Rhymes with knees.

[K. R. Jakes] Now, Kage.

Kage has no desire, zero, zilch, zip: none. No desire at all to join the Order of Hermes. It kindles nothing in her, except wariness. However, Kage is desirous of some of the secrets the Order of Hermes tries to [claim (keep)] say is theirs and theirs only: namely, the language of angels [seraphim (true words)]. Not only is she desirous: she covets the way a gambler covets another game, another hand, another card, another table. All this talk of True Names: it makes her wistful, and something distantly yearning [opaque] touches her eyes.

"And yours aren't pompous? I'd like to hear them -- one," she amends, so that Ashley knows she isn't trying to drag her True Name out've her bosom and lay it on the counter. And the cookie? The cookie is good. The cookie with milk? Is divine.

A beat. And then: "What do you mean, not quite urgent, exactly?"

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley has no idea that Kage wishes to learn Enochian so badly, the words of power that the Order of Hermes keeps locked away. With good reason: they believe that it should only be handed down to the worthy, those committed to walking the path to perfection, to becoming something infinite. The chosen, the initiated. The worthy.

That doesn't include non-Hermetics, of course.

At the moment she isn't thinking much about Enochian, or even considering whether she'd teach Kage (the answer would be no.) There are cookies. Kage is asking for one of her titles, and there's a hesitation. Brief. Then, when Kage amends, "Herald of Endings. Is one." They've talked. Kage can probably understand its roots.

"I, uh. Well, you remember how I told you that I had my own sample of Blue Horizon's substance? It's...okay. It's sentient. Has emotions. Like, human ones. It learned how to project them by watching me - " a touch of embarrassment, here - "and it's...I mean, for all intents and purposes, it's another Will, it just hasn't been taught to restrain its basic drives. I wanted to talk to Henri because I'm a little bothered by the idea of destroying it without trying to teach it, first, but I'm not sure most of the others really understand the level it's operating on."

[K. R. Jakes] Herald of Endings, Ashley says. And Kage keeps to herself whatever she thinks of the name. She listens, absorbs it, and then listens some more, and as she listens, she finishes off her cookie, licks the chocolate from her fingertips. Then, serious: "What makes you say that?"

[Ashley McGowen] Ashley reaches for another cookie, silent for a moment, holding it between fingertips. This is hard to articulate, precisely: first of all because Ashley is not comfortable with sentiment, and second of all because it's the first time she's had to try.

"When I've connected my mind with its, it's been...very hungry. I mean, it's said as much. It wants to assimilate everything it comes across and get as much input as it can. And, I mean, I'm obviously sympathetic," Ashley says. "I'm trying to teach it restraint and to use it to push itself, instead of just kind of...devouring everything in sight. But I basically feel that if -I- have a right to my Will than it has a right to its. If I can't teach it, that'll be different, but right now..."

[K. R. Jakes] K. R. Jakes listens. Her book is still on the floor. Her gaze (inscrutable [gleam]) goes distant for a moment. There is a horizon somewhere, off the maps -- a horizon somewhere bold. What might be seen there? Stars, constellations; what might they say? That might be where her gaze goes, for a moment. Only a moment, though: mostly, she is intent, pensive. A line appears between her brows, and -- here. An indicator, the deep breath she takes. "Hm. I see." A beat. "Can you elaborate on 'use it to push itself'?"

[Ashley McGowen] "Well, use it to motivate itself, I guess. Use it to drive itself forward to get what it wants, while keeping in mind that not everything is good for it," Ashley says. The unspoken words: the way I do. "I've tried to stress to it that it's more than its basic drives and imperatives."

In a way it's been good for her, perhaps, to have her own need for control reaffirmed. To see what she would become if she were to give herself wholly to her Avatar's drives. She doesn't miss the intensity in Kage's eyes, the something that can't quite be read, and she wonders at it. She often wonders at Kage, when she gets that expression.

[Emily Littleton] There comes the soft sound of footsteps leading up to the Chantry, muffled by the heaviness of the door, by the distance between it and the kitchen of the shared space, meeting place, safe haven. It has not always been safe, to Emily--has not ever been safe to Emily--and yet she's drawn out here tonight for reasons she cannot quite articulate.

A knock. Just twice. Clear but hesitant. And then the door eases open. For all her time in this city, the Orphan (for now) is still unclear on the protocols and formalities of the meeting house.

The door opens and Emily steps inside. The warm, heavy evening arm swirls in with her. The door closes, and the night sounds are muffled once more.

She's softer, today. A light pink sweater, soft and comforting. Jeans. Her hair loose and framing her features. There is no push to her presence, the new note of Unrelenting energies absent. Emily sniffs at the scent of freshly-baked cookies, listens to the sounds of voices coming softly from the kitchen. She wraps her fingers around the strap of her messenger bag and follows those sounds, tentatively, to their source.

[Emily Littleton] ((Edit: The warm, heavy evening *air swirls in with her.))

[K. R. Jakes] "And you think that it is, because it hungers for things?" Think that it's more, she means. "Because it's -- " Then there is Emily, dark-haired Other, dark-haired Orphan (for now [not for long?]) approaching, her shadow flung from the hall across the kitchen's floor. Kage sees her first. Perhaps because she expects Basil to return, or someone else; perhaps because, for all she seems rather blase, even comfortable, about being in the White Fence House, she isn't. She doesn't like it here. Doesn't like what's happened here. Doesn't like being surrounded by Traditionalists, who are crazy. Doesn't like being in the place where an Orphan she might've been friends with -- might've respected -- was tortured and utterly extinguished (but not killed [worse]). Doesn't like it, somewhere deep, in the marrow, in the root -- so expects, curious, to see some interesting stranger appear through the door at any moment, is wary about just such an appearance. This apparition isn't that sort've stranger, though -- it's Emily. And Kage pauses in whatever it is she was going to say to Ashley to say, "Hi, Emily. I made cookies; come and have some."

[Ashley McGowen] "I don't know," Ashley confesses. She can guess at what Kage was going to say, what she was going to imply or add outright, and that's the truth of it: Ashley doesn't know. She doesn't know if it's more, or less, or if it just is. She might even be a little afraid of the thing, in truth, of what it represents and what it represents of her and what others' reactions to it are - might be to her if she weren't in a human shell.

Then, Emily, and the Hermetic brightens ever so slightly, glances in the direction of the other Orphan. She, too, had been expecting the return of Mr. Seventh White Lightning Strike of Jorvika, and so she is pleasantly surprised to see the girl instead. "Evening, Emily."

[Emily Littleton] Once, Emily had been an interesting stranger. The dark-haired Other, who wore her strangeness in the curl and cadence of her accent, in the customs from not-here and far-away still wrapped around her mannerisms. It wasn't that long ago that Emily had wandered into their world, incadescent-souled and bright-eyed. Not quite half a year.

There's a quiet to her. One hand falls away from her messenger strap and the girl runs her fingers through her hair, drags the broad curls away from her face. She is not some interesting stranger any more.

She is not Basil. (Rejoice? [Disappointed?])

"Oooh, cookies," the Apprentice says, with a smile that just lifts the corners of her mouth and gently touches her eyes. She does reach out for one, tucking one hand beneath the other catch crumbs or crumbling pieces.

"Evening," the greeting encompasses them both. She, too, is relieved to find friends here, rather than new and overly-interesting others.

[K. R. Jakes] The cookie Emily reaches out to take is still warm to the touch. There is still give, air hasn't hardened its heart; it still has fire within. They've come out of the oven all've six minutes ago -- no; maybe seven, by now. The red-haired Orphan (who will always be) leans her hip against the cabinet. Here, in the White Fence House's kitchen, it's impossible to shake the too-perfect gloss of Americana out. This isn't the sort of kitchen one would expect a house of (witches [wizards] magicians [priests] shamans [mystics] psychics [choose your descriptor here] superheroes) to possess. There should be herbs, or a cat. Interesting things, less cleanliness.

To Ashley, Kage says, "Well. I'll try and talk to Henri myself about it." Kage isn't avoiding the topic she and Ashley were discussing, although Ashley may think she's decided to change it utterly. Kage has opinions; there isn't any doubt of that. Kage does not always share those opinions; it's hard to doubt that, too. In this case, however -- she's just quieted because Emily is there; because it is a difficult topic; because Emily is quieter, less syllables than she is used to hearing from the Orphan.

"Annnnnnnd there's milk in the fridge. What's new, Em?"

[Ashley McGowen] "I left a note asking Henri to hear me out, and I got a pretty unequivocal no," Ashley says. Frowns, keeping a hand beneath the cookie as she lifts it to her mouth, to prevent milk dripping or any crumbles from getting all over the floor. The chantry is neat, and though Ashley isn't always the most organized (one only has to see her apartment, with its piles of books and papers and empty tea cups on end tables, to know that), she enjoys cleanliness and tries to keep it that way.

If Emily is weary, Ashley hasn't noticed. The Orphan's subdued mood is a little too subtle for her to pick up on, just yet. It's Emily: she's reserved, she sometimes doesn't like to talk about things, and Ashley doesn't notice when that line crosses from reserved to drained, to quiet because it is just too much effort to talk.

Still, when Kage asks Emily what's new, the Hermetic's blue eyes follow Kage's, and watch Emily expectantly.

[Emily Littleton] There's milk in the fridge.

"Brilliant." This is the small nudge the Apprentice needs to wander further into the room. To find a place to set aside her messenger bag and gravitate toward the cupboard with glasses, onward to the fridge. There's a constraint to her movements, a weariness that can be mistaken for shyness -- should be mistaken for over-caution in this easily disturbed and upset powder keg of a house.

It's convenient that her head is in the icebox when she replies to Kage's question. That her voice is distended and reshaped by that strange accoustic space.

"Oh, you know, more of the same..." She pours herself a short glass of milk and returns the carton to the fridge. Closes the door quietly. Now her eyes look up and over, to the expectancy in Ashley's, to the familiar depths of Kage's.

"These are quite good," she says, with open appreciation, as she nibbles on the cookie again. It's a dodge, feint and redirect. The older magi likely know it. It's also distinctly Emily and not that terribly surprising. "You two are well, I hope?"

[K. R. Jakes] The Hermetic got a pretty unequivocal no. Kage doesn't quite give Ashley a patient yes, I know you did look, but her eyebrows do prick up. Not much. Just a little. Eloquent, Kage. Observe: "Didn't she throw books at you?" No judgment.

Emily says, hey, these are pretty good, and Kage smiles. That smile, you know. The rare one. The gorgeous one, touches her eyes, illuminates her expression; a flash of true loveliness. "I followed the directions on the back of the bag," a half-glance, toward a Nestle Toll House yellow plastic wrapper all crumpled on the counter. "It was difficult. I kept imagining Morgan, and that banana raspberry chocolate swirl thing she made one time."

Wistful, that's what Kage sounds like. And also, "By your 'more of the same,' I take it you mean O brave new world, and troubled waters?" Kage -- doesn't push, precisely. She's asking. She doesn't seem like she's going to pick anything out of Emily's answer, but -- she is asking.

[Owen Page] For once, he's not sneaking (insert stifled gasps and hands flying to mouths in wonder here abouts) but approaching the Chantry door like a regular visiting human being might. Which, actually, when one stops to think about it is exactly how he approached the Chantry on the prior occasion he paid it a visit. There's no attempt made to stifle the thunk of his boots as they cross the old wooden porch, there's no muffling the polite one-two rap of his knuckles against the door pane before he tries the knob and turns it; stepping inside.

It's a nicety, that. The knocking before entering, it's also a realization that he's not on his own turf, and he has no authority on these premises -- at least, not yet.

The zipper on the Initiate's jacket is drawn down, and he waits by the door, hands loosely tucked into pockets; features drawn as seemed always the case into a frown of thought.

[Ashley McGowen] "...She hit me in the face with one," Ashley grumbles. That's a yes. The Hermetic is slumping a little further back against the counter top, now. She looks deceptively relaxed, leaned down on her elbows, the bottoms of her shoulder blades nearly pressed into the top edge of the counter. She's not: she (almost) never is, even among such company, among people she likes. Tytalan training is slow to die.

There's a look back at Emily as she pops the last of a cookie into her mouth. When Ashley eats it's always with a slow deliberation, and always in large quantities: one is left with the impression that she could continue as though she is starving to death (perhaps she feels as though she is) and restrains herself.

There's another knock on the door and she raises her head and looks toward it as Emily makes whatever answer she will, perking, curious. It's a knock she doesn't recognize the sound of.

[Emily Littleton] It was difficult, Kage says, and the lightness of it touches her eyes, elevates her smile to something transcendental. It echoes in the other Orphan for a moment, that warmth goading her into the familiar wry twist of a smile. Almost to a little chuckle.

"You'd be surprised how many can't..." The thought trends upward, a subtle challenge. There's no weight to it tonight. It's untethered and idle.

At Kage's other question, though, Emily shrugs a bit and takes another bite of cookie. It's a tactic Ashley knows well: Food goes in the mouth, foot stays out of it. Chewing gives her time to consider, without being rude, how she wants to answer.

Providence intercedes. All eyes shift toward the knock on the Chantry door. It gives her another reason to evade, which will seem polite enough.

"Apparently I'm not the only one who knocks..."

But there's a glance to Kage, just as she looks away from the door, that catches the other Orphan's eyes. In that moment Emily is not just tired, not just weary, but faintly haunted. Perhaps it's the way the overhead light catches her cheekbones, or how young she seems when she's this quiet. It's covered, very neatly (precisely) but the ghost of a smile, and another sip from her glass of milk.

"Mmm, but yes. Quite troubled waters and brave new world indeed." She sets down her glass, looks for a napkin or towel to wipe away the crumbs on her fingertips.

[K. R. Jakes] There's a knock at the door. The knock brings the small (tiny [delicate? miniature?]) Hermetic to attention. The knock draws Emily's gaze. Emily, slow-Emily, quiet-Emily, soft-Emily, Emily-after-some-trial, and Kage cants her head, half-frown touching her gaze, defines her eyebrows, before -- "I'll get it."

"And I'm actually curious, 'ley. Do the doors lock? Are keys going to be passed out? A gatekeeper hired, or a butler? Some sort of system?" As she asks this, she's walking backwards into the hall, out've the kitchen's line of sight, padding through the living room and into the foyer and (it could be a nephandus [a technocrat] a murderer [jaws!] SINGING drunks [girl scouts]) is going to open the door in spite of, well. Why? But instead, turn: WHOA, DUDE. "Oh. Hey, come - on in. Kitchen. Cookies."

[Owen Page] Emily's expressions are attempting to hold in all that she has been through in the past several days, and all that she has been through in the last several days has included the young man standing now in the foyer of the Chantry. Not that Owen Page is somehow the nexus of all that is wrong or unpleasant in the world but that everything that has happened has also happened to him.

He seems, at least on the surface, to be weathering it fairly well [only Emily knew differently]. There is no trace of exhaustion now on his face, his eyes are not shadowed, their blue depths are not bloodshot or wearied. There is a brief furrowing of his brows as voices emanate from the depths of the house but this is nothing out of the ordinary. He's not a Nephandus, or a Technocrat or even something as positively evil as a Girl Scout -- though he could still very easily be a physical threat to the right person.

Hands tucked into an old worn leather jacket, a collared shirt beneath it that was a shade or two paler than his eyes, the Chorister was still waiting patiently when the Orphan appears. His gaze tracks her as she greets him and invites him through to the kitchen where there are, it would seem, cookies. "Thanks," he responds with quietly, and then a beat later as they're pushing through into the kitchen: "Who else is --," Ashley, Emily.

The former gets a little smile, a nod, the latter a more devoted look; it's neither obviously pleased or upset, but contained.

"Hey, am I interrupting?" The cookies, the milk, the three women gathered.

[Ashley McGowen] "Wharil, Gregor and I have keys," Ashley tells Kage, before the elder Orphan vanishes into the hallway. Which suffices to answer most of the questions: we have passed them out already, we will not pass them out to anyone else. It's an assertion of ownership without stating outright: perhaps Ashley is learning some amount of subtlety, after all. "Gregor keeps the place locked at night, I think."

While Kage is away Ashley is quiet, choosing to let Emily talk if she wishes, and she doesn't seem to. The Hermetic, for her part, also seems thoughtful. Not for reasons anywhere near as unpleasant as those of Emily and Owen, but suffice to say that she's been given a lot of things to mull over lately. A lot of things that require that she think them through. Another cookie finds its way into her hand and is transferred to her mouth, almost absently.

"Hi, Owen," she says, glancing up once the Chorister finds his way in. Ashley's dark hair is a bit damp, weighed down from the moisture outside, though its thickness has long since absorbed the droplets (like dew) that had settled upon it before she came into the chantry a while ago. "You're not interrupting anything. There's milk in the 'fridge."

[Emily Littleton] Wasn't this how it began last time--a Hermetic, a Chorister, and an Orphan; and Emily, quiet and watchful? Though the similarities between this group and another ended there, at their Traditional affiliations, there is a pique in Emily's interest, a shift to her stance (subtle [noticeable]) when Owen enters.

She gathers up her glass, steps away from the fridge and finds herself a corner to lean into, letting the cool edge of the countertop press against her lower back.

Another cookie then? Yes. But this one can't hide the weight (importance [connection]) in the look that passes between Emily and Owen. It's clear, like the shift in her body language that becomes a little more comfortable, a little less cowed.

"Kage's cookies are delicious," she says, holding hers over her glass of milk so the crumbles don't go everywhere. It's a recommendation, and a welcome. Hey Owen, she doesn't say, but there is no turning away today. A step up from that night at the coffee place.

[Owen Page] There's milk in the fridge. There are cookies on the counter that are still warm, and infuse this space with the reassuring smells of any kitchen around the world. Something sweet, something newly baked and ready for consumption. Owen nods, and takes his hands out of his pockets at the greetings and the offers but doesn't yet sample any food-stuff.

There's a line furrowed into his brow, his eyes belie a seriousness that wasn't there before, events have etched their way into his expression, and any of them can see they have been weighing on his mind. He doesn't look at Emily as he speaks, his voice quiet, level.

Calm.

There's something oddly reassuring in that, too, the idea that even as he's recounting such terrors, such unnatural events his voice does not tremble, or drop. It stays just as it always seems to be, a constant amidst a sea of uncertain tales. "I actually came to warn you, all of you," a brief glance at Kage, back. "Any of you.

A few nights ago Emily and I were in Lincoln Park, shooting hoops, we were disrupted by what I initially thought was a show of Force at work, shorting out the light. We found a boy, Tony, deeply traumatized, he told us some story about his sister needing help, needing protection from her mother." A beat, Owen is recounting events carefully, structuring things to keep them as straight-forward as he can. The words don't come easily, per say, he dislikes the public venue, the nature of the act itself, but he keeps momentum going in this speech.

"Mind scanning didn't read him as a threat, so we followed him. He led us to a smaller, fenced off area under reconstruction. His sister was dead already, I found her in the fountain. The mother then showed up, under the influence of a man." The Chorister's weight shifts, he lays his palms flat on the counter-top, jaw working for a minute. "He toyed with us, I can't think of an easier way to put it. He used Time on us both, distorted things. Threatened Emily's life, and the boy's, unless I chose who was to live and who was to die."

Owen breathes out, his chest expanding slowly. "I refused to do that, and we fought. Emily began to pray, and that seemed to hurt him. He took off, but I don't think we've seen the last of him." Another stretch of silence. "Whoever he was, he was powerful."

[Ashley McGowen] I actually came to warn you, all of you. No sooner have those words escaped Owen's mouth than Ashley rises out of her slump, standing at her full height (a decidedly unimpressive five feet.) Ashley, when she first arrived in Chicago, was notoriously selfish: she nearly stood aside while a woman was attacked, because it was not her problem. Would have, if Wharil hadn't reprimanded her, if it hadn't been important as the only Hermetic in the city to present the Tradition in a positive light.

For a few flutterings of the heart she almost makes up excuses: damn, it's late; damn, Zane needs a walk and he's probably tearing up my computer cables again; shit, I forgot I'm lactose intolerant; anything. Anything. The opportunity for Anything fades, and responsibility rushes in on its heels seconds later, and the cookie with a bite missing from it is set on the counter. Forlorn and forgotten.

She listens to what the Chorister has to tell them, glances toward Emily, who suddenly -does- seem tired and weary now that she thinks about it, whose silence suddenly makes sense. Then her eyes find Owen's again.

"Did you see where he went? Do you have anything of his? His blood on your clothing, maybe some hair, anything?"

[Emily Littleton] So many things get left unsaid. (Owen.) They're echoed in the shift to the girl's posture (This was precisely what I was trying not to think about tonight), the way she sets her milk aside and balances the half-eaten cookie on top of the glass. Her arms fold over her middle and she ducks her head thoughtfully.

There's no shame in her expression, but it's colder than usual. Harder than usual. Withdrawn, resolute. Her gaze is firmly pinned to the floor of the kitchen, round about where Owen's workboots meet the tile. It looks through that interface, pushes beyond it (anywhere but here).

A few words hit home more keenly than she wants them to, but they don't coax little sounds out of the Orphan or elicit flickers of emotion (pain [fear] loss). She's neatly walled off from all of that, just now.

"I got a Life scan of him," Emily says to Ashley. Her voice is low, flatter than usual and more controlled. It strips some of the accent away; perhaps she could pull all of it away if she needed to. "I tried to share it with Owen, but I don't know if that worked." Futility, she couldn't quite keep that frustration out of her voice.

"I didn't see where he went, either," she adds, her brow creasing sharply with frustration now. "I was preoccupied with the boy."

[K. R. Jakes] There's milk in the fridge. Kage's cookies are delicious. There couldn't be anything more wholesome than the tableau the three women present: the red-haired woman, the short-haired brunette, the brown-so-dark-it's-almost-black-haired woman, in the kitchen (girls [gossip]) with chocolate chip cookies and milk. This is a strange setting for anything [suburbia has (always) hidden things]. Kage doesn't smile the rare-almost-gorgeous smile, just something plain, courteous.

Then the intense (corrosive) Choruster speaks, and Kage doesn't know him well enough to realize that he is quiet (shy [awkward]) in large groups. That he's just given a speech that must have been, on some level, difficult of him to make. He speaks, and Kage listens. She doesn't give Emily an oh just troubled waters as usual sort of look, because, honestly, this -- while horrifying -- doesn't actually surprise her, doesn't rouse her blood against.

"What happened to the boy? Is he okay?"

[Owen Page] Ashley is asking the practical questions, but Owen has no easy answers for her. He's crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head in conjunction with his words. "No, he was literally there and then gone." A beat, his eyes tick to Emily, there's a tiny softening as she mentions her Life scan, seems frustrated. "I felt it," he confirms for her, then his gaze resettles on the Disciple.

"What I can tell you is that his resonance felt -- off. It wasn't the typical sense you get when someone is working, it felt --," he hesitates to name it, some instinctive, some inherent held beliefs surge to the fore and scream out against giving the idea form, even verbally. "Evil. Unnatural and strange, not anything I've ever felt coming from someone before."

There's the briefest flicker of -- what is that, uncertainty, fear -- something in Owen's eyes, it passes on when Kage asks after the boy. "He's okay, I helped shelter his mind as best I could, and he's in the care of some of my tradition who have experience with situations like this." A beat, he glances over at Emily. "There was nothing I could do for the mother, or the baby. I buried her at the Church."

[Ashley McGowen] The boy is in the care of the Chorus, his damaged mind is in the care of people who can repair it and make it whole again. Ashley could offer to do such a thing; she does not, though perhaps some part of her desires to. It's the boy's battle to fight if he's 'okay,' if he's bruised but alive - and that aside, she doesn't have the best track record when it comes to healing Minds and torn Wills (two bodies rent by bullets on two separate occasions, a dark Euthanatos she can do nothing for.)

"He was a Nephandus," she tells Owen when he remarks on the man's resonance.

There are times, eating cookies in the chantry or playing with the dog, when Ashley approaches something human, when it's easy to forget that she is Hunger, that she's being Pushed. It's a veneer, ocean waters with coils beneath. Kage has seen this before, when Ashley and Wharil appeared on her doorstep, when she was roused by a threat to something she thought of as hers (-my- allies, -my- city); the other two have not. Her muscles have tightened and she's looking from Emily to Owen, tensed, jaw set.

"Show me," she tells Emily (commands, really), and turns to face her.

[Ashley McGowen] [Syll says Em would be cool with this, so making the roll now so she can skim over it! Mind 3, prodding. -1 for focus, -2 for applicable resonance Entropic: Hungry. Spendin' WP.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[K. R. Jakes] "'ley," Kage says, warning: "There's a word. Rhymes with knees. I'm thinking of it right now."

[Ashley McGowen] "Bees?"

[Owen Page] Owen's expression steels a little at the demand pressed upon Emily, his muscles tighten, jaw working.

"Please," he clarifies.

[Emily Littleton] This was not what Emily had come to the Chantry for tonight, though she would be hard-pressed to articulate a clear and present reason for approaching the white-fenced house and all of its memories and conflicts in the first place.

He was a Nephandus, Ashley says and Emily's lips part in contest momentarily. Close around whatever argument she might have made. But the clearest thing in Emily's mind when Ashley's reaches into it was the taste of that Man's resonance: oily, wrong but not entirely like the Nephandic energies she's come in contact with before. Emily had specific gone looking for that, and found it too dissimilar to comment on.

"It's fine," is all she says, to the Hermetic, when it most clearly is not. There are some things, though, that are weathered for greater purposes. The girl rests both her hands on the counter behind her, feels the cold against her palms, and tries to pull up the salient memory.

--It does not come cleanly, no, and the Hermetic is given audience to a myriad of other things: the weight of a small, spent boy child in her arms; the feeling of flames licking closer; the heart-stopping grief at realizing what it was that Owen had pulled from the fountain; fear, fear too sharp to be old fear and fear too deep to be newly felt, all wound and wrapped around Emily's memories of that moment.

There: the two patterns become clear, at last. A woman's contorted in agony, in some great amount of pain. A man's so normal, so ordinary that it almost seems unremarkable. There is a connection between the two, something unnatural and writhing. The discordance in hers seems to feed, no seems to resonate in harmony with his.

This memory gives way to a flood of fear, as the boy breaks free from Emily's side and runs toward his mother.--

If Ashley is gentle, she will pull away from the Orphan's mind, now. Before the girl standing in the kitchen with them begins to tremble. Before the now wan and hollowed look on her features goes further toward grief.

The Hermetic's own brand of magic does not help anything. It conjures up the memory of being trapped, held, tormented. That, as much as anything Emily is reliving for the Disciple's edification, is whittling her resolve away. But she cannot put the other mage out of her mind, and that may be the worst of it. Emily's breathing is shallowed, her heartbeat quick. Her fingers tighten, attempt to claw into the counter to steady her.

[Ashley McGowen] [Don't dig into the private shit this also brings up!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Ashley McGowen] Emily might have made her protests, says that it's fine, but the moment she rests her hands on the counter and gives Ashley the slightest hint of assent, the Hermetic's Will surges forward. Ashley was initially trained in the use of Mind by the Akashics, by her father, but there's no hint of that in how she wields it now: for Emily, it's like having the barriers she has in place overrun by some sort of host, like having a pair of jaws close around her somewhere she can't even begin to define. It forces the memories upward, commands them until they are both reliving them and it's being pulled from her, ingested.

She sees what she needs to see, and the man's pattern springs forth clearly in memory, along with that of the woman. Contorted, suffering. Ashley isn't unmoved and that's communicated, however vague, in the brief merging of minds, but she pulls herself away, detaches and separates You and Me so that Emily's rising emotions don't affect her in turn.

It's not gentle - though not unnecessarily cruel, either - but she does pull away, once it all becomes clear, once she has the memory of the man's pattern memorized and locked away. She lowers her hand away from the chain at her neck and takes a half a step back, letting her hand fall to her side. Takes in Emily, breathing fast and shallow.

"...Sorry," she says. And that's all, for a few seconds. Then, as though realizing the harsh nature of what just happened, that Kage and Owen were chiding her for manners, her demeanor softens. Ever so slightly. And she explains, "I've never tried it before, but I think I might be able to track him with that pattern, and it's important that we don't give him the kind of time we gave Marla and Jackson. That's why I wanted it."

[Owen Page] His reactions are a tell.

The protective manner he reminded Ashley that she should be asking permission, not merely invading another Mage's memories. The intent way he watches while she extracts what she needs in order to track the man Owen had just spoken to them about, the quickness of steps that has him standing beside Emily as she turns wan and slumps for steadiness against the counter.

She finds herself held up by a body behind her, an arm around her waist.

I've got you, the Chorister's sure grip announces to her without spoken comment, to her and to Kage and Ashley. There is a gentleness in the manner Owen attends to her, turning to look into her eyes, to scan her face; to tender aside a fallen strand of dark hair and holding her chin up for a minute. "Alright?" He asks lowly, discreetly.

Owen does not seem in the slightest afflicted by the realization this interplay is observed by others, he just looks at Ashley as she explains, as she apologizes from his position beside the Apprentice and nods slightly. He knows, and the fact of the matter is, it was a necessary action to hunt down whatever it was that this man was.

[K. R. Jakes] Her reactions aren't a tell.

This is Kage, who is inscrutable [tabula rasa (nay; don't lie: palimpsest)]. Kage, who watches the Hermetic at Work, who watches Emily, while the Hermetic Works, and whose expression is considering, pensive. Her eyes are expressive, though. When Ashley drops her hand, takes a half-step back, some modicum of tension that has coiled itself, python-tight, no, mom, not yet, five more minutes tight, at the base of her spine eases, and her eyelashes kiss. This isn't to say she closes her eyes.

There are things she doesn't say

yet.

So, "Hm," for Ashley. And, "I don't think I put enough chocolate into the cookies," she says, faux-mournfully. Her gaze tracks from Ashley to Emily, looks for Emily's eyes, but doesn't force eye-contact. Says, quiet though - " - did you find out the mother's name?" Kage is unclear about just what burying the mother and the sister at Owen's church (hey, that's my) means, legally, in the Sleeper-world.

[Emily Littleton] They're just memories, now, she tells herself, fighting to push down everything Ashley's rote has brought to the surface. They're not now, not here. Now is the scent of cookies, heavy and warming in the kitchen air. Now is Owen's arm around her, steadying her. Now is opening her eyes to find Kage, the rowan haired Other, and Ashley, the Hermetic who pushes (whom she can call Friend) just across the room from her.

Owen asks something of her and Emily offers a tiny nod. Her mouth purses a little, and she's stock still and silent beside him. He knows, so she doesn't have to say that she isn't alright after rehashing all of that. He knows, too, that she will be.

Her reactions are a tell: that she lets Owen comfort her (leans into him [does not pull away]); that she looks to Kage, makes eye contact however briefly, and lets a smile ghost over her features (warmer [trying]); that there is no contempt or harshness in the way her eyes settle on Ashley (we are all friends here).

I want to go, telegraphs the tension in her frame to the Chorister beside her, but Emily makes no move to leave his side, or the kitchen, or the Chantry just yet. She wants to, but stays. That could change at any moment.

[Owen Page] "Helen," he supplies without hesitation, then frowns. "Sorry, I wasn't clear. She's not deceased, the mother. Just the little girl, Emma." There's a sadness, here. For them both, mother and daughter. "The decision was made to leave Helen, and make a call for her to be picked up, placed into care."

He's quiet a minute, feeling the emotions Emily is all but telegraphing at him, but, this was important. This was owed them, those people who'd suffered, who'd died. "She was catatonic once she was released from the --" a glance at Ashley. "Nephandus' hold on her. Total mental shutdown."

He's solemn, steady. "I don't believe she'll remember much." He hopes she never has to recall drowning her daughter.

[Ashley McGowen] Kage is asking about the mother, about a dead woman's name. The Hermetic might not have been indifferent to the suffering when she was confronted with the face of it, with the woman's face frozen in agony and the boy running to his mother's side, but the Names of the dead don't matter to her. There are others to tend them.

Kage also comments on the amount of chocolate in the cookies, and only receives a bemused look in response. She's forgotten her own, and she doesn't pick it back up again. She looks at Emily, Owen's arm around her providing strength and support (she shouldn't need his) but chooses not to comment or dwell.

"That might be whoever corrupted Marla and Jackson in the first place," she says. "I'll try to track him down as soon as possible and I'll let you know what I find." It's in the tone that says she also wants to go, that she's uncomfortable with how shaken Emily is and the air of camaraderie, of peace, has been shattered for her tonight.

[Emily Littleton] Nephandus. There's that word again. Emily's features pinch a bit, and she brings one hand up to scrub at her face a little. It's the first real movement she's made since Ashley pulled out of her mind.

"It's not the same," the Apprentice said softly, pushing the words out into the shared space as if they took some effort to detach from her tongue. "It's not the same as what happened here; it doesn't feel the same. I remember," she says, with what might be a surprising amount of vehemence considering her somewhat diminshed state.

"He's not what was here," the Chantry, "Or at the park with Nathan. I can't tell you how it's different, but I don't think that it's the same."

But she is an Apprentice, and has not seen everything they have. Perhaps that's what will spare her from speaking back, speaking out, talking out of turn in room of her betters (not peers [not equals]).

Emily pulls away from Owen a bit, distances herself. Then a bit more. She's picking up her messenger bag from where it lays.

"I should go," she says, before the Hermetic can go diving back into her mind again.

[K. R. Jakes] "Oh - " That, dawn: understanding. For, she's not deceased, the mother. Then: "No last name?" There is a reason Kage is asking. It isn't just morbid curiosity. Kage has scoffed -- literally, with a scoff and everything; even a smirk -- at the term 'private investigator.' Nonetheless, Kage is good -- better than good -- at finding things out. And stories like these, they start in a name, don't they?

"Thank you, for stopping by to give a warning," she says, afterward, tucking a strand of her hair back behind her ear. Her thought (no, really - thoughtful) gaze tracks back to Ashley, and after a moment she says, "I'll give you a ride home, if that's where you're headed."

"Em," pause, beat. "We should make tangible dinner plans."

[Owen Page] It's not the same, Emily insists, and the Chorister too, seems less than convinced that what they'd encountered was the same named thing here, now. But he holds his tongue for a few moments, simply recounting, recollecting. Ashley is going to try and track him down, Kage is asking after surnames and Owen is, and was, a perceptive boy that night, before the horror began.

"Binici," he says slowly, remembering as he goes, as Emily begins to pull away and his hands drop to his sides, emptied.

"The park where it happened was named after a woman: Dr. Lucille Filmont Memorial Park."

[Ashley McGowen] "Hm," Ashley says, when Emily mentions that it wasn't the same as it was here. She has no means of checking this, does not understand the Ars Temporis (an illusion, like all else physical? just the thought hurts) and could not peel away the layers of time to be there and check for herself, and she senses that it's what would be needed here.

There's a pause, and then a thoughtful nod toward the apprentice. Ashley doesn't appear offended by her speaking up, by her offering new information: good magi, Willful magi, don't respect their 'place,' they fight it, and such a thing is a mark of a good apprentice. Of a mage that will be formidable one day. "I'll give it some thought. Though once I track him down that could shed a lot of insight on what he might be. Maybe I'll try to have a look at the park, too."

Kage offers her a ride home. She gives the Orphan a nod, turns back to the counter. Realizes she still has most of an uneaten cookie and a small amount of milk left, and hurries to finish both so they aren't wasted. Remembers, after a few seconds, to say, "Thanks for keeping me updated. Make sure you warn other people too, if you would."

[Emily Littleton] Em --

Kage's voice calls her away from her hastily planned exodus. Just long enough to still her feet and have Emily casting a look toward the other Orphan. (Not for long, now [soon you won't be able to say that]).

"I've a kitchen now," she says, with a bit more warmth and a smile that is wholly disconnected from the horrors she's been reliving. It is as if this moment, this fragment of an exchange, exists between in them in a vaccuum separated from what has come immediately before and what would rush in to fill up the afters. "And a chicken tikka masala recipe I'd like to try. You should come over," she adds.

It's not inclusive. This is a thing-between-the-Orphans, not a general invitation. This is a not-tonight-but-sometime-soon. It is a fleeting moment of sanity, and then Emily looks away, wraps long fingers around her messenger bag's strap and says to them all, in a singular parting, "G'night."

Then the movement returns, and her feet are carrying her back toward the front door (which will close more solidly than is strictly necessary behind her). And she leaves the dregs of her glass of milk and the cookie perched precariously atop it, for someone else to clean up. It's particularly poor manners, not at all Emily-esque, but that's how it goes tonight.

[Owen Page] He's thanked, Emily departs somewhat hastily and Owen merely cants a briefly thoughtful look in her wake for a minute or two before he tucks hands into his pockets, then frees one to slide his jacket zipper back up. "I'd want to know," he says eventually, casually, with a corner of his lip quirked for a moment.

"If it were me."

A beat, he exchanges glances with both females.

"Night."

[K. R. Jakes] Kage is courteous. Kage was courteous to the technocrats. Kage was courteous to the marauder. Kage is courteous to the traditionalists. Courteous, really. So: "Good night," she says, to Owen, and offers Emily a smile -- still not the rare one; just a plain smile, easy. "And that sounds fabulous, Em. I'll give you a ring."

And then, presumably, the Choristers (not-an-Orphan-for-long, Emily) leave, and Kage puts the remaining cookies on a plate, wraps the plate in saranwrap, writes a brief note.

[Ashley McGowen] The Choristers leave, and the Hermetic cleans up the cup and cookie Emily left behind. She cleans up the crumbs on the counter too while Kage goes about wrapping the others - Gregor's not going to do it, and Henri certainly won't do it (she shudders upon recalling that room, the smell that rolled from it when Henri opened the door and scolded Dilly.)

She's silent. Brooding over the new problem, that there are so many other things to contend with, that she doesn't trust anyone else to deal with it properly. Waits for Kage, watches as the redhead pens the note to leave there, slings her messenger bag over her shoulder.

[K. R. Jakes] "If," Kage says, once the note is penned, once she has retrieved her book, her jacket from the hall-closet, her bag from the hall-closet floor, "you track this creature," they aren't human-things, not to Kage: or, rather, they are -- they're all too human, "call me instead of knocking on any apartment doors, okay? Maybe your toxic sludge will be helpful," she adds, ghost-of-a-smile. Kage slides her hands in the pockets of her jeans, waiting or Ashley by the door, the door open, night air swmming in, rife with cricket-song. Kage doesn't stand framed in the doorway, some kind of target for any passing sniper. Kage leans against the wall, half-in, half-out. Maybe her elbow is a target.

[Ashley McGowen] "I'll get Wharil," she says, following the Orphan to the door. Her hands have found their way into the pockets of her jeans, though she withdraws them near the door to pull her shoes on, to lean down and lace them. Quick, sharp movements, before she rises once more. "I'll have to give him a call when I get home. I'm just going to be scrying him out, but if I do need to go after him I'll bring you too, if you want to go."

One might think that the incident on Kage's doorstep would have instilled in her some caution, some hesitance toward tackling something that could bring about death or madness. Apparently it has not; Ashley seems fearless at the prospect. Prepared to dash on ahead and face it down.

[K. R. Jakes] "Do," she says. That's all: simplicity. "Before, not after." Ashley says, if I do need to go after him, as if Kage's opinion of Ashley includes a high one of Ashley's caution, of Ashley's patience, and it's possible Kage's mouth quirks. It's also possible she just waits, grave-as-a-ballad, self-contained, grace-measured-out, economical. Then, changing the topic: "You know who I haven't seen in a while? Zane."

[Ashley McGowen] Before, not after, Kage says, and the Hermetic slides a glance to her sidelong. As though to say: of course I'd call you before. Self-awareness is hard, sometimes. Ashley isn't always fully aware of how overconfident, of how brash, she comes across to other people. She thinks of herself as an intelligent woman. Of course she thinks she wouldn't do something stupid (like plunge into the depths of Hell to free a madman, like try to confront death taint without help, like establish communication with sentient toxic sludge. All of these things had their reasons.)

"He's still a dog. You can come in for a while when we get to my place, if you want," she says, shouldering the door open and tilting her frame backward to let it stop against her collarbone, holding it in place while Kage exits. When she steps aside the door swings backwards and she pulls the keys from her pocket to lock the chantry away for the night. To lock away memories, to (only for now) shut away thoughts of what has fast become a job just as consuming as any office, and follow Kage out to the black truck parked down the block.