + Brawl. Not that it can, like, touch him, but still.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 6, 6, 6) ( success x 3 )

senobnaws
[Shadow 1]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 10, 10) ( success x 2 )

senobnaws
[Shadow 2]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 7) ( success x 2 )

senobnaws
[Shadow 3]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )

senobnaws
And for Nick, it looks like all three birdish shadows are clawing at his legs, too, are clambering up his skin and enfolding him, though one of the shadows doesn't seem to be able to get any blows in.

Nick
From the other side of the phone Pen can hear a sharp oath, faint as Nick jerks the phone away from his face and flails his arms to jump away and to the side.  It takes him a moment to realize that the shadows are not doing him harm, that they are climbing up and over him.  He is sure Pen can hear his heart hammering when he finally lifts his phone back to his face.  "I don't think it can come across the Veil," he tells her.  His voice is a little reedy, still.

senobnaws
"What are you going to do?" Pen asks.

The spirit: is no longer in evidence. It whooshed through him, its shadows clawed at him, and then they went that-a-way.

Nick
"I'm not sure," Nick says, twisting his head this way and that to try to tell where the spirit has gone.  "It keeps telling me to offer it something it'll like more than the house."  He takes a tentative step toward the door, then a few more and peers out into the hallway.

senobnaws
"Ah. It wants a bribe; can you catch it and take it elsewhere?"

The spirit is not in the hallway. There is a gurgling sound coming from downstairs, from the kitchen.

Nick
"Probably not," Nick says, though there is a note of doubt there.  "I thought about trying to trap it in something, but I don't really have the strength to bind it."  He starts down the stairs, back to the kitchen.  "Unless I were to try to trap it, physically speaking, which I could do, but that might be kind of dangerous."

senobnaws
"So your options are to physically trap it, but that might be dangerous, to offer it a bribe to leave, to ignore it and hope it goes away, or to find the nearest library and see if you can't find what it is. What - "

And then! His phone beeps, its battery suddenly drained. Hark, is that a bird shadow? It is indeed.

Nick
Nick hadn't been aware of how low the battery was, and he hisses in annoyance and lowers the phone away just to - ah.  He spies the shadow there, and slips the phone back into his pocket.  Then he makes his way the rest of the way down to the kitchen.

senobnaws
All is as it should be in the kitchen, all is as he has left it.

Except the faucet is on, and the drain is plugged up.

Glug, glug. Can he spy the spirit?

Nick
Nick looks for the spirit, peers down into the sink as he steps over to it to turn off the faucet.  The furrow at his brows is a sign that his good humor is beginning to evaporate.

[Wits + Alertness]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )

senobnaws
Twisting the faucet's knob does not seem to have a noticeable effect on the water pouring from the faucet. The sink is slowly filling, and the spirit: he can see its reflection in some of the glass containers of rice and grain etcetera they have out; he can see its reflection in the coffee press. There it is: wedged by a cookie jar, watching with its eyes half-lidded, and small: smaller than it has seemed before. He might wonder if this is a second one.

Nick
Nick does indeed wonder if this is a second one, as he glances at it wedged in there by the cookie jar.  "All right," he finally says, "what do you want in order to leave?"

senobnaws
"Your heart on Tuesdays," it says, helpfully, "and a bowl of new cream every day that no leaf ever touches and a handful of gold."

Nick
"I would be happy to give you a bowl of cream every day," he says.  "I will not give you my heart, now or on Tuesdays.  Do you want gold coins?"

senobnaws
"I want gold." The spirit sounds petulant. "I want all the gold in the sun and all the silver in your hair. I want the gold in the other witch's hair. I want hearts. What will you give me besides a bowl of cream?"

Nick
"If we can give you a necklace of gold spun fine as hair to wear around your neck and keep with you, and a bowl of cream, will you agree to leave our house and not return?"

senobnaws
"No. I will leave for one moon for those things. More. Another thing. Three."

Nick
Nick pauses, and the point between his brows reappears as he looks back at the creature.  "I can tell you a story of whatever kind you desire, each moon, until I've found a suitable new home for you," he says.

senobnaws
"Plus the cream, plus the necklace, and I say what is suitable?" the spirit says, and see, look at its avaricious little eyes, how bright they are; how perfect is the curl of its lip, clearly pleased at pulling one over on this sucker.

Nick
"I will find a home for you and we will both agree on whether it is suitable.  And you will not return to this house so long as she or I lay claim to it."

senobnaws
"Plus the cream and the necklace," the spirit insists, bright-eyed.

crow
The spirit's tone, its hopefulness, gives rise to a little smile in spite of Nick's frustration with the creature.  "All right," he says.  "So you'll leave the house now never to return while she and I hold it, and I will leave a bowl of cream for you daily.  In addition we will leave a necklace out for you with the cream before the moon is out.  Each moon I will tell you a story of whatever kind you desire until I have found a new home for you, and both of us will decide upon its suitability together."

senobnaws
"No you will find a home we both agree and then I will leave this house. Where will I go without a home?" And see its feathers go floof, fluff, flister, and it scowls at him like a little Caesar.

crow
"Where were you before you came here?"  It is scowling at him, and his smile is suppressed now, thin.  "If you don't agree to leave today I will agree to nothing."

senobnaws
"If you agree to nothing, I will break your pipes and steal fire," the spirit says, scowling even further. "I was in a nest before I was here. I was there. There."

crow
"So you left your nest and came straight to my house?  What brought you to my house?"

senobnaws
"My wings."

crow
"If you don't tell me what kind of house you would find to be suitable, how am I to look?"

senobnaws
"I want it to be bright and have breaking things that make noise, and people's hair to steal."

crow
Nick makes a noise low in his throat.  "What if I could get you into the metal and glass tower near the river?"

senobnaws
"I can get into metal and glass towers by rivers without you. I am bored. I like this house."

crow
"It's full of people there who wouldn't know to expect you, though," he says.  "And full of vials you could shatter, and computers and pipes and lab equipment.  It's much larger than this house."

senobnaws
"Lab equipment is boring. Why do you want me to go to the glass tower? Is it a trap?" And see, the spirit narrows its eyes, suspiciously, and picks up one hand balancing more precariously on the other and it picks at itself, scratching in a manner that is vaguely although unintentionally obscene.

crow
"I don't think I'm clever enough to trap you," Nick says.  "You've almost gotten me a few times now.  I thought it might be a place where you could have a lot of fun, since we probably won't fall for your tricks here.  We both know how to find you now."

crow
[Manipulation + Expression]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

senobnaws
"You fell for many of them," it says, in a lofty and imperious tone. "Where is your flat electronic computer now?" And it smiles, and Caligula must have looked sweet, sometimes, and so does the spirit, and it ruffles its feathers again and says, "Okay well I can go test the home but if I don't like it I'm coming back."

crow
"All right," Nick says, and leans his hip against the counter as he watches that sweet smile and perhaps he feels a little sorry for the Union members he has just loosed the thing on.  Then again: they took Alex, and they tortured him, so he doesn't feel that sorry.  "I'll be here."

senobnaws
"I will probably not like it. And I will come back for my cream. I will go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and get lots of cream," and the spirit: dive-bombs right for Nicholas, making a bird-screech of a sound: ca-caw -

[an intimidation roll for the road!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 5, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )

crow
Perhaps to its satisfaction, Nicholas cannot keep himself from trying to duck away from it as it dives toward him, even if he knows that it cannot touch him.  It leaves him with a furrowed brow, annoyed and wondering why he cannot sometimes be more like his wife.

senobnaws
And so the spirit leaves, for now. But not without circling back one more time with Nick's keys, which it drops back in the garbage disposal. How does it leave the house? With aplomb, and a promise to return.

His phone has trouble holding a charge for the rest of the day and seems to need to be plugged in to work at all.

crow
It leaves, for now.  Nick sighs and has to use the tongs to retrieve his keys back out of the disposal, and then he fixes the mesh strainer firmly in place.  At least they don't have kids: such pranks could have been decidedly more dangerous.

And for the rest of the day he leaves his phone plugged in, and he waits, trying all the while not to seem too anxious.

The greatest lie

Nick
[Stamina?]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (4, 4, 9) ( success x 1 )

Nick
Pen asked him for a wonder of breakfasts, a culinary delight.

Pen also asked him to get up before she usually gets up to make it.

Last night he stayed up with her later than he usually does, at first reading and then tucking himself in close to hold her while she fell asleep.  His eyelids grew heavy while he waited; he kept himself awake only by imagining skin monsters and any number of horrors Pen has described to him following one of her nightmares.

He leaves their bed long after Pen has fallen asleep so that he can read for a while in order to keep himself awake.

Somehow, he keeps himself awake.

It is almost three when he sneaks down to the kitchen, setting his feet carefully in spite of the fact that they are soundless.  Habits gained in childhood and adolescence die hard.

And so it is that when Pen wakes howeverlong later, before the dawn, she will find his spot in bed empty and cold, without any lingering warmth from his body that might indicate he had just risen.  There is a smell permeating the house, buttery and warm.

Pen
This is how Pen wakes. At once, and with only a change to her breathing to indicate that slumber has given her up; then her eyes open, and she props herself up on one elbow. Nicholas's side of the bed (there are no true sides, with how willing to sprawl and entangle Penelope is) is empty and grave-cold and Pen smooths her hand over his usual spot. Then she rolls over to her other side and closes her eyes again. It is only one moment. Pen is not by nature a morning person, though through determination she has made it so. Pen cuddles into her pillow in lieu of Nicholas and then she opens her eyes again and rises.

When she comes down the stairs, it is in a pale pink satin robe, unbelted, and beneath the robe a pair of lacy briefs she went to bed with, naught else, and her face glowing with that just-washed radiance only a just-washed face can have. The only jewelry is a ring on her left finger, and when she finds Nick she peers at him from behind the tangle of her bright hair. Her bangs are still doing strange things.

Nick
When Pen looks, she will find Nick in the kitchen.  If she had come around the corner and into the dining room first she would have seen plates laid out, with silverware to the side and small cocktail glasses accompanying.  The light was left dim; outside it is still dark.

Her husband is at the counter and taking two grapefruit halves from a pan, carefully gripping them between thumb and forefinger as he does and setting them down rather quickly.  They appear to have been broiled; atop them is a broiled dusting of cinnamon sugar.

Nick glances over his shoulder at her, and as he makes eye contact she can see his eyes are a little bleary and red.  It's to be expected, perhaps, if he woke up this early.  "Good morning," he says, even though it does not feel like a good morning to him: and there is an affectionate curl of a smile as he takes in her bangs, twisted off to the side.  "Go sit down.  I'll be in in a minute."

Pen
Penelope gazes at Nicholas for a moment; she presses her cheek against the side of the door, for she stopped there, in order to give the whole of the kitchen this sweeping look - clarity might break its heart before that look; it might fall before; and then as she gazes there's this spark-flick of a smile, more in the eyes than on the mouth, and she drifts away from the kitchen and takes in the dining room table with its unusual formality, dishes set, cocktail glasses accompanying, and she takes a candle beeswax it was once an owl but its head has melted away into the feathers takes this candle down from one of the bookshelves and lights it with a match and sets the candle near where she takes a seat and she doesn't yet speak a word. When Nick does check in the dining room, Pen has taken down a small clothbound book from a shelf and is reading a page.

Nick
Nicholas does not take long to wander into the dining room, with its unusually formal setup.  He cannot suppress a flicker of a smile when he sees the owl perched there between the plates, with a bright column of flame in place of its head.  Nick is carrying a small tray, on which he has the grapefruit and a small pitcher full of what looks like (is) mimosa, and a large plate.

Once arranged carefully on the plate (though less artfully than he might have liked), breakfast turns out to be poached egg, slivers of parmesan, and prosciutto and a biscuit, accompanied by slices of tomato and of course the grapefruit.  Nick leans down to kiss the top of her head before he seats himself.  "Good enough for a victory breakfast?"

Pen
He sets the tray down and Pen lets her hands and the book fall gently to her lap, one finger holding her place, her chin lofted as she looks over the spread; when Nick kisses the top of her head, she reaches up to catch him there, an arm (Medea [mythic], lake-lady) loose around his neck; tilts her head back, lets it fall, for a kiss on the mouth.

"Did you sleep at all?" Her tone is conspiratorial; so is the look in her eyes.

Nick
Perhaps Nick had been intending to deny having stayed up all night: even if he were so inclined, Pen is sharp enough to notice that he is still wearing yesterday's grey pants and light sweater.  He didn't even think to change before rising back out of bed last night to find ways to keep himself awake.

When he draws back after kissing her he lingers there for a moment with his hand cupped around her shoulder, and there is a returning glint of conspiracy.  "How would I have been down here to make you breakfast, if I'd slept?"  He circles around behind her chair so that he can take his seat across from her.  His smile is tinged with rue, now.  "I don't think today is going to be the day that I also go running with you."

Pen
"Of course it isn't," Pen says, looking (bemused, musing) down at the food. Her profile is a cameo's, a Renaissance lady's; her hair is still a hopeless tangle and it falls across her cheek when she takes her hand from her lap and rests her elbow on the table, her chin on her fist, cants her head. Beat. "That was another prize. This one included -- mm," and she curls her tongue behind her teeth. "What was it?" Opens her fist so she can stroke her chin, her jaw, her throat, one long fluid gesture. "It was something about lying, no? About the best lie. Nicholas, this does all look like a fine feast. Let's hope one bite doesn't strike me with yearning for this to be a habit, hmm?" Mischief, again.

Nick
He likes to watch her profile, likes to imagine her against a backdrop, a splash of lake and light or perhaps reinterpret her image as stained glass.  He is watching her now as she lets her jaw rest on her fist, though his reddened eyes and glazed expression could give the impression that he is staring at her simply for lack of anything better to stare at.  It would be the wrong impression, but.

She mentions a story about the best lie, and there is a little grin that appears, a caught-out thing, as he splashes drink into both his glass and Pen's and then reaches for his fork.  "Maybe I haven't told any big lies to tell you."  He, too, is mischievous, though his smile wavers as she mentions yearning to habit.  "We can make it a daylight-hours habit," he says.

Pen
Pen laughs, softly. The sound is a clot of candle smoke, a suggestion of brightness somewhere. "Daylight hours are still mine before they are yours," and this, this is a tease, and Pen leans forward and her robe gapes and the rose-pink of it gleams like the edge of a (strawberry) moon, luminous where the candle's light dredges such limned edges out; when she leans forward she also scoots her chair back so her naked collar is touching the table's edge and she can reach and reach for Nick's hand; cover it with hers; squeeze. Her hair threatens to trail through her plate, but she saves it with her other hand, drawing it over her head and exposing the side of her neck when she twists the ruddy mass of it; then she straightens; scoots the chair in; lifts her glass and takes a happy sip of it, eyes drifting closed as she does, and then fork: to dig in. "And that does not count as a big lie, Nicholai; it must be - shoot what must it be? Give me a moment; I'll remember."

This is what it's like when Pen is not wholly awake; she must have slept very deeply last night indeed not to be ready as soon as she pushes herself out of bed. She hums with pleasure after she takes a bite of the poached egg, hums deep in her throat, thrums, and then, "We need too to decide how to decide where we're going that is new." Firm.

Nick
She does not have to reach far; as she leans forward and her hand extends for his he scoots his chair in and forward and reaches for her, tangles his fingers in between hers and squeezes back, his thumb caressing her knuckles.  He takes up his fork and cleaves it through the poached egg, sending yolk running across his plate like a splash of sunlight, and breaks a fragment of biscuit off with his thumb and forefinger.  "Let me know when you remember," he says, and his eyes glint as he glances back at her.

He dredges the biscuit fragment through the egg yolk and pops it into his mouth.  "Where would you most like to go?  I've never really been out of the country, other than for work."

Pen
"There are so many places I'd like to go," Pen says, considering. Her lashes drift low again, shadow her cheekbones, and her gaze stays down: and pensive. "How long will you take off work for our adventure?"

Nick
"That depends on where we go," he says.  "I have a couple of weeks saved up, so we could probably go somewhere like Europe.  Or Turkey, maybe, or Korea."  Evidently there are a lot of places he would like to go, too.

Pen
"Would you use your weeks up now? Do you want to go to a city or to a country? An island, or a place bounded by rivers?" Pen smiles at Nicholas; it is once again a smile more in the eyes, for her mouth is a solemn little thing in the morning. "We could write the names of such places on scraps of paper and put them in a hat. I could hide them," Pen grins. "And the first you find, that's where we go."

Nick
"I like the hat idea," Nick says, and he too smiles and here more in the eyes: he is growing too tired for it to reach his mouth.  He will likely be in bed after breakfast is over, despite his most valiant attempts.  "I'm all right with using most of them up.  It would be worth it, to go somewhere for a little while.  Maybe just a week, depending on where we pick," and here a little tilt of his head.

"I want to go to a place bounded by rivers.  Or maybe to a place on a lake," he says.  "I'd like to see Europe.  I haven't been.  Or somewhere in the Carribean.  Or...well.  Let's just put a lot of things in the hat."

Pen
"Why don't you get a hat? I want to watch you walk away," Pen says, with such simplicity of tone, such purity of expression, that just how rogueish the remark is might take a moment or two to sink in.

"This is so delicious, Nicholas," she also says, earnest, after another few bites of breakfast, after she takes a sip of mimosa, watches the man opposite of her over the rim of her glass.

Nick
She compliments the breakfast, and the smile it earns is unusually wide for him, particularly given his exhaustion.  Past the curtains it is still dark, though they are beginning to hear the occasional bird or cricket if they listen; the days are growing shorter and it will not be dawn yet for a while.

"I'll go get a hat," he says, and his fingers trial up over her shoulder as he walks past her and around into the other room.  She'll have to twist her head around to watch him walk away, but it can be done.  He retrieves a deep purple knit cap, which he is holding in both of his hands as he returns to the room and to her.  "We'll throw things in after breakfast," he says, taking up his fork again.

Pen
Pen does twist her head to look over her shoulder, watch Nick walk away from her. But only for a moment; he disappears from sight. He disappears behind the edge of a wall, and Pen glances down at her breakfast plate, and smiles a little private smile, meant for no one, and then she pushes the tangle of her red hair out of her face and lends her will to eating more of what's in front of her. She does not begin reading the little book in her lap again, and he isn't gone so long as all that. When he returns, her gaze finds him, follows him back to his chair.

"I had a dream about you last night. You were the moon's man, and you could occupy every glint of light on anything that was the moon's color, and that's how we met. Secretly."

Nick
The cap he'd set on the table between the two of them, open like a mouth to receive whatever scraps of paper and whatever places and names they will put into it.  He wraps a slice of prosciutto around a bit of biscuit and pops it into his mouth as he redirects his eyes toward her, to hear about her dream.  He smiles at her, once he has finished chewing.  "What did we do, once we met?  Did I occupy anything of yours?"

Pen
Pen nodnodnods and scrapes her finger through some of the golden yolk parmesan flecked and sucks on it with an air so self-possessed and courteous that she could perhaps get away with the appalling manners in front of somebody's grandmother, and still be thought a very appealing girl (woman). "One time my necklace and one time the buckle of my shoes. Another time this cup I had, I left it out on the windowsill so it would glint and you could come."

Nick
Nick smiles; he does not appear offput by her manners.  Nicholas grew up in the same household as Anna Hyde, who would have done as much and worse (though in fairness she is often not thought to be a courteous young woman, you see.)  "I would have come down out of the sky to see you," he says: and indeed he must have, in her dream.

He digs his spoon into his grapefruit, wiggles it about and frees a wedge, which he transfers to his mouth.  "So I owe you a lie."

Pen
"Even if you could see me better from the sky?" Here, a quick smile, audacious, solemn. Another sip of her mimosa, and Pen rests the flat of one knee against the edge of the dining room table, bare toes curling around the chair's seat, and she leaning forward. She rests her elbow on her knee, cups her jaw in the palm of her hand. "The most outrageous."

Nick
"It's not the same as seeing you this close," he says, and his hand breaches the short distance between them to rest on her knee, to trace the shape of it with his fingertips.

Nick furrows his brows and works another wedge of grapefruit out of its casing.  "I think the most outrageous might have been one I told Rob.  He made me swear I wouldn't tell you, back when we were all cabaled together."

Pen
"That's not seeing," Pen says, glance dipping to skim the shape of Nick's fingers, the back of his hand, his wrist and his arm before finding his eyes again; there her glance sets anchor.

The power of suggestion: Nick works on his grapefruit half. Pen works on hers. Pen likes eating disgusting healthy things and doing horrifying to sane people healthy things in the morning, so she quite enjoys this grapefruit drenched in sugar Nick has provided for their feast.

Look how wide her eyes go; how clear their color, quartz-light, mercury glass; "He made you swear? How long did he believe it for?"

Nick
"Longer than he will admit to," Nick says.  "A little while after I first joined the cabal, he was curious about the Chakravanti initiation process.  We were still getting to know each other - it started a little that Christmas Eve before we had to go find you at Liz's.  I realized after I told him a little that he didn't know much."

Nicholas, who does not really enjoy doing healthy things in the morning, is still very much enjoying the grapefruit.  It isn't that healthy, after all.  "At first I didn't tell him much because I was trying to come up with a good lie to tell him, which made him persist in trying to get it out of me - you know how he does.  I eventually told him that our death rituals during initiation are presided over by a grandmaester whose location and identity we keep very quiet, for obvious reasons.  The maester was ancient and had completed the ritual death over and over to the extent that he or she was barely human anymore.  I hinted that I believed it was maybe a vampire.  Anyway, I had him convinced that there was a Chakravanti archmaester who might actually be a vampire for a solid week before I started to get worried that he might take it too much to to heart."

Pen
"I understand why he didn't want you to tell me. That's an appalling lack of information on a subject House Tytalus is, alas, too familiar with," Pen says, virtuously and very Flambeauishly. Her eyes are no longer quite as wide, but the look she gives Nick is one up from beneath her lashes, and there's a smile still playing around her mouth, balanced against a certain thoughtfulness. "What do you think the most outrageous lie you ever told me is?"

Nick
"Probably a few months ago when you believed that I'd been a Hollow One once," Nick says, and there is a flash of a smile here, a devilish curl there at the edge.  He recalls well her reaction.

Pen
"Hmf. Perhaps not that outrageous," Pen says, and then takes a very precise bite of a very precisely torn piece of biscuit, mopped up in egg, with a slice of tomato. Her chin lofts, see, and then she swallows. Says, bright-eyed, "What is the most outrageous true thing you have ever told me?"

Nick
"Hm," Nick says, his fingertips again tracing the shape of her knee.  He tilts his head and a curl flips to the other side of his forehead, where it dangles like a party ribbon.  "Probably about the poison at the Chakravanti parties.  I still can't really believe that people actually do that, myself."  He dabs up the last few bits of yolk with a piece of biscuit.

Pen
[Should I be having empathy?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (4, 5, 6, 7, 7) ( success x 5 )

Nick
[Subterfuge!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 7, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Nick
[Nick is lying.  In fact Pen can't recall Nick telling her about this before, but she is familiar enough with the subject matter that she knows he is lying.  In fact he is half-hopeful she will catch him in the lie and get the joke, and half-hopeful that she won't.]

Pen
"Meticulous Nicholas was pretty," a melting glance - her tone a rake of pleased fondness, "ridiculous
When ridiculous Nicholas decided to lie.
But Penelope, splendidly, expectantly, and incredibly,"
A bite of her biscuit, and a sip of her mimosa.
"Unambivalently chivalrous asked Nicholas: Why?
Why, Nicholas, mischievous, with great sinfulness lie?
When Penelope lamentably falls for..."

Pen pauses; grins, this little crooked half-grin, shying toward abashed; she can't think of a good rhyming way to end it. "I mean, what a guy," and see, she takes another sip of her drink, to cool the flush that's come to her cheeks.

Nick
There is a sidelong glance toward her, a half-lashed thing, as he eats the last shred of prosciutto on his plate.  There is another smile there, caught out as he had suspected and half-hoped he might be, because he knew the lie was ridiculous even if it was convincingly told.

She finishes her rhyme and he laughs.  There's warmth in it, and he turns away from his plate so that he can place both of his hands just above her knees and look across at her.  "I don't recall my most outrageous truth being part of our bargain, anyway.  Were there other things I'm forgetting?"

Pen
"Ah. But there was another part of that win; don't you remember? Breakfast ready before I woke; the most outrageous lie you've ever told; and your tongue, all mine, for three days," and Pen: look at her, both solemn and mischievous, there across the table, his hands warm above her knee, the pink flush of her robe an afterthought. Pen rests a hand over one of his, then slides it up his wrist. Are his sleeves long? She pushes it up to expose bare skin, at least a little ways. "And among the very, very many things I plan on asking it to do for me, this: the most outrageous true thing you have ever told me."

Nick
He is wearing long sleeves, a sweater: the sleeves came down once he had finished cooking, once his hands were no longer covered in biscuit dough.  They are stretched from the time they spent around his elbows, and so it is not easy to push them aside and expose his forearm.  There is another laugh from Nick, a glance down at their joined hands.  "What do you think the most outrageous true thing I've ever told you is?  You're the better judge."

Pen
Pen's gaze goes distant, slants off to the side and upward; she is still near dreaming, and this is nothing like her usual morning ritual, which she is so strict about keeping; even the variations are just another strictly kept schedule; Pen is not naturally someone who sticks to schedules, but her will is strong. All to say: she feels close to dreaming, and she is perhaps silent longer than one would think, if she were going to follow with an answer.

"I don't know," she says, simply. "When you tell me what you think it is, perhaps I will remember because I won't agree with you."

Nick
Nick's hands curve around the sides of her knee as he waits for her response.  His gaze is expectant, and clearer than one would expect for the late-earliness of the hour, depending on how one were to choose to wrap their mind around this point in time.  "I think being Awakened with two Awakened sisters as a set of triplets is pretty outrageous," he says.  "That we all Awakened at the same time.  I don't know if I would believe things could be Fated, otherwise."

Pen
The shape of her mouth is touched by rue; concession. He has a point. Pen traces the ridge of his knuckles with her middle finger. "But you do believe things can be Fated because of that; your sisters, your tripartite Awakenings?"

Nick
"I'm not entirely sure," he says, "but I think some things might be."  He is leaning forward, partially out of a desire to be closer to her and partially because he is so tired.  "I think we're probably fated to do only things we would have chosen for ourselves anyway.  Or to...well.  I don't know."

A corner of his mouth lifts.  "Were you looking for something more outrageous than that?"

Pen
"I'm not looking for anything specific. Only an answer, which is true, to balance out the lie." Pen reaches over and tweaks Nick's chin, and then finishes off her egg, forking it onto the last of her biscuit, finishing it off with a strip of prosciutto, and: mm; salt; tart. "What's the most outrageous true thing I've ever told you?"

Nick
Nick's gaze is wandering toward the kitchen, a more directed thing than his wanderings generally are: he wants another biscuit.  He is thinking of putting butter and jam on it or maybe butter and honey or maybe just another poached egg even though there aren't any more poached eggs are there.  He would have to make them and he's not going to make them.  He's not hungry and it will not do anything to make him less tired, fresh biscuits are just that good.

"That you and Rob used to date," and here his eyes return to her and there is a quirk of his mouth.  "I'm not jealous, I just can't imagine it."

Pen
Pen's nose crinkles, and she sips the rest of her mimosa in one long and long and shouldn't she and no not breathing because one long sip, then sets it down again. "Hmmmmmmmm," she says, and it is her attempting to be neutral and aloof, while being grumpy, annoyed, and doubtful. But look how good the 'hmmm' is. Explicate the low cadence of it, the sonorous gentility of the sound. It is not a word, but it is not quite a lack of word; it is invitational, while at the same time also being a finisher; a considerate engaging snippet of aloofness. The perfect response. Pen's eyes hood, and glance cast down at her knee and-or Nick's hand.

Nick
The perfect response, but it still holds his eyes there a second too long, asks them to linger and sweep over her face.  It is aloof.  It is a topic he knows she does not especially like, and yet: she did ask him for a bit of truth, when sometimes it is better to lie.

He gives her a little smile that has a whisper of apology in it and rubs his hands over her knees.  "Do you want anything else to eat?"

Pen
"I want an apple cooked in honey and clove, sliced on a toast smeared with goat cheese, if not a sliver of the golden sun himself," Pen says, still aloofly, and see she flicks a glance up at Nick like a whip or a thorn, some delicate lash, some lovely sharpness, and: how clear the gray of her eyes. They mark how weary he is, poor Nicholas.

She brushes past his hands on her knees, only so she can run her hands up his thighs beginning at his knees, lean forward. "What's the happiest order you ever obeyed?"

Pen does not like to lie herself; she tries never to do so. Lying and misdirection are not quite the same thing.

Nick
Nick's eyelashes flutter at her request, bat against his cheeks in gentle protest because he would very much like to close them, to nestle in his blankets and maybe talk Pen into joining him.  "I'll make it for you," he says.  "If we still have goat cheese.  I think we still have goat cheese."

Will she ask him to run to the store?  He hopes they still have goat cheese.

The happiest order, she asks after, and he does not move back when she leans forward.  He could kiss her now, if this were the moment he were so inclined.  His eyebrows tilt in amusement.  "What does 'order' mean, here?  Are Mom's requests to clean my room lumped in?"

Pen
"Mmhmm."

Pen folds her arms over his lap and rests her head in the cradle she has made, and looks up at this new-perspective, different-perspective dark Nick thoughtfully. The robe's satin is gracious in how it catches the light; traps it; bends it into a current, a suggestion of movement; of glamour, of illusion; illusive, elusive; a warm glow, the roundness of her shoulders, the flex of her spine and its curve, when draped so by rose. Dawn-light, bent to a purpose.

Nick
His hands leave her knees and slide all the way up the outside of her thighs to her hips, and here they curve around and settle on her back.  The robe is satiny soft beneath his fingertips, slides against his hands like water.  It helps him imagine soft blankets.  A pile of very soft blankets.  Blankets tucked between his toes and beneath his chin.

There is a ruminative noise in the back of his throat.  "When my sixth grade civics teacher asked me to come in for an extra assignment so that I didn't have to play football.  I complained about the extra work, but it was for this honors society thing she thought I'd be good at."  He tilts his head.  "That, or when Anna told me to shut up and ask you to hang out alone."

Pen
"So definitely not when your Mom told you to clean your room then?"

Pen says, with a sly quirk of her mouth; she hides it behind her wrist - easy enough. "And not when I told you to leave the dishes for me to do?"

"Did Anna truly tell you to shut up? What would you ask me to say, if you'd won a bet and had control of my tongue for an entire three days?"

Nick
Nick has begun a slow slide forward: sooner or later he's going to be lying across her back with his cheek against the back of her shoulderblades, if he keeps going at this rate.  "No.  Though my room probably did need to be cleaned on all of the occasions."  A thoughtful pause.  "I do like when you offer to do the dishes."

Sliiiiiiiide.  His cheek finally does come to rest against the softness of her robe.  "She did tell me to shut up.  In her defense, I was nervous about spending time with you and I kept talking about it."  There is another pause.  She can hear, if she listens, the faint rasp of his eyelashes as they sweep against cloth.  "I would ask you what lie you always wish you could tell, if you could lie perfectly.  And I would ask you for stories, and for poems.  I would want to know what Working you did that you've been the happiest with."

Pen
"You were silly to be nervous; it concerns me - that I wasn't easy to approach, especially when I would have welcomed the approach," Pen says, and bent as she is, and with Nick's cheek against her shoulder blades, her voice is constrained - pressure on her diaphragm. Her voice is a tarnished version of itself; see the smoke in it, the reflective quality gone to rust; blood and ozone; the taste of lightning, licking a silver spoon; metal. "You really think dating Robin was the most outrageous thing of all outrageous things? It is more outrageous than when I told you about the swan curse, with the feathers? More outrageous than when I told you about the priest and the Thin Mints? I'll give you one of yours, in a slant-wise fashion, or at least contest the premise of part of it: I can lie perfectly. I simply haven't done it yet, but when I do, nobody will suspect it of me, since I am not that great at -- well. You know."

Nick
Nick's fingertips run down over her spine, and he tilts his head a fraction so that he can watch them curve over each ridge and dip, watch the play of light along her robe as it shifts against her skin.  "The priest with the Thin Mints was pretty outrageous.  So was the time you and that Chakravanti you knew found the talking book.  Maybe I want to change my answer," he says.

His hand stills, flattens against the hollow of her back, and he nuzzles his cheek in, presses his mouth against the sharp edge of her shoulder.  "When you can lie perfectly, what will the lie be?"

Pen
"I cannot tell you without compromising the perfection of the lie; you would know it was a lie then, and be prepared; and see through it; and it would be as gauze; the sun shining behind it, brilliant and blinding; and all you would see would be the lie, because the rest faded, and that is not the way to lie perfectly. The perfect lie is an invisible stitch which holds the entire thing together."

Pen: like the sea, she shifts; not restless, but always in motion; motion is poetry: it is the crash and the clamor, the stillness and the gleaming; it is the shadow, too, and the delicacy of salt-spray; and Pen shifting only makes her arms into a more comfortable cradle, turns her head so she - not see Nick. He is resting on her back; but she can see the general direction he is in; his forehead; his eyelashes, maybe, one eye; one eyebrow. The shadow beneath his curls.

"The talking book was not outrageous," and she is, dismissive. "It was only uncanny. Do you want to change your answer? Why'd you say that one?"

Nick
"Would it have to be a lie to me?" he asks, and his voice is beginning to sound faraway even though she shifts beneath him.  His body sways with her, and it is becoming heavy.  "I just liked the talking book story.  I can't remember what it said to you, just that I thought it was really weird and strange at the time."

Pen
"No, I meant - " Pen stops. She closes her eyes because they are what she is sharpest with, what she is extraordinarily perceptive with, and it is good to do without one's edge. Every edge becomes blunted eventually: she remembers being told that. Then, "Crow, you should make me that golden sliver of the sun now."

Nick
There is an inquiring noise, a soft thing that curls at the edge see, the way a sliver of wood will curl in flame and turn to smoke and ash.  He would like to stay exactly where he is; Pen's back is comfortable.  "What did you mean?"  His hand stirs against her back again, and she can hear a soft little exhale as he reluctantly draws himself up and away from her.

Pen
"I meant to ask why'd you say your first answer - dating Rob," Pen says, and she nestles deeper into Nick's lap. Now that he isn't resting on her back, she is cold; he is warm; and so it is. She only nestles for a moment before it becomes this fierce thing; before the ferocity dissolves; she recedes and lets him stand, sitting up and raking he fingers through her still-tangled hair, drawing the robe closed with a sharp gesture.

Nick
"Because I just thought it was funny and found it difficult to wrap my head around now," Nick says, and there is a shrug of his shoulders as he rests his fingertips on the table and pushes himself to his feet.  There is a glance down toward her once he is vertical, an searching thing, and he reaches out to catch a curl and brush it back to the correct side of her part.  "Did I upset you?"

Pen
Medusa curls in the morning, before he is usually awake to see them. They have a life of their own, crackle and hiss should a brush come near, and cling to his fingers, wrap around, constrict, tangle; it is not so easy to brush one away. "I just want to know; sometimes I am curious about how you see me." Pen smiles faintly. "Often it is clear in a way I can't reach; sometimes it seems as if you know me better than I do. But sometimes not."

Nick
"Well, I didn't always know you," he says, and when it becomes clear that the curl will snag and pull if he should shift it too far, he lets it fall back and gently sweeps a hand over her head instead.  "I see you as the bravest, most generous and most loving person I've ever known," he says.  There is a beat; there is a smile.  "Should I tell you that more often?"

Pen
"No," Pen says. "I don't need you to tell me that."

Nick
"Well, that's how I see you," he says.  He is still watching her, and gently brushes his thumb over her jaw.  There is a foot that is tilted toward the kitchen, and another that remains firmly in place.  He is awake, now, and watchful.  "Do you still want more breakfast?"

Pen
"I know it is," Pen replies. In the chair she stretches, arcing her back as if she wanted it to crack, then sinking in languor against the chair's back, crossing one leg over the next. She has long legs; there is a small scar on the back of one leg, right by her achilles tendon. Nick knows its story. "Sometimes I am curious situationally. I know how you -- you burn in my chest; and of course I do. A golden sliver of the sun, for my consumption. You furnish that dish, and I'll take my shower." Pen, she stands and wraps her arms around Nick's waist, holding him while she's telling him to go: of course. "Will you be able to make it?" A bit of mockery there, even- light-heated, light-handed, a wry curl to the tilt of her mouth.

Nick
Nick nestles his face in against her neck, against her shoulder, and in that moment she might begin to more seriously doubt that he is going to make it.  Then he says, "Yes, I can make it.  I will make it."  He sounds as though he is convincing himself.  Because he is.

When he pulls away it's after he places a kiss there on her collarbone, and it's to shuffle his way back to the kitchen so that he can peel and slice an apple, cut a slice of bread (or two) for the toaster.  The smell of honey and clove will reach her, upstairs after she steps out of the shower.  When she returns later she will find two plates laid out, and fresh toast that is just beginning to cool, smeared with goat cheese.

So she has her sliver of the sun, and Nick manages to stay up just long enough to eat it with her.  She has the sun, and soon enough he has his blankets, and curtains that make their bedroom as dark as a moonless night.

Colorado Springs Politics

Nicholas Hyde
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."