Stranger

[K. R. Jakes] [?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6 (Failure at target 6)
to†K. R. Jakes

[K. R. Jakes] [??]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)
to†K. R. Jakes

[Declan] When he opened his eyes, there was grass. The smell of it permeated his senses, along with the scents of earth and stone. It was quiet, too... which was notable. All these things were taken in and processed as the drifter lifted his face off the ground and sat up, absently rubbing sleep from his eyes. On one cheek, light imprints scattered across his skin where he'd been pressed against those blades of grass.

It was strange how commonplace this routine could become. Waking up on the ground of some anonymous location.

Today (this afternoon... at least he assumed, since time was fairly meaningless when you had nowhere to be) it was a cemetery. The man looked around as if seeing it for the first time, and briefly, a flutter of something haunted shifted like a veil across his eyes. It passed, though. Then the haggard-looking young blond shifted back to rest against a gravestone behind him. (Hope you don't mind, miss.) Then he reached into the pocket of his frayed denim jacket, in the habitual manner of a routine smoker.

The pocket was empty.

He sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes again.

[K. R. Jakes] Declan wakes up in the grass.

That grass is made up of blades -- that grass is always greener, elsewhere -- these things: they are true, and poetry makes them so. The dead are guarded by an army, in Spring, which draws strength from their ballad-cracked bones. This place is sained and holy; there should be no spirits, haunting the corners, and there should be no fairies, drawing mushroom rings in the Spring-moist, rain-wet grass, and maybe there are not. The sky is graycast, dim; not quite gloomy, the clouds're tallow soft, not quite candescing, but filling [over-brimming] with water and light in equal measures. There's a world beyond the clouds: radiant. And the clouds, they're a net; they keep most've that radiance from the Windy City, today, keep it blank as paper, dim but clear, clean, and green looks so much greener, days like this.

Days like this, K. R. Jakes can (still [why]) be found at Graceland Cemetery. The cemetery is a vast thing, and of historical interest; occasionally there are fieldtrips, and occasionally there are mourners, and sometimes tourists wander the hallowed [it is (could be)] grounds, peering with interest at the scrawl of dead-and-gone names. Kage is not a tourist, and Kage is not [quite (really)] a mourner. Kage is there for [whatever reason (go ahead, make a guess, un-riddle)] the quiet.

It's easy to find quiet, somewhere. Easier to find than a needle in a pile of summer-gold hay, easier to find than a sour-note in a violin solo, easier to find than a fly-in-cream: easy. If it's too crowded, there are always, always the mausoleums -- stately, half-choking in ivy, half-drowning in solitude.

What Kage found was a sleeping man, nestled up near one of the graves, looking for the world like he'd just collapsed there [my apple-tree, my brightness]. And, like most've the people in the city, she thought none of my business and not going to touch that and let him sleep like King Arthur, if that's the way it's supposed to go, but that was a little while ago, and now, now, she is circling back, heading towards one of her favourite monuments, and the man [boy?] she noted earlier has moved, so, good. He's not dead, or dead-from-drunk.

Still, see? Her steps slow, like maybe, maybe she's going to give his not-name a try, like maybe

" - hey," she calls, " - you. With the honey-comb hair. There are easier beds to rest on. Think you might be trampled by John F. Kennedy Elementary School's 2nd graders if you stay here for much longer."

[K. R. Jakes] [Awareness, yo. Anything off-kilter preter-natural eldritch Unusual here?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Declan] Green looks so much greener on days like this. The man's eyes are green. Not the emerald green of the grass, but today they are bright, nonetheless. There are notes of amber there, when the light is on them directly. Mostly though, an olive shade. More like grass when it is dried and dying.

Age was more difficult to determine. Something like a week's worth of facial hair growth outlined his jaw, and his hair, left to grow for too long, was slightly curly and in need of a wash. The gaunt quality of his face left the bone structure beneath in plain view (square jaw, boyish cheeks and forehead). He might have been anywhere between 17 and 25.

Someone approached, but although he was awake and had his eyes open, he did not turn to acknowledge the presence of another human being. Both knees were drawn up, and he had one elbow propped there, so as to rest his face against an upturned palm. Perhaps he was lost in some daydream, and simply failed to hear those soft, curious footsteps.

But then a voice addressed him, and some semblance of life seeped back into his eyes as he turned his head slowly and blinked.

Social interaction. He could manage this, yes? It was not such a great task. Finally a slow, hesitant twitch of a smile graced his features. Not warm, but neither dishonest. "I've had worse to deal with. I think." And there was an odd uncertainty in this revelation. As if he found truth and memory to be a fleeting, subjective and often inaccurate thing. After speaking, he ran his tongue along his teeth and the roof of his mouth, as if tasting something he did not like. Something he couldn't quite put a name to, or perhaps simply did not want to.

[Declan] But oh... there was something not-quite-usual about this seemingly typical vagabond. Some spark of something beyond the ordinary. Something alive and awake and aching to dance its way across the laws of reality.

Protean. Fluid. Mutable.

Like water. Ice one moment. Rain the next.

[K. R. Jakes] And that's all, folks. That would be all, with a couplet, parting is such sweet sorrow, maybe a throw-away, braver than I, and bolder, if not for the hint of something unusual, some Mutability in the vagabond's shape, defining him, essentially, which scratch, scratches at the Orphan's awareness. That hint, that riddle, has this effect: Kage holds her breath, lets it out on an exhale. Says, only a shade wry -

" - braver than I. But I don't think I believe you: have you seen these second graders? They've fangs, talons, sticks and stones to break your bones, and they're young enough to get away with it." Brief, brief pause - some of the wryness fades: "I don't mean to make you angry with questions, but do you need something?"

This is Kage, see. A plain woman, pale-skinned, hair the colour of brightness, ruddy and redder than a fox's pelt, all swept back behind her ears and braided. Dark, expressive eyes that nonetheless manage to not-quite-tell what she's thinking, and dominate a thin, delicate sort've face. Today, no coat: it's not winter, any longer, even if it's still cold -- she's in a green jacket, duller than the grass, closer to olive, grabbed from the back of her truck and thrown over a vaguely 50s dress, flairs at the waist, buttons up demure [reserved (at odds)].

[Declan] Did he need something?

The answer to this question was so complex, so heavy, so riddled with sharp, raw edges, that he could scarcely even contemplate its entirety. One may as well ask a condemned house if it is in need of any repairs. The answer is not yes, but: where to begin? And: would it even make a difference at this point?

Not brave. Not by a long shot. Frightened. Running. Running from shadows. Running from the sun. This grey... this neutral territory. It's safest here.

He ought to recognize in her the same that she has seen in him. This woman with dark eyes and so-red hair. But he doesn't. He wouldn't even know to look. Instead he sees someone he probably would have smiled at in another lifetime (truly smiled), and maybe asked out for a cup of coffee and a movie at the local arthouse theatre. Those ordinary pleasantries that seemed alien things to him now.

But he did laugh, in spite of himself... a shy, quiet thing. Something that sounded a little hoarse and ill-used. "Well in that case, I should probably find a new hiding place." And at this, he stood slowly to his feet, brushing a few stray bits of grass from his jeans. There was something like five feet and eight or nine inches of him, all told. Not an impressive height. Easy enough to hide or blend with the crowds. "You don't need to... I mean, you aren't making me angry. I'm fine though." No, of course he was not.... fine. But neither was this a particularly bad day for him. And as if to prove this point, he reached into his pocket again and drew out what looked like around 25 dollars. He eyed it as if he had no idea where it had come from. (The money fairy simply deposited it there while he'd been sleeping.)

"See? I can even buy some dinner today. Things are looking up."

[K. R. Jakes] Declan is a stark contrast to the last homeless [mad (powerful)] man (Other) she met in Graceland. That last one: she'd coaxed him home with her -- walked him out've the cemetery gates; lead him into her apartment; burned. This one, she doesn't intend to invite home. He doesn't give out a vibe of hazardous to health or dangerous (alchemy [here]), be warned. He doesn't look like an extraordinary cautionary tale. If anything, Declan seems rather like an ordinary sort've cautionary tale:

Do other things, and then you will not be waking up in a Chicago cemetery, grass-blade writing on your cheek, showing a stranger the twentyfive dollars you've got in your pocket to prove you've still got some sort've place in this reality.

"Hunh," she says, noncommittal. Twenty five dollars means that things are looking up. He seems sincere, this boy-mage, and she is wondering if he's new the way Emily is new, if that newness is why he's here, on - " - well, I'm glad not to be drawing fire from the heavens. If you're done with that grave, I'll show you a better place to sleep." Brief pause, see - brief. "Because I'm really curious. Why are you sleeping here?"

[Declan] There was a moment there (because yes, for all the broken pieces, there was still something of his rational self left to be found here in this body) where he seemed to realize that his behavior, and his outlook, would not be identified as normal. And this... bothered him. More than he would have cared to admit.

Suddenly he wondered if he smelled bad. (He did, but not excessively so. Like old sweat and street grime.)

The money was stuffed back into his pocket, and he shrugged, glancing at the ground. "Good a place as any, I suppose." Which was essentially his way of saying: because I have nowhere else to go. "I don't really like... crowds. But if there's a shelter around here you could point me to, I think I should at least find somewhere to take a shower."

The more he spoke, the more lucid he started to seem. This stray dog was once someone's pet, mayhaps.

[K. R. Jakes] The cemetery is mapped, and the map delineates paths. There are sidewalks, ribbons of dirt for pathways, for crossroads. There are more graves and graveplots than there are paths. There are more grassblades than there are graves, and more bone fragments [under the earth] than there are grassblades [maybe (could be)]. Kage isn't on the path.

Kage is standing, where she paused after cutting around a stone monument, lichen-chewed, un-flowered, and a draping, drifting tree, just off the path. The red-haired woman hasn't, since she engaged Declan in conversation, made any move to come closer, although she hasn't made any move to go away, either. There is nothing hesitant about the way she's standing, about the distance [and the lack of distance] between the Orphan and the mystery. The gray day makes her hair seem redder, too, more vibrant than a fox's pelt, truth's told -- and foxes, well.

"Sure," she says, because she'll point him in the direction of a shower [that isn't rain] and a shelter. The woman shifts her weight from one foot to the next, watchful, not-quite-wary, waiting for Declan to come closer, join her.

And, almost on cue, distant, but getting closer - the sound of noise, a host of children. She wasn't lying.

[Declan] This was the point when normal people usually introduced themselves.

"I... oh, I'm Declan, by the way." And he stepped forward, beginning to lift one hand and hold it out. But he glanced down, noting the longish nails and the smudges of dirt, and seemed to think better of this idea. Instead, both hands slipped back into the confines of his jacket pockets, where they might be safely hidden. He glanced in the direction of the approaching children, and while he did not seem nervous, neither was he eager to stick around.

"Anyway, I suppose we'd better go. Before we get trampled."

His eyes did not rest for very long moments upon her own. There was a kind of shifting vigilance about the way he glanced around. But for a moment there, he managed to settle his instincts, and their gazes met for a few heartbeats. Long enough for him to memorize the color of her irises, and to wonder things like why she had bothered to stop and talk with him to begin with. Another hesitant smile, and he angled his head in the direction of the nearby path, as if to say: after you.

[K. R. Jakes] What fragment of her name is she going to give to Declan? Last name, Jakes? First name, distinct, but with the advantage of never being spelled properly in anybody's head? Initials - K.R., a popular choice, when dealing with (devils [songsters]) those she's uncertain of, strange magi, whose not-so-latent potential glimmers like bones poking out've sludge? Just the first initial, Kay? Even less to go by, that way.

"Hi, Declan," she says. "I'm Kage."

Kage apparently didn't notice that he almost lifted one hand to hold it out. Kage apparently didn't notice anything strange at all about the way he glances at his hands, realizes the shape they're in, and slips them into his jacket pockets instead. Kage doesn't offer her own hand. Her mouth quirks, slightly; that something sardonic, surfacing again - glint of fins in dark river-water, see?

After you, his expression says, and she side-steps [feminine lilt (swagger)] back onto the path, keeping Mister Declan, Mister Sleeping On Other People's Graves, Mister Protean, Mister Mutability in her line of sight. People'd call her eyes hazel, and they'd be right -- they're smokey, her eyes, look close enough; they're tarnished green, her eyes, when they're not being too dark to read.

"Look. The moment I'm too nosy, feel free to tell me to shut up. But seriously, do you need something? More than directions to the nearest shelter so you can get some fresh water."

[Declan] "I must look worse than I thought," Declan mused aloud. And once again, there was something of a lack of response. He looked at the ground as they walked. Thinking. Or maybe... not thinking. Maybe actively not thinking. He did a lot of that these days.

"I can manage. Really. There's plenty of worse-off cases than me around here, I'm sure." He didn't say the name of the city, and it was possible that he didn't actually know it. That was how things were. He drifted. And then one day he'd be walking down the sidewalk and happen to glance at a license plate and think: oh, so that's where I am.

"I don't really mind the company, though," he finally admitted, a little impulsively, although it seemed to make him uncomfortable. "Don't really get to talk much, these days."

Declan's boot found a small rock on the path, and he kicked it absently back onto the grass.

[K. R. Jakes] "You don't look too bad," she says, and afterward, her gaze flicks sideways, something kin to humor (something kin to pensive [thoughtful]) touching the corner of her mouth, but not quite a smile, no. "You just," a pause.

And he's explaining that he can manage, that there are worse-off cases, all modest, all parfait gentil knight, all hermet, and Kage shakes her head once. Her braids flick, heavy-ropes, and she slides her own hands into the pockets on the skirt of her dress. Then she flicks her gave heavenward, gauging something out've the way the clouds move [out've the swiftness of the patterns where the wind scries white against gray].

"You just look a little touched by destiny, I suppose." Beat, then - the first question that springs to mind re-shelved, book-closed, after that second - " - Did you dream anything on that grave?"

[Declan] "If I did, I don't remember it."

(And if he could have remembered, he wouldn't have wanted to.)

And then, he was.... quiet.

It was an awkward sort of silence, and Kage would have to be the one to break it, because Declan's attempts at normal human interaction seemed to fall by the wayside. Inside his pockets, fingertips traced over the scars on his palms almost subconsciously.

[K. R. Jakes] [ha, ha. Do I have empathy?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[K. R. Jakes] This is a moment of surprising clarity for Kage, who is not, actually, reaching out to rifle through Declan's surface thoughts, is not reading the drift of his emotions like they're newspaper headlines, like he's newsprint, like he's writing it out, all clear. Kage just side-glances at the boy [man?] with honeycomb hair, and reads some insight -- the way he holds himself, maybe; the way his eyes move, his eyelashes, his body, even the way his mouth becomes a line, doesn't -- into what he's like. What he's like right now.

And it makes her frown, a little. Makes her eyebrows flick upwards. Makes her offer, "Sometimes when I remember my dreams, I wish I didn't. But I don't think I've ever had anything but really restful naps in Graceland." There, again -- that touch of irony she can't help. "Blank slate - " no hesitation, although she side-glances at him after she's said the words " - sleep can be the most restful."

There's something actually wistful, there. Because it's true: she sometimes wishes she didn't remember her dreams. They aren't always dreams.

[K. R. Jakes] [jess manip+subt, TELL ME FLAW, MYSTIC.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
to†Declan

[Declan] [Pause!]