Pen has been in the library for hours and is, just at this moment, remembering that she is a living woman, with muscles that will protest being in one position for too long or would were Pen not so wholehearted in her studies. The Flambeau sets her pen down on the table and stretches her arms up, over her head; her sleeves skim back from her wrists, catch at her elbows and then slide down her upper arms as she arcs her back and bows her head, burnished lashes low on her cheekbones. Then she lengthens her spine and, her feet had been curled around the chair's legs, but now she points her toes and languishes back on the chair, going loose. Having stopped reading and taking notes, she becomes aware that her hand hurts, so Penelope packs her arcane ledgers away in her bag, and wearily heads to the kitchen for some tea.
Up the stairs, then, thumb kneading the center of her palm, between the mount of Venus and the mount of Luna, circling the Plain of Mars, through the hall and into the kitchen.
Grace
Grace arrives with a mission. Her singular purpose today is to visit the library. Books are better than people. They put their prejudices on the inside cover, usually. That, or they have a reputation, which makes it easy to avoid the Starship Troopers and the Sad Puppies. That, and if a book pisses you off, you can always put it back on the self, write a scathing review, and never have to see it again. Not so, with people.
People are bunch of assholes.
Pen will find her in the living room discarding her coat atop a couch, to reveal the t-shirt underneath. It's got a giraffe on it, one with about 8 ties around its neck, with the words: 'Trust me, I'm super professional' written off to the side.
Penelope Mars
Does Pen want to be social? Pen does want to be social; she just left the library, and so Grace noisily discarding her coat (Grace, who feels like the beginning of a quake or an abrupt change in the zeitgeist who feels like the edge of a blade and a flurry of wings) in the living room does pause the Hermetic before she even makes it to the hall.
"Hello, Grace," says she. "How are you?"
Penelope: well. Penelope is not wearing a coat; she has left it down below, in the library, at the chair she has claimed. She did not leave her bag; it is criss-crossed over her torso, the strap of it embroidered with a floral motif. Her blouse is open (scoundrel [sensuousness]) at the collar, but delicate eyelet detailing at the seams revealing skin and lending the billowing drama of the sleeves a certain delicacy; her pants are a burnt orange-red and dully iridescent, a banked spark of heat in a coal dying down, which teases out brighter colors from her hair, and her boots are not in evidence today. Many rings, as usual, and one bracelet which almost seems like a bracer, some piece of cool armor dredged from who knows what lake-side realm what fantasy.
Grace
Pen says hello, and it would jolt Grace, if Pen weren't alltogether so vibrant she couldn't be missed. Even as single-minded as Grace is today, she can't find herself missing notice of the Hermetic.
"Hey. Could be better," she says. It's all she says.
Penelope Mars
"Do you wish to talk about it? I was going to make myself tea, but I can share the pot," Pen says, and the offer sounds quite sincere. And looks sincere, too, doesn't it? Pen has a certain reserve, but the impression left behind by the reserve is more one of self-possession and self-control (hard-won, fought-for) or passion kept at bay than any coldness.
Grace
"Not really," she says. "I mean, I don't really want to talk about it, but I'd love the tea."
For one, Grace isn't one for gossiping. As much as she believes wholeheartedly in the spread of information, going and telling everyone exactly what happened between herself and Ari would be a dick move. That, and Ari is Pen's friend, and the last thing Grace wants right now is another fight,another break, another weakness in the community for something larger and stronger to exploit.
As much as her t-shirt screams silliness, there's something subdued about Grace today -- like she is sick, or suffering from some other ache that's less definable.
Penelope Mars
"Do you object to black tea so late in the day?"
Pen, you are speaking to a Virtual Adept (Mercurial Elite, whatever), they do not usually object to caffeine. Still, she asks the question to be answered, not simply to make small talk, and once answered Pen will make the necessary arrangements: Fill the silver kettle high with water, turn the burner on; find a pot, find a cage for loose leaf tea, find loose leaf tea and scoop it in. Russian Caravan, smoke-fires and Siberian trains, is one possibility; if Grace follows Pen into the kitchen Pen will look to her (a questant note in her eyes) for an opinion. If not Russian Caravan, then Creamy Earl Grey; a classic. If Grace does not follow Pen into the kitchen, Russian Caravan is the inevitable end: Pen likes smokey things.
Grace
Grace follows Pen into the kitchen, leaving her coat all alone on the sofa. She splays her arms atop a counter when she gets there, stretching her back out with a pop.
"It's late?" she says, thinks about it. The sun's still up. How late can it be? "I'm good. I don't have a bedtime."
She claws at the counter-top, with short nails that come from being upset at the inability to type with long ones.
"Whichever you like is fine. There's good tea here."
Penelope Mars
"After five o' clock," Pen says. There's a stricken pause: "It is after five o' clock, is it not? It isn't -- "
This swift glance toward the windows; and yes, the mellow gold of late afternoon is indolent on the fields, and it does not seem to be morning after all. The alarm stirred up subsides again, replaced by naked relief. The Russian Caravan is inhaled; dust and ash and smoke, a hard iron edge, cardamom and purple flakes of poppy. There is a purple stone nestled in the hollow of Pen's throat, as a jewel might nestle in a pommel, suspended by a fine silver chain; stone and moonlight and mere.
"I wish Saturn did not rule me so, but if I want to see Nicholas sometimes I need to yoke myself to his sickle and pay attention to the time."
With nothing to do about the tea for now except wait for the water to heat, Pen rests her forearms on the edge of the counter and rests too her regard on Grace. "I noticed about the tea. Someone has good taste; I can be quite a tea snob."
She can be, her tone says, but the good humoured glint in it says that she probably isn't when presented with an opportunity to turn up her nose.
Grace
"It's probably Kalen," Grace says. "He likes bringing gifts for the Chantry, and making sure we all don't go without the very best."
There's fondness there, a lot of it. And also perhaps a bit of a playful jab at him for requiring that 'very best'.
She straightens up, and the necklace about her own throat glints silver onto a wall. A flat pendant with the sun on one side, and a latitude/longitude pair on the other. It's the only adornment she has today, and were it not for that one thing, would be happy to go without.
"I don't really... yoke myself to anybody, really. My sickle, well, he has similar hours to mine. Which is to say, few of them."
Penelope Mars
"Whoever it is, I commend their taste," Pen says, May Queen gracious. Her blouse is the color of May flowers, that particular Spring-snowy cream and ivory and it casts a hazy shadow on her skin when she shifts to a more comfortable lean.
She likes it when people are fond of other people; it reminds her of why she should be fond of people. Pen listens, massaging the palm of her hand again and then her bare wrist (as opposed to the wrist encased in metal). Pen's hands are an artist's model's hands, too, long-fingered and sharp-knuckled, My sickle, Grace says, and Pen's nose crinkles; a smile sifts up in her eyes, because she is ardent and romantic, or maybe because Grace is using poetic language too.
"Have I met him? I'm still unsure whether I've met practically the whole city, or only the iceberg tip of it, and beneath the waters are lurking all manner of other Magi. But," oh, the brightness dims - intent curiosity, "Few of them? Work which takes you two away from one another?"
Grace
Has she met him? At first, Grace wants to say of course. Pen has met Kalen. But then, she goes on, and it becomes clear she's talking about that sickle of hers.
"I don't know? Maybe you have? He travels a lot. Mike MacCarrick ring any bells?"
She drops a name. Perhaps Pen has met him. More likely she has heard of him, this leader among the Chakravanti. He travels a lot, because those who have a need for his services do not always arrange themselves in one place, and they all require a personal touch. Many are the people who need to die.
"He came here hunting a Nephandus once. Reluctantly agreed to let me help," she says, curls up at the mouth over the memory. "But, you know, afterwards, duty called for elsewhere."
Penelope Mars
Does Mike MacCarrick ring any bells? Penelope creases her brow in consideration, but ultimately shakes her head; unless Mike MacCarrick was based in New England, in which case: she probably slants her mouth to one side and says something along the lines of "Maybe."*
She seems interested in Grace's adventure with Mike, however, and perhaps sympathetic to the call of duty. She might ask about it, except at this moment exactly the kettle boils over, whistling shrill and bright and gathering steam and Pen is quick (truly) to straighten and take the kettle from the burner, quick to turn the burner off, too. Pen: is a visual poem; a ballad, a throw-back, an Archaicism forced into a modern shape - she does not feel 'forced.' She takes the lid back off the tea pot, and says,
"Speaking of afterwards, Alexander is saved! Have you seen him yet?"
---
* aka Jess is keeping this loose in case Jamie ever does anything with that NPC again and is like 'lol yeah he's totally been in New England Pen/Nick totally know him'
Grace
"Not yet," she says, and the tone to her voice retreats back, away from fondness, and more toward the muffled.
He's saved. Physically. Saved, to come and rejoin the community, which is now full of people who might just look down on him for being who he is. Plucked from one prison, into another. Makes her stomach churn.
They should be better than the fucking Technocrats.
"I will, soon." And what is she going to tell him?
Penelope Mars
Pen pours; the water is clear, breaks light; steam rises in billows, roiling up and outward. Delphic. There's a ceramic click as she neatly slides the top back on the tea pot. Silver kettle to one side, and elbow by the pot to soak up warmth.
"You seem," and here: a slender pause. "Trepidatious. Do you believe he doesn't want to see you?"
Grace
Well, that wasn't what she was thinking, but... maybe he doesn't. The thought raises her eyebrows, and she presses her lips together.
"Maybe. The last time we talked, he didn't want to speak to me again. I uh... Sent someone to the precinct where he works to ask him some questions, and didn't let him know she was coming. I thought she'd say. He thought she was a Technocratic agent, and proceeded to disconnect himself from everybody for like, months.
"I figured out what happened, and when I told him, he got so so pissed. Understandably, so. And then, he gets caught for real. I don't know. Don't know if he'll be exactly happy to see me."
Penelope Mars
The hot damp air from the pour-of-boiling-water has burnished her braid, polished it, whetted the gleam in it; has softened her lashes; threatened a tendril of hair with more curl, this dewy luster now come to her complexion; that might be how a lady knight would look, after pouring boiling water on some enemies below: a cruel way to do somebody in; boil their skin off. The kiss of all that heat. She winces when Grace gets to 'and then, he gets caught for real,' strokes the smooth metal of one of her rings, meditative over that brightness.
"Did you apologize then? I know," and there is fervence, here; some old rue, "that apologizing does not always help, as we are told it will when we are kids, but ... well, all I know is you were so passionate and quick in his defense, you seem to really care, and hopefully he will see that. I don't know how happy he will be; I think it is hard to come back to yourself after you have been kept in a cage."
Grace
"Of course I apologized," she says, huffs. "And yeah. I imagine it is hard, for him."
There, she shifts herself away from the counter, starts pacing the room. It helps. Her eyes take in the borders of the place, the parts where axis meets axis.
"And I mean, I do care about him. But I'd do the same for even the people who regularly piss me off. People don't deserve that kind of thing just for being a little wrong-headed."
Penelope Mars
The Mercurial Elite (winged, quake) cannot be still: pushes herself up, and paces the room, sizing up the boundaries. The fire-crowned May-Queen sword-eyed Wizard(ess) braces herself on the counter, on the palms of her hands, after watching Grace for a moment.
She doesn't interrupt yet, in case Grace is going to say more; people pacing tend to say a lot, although sometimes in fits and starts; Pen has noticed this.
She pulls down two mugs, one which she thinks Grace will like because it has a robot smashing up a cake on it, and one which she knows she likes, because she has used it every day she has come to the Morrison House, and it is of green clay shot-through with an iridescent silver glaze, shadows seeping along its cracks, and pours the tea.
The fragrance of it is smoke: is dragon's heart, is rich; is winter, in its way; is the heart of coal.
Grace
Grace does like the one with the robot smashing up a cake. Maybe Kalen brought that here for her as well. He does things like that, sometimes. Whatever the reason for it, she crosses over to the mugs, takes the one she likes, continues pacing.
Wordlessly.
At least, for a while.
"Thanks, for the tea."
Sometimes, Grace remembers manners. Most of the time, not.
Penelope Mars
"You're welcome."
Pen cups her fingers around her mug, and it burns her; scalds her; scorches her. At least, it promises to do so - and, see, her magickal signature yearns toward such things, ardent as it is, and perhaps one of the first things she ever learned was how to feel heat.
Pen does not pace. Stillness, that reserve, seems comfortable and natural for her; even as open and honest as she is (seems), she is reserved; some richly colored thing, vibrant and tempered into a muse.
"I hope your reunion goes the way you want it to go," she says, finally. "And that there need be no more rescue missions for some time. What does Alexander do for fun? Can he be lured into joining our future battle ring that will be?"
Grace
"Maybe. If he doesn't just leave. I wouldn't blame him," she says. After all, here is where the Techs still know he is. Here is where the tide is turning against him.
Grace isn't in the mood for the theme of joy.
She has to move slower now, with the hot water in her cup, lest it spill over the sides. She stares down into it as she walks.
"I've seen him play basketball," she says. "He rides a motorcycle. Likes camping, marshmallows, that kind of thing. He is a good fighter, but I'm not sure if he finds that to be fun exactly."
PenelopeGrace has to move slower now, but something about how she moves, the constancy of it, makes Pen think that perhaps Grace would be moving swiftly still, hurtling like a comet around and around the room, if only the Russian Caravan didn't slow her down. Pen takes a sip of her tea; lets it scald her tongue, her throat, as she swallows. Cardamom and darkness, the darkness of the interior of a seed: that's what Russian Caravan's faint bitter aftertaste makes her think of. She smiles faintly at this picture of Alexander which Grace conjures up, somebody outdoorsy and sporty and maybe uncomplicated, at least in his tastes. But the smile is a brief spark of luminescence, because there are graver topics on Grace's mind, Pen thinks.
And the Hermetic is glass-clear, always: she Cares.
"Do you think he should leave?" She just doesn't know what's bothering Grace, or how much to pry. "Is that why you seem upset?"
Grace"Mmm," Grace says, into her tea. "I've got about five or six different things to be bothered by right now, and Alex's fate is one of them."
She blows on her tea, trying to cool it, because she doesn't need her taste buds burned into silence -- and also because it gives her time to think about what she's going to say next.
"If he did leave, it makes me wonder. I've heard, in other places, those unaffiliated with a specific Tradition are frowned upon and shunned. I've seen the way some people come here, to Denver, and are so... Well, it's obvious they've been through Hell with nobody at their backs. Maybe he's better off here, with the Techs at his throat than that.
"Ultimately, of course, it's up to him what he does. But I don't even know what advice to give."
Penelope"Honestly, I don't think leaving will keep him any safer than staying will. It's not like the Union is limited in scope to one city or another, and if rumor is to be believed, they are monolithic in a way we aren't. I don't really believe it, but I guess what I'm trying to say is he might as well stand tall here, where he survived, where he was captured and in the middle of being imprisoned like that went Seeking successfully -- the spirit of Crow told Nicholas and Kiara that, then go try and start 'fresh' elsewhere."
"At the same time, I'm like you. I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to go elsewhere. I just," and here, a delicate shrug, "don't believe he should, if safety's the only reason he would."
The rest of what Grace said has Penelope thoughtful. Pensive, even, her gray eyes undimmed, curious. "Did you Awaken here in Denver?"
Grace"I did. So did Alex," she says, eyes going up into the distance, as if to look into the past. "I can't speak for him, but when I was an apprentice, I had no end of people ready and willing to take me under their wing, even if they didn't have a clue what was coming out of my mouth when I talked about my Magick.
"Alex, it seems he tries to put everyone else under his wing, so to speak. Even if he's... was just an Apprentice, he offers up to go wading into danger with just his gun and his strength, and..."
It just makes everything Arianna said burn a hot-fresh streak in her brain. She grips the mug tight. Takes a sip of tea.
"This is good tea."
Penelope"I do like Russian Caravan," Pen says, longing satisfied in the remark; it is a place holder remark, because she is thinking about what Grace said. When Pen and Alex meet (again, not that Pen can be sure of it), it will be strange for her: to have heard so much about one, to have been so involved in his saving, and yet still know him not at all.
"I'm sorry Alex was taken." Brisk; they both already know Pen is sorry about that. They're all sorry about that. "And I can't speak for everywhere, of course, but I found the same thing back when I was a Disparate. I ... well, for a while, I was rather determined to stay one. I had a number of Traditionalist friends - should I say friends?" She sounds musing, meditative. "I don't know; interested parties? Some of them taught me or explained things to me without any strings attached, or only the sort of strings that building a community and lending aid, which gift-giving, naturally endows one with."
"But it wasn't all people trying to help. It was people being suspicious, as well, or scornful and dismissive. I was never shunned, but some people are more fanatical than others about their ... way of life, I suppose."
Grace"I never got that. Even after I'd joined the Adepts -- and I know a lot of people are scornful of technomancy in general. Well, I say never. One or two times, and they were highly avoidable people."
She sips her tea again, stops in the restlessness, to go lean against the far wall.
"The core spirit of community in Denver as long as I've been here has always been to band together, because if we don't we die," Grace says. "Not a whole lot of room to argue about how people should do their Magick when you've got an Umbral Lord of Terror crawling out of the walls. Not a whole lot of room to call someone a dick for who he chooses not to sign up with, when he's in between you and the plant zombies."
Grace huffs. Tea ripples. Maybe Denver will be the lesson Arianna needs to learn. Maybe she'll learn it before the creature with five arms tries to eat her head, but that's doubtful.
Penelope"You'd be surprised by how willing some people are to argue," Pen says, and her thoughts seem to have pulled somewhere else; probably somewhere in the past, but who is to say? The tea has begun to rejuvenate her. There are still dark hollows around her eyes from too many hours spent hunched over books, but there's more vigor in the way she stands. She is not so drained, so worn, as Grace is; only studied out. The warmth of the tea has done away with most of the ache of her hand; at least, it has done away with it until she tries to hold a pen again. "Even in the face of what seem to be insurmountable terrors."
Brief pause. "I am happy to have come to a place with so many ready to help, when it comes to survival; I could wish," and she softens her voice; she is earnest, see, and hopes not to sound critical, because she is not: only an idealist of a very particular kind, "that it was building, rather than being besieged, which brought the community together, but I understand it is difficult when a community is small and there are - "
Another brief pause. "Have there really been plant zombies?"
Grace"There has been building, too. Just, when it comes down to it, people tend to trust the ones standing between them and death a lot more readily than the ones offering them a place to sleep if they need it, you understand?"
She sips at her tea again.
"Plant zombies -- that was a spirit-y thing of some kind. Nature gone mad or whatever. Had everybody who visited this one lake -- animals included -- turned into mindless shambles with roots sticking out everywhere. I don't really get them very well -- spirits I mean. They seem to be able to do just... a lot of weird shit."
Penelope"I haven't studied them very much myself, in the cabals I have been part of there has always been someone able to speak to them and deal with them, and before - when I was on my own," a bat of a lash; not quite a hesitation. Pen is self-possessed. "I was new; I just didn't study them. I have read some books; truly, they do seem to be multitudinous, and alien."
"And I do understand, up to a certain point. If someone can only be motivated to come together when Death is in the offing, how much can you trust them? Unless Death or Doom happens to be around. It's good to have those people; I just wish..."
Quiet; touched by (tarnished by) yearning. "I just wish for more."
"Did you come to the Chantry for the Node, the Library, or the socializing?"
Grace"It becomes more, when people pick you up after the falling," Grace says. "When they show you that no matter what you're going through because of plant zombies or whatever that it'll be okay."
Spoken from experience, that.
"I came for the Library. I kind of wanted to be alone, but hey -- thanks for the talk. It was..." Informative. "Nice."
Penelope"You are welcome," Pen says, with a cant of her head for the way Grace trailed away before settling on the word. Pen is a Hermetic, see; how language is shaped always grabs her attention. "And you are welcome to call me, should you ever want to talk. But I hope you already knew that."
Grace is here for the library. "I will walk you down if you like; I left my pens there, but I think I am going to take off." Pen finishes her tea; will rinse it, wash it clean; leave it by the window sill to dry, where the sun can get it come tomorrow. Their conversation has seen the sun sinking, not quite gone, but - it is the verge of twilight now, that golden hour.
And the Hermetic is glass-clear, always: she Cares.
"Do you think he should leave?" She just doesn't know what's bothering Grace, or how much to pry. "Is that why you seem upset?"
Grace"Mmm," Grace says, into her tea. "I've got about five or six different things to be bothered by right now, and Alex's fate is one of them."
She blows on her tea, trying to cool it, because she doesn't need her taste buds burned into silence -- and also because it gives her time to think about what she's going to say next.
"If he did leave, it makes me wonder. I've heard, in other places, those unaffiliated with a specific Tradition are frowned upon and shunned. I've seen the way some people come here, to Denver, and are so... Well, it's obvious they've been through Hell with nobody at their backs. Maybe he's better off here, with the Techs at his throat than that.
"Ultimately, of course, it's up to him what he does. But I don't even know what advice to give."
Penelope"Honestly, I don't think leaving will keep him any safer than staying will. It's not like the Union is limited in scope to one city or another, and if rumor is to be believed, they are monolithic in a way we aren't. I don't really believe it, but I guess what I'm trying to say is he might as well stand tall here, where he survived, where he was captured and in the middle of being imprisoned like that went Seeking successfully -- the spirit of Crow told Nicholas and Kiara that, then go try and start 'fresh' elsewhere."
"At the same time, I'm like you. I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to go elsewhere. I just," and here, a delicate shrug, "don't believe he should, if safety's the only reason he would."
The rest of what Grace said has Penelope thoughtful. Pensive, even, her gray eyes undimmed, curious. "Did you Awaken here in Denver?"
Grace"I did. So did Alex," she says, eyes going up into the distance, as if to look into the past. "I can't speak for him, but when I was an apprentice, I had no end of people ready and willing to take me under their wing, even if they didn't have a clue what was coming out of my mouth when I talked about my Magick.
"Alex, it seems he tries to put everyone else under his wing, so to speak. Even if he's... was just an Apprentice, he offers up to go wading into danger with just his gun and his strength, and..."
It just makes everything Arianna said burn a hot-fresh streak in her brain. She grips the mug tight. Takes a sip of tea.
"This is good tea."
Penelope"I do like Russian Caravan," Pen says, longing satisfied in the remark; it is a place holder remark, because she is thinking about what Grace said. When Pen and Alex meet (again, not that Pen can be sure of it), it will be strange for her: to have heard so much about one, to have been so involved in his saving, and yet still know him not at all.
"I'm sorry Alex was taken." Brisk; they both already know Pen is sorry about that. They're all sorry about that. "And I can't speak for everywhere, of course, but I found the same thing back when I was a Disparate. I ... well, for a while, I was rather determined to stay one. I had a number of Traditionalist friends - should I say friends?" She sounds musing, meditative. "I don't know; interested parties? Some of them taught me or explained things to me without any strings attached, or only the sort of strings that building a community and lending aid, which gift-giving, naturally endows one with."
"But it wasn't all people trying to help. It was people being suspicious, as well, or scornful and dismissive. I was never shunned, but some people are more fanatical than others about their ... way of life, I suppose."
Grace"I never got that. Even after I'd joined the Adepts -- and I know a lot of people are scornful of technomancy in general. Well, I say never. One or two times, and they were highly avoidable people."
She sips her tea again, stops in the restlessness, to go lean against the far wall.
"The core spirit of community in Denver as long as I've been here has always been to band together, because if we don't we die," Grace says. "Not a whole lot of room to argue about how people should do their Magick when you've got an Umbral Lord of Terror crawling out of the walls. Not a whole lot of room to call someone a dick for who he chooses not to sign up with, when he's in between you and the plant zombies."
Grace huffs. Tea ripples. Maybe Denver will be the lesson Arianna needs to learn. Maybe she'll learn it before the creature with five arms tries to eat her head, but that's doubtful.
Penelope"You'd be surprised by how willing some people are to argue," Pen says, and her thoughts seem to have pulled somewhere else; probably somewhere in the past, but who is to say? The tea has begun to rejuvenate her. There are still dark hollows around her eyes from too many hours spent hunched over books, but there's more vigor in the way she stands. She is not so drained, so worn, as Grace is; only studied out. The warmth of the tea has done away with most of the ache of her hand; at least, it has done away with it until she tries to hold a pen again. "Even in the face of what seem to be insurmountable terrors."
Brief pause. "I am happy to have come to a place with so many ready to help, when it comes to survival; I could wish," and she softens her voice; she is earnest, see, and hopes not to sound critical, because she is not: only an idealist of a very particular kind, "that it was building, rather than being besieged, which brought the community together, but I understand it is difficult when a community is small and there are - "
Another brief pause. "Have there really been plant zombies?"
Grace"There has been building, too. Just, when it comes down to it, people tend to trust the ones standing between them and death a lot more readily than the ones offering them a place to sleep if they need it, you understand?"
She sips at her tea again.
"Plant zombies -- that was a spirit-y thing of some kind. Nature gone mad or whatever. Had everybody who visited this one lake -- animals included -- turned into mindless shambles with roots sticking out everywhere. I don't really get them very well -- spirits I mean. They seem to be able to do just... a lot of weird shit."
Penelope"I haven't studied them very much myself, in the cabals I have been part of there has always been someone able to speak to them and deal with them, and before - when I was on my own," a bat of a lash; not quite a hesitation. Pen is self-possessed. "I was new; I just didn't study them. I have read some books; truly, they do seem to be multitudinous, and alien."
"And I do understand, up to a certain point. If someone can only be motivated to come together when Death is in the offing, how much can you trust them? Unless Death or Doom happens to be around. It's good to have those people; I just wish..."
Quiet; touched by (tarnished by) yearning. "I just wish for more."
"Did you come to the Chantry for the Node, the Library, or the socializing?"
Grace"It becomes more, when people pick you up after the falling," Grace says. "When they show you that no matter what you're going through because of plant zombies or whatever that it'll be okay."
Spoken from experience, that.
"I came for the Library. I kind of wanted to be alone, but hey -- thanks for the talk. It was..." Informative. "Nice."
Penelope"You are welcome," Pen says, with a cant of her head for the way Grace trailed away before settling on the word. Pen is a Hermetic, see; how language is shaped always grabs her attention. "And you are welcome to call me, should you ever want to talk. But I hope you already knew that."
Grace is here for the library. "I will walk you down if you like; I left my pens there, but I think I am going to take off." Pen finishes her tea; will rinse it, wash it clean; leave it by the window sill to dry, where the sun can get it come tomorrow. Their conversation has seen the sun sinking, not quite gone, but - it is the verge of twilight now, that golden hour.
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