Housewarming

Arianna
When they had all lived in New England, Arianna had not held property of her own. She had stayed in something akin to a boarding house, rooms letted from a common mistress, with the oversight of some watchful adult with ready access to her parental units. She'd been in her twenties; she hadn't really minded. Most of the young Miss Giametti's time had been spent elsewhere, in Kestrel's study, or wherever Nick and Pen were gathered, or off whatever adventure she had talked Thane into.  That she might have an anchor point as significant as a house and holdings, here in Denver, still feels odd.

It is a low slung thing, with no stairs to thunder up or down.  The roof pitch is high to help slough off the winter snow, and its peaks are guarded by bridgework that lends a sort of grace and arching nature to them.  It casts interlacing shadows; there is a sense of elegance to the columns by the front porch and simple shutters rimming the windows.

It is more house than she needs, being by herself; it is more house than even they would need, all three of them crammed in together.  It leaves room for visitations, for an office, and also for a study; and this room for expansion gives it a sense of hopefulness rather than a sense of being empty: there is potential here, promising more.

It is not a long walk from Nick and Pen's more victorian affair.  Close enough that, in the warmer months, they could be at each other's doorsteps by foot as fast as by car.  If by foot means running, and by car we count parking and yielding to pedestrians. It is near enough for her to borrow -- not sugar, but perhaps some essential herb or other thing from Nick's soon to be budding gardens.

There are plants here, but they are still slumbering.  They are also ornamental. Ari knows nothing about green things that grow until they become green things for eating, or green things for mending, or green things from which dyes are expressed and inks are made.  The grey facade and the grey roof and the grey stonework make the house seem somber; soon it will be wreathed in green and brightened by Spring.  The front door is heavy, wooden, and ringed with tiny panes of glass, through which Pen can glimpse the foyer, its ironwork chandelier, and the great room beyond -- which is sparsely interspersed with boxes in careful towers, never over three tall.

PenPenelope walks over to Arianna's in the bright of the day, the air as limned with radiance as a mound of grave-goods, with everything gentled by an eerie glow; it comes from the memory of rain, from a certain brittle cleanness to the city as Spring and Helios both fight through and claim the streets for their own. The wind just rising is a katabatic wind, and Denver in Spring is not the same as New England in Spring, and the truth of the matter is if Pen took a moment to think about it or herself (she will not) she would realize she is homesick for daffodils and trees budding white and snowy.

No spell keeps her on the threshold but courtesy, learned and abiding, and Pen adjusts the box she has carried over fitting it against the curve of her waist so she can knock on the wood door. When she adjusts it there is a soft and musical clamor, as of elements frozen into metal rubbing one against the other, the backstage hush before the performance, and she leans to the side to peer inquisitively through the panes of glass at the foyer with its labyrinthine boxes and its chandelier and its home-readying, home-making air of a battle tent.

The box may, somebody who is keenly Aware of matters might be able to tell for certain, but, the box may be something which needs a hand on it: else it will untether from gravity all together (who would use a wagon or a trolley or a shopping cart when they can, with a Word, with their own True Will, have convenience with a magickal air?). Pen keeps a firm grasp on it, and knocks again unless she finds a doorbell.

Then she rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it, rings it. She is not impatient, but it is a doorbell. It wants to be rung.

AriannaIt does have all the makings of a battle-tent, of a place in the midst of making-ready, which may someday become a place of ready making.  It is in the midst of becoming.  It is not yet made whole.  Through the panes of glass, she can see with minimal distortion.

But Pen finds a doorbell. And doorbells are a fascination, aren't they. A little thing to press press press and elsewhere comes a sound.

Arianna is not visible within the sweep of the foyer or the ready-making room beyond, but perhaps Penelope knows already what her friend's reaction will be.  Because Arianna is likely in the middle of something, and everything Arianna does is fiddly in its own way, it is perfectionism, it is perfect-making, it is --

PEN IS HERE! PEN PEN PEN PEN IS! PEN IS HERE! DING DING RING SING CHIME GONG DING!

The Bonisagus tenses and mentally notes: a) that the doorbell works, and b) that Penelope has found it, and c) that the doorbell should best be disconnected and d) that the doorbell is quite loud inside a near empty house.  Instruments of one sort of another are set aside --

DING DINGALINGDINGRING DING

-- and quickly, then, she appears from around one corner or another.  The dark of her slacks and the soft grey of her shirt resolving as she comes nearer, near enough to open the door, pulling it back and open and grinning and welcoming.

"Come in! Come in, come in," a little flourish, a little sweep of hand, a gesture to seal the spell of friendship and hospitality.  Arianna makes no apologies for the disarray of her home while it is a thing in-becoming, instead she finds a way to sweep Pen into a hug, firm though swiftly as she is carrying a package, to bring her across the threshold and swing shut the door behind them. "Benvenuto! Casa mia è casa tua.  I was just putting together some small plates -- are you hungry?  Would you like something to eat?"

And yes, also, what have you brought, and is it a present. But this is not what she says; this is what is implied by the curious look in green-grey eyes, the slick of mischief there which only seems to bow to the formalities of hosting visiting delegations.

PenThere is something that wants to be satisfying about pushing a button. Not as satisfying as pulling a rope, letting some message wing out Echo-laden, bronze-deep or silver-bright over the rolling hills, and imagine that there was a time (Plague) when all the bells rang and rang, and they rang out warnings, and imagine the terror of silence then.

Bells are rung at weddings, at births, bells are rung to scare away the owls and the crows, birds of ill-omen and ill-repute, and bells are rung to gather Court in drowned cities, and bells are rung for treats and bells are rung for memory, bells are rung because hallowed is a name, and there is something satisfying about ringing a bell even if it is this modern-day thing, this button-push bell that isn't really a bell, just a sound repeated over and over and over again.

Here comes Arianna, whisking around a corner and divided into diamonds as far as Penelope can see. Here is Penelope, looking in through the window: gray eyes inquisitive, alight, direct; her eyebrows lofted, but hidden beneath the messy sweep of her ruddy bangs; an omen Penelope, la belle dame sans merci (there is no mercy: there is a doorbell!), and when she sees Arianna resolves behind the glass into less of a spectre she smiles at once and leaves off ringing the bell so that when Arianna opens the door she is standing expectant before it her feet together the box still held neatly against her hip (her muscles must work to do so; the angels would resolve into light in the upper realms if they were allowed, rather than imbue a box with weightlessness), and Come in!

The smile goes bright and reflective; it brings out her dimples.

Come in, [the corners of the smile are gone coy, not sly because Pen can never quite  manage sly, but we might pretend it is sly] come in a little flourish and a sweep of hand [and Pen steps over the threshold and into Arianna's embrace].

Curls her free arm around Arianna, splays her hand against the other woman's back. Releases her and spins around in a tight circle, looking up at the iron chandelier (shouldn't she be diminished by iron, Pen? Shouldn't she be dissolved, or weakened?).

"I am as famished as the arrow which sang before. I would like something to eat, and something to drink; I have brought you a gift, but I need a room to wrestle it into submission. Ari, I do like your foyer; do you think the chandelier swings?"

"I've always had that goal, you know..."

Lead the way, Ari. Pen will follow in your wake.

AriannaWhen Pen asks if it swings, Ari's attention shifts upward -- and yes, if they were well and truly Fae the iron would burn; it would freeze; it would strip the essence of them, but as they are only (are they only) borrowed of that other realm, it is a firm and stalwart thing; it gives gravitas to the light which spills from its bulbs; it casts that light more like the gleaming of firelight, torchiers held aloft.  It is a fitting thing for Arianna's keep.

"I think it might, and if it were to, you should be the one to test it.  It seems a thing befitting of your House," aha, a little smirk then, a curl to her mouth and then, where Arianna might have led her left to progress on to the kitchen, the footfalls shift and take them into the Great Room, with its boxes, with its broad hearth which is currently dark and lifeless, but soon, soon, shall be bright and glimmering with revelry.  Into the Great Room then, quick to the right again, through double-doors thrown wide, into a room ringed in bookshelves with a padded seat before the windows.

This is destined to one day be her study.  For now the dark grained shelves are almost empty, but there are several cases, glass fronted, which are evidently for books and scrolls of a more esoteric flavour.  The light here, is filtered through the palest sheers at the window, diffuse but bright enough for reading in the day time.

"I present to you, the Study.  To the Study, I present the esteemed Penelope Mercury Mars, bewitcher and be-wed of Nicholas, who is Brilliant, Brave and Shining ..." It is knavery, of course, and playful.  "This will be the Library, when my things arrive, so I feel you should be well acquainted, and also that you should visit often."

SilasAt some point after visiting Silas and his roommates at their home, Arianna gave her fellow Bonisagean her address.  it can only have been with the expectation that he arrive at her door at some point, and so here he is - seemingly not far behind Pen.  He does not come empty handed, this Hunter - in one hand, there is a paper bag of groceries (wine and cheese and crackers and fruit and vegetables), and in the other there is a clever cloth bag of other things, which will be revealed later.

Ring, goes the doorbell, or perhaps knockknockknock goes the door.  Lo, there is someone seeking entrance to Arianna's keep.

AriannaRING DING SOMEONE ELSE IS HERE -- goes the doorbell.  In truth, it is more a demure thing than that, but Penelope had so excited it with her pushing and pushing and pushing and so, that it can hardly be expressed in a mere ding-dong any longer. Not for this scene.  For this scene's remainder, it shall be a half-drunk herald which rings with abandon, rings rings rings and, announces, always announces.

There is a limited cast of callers whom the doorbell might announce.  Limited thusly: Penelope, who is present; Nicholas, whose whereabouts Penelope probably knows, and as Penelope does not have that wistful look of near-Nicholas-ness, it is unlikely to be her Crow; and Silas, who was last seen in the Park amongst the Verbaenic others.

"I will let you two get acquainted," she says, to Penelope and the room. With a merry little loft of eyebrows, which almost entirely obscures the curious cant to her eyes, shifted toward the front door and is caller, as if she might observe them through the wall -- she might! but she doesn't; it is a poor use of Will and resources.  "While I see to the door, and also to refreshments."

It is the briefest transit, through the sweep of the double doors, out into the Great Room and now, appearing in Silas's line of sight and he in hers, through the tiny panes of glass, glimpsed for a moment before the door is thrown wide and a more complete measure can be taken.

"Well met and welcome!"  There is warmth in her voice, and something mischief-touched and dancing in her eyes. It is not, perhaps, the greeting he has imagined. "Come in; Penelope is here.  We shall have small plates and wine, and whatever you have brought."

The hug she offers him is neither as deep nor as intimate as either would like, but lingers, just a moment longer than the one offered to Pen.  The door is closed behind him, but not barred.  "You've met Pen, you said." Her voice is loud enough to carry back to the Flambeau.  "I hope you find her smashing, and if you don't then you are wrong."  Aha. A dig, a little teasing thing; it sets the tone between them, it sets the tone for Pen.

SilasBut there's a thing, see, and that clever cloth bag is not so large or so heavy as to get in the way of an embrace or, once said embrace is achieved, a kiss; in short, Arianna is not allowed to escape quite as quickly as she intends, or as untouched by Hunters.  The kiss, see, is a thing that lingers longer than the hug was intended to do, and only with it done - after holding her closer against him than she may have initially thought - does Silas release her.

"Hail and well met, then, my friends - we shall drink and know each other better.  I bring measures of wine, and things to nibble on - and glasses too, since when last we talk there was the echo of empty places.  They're plastic, but they are many - they will do well enough for now.  A pleasure to see you again, Pen."

This last is offered as he and Arianna - separate entities, see, not even the slightest bit of contact between them - step from vestibule to office.

"Was the concert as loud as Sera and Grace led us to believe?"  And then, an aside for Arianna, "We met at a bar.  There was to be a show, which I missed because of the roommates.  Such a tragedy, and one that I'll have to remedy at soonest opportunity."

PenThey shouldn't encourage her. Arianna. Nicholas. They shouldn't encourage Pen to take risks: needless ones, for the sake of (Daring) doing. As they pass by the chandelier, Pen's head falls back and she tracks it until natural laws and anatomy no longer allows her to, but there is a gauging glance cast toward some high thing to leap from. Stairs, perhaps, or a tower of boxes, or if there were a bench here, or if one said a Word just at this particular moment and then: all to say, Pen is considering the logistics of chandelier swinging when Arianna brings her into the Study.

"Such a room," Pen says, who'd quirked her mouth at Arianna's introduction. "Such readiness! My tumultuous and haphazard moving ways are put to to the blush. Are you giving me a new title, Ari? Bewitcher of Crows?"

The quirk to her mouth has become a smirk: good-natured as most smirks are not, but sharp still, sharp as the nib of a fountain-pen and were it pressed in what might it draw what ink would well would it blot or draw fine it is a little smirk and the smirk becomes diffuse soft solemnity as she regards the shelves. The box begins to drift (sh, no it does not, you see nothing Reality, one has already taken her bruises), and she sets it down. Pushes it down?

And a door bell! Pen glances in that direction; continues to lean on the box. It is not quite big enough to sit on but one could place one's boot upon it, and-

And Arianna sweeps through the double doors, out into the Great Room, and Pen turns her attention to the box. "Stay down," she murmurs to it, coaxingly: just as a myth might tell a knight to reach out for a gift. "Stay down right now; why are you so irascible? What did I overdo?"

Ari is greeting Silas; Pen is listening.

(You've met Pen, you said,) "Fine, I cancel you," Pen murmurs, and breathes out a word in Enochian. (She is - ) THUNK. ( - smashing.) Guilty glance cast through the doors; the box is still. And heavy. And no longer wants to reach the Sun. Pen straightens and brushes her hands off on her thighs.

Here comes Silas, and Pen offers him a tempered smile.

"Hello again, Silvanus! I mean Silas. Sorry! The concert was indeed sound and fury, a clamor from the deep, with Serafíne's voice a shining thing cast light above the rest when it was not transformed; she has a voice like light on fog, but the fog was all noise."

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Penooc: Those dice were nothing! Ignore. *grin*)

AriannaWas Ari giving her a new title? Was she? Was Naming within Arianna's ready reach.  There is a light in her eyes as she catches Pen's for a just a moment before disappearing through the doors, catches Pen's eye and sight of the irascible box -- which is not an adjective often put to...

... which may explain why she is caught so readily by the Hunter at the doorway of her Keep. Caught and kept close beside him.  Caught with her arms around him and his mouth on hers and her knees, they are like water for a moment; and he calls to her as summer calls to rain; and it is dramatic, this, this recompense he issues for her naming him a 'childhood friend'.  Penelope is just beyond the wall, so perhaps she cannot see how the green of Ari's eyes goes softer; how Silas is a wicked thing. She might see the tailing end of it, as the Bonisagi come through the double-doors together, side-by-side but not quite touching. How they are framed for a moment by its jamb and crossing.

Ari moves to take the grocer's bag from him -- if Silas will relenquish it to her. If. If. If is a strange thing; Ari is used to knowing. She is used to being fully assured, or falsely so; she is rarely on her back foot.

"I am sorry that I missed it!"  Not that she has been invited, but that she is quite sure the thing of it lives almost up to Pen's poetry of it.  "Oh, and you two, you should introduce yourselves."

A beat. A look for Pen. Glancingly amused as it calls back an echo of other homes and other greetings.

"Fully, if you please."  It is her best Pen-impression.  Her gallantry a mimicry of the Flambeau's, because Ari is not quite as Daring, she is not as artfully cavalier, but long association has lent credence to the approximation.  And turn about fun is a pleasing thing. One imagines they have had many turn-abouts like this, a thing said re-echoed.  Her smile is cast wide to welcome Silas in as well, and Ari has given very little thought to what might be included in his Fully...

... a thing she realizes about a minute to late to stop the unfurling of the thing.

SilasThis intimation that he should introduce himself fully gets a raised eyebrow shot Arianna's way . . . and then a slowly birthed smile, a bit sharp around the corners and edges.  The Hunter has claws, of course, and teeth too, and now is a fun time to toy with prey.  He allows Arianna to take the paper bag of food and drink, to do with as she will, but not the cloth bag; that's something different.

"Fully, hmm?  I am Silas Owen Arthur Robinson, Initiate Exemptus bani Bonisagus ordo Hermes."  The look slanted Arianna's direction is sideways and obscure, perhaps a bit left handed in bent.  "In some company, they want to know my parentage - but I suspect this is not that sort of occasion."  There's a wry, sweeping sort of bow from the man who looks and feels as if perhaps he ought to have antlers affixed somewhere to his head, who resonates radiance and tempestuousness.

He does not give titles of any sort, Hermetic or otherwise - but what he does give is more than he's yet given anyone else in Denver.  And the familiar way his words bend around Arianna could mean he is simply a childhood friend, or it could mean more.  Or less.  Or all sorts of things, or nothing at all.

"I am pleased to make your proper acquaintance."

PenPen recognizes herself in Ari's impression, the Echo of herself, and the recognition is visible in Pen's expression: the way she looks at Ari, a beat before Silas raises his eyebrow, because Pen turns her eyes back to Silas just in time to see the raised eyebrow become an angular smile, something more befitting a Hunter's moon than a young man.

Pen keeps her gaze on Silas's face as he introduces himself, her head canted a spare half-inch to the side.

Here's Pen. Pen's hair is getting long, has just reached the small of her back, and will soon be cut. Until then, and today, she bound it in a thick braid. Her bangs are rakish, swept back behind her ears, and it is Rossetti hair, captures the light (yes, captures, puts into thrall) and shadow of this Study with its haze over the window and tarnishes it then lets it burn an ardent ember and why well perhaps because Pen herself is an ardent woman, her magick is seeped in it (and Daring, and Resplendence), and in turn her marrow, and in turn she already a certain kind of Presence becomes ardent in all glint-y facets. Pen's eyes are lake-light, dappling some hero's blade; Pen's eyes are considering, tempered; she seems reserved in a way that is not cautious, but rather self-sustaining. She is only wearing five rings today, one of which is her (Hallowed) wedded band. She is wearing a shirt with a plunge V-neck the color of fog rolling in at twilight and a belt with a buckle that is both arcane and made of metal and fascinating and set with jewels like a reliquary, a pair of laced-up-at-the-side strangely feminine pants which might've been sewn together when somebody held down the moon and skinned him for a lake-witch's dowry. There's a dragonfly's iridescence there. Boots, too. Green. (There's a knife in one, probably; certainly). A lake-green coat, much-worn and somewhat threadbare at the elbows and in one or two places, adventure-tattered, because it might be cold later.

She offers Silas her hand once he has introduced himself, fully.

And then she says, "Penelope Sylvia Katabasis Hilde Nyneve Mercury Mars," and here there is a liquid (Beguiling) measure to the cadence of her Titles: which she, of course!, tells Silas. They are very good titles, too. Very suiting, very poetic, very Hermetic. And perhaps one day the gentle reader will get to know what they are too, but for now characters will have their little secrets. Finishes with: "Adept bani Flambeau."

Pen is not a legacy Hermetic; she had frowned at the thought that some company might ask Silas's parentage. Perhaps someone did that to her once. Perhaps Arianna was there, to hear Pen's answer and see the temper-wicking fall out.

When she is done being courteous, she says, "Yes, well, I hardly feel acquainted with you at all yet. I'm sure that will change. What are you doing here in Denver?"

Arianna[Empathy: Pen-of-many-titles.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 4) ( fail )

AriannaShe is pleased.  Ari hefts the bag against her hip a little and watches the progression of names and titles with a sort of glee that is reserved to Hermetic children of Hermetics through the ages.  There is a sort of dance and weave to it, the cadence of it; it is pleasing.  Some older thing in her approves, and misses entirely whatever other tones there may be in Silas's smile or Penelope's tone.

"I have it on good authority," which is on Pen's authority, which is good enough for Ari, "That no one here cares after our parentage, Si."  Amusement brims in her eyes, perhaps because this place is so unlike the others in which they have met.

"But, come: Pen has said that she is hungry, and Silas has brought food --" she looks to each of them as she says the other's name.  "Perhaps we should adjourn to the kitchen, and I will make us small plates?"

She is watching Pen when she crooks her head toward the doorway, in the universal sign of follow me and shall we walk together, but she is near enough to bump Silas with her hip. And this is how she signals the shift to him. Each in and of their own measure.

Silas"Ah, good, because my parentage has little care for Denver.  I believe the query was, 'you're moving where?  Why would you want to do that?', when I told them I was coming.  Perhaps this means that they'll stay away."  There's a wink here, and when Ari bumps his hip, Silas' free hand comes to just briefly rest in the small of her back.  It's brief, the touch - hardly noticeable, hardly there.

"And I am always hungry.  There are some wines and cheeses and things in that bag, Stella."  She calls him Si, and he calls her the only nickname he's ever called her, the one only he calls her.  "The kitchen seems a fine place to be.  You can put me to cutting things or plating them, if you wish."  He'd said, when she visited his keep, that he wasn't much use for actually cooking things; he'd never had reason to learn beyond the most basic of basics.

So of course he moves into the kitchen, full of casual talk and posture.

Pen"I am still famished," Pen says, solemnly. "Even more so than I was before this moment."

The way to the kitchen is mysterious: she waits for Ari to strike a path, then follows it; considers Silas still as she does, alert and clear-eyed and did we mention alert, a conscious sort of alertness, how it wells - see - like twilight sometimes seems to, from a deep place gathered.

She'd asked him why he was in Denver, and then there was talk of parentage, casual chummery, and Pen -- she likes to be clear, and she is also direct, so:

"So you came to Denver to escape your parentage? Or do you have work here, Silas?"

AriannaThere are nicknames, one more exclusionary than the other, one which claims something that the hand in the small of her back echoes. Something she does not outright deny in her bearing or her movements.  Out, then, they go of the Office and into the Great Room, and once they are there it is easy to see the kitchen off to their left.  There is an island with a counter upon which to casually lean while they continue getting to know each other.

The task Silas is best put to, in Ari's estimate, is the opening and pouring of wine.  She chooses a red from his offering, and pulls a white from the fridge -- chilled, but not too cold.  There are no utensils for eating but there are wine glasses and a corkscrew, this speaks to her priorities quite plainly.  All things presented to that island breakfast-ish bar, for Silas and Pen to sort amongst themselves.

It is easy to see why Ari chose this place.  The ceiling of the Great Room is so lofted that it rides just under the ridgeline of the roof.  There is a feeling of expansiveness, of almost standing out under the sky, but without the bother of the weather.  At the far end of the room, french doors lead out onto a broad patio, with an equally valuted cover.  Fireplaces stand in the inside and outside spaces alike.  In the summer, they will be able to throw wide the doors and unbar the threshold of inner and outer spaces. Move freely between inner and outer worlds.

She is a creature of symbol and ritual: it is now apparent in her home.

And no, Arianna does not spare Silas from Pen's inquiry. Instead she busies herself with readying things to eat. First a plate of cheese, dried fruits and pickled things -- mushrooms marinated until they are bright with vinegar; cornichon; slippery sweet-tart onions.  Then thin slices of bread.  Crisp vegetables in neat and orderly julienne.  Last, thick luscious pieces of fruit: bright oranges, ripe and ruddy strawberries; dried figs and dates to round out the seasons somewhat.  She works quickly, but quietly, and watches them each with equal measure.

Silas"Ahhh, my mistake.  Yes, I came in part to slip the leash of my parentage - but not just those that bore me.  It was time, I thought, to strike out, to make my way from familiar, safe things.  And I've never worked in a climate quite like this one before, so when my finger found this spot on a map, I bought a ticket."  There's a pause as he opens both bottles of wine and lofts eyebrow questioningly at each of the women present - the better to pour them what they'd like to drink.

"I'm a master gardener and landscaper by trade, you see.  I've a specialty in labyrinths, and orchids, and species that people think are lost causes."

This matches the warmth of his hand when it clasped Pen's in greeting, and the feeling of riotous, fertile growth about him that's more subtle, perhaps, than the impression of antlers and hunting horns, but no less there.

"I find it well enough, thus far.  I think it will treat me fair."

Pen"I will have the white, if you please," Pen says when the wines come down, and then adds, "I'm much rather in the mood for apple-light and moon-light," with an air of conscious apology, a gaze that flicks up to the ceiling briefly. Maybe she is hoping for another chandelier to swing from.

In the kitchen, she is curious: pokes around without opening anything, quite, because she is still being courteous, and then finds a spot to settle her back against and keeps her regard (mostly) on Silas still.

See: a vibrant lick of ardent attention, at that job description; a focused curiosity. "How interesting; are you going to build a labyrinth here? Have you contacted the Denver Botanic Gardens, whatever organization maintains them? I bet they would be interested in such a project; if not them, some of the Art Galleries down on Santa Fe have very interesting people in charge of them. You could have help."

"What sort of species in the plant-world do people think are lost causes? I like to garden a bit," this smile, faint, surfacing; a rill of something, just beginning to break through cool water, "but I am no horticulturist."

Enthusiasm, enthusiasm! Directed, swoop, sluice, slice.

Arianna"The white, please," Ari says, at the question of wines. She does not elaborate like Pen does, but she shares the want of something apple-crisp and slightly sweeter.  When it is handed over, she compells them to some small toast before drinking.  Because sharing cups is always fellowship; and glasses are cups and cups are caldrouns between these Hermetic women.

Ari leans against a somewhere nearer to Pen than to Silas; the better to regard him through the veil of her lashes.  The better to tap her glass against Pen's with a To Denver -- a thing they can all agree upon, or possibly only in parts.

"Your orchid will be here soon, should you want to inspect it," she tells Silas.  It is an opening, but perhaps not as much of an opening as it would seem.  "It is, I think, the only plant entrusted to me that has not hastened on to meet its maker."

The curl of her mouth behind her glass is wry; it is playful again.  She is balanced again.  The cup seems made to be paired with her hand; Ari has an ease about alcohol and the social situations they often find it in.  It is why she has taken up Drinking with Andres as a sort of competitive sport; it is why the pale light from outside catches up in the bowl of the glass, where is held by her fingers, and as Pen has spoken -- it is almost like moonlight.

"I should like it if there were a labyrinth in Denver.  Pen, do you truly think some Gallery would back it?  That would be glorious--"

DING DING OMG I AM THE MOST ANNOYING DOORBELL DONG.

We have discussed the doorbell in past paragraphs, dear Reader.  The sound of it is not so jarring as all of this, and would not be to Ari but Penelope, liebe, Penelope, mein hast dingdingringed it to within an inch of it's life.  So the chime sounds and Ari's eyebrows lift and mid-sentence she pauses.

"That's probably Nick."

And then, again, she is moving through the house that will soon be familiar but currently is not. Out of the kitchen and into the foyer, and door thrown wide again in greeting, smile warm and inviting and wine glass held aloft.

"Come in, come in!"  He, too, is welcomed across the threshhold, into the foyer guarded by the iron chandelier.  "Pen is here.  And Silas is here. I hear you three have met before," this all said as she hugs him, of course she hugs him, and before parting to close the door she says, for his ears only: "You missed the introductions. Very Hermetic. Many titles.  Rest assured: Pen wins this round."

Arianna"I think you should with: Nick. Nick Hyde. Chakravanti.  Bringer of wine. Who also knows secrets."  The grin; it is dangerous.

"Very James Bond.  Don't you think?"  The wine is captured easily in her free hand; this is some sort of opulence, to hold a bottle in one hand and a glass in another, but Ari wears it easily.  She guides him back toward the kitchen, where the others are, through the maw of the Great Room, which is not entirely unlike a cathedral with its vaulted roof and empty spaces. There voices are low when they enter; her suggestion goes unheard to the others.

SilasThe white is a bright and summer-sweet-citrus-crisp Sauvignon Blanc, with just a hint of sparkle, while the red (which Silas chooses) is a deeper, darker Pinot Noir.  His is let to sit and breathe, not sipped yet, and then . . . oh, unfortunate then.  In time with the doorbell ringing Silas' phone (miraculously thus far untouched by the gremlins that attend Arianna) chimes.  He frowns, knowing only few here in Denver has his number, and checks it against some potential for emergency.

This leads to a sigh, heavy, as he eyes the glass he's poured himself, and the company.

"I left my hounds in the charge of one of my roommates," he offers by way of explanation, "but he got called into his hospital."  And this is what greets Arianna and Nick as they enter - this statement, and a hint of rue.  "It pains me to leave such esteemed company as that in which I find myself this evening, truly."

And this, this moment?  This is what leads him to Arianna, to wrapping an arm around her waist and placing a kiss on her lips - it lingers just slightly, just enough, and then it's gone.

"I will have to return after I've seen to the keep.  Sorry to say hello and goodbye so quickly, Nick."  That hand, offered for a shake, is as warm as it was when first they met - there is just as much impression of antlers, and growth.

((This is the trouble with having children and needing to be awake during the day - a bed time!  We'll have to have a longer scene soon.))

PenAlas, poor Timing, how ill-used it is, and how ill it uses these characters. Pen had not been at all troubled by newcomer at the door especially not that newcomer; a shadow, when Silas gets his bad news; she watches him get it over the rim of her wine glass. "That sounds most unfortunate," she says.

When Silas kisses Arianna hello and fare well, Penelope's eyebrows are still somewhat drawn together too bad shadow consternation though there's a rill of brightness when she glances at Nicholas and smiles (warmth), then notices something on one of her rings and adjusts it.

What if she took it off and dropped it into her wine cup? She does that, watches the luminous bubbles stream from the ring up and up again. Was it satisfying, Pen?

Yes, it probably was.

AriannaIt turns out that there will be no need for titles after all.  All the titles that need be exchanged are done so in the presumption of how Silas wraps his arm around Arianna's waist and kisses her -- it is a kiss returned, though, perhaps less ardently than it is given.  It is not the three kisses on cheeks, oh, yes, we are European, or anything which could be misconstrued so neatly.  And, of course, with her hands full -- wine glass in one and bottle in another -- there is little she can do to shape the sense of it.

Then he says something into the curl of her ear, and then he is going, then he is gone.  "You may go, but I'm keeping your wine," she tells him; this is the answer to whatever he has said, to the kissing of lips; it is in the crows feet at the corners of her eyes, and the slick of something hidden in the green of them.  It is not given away, this something -- she hopes.

They are childhood friends.  That is clearly not the whole of it.

It is barely a handful of footsteps to the door and back again.  And then there is Nick to fold in to things, and the cabal is made whole again and things move simply:  She finds another wine glass.  He has his choice of red or white (he is asked his preference) for pouring.  She moves Silas's glass from the counter, to beside the sink.  In all of this, Ari has missed Pen's inspection and drowning of her ring.

Pen"The white is very good, Nicholas," Pen says, eyeing Silas's untouched cup before she sets hers down on the island, leaning on the palms of her hands with her chin a notch higher than it is wont to be so she can peer down (Circe, Medea, Lake-Witch) at it. There are still a few pearl-bright bubbles clinging, dogged, to the ring's side: she may be marking how long it takes for them all to flee upward. "The red's all meat gobbets!"

SilasAnd so Silas is gone, to re-meet the Hyde duo on another day.  Exuant, stage left.

AriannaThe red he says, so she takes up the bottle--which Silas has brought, so she takes a minute to study the label, to know what she is pouring and then.

Meat gobbets.
... White, please. Ari.

The white, it is.  One bottle is set down, exchaned handily for the other, which bears a slick of condensation, a sheen; it is chilled, see, as whites want to be. She is not a savage. She pours and hands his glass over; heavy on the pour, light on the flourishes today.

"If it is meat gobbets, then, perhaps it is destined for the soup pot."  Said easily, as she leans a hip into the counter and regards the Mars-Hyde constellation over the brim of her own cup.  "Good thing Nicholas has brought us a replacement.  And welcome, now, well met and welcome in earnest, without titles and all of that after all."


PenHer gaze is quite steadfastly on the wine. Cat at a mouse hole.

She doesn't say anything at all just yet, though her mouth curves in a quick compulsory smile for Ari's welcome now and well met and in earnest and without titles and all of that after all etcetera.

AriannaThere are no barstools just yet.  Just as there are no furnishings in the Great Room.  In the Great Room there stands a sparse number of boxes, clumped here and there, ordered by subject and stacked, where appropriate but never more than three boxes tall.  Through the kitchen and on to the dining room, there he could find chairs.  And a broad table, too wide to be intended for only ever the three of them, and chairs to seat eight at close quarters.

Ari's player is making things up on the spot; one may recognize her own kitchen table in this space.

"Thank you," she says, and her smile is broad and genuine. There is less trickery for just a moment, before talk slides to Silas.  Talk, glances, other's attention -- it all slides to Silas sooner or later.  To this she shrugs. "He makes a certain impression at Conclave; our House is rarely canted toward such green-and-outdoor things."

Mark: she does not say Primal, even where it would be appropriate, because to give that word full due is unfair; it is prejudiced.  But there is not truly a good stand in for it.

Pen[Nothing to see, Nick!]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )

Arianna((guys... I am turning into a pumpkin... and Jess distracted me with Verbaenic things... and I cannot focus to write :(  ... Pause/fade/something?))

PenPen straightens, buoyant, and then raises one hand - Nick hip-checks her and she turns her head to glance at him, though her eyes linger on the wine for a heartbeat more - then, savage!, she fishes her ring back out and rests it (communion wafer) on her tongue once it occurs to her that hey now this ring tastes like wine. She hip checks him back, eyebrows lofted smile halved and bright.

"Yes, speak about the last Conclave you were at, Ari. Or tell us of your ideal Conclave. Was there a chandelier at the last one? You never said in your highly amusing letters."

And perhaps talk will turn: it always does, with friends.

PenPen is trying steadfastly to hide Some Thing from Nicholas as pertains to Silas. She doesn't seem thrilled with him.

Arianna[Epic Story? I am too lazy to decide on my own. DICE! Expression +Char (I need to buy this up, as Ari talks all the goddamntime)]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (4, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Arianna[Also epic bullshitting at appropriate points?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

Arianna"There was a chandelier, in fact..."

And this is how it begins.  They lean against counters and share the spread of small-enough-for-fingers morsels and Arianna tells them of the chandelier which hung in the foyer of the Chantry, which clung to the coastline of the western shore of Ireland, where the sea beat against the shore, rhythmic and savage and never ceasing.  And from the chandelier -- upon which no one to date has ever swung, Pen, can you believe it? -- they move to Conclave as a concept, a meeting of minds assembled as an academic body, of debate and its -- yawn -- structure and rules, which, are, of course, debatably followed.

There are questions asked and answered, and some answers are fanciful, and some answers are true.  Some are both. Some are neither.  Cups are refilled and there is a discussion about whether to stoke a fire in the fireplace -- which fireplace -- oh did I tell you about the fireplace, which was large enough for a soup pot and a spit, because the Chantry is old and the kitchen hearth was a working hearth and -- oh, Nick doesn't believe me? Well, that's because he is sharp, Nick, always thinking.

But there was a great hearth there, and as they move through the shadow spaces of her soon to be home she tells them how, on that broad and covered patio, she plans to cast a circle. To draw it on the stone flooring.  So wide and broad that it swallows up the whole of it. And it will be sacred, and it will be sained, and it will stand there as witness.  With a hearth at its margin; with room for all manner of rites within; where they can be outside but also covered and there can be moonlight as well as comfort.

And at some point, they will have drunk all the wine and eaten her out of house and home -- or whatever meager stores her fridge could offer up so soon in her unpacking.  But before they go, she offers to each of them a single key on a length of twisted silver silk. She repeats what she has told Pen in greeting, that her house is their house; the the Library will be here soon, and it is beside itself with eagerness to meet them properly. And there are goodbyes, but not as final or as solemn as they might be.  As the trek back from Ari's house to the Mars-Hyde home is a matter of minutes. Close without being in each other's pockets.

Pen[yay scene!]

cool bar

Serafíne
Hole in the wall of holes in the wall.  The entrance is from the middle of a long alley behind some shallow galleries and the space is strange and there's a red door and a purple light above it that is intuitively menacing but a strange scroll-worked sign above that says simply: cool bar.  Then something like a bank big bank vault door and a long stairway down-down-down and: oh hello.


Bar and stage as likely to host impromptu walking productions of MacBeth written back into street slang as it is to have a band, but tonight there's a band.  Not much notice.  Folks who got the invitation late this afternoon only saw: pop-up show, @coolbar with a link to the location and a minute later come here are new stuff  thanks, auto-correct.


Pen
Here is Pen - come through the ominous purple haze, come through the big bank vault door and the long stairway, the echoing stairway, the stairway which echoes (it does echo, echoes and contains, a tunnel) like some kind of nautilus, and: oh hello.

Here is Pen, who came because she wanted to hear the band and see the band members, in an artist's smock doubling as a tunic. The effect is airy and winsome John Williams Waterhouse, some Spring-witch, cobalt blue embroidery at the edges of the collar which is a split that goes down to her sternum the laces left loose like that, and her hips are banded by a belt of braided leather.

Here is Pen - but where is Dan; where is Sera? Pen sweeps the place with a glance, aspiring (the soldier) to alertness, and if she sees either of them: she beelines. Or she joins the small crowd at the bar, ordering a ginger rye from the bartender.

Serafíne
Bright and warm and windy the next morning.  The snow mounded up so high yesterday now has a bright, granular crust and everything, everywhere is a paean to gravity, a lesson in watersheds.  Easy to get out and back on the road home, even at the immoderately early hour of ten-or-so a.m.  And she's curled up in the passenger's seat, knees drawn up, forehead against the glass, sunglasses yes, dark and huge, against the glare.  He doesn't imagine she's slept.  Doesn't imagine she's slept much, anyway.  He knows how much acid she took two days ago.  How long it takes to come down.

Well, hey!  Dan and Dee and Rick are setting-up on the small stage and there's something easy and companionable about it all, some return-to-rhythm, something necessary and organic that passes between them as they go about the work in an unfamiliar space.  Been forever since they 'played-out' after all.  Sera is sitting on the stage while the others work.  She wanted to wear her Easter dress again but it seemed that the skirt would be an impediment to the on-off she tends to do with her guitar, so she is back to one of her standards: a pair of tiny denim cut-offs and fishnets and filmy, lacy black bra beneath a ripped, worn, studded, shorn leather jacket.

Her legs are swinging, swinging, swinging and she sits while her friends work, and she has a beer and a shot and she's talking very companionably with an attractive young rather-earnest looking black guy sporting a pair of hipster glasses, worn jeans, and a distressed t-shirt which features a line drawing of an enormous sheep eating a tiny laser-eyed monster.

Sera waves and beams when she sees Pen making-a-beeline.  Her hair is worn differently than it often is, and when she turns to say something to Tre about who-Pen-is it becomes obvious why: she is wearing a crown.

"Hey!"  That smile.  "You came!"

Silas
Silas' pants are too loose for a true hipster, but other than that?  There is the stubble, the hair swept just so, the button down shirt (with sleeves rolled up to approximately the elbow, displaying tattoos on his arms) tucked into denim that moves well with him rather than constricting his movements, the bow tie that coordinates, contrasts, something.  It doesn't match, no, where would be the fun in that?

He drinks his whiskey neat, at least tonight, and of course he's here for the band.  Why else could he be?  But there are things that mark him out as different [as primal, as Other], and there are things that Echo from him, literal representations of the Ars Vitae with which he is so familiar.  His skin is warm to the touch on the occasion it's brushed - a sunlit glade full of riotous growth.  There is no jewellery but for one thin gold band on his right ring finger, and a paler bit of skin of a similar width on the middle finger next to it.

Sitting with drink in hand, his back is to the bar; his eyes on the assembled are a vivid blue, clear and vibrant, and observant.  He sees Pen enter, sees so much.

Serafíne
Awareness!

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 8 ) [Doubling Tens]

Silas
Same!

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )

Serafíne
Then, well.  This moment when she lifts her chin and looks and looks and oh: everything in that moment is sharp, heightened, intimate, surreal.  "Check that guy out."  So she says to Pen, a lift of her chin toward Silas.  "He feels like someone you'd know."

Pen
[?]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )

Pen
Sera beams and it is Sera and it is that smile and Pen smiles back: a flash of a thing, burnished like a piece of silver, see, tarnished until suddenly: a rill of brightness, catching the day, and of course her entire expression is lit up by it and by Sera and by the prospect of music made by somebody fashioned and crafted by someones that she knows here on this particular night with snow a rim outside a créme brulee shell to be cracked get to the sweet within. "Of course!" - that rill of brightness in her voice, too: steadiness. "I feel as if I have been longing to hear you play, that it is exactly what I want to feel in my collar and my rib cage - Sera, I am very excited," and the flash of a smile and its left-over remnant pleasure becomes this curl of a grin. "Hello," to Tre. "I'm Pen."

And she might have said more, but there by the stage is Serafíne, observant, lifting her chin and Pen does check that guy out, turning so her back is to the stage and she can give that guy an assessing look (a weapon must be ready, always; she tries to be always ready).

"I don't, though. He seems as if he should have antlers, doesn't he?"

And if Silas meets Pen's eyes, she lofts her eyebrows and cants her head.

Pen
ooc: Er, make that the fancier and more Pen-like: "He seems as if he should wear a crown of antlers upon his brow, doesn't he?"

Grace
[Awareness!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (5, 6, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

Grace
There's an invitation. Grace responds to that invitation, not so much because she enjoys going to bars for music, but because of the sender. Sera could make just about anything worth it.

The swirl of different in this place doesn't surprise much. She still blinks as she steps in the door, this be-winged thing, at everyone else's oddness. She wears her coat-of-many-colors -- red, with strips of LED lights sewn in. If it looks a little worn, perhaps it's just because she wears it everywhere in winter.

A bee-line, she travels, straight to Pen, head down, like she is trying to forget the rest of the crowd is here.

Silas
Eyes are met, yes, and a brow raised in return; questioning, perhaps, from the bit of the bar closest the stage.  Silas is not terribly far from where Sera and Pen met, and so after acknowledging their presence (and feeling their Presence) he takes up his drink, signals the bartender for two drinks of the women's choice to be added to his tab, and makes his way to where they stand.  Why not?  There is music, and there is quarry here, even if he chooses not to hunt, and there are people of interest.

Silas is brazen, he is bald, and when he moves towards where Pen assesses and Sera prepares his gait is sure, and nigh predatory.  It is not rushed but measured just right to give Sera chance to give answer before he's close enough to hail them.

"Hello," he says and his deep voice is familiar to Grace.  There's a slight accent there, as the Other carries itself from impression to reality; it's English, maybe, if you listen to it sideways, but the kind of upper class English that one hears in places that commoners aren't often about.  "I feel that you two may be people I should know.  I'm called Silas."

Grace
Silas is Arianna's friend. So is Pen. It remains to be seen if Grace will be able to associate with either of them once it comes out that she'd much rather punch Arianna in the face than give her prejudices credit by being nice.

For now, though...

"You don't know Pen? Really?" Grace makes a 'huh' face. Lets them introduce themselves. "Hey, Pen."

Serafíne
"You know we're loud," Sera-to-Pen, "right?"  And there is a moment there of introduction: Tre to Pen and Pen to Tre, perhaps.  Sera tells Pen that Tre is, you know, cool, which is code enough for Tre to understand that Pen, like Sera, is magickal.  And to Pen's comment about crowns and antlers, all Sera has to add is: "Don't look now, he's coming this way."

With a neat wink.  They can be all archaic together.

And: a twirl of Sera's fingers at Grace as she is bee-lining and this glance at Tre that includes a neat little smirk and this particular NPC might well shake hands with Pen and even Silas and also: Grace if she gets here soon enough but he also has a feeling that it is time to take his leave.  He's gonna go chat up the bartender/manager and work the crowd and he has enough easy, unselfconscious charm that he can really work a crowd.

"Serafíne.  Hey.  Everyone calls me Sera."

Nick
Here is Nick, who was likely gently persuaded into coming and ultimately came because he wanted to hear the band play.  He is come separate from Pen, though he went back to the house to change before coming out because he couldn't stand to be in his work clothes any longer.  He is wearing a collarless chambray shirt and a pair of dark brown khakis and boots: the effect is a simple one, contrasting neatly with Pen.

It will also let him blend in here, which is just as well.  Nick has the sort of air about him that could be a buzzkill in a place like this.

Nick gathers his bearings for a moment after he has stepped in the door into the haze and red and purple lights.  Pen is easy enough for him to see, and so is Sera, and there is Grace.  He lifts a hand to all of them, and he stops at the bar first, because damned if he is going to be at a loud concert without a drink in hand.

Pen
They can all be archaic together, and here come to roost two bird-things (winged quake herald of change dark crow reverent portent) in the cool bar as well. The cool bar really is cool; look how many cool people have come to it (because of Sera - core of gravity; center of the circle). Silas has Pen's attention, as a stranger and a stranger who feels as he does, but when Grace cuts through the crowd she is welcomed with a warm look. She offers the man-who-should-wear-an-antlered-crown her hand. Her wrist is clasped in a metal bracelet; there are rings on every finger, including above the knuckle of her thumb, and she says -

"Silas. From Silvanus, I take it?" with easy good humor, and in the middle of the question this perplexed look for Grace, which winds past Grace to rest on Sera: the question continues. Why should Pen know Silas and not Sera, hmm?

Grace
She waves back at Sera, the twinkle of fingers, a quirk of a lip. But she doesn't understand the weird look Pen gives her. Some people are easier to read than others.

"Hey, Nick too. We're freaking flocking."

Silas
"Yes, actually.  My mother is ever interested in the esoteric."  Grace is there and she waves her fingers, so Silas gives a nod of his head; it could be a bow but that it isn't at all, and while he may sound like it, look like it, he isn't quite that archaic.  Any hand offered is shaken, displaying his tattoo-sleeved right forearm - it is cloaked in symbols of Horned Gods and Hunts, lending still more credence to the thought that perhaps there ought to be horns on his person.  As stated, he is warm to the touch in a way that might be considered feverish, were it not so vigorous a sign of life.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both.  And to see you again, Grace - I hope all is well."

Serafíne
Grace says that we are freaking flocking and Sera favors the Virtual Adept (sorry: Grace, Sera has not adjusted to the name change.) with a neat liiittle smirk.  Grace and her propensity for commenting on the coincidences of mages-coming-together.  Well: no coincidence tonight.  It's the first time Sera's band has played out in...

...months.  Nine or more.  She has a shot and a beer and when Siles orders another one of whatever the women are drinking to be put on his tab, hell, she gets another round.  Of shots, not beer.  Stranahan's Colorado whiskey: goes down a treat.   She tosses it back like a pro.  Eyes Silas' tattooes when he outstretches his hand to be shaken.  Notes the warmth and goes, "Oh, your hands are warm!"  And she remembers: others with warm hands.  The passing wonder of it.

"I hope you brought your earplugs," Sera says this mostly to Grace, in a way that is teasing-serious, and reaches out to ruffle Grace's hair.   Whom Dan pauses in his  work doling out cords and setting up drums and amps and whatnot to greet with a grin framed by his blond beard.

Nick
When Nick appears behind all of them, it's without emitting a sound; a more forceful presence than his would be likely to startle other people.  Lucky he's not like that.

"Hello everyone," he says, and when he finally settles on a place to enter the little circle of Willworkers here it's next to Pen.  He has a whiskey and soda in hand.  Dan, where he is setting up amps and doling out cards, gets a wave.

Nicholas, curly-headed and solemn, offers a moment's quiet regard for the other man present: he had not arrived in time to catch his name.  "Hello.  I'm Nick."

Grace
Grace shrugs at Silas. He can hope all is well all he wants. She isn't going to explain why it isn't right now. But she leans into Sera's ruffling fingers, pulls out -- yes -- a pair of earplugs connected to each other by a wire from her coat pocket. Smirks.

"They are loud," she explains. Gives Nick a wave.

There's goodness to this. Coming together, waving at people, the meeting, the parting. Grace, for her part, is simply present. If her eyes go darting to some light fixture or other rather than a person, it's just the way she is.

Silas
"Silas," he says for Nick's benefit, offering a hand as well; there are Manners to this one, and they are deeper and stronger than just a handshake might seem.  And Grace's shrug is taken in stride - already he's come to realize that Grace tends towards the terse, at least with him, and that her reactions are not always what he would consider apropos.  Or polite.  Still, he reserves obvious judgement, and attempts to include her as much as the others, until it seems she'd rather be left alone.

"I've not been in Denver long, though if you are the Nick and Pen of whom I've heard, we have a friend in common."  He's not as secretive as his Housemate in some ways - in this way.  He doesn't much mind the assembled knowing who he knows.

Pen
Pen's gray as gloaming eyes gleam when Silas blames his name on his mother's love of esoterica, but she does not discuss it (or the fact that she believes likely his mother was inspired by the mien of him, the clear and present godhood in his shadow; what will Margot make of this one?). Only seems friendly enough, inquisitive but questions will keep.

She executes a small double take when Grace actually pulls out earplugs; her eyes gone wide. She measures their proximity to the stage (the scant few inches, since Sera was and perhaps is sitting still on the edge of the stage, her band busy about her), then finds the speakers.

"Should we move if we hope to preserve our eardrums then?"

There is a Nicholas; Pen reaches for and takes his drink because she has yet to order one of her own and she wants to drink something.

Pen is sharp enough to: "Oh, you are Ari's childhood friend. Sera, have you met Ari yet?"

Grace
[Manip + Subt = Ari? Oh no, I have no probs with her.]

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

Grace
Never let it be said that Grace has manners. Perish the thought. It's a rare day she remembers to thank people for gifts, and has a tendency to look at people oddly when they thank her -- because property is a bit distasteful when it comes right down to it. What are manners, except for the customs and rituals of tribes who've never claimed her?

"Well, we can," she says, to Pen. "I'm just not a huge fan of loud music, myself."

She tries not to let it show on her face the distaste in her when Ari's name is brought up. She licks her lip, snakelike, tilts her gaze to the side. Not paying attention anymore.

Nick
[Oh?  Perception + Empathy.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )

Silas
[You think so, do you.  How droll.  Per+Emp]

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

Grace
[Yeah, okay, so it's obvious that Grace's demeanor changed when Ari was brought up, you two. Grace looks like she's trying not to react to something that smells bad over there..]

Serafíne
"Tre always has extras," Sera assures Pen: of earplugs.  If she is intent on preserving her hearing.  "Dee too."  Because hearing loss is a problem for musicians.  Or at least: musicians who are not disciples of life.

They are indeed very close to the stage.  Sera is still sitting there, letting her legs swing and swing and swing.  She is excited, wired.  Perhaps she is on some-small-thing other than alcohol, in addition to alcohol, but the darkness in cool bar is deep enough that there will be no good view of her pupils.

Gives Nick a quick, chasing grin.  Shakes her head no to Pen: she has never heard of Ari and she takes no part in the examination of Grace who is trying-not-to-let-things show.  That shake jostles a few of the curls pinned up amidst the glories of her crown but the whole of the mass is well-secured.

Then Dan is there with a hand on her shoulder because everything's set up and they need five minutes to go over the set list, don't they?  In the past they've always done covers, or covers of their own shit that Sera-and-Dan have sold to other artists, stitched together by Sera's irrepressible and slowly raveling charm.  Tonight though -

"We'll be out in a few!  So glad you guys came - "

Nick
His drink is commandeered; Nick allows this with hardly a sideways glance.  This is the way of things.  It frees up his hand to shake Silas's, and there is this glimmer of recognition there as the man says his name that Nick doesn't bother to hide.  "Ari's mentioned you," he says.

His hand falls back to his side, and Nicholas is an insightful man and it's not difficult to notice the way in which Grace's gaze slants sidelong, how there is this slight wrinkling of her nose.  Nick marks it; for now, he says nothing.  His hazel eyes are for Sera, who is swing swing swinging her legs, and there is this crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes.  "I didn't realize you were in the band, Sera.  Thanks for inviting us."

Pen
Nick didn't realize she was in the band; that brings out Pen's dimples, for whatever reason, a mischievous glint.

Then: "I am glad too! Break the bone and chase the echoes down," Pen says, earnest and whole-hearted and here a quick flash of a smile again that winds up not being quick at all; flash bomb, the way it just dazzles (lake-light, shield-light) for a moment but there's the blinding blot after effect. That lingers; in the place of this metaphor, it becomes diffuse. Dan gets a tilt of her chin, a pleased hello acknowledgment; then courtesy: "I am for the bar."

It is an invitation, sure, because there are people now crowding in, and their area is a coveted one; funny how a crowd will eddy, will whorl like a river against a stone-strewn shore.

She hands back to Nicholas his drink; it has been considerably depelted. "It is good to meet you, Silvanus." Pause; "I meant to say Silas," and she sounds perplexed: because she did. (When one is marked, such things often happen. Especially if one is speaking to someone myth-seeped as Penelope.) "In some other venue, I shall want most dearly to ask you questions!"

And she is for the bar, so.

Silas
Silas marks the same shift in expression that Nick does, and he too lets it lie; he is the new addition, after all, and Arianna is more than capable of fighting her own battles when they're worth fighting.  And sometimes when they aren't.  More interesting is that Pen has labeled him a childhood friend, and that Nick's eyes sparkle recognition at his name.  The way he sips his drink, finishing it, is casual, as are his posture and eyes.

"Yes, she and I know each other of old.  If you'll pardon me - I promised my roommates I would remind them to be here for the show.  Break legs, Sera."

He says this with sincerity, in the way of far older performance arts than this - and with pleasantries traded, he makes his way for the door - where he'll be able to make his call in more favorable conditions.

Serafíne
This is a ridiculously small venue and those invitations went out to maybe one out of five people on Sera's normal invite-people-to-shit contact list (which is of course, managed by Dan-not-Sera) and the other magi may well have five-ten-fifteen minutes or more of conversation before the quartet come out of - er - the back office and the hallway down to the bathrooms with their instruments and plug in to check a few levels and channels and whatnot but they already tried out the space on Monday when the bar was closed and figured (most) of that shit out.  Dan and Sera with guitars, Dee with her bass, Rick on the drums.  And this is new work and it is collective work, brawny and rhythm-section forward.  Great big and (yes) loud as promised though the wave of noise has been modulated for the space, you see.  It is also: loud as in, full, driving.  The wall of instrumental sound and Sera's and sometimes Sera-and-Dee's or even Sera-and-Dee-and-Dan's voices a melodic cloud above it, floating through a river of noise.



(Er: thank you all for coming!  I gotta sleep!)

Grace
Grace huffs at Nick. Didn't realize Sera was in the band? Wait until the first time she does literal magic with that voice of hers. It is something.

Pen departs for the bar, and Silas departs for his roomates. "Want to follow Pen?" she asks Nick. "It's about to get loud right here. Might be better at the bar, eh?

She hefts her weight back and forth, clearly ready to move if he is. Clearly ready to wait with him if he isn't.

Nick
((Good night, Liz!))

Nick
Does Nick want to follow Pen.  Does Nick want to retreat out of the growing crowd that is probably going to start jostling and pushing and spilling booze everywhere in the next fifteen minutes.  "Yeah, let's move," he says to Grace, as he begins to disentangle himself from a few college age kids who have pushed forward.  Sera: she'd gotten a wave and a smile before she'd gone backstage; Nick is the hugging sort but they just aren't all that familiar with each other yet.

He has his drink back, and he takes a swallow from it as he weaves back through the throng so he can reach Pen at the bar.  There is a glance spared backward for Grace; Nick is of the Leave No (Wo)man Behind variety.

He exhales as they come up next to Pen then.  "How have you been, Grace?  I haven't seen you in a bit," he says.

Serafíne
(Needed a transcript!)

Grace
She doesn't want to leave him alone either, and so walks with him through the crowd to the bar, eventually shrugging at him as she did with Silas. "I've been."

Been out to see Alex. Been wondering what to do next. Been arguing with people and been fed up.

She asks the bartender for a rum and coke, because at least it has a little caffeine, and there's just a little time yet before ordering will be made difficult over the braying of guitars and drums.

Nick
A quirk of Nick's mouth here, at that.  "I don't think people take the time often enough to just be."  He takes another swallow from his glass, which Pen mostly drained of its water and smoke and fire, and so he tosses back the rest.  He might as well get another one before the band starts to play.

"It sounds as though it doesn't sit well with you, though."  Is this the best place for this conversation?  Well, no, in all likelihood, and yet here they are.  It's Nick's way.

Grace
No, indeed. Simply existing does not sit well with Grace. She isn't, really, simply existing at the moment. There are things to be done. There are always things to do. And yet, with recent events being what they are, the right things to do are still up in the air.

Should she try to put together a new Ginger? Would anyone accept it if she did, knowing what happened with the first? Should her office remain abandoned as it is, its contents distributed in secret to some new place? Or is that just the fear talking?

Can't say she hasn't put thought into it. But for now, a shrug. Again. Her shoulders must be tired by now.

"I can never just be. Feels wrong."

Nick
This throaty, thoughtful noise.  He has stepped up to the bar next to Pen, set his glass down, and there is this casual brush of his fingertips between the Hermetic's shoulderblades as they arrive there next to her.  "Why is that, do you think?"

Pen
Pen does not seem to be particularly affected one way or another by the crowd. She is only made alert by it; she is constantly looking around, not rapidly, not nervously, but because there is so much to see. Because Pen is: clear-eyed.

The counter space Pen took (which is to say, arrived at and stayed with such confidence that it is clearly going to belong to Pen and her friends for now) is toward the end, but with a good view of the stage. Just two feet over, and hanging bottles and glasses would refract Sera's band a foam-lacery of light in the middle of dark dark darkness.

The promise of the ginger & rye is fulfilled and when Nicholas and Grace arrive, the bartender and Pen are just working out that Silas has already paid for that drink, that his tab is still open, that he had not specified closing it at any time, and here: Pen is often torn between letting people buy her things and refusing to let people buy her things.

Frugality wins out; she lets Silas's gesture pass.

Okay, now she has her drink, the cost of it has been determined, Nicholas's fingertips whisper between her shoulderblades, and Pen casts him a (lure) smile when she hands him her drink, turns back to them both and listens. What are they talking about? Time to jump back in.

Grace
"I don't know," Grace says, eyes on the bartender coming with her drink, for which she pays with enough cash to leave a decent-sized tip. Doesn't think to thank the woman.

"Feels like I'm missing out on something, I guess."

She tips the rum and coke, sipping at it.

Nick
Nicholas has a second whiskey and soda, which will not be pilfered by Pen as she now has her own drink.  He takes a sip of hers when she offers it, and then after making a pleased noise slides it back over to her.  Silas appears to have left them to make his phone call, but it's just as well; before long the entire place will just be noise.

After that, he glances over at Grace, and sweeps his eyes over her.  This thoughtful thing.  "You sound like you're feeling pretty discouraged about something."

Grace
"Well, the second there is something in my life to be couraged about, I'll tell you," she says, sips at her drink some more.

She sighs, looks up to the stage. Sera, okay, maybe she is something to be couraged about, eh? A little smile. There are still the wild ones here in Denver.

Nick
Grace says this, and there is this arch to Nicholas's eyebrows, subtle but present, as he leans into the bar next to Pen and takes a swallow from his glass.  There's no one on the stage yet, though perhaps there will be soon, and he too follows Grace's eyes for a moment.

"So there's nothing in your life to be couraged about, at the moment?"  He leans leans just to the side, bumping Pen's hip with his own, and eventually comes to rest there.  The bar is crowded; it's not like he needs an excuse.

Grace
She side-eyes Nick. "No."

Isn't that basically what she just said?

"Look, why talk about me? Sera's going to be playing soon, just..." You know, stop?

"It's a mood. It'll pass. Or it won't."

Pen
There are conversations one does not jump right back into. This seems to be one of them. Pen listens, of course. A sympathetic and compassionate ear, and she keeps a weather eye out (assessing [vigilance]), and she is not as impulsive and heedless (headlong, forward-flung) as she was once.

Pen sways when Nick bumps into her; hooks her foot around his ankle and begins to lean back against the bar counter. Her hair is loose and getting long (she'll cut it when it gets past the small of her back; another week and a half, maybe), so the tail end curls tangle over it all hooks and thorns. She should cut her bangs, too. They're too long, swept to the side almost like layers instead of bangs.

Pen blows them out of her eyes. They go whisking up, fwoof! Then flop again.

"What's her band's name, anyway? Does it have one?" Pen asks.

Nick
Grace says this, and Nicholas shrugs, taking another swallow from his tumbler.  "Sorry," he says, and might've said more or offered a change of topic of his own, but here's Pen asking about band names.  He casts another look over his shoulder at the stage, which has an air of waiting about it, between its silence and the hum of the gathered crowd.

At which point he looks over to Grace again, interested in the answer.

Grace
He's a consummate therapist, isn't he? Wants to help people even if they don't necessarily feel it at the moment. Grace knows about duties, the way they drive you. She just nods at him, says: "No worries."

"I don't know, to be honest. Band name, I mean. It's just Sera's band, I guess?"

She cares so much, pays so much attention to the posters and the billing, doesn't she? Not here for the music, is Grace.

Pen
"I wish I could play an instrument," Pen says. "I wouldn't mind if I wasn't a great musician," and see, she is presuming that Serafíne (enthralling, liminal) is going to be great. "But I'd like to know enough to carry a tune. Perhaps I should try to pick something up."

"Do you ever listen to that atonal stuff? Noise music? There's one of your people back in New England I remember meeting who messes about with noise music. Nietzsche's Schrodinger is the name they go by?"

There are weirder things than a Virtual Adept in New England and a Virtual Adept in Denver (Mercurial Elite: welcome to a new age) knowing one another.

Grace
"God exists in a superposition of dead and alive?" Grace says, snorts -- she finds that to be hilarious. "Never heard the name, but they sound fun."

"I've been told my taste in music is terrible though. I... don't really. I mean, I'm here for Sera more than I am to hear her sing?"

Nick
There are stranger things; Nicholas has encountered here in Denver someone who may have known one of his past incarnations, and besides, Awakened communities are small.  It's not hard to find a gu who knows a guy.

He listens to the two of them, sipping quietly at his drink in the pause between breaths.  "So you've heard her play a lot before, then?"

Grace
"A few times," she says. "She sings a lot outside of the band too. Works with it, you know."

Grace slips up onto a barstool, takes the earplugs out of her coat again, fiddles with them absentmindedly while she waits.

She remembers -- lullabies to help her sleep, when sleep wasn't possible. Sera's songs as a balm against the world. As she told Pen not too long ago, the strongest bonds between her and her friends were always forged in pain.

Nick
The hum of the crowd has grown, and Nick glances over his shoulder to note some stirring behind and backstage; perhaps it won't be long before they step on.  They can be heard back there now, tuning their instruments.  Every once in a while the note from a guitar drifts out, thrumming and discordant until it stabilizes into harmony.

"I've known people who used music to Work before.  It's interesting to me.  I'm looking forward to seeing her."

Pen
There's time yet for a little more conversation, but not much more of it.

This is around when the band returns, having set up: Serafíne in a crown, metal and red and beauty, and then all the rest of them: their sizzling charisma, their noise and their loudness. Somebody does the opening patter; maybe it is Sera, with that smile of hers, as she looks around.

But then they play.

--

And for a time, in this moment, in just this present instant, there's much to be 'couraged about: music. companions, drink, survival, even a reason for survival: that lovely cloud of sound thrown up above the rest.

Pen quite literally wears a pair of rose tinted sunglasses sometimes, though.