Mage Social Hour

Herr Frick

[[Hey there, Jess.  Courtney said a scene was afoot.  Hope it's okay to join.]]

Miss Mitchell

[[Before I can do anything else, I must acknowledge my utter and complete amusement at those greetings.]]

Mr. Gallowglass

[A quick decisions stamina roll!]

Dice: 2 d10 TN7 (8, 10) ( success x 2 )

Mr. Gallowglass

[The Setting.]

There is a bookstore which has two names. Night Owl Books is one name. An Arch Key Books is another. This is the same bookstore. (But they are also two very different bookstores. It is just as it is with your high school love. They will always be your high school love but they are also not your high school love. Even in high school, they are something else too. Two things. Same time. Many things. At once. Once is a good word for a bookstore because Once upon a time.) It is located on a street corner or near a street corner and there is an old library cart parked outside in spite of Weather, spiteful of Weather, weathering Weather, and a collection of one dollar books. A narrow and very threadbare oriental rug lies across threshold of the door to this two-named bookstore, part of it outside beneath the overhang, the rest of it inside for muddy boots to be wiped on. Bells ring when the door opens. There is no chime. It is bells, ringing, because it is that kind of bookstore regardless of its name.

The windows that look out on the street are full of such things as: a clothing line above books chosen for display, pinned to which are advertisements for art shows or writer's workshops or retreats or concerts, some of which have come and gone and are faded with time, others of which are a shock of new ink. Buttons of satirical or political nature. A little brass lion, some book-ends: old, musty looking stuff that matches 'antiquarian.' Fascimile pages from 17th century folios next to a picture of Che Gueverra riding a my little pony.

Through the door:

Almost straight ahead toward the back is a desk. The desk has a register and a typewriter and a computer and books and boxes and a bell and it is - at present - devoid of presence. Behind the desk is a door with a brown sign curly gold lettering which says: employees only. And a thick museum poster from some 1970s exhibition on Alchemy in Italian Renaissance Painting, or maybe Symbolism in the French Romantic Tradition, or - well. There is a door and a poster of that sort on the door and it is for employees only and it is closed. To the left of the space behind the desk and before the door there is a wall which has a couple of tall bookshelves stuffed with papers and other such things and also a window which peeks at --

The furthermost back of the left half of the store. Get it? There is a room there. Take a step down. No door, but still: it is a room. And the room is full of cloth-bound books, the kind that are thick, are reference, are rare. Much rarer than anything found to the right of the store. It is dimmer in that room, in there are five aisles, and gloom behind. Take a step up (because we are going widdershins from the desk to explore Night Owl Books, first floor), and one is in the section of the store that is to the immediate left of whoever opened the door. That section has middling high shelves some of which are locked and glass-doored and those books look expensive but the ones that aren't looked up look like the ones that have to do with natural philosophy or maybe poetry or ghosts and hauntings and there is a low low shelf right next to the door (well, left next to the door) that is filled with children's books and - deep breath.

There is also a staircase which leads up to a second level. Loft-level, peer up and see the railing for it. There is a huge table with a big messy pyramid of books on it. Art and photography and how to build a bomb and Anais Nin's memoirs and a Polish grafitti artist's suicide letter and a little box of zines by local artists or not local artists whoever brought them and maybe a gardening book or two anyway cool art books something called birdwives and fishwomen and a bench someone draggged there at some point and

That is to the left. Skip over to the right and: windows.

Also: more books. And it is necessary to 'step down' a step again, although there's a do-it-yourself (probably twelve years ago: it looks like the foundation has settled) wheelchair accessible ramp-thing, another oriental rug. And - paperbacks. Science Fiction. Fantasy. Oddments on some of the shelves. A display of local talent and a few new books, more art books (allegorical criticism, feminist commentary), some of which are new, some of which are not, some of which have been autographed! and there is a ladder and and and

this is the bookshop that has two names.

The first floor, anyway.

[The Principals.]

Adam is not at his desk, at first glance - not that were he at his desk one would be very interested, because the dark-haired (?) young (?) man (?) wears the Mysteriousness of being a Will-worker on his sleeve, and somehow even that is not very interesting, usually, to most people.

He is - by god. He is working in the gloomy corner where the antique books live in a dense and alluring forest of paper-and-ink-and-leather-and-cloth, where they do not remember what it was to feel sunlight on their leaves, where they have been transmuted for ever for eternity for -

No, wait. He is not working at all; he was, perhaps. But he settled down in a chair and began to read something, and now he is reading.

Herr Frick

He's humming.  He's humming and he's spry, his pace quite intent but his manner bright.  He has a little trouble with his scarf in the breeze, tucking it into his coat as he goes, heading towards a bookshop with two names.  He's humming, but he's not enjoying what he's humming.  More mulling than humming, though there is a tune there.  A broken tune, a tune in need of the glue that comes with better melody, a tune not his own...Talk of freezing fog has settled on his outfit in the form of a sheepskin coat, now containing the ends of a scarf, and planted atop boot-ended jeans.  He continues to hum, closing on the shop.  "Rubbish, Caroline," he mutters to himself, mid-hum, mid-melody.  "Rubbish."He returns to the tune, ,though, working it through as one might examine a bad tooth, wincing as much as the patient.  As one might scowl beneath a raised car, or look less than impressed with being bothered at one's door on a Sunday morning by some god's merry minions.  The tune is weak but he continues, just as he continues - and closes - on the bookshop.

Miss Mitchell

There's a girl with a bicycle (a brown-with-gold-accents, old fashioned cruiser style complete with deep covered basket-y bag type things over the back wheel) wandering about down the street, peeking in windows here and there - she's transcendentally - ethereally beautiful, it should probably be said, though the lengths to which people go to avoid her would imply she's somehow repulsive to the majority of the population.  But there are also people who go near, who are drawn in, whose faces twist with disgustdislikedistrust or who are looking to this girl (because though she's reasonably tall and carries herself with a certain authority and agency that most young ladies - which she certainly is, all straight and not-quite-regal pride and distance and indifference and

the chip on her shoulder is a real, living, tangible thing, twisting and sharp as it wraps around her in ribbons of redorangeyellowpurple heat,  as is her nearly feral tendency towards defensiveness

Once upon a time it was a thing to make hand signs against curses and the evil eye.  Most modern people don't remember them, have never been taught them, as it's a thing that went out of fashion with the first third of the last century, but there's an instinct, something akin to racial memory.  Some people do that, and the girl with the bicycle's chin rises higher as her blue eyes spark, brought out by re[pressed]strained thoughts and emotions, and by the blue of her suede-y, velvet-y, sumptuously rich and possibly vintage knee length bicycle coat.  She was made for ghostly-fine, half-forgotten things, was the girl with the bicycle and her long dark hair, her long legs her . . .

. . . well, just her, really.

So there she is, this girl-with-a-bicycle, slowing in front of a bookshop that's so much nicer than The Tattered Cover, as nice as that place is.  This place is different, and it [feels different smells different] draws her in.  The bike is locked up, of course, though she knows from experience that won't stop someone who decides he or she really needs said bike, or to teach the girl who owns it a lesson about how she shouldn't be here doesn't belong [one of these things is not like the others] shouldn't be full stop.

Still.

Bells ring, and maybe a certain Belgian was ahead of her or maybe he's behind, but there she is, this girl who exudes anger and defense, who is anger and defense.  She's learned most of what she knows from books, and so her fingers run over them with a respect that so many lack in a technological age.  It's not reverence, no - these are tools to her, nothing more.  But still, perhaps it's surprising as she drifts through to the sinister, always.

Mr. Gallowglass

[Awareness! Dum-dee-dum, by the pricking of my thumbs, are interesting Mageys descending? -1 for Herr Frick.]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

Mr. Gallowglass

[And another 1 for Miss Mitchell.]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (6) ( success x 1 )

Miss Mitchell

[sure, awareness!  Just rolling base, cos I'm a jerk that way.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 9) ( success x 3 )

Herr Frick

The bicycle's direction had been peripherally noted, though in truth it was the chill... the chill... that sparked a missed note in the half-failed composition he was humming.  No scarf was going to keep that out, but he stops to adjust it all the same... allowing time for the bicycle to be locked.The bell rings once, for two, as the Jerbiton gabbles about in his pockets in the street, buying seconds prior to entering, and although it is the girl who enters first, it is he whose long arm helps hold it open with chivalrous manners for her entry.  "After you," he had half-said, though with no particular intrusion into her cocoon of anger.Oh, Adam, you get all the interesting visitors...He's looking for something, specific, but as so often appears the case in visiting this bookshop-that-is-two, he's clearly to expect something else...  And he, too, roams the stock, keeping an eye for Adam and, while politely nodding to the girl, interesting himself in poetry...

Herr Frick

[[Per + Awareness: wondering if the Bicycle Girl is more than simply affected by some Witch-Touch/Echo or other...]]

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

Mr. Gallowglass

He is keen today: sharped-up on a whestone, brilliant; perhaps because he is in his element. Books. Book-wood. Word-wood. Enchanter's den. Tower-of-thoughts. He is keen today: especially keen; and they - the witch-girl and the Jerbiton - they're taking some of his attention before they quite enter the bookstore, as they enter the bookstore, one after the other. Timing's everything, isn't it? And it's a curiously timed melody, which has Anger [Defense! -- oh, witch-to-be-burned, where is the mob? Are they coming?], preceding Inspiration [what of the Muse, Herr Frick? What of Her?], and over there in his gloom-safe corner, the dark-haired young man is moved to put his book away, spine safe lined up against all the other spines [they could be symbols- they could be wands; they are not, though] and, as Leonhard and Shoshannah spread out, this happens:

Hair. That's visible too. Uncombed, bird-mess of dark brown. Then eyes, surfacing like a kelpie out've book-world, the stacks, and then: gone. He's not on his tiptoes anymore. Oh, wait, no: closer, surfacing again, peeking over. Gone once more.

And then! There he is: valiant, relentless, of course: relentless and valiant, eyes circled in sleepless shadows, and there the only shadowed thing about him. He smiles at Leonhard, something serious and perhaps poised between other nuances; welcome is what it settles on. He is self-assured enough for that. The smile stays, but is more professional and - keen. Curious. Those're his eyes - come Miss Mitchel, who he addresses first with a:

"Good afternoon, miss. Help you find anything in particular?"

Miss Mitchell

"Oh."  She blinks, startled, and it's one word so no, it doesn't sound terribly evil.  It sounds surprised, and given how she feels, perhaps she's unaccustomed to being approached.  (At least with civility.)  "I . . . no, thank you.  I liked the way the windows looked."

There's nothing so weak as a shrug, and though her voice is quiet there's an edge there - strength and hone, something nearly defiant, if it were active.  What there is, is accent - multiples thereof, really.  The shape of her vowels is middle eastern, her Ws are southern, her THs are European, her Ks and Ls are pure New York, or something.  Her accent is a multi-patched carpet bag, or many-stamped passport, bearing the marks of its use and influences.  She's lingered a bit at the stories of ghosts and hauntings, of death and dying, and it can't be particularly surprising - her aura is graveyard-at-midnight-on-Halloween, and like is drawn to like.  Except when it isn't.

"I read lots of things, though I tend towards the Persephone-esque myths."  Persephone, Lilith, give me the fucking fruit.

Herr Frick

The eyes beneath the bird's nest
Received a smile, a friend's best
But into them is sent a nod

For here, between the magi:
Sharp enough the blind to spy,
A threat?  At least something.... quite... odd.

Leonhard, sidling away - circling? Preparing to attack? Offensive to the Defensive?  (But Supportive?!)  - finds almost what he is looking for.  Ted Hughes.  But not the book required.  Still, he plucks at pages while he dithers at the shelves.  Perhaps he shall keep this one, and ask... when it is time... for what he is so sure his client needs.  Ah, the Muse, the Muse, so gently absent in Caroline, but so close.  Just the right nudge, the right invitation planted and left to root and bloom and call, and her composition might improve, escalate, evolve.  Shine, even.  (If only it were so easy with the sculptors...)

The girl's accent catches the ear, and the Jerbiton considers for a moment what he must evince in others.  Travel, he inwardly contends of the girl, seems a necessity for some of us, and he thinks of a life ten years and an ocean away.  For a moment.  A sympathetic moment.  Only a moment, because Persephone also hits the ear... 

He places the book he has found for himself atop others, easy to return to.  Wodwo.  Not quite the book he came for, but what he'll be taking.  Still, better to remain quiet, polite, a little way back.  Adam knows his Oath as well as his own, should this trio need become but the two...  but he is quiet about that, quiet about everything, quiet but for the business of finding another book, this time his eye being caught by a thick, almost brick-like tome.  Heavy.  Hard.  Quietly turned over in his hands.  Patiently.  Politely.  Oh-so surely.

Mr. Gallowglass

The witch-thing, creeping, thistle-irritant liked the way the windows looked and no, thank yous help. But then - gotcha! Details. Details are an invitation and were Adam as vampiric as he looks sometimes [sunlight? Outside? What are these things? I know these things from that time I needed to go find some oak leaves and pluck them when Helios was in Ascent and quartered by Mercury or - something like that], he'd take it as one. He takes it as an invitation anyway, to direct her attention nearer to Leonhard.

The poetry section. 

"Persephone? Well. We've got Orpheus and Company, edited by Denicola, somewhere over here. Poetry, contemporary whatsits of Greek myths." He and Shoshannah can't be said to share an accent. But occasionally his American hints at a story of Not Actually Raised In The States. It's just a hint, subtle: brought out more strongly depending on who he's speaking to, and what they sound like. "There's one about Persephone I quite like. Here, listen."

There is some nascent arrogance about that 'Here, listen.' As if he were saying, Spirits, attend, and he were Prospero, and he knows they're going to attend because he is who he is.

"She put out her hand and pulled down

The French sound for apple and

The noise of stone and the proof

That even in the place of death,

At the heart of legend, in the midst

Of rocks full of unshed tears

Ready to be diamonds by the time

The story was told, a child can be

Hungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance."

Adam is not a performer, and as he was reciting, he was also looking for the book in question, a certain absent-mindedness wrapped up around contained intensity. But he wields language with aplomb whenever he wields it. One might even say words are his forte.

Because this has brought him (and Shoshannah?) into the immediate sphere of Leonhard (what an on-top-of-things bookshop-clerk!), he says, "Afternoon, Leonhard. You didn't see that Orpheus book while you were at this shelf, did you?"

Leonhard. Who must be a regular. Adam treats him as one.

Herr Frick

Leonhard follows the lead, in no little part entertained... no... pleased by the Bonisagan's recital.  Placing his brick-book down atop Wodwo, he moves.  Although he does point towards the book in question, or at least a closer vicinity of shelves that he had just wandered through, he flits to another shelf.  This takes him outside the domain of poetry and, after a hurried few seconds of drumming the backs of his nails against the spines there at attention, he pulls out a book for the girl.  Was he buying time, to find a book?  Was he lucky?  Is he just a regular who takes it all in..?

"Ann Wroe.  Preferred her work on Pontius Pilate... well-thumbed, you could say... but this... if you've not already read it... She's obviously from a journalistic rather than purely, ah...  Her background doesn't matter, I guess.  Good book.  For a Sleeper..."He offers the book towards the source of the chill, his head slightly tilted, almost warmly.  Almost, though far from coldly.  Certainly, honestly.

Miss Mitchell

She accepts the book she's handed with a nod of thanks, all while raising an eyebrow at the reading (and hiking it higher at the 'for a Sleeper' add-on, though there's no other sign of surprise; she's sussed them both, after all, at least a bit.  Now, though, this reticent (all fight and no flight, for that, in stance, in being) young woman looks over both men, her shoulders pulling straighter and balance shifting slightly as she does.  It's not aggressive, but another form of defense - of puffing up, if you will.

"I haven't read it, no.  Most of what I have wasn't in English," she offers, and this time there is a shrug.  "Though there was this piece:

One narcissus among the ordinary beautiful

flowers, one unlike all the others! She pulled,

stooped to pull harder—

when, sprung out of the earth

on his glittering terrible

carriage, he claimed his due.

It is finished. No one heard her.

No one! She had strayed from the herd.

(Remember: go straight to school.

This is important, stop fooling around!

Don’t answer to strangers. Stick

with your playmates. Keep your eyes down.)

This is how easily the pit

opens. This is how one foot sinks into the ground."  There's a pause, brief, as her storyteller's voice rings through the shop; not so poetic in its deliver, perhaps, but still.  Skilled.  Trained.  "I suppose I'm looking for some comparison literature, if you've any in stock."

Here, she rifles through the book briefly, carefully, and nods.  "Thank you.  Leonhard, is it?  I'm Shoshannah."  It fits her, that shusshing, slithering name, all ghosts and snakes.

[And, for my amusement . . . Char + Performance.]

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

Mr. Gallowglass

Adam is bent-back a medieval hermit palm for support on a shelf. The shelf that Leonhard pointed out. He plucks Orpheus & Company from it, and then listens still in that uncomfortable kink of a position while Shoshannah storytells a poem into Night Owl Books. When Sarah is around, there are signings and readings, sometimes, but Adam is not Sarah, so the books haven't been able to drink in their monthly tithe of writers-or-readers giving up words-as-ephemera. If they were actually sentient, they might thank her for it. The dark-haired young Hermetic seems quite arrested, anyway, politely still, his eyebrows lofted in surprise & acute absorption because she recites so well.

Then: she says her name, and Adam knows her by her name. He straightens with a half-wince, pushing himself up out've the crouch. He wants to say something about how he knows her by name, but he does not want to mention Kalen to do so, considering.

Dilemma. Adam is a diplomat's son, not a diplomat. "Hmm." Place-holder. He is looking at Leonhard instead of the witch-girl, but he's not really looking. The Bonisagan's thoughts are elsewhere; wandering the halls of his Memory-Palace. "There might be something suitable at the warehouse, or on the second floor, depending on the languages you read."

And when one has stalled, and one does not know how to be subtle, one just goes all-in:

"Shoshannah, who is also Guardian of a far-off House, and speaks to impressive bears invisible to most?"

Mr. Gallowglass

ooc: and so

Mr. Gallowglass

ooc: what!

Mr. Gallowglass

ooc: and then

Mr. Gallowglass

No.

No. No.

Nope. Nope. 

Mr. Gallowglass

[Fixed?]

Herr Frick

Shoshannah's double-check elicits a nod when his name is checked but it is her own recital that had stirred a deeper reaction.  Two well-read people capable of quotation at length!  He shouldn't be surprised, he knows, of Adam but... two...  Pleasure.  Still, he refrains from recital himself, though only just, since Adam's place-holding brings a change to bear.While the Bonisagan's... hesitance... does not suggest a fear as such it does serve to bridle his Tradition-mate's smile.  Time to back him up or, rather, follow-through alongside him.  Things have been heard.  Things which he has not been privy to.  Yet, things on the topic of this Shoshannah.  A recognition leaps into his tone, sharp, but more curious than hesitant.

"Guardian?  The local Traditionalist Chantry," his fingers snap before pointing.  The pointing finger, however, knows better than to prick at her Resonance and is waggled more between his temple and the ceiling than towards the girl he suspects he has heard of, too...

"Shoshannah bani Dreamspeaker?"  He asks, even warming now.  The name-as-query as much a request to introduce himself as a hopeful question.  "Odd.  I had expected to have to explain myself far more on the back-foot when approaching you there."

Poor girl, surrounded by recognition, given so little in return.

"Proclus Vaduz bani Jerbiton."  The magus offers, even a little brightly, like a distant cousin might upon meeting at some reluctant wedding, or perhaps as a new neighbour, certainly not as a threat or without manners.  The smile returns.  It is as if the chill she exudes is but welcome air, all of a sudden.

Poor girl.  Dreamspeaker, young, Awakened into a be-Stormed world.  Perhaps her witch-touches are...  No.  Speculate later.  Spirit bears?  Oh, how delightful: an umbral entity yet touching this world, ergo a Node to sustain them?  No, no, no, speculate later.

Miss Mitchell

Shoshannah is not even a dipolomat's daughter - she is, however, a diplomat's granddaughter.  Closer to her, generationally, are a silly socialite and a high powered military man,  She knows how to bark orders and, perhaps oddly, how to simper and flirt, though she never does either.  She moves through her own space, left largely alone and untouched

(pure, which is an odd adjective to apply to her but no less apt for its oddity)

and does as she wills.  And here she is, faced with two men who apparently know her far more than she knows them, and that posture is pulled tight, rigid, and somehow she shrinks even as she grows (in the arena of metaphors and perceptions, that is, rather than that of reality).

".....it seems you two have me at a disadvantage," she offers in short, clipped tones made all the more foreign (alien, unearthly, otherworldly) for it.  Clearly, this is not a position of which she's fond.  "I am she of whom you speak, yes.  But I know nothing of either of you - bell, beyond your names . . . Proclus?  Is that the one you prefer?"

Mr. Gallowglass

[Dum de dum... I want to do an Empathy roll (Speshultee Peeeople) for a thing, before I post.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 2

Herr Frick

"When in Common company, Leonhard, but Proclus is more than fine, more than fine indeed, when not," the Jerbiton relays to Shoshannah, quickly, even openly.  "Craftnames and not.  Which reminds me of others.  Father Echeverria, he would be a Chorister, a Fellow at the Chantry?  Oh.  Oh, I've not been spying, just talking with another of the Order.  Garrett?  Order Magus?  Very affable, for a Quaesitor.  You might know him better as Garrett than his Craftname.  Well, I expect you've heard of him.  He mentioned a few things about the Chantry.  I was planning on declaring myself a neighbour, perhaps even a prospective fellow."

He continues, mentioning that he has heard of a mage (perhaps a Deacon?) called 'Grace' and of 'Ginger,' the former sex-line automated voice-mail, and his suspicion (not the correct word, he quickly corrects himself) that at least one Virtual Adept or some manner of Technomancer must be in the mix.  He knows the address, he seems to know more than Shoshannah may enjoy hearing from a stranger.  Almost certainly so, in fact, so his words come evenly, openly.  (Unguarded?)  

As much as this information he has heard is directed to Shoshannah, for confirmation or simply to better underscore that he has been greatly interested in what he has learned from the Quaesitor, it is hardly kept from Adam - suspecting, as he does, that the Magus of the First House has, perhaps, heard different things.  Of course, it serves also to lay his cards on the table, showing the extent of his information so that both of the others know that anything else is new to him.  (It hardly hurts to be talking while Adam is thinking...)

"As for myself, and the disadvantage I regret on your part, you know my names, my Tradition, even my House and, thereupon, my general associations.  But none of that is, in itself, going very far along a path of, ah, putting you at ease, is it?  Perhaps I...  Hm.  After a fashion, I'm new to the area.  Finding my feet.  Finding all manner of things.  Mind you, I do wonder about the cohesion of your Chantry's Fellowship.  Before the Cataclysm, I would have expec...  Well, I do suppose things were different.  In any case, I'm not adverse to getting acquainted," he concludes with a genuine and bodily warmth.  He's either a fantastic liar (or ridiculously naive) or simply given to honesty.

Herr Frick

[[OOC Note: the book that Leonhard suggested to Shoshannah can be found not only on the astonishingly well-stocked shelves of Adam's store/s but also here... just so you know what he was suggesting to her.... http://www.amazon.com/Orpheus-Song-Life-Ann-Wroe/dp/1590207785/ref=la_B000AQ26BU_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1393283129&sr=1-1  Not read that one of hers myself personally, though Leonhard has, but her book on Pontius Pilate really is brilliant.]]

Mr. Gallowglass

He is pensive and he is still. He is contained, understand: controlled, not because there is a danger right now of passions rising up to drown his guests, but because he is controlled as a matter of course. A better word would perhaps be: self-possessed. A devil wouldn't ride Adam Gallowglass: no room for it. The only devil here is Adam Gallowglass. And devils aren't valiant boys, are they, with the pale washed-out look of sleep deprivation, the steady consideration he gives the girl when she draws right up ("recalcitrant porcupine" - somebody so described her), and he reads her like a book.

And divides his attention evenly between Leonhard and Shoshannah, having made no move to jump in before Leonhard might (and how!). There are little tells during Leonhard's warm-hearted and open-handed sharing of information - little tells that might indicate familiarty with certain things, because this is an exercise in comparative literature.

And when Leonhard is done - Adam claps him on the shoulder.

"And now is it to be coffee or tea?" It's half-a-joke; letting it become more of a potential reality when he says, to the Dreamspeaker (Dreamspeaker!), "You're more than welcome to a drink as well. I've got a hoard, rather draconic, erm... Oh, right, I'm Adam. Dominic Adam Julian Gallowglass bani Bonisagus, but just Adam is fine."

Adam, you should offer more information.

(Why? Very well.)

"Also rather new, though my shop's been around for ages."

Miss Mitchell

"The Church of the Subgenius guy.  All fatherly, and fedora and pipe."  There's a pause, and then, "Paranoid about technocracy, which most of them," not 'us', but then she doesn't really consider herself a part of any 'us', even as a Traditionalist, a mage, "are.  But he seemed so more than most."  Now, there's a shrug - she hadn't paid more attention than was necessary to recognize his face if and when he showed up at the Chantry again at that meeting.  "He wasn't really wearing a fedora and smoking a pipe.  Just . . . kind of felt like he might.  Should?  Would?  Whatever."

And then that's let go.  Best to not linger on people she doesn't really know, after all, especially when she could be getting to know new people.  Who know . . .

"You know Padre?"  There's something there, different than when she'd answered about Garrett - a near father-worship, though there's no way the reformed-from-something Puerto Rican priest could actually be this relatively refined young woman of the world's dad.  "He's alright.  A good man to know.  And Grace is nice.  If you're looking to meet people, Sid is amazing.  And Lena's alright, too."  There's a slight hesitation as her tongue trips over the 'nice'; this is not a person who's had a lot of niceness in her life, and so the concept is a bit odd, a bit off.  And she's reserved in what she says about these people, but that she says anything at all?  Well, at least Adam's gathered enough about her to know that it means she has far stronger feelings than she's confessing.

And then, for Adam, "I've only been here since May.  And if we're having drinks, I'll have tea, please - if you want coffee, you'll have to let me make it.  I learned how at this place in Turkey . . ."  She trails off, blushing a bit - to her, this is carried away.  It's more than she usually talks to anyone other than Sid, or Pan, or - once upon a time, anyway - Kalen.  "Thank you."

Herr Frick

"Not met the man, no, not yet," comes the reply.  "But I'll be on the look-out for a man without a fedora or a pipe.  Tea sounds lovely, Turkish or otherw--  Oh!  You do have it.  Excuse me a second."He walks to a shelf, finding the book he had sought.  Or seen earlier but had been... sidling.  Crow, by Hughes, for Caroline the half-weak songwriter.  Bringing it and Wodwo, but returning the brick-book to its home, he pops them by the register to pay for later.

Having noted what Shoshannah spoke of, he asks, "So, Shoshannah...  I have to ask.  What is your Chantry actually called?  I did wonder if it had some tie to the Seekers of Truth.  Not that I know the Cabal personally.  Just heard some things before I moved here back in '04.  They were quite prominent, I understand, but I've not heard anything about them more recently, and at least one was a magus of the Order, or so I was told."

Mr. Gallowglass

He sets the book of poems on top of other books. That's the convenient thing about book shelves and also being in charge and honorless: one can do what one wants in terms of organization and damn 'cleaning,' or 'order,' although of course there is an order. He listens and he absorbs, clear-eyed, a good listener, but there is a certain ease to the set of his shoulders, something that goes beyond habitual self-assurance into hint of pleasure or comfort. He's in a good mood.

Of course he is. Shoshannah just wandered into his shop at the perfect time, thank you Leonhard, and now he is learning things.

"Sid and Grace have been in," says he. Perhaps just to see whether she reacts in a 'oh, they sent me this way' fashion - then again, perhaps not. She liked the windows, she said.

"And you're welcome," he adds, with grave formality, a glance for the other dark-haired man when he excuses himself to sweep down on a book. Suggestion of a smile, more around the eyes or in the way they interact with the bookstore's lighting than elsewhere; it stays, if nuanced by something very serious, when he returns to regarding the Dreamspeaker.

"Tea it is. Black or green? How did the place in Turkey teach you to make coffee?" He heads to the front door, turning the shop's sign around to 'closed,' because he'd really rather not have that terrible Nora Roberts woman coming in again (for the observant: there is, still, the shadow of a bruise on our pale Hero's cheek, something greening) while Mage business, and then locks the door. Step into my parlor. People can knock if they're really keen to get in.

Answer given, it's with a: c'mon guys, over here, usher, usher, look, a desk! Look - seats. Well, kind of seats. Places to sit. To compose yourselves. While waiting for drinks.

The employees only door behind his desk leads into an area with a little kitchenette and an electric kettle, so Adam goes to put the water on. Only, of course, if the others are so herded near-enough for him to listen. Otherwise, good luck prying away the curious Bonisagus.

Miss Mitchell

"I . . . you know, I don't think Annie ever told us a name.  Mostly, we just call it The House - because it is.  Bedrooms, bathrooms, all that stuff.  I'd call it The Home, but I'm the only one that consistently lives there.  Sid and Lena spend quite a bit of time, and Padre lived there for awhile, but . . ."  But it's not the same, though she cuts herself off abruptly when she realizes that she's complaining.  It doesn't do for one such as she to do that, after all; she's lucky in the things and people she has.

But all of that is, of course, subconscious - and not a thing she'd voice ever, naturally.  It is, as they say, flavor.

"The place in Turkey taught me to use chicory," comes in answer to Adam's question, "fresh grated if at all possible.  And sugar.  And to grind the coffee very, very fine, and put it through four boils in the ibrik before serving it.  It's delicious - maybe I'll make some at The House some day, if there's company that wants to partake.  I . . . actually do kind of a lot of cooking."

Of course she does, this waif (tall though she is, she's model thin, and so pale, and so not-of-this-plane) of a girl.  Of course she tries to create a home she's never had in a place that seems like it should be such, for people who have wildly busy and divergent lives and don't spend nearly enough time there for it to really be so.

Miss Mitchell

"And black, please.  Green is only good if it's that flowering kind and you watch it as it steeps - pretty, isn't it?"  Beauty and fine things - oh, yes, these are things for Shoshannah.  They are part of her and she of them, though the ones she has now tend to be a bit worn around the edges.  They've all been either procured from thrift and resale shops, or have been abused through her most recent years of travel, and aren't nearly so sumptuous as they once were.

In another life, another time, another place.

Herr Frick

 Leonhard sits, one ankle at the other knee, rubbing that ankle as he listens.  For all the talk of the Fellowship, for which his ears are grateful, there is a sympathy at play in his eyes as Shoshannah talks... and doesn't talk... of herself more than anything else.  At least, to his mind...

"Oh, whichever you're having, Adam, thankyou."

His forefinger strokes, almost scratches, at his cheek for a moment, his head dipped before rising back up to look to Shoshannah.  A memory.  Perhaps it will serve her somehow.  It certainly won't come as a particular surprise to Adam but perhaps...

"Last Covenant... well, Chantry... I was in, I was held in a cell for two months.  I was held for breaking my Tradition's law.  (I rather doubt your Chantry is so punitive as Caer Moelis was.)  They sentenced me to ten years of what we as Traditionalists call Ostracism but what Adam and I know as Interdiction.  That fact is, I was guilty, though with mitigating circumstances for what was, to be truthful, a High Crime... or so I was told, in the cells of that Chantry.  But I knew the place from before then.  I was a friend to it.  (They held me under orders from our... well, you might call them judges.)  Anyway, it had but the one remaining Cra... ah, Node... and it had enjoyed four in its past, but it was still beautiful.  Beautiful.  It had lost its Horizon Realm, but it was still beautiful.  Still beautiful from the cell.  Still beautiful, as I expect The House will seem to be to me, Shoshannah.  You see, yours... so far as I will believe... is a task as much of great grace as responsibility, you Guardian, you Fellow.  You and your Fellows, simply knowing you are there is a great comfort to me.  A great comfort.  The House, to my thinking, however it looks, or whoever else might be there, is something I would very much like to be part of.  I expect Adam shares some of this view.  You can understand our asking about it, I'm sure.  Even we Hermetics," he concludes with what is fairly described as a handsome but friendly grin, "Need friends."

Yes.  Needing friends.  I think you understand what I see in you, Shoshannah.

Miss Mitchell

[!!!!!  Eeeee, Sid!]

Mr. Gallowglass

[This seems unnecessary, but it will help me decide what Adam thinks, hearing Lenny talk about himself like this. A Perception (Peeeeople specialty) + Aware-as-Emp roll. You bitter, dude? Sad? Content? Accepting? Reverent? Irreverent? A shining beacon of sincerity?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 5 )

Herr Frick

[[His mood is frank but softly so.  His deeper feelings on the topic are not so deeply hidden, if hidden at all: he is accepting of the judgement's politics more than the judgement but not bitter.  There is nothing being held back in his comments, as they relate to what he is saying to Shoshannah (and Adam) but there is also an element of the events which he is not mentioning.  He is not occluding or avoiding it, but it is not part of the topic, but is married nonetheless to the events of the time and would explain why he is not so bitter as might be expected.  So, not sad, not bitter, fairly accepting, but moreso than these the word 'enduring' might be one that fits.  Certainly, sincerity fits, too.  But there is still much more to the story than he is mentioning....]]

Mr. Gallowglass

[applause for ms. rhodes! hip hip, hurrah! :)]

Ms. Rhodes

[passively paranoid awareness:  YO SHOSHANNAH YOU AROUND??]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

Mr. Gallowglass

His comment on Shoshannah's recipe for Turkish Coffee: "I like cardamom gelato." And later, for both of them: "Black it is." 

Then: his back isn't quite to Leonhard or Shoshannah ever. But he is a profile-thing, in the employees only room, while he fills up the kettle and puts it on. He doesn't need to rummage for tea things. He has them all laid-out. While he waits for the water to boil, he rests his shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

He is of course absolute in his quiet while Leonhard talks about his experience with his last chantry, with his ostracization. If Shoshannah ever glances at Adam, well: Adam looks at his most pensive, and perhaps a touch distant, because while he is paying the closest attention to someone else he looks the most out-of-himself.

I expect Adam shares some of this view. His eyebrows jump up; he clears his throat, rubbing the side of his neck, an awkward duck of a thing, because he is after all two seconds from batting his eyelashes like bambi at Miss Mitchell and saying, soooo, I hear you're the keeper of the library. 

"Erm, I have been meaning to get out there." Here it comes, the Adam equivalent of an eyelash batting. " - and well, now that Turkish Coffee might be in the offing..."

Ms. Rhodes

[pointless flavor roll because i like them]

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

Miss Mitchell

[YES SID I AM HERE, screams Shoshannah's resonance.]

Miss Mitchell

[And also her bike, locked to a post or something in front of the store.  But now I go back to my actual post.]

Ms. Rhodes

It's early yet for certain Awakened individuals to be out and about.  We'll not get into the details of why and how Sid is free to be on the street where Night owl Books (An Arch Key) and not at her own place of employment.  The point is that she's around.  Not just around, but rolling along the sidewalk atop a skateboard (a skateboard, and she older than at least 66% of the people in Night Owl, ask her if she cares), weaving through the other pedestrians.  Despite the occasionally heavy gusting of the wind, tossing grit and dust up into her face to catch in her hair and stick her skin, she keeps upright, too.

She is headed for the bookstore, not to pass but straight for it, her mind as usual open to the resonances and the Workings in the air around her.  She is aware and she is Aware, because one can never be too careful anywhere, but in particular in Denver.  That's how she notices, long before she nears the building, that angry and defensive feeling she knows to belong to a certain favorite citizen.  She is not alone, either.  There's a jumble of sensations clustered near her, coming from the bookstore, the feeling growing stronger and stronger until Sid can no longer tell if she's going under her own power, or if she's being dragged forward, pulled by the feelings she senses.  Valiant and relentless, like a knight on a white charger endlessly pursuing some great deed.  Inspirational and supportive, that's different, but for some reason it fits to her mind.  Someone is supportive, Sid is already empowered.  And oh, so desperately clawing for happiness.

Closer still and she sees the storefront, outside of which is a familiar bicycle.  Just out of the view of the windows of the bookstore Sid stops, kicking up her board to catch an edge in one hand, her other hand pulling a cell phone free of her pocket.  She taps out a quick message, but keeps outside, wary as usual.

Miss Mitchell

In front of the store, Shoshannah's bike is locked to a lamp post or a bike rack - it's probably not one-of-a-kind, but its particular coloring and configuration are probably rare enough to be thought upon like so: Oh!  That's like Shoshannah's.  Is she here?  Let's see.

In the back of the store, there's Hospitality happening.  Shoshannah is quite content to lean on the jamb, in the doorway; the posture is relaxed, for her, though there's always the impression that she expects to be told to get out any moment.  She watches Adam work, and watches Leonhard talk, and then her phone - actually brought with her, in her pocket - buzzes, gives off some generic, out of the box tone, and she pulls it out.  The smile that comes to her lips!  It lightens up her whole face, almost makes her look like a different person.  It does nothing to lessen that angry defensiveness, though, just serves as a stark contrast.  Two sides, one coin.

"There will be another customer in a few seconds, I think, Adam," she offers before answering anything else - her thumbs are moving quickly, tapping out an answering text.  And then, the phone's put away and the whole of her attention - a heavy, unpleasant thing - returns to the two men.  It's a blessing, perhaps, that it's split between them.  "You're welcome to come; we're a guarded, careful lot, but we try to be inclusive.  Come out and I'll give you a tour, if you'd like.  Maybe make some coffee, or dinner, or play."  There's a shrug, and she doesn't indicate what she plays - that would be telling.  And she's already told a lot.

Herr Frick

"Dinner?  Should I bring red or white?  Actually, I may still have some Verditian grey wine tucked away which, if you've never tried any...  Adam, have you ever had any of Master Marcusio's grey wine?  Nothing against black tea here but if you haven't, you really should."

Guard and careful lots trying to be inclusive.  It made sense to the Jerbiton.  It was, after all, no surprise but a welcome hook onto which the information he was building up seemed to fit rather well.

Ms. Rhodes

Outside and out of sight, who knows how Sid responds when her own phone buzzes in her hand?  Warmly, as it so happens.  Sid hefts her board up under her arm and moves closer to the door now, where she can be seen just in case.  There she does not peer through the glass inside and wait to see, but looks out across the street.  Watchful, that one.

Mr. Gallowglass

[? A customer? A magick-y one Awareness roll of Hello?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )

Mr. Gallowglass

"Hm?" A customer? He looks toward the door. The window beside the door. The view of the street isn't the best but still: Sid's shadow moves into his line of sight - flower-witch coalescing, accompanied by - why, Adam. He's sharp today, or sensitive. Yes, sensitive to the manifestations of mysticism: euphoric desperation - empowered, charged. Sid. Speak of the devil. "Her ears must have been ringing," absent.

It's nice that there's the distraction of Sid by the door. Because Adam doesn't steeple his fingers in dark glee therefore. Yay! Library in the offing! His good mood gets a little bit better. Enough that he comes out've absent-land to smile fully -

" - excellent. Look forward to it, will let Leonhard bring the wine. Can't say I have had Master Marcusio's grey. Excuse me a moment. Here's Sid," the name is for Leonhard's benefit, obviously.

The kettle goes off: steam, steam! But it's just an electric kettle, so no obnoxious bells. A subtle click.

He goes to unlock the door and open it a crack. "Hello there. Coming in?"

Miss Mitchell

Shoshannah stays with Proclus, though she's quiet for a few seconds before she offers, "Sid's pretty great."  From most, this would seem like a damning with faint praise, but before one rolls with that assumption one must consider the source; even as little known as she is to her current company, there's a good chance he's come to understand it's far more than that.

Behind her, she can hear Adam opening the door, asking if Sid's coming in, and again she smiles - the silver lining to a particularly heavy storm cloud, really.  When the buzz of a text comes back, she doesn't bother to answer since that's made plain enough when the younger Hermetic opens the door.

"Red or white depends on what I cook, and what you like.  I'm not of the school that red meat necessitates red wine, or what have you.  It's all about what one enjoys, isn't it?  Although, I should probably admit that I'm not old enough to partake by the laws of this country.  If we care about those at the house, which sometimes we don't."

Herr Frick

Provided Gustav hasn't necked it - and surely even that irascible shit wouldn't dare breach his Sanctum - there sits in Proclus' mind's eye one of four bottles from the sorely missed Concordia vineyard of the late Master Marcusio... and one, the grey wine, had been daring the Jerbiton for years, in fact since attaining the Fifth Degree...  He smiles.  Not every day he gets to open one of them.  In point of fact, it's barely every year, though replacing them would prove evermore difficult these days...

Time to start building new vineyards.

"Thankyou, Shoshannah," he says, quite quietly, quite softly.  "Oh, Marcusio's brews and fomentations have a reputation well-earned for their palatability, and the grey is said to suit any meal equally.  Quite looking forward to finding out how you might like it.  He was a genius with the grape.  Bit of an old sod by most recollections, but a genius.  Common Laws be damned.  The bottle's being opened, it'd be criminal to miss out."

Watching Adam head to the door, he stands, comfortably but with practiced manners.  Whoever this Sid might be, he would be standing to greet them.  (He?)

Ms. Rhodes

Sid's answer doesn't come in the form of an answering text, but in Adam's approach, his shadow on the other side of the glass, and then his face through a crack in the door.  Sid slips her phone back into her pocket and turns around to face him when she hears his voice asking if she's coming in.  The immediate answer is a slight but warm smile.  There was a time when she wouldn't have even stopped here.  She would have sensed the presence of other willworkers and she would have carried on away from here, down the street, around the block, away away.  There was another time, too, when she might have ducked her head shyly, watching the young Hermetic from the corner of her dark eyes, wary and terrified of him, of the strangers on the street, of everything.  She is still wary, even of someone as seemingly kind as Adam, but that wariness does not consume her.  When she turns to face him she says in answer and in greeting, "Yes."

And unless he decides to bar her way for some reason Sid enters the establishment.

Sid, short for Sidney (except in this case), is a gender-neutral name.  And yet how many people have heard it and made their assumptions?  How many have been surprised to hear that name and see a tall, shapely and lovely woman with a fall of red hair that spills in waves over her shoulders?  She wears glasses, small and narrow and black-rimmed, perched up high on her nose.  The eyes behind them are soulful and a deep, warm brown.  She is dressed in a dark grey long-sleeved sweater over a white collared shirt, jeans, and Vaans sneakers.  This is what Adam sees first.

Sid steps forward, giving him a questioning look as she reaches out a hand to rest on his shoulder, her true greeting one of brief physical contact- if he lets her, that is.  If not, if she receives some indication that this is Not Okay, Sid's free arm will fall back to her side.  Some people would ask after their host's wellbeing, or speak some pleasant gratitude for being let in when the store was obviously closed for the afternoon.  Sid gives Adam's shoulder a light squeeze and says, "You've met Shoshannah."

Mr. Gallowglass

Adam does not turn perverse and bar Sid's entry: after all, he did unlock the door. So: enter, Sid the red-haired Verbena-witch flower-mage. He does lock the door after she enters (bells, ringing, when the door shuts), because he still wants the door locked. He would likely be quite surprised to hear a description of Sid as she was in 2013: he knows 2014 Sid, who does not strike him as shy or over-wary.

Leonhard and Shoshannah are arrayed near the desk and the employees only door behind desk which is open. Seated at the desk-chair, Leonhard - or maybe Leonhard sat on the mobile ladder for reaching high books, or hauled from around a corner but close to the desk anyway one of the wooden seats provided by the shop's actual owner to encourage people to sit.

He cocks an eyebrow at the skateboard and, because he is now really playing host, it's an ushering-toward-the-others for Sid too. He doesn't seem to mind the physical contact at all: no sudden jerks away or wide-eyed stares or any other dodgy reaction of dodginess. He just smiles a half-bemused smile (his standard), bemusement more for her timing or her pronouncement, and says, "Yes.

"And now you can meet Leonhard, or Proclus Vaduz bani Jerbiton," host, host, host. "Do you want tea as well? Proclus, meet Sid, the Verbena."

Having ushered everybody together, he goes through the door again to pour water into a tea-pot and take out a pinch or two of loose-leaf tea.

Miss Mitchell

Shoshannah, as she often does, stands with a slight lean in the doorway between (worlds) the employees-only area and the store proper; she is casual, she is airy, she is anything but these things but like all uncertain and insecure people of a certain age everywhere, she projects a certain air of indifference, of surety.  She is where she is because she wants to be, not because of any other old thing, not at all.  But then there's Sid and some of that armor dissolves; it's not that the Dreamspeaker looks any less indifferent or sure, exactly, but that she's a bit less aggressive in appearing so.  There's a comfort level with this Verbena, then, an intimacy.

"Hey, Sid," she says, and the  tones could even almost be described as fond.  She's wearing her knee-length blue (not quite like her eyes, which are all icy fire and piercing blades, but more like that place where a summer sky and certain lakes or oceans meet and mingle) bicycling coat and some jeans, some comfortable shoes.  She hasn't relaxed enough to divest herself of the coat, not yet - there's still the impression that she might simply wander away - or disappear - at any moment.  "I think I like this place."

Again, with the faint praise.  Except it's not, from Shoshannah.

Herr Frick

That Sid is not a Sidney that is a man but is Sid that may still be a Sidney that is a woman sits well on the Jerbiton's eye, and he smiles before moving (or perhaps sort of shuffling) to give up his seat.  It was, after all, quite comfortable."Evening, Sid," he says to her but turns to their host to continue.  "You know, Adam, I'm starting to think that short of having a Node that gives out free Tass on tap, your bookshop couldn't attract more Willworkers if it tried.  You're a popular man.  But, yes, hello, Sid.  A pleasure.  It seems you might be seeing at least two more Hermetics blundering their merry way up to The House thanks to Shoshannah.  (Thanks again, Shoshannah.)"

His tone is rather... pleased, though certainly not with himself but with events.  He scans about for an alternative seat and settles upon the edge, perhaps, of a bookshelf, careful not to press with his whole weight.

"Oh, a skateboard!"  He smiles.  "Rubbish at it myself but that reminds me; I should exercise more.  All this lounging about in bookshops, meeting mages and magi.  Yabbering at the likes of poor Shoshannah here.  It's just so filling, Adam," he jokes, patting at his stomach.  "I keep coming back for more."

Ms. Rhodes

Sid notices the reaction to her touch, the warmth of her hand just beginning to seep into the fabric of Adam's shirt when she pulls that hand away.  She notices and she notes it and she tucks it away from another time.  Boundaries tested, she moves away from the door and deeper into the bookshop.

There is indeed still a skateboard tucked beneath one of her arms, and there is a plain brown messenger bag slung across her body to hang low against her right hip.  There is someone else back there near Shoshannah, Sid is aware of this.  He is the owner of that foreign resonance, the one that seems to strike some kind of chord with her.  But there's a difference between being aware of someone and paying attention to them, and at the moment while Adam is making introductions Sid's attention is on the girl.  The corners of her mouth a lifted in a faint smile and as she cuts her way through the store, through the shelves and toward the employee area and the desk that stands before it.  Her free arm lifts and opens out to wrap around the teen's shoulders when she's close enough to pull her close.

Adam is introducing her to the other one as 'Sid, the Verbena,' and it is perhaps the first time Shoshannah's heard a Tradition attached to Sid's name.  The quiet redhead hasn't eactly been intending on keeping it a secret, but she hasn't exactly been shouting her successful initiation from the rooftops, either, and it may not have come up between the solstice and now.  However the Dreamspeaker does or does not react, Sid pulls her into an incredibly warm one-armed embrace.  Looking over her Shoshannah's shoulder at the newcomer, Sid's dark eyes dip and travel back upward again, taking in the whole of him with one quick sweep before releasing Shoshannah a second later.  She doesn't trap the girl against her, but as usual when she's close to one of her closest friends Sid is reluctant to leave her side.  Perhaps she slips a hand into Shoshannah's, or maybe she merely keeps near to her side until the young woman steps away.

She gives a slight shake of her head to the offering of the seat.  "It's a bookstore," she says, like the reason for the phenomenon should be obvious, What did you think would happen?  A place of learning?  Draws their kind like ants to a bowl of sugar.  Her expression shifts only slightly when he continues and she glances at Shoshannah only a moment before looking back at Proclus, Leonhard, whatever he goes by.  "Just.  If you've just moved here.  Don't do too much at once.  The altitude, it's...brutal."

Miss Mitchell

With Leonhard and Adam, Shoshannah's been vaguely prickly at best, even as she holds polite conversation with two men she's never met - which is progress for her, all things considered.  She hasn't lost her temper even once, hasn't become snappish or sharp, or worse.  Sid's one arm is returned which is a surprise to the two men, perhaps - or perhaps they haven't formed that solid of judgement of the girl, who is the youngest in the room and yet (in some ways) feels the oldest.

"We do tend to congregate in this sort of place," she says with amusement as the two women separate, but stay near - if hands slide together, they do.  But either way, Shoshannah stays close to the Verbena . . . and is not at all surprised by this revelation, for all it's the first she's heard it.  She and Sid manage to be close regardless of how much or little they tell each other, somehow.  "And.  I wasn't actually looking for things about Persephone, exactly.  But, you know.  I can only say so much to people I've never met before."

Herr Frick

"Well, that and thereby more a growing target than a wise place to spend time in groups, so I take your point," the Jerbiton notes of Sid's brisk explanation of the phenomenon.  "The House has wards against such things, I hope."Talk of brutal attitudes: water, the duck's back - but he visibly absorbs Sid's shorthand of the phenomenon, even gratefully, and to the point of worry.  So long out of practice.  So long outside of such concerns.  So forgetful.  He turns to Adam, ruffling with apology.  "Adam, I'm...  I apologise.  Helping to paint a target on you like this.  Not that it hasn't been a pleasure but...  Four mages, without warding and one so...  well, Shoshannah, one so steeped in an Echo, though I really do mean no offence.  I think I should head on."He produces his wallet to pay for the Hughes books.

Mr. Gallowglass

The tea steeps. He has a couple of mugs out. Honey, no cream. That'd require going to the mini-refrigerator and the mini-refrigerator is far and perhaps out of ear-shot and thus no mini-refrigerator cream for tea. The smell-of-tea is good - and Adam. There is a wistful shadow when Leonhard conjures up the image of a Node, here, in Adam's very own (er, relatively speaking) bookshop. That: would be the best. He wonders if he can just find the right confluence of luck and dare-deviltry, then -

He would follow his thoughts into a labyrinth of words written on the subject of tass. Part of him does. The other part of him is still listening, and at an appropriate moment he adds: "I enjoy meeting the local colour and seeing what kind of thing they're reading, most of the time."

There are always exceptions. His manner doesn't indicate anybody here is an exception. "Before Leonhard wanders off, do - " He pauses. Not because he is shy, but because he is careful of words or of seeming toooo eager and hopeful. "Erm, this dinner and grey wine thing, when's a good night to do it?"

Leonhard apologizes for painting a target, and Adam is already shaking his head: valiant, relentless boys who were Awakened after the Ascension War 'ended' care naught for targets! Waving his hand, dismissing the concern. 

Although he would like to put some wards on the shop, since he spends so much time in it. 

"And apology not necessary. D'you want me to ring you up before you -- oh, you do." To the register, with a steep discount given to one Mr. Frick, and a sad-eyed going so soon look of solemnity to go with it.

Ms. Rhodes

So hands are held, Sid's infinitely warm fingers curling around Shoshannah's terribly cold ones.  Sid doesn't mind it, though, she has so much warmth to give.  Though, and Adam may not have noticed this, she is protective of that warmth, and careful with it.  Not nearly as protective as she is of Shoshannah, however.  Sid would throw herself on a grenade for any of her dear friends, but Shoshannah is another matter entirely.  So, even though Leonhard means no offense, Sid narrows a suspicious gaze on him.  Shoshannah may be...what was that?  Steeped in Echo?  Whatever that means.  But Sid will not let anything bad happen to her that Shoshannah does not wish to allow to happen.

He is concerned, though, and for Shoshannah's safety as well as his own.  Or maybe he thinks Shoshannah makes them all a greater target.  Either way, the look of quiet judgement does not last long.  If he thinks four mages in a bookshop is bad then clearly he hasn't been in City Park in the summer.  She doesn't stop him, though, doesn't beg him to stay.  Sid imagines she'll be seeing more of him soon enough.  Once revealed, Mages in Denver tend to gravitate toward each other like magnets forever.

Miss Mitchell

An eyebrow raises when this Echo thing is mentioned.  She assumes he means the aura she's been told she holds, the impression she can't help giving (has always given, in truth, though it only worsened with her Awakening), though she's clearly not entirely certain she knows what he means.  Sid's life-warmth and Shoshannah's death-chill are an interesting combination, for sure - unsettling and comforting at the same time, natural as such a thing can possibly be.  "A formal dinner?  I'd say give me a couple days to shop and do some of the prep work.  So maybe Thursday?"

There's a pause, and then, "I keep kosher.  I hope that won't bother anyone."

Herr Frick

The discount is noted.  Unneeded but welcomed for what it is.  In taking his change, he pauses, his lips shrugging as he looks to Adam.  "Perhaps you'll get me back, so to speak, by coming by mine sometime.  That offer's going to stand until it falls, you know, and it's quite sturdy.  Besides, I think you'd like... well, perhaps the change.  Perhaps an evening, perhaps Sunday?  Sometime or anytime, really."

The Kosher comment certainly marks a space to be meditated upon and deathly chill of the grave or no, he makes a soft point of offering his hand to Shoshannah.  "It really does give me comfort, Shoshannah, so I've been very, very pleased to have met you."

It's nothing invasive, and the hand appears easily withdrawn if unwelcome, but for all that can be seen of his gesture, his manner, it is genuine, even warmly offered.  He even positions himself so that there is no perceptible attempt to 'make a point' to Sid.  Quite the opposite from the way in which he conducts his impending departure, for he appears sorry not to have more time to speak with the Verbena.  Reluctance but resolve.  If four is too many, after all, and one is still too rooted in the spite of the War, then at least one - that same Jerbiton - should leave, but reluctantly.  He is clearly eager (that is, unguarded about not hiding it) not to appear to be avoiding Sid, however.  Quite the reluctant opposite, though he knows not to press.  "My Thursday just became free.  I shall bring that wine."

"A genuine pleasure, and I hope you'll all forgive my, ah, running off."

Ms. Rhodes

Sid notices and makes note of the way Leonhard, Procleus Jupiter something something (she will not be attempting to call him by that name any time soon) makes an offer of his hand to Shoshannah but not to her.  Offense is absolutely not taken, but something in her shifts, relaxes just a touch.  He is aware of how his newness affects her, or at least is aware that it has an affect on her.  That notice and care is appreciated.  She does not relax so much that she gives him some means of contacting her in the future.  Perhaps they will see each other again at dinner Thursday, or maybe they'll run into each other somewhere else.

Funny thing about Denver: the Awakened tend to pop up literally anywhere.

She watches him go quietly, dark eyes not quite so solemnly watchful, her expression more curious than anything now.  Of course he would be leaving just then.  "See you around."  It's not so much a promise or a wish or a hope as a statement of fact.

Mr. Gallowglass

"Thursday works well for me. For the most part, I make my own hours."

Shoshannah keeps kosher; that engenders another flint-spark of interest. He doesn't say anything about it being a problem. 

This is not one of those bookshops which actually has bags. Or rather: there are some bags, culled from various locations. But usually, books just get wrapped in butcher paper and the butcher paper gets taped and that is what happens to Leonhard's books unless he stops Adam. The young man's fingers are deft enough at the task: it's one he has compassed many times since arriving. There are paper-cuts to prove it.

And in response to the invitation, a nod. It isn't solemn; it does seem sincere, however. Acceptance, accepting: a promise in and of itself. "Ta, you. I'll be in touch. Lock's not tricky."

And speaking of being in touch: an apologetic look for Shoshannah, and then for Sid, followed by: tea for all. Tea for Shoshannah, at least, in a mug that has an apple on it - some renaissance painting print with a snake weaving through said apple - a quote beneath. All that brass-gold hair. The tea is cardamom tea: black, black, black.

"Do you want tea, Sid? Or, er, crackers. I've got oyster crackers. And ... erm, chocolate? Mints?"

Miss Mitchell

There's a hesitation when a hand is offered; once, there might have been some odd combination of flinch and attack in response, but Shoshannah is not the nearly-feral creature she was when she first arrived in Denver.  In the end, though, she shakes it and the hesitation is all but nonexistent, noticed most by Sid, who holds her other hand and knows her better than most people . . . well, anywhere if we're being honest about such things.

That Leonhard notices and is respectful of Sid's boundaries is a point in his favor, almost obviously so - as much as anything about Shoshannah is obvious.  She is anything but subtle, this Dreamspeaker, but she's also anything but easy to read.  "It was nice meeting you," she reciprocates.  "See you Thursday, then."  Those eyes watch as he leaves, then return to Adam - the other relative unknown.  She's amused at the mug she's handed, and more so at the hospitable overtures; perhaps she should take lessons from those who are so much better at it than she.

"Thank you," she says, and stands straight so she can drink properly.  Now, her hand frees itself from Sid's not out of any particular desire to do so, but because it's far easier to ensure one doesn't spill when both hands are free, and Shoshannah knows well the value of a book.

Herr Frick

Clutching his butcher-books crammed full of Hughes, he has what his 'patient' needs, and the lock presents little by way of problem as expected.  All is said, he realises, and does not dance from the shop as his last visit, preferring instead to quietly drift out and away.  Neither is there a call back as last time, all is said.Still, he would obviously have preferred to stay, though he takes with him fond hopes of Thursday as he begins to hum again, back in the street and away.

Ms. Rhodes

Sid tracks the progress of the older, newer (to the area) Hermetic all the way over to the register and then all the way out the door.  When he is gone and it is just her and Shoshannah and Adam who she knows a little better now than she did a few weeks back (he shared his food with her once, that is Important), she relaxes a little more.  And she realizes suddenly that this isn't he first time she's been asked if she'd like some tea.  She turns to look at Adam, though she doesn't seem to be looking at him but through him, or beyond him.  Considering.

Her gaze focuses, and she nods once.  "Thanks," she offers with a hint of a smile, and then her eyes widen a touch.  "Tea," she clarifies quickly.  Not mint or oyster crackers.  He has a cup for Shoshannah, and so the women release from each other, both reluctant for the separation but neither suffering for it.  Sid finds a place to set her bag, which helps give her a place to prop up her skateboard.

A chair was offered, but Sid instead finds the corner of the desk and leans to it, perching on the edge unless Adam makes a face at her, indicating that she should not be sitting on the desk furniture, excuse you, Ms. Rhodes, your butt is where my notebook goes.  Then she'll straighten, but only then.

To Shoshannah she says, "If you'd like some more company," the men are new-ish, Shoshannah only met them today and while the teen may be more than alright with them in the chantry house with her all (mostly?) alone, Sid worries.  They seem harmless, but Sid knows that even the most harmless seeming of individuals...well.  She knows things.  "I can come by on Thursday.  I could bake something."

Mr. Gallowglass

[Adam is going to try out his Empathy Skillz on Sid. Will his skillz be Empathyish? Do you like us, Sid? Or do you think we're going to murderize tender ol' Shoshannah?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 1

Ms. Rhodes

[manip+subt (hidden emotions):  YOU KNOW NOTHING JON SNOW]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Mr. Gallowglass

[Suck it, Ygritte.]

Ms. Rhodes

[*claps hands over mouth*  Nope, not going there, nope nope nope, at least she knocked the legs off that 6 suxx!  ho' shit!

In answer:  Sid is pretty cautious of people, even Adam who seems okay.  That said, Adam does seem pretty okay and Sid does seem to be a bit more comfortable in the shop now that it's just Shoshannah and newish friend.]

Mr. Gallowglass

[Bwahaha. The PMs have amused me.

And danke!]

Mr. Gallowglass

Sid also gets tea. Honey is in the offing, a sticky plastic bear of honey. Clover. More than half-empty. He recedes into the background (so easily, sometimes - dark-haired Adam in his book-wood) and pours Sid a mug of tea. Sid's mug is Mulan because Mulan is what Sarah has back there and it was nearest. To be fair: Mulan is kickass on the mug, as she is anywhere.

He has poured himself a mug of tea, too. His mug is a special mug, description TBA, but very likely to sport an Aubrey Beardsley illustration. Mm, tea. Honey. Tea. The happy thought of not having to cook for himself or eat take-out on Thursday night, feasting on Hermetic wine, Verbena bakery, and Dreamspeaker cookery. 

This is not to say, mind, that he is not observing; he is observing, how close Shoshannah ("Sid is amazing") and Sid (flower-witch) are - a watchful young man, who hasn't scruffed his hair at all tonight.

"The more the merrier, I say, but my only dish is curry." 

Ms. Rhodes

[counter-awarepathy!  are you really so chill, sir?  don't think Sid's paranoia is high enough at the moment to count for re-rolls, boo!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 5 )

Mr. Gallowglass

[I am so sekrit, madame, even with my Arcane not halping, it is like the ultimate riddle: what came first, chicken, or egg, or omelette, or hunger?]

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

Mr. Gallowglass

He is not very chill about her sitting on his desk, and is watching like a hawk in case she moves anything - although as long as she doesn't, he's fine with it. He also seems pret. sincere about curry being his only 'company' dish. Note of false modesty? Well - he is never modest.

He is v. chill about her also coming to dinner. Seems pleased. Pleased in general and pleased in specific.

Mr. Gallowglass

Adam is like :D *good mood*

Miss Mitchell

"You can bring something if you want, Sid.  I'll make the meal, you can handle dessert, and the boys," how very magnanimous of her!  It's ill-fitting, a mask tried on, "can handle drinks that aren't whatever's at The House.  Sound good?  And if Grace or Lena or Padre or Kalen or whoever wants to come too, that's cool."

Sid knows Shoshannah's dietary restrictions well enough, and that the Dreamspeaker doesn't ask - or expect - to be accommodated, but likes to know what she can and can't eat.  (It's all philosophy, really; the girl doesn't follow the religion that calls for her eating habits any longer, is actually rather bitter and resentful of it, but still she clings to the bit of her old life, her first world.  So more than philosophy, perhaps, it's familiarity.)  Now, though, the girl sips her tea (no honey, no need for cream, just strong and thick and dark) until it's gone, then looks outside.

"I . . . actually, I came into town for an appointment and stopped here on impulse.  I should probably get going.  See you on Thursday?"  It's a question, though they've just spent the last while discussing it and providing all sorts of confirmation and affirmation . . . but from a girl who feels as she does, what else can one expect.

Ms. Rhodes

Adam isn't the only one observing.  Almost as soon as she's perched on the corner edge of the desk, hopefully out of the way of any papers or pens or Stuff™, Sid looks to Adam and rises again, pouring a dollop of honey into her mug before handing it back to Adam.  She does not find herself a new place to sit, but remains standing where she's wound up.  Despite appearances - or not, Sid doesn't know nor care how people view her - she is a creature who follows her whims to the things that please her, but she's not one to force those pleasures on others.  Even if that pleasure is so simple a one as sitting on the edge of someone's desk.

She nods to Shoshannah, and smiles at a little at Adam.  Sid is not a bad cook, nor is she a bad baker, but she knows that Shoshannah likes this sort of thing.  Cooking, decorating, homey things.  It'll be nice to have a group together on purpose at the house for her to entertain again.  For all of them to entertain each other, depending on how many will be available.  Shoshannah will handle the meal, Sid can bake a carrot cake that should turn out alright, and the 'boys' (Sid's mouth curves in a fond smile for the Dreamspeaker when she says it, half-hidden by the lip of her mug as she takes a sip) will handle drinks.  Then it appears that Shoshannah is heading out into the day.  She nods to the question of Thursday and steps over to her to wrap her arm around her again.  They are nearly the same height, these two, though Shoshannah is a touch taller.

"Let me know if you'd like a ride home," she offers.  She knows she's more than capable of getting herself all the way back out to the chantry, but Sid offers her just the same.

Mr. Gallowglass

He'd leaned against the doorframe again. Shoshannah, angry, defensive, uncanny witch of a (burn it, burn it) thing makes a question of confirmation: Adam doesn't appear to think it's undue. He straightens from the doorframe with awkward haste - because self-possession does not quite translate to physical grace - and he says, "Certainly."

Adam. He enjoys words, but he does not have the Jerbiton's generousity with them. Still. He says, "I am glad impulse did bring you by, Shoshannah," quite seriously. 

There is an under-layer of musing, because there are people on that list of and if any of these people want to come by that's fine too that he'd like to meet.

It's while the girls are hugging that the door opens, again, Leonhard not having used a rote to lock the door behind him, and a couple of customers wander in. Adam becomes a little more inherently Mysterious, although at this point in time it doesn't effect any of his companions: just these newcomers, who won't be able to describe him later, and he excuses himself to direct the customers to the section of the bookstore they're looking for.

As it happens, art books.

Ms. Rhodes

If Shoshannah needs a ride back out (to the country, where she can see the stars) the call will not come for at least a little while longer.  The door chimes and strangers come in seeking books, leaving Sid to her own devices for a time.  Which suits her fine.  While she certainly doesn't mind social interactions (anymore (or at least as much)), she'd also come this way for a purpose.  Her mug, a little more than half drained, is cupped in both hands as she wanders between the shelves.  Once or twice she shoots a glance Adam's way and offers him a reassuring sort of half-smile, It's alright, I won't spill.  And she doesn't.

When the customers seeking art books find what they're looking for or find themselves directed on to some other place where they might find what they seek, the Verbena wanders back over to the Hermetic to hand him her mug back, empty now but still warm, the ceramic having soaked up the heat from her hands.  It is a gentle warmth, quiet and soft, not unlike the woman it emanated from.

They talk about books for a little while.  Sid is looking for something - somethings - on time.  Time and it's passage, time in fairy tales, time in mathematics, time time time.  She gathers her knowledge from many sources, and also, she is starting to build her own modest collection of books and knowledge.  Not just from Adam's shop, but from others here and there around the city, with a book or two ordered in from elsewhere.  It's a start.

Maybe they talk about baking, too, or cooking.  His company dish is curry, Sid's is cold salad.  She prefers to bake but she must be careful.  Her hands, her whole self, have finally been seen as a blessing but for one area.  Sid can no longer bake bread.  The sorrow is only a minor one, but it's still a sorrow.

When it's time for her to make her way back through the city, threading her way through the crowd on four small wheels pushed forward by her own power, she studies Adam a moment, curious, a last little touch suspicious but that will always be there.  She seems to be mulling something over, but whatever she was trying to decide she keeps to herself and offers him a hand to his shoulder again, a gentle squeeze again.  Without a proper word of farewell, Sid exits out onto the street, leaving behind the bookshop and its mysterious (to Sleepers/to those Adam keeps at a distance) keeper to his afternoon.

Mr. Gallowglass

[Okay man can I play it chill.]

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

Ms. Rhodes

[awarepathy?]

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

Mr. Gallowglass

He is a deft hand at direction of people: at least in this context. One goes upstairs. The other pokes around the table display. Sid wanders between the stacks and Adam does not give her many looks, 'lest she spill. But he is pleased at any of her don't-worry-looks he might intercept. And when Sid hands the mug back, he places it on his desk (he knows where things go, see), and is happy to talk more.

Time is a subject he is passionate about. The passion is abiding, and deep: and Sid can read it in the animation of the gestures he makes and the brightness of his eyes - can read it better than Adam, who is reserved, would like. He is indeed so passionate about Time that should Sid find anything elsewhere while she puts together her own collection of books (and he is quite supportive of this - perhaps scenting business, or perhaps simply because Adam is Adam and a Hermetic and learning from books is all the reverence he knows) he admits he'd like to see it. He's got some kooky ideas: Adam. Sid knows that he possesses the Sphere, but now she knows that is a relatively new one for him. Fire of enthusiasm.

He is pretty darned enthusiastic about curry, too. He's somewhat wide-eyed when he asks why she can't bake bread any longer -- and maybe he laughs when she clarifies. Laughs this laugh that involves hunching over, shoulders shaking like he's holding in a sneeze. A whole-body laugh.

In the end, the contact doesn't bother him. He doesn't return it because it seems strange to reach out and bro-squeeze a young woman's shoulder, but he smiles a bemused smile and scruffs his hair and holds his hand up in a 'seeya' way.

And then he, smiling a little - grave and musing at once, goes back to his books.

Or - hey - a customer.

Good day.

Ms. Rhodes

[hide dem feels, gurl: subterfyoosh]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 2, 2, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 ) Re-rolls: 1

Mr. Gallowglass

[Oohhh?]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

Ms. Rhodes

Sid is trying for various reasons to play it cool which she manages pretty well until Adam starts getting all enthusiastic about Time.  That passion that she sees, it moves and draws her, so that once or twice maybe she catches herself leaning in too close to this new young man she barely knows, or has to pull her attention away from where it's drifted toward his mouth like she would like nothing more than to watch the way the words are formed as they come and NOPE.  NOPE NOPE.

Margaret Thatcher on a cold day, Margaret Thatcher on a cold day.  Sid already thought Adam was adorable but not she is developing a bit of a crush.

Mr. Gallowglass

[And - scene!]