Ninjabread

Serafi­ne
It hardly feels like December anymore, even in the high plains of Colorado.  The sun came out and the temperature hit a balmy sixty-something degrees.  Colder out here, on the eastern slopes of the rockies, outside of the warmth of the city, where long shadows of the rising mountains to the west tuck into the contours of the land but still: warm,
warm,
warm.
That warmth is fading now, faster than it ever would in summer, because the ground is cold, has been frozen through, has endured the onslaught of night after night below freezing, even when the low drowse of the midday sun was enough to tip the temperature upward, and the solar radiation melted whatever lowland snows accumulated during the November storms.
Outside on the driveway: the sound of an engine.  Which sounds like any other engine from a distance.  Sera is not the driver.  When she comes out to the chantry, someone else brings her.  She is sober more often than not lately but nevertheless, the old ingrained habit will not die.
She does not intend to remain sober forever.
Or even: for long.
The kitchen door swings open a few minutes later and Sera and Dan come sweeping in.  Sera is carrying a covered platter and Dan has more supplies, is hefting them with the thoughtless ease of a young man carrying a case of beer and a couple of fifths and other assorted party supplies.
Just in case.
Wouldn't want to run out.
Beneath her breath, our Sera is humming a half-remembered song.

Pan
[herp a derp]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 5, 8, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Grace
[Nightmares!]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 1, 3, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )

Grace
[Percept+Awareness!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Pan
On the one hand he promised Sera he would pray inside because the weather is so mutable and the ground so cold and he's nowhere near to retirement age but on the other hand the priest prays a lot. Coming in from outside doesn't get him spending any less time on his knees.
He has the decency not to pray where the apprentices can stumble upon him. His resonance dredges up disquiet in more than a few of them. So he stays in the room he's chosen to occupy while he stays out here.
Sera can feel him Working when she and Dan walk into the kitchen. It isn't just the glaring bright of the wards and ban he's placed all around the place. The shield against mental intrusion that he keeps up that the demon won't hijack their dreams if they choose to sleep here. This is active and now and he's at it when the door opens and she starts to humming.
But he knows she's there. He'll stir soon enough.

Serafi­ne
Perception + Alertness
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 9) ( success x 4 )

Grace
Grace can't stay at home anymore. And no, it's not because of bad memories, or lack of funds, or anything like that. It has more to do with the fact that the Chantry now shines like a cold lamp, fortified with Pan's own personal brand of protection.
And she needs the protection.
She's moved a few things here, just the basics like shampoo and a couple changes of clothes, like she's having some extended sleepover until the whole 'demon' thing is settled. It makes it easier now that the semester is over, she no longer has to go into town every day.
Mostly it's quiet, save for... you know... people being sent to the hospital. Let's say, it's more of a punctuated silence. Every now and then, things go 'bang' really loudly.
Like, say, Sera swooping in with Dan, slipping some of that primal charm in with Pan's overwhelming brightness. She looks up from the couch in the living room, where she was busy with a hot laptop set up over her crossed legs. "Sera?"

Serafi­ne
Sera almost always knows where they are.  The others: any others.  She feels them behind her eyes and at the back of her throat, beneath her skin and at the root of her tongue.  She just feels them, they have a like a frequency she hears better than all others.  She just tunes them in.  Pan up there praying, the active brilliance of it, bright behind her eyes.  Sera sets one of the platters down on the kitchen counter and pulls a plate out of the cabinets and it is an absurd plate in the shape of a reindeer and Sera piles some cookies from the platter onto it and grabs one of those fifths as Dan turns around to head back outside and bring in the remaining supplies because the holidays require alcohol, one way or the other.
He pauses to give her a kiss on the crown of her head, grabs her upper arms with his hands as he does so, pulls her back against him and holds here there for a long moment.  Sera closes her eyes and turns her head back into his body and it all lasts no more than a moment.   Grace says Sera? and Sera calls out really rather brightly all things considered, "Yep!" and follows it up a moment later by heading into the living room, her plate of cookies in one hand, her fifth of Stranahan's in the other.
"Grace."  You really can't escape her, Grace.  Sera's path takes her behind the couch and she bends down and presses her mouth to the crown of Grace's head.  Then, she offers Grace a cookie.
They are gingerbread people.
Ninja gingerbread people.
Ninjabread, if you will.

Grace
Since this is Sera we're talking about here, Grace expects a bit of close contact. It's not even much of a 'thing' anymore. Like, if the sun is shining, one will get a tan. If Sera is in the room, one will get kissed, or hugged, or hair ruffled. There's no point in denying it. She's just like, this touchy-feely force of nature. So, the kiss to her head isn't a surprise or even an annoyance. It just is.
"Kung-fu cookies!" Grace exclaims, smiling with some measure of actual glee. "We should have gingerbattles."
She takes the cookie, which is shaped like an angry punching dude complete with icing face and fists, and makes a little 'hiyah!' noise.

Serafi­ne
"Dee made them," Sera returns, giving Grace the edge of a faint but rather sparkling, rather sparking little grin at the noise Grace makes.  Which is girlish and gleeful and lovely.  "Or, I don't know.  Her bakery makes them.  They're a hit with the fucking hipsters."
As Sera is something of a hipster queen, she should know, right.
"I don't remember, have you met Dee?" Circling around the couch, Sera sets the platter of ninjabread cookies down on the coffee table.  The whiskey bottle swings from her left hand as she moves, thoughtlessly a part of her.
It looks like Sera is ready to fling herself into a corner of the couch.  Close to Grace, naturally, except her dark eyes track upward to linger on the doorway, the stairwell.  Pan's resonance behind her eyes, beneath her skin, she breathes him in.
"My housemate.  Our bassist?"  Not that they really have a band anymore.  When the fuck was the last time they played out? "She can kick Hawksley's ass at Scrabble, too.
" - sometimes.  I am glad you like them, though."

Grace
"Yeah, I met her once. I got gingerbread in exchange for Ginger, remember?" Not exactly 'in exchange for', more like it was just there and everybody's the sharing sort.
Grace smiles at the mention of Hawksley and Scrabble. Yeah, bet he is a mean sucker to beat at that game. "Hey, I should challenge him sometime. See if he can beat the master," she smirks. Of course, he probably could.
"It's good to see you, Sera."

Serafi­ne
"Careful what you wish for, love."  It is Sera's own name that brings her attention back to Grace, directly and entirely.  The way Grace says it, perhaps.  There is something both intense and intent about the graze of her dark eyes over Grace's profile, which is a counterpoint to the lazy langour of her really still rather sad half-smile.  So many layers of immediacy.
"Bastard takes that Scrabble shit seriously.  Won't even be distracted by cupcakes, so plan your approach carefully, yeah?"
Then a pause, a noise in the back of Sera's through.  The quieter sweep of her mouth and a certain gleam of - well - something in Sera's eyes.
"Good to see you, too, Grace."
She could ask how things are, Sera.
She doesn't though.  There are still things that Sera just doesn't want to know.

Pan
The women have a few moments to themselves where they share each others' presence and the ninjabread cookies without the priest looming nearby and then a door opens down the corridor and the presence Sera could feel from the driveway steps across the threshold.
He looks as if he's just risen from a nap. That disjointed grogginess born of returning to reality after having spent so much time nestled away from it. He is not wearing his boots inside as he has the last several times Grace has come in from outside. When he comes out he is in his socked feet. Wears black slacks into which he has belted whatever he's wearing under a blue sweater.
Yes. Blue. Try not to faint. It's cold outside.
"Grace," he says. "Sera. ¿Qué tal?"

Grace
"Oh I take that Scrabble shit seriously too. It's strategy with words, how could I not?" She slowly shuts the laptop, and puts it on the table in front of the couch, just because shitty news stories about murders aren't the thing to be looking at right now.
Sera looks good. Sounds good. And while they're talking about Scrabble, there's the subtext of something else. Like, if they're talking about Scrabble, things can't be too terrible. It's a conversation carried without words.
And then, there is a Pan in the room. "Hey, Pan. I have a kung-fu cookie," she says, as if that explains exactly how she's doing. With that, she bites its foot off. Lovely.

Serafi­ne
"You, dormilón."  An edge of irony to the curl of Serafíne's mouth, and edge of intimacy in the affection inherent in the diminutive.  Her gaze cuts up from Grace to find Pan without hesitation, the minute the bomb-bright blast of his presence sweeps through the room.
And she knows he isn't sleepy, knows he wasn't sleeping.  Knows better than most, doesn't she, how far away magic can take you when you're Working.  Knows better than most what it means to disappear into something wider and deeper and greater than yourself.
So, her eyes are on his eyes, then his mouth, then his body.  The priest has filled out since she last saw him.  Not much, not enough, but he looks more like himself than he did the last time Sera saw him.
And in the month since he returned, not once has his sleep been disturbed by a particular drunk and disorderly Cultist who comes to find him when her trip goes wrong or a particular sort of whim takes her at four fifty three a.m.
And Sera looks more like herself, too.  Not wholly.  How could she?  She never will, not even with that bottle in hand, not until she's draining it dry and spinning herself off into some stranger's arms.
"Dee made them."  Sera explains, of the cookies.  "You should have one..
"Or five."
He should come over and give her a hug, too. But Sera does not tell him that.
There are some things he should just know.

Pan
Grace has a kung-fu cookie.
Pan squints out an approximation of a smile and then huffs out a laugh as he crosses the room to join them at the coffee table. He still hasn't gotten around to shaving the beard from his face but it's trimmed at least. He's trimmed his hair so it will not brush his collar either.
And Sera still has a bottle of whiskey in her hand but Sera has had a bottle of whiskey in her hand practically nearly every time he's met her. If she could have gotten away with it she would have brought it into a confessional booth that fateful night back in May.
"Maybe I will have five," he says and he loops an arm around her shoulders to give her a hug. Indicates Grace's cookie over the top of her head. "You go for the feet first, eh?"

Grace
"It's a really delicious foot," she says. "Seriously, Dee is awesome."
Perhaps Dee will always be associated with gingerbread to Grace, now that she's had it twice. Gingerbread, and Sera. Who is more like Sera today than Grace has seen in a while, and that is wonderful.
And also wonderful is Pan's hug, which Grace watches like she's enjoying some kind of documentary on human personal interaction rituals. See, this is what normal people do.
Excepting, of course, that Pan and Sera are not normal in any sense of the word.

Serafi­ne
Pan loops an arm around her shoulders to give Sera a hug and Sera, in turn, wraps her arms around his torso.  The bottle is full, is actually as yet unopened, and the weight is solid against the small of his back as her arms wrap around him.  Sera rests her cheek against the priest's chest and closes her eyes, soaking in his brilliance, inhaling him all-at-once, then shifts in his embrace, turning to stay close to him while including Grace in the immediate sweep of her gaze.
"She's been feeding me like whoa," says Sera, and she has gained weight since her ordeal, put a layer of healthy fat beneath her skin, enough, at least, to cushion the spare frame of her bones.  "Pain chocolat pretty much every day.
"I'll have Dan bring the left overs up here for you, instead of tearing them up for the birds in the back yard."  Then, a tip of her head against Pan's shoulder.  The slightest nudge of her nose.  Affectionate, even intimate.  And still rather sober, for all that.
"You gonna get together with Rafa over the holidays?"

Pan
For the duration of the embrace Pan lets his chin rest atop the crown of Sera's head. Like he's greeting a daughter. Like loss is something that was real in their dyad and every time he sees her is some sort of a blessing for him. Then she folds herself against his side and Pan gives her upper arm a quieting rub and keeps his arm around her shoulders. If she wants to stay rested against him he can stand as long as she can.
"Eh," he says to whether he'll be getting together with this Rafa character. "No, I don't think so. Last I heard he was out of the country. He sent Rosa a postcard from Peru a couple weeks ago."

Grace
"That would be nice. Pain chocolat is... what? Chocolate bread?"
Grace doesn't know who Rafa or Rosa is, and considers asking, before... no. It might be personal.
Instead, she munches her gingerbread man, feet first. Not the merciful kind, to start with the head, Grace. The cookie just scowls back regardless, now angrily punching the air without legs.

Serafi­ne
"Chocolate croissants," Sera informs Grace, giving the would-be VA a lazy, solid sort of grin.  "The real kind, made they way they do in French.  No icing, not too much sweetness.  The chocolate filling dark and maybe a bit bittersweet, all complex and interesting.
"That's what pain chocolat is.  Ridiculously healthy."
Then, turning to Pan, lifting her chin to look him full-on in the eye.  "Get his number from Rosa - I know she has one - and give him a call at least.  You may not remember but he came when you were in the hospital. Had both him and Shoshannah staying at my place, then.
"Just call him, okay?"

Pan
He doesn't remember. Sera can tell that he doesn't remember because she's looking right at him and he isn't making any attempt to conceal the fact that he's thinking about it. Eyes canted slight towards the inside of his skull like he can find the memory in there somewhere. Even Grace who finds it difficult to read people can read this.
This is the son he told her about. Occam's razor. Who the hell else would Sera be on him about contacting during the holidays with everything that's going on.
Pan reels in and releases a breath and gives her a smile. She'd asked this of him once when he'd come back to a central gathering place splashed in his own blood talking like he was simultaneously propelled towards and holding the others back from where they all needed to be. Evil made flesh less than three miles away.
One of them is in the hospital now. A few of them will be going up into the mountains to deal with this demon in not too much time. It's not a coincidence. He needs to call his son.
So he leans down and holds the back of her head still with one hand and plants a dry kiss on her hairline and then steps back like he's going to escort her out.
"I gotta ask you a favor, actually. You staying or going?"

Grace
Ugh. The talk of calling people, especially people who must be family to Pan? Yeah. That brings up memories of the time Sera asked Grace to call her mom, a thing which has not happened yet.
Must the Cultist always be so damn right all the time? Because it's not easy things she asks, yes? Maybe Grace can see that in Pan's eyes, in that roaming thinking gaze. Like yeah, she does that to everybody it seems.
She'll need like... 5 chocolate croissants to get get through that particular quest. For now, her cookie is finished off. Comfort, thy name is sugar.

Serafine
Sera closes her eyes when Pan leans in to plant that kiss at the edge of her hairline  Lifts her face to his, naturally, the way some flowers follow the movement of the sun across the skin.
He asks if she's staying or going, and there's a moment where something quiet and awful and skittish sheans across her expression, visible but only just, like the rainbow hue of oil over water.
"Going," Sera tells Pan, rather quietly, admits really and it is an admission.  Grace and Pan are the only people she might run into here whom she really wants to see.  So: going, naturally.  But the expression subsides as soon as it rises and Sera moves onward.  "Just bringing supplies.  You know I'll do anything for you.  Just give me a minute to check on Dan."
And, so saying, Sera slips out of Pan's embrace and heads back toward the kitchen, disappearing for the nonce to check on the booze she brought.
The important stuff.

Pan
Pan is gone five minutes maybe no more than ten and then he comes back into the house with the Cultist having parried his attempts to help drag things inside but not his request for aid. She would never deny him anything but whatever he asks of her he asks in relative privacy.
Then he comes back inside and he comes back to Grace's little cookie oasis of solitude and picks up one of his own ninjabread.
He goes for the head first. Puts the poor little guy out of his misery.
"I heard there was a bit of a mess up in the city the other day," he says after he's swallowed. "You alright?"

Grace
"I was here when it happened," she shakes her head. "I'm fine, really. Didn't get chewed up or anything."
Someone else did. "You know Garrett Franklin perhaps? He wasn't so lucky."
And you know, as much stupid crap has gone between herself and Garrett, she wasn't happy to hear about that. Not in the least.

Pan
Not the most appropriate thing in the world to be eating cake shaped and decorated to appear humanoid while discussing an incident that involved the consumption of body parts and near-death but Pan is himself human. Humans need to eat.
He finishes off the ninjabread man and relegates his hands to his pockets.
"Truth be told, I never met him," he says. "I take it he's the one in the hospital?"

Grace
"Yeah. He's kind of... Kalen's adopted dad. Anyway. Kalen's been a bit understandably upset about it," she says. She doesn't include herself in people who are still upset over Garrett, though.
"I guess it was just another case of Denver being Denver," she sighs. "I swear, it's like, you open your eyes, and all the sudden everything's all zombies and demons and McDonalds coming to eat you. I never knew Denver of all places was such a hellmouth." I was blind, and now I see. Grease monsters.

Pan
"Eh, it ain't just Denver."
Pan takes another breath and sits himself down on the furniture cat-corner from Grace. Doesn't deign to touch her. His body language is open yet constrained at once. Fingers knit together even though he isn't planning on staying here long.
"Not much consolation, I know. Your world opens up when your eyes do. World itself don't change but your understanding of it, yeah? The things you're willing to see and accept when you do see them? That's all that's making it seem like so much crazy shit's coming out the woodworks now you know what's actually going on. Gotta make sure you're open to seeing as much good. Huh?"
Unsolicited advice. Must be like a vampire. You invite him in once and the house may as well be his from then on.
"How's Kalen holding up? If he's been around the house this week I ain't seen him."

Grace
"I'm open to seeing the good, Pan. I think I am at least," she gives him a little smile. "We're the good. We have to be, otherwise..." Well, otherwise, zombies. Or viruses. Or whatever the end-of-the-world of the week happens to be.
"Yeah, you haven't seen Kalen because he's sticking to Garrett's side," she says. "He can be quite the caring guy, don't let the icy exterior fool you. But he's okay, if a little... protective of Garrett right at the moment."

Pan
"Well, I can imagine why."
All he can do is imagine. He wasn't there and he's never met Garrett. But Sera did say his own son was there while he was comatose in the hospital. This son who didn't know him until he was nine years old. Isn't much of a stretch that a kid Kalen's age would develop filial feelings towards an older member of his own tradition.
"I never noticed the, ah, ice, though. Consider me unfooled."

Grace
"Heh. The first time I met Kalen, he glared at me a lot for getting in his personal space and daring to talk to him," she says, leaving Pan to imagine that one. Grace isn't the kind to get in anyone's personal space, right?
"But, now, he likes bringing me takeout just to make sure I'm eating," she shrugs. "Sometimes, he takes a bit to warm up to a person is all."

Pan
Though he was listening as she explained her impression of Kalen and he even smiled a bit at the notion of Grace getting up in anyone's space enough to offend another person that smile slowly disappears when she mentions Kalen's evolved role in her life. Nods to indicate he's heard her before he shifts gears.
"You eaten anything today besides junk food?"

Grace
"Oh yeah, yeah. Shoshannah makes enough food for an army, you know that," she says. "Hummus is not junk food, right?
"I do hope Sera's eating more than just pain chocolat, though..."
Grace looks a bit pensive. Sera looks better, but appearances are just that, right? She was skeletal not a month ago, and after what they went through... Well, red meat would be a little more preferable to chocolate croissants, nutrient-wise.

Tremor Dervish
The roar of the vintage war era motorcycle crept up on the Chantry like a rapidly approaching storm.  The thunderous chugging of the machine led it up toward the front door of the house before the engine died with one last monstrous gulp of air.  Tremor kicked down the stand and slung his leg off from atop it.
The hollow features of shaved head accentuated his skull, giving him a grim look by default.  It probably wasn't helped any by a few pink polka dots of freshly burned flesh pock marking his face and scalp.  The beast at the McDonalds had slain his leather jacket (at least, it was airing out and the prognosis was not good.)  In lieu of that, he was wearing a heavy flannel shirt which, despite the weather, was unbuttoned and hanging open.  Around his torso was fixed a long stretch of ace bandage that was holding sloppily placed wads of gauze to his others burns.  His heavy biker boots plodded up to the front door where he paused to knock.

Pan
He knows how much food Shoshannah prepares. It's thickening his muscles and pouring fat over them. The reminder and the question both make him burst into off-guard and brief laughter before she expresses concern over Sera's eating happens.
"So do I."
Hope she's eating more than bread and chocolate. It'll do until she's back to her fighting weight but her fighting weight wasn't very high to begin with. Most of Serafíne's calories come in liquid form.
The priest could feel the seer coming before he approached the door but it isn't until the knock sounds that he contemplates standing.
And Pan doesn't believe in hollering across the room to communicate with someone on the other side of a door so he gets to his feet and crosses the room to open it.
"Mister Dervish," he says and steps aside to let him in. "Hi." Not until the door is shut and the younger man has passed through the invisible airlock between outside and in does Pan tell him: "You don't gotta knock next time. If you weren't supposed to be here you wouldn't be able to find the place. That door ain't usually locked."

Grace
Grace tries, once, to save Pan a trip to the door, but then just plops her butt back down on the couch when she realizes what she's doing. Pan's an adult. He can answer the door if he wants to. And besides, the last time she tried saving him a few steps, she only ended up hitting him in the face with her phone, so. There's that.
Her own, more limited perceptions, still notice Tremor. A new sensation. But Pan's not obviously concerned, and apparently knows this person. That's good enough for Grace.
When they appear from the hall that leads to the outside, she gives the new guy a wave, and a little smile.

Tremor Dervish
"Hey.  I get you.  Still feels weird...  Somebody's home and all.  What if I walked in and no one was here?"  The tall, stringy punk shrugged sheepishly as he pushed the door closed with a gentle, measured, certainty that belied his giant hands and stringy, looming form.
"I was hoping to get some news about Garrett.  Last I saw him he was being pushed into an ambulance.  Shit like that doesn't sit right with me.  Back in the day, you might as well have been turning someone over to the 'Crats if you sent them to a hospital."
He watched that portion of the ordeal from a safe distance.  Tremor was not the kind of guy that filed out police reports.  Not without spitting, either on the cop, or the report.  Probably both, just to make sure.
He glanced past Pan to wave at Grace, but, seemed to wait on the other man's cue as to when it was appropriate to move deeper into the house.

Pan
Back in the day, Tremor says. Pan looks over his face and he considers his own words. Like so many are clustering around the base of his throat and he isn't sure which ones to let out into the world. Like folks today aren't still worried about being 'transferred to another facility' and nobody ever hearing from them again.
He goes with: "You remember the War?"
Skepticism or camaraderie depends on the other man's answer but Pan's well into his forties. He's powerful but not of the echelon that disappeared over a decade ago and left the rest of them to fend for themselves. Not even an Adept in the city. He and Garrett are the closest they've got.
Either way he leads him into the living room where a plate of gingerbread cookies decorated to look like ninjas sits on the coffee table and introduces the two silent-waving young'uns to each other.
"Tremor, this is Grace Evans. She's an apprentice. Does stuff with computers and phones and... I don't understand it, but I'm sure you will. Grace, this is Tremor Dervish. He just got into town... must've been last week. Maybe you can fill him in on what's going on with Mister Franklin."
Sounds like he's excusing himself.

Grace
"If we found you by yourself in the Chantry, we would string you up by your toenails to a ceiling fan, and then turn it on," Grace replies, completely deadpan. "It's tradition. Hi, Tremor. Nice to meet you."
The silly nature of the conversation is meant to put Tremor at a bit of ease regarding Garrett's prognosis. And his other fears as well.
"Garrett's still in the hospital, last I heard. He's doing better though, and I guarantee you he is being watched like a hawk by someone really fabulous at killing bad guys."

Tremor Dervish
"Yeah.  I remember."  He confirmed with a solemn nod.  It was hard to place his age.  The eyebrow rings, the punk trappings, that sort of stuff seemed to indicate a youth that his hollow features just couldn't back up.  He was at least old enough to have been on the front lines during the final years as many of the last great chantries were scoured from the Earth.
It was an understatement, his remembrance.
His boots were clean this time.  He'd made sure.  His heavy thunderclap footfalls sounded behind Pan as he followed the man into the living room.
"Nice to meet you, Grace."  He made a smile.  It was a little awkward.  Maybe a little goofy.  It was an honest expression on a face that wasn't intended to, or used to, expressing it.  He provided a nod to Pan that seemed to be acknowledgement of his intended departure.
Now that he was more immediately available to size up, the tattoos snaking down his arm onto his wrist were visible, as was the large, prominent eye etched onto his left palm in black ink.
"I'll remember to wash my feet."  He supplied helpfully, before he paused and nodded again slowly as he seemed to hesitantly take Grace's word for it.
"Well, good.  If things go south, consider this my preemptive offer to help.  He stood his ground, put up a good fight.  Might have been a little overzealous with the Zeus, Lord of Lightning routine, but, hey, it happens."

Pan
At the confirmation that he remembers because he was there Pan clasps a hand onto Tremor's shoulder. It's brief and then they move on. He introduces them. He picks up another ninjabread man. He lingers a moment to make sure they're getting on alright.
Garrett's still in the hospital. Watched like a hawk by someone really fabulous at killing bad guys.
He smothers a smile and bites the head off his second cookie and wanders off into the kitchen.
[i'm turning into a pumpkin. thank you for the scene, guys!]

Grace
Grace kind of raises a brow at the whole 'Zeus, Lord of Lightning' comment. Garrett? The dude's scary enough with his whole, 'I'll just go enter your mind and clean house' routine.
For a description of Grace, well... she's not nearly as noticeable as Tremor. Not nearly as noticeable as anyone, really. In blue jeans and a grey turtleneck jacket, she basically looks like she could belong anywhere, look like anyone. She also doesn't seem in the least concerned about Tremor's appearance, except for one thing...
"So, you were there? I notice you look a little, uh... burned."

Tremor Dervish
"Yeah... when he blew that thing up... it kinda... went everywhere.  And was on fire."  He recalled with a grimace.
"Luckily the only permanent damage on my end was my good jacket and a Iggy and the Stooges T-shirt.  Garret wasn't quite as lucky."

Grace
Grace gets this look on her face like she can just imagine, and doesn't want to. "Eww."
Yeah, eww.
"Sucks about the jacket though. If something took this out," she says, tugging at her turtleneck, "I'd be a little pissed."
Although, why really? It's the plainest thing you could think of as far as outerwear is concerned.

Tremor Dervish
Everyone had a preferred wardrobe.  Tremor didn't think that was entirely unreasonable.  He'd washed other people's blood off that jacket before.  It was a bonding experience.  For all he knew, that was her bad motherfucker tactical turtleneck.
He shrugged.
"Dad used to say... never wear anything to a fight that you wouldn't burn in a dumpster afterward.  He had a good sense for that kind of stuff."
He related his father's wisdom while he rounded a chair and carefully lowered himself into it.  He was likely being cautious on the account of his injuries, but, given his size, it looked like he was being crammed into an ill fitting glove.  His long stringy body folded and finally sprawled out so that he wouldn't have to double over his injury.

Grace
It is her bad mofo tactical turtleneck, actually. And part of that tactic? Looking like nothing special.
"This would stink horribly if you burned it in a dumpster. It's some kind of special plastic. Also, I don't think it burns too well..."
She looks around as if giving serious thought to the idea of burning her clothing. But then, she notices the way he moves, the way he's careful about his injuries. It's something she can do nothing about, but she grabs a cookie and holds it out for him. It looks like an angry guy performing a leaping kick. Red icing eyes glare out from gingerbread. "Have a kung-fu guy."

Tremor Dervish
"Plastic?"  That actually did raise his pierced eyebrow.  The little rings punctured through it washed upward as if floating on a wave.   "Well, 'doesn't burn to well' is good.  I'm finding this out now from experience."  He joked before he flashed a big, toothy grin.
He wriggled to the side in his seat to reach out and take the cookie, which gave him a slight grin.  "Reminds me of a Go-Kamisori-Gama I once met."
He looked at it fondly for a moment before he finally took a bite.

Grace
"Go-Kamisori-Gama? Sounds Japanese," she says, with an unspoken 'but what does it mean' in there somewhere.
This guy, he probably has stories. Grace thrives on stories. Spins them. Trades them. Perhaps Tremor wouldn't want to tell them all, and she gets that more than most. Which is why the question is no demand. She's heard a litany of horrors from one person who went through The War already. Once was enough.

Tremor Dervish
"Mmm."  He emitted, before he had a chance to chew and swallow.  "Ninjas.  Well.  Mage-Ninjas.  They're not really what you think though... Ninjas were early adopters for technology and innovation for most of their history."
He didn't look like the kind of guy that knew a lot about history.
"The modern version are as likely to use ancient mystical trappings as they are cybernetics.  They caucused with the Akashics up until things started to get grim.  I don't know if there are any left in North America, or where they lay politically now."

Grace
She gets this inspired-to-awe look on her face, "Mage ninjas? With cybernetics? Oh wow. Dude."
Grace has been around for just long enough to have only a few good stories. Well, and one very bad story, actually. Pan cautioned her to keep her eyes open to the good things rather than just the bad, but shit... the bad is everywhere.
Cyborg Ninja Mages though? Even if she has to live through the stories of others, it's a kind of living. And she's still new enough to this to be truly awed at times.
So they talk their stories. And eat little gingerbread guys. And maybe Grace brings up the other kind of Ginger, the one that goes on your phone -- to reach out and touch a phone-sex operator's remixed voice command menu. Grace doesn't look the type to have set that up, but she'll explain the benefits and drawbacks of the Denver Mage community's secret encrypted social network.
And gloat. A bit. Perhaps. It is a good story.