it doesn't get easier. [emily, chuck]

[Emily Littleton]

After two days the pallor of white-washed walls and the expanse of hardwood floors felt interminably huge. Insurmountably empty. It was one thing to occupy the corner of a room, but to live fully in it without embarrassment or reservations. It was quite another to set four carrier boxes, three cases and a futon in the middle of nearly six-hundred square-feet and declare to oneself: I am arrived. There were no curtains on the windows, meaning Emily changed hidden in her bathroom -- not entirely unlike her frosh year at college -- and could spy her not-exactly-new car on the street below at any time of night. It also meant that the streetlights shone down, the moonlight crept in, and dawn was brutally announced by a bright light to her (kick in the) eyes each morning. This simply would not do. So it is to hand-me-down havens, thrift stores, good will and AmVets she goes. Her free time is spent collecting the little things that might make the empty walls and bare floors a little more home-like. Setting down roots is such a bother. At this very moment, she is contemplating whether a small dining set might be salvageable (it would need some work [but the price is right: nearly free]) at the Lake View Good Will store.

[Owen Page]

[Dex + Stealth, -2 Acute Senses, -1 Arcane]

[Chuck Carmichael]

"I got my first guitar at Good Will," Chuck says and this is news; Emily did not know until now that Chuck played guitar - or, more accurately, that he plays. "It needed work, too. But once that was taken care of, she played like a dream." Which is to say: if Emily likes the dining set, or thinks she might once the work is done, she should get it. Good things happen when you pick random things up at Good Will. Chuck does not know, of course, that Owen the Ninja is creeping around somewhere. All he knows is that this is not the first thrift store they've been at tonight, and he's still in work clothes but it doesn't really matter what they're doing for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is that thrift store shopping is fun. There are all sorts of cool things to be found, and one never knows when one will find old computer parts, or newer computer parts, or anything else interesting that might be turned into computer parts with enough time and inclination (and talent, let us not forget that). "I still need to get you a housewarming gift, you know."

[Owen Page]

He would probably find the nick-name amusing, were it a spoken title for the dark-haired Chorister that now inhabited a cosy studio apartment nearby. Only streets over, to tell the truth. His capacity for skulking in the shadowy nooks of trees outside the Chantry when summoned by mystical forces, for appearing like some phantom behind gatherings of Awakened Magi in Grant Park, and for scaring the Orphan now contemplating a dining set stemmed, though he would be the last person on the face of the planet to ever admit to it, from a teenage life full of petty crimes and requiring the degree of surefootedness that, of late, was garnering him the reputation of something of a sneak. You did not, quite frankly, ever know where he would turn up. Abruptly. Suddenly. Like a shadow moving in your peripheral vision that was blinked and gone and then suddenly -- "I like it, if that helps," -- comes a voice belonging to a figure that seems to have appeared in the spate of minutes from entering the store until finding and studying the dining set; leaning his shoulder against a shelf, an old Victorian era lamp held in one hand. As always, Owen Page was dressed in dark colors, the man either owned very few bright colors in his wardrobe, or preferred the blacks and blues he was so often seen in. Today was no great change; there was an old, tired black leather jacket on, matched with a navy blue open collared shirt and the same pair of faded jeans. The heavy duty worker's boots were on his feet; it was amazing he could be so quiet in such footwear. When they start, or simply glance up, around; however it occurs, they are greeted with steady blue eyes, and the corner of a mouth suggesting a smile. "Hello."

[Emily Littleton]

At least one of the legs wobbled. Emily was crouched down looking up at the underside of the table, trying to see if there was any obvious adjustment she could make to the thing to keep it from easing left, then right, like a drunken sailor (homeward bound). When Chuck mentioned the guitar, she looked up at him and grinned. "You should bring it over and play, sometime. I hear empty rooms are pretty nice, accoustically speaking, and that's pretty much all I have..." The wry smirk returneth. He had to be getting used to it by now, the understated playfulness and the warmth in her dark blue eyes. "After, of course, I have a chair of some sort to sit in." She leaned a little further under the table, looking up again, one hand resting on a nearby chair for balance. "You don't have to get me anything," she replied, to the housewarming comment, and it sounded a little echoey coming from under there. And then, without even the polite warning of footsteps drawing near, Owen's voice broke in. Emily started (she always did) and started up a little too quickly. Her head met the table, made it jump a little (and drop a curse that sounded faintly Germanesque), and then she emerged from underneath with one hand pressed to the top of her head. She looked at his boots, then his jeans, then allllll the way up to Owen, scowling slightly, with one eye pinched shut. "Evening." She said. "Owen." She added. Emily used the table (sway left, sway right) for leverage she stood back up. Her hand dropped away from her head, now. "Decorating?" she asked, catching a glimpse of the lamp now that she was roughly the same height as everyone else.

[Owen Page]

This was perhaps the second occasion that Emily had greeted his appearance with a scowl, not that he could entirely blame her. He knew he rarely made a great deal of noise when he moved, even when he spoke, it was always the same quiet, contained tone that emerged. It was worth wondering if he ever raised his voice, even in anger. Even in fear. When Emily straightens, a hand rubbing her head, Owen hasn't shifted an inch but to glance down at the lamp in his hands; the cord wound around one arm negligently. "Yeah," is all he answers for in terms of his own intended purchases, his attention straying between herself and the man beside her. There's a beat; and a hand emerges for the Virtual Adept to shake, if it's his nature to do so. "You must be Chuck," he notes, with a brief glance shot the Orphan's way.

[Chuck Carmichael]

Chuck is [six foot four] ridiculously tall - no one is roughly the same height as he, or at least relatively few are. And where Owen is Arcane, is forgettable, Chuck is the [equal and] opposite. He stands out, and has none of that sneakyninjastealth-ness that Owen has. He is, in fact, a bit on the clumsy side. But that is neither here nor there. For now, he simply stands (turns quickly at the sudden appearance [from nowhere] of the guy he's met once and seen twice, but doesn't startle) and rubs a hand briefly over Emily's head, checking for anything more than a bruise. Strictly by mundane means, of course. "Hi," he says, amiable, affable, and so very Chuck - he could hardly be anyone else. "Yeah, I'm Chuck. You're . . ." He's heard the name, of course - but only once to connect with the face, and Owen is imminently forgettable. And yes, his hand is offered for a shake, polite and friendly.

[Emily Littleton]

It's a better night than most, and the scowl falls away, quickly even. She's standing a little closer to Chuck than Owen, and Emily's eyes roll up (trying to peer at his hand, through her head) as the Virtual Adept smooths his hand over her hair. There'll be a bump, but nothing major. It's not like she caught a nail. "Chuck, this is Owen," she says, keeping the introductions short and somewhat obvious. "Owen, this is Chuck," but the Choristor had already figured that out. They both, in turn, get warm enough smiles. The Orphan is friendly, and more at ease than usual. It clear to each of them that she knows the other--perhaps clear to them both how well she knows the other, too. "Chuck's helping me pick things out for my new mystery flat," she says, lilting the word mystery somewhat playfully and lifting an eyebrow for emphasis. It's teasingly said, but serious as well. He has not seen her flat, he's not even sure where it is besides near by.

[Chuck Carmichael]

"Nice to meet you," he says. His hand is strong enough, calloused at the fingers (from typing, from blood tests) and the palms (from rowing). There is no manly contest here - his handshake is as he is, comfortable in its skin, friendly. It matches his smile and his demeanor and everything about him. One of these things is not like the others . . . "I am, yeah. Why not, right? We all help our friends. I'd have lent my car for moving stuff, but Em didn't need it." Perhaps it's clear to each of them how well she knows the other - Chuck makes no assumptions - or perhaps it's made clear by her mystery flat, and naming it such. The Virtual Adept doesn't know where it is (could find it, if he tried, but hasn't - he respects her privacy), other than nearby. He hasn't seen it. But then, the way it was said, he's guessing Owen hasn't, either. A mystery to both of them, then.

[Owen Page]

Chuck's height levels out a few inches above the Chorister's six one, but it doesn't appear to intimidate Owen. If anything, it makes him straighten off from his shoulder perch and clasp hands with the other Initiate for a beat, holding his eyes as he does before allowing his hand to return to a coat pocket. The other remains as is, holding the lamp downward from his body, the cord dangling like a length of rope he'd wound around his arm for some later purpose. Chuck this is Owen Emily introduces him, a crease faintly appears at the ridge of his nose then smooths away, replaced with a smile that somewhere between sedate and ambiguous. His demeanor was ungiving, but not impolite. There was simply a sort of stiffness ingrained into the way the Singer moved; spoke, kept his stance balanced enough that should the need arise, he could slip away in the blink of an eye. Chuck was helping her pick things out, "I figured," he says by way of a lifted hand-in-pocket gesture toward the dining set and then at the Adept's additional commentary, his midnight-blue eyes settle on the other man, echoing: "Why not, right." Owen shifts the lamp in his grip; his attention returning to the Orphan, his voice doesn't gentle, or really outwardly demonstrate what, if anything, he's thinking right now and that could be frustrating -- the man was as stoic as the day was long. "How are you liking the books?"

[Emily Littleton]

They were neat little stepping stones then, coming in at six-four, six-one and five-nine. All neat and orderly. Almost as if they'd been planned so. Owen and Emily had similarly dark blue eyes, but beyond that did not even begin to look related. And Chuck knew, even if Owen didn't, that the one person around their age that she considered family was elsewhere. Hmm. Emily glanced between the two of them, gave the table a little push (yep, it still leans). This whole thing -- the apartment, the social thing, the seeing someone thing -- was going to take a bit of work. "I'm just getting started, but I think they're helping so far," Emily says. Now she's reached across her middle with one hand, caught the opposing elbow. Her free hand hangs down, impassive, at her side. It's a young person pose, made only slightly more grown up by the way the sweater-jacket hangs on her frame (over the dress that she is wearing [in defiance of winter] upon hopes of spring). "Do you mind if I take one of them with me?" she asks. "I'm going overseas -- well, I'm going home for Easter -- and it seems rude to take them out of the country without asking." This word, home, is spoken with its proper weight and reverence. It is resonant and not entirely aching now.

[Owen Page]

"Go for it," he offers to her request to take the books overseas with her and then when she rattles the table and found it was leaning; removed his hand from a pocket and gestured at it. "It's missing one of the props," the Chorister moved around the dining set and set his lamp to one side; the leather protested his lowering himself to his haunches and lifting the uneven corner leg up; running his fingers beneath it. There was a certainty to the manner he did it that refreshed the memory that this -- repairing, altering, cleaning -- was what he did on a day by day basis. He set it back down, turning to face the pair of them, though his attention appeared far more riveted on the female. "I can fix it, if you decide to go with this one." Owen leaned back, bracing an elbow over his knee, brow knitted. "After the holidays." He adds, absently, as if he'd forgotten [he had] that Easter was encroaching at all.

[Chuck Carmichael]

"Oh, right. Passover started a bit ago." Chuck wrinkles his nose, not particularly affected by having forgotten. "I missed the seder. Oh, well." It happens, and Chuck is not a particularly devout anything. He's hardly heartbroken about missing the fifteen step ceremony and meal (bitter herbs, unleavened bread . . . most of which is safe for him to eat, at least). Owen isn't particularly interested in socializing, and the Vdept watches him, fascinated. "I know lefty-loosey-righty-tighty, but other than that, I'm pretty useless if it's not computers. Couldn't you just . . . I don't know, put a matchbook or something underneath the shorter leg?" Emily's going home for a weak over break, this Chuck knows. He's not particularly happy about it, other than the part where it seems like something that will make Emily happy, and this is an important thing.

[Emily Littleton]

Emily had not forgotten the impending holidays. One did not earn themselves the dubious accusation of being a C&E Christian without slavishly observing at least these two holidays. (Not that it had really been that way [just that it might have appeared that way, upon occasion]). "I'd like that," she said, and they were both used to hearing that tone of voice from her, that turn of phrase, by now. "And then," she says, her tone brightening a bit, eyes widening (happily [cheerfully]), "I could even invite you two over for tea! For there would be somewhere to sit!" Triumph. (Lo! This is progress!) Emily does own a kettle, and the proper tea making apparati, just not a table at which to sit... or, for that matter, much of anything to dress the table with. She eyed the table set and made a quick count of chairs. As long as there were three or more, she was golden. If there were only two, well, then she could invite them over one at a time (which might be the better way to handle it, anyhow). The revelation that Chuck is Jewish, followed shortly by the revelation that he does not care much for ceremony, earns him a slight smile and a glance from the Orphan. Nothing more than interest (okay, a margin of fondness [but who's counting]).

[Owen Page]

"For a short term fix," Owen replies to the Virtual Adept, briefly cutting a glance at him, "yeah, but you're better off in the long term replacing the whole leg, or hammering in an extra piece of fitting." He collects his lamp, and rises to his feet once again; gathering the cord in his fingers. Emily talks about inviting them over for tea, and places to sit and Owen's eyes remain steady on her face; the corner of his mouth moving briefly in some contained reaction to her words; for a moment there's what appears to be a flicker of empathy there, or some shared sympathy with whatever it is he believes he's witnessing in the purposeful, upbeat attitude and cheery words. "Where's home, exactly?" He steps out of the way of an elderly woman browsing the shelves with a basket full of nick-knacks.

[Emily Littleton]

Where's home, exactly? Jarod pressed, and never fully got an answer. Chuck knew, because he hacked her birth data (and at that point, why even pretend to evade the question?). Owen asks, and Emily... There is an intense (tense) quiet between the Choristor and the Orphan. It supercedes, overwhelms, drowns out the playful banter that usually persists between the Orphan and the Adept. These two modes of communication are two disparate, diverse, to coexist within Emily for long. And given the opposing pulls, she naturally trends back toward her native quiet. Not that the friendly, affable, good-natured-fun-and-teasing Emily that Chuck knew was feigned. Not in any way. Just that it was difficult to be both, and reserved won out. "Manchester," she said, evenly. "England," she added, just a little behind. As if either American might have trouble placing the country code on that one. As if her accent (the clearer parts of it) didn't give that much away. "It's a bit of a flight," she says, and the wry little smile returns. Holds better purchase on her expression this time. (Unfeigned).

[Chuck Carmichael]

"I'll bring the . . . um . . ." He muses for a moment, thoughtful. "Something from the grocery store. Unless people want hot dogs." Then there's questions and answers about home, and a Blackberry singing out All the single ladies put your hands up! as Chuck blushes, fumbles, looks at the display. There's a face pulled (fond [amused] dismayed) as he looks at the display, and he moves, leans to kiss the top of Emily's head. "I have to take this, yeah? Might be awhile." It's apologetic, and this is the closest either of them has come since Owen arrived to anything that might be called 'seeing each other' behavior. "Was nice meeting you, Owen, just in case." ((Which is to say, it's 20 to 1, and CC needs to go to bed. But will wait for following posts!))

[Owen Page]

"Manchester," he recognizes the city, knows only what an American high school education tells him about it, second [or was it third] largest city, "Good soccer team," he says it dead-pan but for the quirk of his lips in the aftermath and there's something behind it, something from his personal life, his past. A pleasure once indulged in, she'd seen him playing basketball, knew he had a fondness for sports. It was a beginning, one supposed. Chuck's phone rings, and Owen turns himself away a little, glancing at the items on the shelves, the floor, out of politeness, or perhaps simply habit. He deliberately keeps himself occupied while the pair say their lover's goodbyes, only turning back when he's personally addressed again. "Likewise, Chuck," he repeats the other man's name the way you did the designer of a piece of furniture, or movie you wanted to ensure you remembered for later. He looks back to Emily, raises his lamp like an Olympian's torch. "I should let you get back to it," he nods in the Virtual Adept's direction. "I don't want to intrude."

[Emily Littleton]

Chuck's phone issues forth a strange sound (oh, it's supposed to be music), and he blushes and fumbles for it. Emily looks over, with a warmly amused expression, and then accepts the explanation. Chuck kisses her head, she gives him a little one-armed hug, and that's about as far as they delve into the realm of public displays of affection (in front of Owen [tonight]). It's not as comfortable, effortless, as that night at the pizza parlor and Owen (being -Owen]), can certainly tell. "If you have to leave, just text me," Emily says. It's a simple, perfunctory thing. Technology makes fluid plans so very much easier. And then it's down to just her, and Owen. And the table. And a store full of potential treasures and plenty of flotsam. "You're not intruding," she says, warmly. It is easier, now, that Chuck has stepped away. Easier that she's not trying to reconcile the two ends of the social spectrum with one another. She reflects so much of whoever she's with that it's difficult for Emily to handle mixed situations. "Also ... I have a couple questions for you, at some point, if you have the time." This trended back to the books, and the chats they'd had before. It was also not something she wanted to discuss with or in front of Chuck. So compartmentalized these two friendships were, at least for now.

[Chuck Carmichael]

((Thanks for playing! *pushes Em and Owen together without Chuck interference!*))

[Owen Page]

Owen Page did not own a computer, or a cell phone. It wasn't really that he couldn't scrape the money together to invest in one, more simply that he had no real need for either. He was not a Virtual Adept, such as Chuck, to know the ins and outs of the technological era. He had no family he continued to keep contact with, or anyone to whom he was indebted to call on a daily, or weekly basis. He didn't however, seem to carry any aversion to those who did possess either, his seemed to be a personal decision; one made years before. Emily reflects those to whom she's speaking, Owen does not seem quite so flexible, though his level of ease does increase with the other man gone, his smiles come more frequently, and linger far longer than any he'd expressed while being scrutinized by another. "Ask me anything," he offers, without hesitation and leans against the nearest shelf, setting his to-be-purchased item on the shelf lower, and crossing arms over his chest; leather rustling.

[Emily Littleton]

It's a strange place to have this conversation, full as it is of slightly worn, somewhat used, (broken and mended [mending]), cast off things. It is fitting, too, for the same reasons. Emily wets her lower lip, slightly, hesitates a little. Thoughtfully. She looks around, perhaps for Chuck or maybe for anyone else who might overhear. "How does one come back," she asks, but the question isn't finished just yet. "To the Church?" A pause, a less mirthful wryness to her mouth. Emily can't quite meet his eyes. "To God, after having walked away." She was going home for Easter, which didn't quite jive with this question. And she didn't appear particularly guilty (prodigal child), either. It could be a question aimed a theological differences, save that Owen had heard enough from her to suspect it ran deeper than that. And now, after a little pause, her eyes find his again. They are calm and curious, questioning but alert. Deeply blue fields flecked through with stormy bits of grey.

[Owen Page]

It's not only a strange location for it, it's a terribly difficult question to give an easy answer for. Owen stares at her; his dark gaze unflinchingly focused even when she lowers her own, looks away. There's a new level of attention being paid to Emily right now, and she might not fully enjoy the sensation it brings. The hairs on her arms might begin to stand on end beneath the Chorister's intensity, her cheeks might flush as she wishes he'd quit that. He doesn't. Not right now. "That depends," he speaks finally, allowing her a reprieve of his eyes on her, though the memory remains, imprinted in the space around them. "On why you walked away to begin with." Owen breathes out, sharply, his chest expanding against his shirt, framing his shape beneath the layers. "People turn their back on religion every day, they decide they don't like what God, what Allah, whatever form of him, of it they believe in is handing them and turn away. The thing is, Emily," he says [this rare speech] quietly to her, very solemn, sincere but firm. Unswayed. "God, belief," he smiles, breaking the tense atmosphere for a moment. "It doesn't turn away from us, it just waits for you to reawaken." There's emphasis there, meaning to the word he chooses to use. They had both Awakened, for a second time, for the first real time. "If you're serious," he doesn't seem to think she's lacking sincerity, though his eyes do briefly stray to Chuck, the only real barrier he's noted thus far, potentially. "Start by coming to a service. Go to one over Easter, then come back and tell me what you felt." A beat, he clears his throat. "That's the first step."

[Emily Littleton]

There is no easy answer to it. Never has been, never will be. And if an answer comes easily, then it is neither the truth nor comprehensive. Emily knows what she's asking (even knows most of what she wants to hear), so this round of scrutiny is weathered with surprising grace and countenance. She is calm, even as his resonance rakes over her, plucks at the fine hairs on her arms, down her neck. There is, at last, a small and somewhat unguarded smile. It is gentler than most that Owen has seen, and she does not elaborate on it or explain it with any greater (growing) look of importance. Just that it is there, for a moment, long enough to be glimpsed, and then gone before it can be snatched away and filed clearly into memory. "I have not forgotten belief," she says, gently. Perhaps this is unsurprising to him, for all that he's seen of her. Emily folds her arms lightly across her middle without really closing her body language much. Her head tips a bit to one side as she regards him, and the surety he holds, for a long moment. "Though I have often wondered what it is, who He was, that I had such Faith in for so long." There is a little twitch at the corner of her mouth, then it stills, fades away. "Are you asking why I left?" she asks, but there is a cautionary note to that question. As if the answer is not something that can be put aside, forgotten, rendered unheard at some later time by either will or convenience.

[Owen Page]

"No," he says instantly, "I think you are." He doesn't miss the cautionary note in her voice that hinges on saying I'm not sure I'll give you that even if you are, but it doesn't sway him from telling her the truth, either. It's blunt, and as succinct as she must be coming to learn is what you got from Owen, when you asked him a serious question. He doesn't shift his weight, but he does relent on the pressure of his eyes, so focused on her, and his furious intensity about the subject matter. What she asks is an inherit part of who he was, and she knew that. She would not have addressed it otherwise. "His face doesn't matter," dark brows draw upward, expressing the point. "It's whatever you want it to be. People get stuck, though, on naming it, and they forget." He lifts a shoulder, notes in an undertone, almost like an afterthought. "My Tradition tore itself to hell and back over that very thing."

[Emily Littleton]

He is passionate about this, and Emily understands. It calls to something hidden away in the marrow of her bones, loosed only when some of them had been broken (shattered) and disjointed. It was something that had leached slowly out of her over time, achingly, rather than puddled on the floor in a matter of days. Not for the first time, she found herself wishing that this conversation, like so many others, had come before... ... But wishing wouldn't change anything. He turns her question around, and Emily's expression hardens. It is not a subtle thing. There is a flatness to it, now, that wasn't there a moment before. Any openness has fled. As if he'd stepped on her toe, or knocked her in the teeth, or any of a hundred other physical transgressions. There is a coldness that she cannot stop from coming, and beneath that an anger that is not for him. "I know why I left," she said, and every syllable was carefully, evenly meted. Emily draws a slow breath, then lets it rush out of her heavily. Quickly. Her eyes fall shut, and her shoulders relax a little, but it is forced. And over the space of several minutes will become less so, will turn into something genuine, given enough time. "I'm trying to decide," she said, a bit more openly, "If I'm able (ready) to move past that."

[Owen Page]

to Owen Page

[Owen Page]

There is passion in his words, and in her responses to it, it is a different kind of passion; a colder, firmer sort of refusal to as of yet acknowledge why she left, and why it matters to her that she cleave to that -- why it matters that Owen knows that she is aware of her reasons for walking away in the past. He watches her, their bodies unconsciously turned toward the other as if they would, by physical means if not emotional, force the connection there and then when she's done; Owen lets a low, steady breath out of his chest. He straightens, and reaches beneath the layers of his clothing, tugging a silver chain from beneath them. There was a tiny cross fixed to the end of the chain; and it gleamed in the light as he wrapped his fingers around it, lowering his chin to focus on it, then reaching for the Orphan's hand. "This is the core of my faith," he begins very softly, his tone intimate, gentler than before. The chain feels warm, as if it were heated by more than simply being worn against his skin. "I can feel the presence of everything that I am, and that I want to be when I have this on." Owen leans in, searching her eyes. "Search yourself, Emily." There's a trickle of energy in the air, some degree of faith at play, the subtle tang of hope; renewal. "Ask yourself," he says, his eyes on her, even as he transfers her palm to his chest, and feels the steady reassurance of the beats there. She can count them, like the rhythm of his words. "Right now, are you ready?"

[Emily Littleton]

Like calls to like. This is a reason, perhaps the reason, these two have found one another in the vastness of a city like Chicago. And it is the similarities between them, not the differences, that make her hesitant in this moment. Not so much afraid as ashamed. Her eyes meet his, and there is genuine understanding in them. And pain. They are bright, nearly damp with the tears that are welling up. It is hard to look into his face, to see the faith and rapture there. It was like looking backwards through the mirror to see something in herself from long ago. (Denied [forsaken]). It would have been so much easier, all of this, if Emily had been able to set aside her Faith, her belief, and walk without it. Her palm rested against his chest, but Emily's fingers curled inward, lightly dragged against his shirt. Not grasping, but faintly withdrawing. Emily swallowed back something (dry mouth [heavy heart]), and spoke very faintly into the space between them. "I don't know, Owen." Pleading. Some part of this hurt her, cut down to her quick in ways he likely did not foresee. "I want to be. God knows I have wanted to come back so many times but I don't know how." She blinks and looks away, and there are tears in her eyes now. Singly spilling down her cheeks. "He left me to die, in a dank dark basement in Prague. He let them beat me until I didn't have the strength to even pray anymore, and I wanted to die and then he took that from me -- I don't know how to come home after that, but I'm trying. Since I woke up, I've been trying to." Emily pulls her hand away, wipes at her eyes with the arm of her sweater. She takes a step back, if he'll let her. Her cheeks are flushed, and she won't look over at him. (Embarrassed. [Hurt.] Pushed a little [a lot] too far.) Unworthy. This is not the place for these conversations, however hushed and to the far side of the store they were. No, Emily had never forgotten Faith.

[Owen Page]

to Owen Page

[Owen Page]

He doesn't have a handkerchief on him, and she's crying. That bothers him, a lot. Or maybe it's simply that she's crying at all and how much it reminds him of somebody else, crying because of his actions, because of something that he had done to them. She can see in his eyes, those unfathomable dark eyes of his how much he's feeling her reaction, and her confession of what made her give up. His jaw clenches, and he drops his necklace in favor of allowing her to reclaim space; put a wall between her wants and her fears of being unworthy; unwanted by a God that would leave her dying in the street, crying out his name, pleading for his intervention. She has no idea how familiar that story is to him and he wants to her so, there's a wrestling match taking place behind those eyes; flickering around in their depths, struggling to overcome a shame that's as deep down ingrained in him as it is in her. "I'm sorry," he says it quietly; his hands back at his sides, fingers curled inward to stall them for reaching out to draw her back; to invoke the sensation of hope to spring within her again. "I understand," he closes his own eyes now, turning his face away, down to one side as if the strain were physical; painful.

[Owen Page]

[augh, 'wants to tell her so', that should read.]

[Emily Littleton]

It's been a long time, she'd said, the first time they met, since His home was my own. And now Owen knows the things that are holding her back, keeping her separate, possibly even keeping her Orphaned here in this new life. He knows, too, something no one else does: that she wants to come home, that's she trying to find footing on the path. It is a raw moment, in which they both suffer and neither is too blind, too numb, to see the other's pain. Emily, for all her ache and her damp eyes, despite the arms wrapped more tightly across her middle, cannot help but look to him with compassion and concern when his voice is as quiet (pained) and burdened as her own. This is the wrong place for this conversation, but perhaps the right place for the acts of charity that they might find in one another. "I'm sorry, too," she said, gently. Emily used the heel of her thumb to push tears from the corners of her eyes. The crying did not last long, despite the intensity of the moment that passed between them. "It's never easy, is it?" she asked, more gently now. (It doesn't get easier, either).

[Owen Page]

People in the Good Will store must be wondering what the dark-haired man she's standing with has said to make her upset, at least one passing shopper casts Owen a dark glance, cutting between the pair and making conclusions all her own. Probably because Emily was slight, and small and [seemingly] delicate and Owen was taller, broader and looked like he was suffering some degree in holding in his anger. Of course, that was entirely wrong. But perceptions are tricky things; they distort what they should make clear, and sometimes reveal things we wish they would not. "No," he confirms, opening his eyes now and carefully tucking his necklace [prime, unity, one] back beneath his shirt, he won't meet her eyes for any length right now, and can only hope she doesn't not take it to mean he is angry with her, or disgusted, or convinced she will never belong among his own. Rather, Owen collects his lamp, and hovers, stepping nearer to the Orphan, to deliver his parting words to her. "But the endurance is what makes you," he looks at her, then, and briefly reaches a hand up to cup her chin. "Happy Easter, Emily."

what are you? [israel, incomplete]

[Israel Cohen]

Earlier this afternoon she'd made her way [guided by one of the parish deacons, his hand a loose grip just above her elbow, at the triceps brachii] to the apse of the cathedral where a lectern had been set up in front of the ornate pulpit. Petite to the point of delicacy - of near fragility - adjusting the lectern to some appropriate hate had filled the cathedral with cavernous sounds of metal grating on metal and abashed little smiles from the diminutive woman who had chuckles something about there being a down side to such glorious acoustics. I suppose when the Psalms bade us 'Make a Joyful Noise', she'd quipped lightly - voice a quietly musical, airy mezzo-soprano - we must trust God is sometimes willfully tone-deaf in His indulgence. Polite laughter - charmed almost as much by her appearance as her words - has ensued and, thus finding her nerves slightly calmed, she'd launched into her lecture. Curious that a woman obviously blind should give a speech about religious symbolism and iconography concerning Light, from candles to halos and much in between, complete with a power point presentation manipulated through a laptop set up with braille hot keys. Irregardless of the irony, it was clear enough that she knew her business and then some. Spattering her speech with humour and earnestness of a quiet, smouldering passion for the topic, she holds her audiences attention throughout, finally wrapping it up with a last, contemplative though: Is it any wonder, then, that we are drawn to the Light? Be it the glow of a candle in darkness; the comfort of a nightlight for a child; the breathtaking vista of stars on a moonless night; the warmth of a hearth fire in winter or the glow in the eyes of a loved one when at last we are returned home? In light there is Hope. And Hope is like Light: Even the tiniest spark in darkness burns as explosively noticeable as a beacon.... Thank you. It is when the applause came - some of it merely polite, some of it enthusiastic - that she'd remembered her general dislike of speaking before large groups, blushing a dusky mauve over the light olive of her complexion, her lips curving upward in an expression that is as much relieved as it is gracious. That was hours ago. By now the Cathedral is empty, the last of the Friday night groups made their way home. She enters through the facade at the west end's front doors, moving up into the nave, her guide-cane marking her path in a steady staccato rhythm. Before she'd been dressed in business attire; a black faintly pin-striped dress suit tailored to her unique form, stilettos on her feet if only because she needed every bit of height she could muster. She's since changed, dressed now in khaki coloured cargo pants [also tailored, out of necessity] and the warmth of her navy blue, woolen pea-coat that falls to mid-thigh, snugged close against the chill. On her feet a pair of old school red Converse shoes that boost her height all of an inch or so to a - amazing! - five feet even. A quarter of the way into the nave she hesitates.. stops... turns her head, not to see [beyond her without a Working] but in an attempt to hear anyone who might be present. "Hello?" Acoustics rebound.

[Owen]

Acoustics, and a voice. "Hello." Without knowing where that voice comes from, the echoing ceilings make it a trial for many, even those with the eyesight for it, it's a little startling that it sounds so clear; too close. It's a man's voice, of that there is no doubt; quiet, but not in the slightest displeasing. There's the soft creaking from one of the row of pews to Israel's right and the faint, but pungent aroma of floor cleaner. Oh, he must be the janitor. It fit, for the time of night, and yet he sounds young. Perhaps younger than many you expected to find cleaning a Church late at night. He might seem threatening; but that there's no sense of his closing approach; or the rustle of clothing to suggest immediate action. Sensitive as she might be, however, she can feel the weight of his eyes on her as she stands there. "Did you leave something behind?"

[Israel Cohen]

His response resounds, rebounding off the arches, rotundas and beams, off alcove walls and marbled floors. She jerks slightly: Never mind that her own hello had been a query intended for a response. Her hearing is especially acute; sensitive. Her nerves sometimes easily set on end. The worst of it, however, is that the acoustics make it nearly impossible for her to easily judge the source of the voice; its location. In a world comprised of darkness, such things are important, they make up the landscape within her mind; give her a sense of being firmly rooted in the here and now. It perhaps explains why she seems tense when he approaches, turning sharply when his footfall announces the direction from which he comes, her motions akin to the flighty hop of a small bird on the alert, wondering if there is a threat; if it requires flight. Ridiculous, Israel, really. There is the image we present to the world when we must. And then there is the truth of who we are when we don't have the time to prepare or the skill to conjure up facades of cool ease on the spot. Smoothing her hands over the fabric of her coat as it drapes her hips, she nods, lips quirking slightly, hazel eyes [lovely. clear. intelligent. useless.] sliding slowly, before at last they settle on a spot somewhere close to his left shoulder. "Yes.. I did. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but.. it's a bracelet and it has some sentimental value." Her smile, now, is apologetic, with a slow rise of honest amiability somewhat hampered by her disquiet. But beneath such layers there is always some whispered sense of sadness. Sorrow. Something old [primal] and healed but never quite forgotten. It does not overwhelm the woman, but it tints the shades of her tone, her demeanor, her... everything, like an ethereal veil.

[Owen]

To the world, Owen Page was a tall boy in his early twenties with a handsome face, so considered most of the younger girls that attended St James' and an athletic, if lean and wiry, build. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw, and his eyes were of such a particularly dark shade of blue as to often appear black in certain lighting; or when he was involved as he often seemed to be with some interior debate with his thoughts. Some who had met him but briefly would call his propensity for few words a kind of arrogance, or insular persona, but there were those who had glimpsed him among larger groups and could see the unease that ratcheted his big frame when there were crowds. He was not, in short, a people person. Addressing a crowd like Israel had done tonight would have been an impossible feat for the Chorister. He simply would not have been able to speak. Now, however, when it's just himself and this vaguely familiar stranger [her face tugs at memory, invokes it to know] he can offer her help, of a sort. Can carefully, with the near-silent footwork of one who knew what it was to move without sound, to avoid detection draw closer to her and take in her cane, her sightless, yet pretty hazel gaze, her apparent amicability. "It's alright," he says, close enough for her to detect the variations in pitch, the subtle scents rolling off him of cologne, sweat and the sharper antiseptics used for cleaning. He sounds wary, but nonthreatening -- at least, at present. "Let me check the lost and found." A beat, he studies her attire; judging, what? Something, of it. "Do you," can she, "remember what it looked like?"

[Israel Cohen]

There is a sensuality with which she... perceives... people. It throws some off; makes them shy away more so than a penetrating look might. She listens carefully, not just to the words, but the tone, the pitch, the pauses and what the gaps as much as the actual speaking. Her slender nostrils flare just slightly as she breathes in his scents when he comes closer. She does not touch him, no, but there is a sense that - if she did - it would be an incredibly intimate act of tactile senses; albeit devoid of sexuality. Of course, she is no untamed Helen Keller - she doesn't invade his personal space any more than he does hers. And though she sounds amiable and smiles considerately, there is in her a similar sense that there are times when interactions with people are not her forte. Her act today was a force of Will in many respects. A personal challenge, met and conquered though not without its price. He says he will check the lost and found and she seems for a moment hopeful - whatever the item was it does seem to have value to her. Can she remember what it looked like? Her smile now is understanding [accepting] and infused with a hushed tinge of melancholy. "Yeah... it's silver toned; a thin, flat circlet with a small black pearl clasp. There's an inscription on it... in Hebrew and English... 'A woman of virtue.... More precious than rubies or pearls'.." Her lips flex a bit as if she knows the Proverb sounds a bit archaic and pretentious. Then, "I'd really appreciate it if you would look, please... if it isn't a bother."

[Owen]

Invading Owen's personal space isn't always a joyful experience. It's enough that he brings with him a very contained [intense] air, but there's also that creeping sensation that all the oxygen in the surrounding space around the man is being eaten away at [corroded], especially when he's invoking anything. At the best, he's simply a little intimidating, even without the vision to back up the sense of it; it's just there, the impression of his height, and his physical capacity and some things not tangible but present all the same. He doesn't invade Israel's, but he does invite her to follow in his wake by deliberating making noise as he moves; in speaking to her clearly enough that she can perceive the general direction it stems from. His footsteps take him to the front of the Church, just shy of the entry doors. There was a tiny office, cluttered with papers and scrolls and books of the highest order, and it's into this room that the young man ventures, returning with a small card-box box that rattles, items sliding around in its depths as he sets it on the first of the old wooden pews and leans over it; digging around in watches, phones, children's cast off toys. He glances side-long at the petite woman as she nears him; and clears his throat out of habit, out of unease. "I liked your talk," he says to her quietly as he searches. "At least, the parts I heard."

[Israel Cohen]

Some things take time; more so when one cannot see. Vision is the sense humans tend to rely on the heaviest; everything else playing second-fiddle and serving to amplify, sharpen or add dimension to what our eyes perceive. Having lost the use of that sense, others have stepped up and strengthen accordingly, but sometimes it still leaves her a little behind. She can tell by the direction of his voice that he is taller than her [which is anything but a surprise, she meets very few people - least of all men - of her own height or shorter]. The pitch of his voice might suggest a man of decent size and physical capability, but voices can be deceiving. It takes longer for other, esoteric awareness to kick in, unless something is specifically broadcast. The slow creeping sense that, perhaps, in this helpful seeming young man, there might be something that could pose a very real, very credible threat. He moves away, making it obvious where he is going, and she follows after a moment if only because she doesn't not relish the idea of those footsteps fading off into distance and then silence, leaving her standing alone and unknowing of where he or anyone else might come from if they took pains to move quietly; if they knew the Ways to render such mundane sensory perceptions obsolete. Wary? Yes. Paranoid? She has nearly drowned often enough not to relish the idea of diving into unknown waters. So she follows if only to keep track, once more the tap...tap....tap of her guide cane, moving her past pews and doors until she waits just outside the office threshold and then follows once more when he moves to the first pew and begins rummaging though things lost and never reclaimed. [a sadness, that... a sorrow something like her own.] "Oh." Surprised. Caught off-guard and so a little bashful; a little taken aback. Again there is a rise of colour along the thin stalk of her neck to the rounds of her cheeks, that dusty-rose overlay of olive-kissed skin, here and there a hint of freckles. She gathers herself together again and amusement hums on her lips; something dry and a little self-deprecating. "It's practice. I am dabbling with taking up a position as a Professor... but I hate speaking in front of people... a lot of people. That doesn't bode well, does it? I'm glad it was... well... I'm glad you liked it. " She speaks and is in tune with the conversation, but the longer she is around him the more she is, just below the surface, tuning in on other levels of awareness. ----------- [Per + Aware!]

[Owen]

There's definitely something more to him than meets the eye. It's a spark, it's a sense, it's an acute awareness. The air around Owen seems to be in flux, as if something were simply eating away at its very structure. It's decay and renewal, it's life and death; it's something that destroys only to reinvigorate. It is, in short, entropic and corrosively so. But it's not the only taste of power present; set against that corrosive edge is another, far more static vibration; it's pressing, insistent, a sheer force of will alone. An intensity. Both are there, in subtle degrees when when she encroaches on him, rummaging in that box of items. He glances at her, and then straightens, a slender and somewhat delicate bracelet housed in his capable worker's hand. "I think I found what you're looking for." He looks down at the inscribed words, and smooths his thumb across them. I hate speaking in front of people, she says, and she can sense the tiny spark of empathy in his reply. "Neither do I."

[Owen]

[Neither? WUT. I meant 'so do I'. WORDFAIL.]

[Israel Cohen]

"Ahh," she intones, a slow exhalation of breath more than it is a vocalization, coming before he speaks of finding what was lost [for a woman for whom there is no 'I once was' happy ending to her blindness]; her head tilting slightly, an avian motion [like a sparrow, not a bird of prey] of interest. Her lips purse slightly, both perplexed at yet another coincidence of meeting an Awakened, and pensive... a fine tension runs through her, for there is something in what she reads of him that could be... dangerous. Yes. An itch. An urge. To bring up preemptive - defensive - shields; to hide her own aura or to ward off any possible attack that might follow. That flicker-flash of survival instinct that would prompt her to broadcast that which she might need to conceal... I think I found what you're looking for. She startles, her thoughts having wandered an entirely different path so that his words take on a skewed meaning and for a moment she looks both piercingly wary and impulsively frightened. [a skittish night, tonight. something on edge and raw] It intensifies that bittersweet sadness for a moment until she blinks and her thoughts clear [the bracelet, fool] and she hesitates while a flash of relief shimmers over eyes that are expressive as they are blind. "Did you?" Softly. She spoke of Hope earlier today and even in this small matter she cleaves to it... ...she holds out her free hand - her right hand - then, so small, so delicate and fine in its construction, the tenderness of palm facing upward as might a supplicant. There is a tiny hint of empathy in his response to her confessed fear of speaking in front of others -- with hand outstretched, she nods. "Then that's something else we have in common...." A pause, a breath, a moment of dangling meanings and then, "May I have it, please? It was my mother's..." Somewhere in her mind she is surprised to give away such a truth - no matter how small and seemingly insignificant. Perhaps it is the church; such places are heavy with a resonance all their own; the burden of confessions need.

[Owen]

[Perception + Alertness, are you a little spooked by me, bb? -2 Diff, Acute Senses.]

[Owen]

They're both of them; yet they don't know it quite yet, Awakened beings with a capacity to read much from the minds of those around them; and to use their Minds as both weaponry and forms of protection. Israel knows now, knows the way a Mage can, putting out their extra-sensory feelers to taste the world around them, that there's more to this guy than she initially thought. He clearly knows that she gave a talk in the Church earlier, and he's Awakened. That either makes him a potential ally, or a fresh enemy. He's observing her with that stoic demeanor, his expression closed down behind his eyes so that whatever he is receiving from her is processed without any outward sense of alarm, or malicious pleasure. She asks for the bracelet back please and Owen's eyes drop to her open palm; he lifts the cool silver and precious stone keepsake to her hand and presses it against her palm; folding her fingers over it and housing her smaller hand within both of his so she can sense the callouses on his own hands; feel the heat of his touch. "Don't be afraid," it sounds like a command, but from Owen it's almost a plea; request. "I'm not going to hurt you." He lets her go, and steps away.

[Israel Cohen]

[Perception + Alertness: Is that so?]

[Israel Cohen]

A potential ally or a fresh enemy: That is the crux. Too fresh in her mind - too deeply imprinted on her bones - is the knowledge that even the once loved, cherished and adored can become to worst of enemies; the most heartbreaking and soul wrenching of foes. And then there are the wayward ones; the strangers met along her own personal path-in-darkness, who become friends and compatriots -- though even, there, too, is the risk of the Fall. Israel does not put much stalk in coincidences anymore; but ah, yes, how she does believe in convergence. Like calls to like, for good or for ill, and the constant quagmire is attempting to decipher which might be which...for how long... and to what end. Of course she is at something of a loss here; his expression is closed down but it doesn't matter: She could not begin to notice such a thing anyway. What she can [and does] pick up on is the sense of him that tantalizes senses beyond sight... what she is aware of is conflicting. It is that conflict of which she is wary. A shy man. A man who seems capable of threat and yet docile; almost frightened that he might harm, that someone might perceive him as doing so. The feeling of corrosion that makes her itch, makes her mew internally: No stranger to the entropic, she, but wary and unnerved when it resonates in such a bold and destructive manner from a shell that seems to at odds with its own emanations. Curious. Interesting. Worrying. Melancholy. Contact, then. He places the bracelet on her open palm and she sighs softly, a small sound of some fraction of relaxation to have what is precious back in her possession. A symbolist understands the power of emotional symbols as well as the other kinds. When he does not let go of her hand immediately her head tilts once more, her blind eyes fluttering closed so that the length of ebony lashes make a striking contrast against the light olive of her skin tone. It isn't fear now, but concentration as if she is making a memory, a marker: [i]This is real. This is what he feels like. Her hands are cool and feel as delicate as they look; made more so by the warmth and greater size and strength of his own hands around the sprite-form of hers. A plea. A request. Her eyes open [old habits. chemical signatures and physiological responses. nothing more] and while her lips curve, the smile is now an expression mirrored in her eyes: Belief. Sympathy. Compassion. "I believe you." She says. And she does. A force of will from one to whom Will means everything. A hushed voice, softer still than before, even though he has moved away, reclaiming his space, once more gifting her back her own. And then, again, voice dropping even lower so it is barely more than a whisper. "Don't be ashamed." A command. A plea. A request.

[Owen]

Though she can't see it, there's a flicker of reaction in Owen's eyes when she tells him [requests] that he not feel ashamed for the way his near proximity can make other Awakened creatures recoil, or feel unease. His hands have strayed back to the pockets of his hoodie, and there's a silence that stretches out like melting taffy -- a watchful, conflicted interest in one as it watches the sympathy and compassion of another. "I have things to be ashamed of," he attests, confesses to her, as if being in the walls of it would protect it as a secret, as his shame revealed and yet constrained. "I'm Owen," he gives her that much, as a starting point, as some kind of offering. She gave him the gift of trust so he hands her a naming device for what, for who, he was.

[Israel Cohen]

There are things she could show him, if he let her, if she dared to. Memories of her own, granted to him in staggering clarity and detail, for such is the gift of those who walk the path leading to the mastery of the Mind. She doesn't: She wouldn't' force such a thing on any uncorrupted soul who did not direly need it; nor would she grant such a link to one she barely knows at all. But that compassion in her is strong, perhaps because it is founded in the burden of primal, raw sorrow; perhaps because she lives with a soul-ache every moment, however subdued most of the time, however much she has come to accept it. For such a tiny doll of a woman, the depths of feeling in her is staggering when it is revealed... He confesses. He gives her his name [a name. one name. whether it is real or not, still it identifies and gains its place in the Pattern] and she nods, responding quietly... "I'm Israel." An old, unusual name for a rather unusual woman with an old, old soul. She takes a step back then, holding up her free hand as she does, the bracelet still her there, as if to prevent him from moving or reacting just yet, "...I won't hurt you." A paraphrase of what he, himself, just told her recently - some flicker of acknowledgment of the irony in the words: Who would expect such a slip-of-a-thing to be capable of hurting a strong young man such as he? He has little time to wonder. The Effect is not a show of great power; it hardly scratches the surface of what she is capable of. But it seems a night of small gifts and hushed, guarded confessions. He strikes her as alone - even in company - his shame, his shyness, his fear. In tenderness she seeks to show him he is not at all alone. He is not the only one with black marks on their souls; who fears the price of their actions past. She whispers low words under her breath in a language far older than English could dream to be and a sense of that special, unique quality that defines her hums around her. Not a pulse. Not a beacon. A shroud. An envelopment. That soft sense of deep, old sorrow is now welled up to the surface. Heartache. Tribulation. Old [ancient] lamentation that is like wistful nostalgia, the primal ache of a wound that has healed but has left a mark for all time. Bittersweet woe, like the loss of innocence: Natural and usually necessary but still quietly mourned. Entropic yes, more so even in its strength than his own, though not of quite the same ilk. Beneath it, more subtle, a Piercing quality, the sharpness of the scalpel, precise and brutal even as it seeks to heal. Static. Even in the minor effect it is clear that this woman burns with the Sixth Element, stronger even than his own wellspring of ability. A moment. A breath. Then gone and she sags slightly.. not because the will working took any great skill or power: it didn't. But because she'd amplified that which she tries to hold back, to bury under and it weighs on her like his shame does on him. "It's not how we've failed that defines us for all time, Owen... it's the virtue we strive for."

[Owen]

The chain beneath his shirt almost seems to pulse when Israel begins to work her Rote. It's the curl of Prime, the frisson of Mind that breaches the walls of St James' and has the young Chorister audibly drawing in a breath as the effects of the working touch on him -- And he can feel her much more intimately than if she'd reached out and set her hands to his face. He can feel her own heartache, her own misery and age-old sorrow that settles around his shoulders like a cloak and wraps him up in it. His hands emerge from his pockets, fingers twitching, curling into his palms before one reaches; instinct; protection; for the pendant beneath his clothing -- stumbling, and his own primal energy clashes into the air, colliding with her casting; seeking to recognize the weaving for what it was; her resonance, her ability. She burns with the sixth element; and for a beat he is a well-spring for another, for the source of them all, for the mystical quality that threads everything, all of them together, and then the moment passes; and Owen, his breathing affected as if he'd been running through the streets opens his eyes; struggles, for an instant, not to stagger under the weight of such information, poured into him in an instant. His fingers grew slack and fall away from the cross around his neck; he watches her with clear, focused eyes; finds his voice, to carve a somewhat hoarse answer through the space separating them. "Yes," as if it qualified to answer for everything she was saying to him. For it all. "What are you," he manages next, fingers curled around the pews either side of him.