New Chorister, Interesting Job

[K. R. J.] [oh, and]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[K. R. J.] 2 o' clock. Two hours after midnight. 2: 00 AM.

And this is the street: as quiet as the center of a closed fist. And this is the street: all cool blues, all muted (diminished [silence]) hues, all shadow and somber, and in somber is ombre, and ombre is umbra, and umbra is shadow, so we're back to shadow again. And this is the street: rain-slicked, glistens; this is the street: there is water, running in the gutters, carrying flotsam and jetsam of theater tickets and bar-bracelets and cigarette butts down to the sewers, and it's all very clean, here in Lake View, and it might as well be mentioned that this is also the street: with a view of the lake. And the lake isn't still just now because there is rain. Not a lot of it; just a mist, see -- a mist that hangs in the (too warm [but so much cooler than the day]) air, kisses skin, makes one think about an umbrella or getting inside, but that seems petty, because it's just misting, it's not anything more.

And this is the cast. Enter, stage right, K. R. J. Kage R. Jakes. Kage Jakes.

The woman (plain [average]) has a box of books and folders in her arms. The top of the box is less than secured. There isn't really anyone on the street; she hauls the box from the steps of an office building, nondescript, as old as anything gets in America, in Chicago, and goes onto the tips of her toes in order to leverage it into the passenger seat of a truck -- huge, monstrous, black as the devil's eyeball, blacker than the soot-horse he rides in on -- parked just outside. There is a bar, maybe two, a little further down the block; in the other direction, there are a couple more office buildings, then businesses, then residences, churches, gardens. On the other side of the street, the lake. And the streetlamps are amber, pluck colour out've her hair, and it sings the color of heart's blood, see, red and vibrant, a shock.

Everything's soft noir, now. This time've night.

Kage likes it, and that's part of why she's moving boxes out of an office building when there's noone around except for a bargoer or three, weaving across this dark street, shortcut to where they parked their cars [parking can be at a premium]. She pauses, resting her elbows on the passenger seat and her chin on the top of the box, to gaze out the driver's side window at the lake. And above, thunder. Ominous. Rumble, rumble, rumble.

[And, uh. Preemptive awareness roll, -1]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[K. R. J.] [Pft, really dice?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[J. B.] She isn't entirely alone. It's been mentioned...a few bargoers traipse here and there, but in either direction the streets seem abandoned. A dark haired young man of over six feet steps out of a building down the block. He's wearing sneakers and jeans and a plain white t-shirt, untucked. An argument trails behind him. It's loud, full of accusations and invectives. He doesn't hear it. That isn't to say that he's off in his own world and oblivious...that is to say, he physically does not hear it.

Even down the block, he feels almost like an approaching storm. Some people are soothed by the dark clouds and pattering of rain...but even rainstorms have been known to level entire towns, to drown innocents and capsize boats. That's what this young man feels like. He is something at once calming and destructive.

The man behind him is irate. He's shorter than the mage, but he's heavier, older, stronger. He pushes the youth and sends him stumbling a few steps. The Initiate whirls around, and when he shouts, it's clear that he can't hear himself. His words lack tone and control. It's almost painful to listen to.

"Don't touch me."

((I want to roll dice!
Mind 2, Empathic Projection. Coincidental. Diff = 5, -1 focus.))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 3 (Failure at target 4) [WP]

[J. B.] ((Jess says reroll! +1 difficulty.))
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5) [WP]

[K. R. J.] James Blake had some part of her attention even before he whirled (violent [action]) and shouted (ringing [violence]) at the man behind him. But it was something wicked this way comes attention; it was, oh hey, hey, there is something that is a destroyer, something that calms, some man or woman who Works the world with those words, who changes things and feels like {an echo, storm} a mage she hasn't yet met. New things. They're good or they're bad. They're mysterious, until. Let us hope this one isn't bad.

But then he yelled. And it was such a naked shout. His voice [thick and unaccented, unmusical, the voice of a boy who's never heard the cadence and rhythm of another speaker] is loud. A counterpoint, to the thunder, which quiets. And it was accompanied by a Working, strong, potent.

The Orphan blinked once. Lifted her chin from the top of the box. Took a step back from the truck. Turned her head and her gaze in the direction of the dark-haired boy and the irate [no longer?] man. Watched, for a moment, gauging - measuring - the situation. She slammed the door shut, and that was a sound, too -- loud, crisp, but with an echo behind it. Nothing James has to worry about. World is hushed and hushabye. He doesn't hear how the silence of the street [relative silence, that is] takes a noise and makes it echo, eerie, important, symbolic, whatever.

That's night, for you.

[J. B.] All he does is touch a ring on his thumb. It's nothing worth looking at, or worrying about. Whoever this big guy is, he doesn't even notice. He's too jarred by the shout that came out of the kid's throat. If he's heard him speak yet it hasn't come out like that. He stands still a moment, and then the youth starts to sign. Emphatically, angry, he signs out a sentence that the older man seems to understand. It shouldn't be enough to calm him down and yet...that's what happens. He wilts like a flower left on a radiator overnight, and he turns and walks back into the doorway they'd both come out of a moment ago. A truck door slams. James doesn't even look over. He's breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through his body like a drug. After the door closes he reaches up the hand housing the ring and scrubs his face. He turns to go. He sees he has an audience.

His eyes widen, once, and then relax. They're blue, like the sky at noon. He focuses on her for several seconds. It's as if he's listening. Anyone who'd heard him shout a moment ago would know better.

(( Perc + Awareness = 5 ))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[K. R. J.] He does indeed have an audience. The audience is not at all intimidating; Kage is slender, and far from tall. Her hair is loose, tucked back behind both ears; a flyaway strand has fallen across her left eye, caught by her eyelash, and soon she'll realize this, blink it away in annoyance. This is Kage, too: pair of cargos, as gray as an oldfashioned mirror, back when they were of beaten metal, silver, tarnished more easily, tied up and off her calves. A longsleeved shirt the color of wet asphalt except around the wrists where the fabric suddenly decides black stripes are awesome. Long sleeves are anathema, except insofar as at night it actually manages to be cool

Not at all intimidating, the audience. But he'll sense that she is (strong [Disciple]) more than she looks. Her resonance is the verbing of the word beloved; amorous, ardent -- it shines, burns like first-Spring, like a touch, and a kiss; Dynamic. And her resonance is also the leeching-away-of, the draining sensation, pit-of-your-stomach, sucking [Entropic] withering that winter'll bring, sure, let's use the seasons, it's just sensation. And it is also something immanent, kindling, beginning, becoming, resurrecting. There: that's Kage, James's current audience.

He's looking at her like he's listening to something, and she's looking back at him coolly. She quirks an eyebrow, after a heartbeat, and it's an eloquent question, sort've a, yeah?

[J. B.] If he hadn't been able to detect the fingerprint of her magic, he might have turned and gone on his way. He has to have a home, even if it's just a bedroll over heating grate. He is dressed casual, as though he wasn't trying to impress anyone tonight. His hair is a mess. His whole look is that of dishevelment. If Kage really looks she'll see that his t-shirt is on inside out. It's hard to tell, though, with the tag at the back of his neck and the distance so great. Yet he can feel her resonance, and so he doesn't just leave the redhead alone on the sidewalk. He looks around to see who's watching them. There's no one. That's for the better.

He does not barrel towards her like an inmate recently unshackled. His strides are long but measured. If she decides to get in the truck and drive off before he gets there it won't ruin his night. Given the scene he had escaped, his night can only get better from here. When he gets close enough, he signs to her. That's what a worldly person would assume he's doing. Someone younger, more inexperienced, would think he's just fooling around. There's a questioning expression on his face, but no verbalized question to go with it...it's all in his hands. In addition to the thick silver ring on his right thumb, there is a slimmer one on his left ring finger. They are too tarnished to catch light.

[K. R. J.] Kage doesn't know just why the (sleeper [other]) man was following James. Right now, she doesn't even know James's name, whether or not he's a Traditionalist or a Nephandi, if he means her harm or has nothing but good will. Kage is as likely as anyone (more likely [curious]) to strike up a conversation with a stranger, but people tend to avoid those who look like they've just rolled out've bed with Trouble, and maybe, well, just maybe Trouble'll decide it wants to come along.

And tonight, Kage is tired. He'll see it when he gets closer, the shadows around her eyes, something a touch distant, careful, unconcealed. Exhaustion -- but the kind that won't let you rest; that keeps you up, limns your nerves in lightning. She leans her hip against the side of her truck door. The metal is cold, dew-spangled, drenched. The mist is threatening to thicken [and the lake is threatening to change places with the air; see how it brims?].

A line appears between her eyebrows, and his hands, they're speaking. She watches them. Then flicks her gaze from James's hands to his face. When she speaks, it is clearly, deliberately, slowly: enunciated. "I don't know how to talk with my hands. Can you read my lips?"

[J. B.] There's an order, he's found, to his interactions with the hearing. Most will look at him, and decide he's good looking and young and harmless, and attempt to talk to him. Of that majority, almost all of them realize that he cannot hear what they're saying, nor can they understand the shapes that his hands are making. Lip reading is one thing, but trying to make out his speech is another matter. His speech makes him less attractive. It makes him less worth their time. Few people bother with him once they run into that barrier. He approaches the Disciple as though he isn't afraid of rejection. Maybe he isn't. It would be the rare 20-something male who wasn't.

He towers over her. He's nearly a full foot taller, and he doesn't have excess fat to downplay his height. Still, he does not look overly powerful. If he had on a suit at least he could give off the impression of strength. Kage is seeing him for what he is...a skinny college-age Deaf boy who happens to be able to perform initiate levels of Mind magic. At least he's friendly. That friendliness isn't made threatening by muscular bulk.

The Initiate reaches into the back pocket of his pants to pull out a small neon green notepad. He flips to a clean page, and writes with a golf pencil. His handwriting is quick yet neat. He hands it to her without a word.

I can lip read but it's easier if you talk normal.

[K. R. J.] This is true.

Those who are awake are also usually strong willed. They need to be. Otherwise, they'd never survive. Otherwise, they'd never do what it is they do. Those who are awake are not passive. They're forces of change. They're agents of vision. And they're often made arrogant, proud, cocksure, cocky, by their abilities. Sometimes, this will just manifests itself like so: a surety, a balance, a confidence.

This is also true.

James is tall. He looms; he doesn't quite hulk -- too thin for that, too scrawny -- but he looms. Friendly, and looming. And this is true: K. R. J. doesn't seem particularly overshadowed. This is what Kage has: composure, care; she is pensive, and she is thoughtful, for all she is also weary, and she is paying attention to the deaf boy. When he hands her the notepad, she reads it. And, gaze still downcast, lashes throwing shadows against her skin, delicate lacery, says, "Okay. I'm - "

and she reaches out to take his little golf pencil if he'll let her. Doesn't touch him. Body language. Her eyebrows'll both lift. And when he gives her the pencil, she'll -- pause, not a hesitation; just a pause, and then -- dig a scrap of paper out of her pocket, something she's written a note on, turn it over, press it against the truck [at her leisure] and write.

Kage.

" - Kage," she'll say, canting her head back toward the initiate. "Who are you? Why was that man following you?"

[J. B.] The Deaf boy takes a step back to give the Disciple room to write. He rests his hands on his hips, looks out over traffic as the pencil moves on the paper. She doesn't take long, and then he's leaning over to read. His lips don't move to spell out the word. It just exists, and he bobs his head in a nod. Reaches up to run a hand through hair that refuses to be tamed even with product. Her speech isn't as enunciated now as it was a moment ago. He doesn't frown at her. What she says, he understands. He smiles a tense smile when she asks why that man was following him, and he reaches out his right hand to beckon for the notepad and pencil.

James. Nice to meet you.

He's a regular customer. Wanted my +. I not want to give it to him. He got mad.

There's judgment to be expected with a statement like that. It's too late at night for him to be delivering pizza or cleaning someone's condominium.

[K. R. J.] "That wasn't very understanding of him," Kage replies, and James can't hear the rue (the wry [deadpan]) in her voice. Her mouth quirks. Kage has a nice mouth. Wide. When she smiles, there are fine lines around the corners. When she smirks, they're there too. She isn't smirking, now. Just almost smiling. A shadow. An impression. "But that's customer service for you. What do you sell? Did you run into him by chance?"

A beat, and Kage has handed the pencil back to James, has folded the piece of scrap paper with her name into a triangles, slipped the triangle into the front pocket of her gray-as-old-metal cargos, flicked a strand of hair (finally [at last]) away from her eyelashes with her middle finger. It settles against her cheekbone instead.

And, truth be told, she is still being careful. She doesn't look around as she says a thing. She says it, facing him, so that he can see it said. "A pleasure, James. New in town?"

[J. B.] He can't hear it, but he can see her tone in her face. Some people mistake the attention he pays to their faces to be flirtation. Although Kage is quite lovely, James is not staring at her because he is attempting to seduce her...he just needs to see more than her mouth if he is going to understand what she's saying. When she states the guy wasn't very understanding, James laughs. It isn't a boisterous sound, is actually quite quite, but it still is unrestrained and undisciplined. He doesn't know what he sounds like. He's young enough that he doesn't realize that some people can't stand his voice...or else he's young enough that he doesn't care.

A series of questions, and James takes the pencil back. Writes. Glances back up in time to see her last question. Writes again.

Not chance. People pay me to keep them company. Most of the time, women. Men when I need the $. This week I need the $. And below that:
Moved from AK ~2 weeks ago. You live here long?

[K. R. J.] "Ah." Her expression turns (a touch) quizzical. "Please don't be offended by this question. But doesn't that kind of thing usually involve a lot of them blah blahing," and lo, she does the blah, blahing people yapping hand movement, "while you listen? How does that work out?" Brief pause; and lo - the almost-there smile becomes actually there (brief, that, too). "Not that this is a difficult conversation to have."

The red-haired woman (Orphan) also does this: she taps the question (lightly) with her fingertip. His question. The question about living here - in Chicago - and for how long. Her answer is a nod; spare, simple. Yes. He's only been here for two weeks which means he's a new penny, shining and relatively unscratched, full of history.


[J. B.] James is curious rather than wary when she asks him not to be offended. It can be hard to defend someone who has lived beyond hearing society his entire life. His skin gets tough. He's been asked every rude or insensitive question you can ask a person. He's used to medical professionals treating him as though he has a "condition," or, worse, as though there is something wrong with his brain, too. So Kage asking him if his line of work doesn't involve a lot of talking isn't the worst thing she could have asked him. He actually grins, something about the question amusing.

I lip read good. Also can read surface thoughts. A lot of them want person to talk at...not real conversation. If they want real conversation it's harder. But not very. Most people patient w/ me. Once they find out I'm Deaf they don't ask me lots of ?s, though.

[K. R. J.] He can read surface thoughts. This is a good detail to know. Another magi can be any Thing, and that Thing doesn't need be good (or safe [or trustworthy]). Kage's eyebrows prick upward, and she leans against the side of the (her) truck. "Oh," she says, and this is true: there's still a note of something quizzical in her eyes, but she doesn't seem like she's going to give him a quiz. "So it's mostly not conversation, then." She's slow tonight. Tired [haunted] and working far too late for whatsoever reason [avoid the pillow].

Brief pause; then a smile. "Are you going to school and studying to do something else, too? Or are you pretty happy?"

[J. B.] He tells her most people don't ask him questions...and she asks him a question. Two of them, actually. If she's getting the idea that he smiles a lot, no one would blame her. This turn makes him smile again, although it doesn't show teeth like the last one did. Kage leans against the truck, but James stands with his feet planted a safe distance from her. Not far enough away that she has to strain to read what he's written, but at least far enough away that she doesn't have to worry about him grabbing her. He's a lot bigger than she is.

No one's ever asked me that. He shows her this before he writes anything else. It serves as an explanation. His answer takes a few moments longer than asking him for his favorite color. Sometimes I'm not happy. Think I should have finish high school and go to college. Not know what I would study though. You student?

[K. R. J.] The red-haired woman does not seem uncomfortable having this conversation with a (looming [large]) man she does not know [magi (danger)]. Maybe because James does seem to smile a lot. And this, after such a shout as the one to that man; his client. She doesn't seem to find the space James (thoughtfully) keeps between them uncomfortable or awkward either. Nor does she seem to find the relative seclusion [emptiness, aching, yawning, silent, noir] of the street now that James's client and another drunk have wandered off toward greener pastures uncomfortable. This is a city; this is an ungodly hour; this is a place Kage is self-contained; poised.

He shows her that first sentence and she lifts her chin in order to read the words. Waits, while he looks at the pad, writes more, and when he has, her mouth crooks (wry [sardonic]). "Nope," to his question. She isn't a student. "Why didn't you finish high school?" Here, Kage pauses -- glances down the street. Maybe he's already writing a reply, so he doesn't see it when she turns back to ask him another thing. She'll wait until he has, or she'll meet his eyes and right on. "I don't usually ask upfront, but who are you affiliated with?"

[J. B.] For missing what is arguably one of the most important of the senses, James is not jumpy. He's not worried about what's behind him or going on to the side. It's not that he thinks himself safe. They're in a city. He reads the newspapers. He knows what goes on even if he doesn't witness it himself. Anyone could sneak up behind him and he'd have no way of knowing...yet this hasn't made him paranoid.

The first question gets a signed answer instead of a written response. With the hand not holding the notepad, he holds his thumb and index finger together in front of his eye, then "opens" them. It's a fairly intuitive sign. He woke up. He Awakened. The second question doesn't have as easy an answer to suss out, so he writes it: C. Chorus.

[K. R. J.] "Tragedy?" A single word query, when he signs that he didn't finish highschool because he awakened. Both of her eyebrows are lifted again. Kage has expressive eyes, although what it is they're expressing isn't always easy to decipher; she rarely looks monotone, and her features are rarely immobile.

And, hey look. The deaf kid is in the Chorus. That's a lot like a joke. Kage looks a touch surprised. She touches her earlobe and pulls on it, gently. Pensive, thoughtful, considering, considerate. And then - "You make any friends with the local color yet?"

[J. B.] For as adult as his occupation is, James is still a kid. He's not even old enough to drink, and he looks it. Kage asks him if tragedy is what kept him from graduating, and that good nature of his vanishes. He breathes in once, then frowns and shakes his head. It's not a "No, that's not what happened." It's a "I don't want to talk about it."

He's heard all the jokes before. Kage looks surprised, and James smiles again, as if to say "Oh come on," but he doesn't write anything. He watches her tug on her earlobe, waiting for her to speak again. In the dark his eyes look silver. He puts his free hand into his pocket as he waits for her to digest what he's told her. Maybe he's wondering what Tradition she's in. It's hard to tell sometimes. (A lot of the time.) When she talks, it's another question. His smile is smaller still.

A few. Still have to meet the deacon. You have a cell phone?

[K. R. J.] James closes up like a fan (shuts himself down [off]) and that's answer enough. Kage doesn't press. Lets the subject drop. He gives her that oh come on look, and it must be said, some of the consideration, some of that pensive veil, lifts from her eyes -- replaced by a smirk, self-aware, self-mocking (but not derisive). "Do you know how to get ahold of her? And - yep," she says, the opposite of nope, when he asks whether or not she has a cellphone. She doesn't need to pat her pockets down in order to find a business card.

She knows that she doesn't have any on her, not in these pants. Howsoever, she raises a finger, as if the gesture would automatically pause James, hold him still, and then she turns her back on him, opens the truck door, pulls her messenger bag over. It hitches itself on the side of the box she's just put inside, and requires some fineagling, until, until, there it is, and lo!, inside is a business card.

There is muted flair, diminished flamboyance, in the way she proffers it to the deaf boy. Says, when he's looking at her again, "And on this note, I should probably finish up here and head back to my place. Are you going to be okay?"

[J. B.] Kage searches for a card, and James puts his notepad and pencil in one of the pockets of his pants. Both hands are completely free now. He rests them on his hips, waiting. He doesn't know what she's going for, but she's given him no impression that she's going to shoot him or throw something at him. Maybe if she were an apprentice he would start to be worried. The apprentices in this town have frightening tempers. When she hands him the card, artfully as she does, he mouths the translation of the sign he makes... Thank you. Bowing a bit as if to mirror her flair. The card is put in the pocket with the notepad, and his eyebrows raise when she speaks again. He nods, then signs/mouths again.

I'm fine. Thank you. Very nice to meet you. Drive safe, OK? Talk later.

He lingers for any parting questions or words, then gives her a wide wave and a grin to go with it, and turns to walk the opposite way down the sidewalk. He glances over his shoulder once...but by then, she's back in her truck.

[K. R. J.] He signs fluidly; as if it's something he's always done. This doesn't mean anything to Kage. All his fingers mean, to her, is a language, is a code, that she doesn't have the knowledge to crack. But she watches his fingers; watches his mouth, when he shapes familiar words, and it takes her a second - two - of staring, before what he said actually registers. This isn't a quickwitted day (night).

"Sure," she says, when enlightenment comes, dawns, birds singing, etcetera, etcetera -- and then her mouth crooks, again. Easy, cool radiance. "Be careful. There's been a lot of trouble in this city; city's not giving anybody reason to believe it's even half over. Got that?" Kage doesn't make the mistake of speaking too quickly, getting lazy, getting comfortable. And then, after he's nodded, done whatever it is he's going to do in response, she circles her truck, gets to the driver's side.

And, yeah, when James glances over his shoulder, she's inside, pulling onto the street. He can't hear the music she's playing.

Loudly.