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.