Don't Forget

[Ashley] [...What's this, apprentice?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Morgan] [.....what's this, mentor?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Ashley] It's unusual for them to meet on a Saturday. Ashley generally tries to leave the weekends to Morgan: she pushes the girl hard enough through the week, and Morgan pushes herself hard enough, and Ashley feels it's important to know when to stop. To know when to back away. She's certainly gotten carried away in the past, and better that Morgan gets into the habit early.

Still, when Morgan called she didn't refuse the girl's company. For the past week, she's been a relatively uninvolved mentor; she's given Morgan some work, sometimes remotely. Up until Tuesday she actually went so far as to ask for a few days away. It's a bit of a surprisingly strong reaction, given how one might expect a woman like Ashley to react to the death of a friend and cabal mate. She's taking it hard.

In spite of how tired she still is, her senses are rather acutely attuned to the world around her today. She senses Morgan's approach before she even reaches the brick walk-up, and as she comes up the stairs, and goes to put tea on. Noting, as she does, that Morgan isn't different, but she's more. It makes her brows furrow as she goes about setting up mugs.

She's gotten used to immersing herself in those little mundane things, the past week. The apartment is unusually spotless, books all in their place, no scattered papers, no empty teacups.

[Ashley] Morgan hasn't seen Ashley much this week in person, so she just hasn't been given the opportunity yet. She's still relentless determination, she still thrives in conflict, but there's a longing to her Hunger now. Something sharp and sad, bittersweet: just poignant.
to Morgan

[Morgan] There's a knock on the door, of course, but Morgan's expected and has lived here - once her arrival is heralded (and she knows that may not even be necessary), she lets herself in if the door is unlocked, and goes about getting plates ready with the snacks she's brought for with tea (and puts away some extras - a loaf of sandwich bread, some cinnamon rolls in the freezer that only need be heated for breakfast or snack, some cookies, a half cheesecake); it's muffins again, the apple streusel ones she'd made before, only better. It's companionable quiet as she goes about this business, as she gives Ashley one small bump with her hip [I'm here, I love you, I'm not going anywhere]. To her, Ashley is the sister she never had; a good deal of her dislodged attachment and affection has been transferred to her mentor, someone who knew the psychology of such things might say.

Once muffins - huge, decadent things - are on plates situated on the coffee table (Morgan usually sits on the floor and plays with Zane), she speaks. "Doing alright?" She's seen the difference, of course, just as Ashley's seen it in her, seen that she's more. More Discerning. More in tune.

[Ashley] There are muffins, and a gentle bump from Morgan's hip, both of which draw a tired smile from the Tytalan. It's been a difficult summer. Hell, it's been a difficult year. For both of them, really.

She, too, sits at her coffee table, crosslegged on the ground with her legs tucked underneath it. Zane is happy to see Morgan today; Ashley has been tired and less active, and the dog is, perhaps, feeling a little pent up. She generally walks him several miles a day. He immediately moves to the floor next to the girl.

"I'm getting by," she tells Morgan, breaking off a piece of her muffin and nibbling at it. No hungry inhalation today. There's a glance toward the girl that, for a few seconds, almost mirrors Morgan's own discerning gaze. "Have you been practicing?"

[Morgan] "Of course. I've finally got a handle on the fundamentals of Ars Spirituum," she says, proud but in a way that indicates of course she did. "I think I may focus there for a bit. It's really interesting." It is interesting, but given her aspirations in the mortal world, she'll be back to Ars Mentis before too long - it's too useful not to become proficient in it, whatever her aversion to it may be. (And that aversion hasn't become any less, regardless of what happened with the court, with her Avatar. She'd made an effort, and managed to deal with it for a bit. That's about it.)

"And . . . I met my avatar. Spoke with her." Which explains the change in resonance, the scrubbed clean (pure) feeling of her, the red that isn't just in her hair and clothing anymore. "It was . . . pretty amazing. Which is just about the biggest understatement I could have come up with." The last is wry, amused.

[Ashley] Morgan tells Ashley that she's learned the basics of the Ars Spirituum, an Art that Ashley herself has not yet managed to learn, and there's the hint of a pleased smile from her mentor. Apparently her studies with Basil have led to something; while Ashley's perspective on Basil has shifted just slightly this week, she's still protective of her apprentice. "It'll be good for you, in Quaesitor. A lot of Quaesitori seem to focus their efforts there."

Morgan says she met her Avatar, and the elder Hermetic's eyebrows draw together before she looks at Morgan. Eyes her for a few seconds, absorbs this along with the sense of growth she feels from the girl, the way she resonates. "...Did you Seek?"

[Morgan] Here, there's a beaming sort of pride - so excited, so pleased with herself. "I did. I found a book, with a ritual, and I went through it all and it worked. You were there, in it. Part of it, anyway." That part's okay, despite the mind-invading that Morgan knows on some level was really her avatar, her self.

"Not to sound all Wizard of Oz-y or whatever. She's very . . ." Morgan muses for a moment, breaks off a bit of muffin to dip in her tea, chews, swallows - a few seconds' thought. "Red. Very right and wrong and balance between. Like Dike. Oh, speaking of. I have Greek and Latin this semester, will you tutor me? I'm awful at languages." She always has been, or so she thinks - which is to say she's roughly average, and her mother the linguistic genius had no patience with just average, not from her daughter (or her husband, or much of anyone, really).

[Ashley] In spite of the darkness that's painted itself beneath her mentor's eyes, in spite of the grief that's made itself visible on her face, Ashley, for a moment, breaks into a grin. Bright and proud and genuine, after Morgan confirms that she did Seek, that she took initiative and moved forward on her own. "Tell me about the rest," she says.

That brightness lingers in the blue of Ashley's eyes even after the smile has lessened, as she takes a sip out of her cup of tea and raises her eyebrows when Morgan requests help with languages. "I don't know Greek, but you're going to have to know Latin in order to grasp a lot of texts, anyway. Particularly a lot of magical texts."

[Morgan] "I know, believe me," she says ruefully of the need to know languages. "Most of the books I found, I couldn't use. The one I did, though, someone translated around the turn of the twentieth century - for his or her own use, I guess, or maybe his or her apprentice's. And . . . I'd like to learn Enochian, as well."

There's a pause, then, while she thinks of how best to put together the story - she's not a bard, far from it, though she can give reasonable closing arguments if pressed. Completely different skill set.

"The set up was as you expect it to be - circles, representatives of the elements, that kind of thing. And I thought it didn't work at first, thought I fell asleep and was having a weird dream. Was walking through a koi pond, like, underwater." Morgan is not particularly fond of decorative animals in the first place, by now Ashley knows this - she has an intolerance for dogs small enough to be kept in purses and pure bred show animals and so on. Her snarky commentary about such things is amusing, sometimes, and made more so by how much she obviously loves Zane. "But there were fingers and then voices, one male and one female. One of them said one of the fish looked like me, and as they talked, it became obvious they were Val and Bryan."

She's sad here, for this, but excited in a way, too - to know for sure what happened, beyond the shadow of a doubt. There's a relief, almost, despite how she'd rather she hadn't done it. There's a weight taken off with knowing, in this case, as opposed to one added.

"I saw what happened. What I did. I'm . . . not that great a person, you know. But after that, there was a kingsroad in a forest, and I followed voices off road - the dark was off, wrong, so I saw through it, and I wanted to know who I was coming up on before I got there, so I helped that out, too. You, Kage, Daddy, Uncle Zeke and Uncle Steve were there, and a red voice that kept talking through all of you - not all the time. Sometimes you were just you, but sometimes you were Her." She shrugs, not sure how to explain that, really, and sips her tea before continuing. "I had to explain why I matter, because you'd already judged me. And when I did to Her satisfaction, after I told her who I was really talking to - myself - and what it meant to be red, it was just the two of us. Dike and me, I mean. And . . . I understand some things better, and feel Her better."

There's a pause, and her right hand held out, palm up. "Oh, and I got this a couple days ago. Thomas was there." When Ashley looks, she'll see a tiny (roughly two inches square) monochrome representation of the scales of Justice, perfectly balanced. "It's a work in progress."

[Ashley] "Enochian is very important for you to learn," Ashley says. "I planned to teach you that anyway, because it's something you should know, if you're working with Words."

Ashley, who is a storyteller, who is a poet, isn't impatient through that pause. She can understand the need to gather one's thoughts, to think through the story and its telling. Briefly, when Morgan mentions the koi pond, the elder Hermetic's heart seizes, painful, but she wants this night to be Morgan's. There's a twitch of the corner of her mouth, and she just listens.

Morgan's Seeking is very unlike the ones she has had, with the masked Avatar, with the judgment. Hers just wants, and it is always clear about what it wants. She raises her eyebrows at the girl. "What did you tell her, for why you matter? Why did the red matter?"

And when Morgan extends her wrist to show Ashley the tattoo, the other Hermetic leans forward to look. Ashley has never been tattooed. "What else are you adding?"

[Morgan] "First was intent, I forgot that part - whether it meant anything. I said yes, because it pushes and drives, but it doesn't always end up the way you think it will. Road to hell, and all that. Then was whether or not I matter, and I said I did because I took what I was, and what everyone there had given me, and turned it into something different and different than the sum of its parts. And because I wanted to know the Truth and wasn't afraid to seek it. Uncle Zeke wanted me to run, and Uncle Steve thought I was going to fail." Here, her nose wrinkles briefly - she's not a coward, and she doesn't like being underestimated. "I guess Kage did too, but she was nicer about it. Anyway, so that's what I said about why I matter."

Another brief pause, and then, "The red matters because historically speaking, that's the color the great goddess Justice's followers - worshipers, whatever - claimed. Red or white, not black or white. And of course red thought it knew the best way to worship or follow, and white thought it knew the best way, and sometimes there was pink in the middle that thought it knew the right way. Because no one can ever deny Justice, regardless of how unjust their actions - they can only say that they're the only ones who know how to be just."

[Ashley] Ashley listens to Morgan's answer, and there's another thoughtful bite or two, washed down with some of the tea. She seems to be thinking, trying to connect, trying to imagine. "Why is the act of transformation valuable? Why is taking what everyone told you and turning it into something else inherently something that makes you matter?"

The Justice myth she hasn't heard before, and it earns Morgan a thoughtful quirk of the eyebrows. Norse myths are what Ashley has absorbed herself in, tales from those dark places in the center of Europe. "So why did you pick red, and not white? Or pink?"

[Morgan] "Because transformation is what makes everything. Regardless of which version of creation you believe, god-based or science-based, something came. And then transformed, and became something else. Because that act is the backbone of everything that was, is and will be. It's also why everyone matters, at least to some extent - because everyone is capable of transformation. Some are just . . . you know. Better at it." Here, she shrugs, a bit rueful and wry - the general attitude of her Tradition is not something that she's failed to pick up. Primals, Sleepers? They matter, but just barely. Certainly to a lesser extent than even the earliest of fledgling Hermetics do.

The question about red, though, gets a blush, and a bit of mumble. "Uther Pendragon's banner was red, with a gold dragon. King Arthur's was red with three gold crowns. And . . . I don't know. Red's always been my favorite color."

[Ashley] [Sneaksneaksneak. +2 diff.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Ashley] "Is the transformation the point?" Ashley asks, and there's a skeptical quirk of her eyebrows here. "Just the act of transforming? Because like you've said, everyone can do it. What can judge better or best, if there's just - "

And she leaves off for a second, because Morgan hears a few soft footfalls immediately followed by a tug of one of the locks of hair behind her. Clumsy, but whatever small animal it was has managed some small amount of success. The kitten tumbles into view and scampers away to hide beneath the couch seconds later.

Ashley's gaze follows it, amused, and then she looks back up at Morgan. "...If all that matters is transformation, is what I meant."

A smirk at Morgan's explanation for liking red is her only response. Ashley understands this, really, better than might be imagined: she often goes with things just because they feel right. She doesn't admit to it around other Hermetics.

[Morgan] "....." It's not Zane pulling her hair as he walks by, Morgan knows, because he's still next to her, being petted and loved on whenever she has a free hand. (She'll offer to walk him today, before she goes anywhere else, and invite Ashley along - to walk in company, maybe, to cover some ground. Maybe fresh air and distraction will do her some good.) So she finds herself rather puzzled . . . and then there's an act of kitten, and Morgan looks almost . . . puzzled, for a moment.

"You got a cat?" And then said cat is hiding, and Morgan is watching. "I think it'll take a lot more than an apprentice or initiate to see the point, and that 'point' and 'Truth' may be close to the same thing. Transformation isn't all that matters, but it's certainly a step along the path to finding what does."

[Ashley] He's looking at her from where he's crouched under the couch: small, striped creature, gray and still covered with the fuzz of young kittenhood. Zane, too, is watching him; the kitten is a bit skittish of the dog, yet. "Kage gave him to me," Ashley says, with a glance under the couch at the small cat. She reaches under the couch, tolerates a playful bat and rubs him under his chin.

The sidelong look Morgan is getting in the meantime is a touch reproving, softened a bit by the fact that she is petting a kitten (it's hard to intimidate in such a situation). "That doesn't mean you shouldn't try for it. Don't impose limits on yourself based on your rank."

[Morgan] "Oh, I didn't say I wouldn't try. I have every intention of trying, and getting there. I just don't know that I'd understand it even if I did see it now. Like . . . like Russian literature. They make you read Nabakov in high school - at least my high school - Invitation to a Beheading in ninth grade. And I read it, and I tried, and I even caved and got the cliff's notes and asked my mom to give me her translation from the Russian. But I didn't get it. Then, I reread it last month and it made more sense, but I think there are still probably bits that I'm missing. So I'll reread it again in a few years and see what I can get that I didn't before."

She shrugs, still eying the kitten; it's not the same sort of dislike (and distrust) garnered by purse dogs and purebred beasties and the like, but Morgan clearly prefers the very large do(n)g next to her. "What's his name? He's cute."

[Ashley] "I didn't get to read Nabakov in high school," Ashley says, and her smile might be a little tinged with envy. "Red Badge of Courage and Shakespeare for us." Though it isn't precisely that she objects to either; Ashley's tastes simply lie along the lines of Russian literature, dense though it is. It's evident with a glance through her bookshelves.

"But, that aside, you've made my point for me all the same. There's still something you understand, and saying that you can't understand it yet is a lazy answer. Your answer might change but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try."

Her tone isn't harsh. It's teaching mode: she slips into this occasionally (often.) When she's around apprentices she almost can't help it; perhaps it's what comes of becoming an Adept. It's hard to turn that approach off. "Luka," she adds.

[Morgan] "We started with Shakespeare in fifth and had at least a part of a play a year all the way through, and Red Badge of Courage was seventh. We also read Metamorphosis, Great Expectations, Of Mice and Men, Moby Dick and The Great Gatsby. There were others, but . . ." She shrugs. Some stick out, some don't. Some she remembers easily, some she doesn't. "The point is to get there. Transformation is a part of that, but not all of that. And 'where' is 'Truth'."

Which is a less lazy answer, and makes it clear that she has tried (does try) to understand, despite her inadequacy at explaining what it is that she sees thus far, and the limitations inherent. They're limitations that she'll surpass, gates she'll jump or pass through, but for now, they're there.

[Ashley] Morgan lists the texts, many of them quite advanced for what she was reading at the same age. Then again, Morgan was in a private school, and this is ten years later; their mentality is quite different than the one Ashley grew up with (blue collar, daughter of a fisherman). She doesn't call attention to how very privileged Morgan has been, and it passes without comment. "I'll accept that answer, for now," she tells Morgan, "but you should think more on it."

Morgan's limitations are still very much there; she is only seventeen, after all, and there is only so much she can understand about what's going on around her. Only so far ahead she can think. "In the meantime, congratulations," Ashley says. "You'll be an Initiate soon."

[Morgan] She's eighteen, actually, since April - for now, Enid's and Morgan's ages match (because when she'd gotten the new ID, she'd still been seventeen - rather than having Jon make her an emancipated minor, she'd just given herself a birthday that made her eighteen already), and they will until February or so. "I intend to," she says of thinking on her answer - and she does. Morgan always thinks. She weighs, and discerns.

But then there's the rest, and Morgan smiles the biggest, most open smile Ashley's seen since she came back from China. "Thanks. It feels good. I've learned a lot of new stuff this month. Between hanging out with Thomas, James and Atlas, and Seeking, and getting ready for school . . ." She shrugs, but it's clearly been a good month for her - the journey's the thing, for this particular girl.

[Ashley] It's good to see Morgan smile that way; Ashley has, distantly, observed how different the girl is since coming back from China. She finds it worrisome, but also thinks it's Morgan's own battle, beyond what support she has already tried to offer. It's difficult for her to imagine that other people don't deal with things the same way she does, at times.

"I'm glad to see you interacting with other people more," Ashley tells Morgan. "Sounds like it's been good for you."

[Morgan] "I . . . think it has, some. I still don't . . ."

She shrugs, and doesn't know how to explain a general aversion to uninitiated tactility (though some people can get away with it - Ashley is one, and Kage, and maybe Atlas. Thomas is getting there) that rivals her aversion to Ars Mentis. She especially doesn't like anything that feels remotely like restraint, and shutting her in a room will get panic or fury or both, but . . . well.

"I like Atlas, a lot. Thomas thought he was my dad," she says with a wrinkled nose. "And you know I adore Kage." The Hollower, though, has crept up on her with his strange slang and his accent so like and yet completely unlike her father's - she looked down on him at first, and now he's taking her on dates and holding her hand at the tattoo parlor. It's odd, to her, and she doesn't even try to explain it.

[Ashley] Morgan would not really have to explain her aversion to uninitiated touch to Ashley: her mentor is not comfortable with it either. It makes her stiffen up, and occasionally it makes her panic. In Ashley's case, it's sometimes just overstimulation or the person not being well known enough to her. Either way, she just eyes her apprentice, listening to her talk about the people who are now in her life.

"Atlas is interesting," she agrees. She, too, adores Kage, but does not vocalize the sentiment; theirs is not a demonstrative friendship, with the rare exception. She asks, "What do you think of Thomas?" not because she can tell what Morgan is thinking but because she is curious. She rather liked the Hollower.

[Morgan] "I think I need a Cockney to English dictionary a lot of the time. And he's awfully rough around the edges." Morgan knows she's led a very privileged life, and that her parents have lived privileged lives, and back for several generations. She knows that not everyone has the benefit of a private school education, or a professor father and genius mother. This does not make it any easier to not be a bit of a snob sometimes; she's a pretty girl, was once a popular one. She has all the things that tend to propel people into the social stratosphere in adolescence. These things matter to her in ways she may never be able to articulate. "I also think it's sweet how he tries to look out for me, and really interesting to hear how he's mashed so many different theories - some vastly divergent - together to form his own. He doesn't think he has an avatar, you know."

This had surprised her greatly when she first found out, but as she learned more about him and his way of doing things it had come to make more sense that he might think that (even if she thinks he's wrong).

"And . . . he knows. I told him about China, because it doesn't seem right to not give the people who want to be around me a chance to avoid it. I mean, I'm sure Mama and the rest have better things to do than come looking for me, but it doesn't seem right to not give warning if people want to be friends or whatever." Morgan can count on one hand all the people who know all the details about that - Ashley is one. Emily. Thomas, and James. And that's it. Other people have small pieces, or suspicions, but those are the ones who know all of it. So, it's kind of a big deal that she's told.

[Ashley] A twitch of the corner of her mouth as Morgan says that Thomas is rough around the edges, that he believes he doesn't have an Avatar, that he's merged divergent theories. It doesn't surprise her to hear any of these things; she and Thomas had their own conversation, after all. "Thomas is intense," she says. "I think speaking more with him would be good for you."

A part of her can't believe she's telling her apprentice this about a Hollow One. It's a part of her that is diminishing by the day, the part of her that bonded so closely with an Akashic and is finding the city's Orphans to be her best friends. There's a pause. "He reminds me a bit of myself when I was younger, actually." And by a bit, she means a lot.

"What did he say, when you told him about China?"

[Morgan] ".....he hugged me." Which is actually okay with her now - at the time, though, she'd stiffened and grown even more distant than usual, though she'd forced herself to stay there and allow herself to be touched. (With Morgan, it's not a matter of overstimulation - or rather, it can get worse then, or when she's overtired. But really, it has to do with trust that's been betrayed far too often in a short span of time, and the trust necessary to allow someone to be that close physically. Mentally and emotionally are completely different issues, and require more hoops.) "And said he was sorry I'd been through that, but that I must be a pretty strong person to have come out of it so well. I don't . . ."

She shrugs, then grins, wry. "I don't always feel all that strong. But I try to be, anyway." She also doesn't necessarily know that she came out of it all that well - but she plays her part. She tries to keep how well she isn't hidden, at least most of the time, so it doesn't stick out.

[Ashley] That Thomas hugged Morgan and told her these things: it doesn't surprise Ashley to hear that about the young man, either. She likes Thomas, and it shows in the little half-smile Morgan gets. There's something wistful about it, something a bit sad, as though she's guessed at some of what's going on. The world doesn't stop for the grieving.

It becomes more pronounced when Morgan says that she doesn't always feel that strong, and Ashley says, "Well, that's all you can do. Will becomes reality." And Mind magic, she knows, thrives on the use of mantras: tell yourself you're okay long enough, and eventually you are.

[Morgan] Morgan looks at what's left of her muffin and tea, finishes both, and then moves to sit next to Ashley - only touching where she leans to put her head on the smaller woman's shoulder. "I know you've got Kage and Wharil and stuff. But don't forget you've got me too, yeah?"

And so she'll stay for a long moment (as long as Ashley's comfortable) before rising to take care of dishes. "I'm going to walk Zane. You up for coming?"

[Ashley] There's the touch of a head on her shoulder. Ashley's been unusually receptive to such things recently: it's difficult for her not to be, with how raw she is over Daiyu's death. She will be for a long time. "I...I know," she says, quiet. She seems comfortable to let Morgan sit like that for a long time, going so far as to wrap an arm around the girl's shoulders.

When Morgan offers to walk Zane, she too rises, after looking for Luka to make sure he hasn't gotten into anything. When she finds the kitten asleep under the couch pillow, she gives Morgan a nod. "Sure, thanks. He can probably stand to get out."

So can she.

Date: No Question

[Thomas Taylor] ((Morgan recap)) "Mostly study - I do a lot of that. I'm trying to learn how one causes a new level of awareness and skill, rather than waiting to happen upon one." Which is to say, she's trying to learn how to force a Seeking, and underlines the fact that she's not really a 'sit down and relax' sort of girl. And, knowing her? She'll learn, and it'll happen. "It's frustrating, though. All the best books are in Greek or Latin, and while I've no aversion to languages, I've never been any good at them, except for Chinese, oddly. And, to a much lesser extent, sign. So there are all these books that I can't even muddle my way through, which means I'm going to have to make sure I work about five times as hard when classes start, so I can get the Greek and Latin that I didn't when Mama was trying to teach me. And . . . maybe Aramaic, though I'm not registered for that class. I don't know if Northwestern even has one." This is musing, contemplative, and then she shrugs. "Anyway, someone has to have written out a translation in a comprehensible manner, and I'll find it. And then I'll see what it is that she wants, which way she wants me to go. I feel . . . almost drawn and quartered sometimes." By this field of interest or that, by this Sphere or that, and she wants to know it all, eventually, but even she knows you have to start somewhere. "What about you, other than a bit of breaking up a human slave ring? You are alright, aren't you? Everyone's in one piece?"

[Thomas Taylor] “Tryin’ to force it pet...” Well there an original approach, there is no doubt in his voice, and in fact if anyone could force a new level of understand he would put money on it would be Morgan. He listens to her speak; he only spoke English, only read English so he was out in the cold on that one. “Pet am sure you’ll master the languages you need, in record lemon as well, either that or...” He thinks for a moment the cogs turning “You cud scan ‘im into a computer, then use sum software to translate ‘im to English...” It could work, there’s enough Techies out there “Talk to the Doc, am sure he cud cum up with a digital scanner than translates ‘im for ya” He then laughs “Cud ‘ave done with you wen bustin’ that slave ring, I ‘ad no idea wat they were screamin’ at me.”

“Pet wen you say she...’ho you on ‘bout?” He had no idea on that one. “Yeah everyone is sound, seven sleepers saved, Info was a bit beaten up but she tells me she will be calvin, not one to force folks to do shit.” He blinks, then looks back into the duffle bag he forgot all about it, but speaks as he starts rummaging around in the bag “Oh yeah, stopped this mystical store as well, ever read King’s needful things, well it was kinda like that save I walk in on chapter two an he ran for the hills.” He chuckles back to her as he is doing something in his duffle bag. “Am robin pet, took a hit to the chest nuthin’ phone pope ‘bout, right as rain. I ‘ave to say Le Fay with all yer studyin’ you don’t make me feel like a lazy sod. I always considered tryin’ to get back in education, but I think it is too late for me, was always germans on kinda guy...” He looks over his shoulder to Morgan as he does give her one of those enticing charming grins he holds in reserve. “But, I’d like to learn latin, sum other hollowers were gonna teach me but I ‘ad to move on.” He finally pulls out a red rose from the duffle bag, it was not as pristine as when he put it in, and the stalk was a little bent and one of the petals had ripped as he hands it to her. He then pulls out a flask and a bottle of water which he pours into the flask putting it down. He nods, happy at that. “I bought you a dozen like pet, but as I said evil shop owner, it all kinda went to pot, but this bad boy survived, I know ‘ow you like red.” Ah see what happens when Thomas plans something, all hell breaks loose.

[Morgan Lake] ".....you bought me roses?" This, for some reason, surprises and touches her inordinately; she doesn't know how poorly off he is compared to her own standard of living, but she does know he isn't exactly rolling in it, and she knows how expensive even cheap roses tend to be. Even counting this as a date, she certainly hadn't expected flowers, or any sort of gift, and there's only a moment's hesitation before she leans in to kiss him - not on the cheek this time, but a soft, sweet and too quick thing on the lips. It's a moment's distraction, and a gift on its own; she's touched him a couple times today, and more often since the thing at the club, but this is different. This is almost vulnerable.

Then, though, there's the question of 'she', and Morgan shrugs. "Just . . . you know, Her." There's a vague wave of her hand that does nothing to help elaborate, and a glance around before she continues, quiet and still leaned in close so she doesn't have to speak up even a little bit. "My avatar, I guess. I just . . . she's She, to me. And gender hasn't yet resolved into a name."

[Thomas Taylor] He was just sat down, he did not know what kind of response he was going to get, he played out in his mind a couple of times...the result was better than expected. Of course he was sat back relaxed when she kissed him but he was on the ball enough to at least meet her lips, nothing forced. A gift to him. He tilts his head when she starts waving around as he raises an eyebrow “Yer not the first ‘ave ‘eard ‘bout this avatar stuff pet, but I gotta tell ya, I ain’t to big of a believer, mainly cos ‘ave never seen mine, like ever an never ‘ad too do one of them dream awakenin’ stuff, all my growth ‘as come from the real world, just realizin’ ‘ave turned a corner and boom ,there I’am new an improved.”

He touches his lips a moment as another urge comes over him, the urge to smoke and he outs it aside for now. "So, wats she like pet?" He knew it could not be bullshit, everyone he ever met had one, just he did not seem to or if he did it never came to see him in his dreams

[Morgan Lake] "I haven't seen her, either. And she's very . . . fair, I think. Just. Which means she isn't always comfortable to be around and there are a lot of hard edges and cold stares, but she's . . . I don't know. She kind of steers sometimes, but mostly, I think she wants me to learn to judge on my own." Maybe she's wrong. She totally could be, and she'd be far from the first to be so. (She'd be far from the first to get smacked for it, too.) If nothing else, it's an interesting flight of fancy, one that makes her better able to deal with so much time alone. Once, not so long ago, she was a very social creature - Miss [Enid Geraint] Morgan Lake, homecoming court, most likely to end up with a Supreme Court seat.

"Anyway, I guess I'll get to know her better as I learn more. Maybe you will to? I don't know. I just know she's there because of the pushing and pulling." Which could well be self-directed, and some of it is. But here is a girl who needs to believe in something bigger and more-knowing than herself, at any rate. "Would you want to, if you could?"

[Thomas Taylor] He had heard similar things from others, there avatar pushes them onwards, and lives in symbiosis with the mage, Morgan seemed to have a judgement avatar, and she herself wanted to be a judge. Everyone should have something to believe in, and thought Tom has his one opinions on avatars and the like he certainly is not about to strip Morgan of flight of fancy. “Hey Le Fay, maybe it’s Dike, the Lady of Justice, that wud be kinda cool pet.” He goes into his pocket as the smokes finally come out as he places on behind his ear as he ponders her question.

“Wud I want too...pet am not even sure i ‘ave one, if I did I don’t know, I like to think it’s just me doin’ these things, it’s just me choosing things, it’s just me that pushes meself onwards, an as far as am concerned it is. I ain’t never ‘ad a freaky dream...” He blinks softly “I wud not say no to experience if I do ‘ave one just to see wat the soddin’ ‘ell it might be, but do I need to see it, nah, I am ‘ho I am I can be no more.”

Truth

[Verity] The house is very, very arcane - she'd warned Thomas that it would be difficult to find, and that because of that, she'd be outside to meet him at the mailbox. So, that's where she stands now, all bare feet, plaid boxer-style shorts and a tank top proclaiming some local private school's track and cross country team on the front, and her captain on the back, along with 'Your Honor' as a prominent nickname.

She's patient - she doesn't particularly stand out, but she doesn't disappear either. A bit better looking than the average (as far as most people are concerned), she's not easy [or impossible] to forget. The house behind her, though? It stands as a blur, hard to focus upon unless one looks just right.

[Thomas Taylor] He said he be round fast, so he actual takes his own transport, he did not often take his bike mainly because petrol was not free and he liked to drink. It took him a little while to find it but Morgan see’s someone in black leather on an old beaten up sports bike pull up...

The engine cuts it whine (It sounds like it was ready to give up anyway as gloved hands come up and remove the helmet to show the face of Thomas. He gets off his bike biting at his gloves to pull them off “You want jokin’ was you Le Fay, like a needle in a haystack”

[Verity] "I guess my roommate inherited it from his great-grandfather or something," she answers with a shrug. "Here, park and you can come inside. Once you're close enough to the house, your bike will kind of blend in with the rest - or at least my car does, so I assume it will." She points at her car, which she can see when he indicates it, but hadn't noticed before; clearly, this house is more than just a house. Equally clearly, it's not hers, though stepping inside makes it obvious that she's the only one home and has been for awhile.

"Kitchen's this way." And he's led straight there; she doesn't invite people over because this place still doesn't feel like hers, after months of living here. Sleeping on Ashley's couch had been more home-like, though she certainly doesn't say. "Here. I already ate, but I made you a sandwich." The bread is obviously home made and appears to have cheese and herbs involved, and the meat on it isn't deli meat, but something made for dinner or similar - the kitchen is still hot from cooking. "Make yourself comfortable, okay? I'm only going to tell the short version of the story, but still."

[Thomas Taylor] He nods as she speaks, he was familiar with the arcane not that it helped when presented with it. He wheels his bike next to her car and kicks out the stand walking in with her as he proceeds to unzip his jacket and of course takes off his boots at the door.

It seemed like a big place for someone to be living alone he thought to himself. He looks to the sandwich and smiles “Cheers Le Fay...” He takes a seat/stool whatever he can sit on as he pulls the sandwich closer looking up to her, listening intently.

“Pet, you know, wat I said the other day ‘bout the past bein’ the past an new starts, it want bullshit, you don’t ‘ave to tell me nuthin’, swear down.” He puts a hand on his chest then squirms a little as he takes off his jacket revealing a tight and slightly sweaty black vest. He looks around for a place to put the jacket and settles with folding it (as best he can) and placing it on the table. His tone was a touch more sombre than usual, he realised that for Morgan this was something serious and he wanted to reflect he understood.

[Verity] ".....I know. And I'm not going to tell you everything, but there are a couple things you should know. First is . . ." She sighs, and makes herself busy getting two beers from the fridge - very nice beer, and never mind that she and her roommate are both under age. She drinks seldom at best, so Solomon's stash remains largely untouched in his absense. And it's while she's turned away that she says this first bit. "I, um. I've never done casual dating; there's this guy who was my boyfriend all the way from seventh grade until last Halloween, when I Awakened."

She's very matter of fact in tone, but avoids looking at him; she's in no hurry to see the look on his face as she's telling this. "I went to a party with him and our mutual best friend - we had some drinks and got separated. I caught them kissing and . . ." Pause, swallow, turn to set beers on table but still don't look at Thomas. "I killed them. I don't remember exactly what happened, not all of it. Just the before and then waking up on the couch at home to my dad looking down at me, telling me about this freakish accident at the party and asking if I was okay. It took awhile to . . . I don't know, accept it, I guess."

[Thomas Taylor] He takes a bite out of the sandwich, chewing on it as he watches her go to the fridge, he listens as his chews grow slower and slower as she tells her tale then with a final gulp he swallows. He guessed she did the long haul, she had told him that much before but the rest....

He was not sure what he was meant to do, he wanted to reach out and hug her, to tell her he understood but she hated touching. Eyes wander over Morgan, not judgemental but understanding as he pushes the sandwich away and stands moving over next to her and very slowly reaching out and puts a hand on her shoulder. He gives it a firm press to let her know he was there and still he struggled with the words.

He concentrates ensuring he spoke without slang, just the cockney accent which he could never suppress “I cannot understand ‘ow this made you feel Morgan, an really anythin’ I say might sound bad, but I am very sorry for yer loss, I understand, that ain’t shit I do, when my awakening happened voices told me to move just before another firm attacked us in the stand...some people died...” It would not lessen her pain and this was not about him but he understood guilt, he knew it well.

“Wat ‘appened ‘appened an thats the fact, am sorry for yer loss, really I’am”

[Verity] There's a bit of tension when he touches her, even with his intent obvious; it's hardly that she hates it. In fact, like most people, she craves a certain amount of tactility, even if she doesn't often indulge this craving - because to let someone touch her, she has to let said someone close. Bad things happen when people are close to her, whether those bad things are to her, or to the other person. It's certainly enough to make one paranoid.

Regardless, it's momentary, the stiffness. Then, she relaxes and leans against him, just lightly. "That's the thing I actually did. I don't think I could do it again, at least not with my current skill set. The other thing is . . . my mom? She's one of the bad guys. And, um. She'd like me to be one too. I don't think she can find me after the work some locals did to make me disappear, but she and her cabal - amalgam? Whatever - aren't very happy with me. And they're close enough, the other members, that I grew up calling them aunt and uncle. So, I don't know how much risk there is inherent in being my friend anymore, but there may be some. When Austin and I were in China in December and January, they tried to . . . I don't know. Get us on their side, I guess. Austin was almost dead and I would have given in, if Uncle Zeke hadn't let us out. So we came back, and I got a new name. I haven't seen my dad since coming back - no, that's not true. I saw him once, and he saw me, but not long enough to talk. I don't want Mama to be able to get anything from him, and I wouldn't be able to explain why he couldn't tell her anything. He's just a Sleeper."

[Thomas Taylor] He knew she would stiffen up he knew now why she did... when she leans slightly against him he rubs at her back lightly nothing over bearing, nothing to forceful of a full on hug.

Then of course she carries on, and he thought he had it bad with his parents, bad guys can mean a lot of things, and the term amalgam does not mean much to Thomas at the moment. He keeps rubbing her back, even if he did not understand everything he knew it meant something to her, he could feel it in her voice.

“...yeah...” He licks his lips. Poor, poor Morgan. “...Le Fay...I cannot understand that, an for me to say otherwise wud take away from that...wow, am surprised yer sane at all that’s awful.” Thomas looks down, normally he would have fled already or changed conversation, Thomas was not one for getting too deep with people but if he wanted friends, real friends that would have to change on some levels. He might as well start now. “Yer very brave Morgan, braver than most folks, am tryin’ to think of sumthin’ to say but nuthin’ seems robin e’nuff to give wat you went through meanin’...”

[Verity] "I'm not looking for it to be given meaning - I'm a firm believer in trial by fire, and when I come across something I can't manage . . ." She shrugs - survival of the fittest, or however one wants to put it. That bit's easy, and the rest gets hesitation before clarification.

"Mama's . . . Syndicate, I think. Either that or New World Order, but I'm pretty sure it's the former. Technocracy, in either case." Because of course he deserves to know - anyone who wants to be close to her does. Better to make an informed decision than to go into things blind, and possibly end up in trouble.

[Thomas Taylor] The Men in Black...” That makes more sense to him, he nods mouth comes together and the bottom lip goes over the top one for a moment or two. He pats her back “Well lucky you got Tommy onside now pet...” He looks to her his smile weak more for respect of what she has told him. “Well I got sum robin news, it’s scary yeah but ain’t changed nuthin’, ain’t changed you, in fact if anythin’ it explains sum things, ‘elps me understand you a bit better an for that thanks pet.”

He leans in and with a friendly gesture kisses her forehead “Never fear, Tommy’s ere.” What else could he say, the cockney was lost for words, and honestly Morgan had been through the wars.

[Verity] She sighs, and it's a shuddering thing - she still hasn't pulled away from him, despite her usual aversion to tactility. It's a matter of trust, that, as he'd know now; it's not that she doesn't like being touched, or anything like it. The kiss on her forehead gets a hint of a smile, in fact, and she wraps her arms around his waist, looking up at him now, curious. Studying.

"That's what I told James that not many people know. That's the last time we really talked, that night . . . or rather, the morning after. He spent the night and I made breakfast." She doesn't say when exactly that was, but there's a weight that says it's been more than a day or two. "The first bit, most people know. At least, most who were around when it happened, or shortly after. I don't like it, but it's not . . . I don't know. People don't avoid me because of it, not really. They just look at me a bit funny sometimes."

[Thomas Taylor] She studies him, she might notice the now very faded yellow around his right eye, but he was giving her a reassuring smile, a friendly smile. Tom has always been supportive but more in a business sense, or to get his own way sense not like this, he like to think he had a reassuring presence for Morgan but he did not really know.

She talks about James and he nods the smile fading but only a touch the rubbing on her back slows down but keeps going. “Well the ones that judge you on yer mystical awakenin’ are fools pet, blind fools, I ‘ave to say thought you don’t ‘elp yerself, you act very aloof, I dare say if it ain’t been for the club am not sure you an me wud even be considerin’ friendship it ain’t like you an me wud normally work in the same circles” Ah Thomas, always blunt and honest. But it did happen and he was glad for it.

“We ‘ad this convo over the dog so no need to go into it again, like I said talk to James.” His eyes wander past her now (As they did when he did not want to look someone in the eye, it was in his nature) taking in the house, how big it was...how nice it was...

[Verity] "And I said you're way too good of a guy, at least in this." Her head ducks down and turns so she can rest it on his chest for a moment, and then she's letting go - independent, but not as distant as she usually seems. Not so much aloof as reserved, watchful, wary (and generally untrusting, though that seems to have been put aside for Thomas' sake, at least tonight).

The house is not hers - she'd mentioned a roommate who inherited it - but her own place was no less nice in its own way; an apartment in the Gold Coast area is hardly something to sneeze at, especially a dual level, three bedroom affair in a building with a doorman. This is a different sort of nice than where she spent her childhood, but she fits here none the less; she's had friends with similar houses, or with penthouse condos in far nicer sections of town, even. She's a posh totty, indeed.

"I guess I will. Eat your sandwich, yeah? That's what I'm thinking about for Wednesday. I didn't put any horseradish on it because I didn't know if you'd like it, but the sauce is right there. I made it, too." And that's the serious portion of their conversation done, apparently; she's given him the information she thinks he needs, and he hasn't run away. This means she's a lot more relaxed, and a little freer with the touching. "Let me know if you want anything to go with it. The fridge is well stocked."

[Thomas Taylor] She lets go he lets go and goes to sit back down, at the mention of horseradish he is already opening it as she speaks, lifting the sandwich top and layering it on. “’bout the James thing, I didn’t mean to be the one to tell ya ‘onest, but just trend steady, there more than you an James in this, Nat involved too pet...” He sighs, the little midget seemed really happy that day and Thomas scowls a moment. Robin people getting hurt. “It all cums out in the wash I guess...” He liked Morgan, he liked her a lot but something had been hit home for him. It was going to be friendship this one, he knew this now...he would not be second fiddle again, and this was a new start.

“Le Fay the sandwich is to die for pet, real robin.” He holds it up as he takes another bite bringing the beer over and looking at it before having a sip “Just the one for me pet, I got me bike to ride back to me pope.” He tries to take small bites but his hunger does get the better and there is the occasional big mouthful he snatches. Minding his manners enough not to talk when chewing. The sandwich is eaten in record time as he wipes at his lips with his thumb.

“Thanks Le Fay, for the grub an the truth, cross me ‘eart won’t tell another soul.” He moves his fingers over his heart in a cross. He resists lighting up, not only would it be rude but he might not find the house again if he went outside.

[Verity] "It's alright. What if I told you I don't think I'm going to say what you think I'm going to?"

Not that she knows for sure what he thinks she's going to say, of course, but she can read resignation when it's fairly obvious, as it seems to be in Thomas. She hesitates for a moment, picks up the beer she'd gotten for herself to shuffle between her two hands before taking a substantial swig and setting it back down. Then, she's moving to stand next to Thomas, to look at him before bending to kiss his cheek, at the corner of his lips.

"There are a lot of things I'll fight for," she murmurs, then stands back up. "Maybe one day, I'll find a relationship that's one of those things - goodness knows, I have friendships that are. But a relationship with someone I don't know that well isn't one of them. So yeah, I'll talk to him. And I'll say what I need to say. But I want him to be happy, just like I want you and my other friends to be. So, you know. If he's happy with Natyana, good for both of them."

[Thomas Taylor] He looks to her, no he had no idea what she would say, so it all news to him. She kisses his cheek at the corner of his lip, if she is lucky he might not have got on all the horseradish off and might have a slight after taste, or maybe he got it all off. He tilts his head listening to her. It might be resignation but in its own ways it was also release. He never really had that kind of wanting for a girl; he will put it down to being in a new country, growing pains.

He smiles “Pet, you’ll find it, like you say after yer a big shot judge, just don’t date a lawyer, and can only imagine the small talk...” His eyebrows raise as he laughs a little, she needed cheering up, that was a sad tale one that would grind you down if you let it and it was impressive Morgan had not let it.

“Pet the worlds a dark place, we all can only do our best to be ‘appy in it...” He winks reaching into his jacket “you focus on yerself pet, if anyone needs sum ‘appiness it wud be you, but am fairly sure school will bring ya that an the cross country...Yer honour...” He stands and does a mock bow “Permission to smoke yer honour”

[Verity] "I'm not really much good at small talk," she answers with a smirk. "It's usually either something that matters, or quiet. So I guess I'll see someday, yeah?" And this is true; there's a reason she seems so aloof, and it's not (all) Hermetic snobbery. She's not particularly shy, but she's never mastered the art of small talk, of meaningless nothings that have nothing to do with anything.

"Yeah. I'll stand with you. Make sure you don't get lost, if you want to come back in."

She doesn't assume he does - friends or not, she knows he's a guy who's interested in her (or thinks she does), and who's spent a decent part of a phone conversation and the last few minutes encouraging her to work it out with another guy. Which could well mean she's completely wrong, except for the part where he's flat out said that he's interested. Boys and relationships are complicated, a distraction, and not for the first time, Morgan considers a vow of celibacy at least until she's done with undergrad. This doesn't stop her from leading the way outside, and finding a comfy place (upwind) to sit companionably while he has his smoke. "Thanks for listening and being supportive - I don't say stuff like that often enough. It means a lot."

[Thomas Taylor] He nods and gets led outside, lighting up the smoke when she is comfortable (and upwind) as he takes a few drags and sighs contently, he was full, with Morgan and smoking, at the moment that ranked high on his happy list. Thomas was a master of the small talk, if need be he could go on for hours having a conversation that has nothing to do with nothing.

He looks to her when there outside and she speaks. “Don’t fret Le Fay, wat are friends for right if not to be there wen the shit hits the fan?” Those eyebrows rise as he says it smirking. Yes, he did pretty much push her to another guy but he knew he was second fiddle, and to be second best was not Thomas style anymore, he settled for that in England but here he could be different, here he could remake himself.

“I ain’t goin’ just yet pet, still got me beer to finish an all me gears inside, that is unless yer callin’ it a night, you look like yer ready for the sack, an it is late...” He looks to his wrist where his watch was as he taps it twice then puts it to his ear cursing “Damn thing...” He takes a few more drags from the smoke looking out to the sky “So were is yer roommate pet, this place is like a crypt...no offense.”

[Verity] "Oh, I have no idea where he is. He wandered off, so I'm caretaking for now, I guess. There were grand plans for this to be a chapter house, but then . . . well. There's only Ashley, Basil and me, now. So I guess there's not really much need for it, you know?" She shrugs, and some of this is lost on her - she understands the politics and what a chapterhouse is, sure, but she's an apprentice. Not all of it makes sense. "And I'm not calling it a night. I might not like getting close to people, but that doesn't mean I like being all alone in a huge, creepy house all the time."

And the house is a bit on the creepy side, with it's arcane and the weight of goodness knows how much Hermeticism in the air. It's not a Morgan kind of home, despite how naturally she fits into its rich setting.

"So if you're not careful, I may keep you to myself all night."

[Thomas Taylor] A potter house, and a creepy one at that. As she talks he looks back to it, it was a FAR step up from his place but still it was...creepy. He looks back to Morgan “I think a chapter house is were everyone gathers to use there mojo, chat politics an host swinger parties.” He is joking with the last one...well mostly.

Then she says that as he drops the cigarette underfoot and stomps it out the smoke blown from his mouth like dragon fire...women were complex, more complex than he gave crdit for...especially ones that he wanted to be friends with (a strange occurrence) and one he liked, and there she was taunting him or flirting with him. Eyes half close as he regards her “Pet, you tryin’ to seduce me eh?” It was playful, but he had that look about him.

[Verity] "I don't know, is it working?" She's not doing either, intentionally, but she smirks and teases back easily enough despite the bit of blush that rises to her cheeks. Then, "Mostly, I meant there are movies and a couch and popcorn. And if you get tired and need to crash, goodness knows there's plenty of room. You know, if you don't have other plans."

She is, for the most part, a confident [arrogant] young woman; she knows she's pretty, that she's smart, and so on. This doesn't stop her from being uncertain with a boy she'd thought was interested, and now doesn't trust her opinions on the matter, even if it were fair to expect something from him after the James mess and whatever's up with that.

"Though, you know how I feel about the other, more or less." Which is to say, there's potential for anything. And it's not James she asked here tonight.

[Thomas Taylor] A hand comes to his face as he rubs it...just when you’re out your right back in again confusing, yes he was too. He stands up. “Come on pet, it’s gettin’ nippy out ‘ere on yer in yer jimjams!” He smirks about to walk back as he stops turning towards her “Am sick of second guessin’ this shit pet, an of bein’ the better man. cum on lets watch a movie see wat ‘appens, it’s the monkey’s out ‘ere.” He laughs a relieved laugh really, head shaking slightly at the absurdity of it all, chuckling as he holds a hand out for her that she may or may not take.

No one was after a relationship here so what was the problem, it was only a bit of fun, young people being young people. So Tom stands there, leather pants still on, barefooted, black vest hand outstretched for hers. “Pet, if I ‘ad plans trust me, they can wait...”

[Verity] If there's hesitation there, it's indiscernable before he finds her hand in the one he offers; it's softer, smaller. She's worked, sure, but she's never had to, exactly, other than if she wanted things above and beyond - her car, for instance, and the things that go with it. Anything she could possibly need and most things she might want have been provided for her for all of her life, which makes her current life all the more difficult. She has her college fund, sure, and it's been arranged so that she has most of the same financial aid she would have had if things had gone normally (plus a couple loans), but that's not really enough to live on, not in the manner to which she's become accustomed.

"I'm . . . sorry it's so complicated," she says and then it's in to her room (which is very red) to set up a movie. "Floor or bed?" And whichever he chooses, she doesn't push for anything further than companionship, not really. Other than in the way her hand stays in his much of the time, and her head comes to rest on his shoulder - it's First Knight that they're watching, and it's the cinematic version of comfort food to her, apparently.

"I told you my dad's a mythology professor, yeah? Arthurian stuff's kind of his thing. That's why Morgan Lake, respect for him." Pause, and then, "It's not my real name. My real one is Arthurian too, but not as obviously so."

[Thomas Taylor] His hand was rough and strong, a life time of work, fighting and some theft. He grew up in the lowest slums of England fighting everyday for money, or a job, for his education if it had not been for his brother he might have been swallowed by that lifestyle. This lifestyle for him was the adventure, he is doing things he could never do in England, it was amazing.

He leads her in “Life complex Le Fay....” He really had nothing else to add that wouldn’t come out needy, rude, or misunderstood so he goes quiet...ah yes red (She did look good in it) and could be worse could be pink. He chooses the bed of course, a real bed not just a mattress a rare treat. The last time he slept on a bed...well they were both there for that as well.

Hand holding, head resting he is comfortable though he had never seen First Knight before, it was kind of funny. He tilts his head to her (Since her head was on his shoulder and very close anyway) “Yeah you told me ‘bout yer dad, thats sum real interestin’ stuff.” He pauses also “An pet I guessed, Geint or sumthin’ like that right, makes sense to me now like with wat you told me, there is no evil twin is there?” The last said in a lot more of a lighter tone.

[Verity] "Geraint. Enid's my first name, but shh, that's just between us. And no, there's no evil twin that I know of, though I suppose stranger things have happened." She hasn't even told James her real name - it really is just between the two of them, almost. Them, and the people she knew before she became Morgan Lake. "We had to make it harder for Mama to find me if she came looking."

But her daddy's still important to her. And from there, it's movie and cuddling until . . . something else happens, whatever that something else may be.

[Thomas Taylor] He winks to her "Of course pet, hush hush wink wink." He smiles, some one was trusting him on a deeper level he had to admit the sensation was both strange and alluring. "Pet, you need me 'elp for anythin' am 'ere right just give me a bell on the dog..." And of course there so close he would steal a kiss, hopefully one she would give back...

And if there is cuddling later then he would hope more kissing, but nothing more, not just yet...it had been a revealing night and Tom had had a busy day

The Court

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 9, 9, 10, 10

[Verity] There are things Morgan does, when she wants to break through something - she pushes herself through barriers, to beat things she hasn't yet surpassed. She learns sign language in an intense two day crash course, and keeps practicing and practicing to get better. She pushes her runs longer, or faster, or both. She studies something she hasn't yet, something of which she's only starting to get glimmers of understanding, until those glimmers burst into incandescence and light up new ideas, new thoughts, new plans, new potential.

New glimmers to chase until they light up the world more, and on.

Which is to say, Morgan Quests. She is always looking for something else, something more, and it drives her. Ashley said once, in conversation, that Morgan didn't strike her as the sort to seek out conflict and did, in fact, seem rather the opposite . . . but not all (or even most) conflict is external.

Now, it's books. Solomon hasn't been home in goodness knows how long, and she's tired of things gathering dust, and once she's ignored his mandate that she leave his books alone, she may as well read them. She has her own texts, mundane and pre-law, as well as some delving into rather complex theory on policy and history, and she has his - older, and significantly less mundane - that she pours through for things about magical law, policy and theory. There are things she wants to know, needs to understand, and so she chases through pages of tomes, taking notes as she goes, highlighting sections of her own books, copying out sections of Solomon's.

And she works, chasing glimmers. Chasing [blindness - Justice] glimmers.

[Verity] [Int + Invest]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 5, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Verity] [Int + Invest]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 8, 10 (Failure at target 9)

[Verity] [Int + Invest, +WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 10)

[the court] It isn't easy for Morgan to study the arcane texts -- mainstays of her Tradition -- because she just doesn't have the knowledge yet. Language is more important for a Hermetic than it is for many other Magi (as if those others count [as if they aren't just all savages: chasing dawn down in the shadows; looking up at the stars. The Order of Hermes allows you to name the stars and command them. Prepares you to. Allowances aren't just made: they're taken]). There are a lot of promising books she just can't read. There are a lot of books Ashley's given her that she can only falteringly translate. Maybe, soon, she'll progress enough to do more than conjugate verbs.

That isn't (just) now.

And it is frustrating, but Morgan is nothing if not diligent; is little if not determined: relentlessly focused, narrowly driven. And she keeps on, looking for some hint, for the way. She finds a couple of personal essays in English which mention Seekings, but only in the vaguest of terms. One of these was written by a member of House Bonisagus and is difficult to understand, although it is written in English: so dense with Esoterica. The other is written by a member of House Flambeau, who seems to have stumbled on Seeking by accident, and to be pretty pleased with himself or herself. Destiny is mentioned. The gender is not clear.

And then,

Morgan discovers in a book with old binding that looks almost new [no moths, no snakes, no bookworms here; the glue is firm, the thread is firmer; the leather was quartered and drawn when the sun was high and red], although not even spells can keep away the wear and tear of time. The book isn't very important, and it contains a number of advanced-beginner rotes and rituals: easy things, tried and true and the preparation thereof; it is just at her level.

The language is archaic, but it is written in both Ancient Greek and English [the diction is 1890s, see], and speaks of conversing with one's Avatar, speaks of calling it forth, of using physical symbols to make the speaking easier, speaks of three circles each drawn with one of the Tria Prima. Sulfur, to connect High and Low; Mercury, to summon Life; Salt, because Salt is base, Salt is the base, Salt is the physical.

Outside the outermost circle: scatter earth or stone;
Between the outermost circle and the middle circle: water, or fire: repesent it somehow.
Between the middle circle and the internal circle: fire, or water: represent it somehow.
Within the inner circle: air

And self.

[Verity] She's thoughtful, reading this book (and so very pleased), and marks the page carefully, neatly, with a bit of ribbon while she considers. Earth or stone is simple, in a way; there's some taken carefully for the one orchid she's allowed herself since leaving her father's home as she hums to it. Fire or water . . . there's thought, and then water is represented in the circle between the outermost and middle with a cup of warm water and sugar livening yeast. Fire goes between the middle and the inner, closer to herself, represented by a piece of bread (from raw ingredients worked into dough by her own hands, transformed into something else by fire).

This, all done, is somewhere around dawn; the sky's shifted from night-dark to purple to something between it and the stunning pink and orange that means morning. And then, in the center, there's air.

And self.

[the court] The book had an invocation: a simple thing, to activate the circles and the elements: to draw it all together and focus it on Morgan. And when she has taken her position in the center of the innermost circle, when she has taken her position there, and has said words that are as smooth as stones on her tongue, drenched in river-water, slicked with gleam and shine, she just has to wait. And wait she does, for a long, long time, and her focus doesn't waver, and it all comes to black eventually.

Her vision blacks, you see. Her head fills. Her head swims. And then,

it feels as if she's just woken up. As if she's not standing in the middle of three circles, bound by sulfer and salt and mercury. As if she's in her bed, and her throat is full of fire. Morgan smells fire: burning wood, burning paper; it's a specific kind of burning smell. Flesh? No. Yes? It's hot enough that her skin feels as if it's ascending out've fever, that it's candescing into immolation: that soon, soon, she'll be nothing but melted, gone-away, fire, fire, fire. The house is burning, and she remembers what her mother told her: what to do when your room is full of smoke; how to get out.

What to do.

Knows that she has to do it herself.

Again.

[Verity] Cover your mouth and nose with something, anything handy, preferably wet. Get low to the ground. Test the door - wood and knob both - with the back of your hand. Open the door carefully, in case there's fire on the other side. Always know where alternate exits are, in case the main way is blocked.

Morgan is a good girl - she knows the rules, even (usually) follows them, at least in the case of personal safety. These are the things she does now, so carefully and quickly at the same time.

Don't try to save things. Things can be replaced. She grabs the book and a picture of herself, her parents and her favorite teddy bear, and goes. Most things can be replaced. Some things cannot. While the house is full of irreplaceable books, Morgan knows better to think she can save them all - she simply grabs what she can, and gets out.

[Verity] [Wits!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 4 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Verity] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[the court] The door opens, and the outside is clouded with smoke. The door opens, and she could be a maiden who's just invited the manifestation of darkness [demon lover] in to kiss her. That's how quick the smoke is sucked into her room. Morgan thought that she had ducked down enough; that her mouth was covered, that she could breathe; that these things, these objects she cradles in her arms like a talisman, were important. And because she thinks that, perhaps it's true; what is true is certainly this: the smoke is sucked into the room she is standing within [does she worry about leaving the circles? She didn't see them on the floor. Different time, different place. It must've worked.] and then it begins to dissipate (to dissolve [to diminish]).

And Morgan is left with fire -- with flame. The air feels thick and still warm. Her skin wants to boil, become tender, become pink; stick a fork in her and her flesh'd slough off've her bones. The air rushes around her, and her hair lifts, lifts, lifts, waves in the air for a moment [water], and now she is blinded not by smoke but by fire.

Fire: how it glints -- sinouous; how it gleams, how it moves: all gold, all orange, all dusk; the colour of grease -- the topmost layer; translucent, emphasis on lucent. How it moves: how it swarms: dense, thick, swims out at her, hints of white, and all Morgan can see is fire seething just in front of her.

And it takes her a minute to process this. And in that minute, the picture of her parents, its edges blacken it curls in on itself like a rollypolly, then begins to dissolve. Its edges are laced in gold, and a spark wanders past her, back into her room, which is black. Morgan gets the distinct feeling that if she were to step backward, there would be nothing there. Death, maybe. He waits.

It's only through strength of will, raw, unadulterated, that Morgan manages to stifle [instinctual] panic.

To realize that she isn't burning.

[Verity] She's hot, but doesn't burn - it takes a moment to realize that in panic-thickened thoughts, so focused on the rules (perhaps so there is focus at all). Behind her there is nothing and ahead there's only fire, white hot, terri(fying)ble, consuming, annihilating (pure). Behind her, maybe, there is death. The picture, rather than allowing it to disintegrate and be completely destroyed, is left to drift back into nothing, in hopes that it will survive. It's important to her, that picture.

There's nothing behind her.

Morgan steps forward.

[the court] Morgan lets the picture go: it floats upward. Morgan steps forward: there's nothing behind her. The fire doesn't want to move; she comes in contact with it almost right away. Doesn't want to move: but isn't unyielding. As Morgan walks forward [and it could be purity; it could be cleansing away of impurities] she realizes the flames break apart when she presses against them. And then she realizes that they're not flames at all: she is walking through a forest of koi fish. There are more than she has likely ever seen; they're not just drifting: some of are swimming -- sinuous, balletic circles; lazy, sensuous things -- fluid, graceful. They glint and wink like a road of gold and burning, and funnel around her head. But she can walk through them: the cluster of them, they get less dense, the further she goes on. They feel soft against her arms when they brush there.

And she is underwater. There is no difficulty breathing, and her hair drifts around her like a cloud -- like a sheet of silk, caught in a wind, and slowed, slowed. She feels no resistance, beyond the koi, when she moves forward though. And then, why: then she is standing in the mud, water-weeds around her feet, and if she looks up, well, there are a few koi, here and there, jade-white, milk-white, bewhiskered things, and there is the opacity of night seen from the underside of water. Something luminous, lancing through the surface. Two figures.

Then two fingers: combing through the water. A girl's.

[Verity] A girl's fingers combing through the water, and Morgan hasn't looked at koi the same since last Halloween when she dove into the rabbit hole head first (no Alice-who-fell, she). Curious, she reaches up. touches those fingers to see what they will do, to whom they belong. She wants to know, you see.

It's just touch at first, and barely even that - but then her fingers twine around them and she doesn't pull them towards her, but instead pushes up, towards the surface, the better to see something other than koi.

It's strange, this waking-dream-thing, surreal. It's an interesting world in which to find herself.

[the court] [ignore this.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 6, 7 (Success x 5 at target 3)

[Verity] [Stamina]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 6 (Failure at target 6)

[the court] The fingers startle out've the water when Morgan touches them. Then: luminous, shadowed -- a couple of faces are peering down into the water Morgan's trying to rise out've. And not managing to. The surface is high; is too high. Although she is in water, although her hair moves as if she is in water, although there are koi-fish, swimming around her, flakes of fire, ancient, the color of ghosts, her weight works as if she's in air, and she has to jump for her head to skim the surface. The people looking down at her seem to only see the red of her hair: just another, albeit larger, koi. She can hear,

"...that one looks like Enid."
"No it doesn't. That's mean."
"But it does. The white markings are like her face and-"
"We really shouldn't be doing this."
"It's a cute fish. We're not doing anything."
"We're not. We aren't."
"We're really not."
"...Bry, this is stupid."
"..... Yeah. Let's just go back inside."
"I'm really sorry about your application."
"Me too."
"I'm ... really,"

And then no noise at all. The two shapes have pulled together. A hand touches the other's cheek, and then it's just natural for two flames to kindle together and become one. They're kissing, and maybe that's how it happened. Maybe that's not how it happened. This happens, though:

Morgan breaks through the surface.

She sees herself, younger. No: not herself. Enid. Enid Geraint. She sees herself stopping on the path, seeing Bryan and Val. And she sees Bryan and Val stopping, and seeing her. Their startled expressions. Bryan, reaching out a hand. "Enid, hey, wait..." Although of course Enid hadn't taken a step away.

She's probably not seen such a raw expression of betrayal, not on anyone.

She's probably not seen how quickly such a thing can be replaced by fury.

She doesn't remember any of this.
[maybe it isn't true.]

She doesn't remember the grass dying at her feet. She doesn't remember her friends, looking frightened -- for themselves, but also for Enid, hey Enid, get off've the grass. She doesn't remember them fumbling for each other's hands, and she certainly doesn't remember flying at them, screaming at them things that sound {witch} incoherent, doesn't remember the Dying spreading out, how luminous she herself was, a pale moon, doesn't rememebr touching them, slapping Val, and their life just shriveling, just draining, doesn't remember the koi fish going belly-up one by one by one and the waterweeds dying and her just holding her friends ....

withering them, utterly.

While this goes on, Morgan's gravity is taken from her. She floats to the top like a fish, although not belly up. She's human. She can move. But only just: she Felt it, too. Felt the impossibility of someone reaching into her belly, drawing her life out've her blood, sucking it away: the vertigo, the crushing, unwavering dessication, weakness, weakness, and she is weak, when it ends, when she's floating near the rim, when suddenly the pool isn't that deep after all, and she's left staring at

Enid Geraint

looking down at Val and Bryan, then up at Morgan Lake.

[Verity] Koi always make her think of that day - she can't stand them, really, despite their pretty uselessness, or maybe because of it. She hates them for being there, for being weak enough to die. She also kind of hates decorative grass, equally useless, equally weak. And there she is, looking at dead friends, at --

Enid Geraint

-- herself. She doesn't remember tears on her face, causing her mascara to run. She doesn't remember the fear she sees written there, or the absent, obsessive wiping of her hands on the paving stones under her feet [grounding]. She remembers seeing Bryan and Val, and she remembers how she felt - a dim, hazy version of how she felt - but until now, that was all.

(Maybe it isn't true.)

Bryan and Val, once so dear and now so empty, get a moment's look, get sadness and pain, but it's Enid there - so young and afraid, so completely uncomprehending of what she's done, of what happened, who gets the bulk of her attention. She's not sure what to say to her younger self, or what said younger self is seeing looking up at her - she doesn't remember any of this. All she remembers is

"Tell Daddy you love him, and hug him every time you get a chance."

seeing Bryan and Val kissing, and then waking up at home, on the couch, and everything that happened after that. She wants to give her younger self words of wisdom, but doesn't know what this is. It could just be the ghost of Enids past.

[Corr + Mind - what am I looking at here? +WP for dice hate.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]

[the court] [Past!Enid.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 6 at target 5) [WP]

[Verity] [Per + Aware!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Verity] [Stamina!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Verity] [Current WP!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 3 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[the court] Morgan tries to quantify what is happening in front of her. Morgan remembers, after all, that she is trying to communicate with her Avatar; there must be something She wants Morgan to see here. There must be something to learn. There must be something illuminating in the knowledge of what happened here. Her Will reaches out and tells her that the girl she is looking at is Enid. And empty, and thoughtless. And no longer human. And her Will reaches out, and there is no other Mind at play here. There is noone else in the garden. There are other Minds, other Wills, in the house. There are other Minds, other Wills, near the pool. But Morgan is alone, with Enid. And it is liking touching her own thoughts. It's like fortifying her own Mind. They're separate: but not really -- siamese twinned, carnivale.

Enid stares at Morgan. Her hair is long and her eyes are blank, but she still looks like a good girl. Her lines are just so, her jewelry is understated and glint-y, a necklace that Bryan gave her for their last anniversary, something with the word forever [did she actually wear that?], and Enid reaches up to close her hand around it.

"Did you know about this?" she says, her voice raw, and somehow Wrong. She steps toward Morgan. "Did you know about this the whole time?" A pause. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and Morgan can feel herself getting wearier, and wearier, and wearier, lacking in energy, fading, diminishing.

[Verity] It's an echo of the way Morgan reaches for the ring on her chain - the only piece of jewelery she wears now, though she still has the necklace from Bryan in a box with the one from Austin. She doesn't know what this ring is, can't access what's in it, but it still provides the comfort of history, of family even when she's not near them. (Never mind that the ring is from her mother's side - it's her father she thinks of when she holds it, her father who argued with her mother that of course Morgan - Enid - should be allowed to have the ring left to her by her great-grandmother, that it was Enid's, not Kaye's.) She holds it, closes her hand around it tight enough that the rings edges bite into skin, and she fights the temptation to step back from this younger [more innocent, in a way] version of herself.

"Bryan and Val? It doesn't look like they knew, if this is true. Or if you mean us . . . me, whatever . . . I don't know. I remember not wanting to go out that night, and letting myself being talked into it. I remember thinking I must be getting sick because everything looked weird. Maybe I should have known."

Not that there was a way to, really, but still - Morgan feels guilty, always so guilty. If she'd done something different. If she hadn't done anything at all.

"Did you know?"

Now that they are two, she keeps herself so separate from Enid-That-Was; most of the time, it's hard to glimpse that pretty, popular girl who was driven, yes, and who had passion for what she would swear she was meant to do, but who wasn't like Morgan-That-Is, who didn't drown herself in words and knowledge, who didn't do half a semester's work before the semester even started.

Siamese twinned, carnivale.

[the court] "They knew!" Enid's voice rises. "They knew all over each other! Didn't you see them Knowing! Or don't you Know after all? What do you think you Know? What do you think you just saw?" Enid doesn't stop walking, either. Enid doesn't stop walking, deliberately, over the dead grass, over the outflung hand of Bryan, and there had to be a reason the police even considered Enid was at fault, way back before, there had to be some evidence potentially admissable in a Sleeper court, and maybe Morgan is watching that evidence now. There are half-moon nail marks on Val's cheek. Morgan can see them, if she looks at her once-friend. "What do you think you should've known? I don't know what you think is happening here."

It doesn't stop. The closer Enid comes, the wearier Morgan feels. It isn't a pleasant sensation. It's actually a very frightening sensation. It's something, being ripped from her -- no. It's something that is Hers being turned into dust. It's hard for Morgan to speak, the closer Enid comes. It's difficult for her to shape words, and she forgets

- yes -

she forgets that she is Seeking. She doesn't remember how she got here. Strange things happen in Chicago, and now she is facing herself. Maybe she actually went back in Time. Maybe there was a loophole [Not a wormhole - let us stick to lawyerly diction, please].

[Verity] Strange things happen in Chicago. All the time, strange things - zombies by warehouses on the water, mothers who kidnap their daughters (That was Shanghai, not Chicago . . .), girls watching themselves kill their best friends. "You're . . . stop it. Taking me isn't going to help you any - you'll . . . we'll, I'll, whatever . . . still have killed them."

She doesn't remember how she got here, but she does know that she's talking to herself - her reflection, refraction (dropping like lakelight from her hems).

Now, she steps back. Distance, distance is important. Don't touch, don't be touched, because the life can be sucked out of you, or whoever you're touching. Everything turns to dust. It all crumbles, dies. (It's my fault.) "One of them kissed the other. Bryan didn't get in somewhere, so Val was being Val. I don't look like a fish." This furrows her brow, brings a scowl, and she know it doesn't matter. Doesn't stop her from being a bit petulant about it, doesn't make it easier to focus when she's concentrating on staying out of her own reach. When she's concentrating on breathing, and on not being hollowed. "I think . . . I think I'm back, somehow, for some reason. I think . . ."

She always thinks.

"You need to stop that. I do."

Center. Calm. This is not really what's happening.

[Mind + Prime, I am we and we are all together, extended, not practiced]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 4)

[Verity] [Again, +1, HAIL KAHSEENO]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Verity] [extensioning rolls. Until Jess tells me to stop.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 6)

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 6)

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Failure at target 8)

[Verity]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 9)

[Verity] [BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!!!!!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Failure at target 10)

[the court] Morgan steps back, and that brings her flush against the edge of the pond with all the dead fish [and why wasn't her Mom around right after this happened? Why didn't Kaye know? What was so important that she couldn't see her own daughter was in trouble?] floating on the top. Morgan is trying to do a Working, trying to mend what she feels as a split between Enid-then and Morgan-now, and it doesn't work, although she tries very hard, although she is still trying when this happens: Enid doesn't stop, because isn't that obvious now? This is Enid, without control, with hair brighter than blood, with cheeks that are wet with tears, anguished, but empty.

"I don't care," she says, and reaches out to grab Morgan's arms. To take her shoulders. This is exactly what's happening. There must be a reason she doesn't remember what happened when she Awoke; it can't just be the killing, the utter rage - the passion - that drove her to suck life away: to take it: to diminish it. Maybe it's this. Maybe this happened, and she's going to die now. Because it feels a lot like that: like death. "You think that I don't know what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing," and she hiccups, crying a little, "I know exactly what I'm doing."

And Morgan blacks out.

And then she wakes up, again. And she's on a kingsroad, and it leads into a forest. And it's night. And the forest is very, very dark. And very, very vast: Arden. Her entire body aches.

[Verity] She's on a kingsroad that leads to a forest, but where is she? This . . . must be a dream. Has to be a dream. (Did I know, really? Was I trying to fill . . . something? I didn't know . . .) Her entire body aches and it's natural, instinctive to curl up for a moment, to take internal assessment. Bumps, bruises, hurts.

And the desire to lay here and cry.

After a moment, she's up on her feet, listening, testing, debating which way to go. There are tricks to finding one's way, of course - follow the tracks of the sun or moon, navigate by the stars (the only one she remembers is the north star, there in the handle of the big dipper), but to figure out where she wants to go, first she has to know where she is.

[Corr 1, whereami, practiced, coincidental, focused, please Kahseeno don't hate.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 3)

[the court] Here, then - a traitorous thought. Of course it's just a dream. Wake up. And the traitorous thought sounds a lot like her mother's voice. Detached, and cool; so alienated from her daughter that she didn't even know what's happening. Shouldn't Enid think about it?

Her sense of direction is unerring, although that doesn't help her very much. This is east and this is south and this is north and this is west. This is where she is right now, and that is where she came from [Nowhere]. If she looks over her shoulder, she sees just more road, winding over fields which lilt and roll and billow until they're swallowed up by more wood. There's a tower, too. Burned out. Echoes of Hunger, gone. Echoes of life, no longer. Drained, withered. There's ivy around the tower, and that's withered, too. That's what Morgan feels.

Ahead of her, the shadows are Mysterious. The road looks well-used. There are deep ruts, and there's a pile of horse crap not old enough to blow-away into grass-and-dust.

[Verity] First, there is this: her mother's voice in her head - self projected (she hopes) but loved and hated and wanted and feared and more gets an automatic shriek out loud and a raising of walls - small, weak walls they are, but walls none the less. It starts out inarticulate, this shriek, but lasts long enough to shift into "Go to HELL, Mama, and leave me alone!" before stilling, echoing across the empty road.

She is guarded, then.

[Mind 1, STAY THE FUCK OUT, coincidental, practiced, focused]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6 (Success x 1 at target 3)

[Verity] With that accomplished, it's mystery that draws her, and the answers inherent. The well used road is [precedent] well used and not terribly interesting in and of itself, but for the base it sets for the rest, how it twists and twines through it all. Horse crap is, of course, a thing to be avoided. Shadows, though, are things to be studied just as much as light, and so of course she follows the track into the forest. Of course she steps off of it now and then, too, if there's a particularly interesting shadow or bit of Mystery.

[the court] Morgan is motivated by passion. Yells, and shields her Mind from interference. Yet still, she hears this - fainter, another diminished thing - echoing in her head. Her mother's voice: Isn't that just like you. Shutting me out. Refusing to listen, just because I'm the one who said it.

The forest smells of smoke, of a distant forest fire, of something burning. Something manmade. Something made by man. This is good, because the woods are also very dark indeed. Morgan finds herself unable to do more than just barely make the track out in front've her. It's a glimmer, like a stain of milk, dribbled on the floor. If she listens closely, she can hear voices raised [more passion, more anger, exacting, unexacting, furious] in argument, although she'll need to leave the path to investigate.

It might be easier, if she could see.

[Verity] It might, indeed, be easier if she could see - and there are ways, really. She knows them, she's used them, if not as often as she has the things that come to her automatically when pressed - she has to think before recalling what it is to do, what to say, the patterns to sketch (etch) into the air. She takes time for this, so that she can see and hear, so that she knows what's going on.

[First! Seein' in the dark, Life 1, coincidental, unpracticed]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Success x 1 at target 4)

[Verity] [and then heightened senses! Life + Mind, coincidental, unpracticed]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 4)

[Verity] [and we'll retry the latter]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[the court] Morgan shapes a sigil in the air, and she is no longer quite so blind. There is still darkness, as wet as ink; as dark as lake water, smothering all shapes. But it is a darkness Morgan is familiar with, and she can now see the trees, now see where branches have fallen, where a circle of stones worn down to just nubs and all moss-cloaked, moss-choked, spring out've the loam. Morgan can see the siftless, sifting honey of a mushroom ring, can see a broken wheel, lying half-hidden by dirt. And Morgan shapes another sigil, and feels resistance. The air thicks all around her, clots in her throat. A moment, and she can't breathe. The moment passes when her ears pop: and suddenly, the argumentative voices are that much louder -- closer; too close.

But she recognizes some of those voices. Ashley McGowen. Eric Geraint. Zeke. Uncle Steve. Kage. And then some other voice, bossier, metallic - a female voice, sounds red all in Morgan's head, and says -

"What you're failing to take into account is not her intent, but whether or not intent even matters here."

And Zeke replies, "I'm not sure about - about this superstitious nonsense." He sounds deeply doubting. "But in this case, intent certainly matters. We can build on intent ..."

[Verity] Ashley, Kage, they bring . . . not quite relief or comfort, but something near enough that Morgan doesn't know what else to call it. Uncle Zeke's voice, and her dad's? They bring a longing so strong it takes her breath away, so strong she doesn't realize she's spoken their names until her lips close around them, leaving her heightened senses echoing with what she knows was little more than a whisper. Steve . . . Uncle Steve is dead. Even in this dream or nightmare or whatever it is, she knows that, but she also knows this: being dead doesn't always stop one from bothering the living.

The metallic voice tastes of wind and weight to her, of thought, and it has a point. She has a point. (You think I don't know what I'm doing. I know exactly what I'm doing.) They're too close, those voices, and too far - she wants to reach out and touch her father (just a Sleeper, how is he here?) and Zeke (he helped lock me up helped break me helped Mama and Steve's dead and he helped us out too), wants to lean on Ashley, wants to speak in riddles and halfquestionanswers with Kage. What she does is step forward quietly with shoulders back and head high, proud but not haughty - pale, but resolved.

"You're missing an important piece of the case you're building, aren't you?"

So carefully calm, so distant. Hardly a hitch.

[the court] They all look at Morgan when she steps into the midst of their little circle. They aren't sitting in the dark. Morgan realizes this now. When Morgan steps forward, it almost blinds her; almost dazzles her dark-dizzy eyes. Then they adjust again. There is light coming from a few burning lanterns. Ashley McGowen has her chin held by her thumb and forefinger, and she gives Morgan a sidelong look when she wanders in. Ashley McGowen is also in a robe: deep, as red as a heart. A stone-statue Zane is curled up at her feet, unmoving, and she is holding a red ribbon that runs from her hand to the statue and disappears, also stone.

Beside Ashley, Zeke is perched, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms wet, his expression hang-dog, unhappy, uneasy. He has a pair of [mirror shades] glasses pushed back into his hair. His hands are clean, but there is something dripping from one of his sleeves: something viscuous, uncertain. Next to Zeke, Eric Geraint. Blonde, handsome, and distracted: such a professor, so Mythic. He is wearing a torc. He is also wearing a ring, and the ring glints red. The kind've red that'll break somebody's mind look at it too long.

Beside Eric Geraint, Uncle Steve. He looks like a photograph: he flickers out - bzzt; when Morgan looks at him. And of course, he gives her a sour look for her trouble. His arm is broken. There is bone, visible. And blood - red, red, red. And next to Uncle Steve is Kage, who lights a cigarette when Morgan steps into the circle. There is a half-mask, teetering on the ground next to her, and three daggers thrust into the loam. The flame is red, red, red, as red as the voice, and she takes a long drag of her cigarette.

There is no sign of whoever was speaking with that red, red voice, though. Zeke says, "Enid. Don't make this pointless. Turn around and run. Go! Just go. Don't stop, because we won't stop. Don't ask: just go."

And then he says, and his voice isn'this own -- his voice is that red voice: "You're partially correct. We're missing the piece, but we have all the others. We can see what was there by looking at the shape of what isn't there."

[Verity] [Wits + Enigmas]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 6, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Verity] "But Uncle Zeke . . ."

She hates the break in her voice, hates how young she sounds, hates how much she wants to run to him (or her dad, or Ashley, or Kage, or . . .) and have him wrap his arms around her, tell her things are going to be alright. Uncle Zeke has, in fact, never told her that - very few people have, in fact. Instead, most people in her life ask her what she's going to do to make things better if she doesn't like them.

Then, though, then! Then there's that red voice (and the red ring, and the redredred robe and the red flames, and photograph-Steve, and . . .) --

Morgan scowls, glares.

-- it's saying that they can see her just fine without her. "Bullshit," she says, and then, looking right at Uncle Zeke who . . . may or may not be, "even I can't run forever. And you know I have to ask: don't make what pointless? And if you mean you won't stop . . ."

Here, a bitter snort.

"Never mind. Question stands."

[Truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you god: Mind 1, boosting Per + Aware-as-Empathy]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Success x 1 at target 3)

[Verity] [Per + Aware, +1 for rote]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[the court] Zeke means this: don't stay here, and be caught; don't stay here, and be imprisoned; don't stay here, and make worthless the horrible things that happened to him, the betrayal of his dearest, deepest friends, his colleagues, men and woman who've stayed by him and stood at his shoulder, who'd bolstered him up against impossible odds, against careless, callous monsters - monsters of the sort Enid has allied herself with. Don't stay here, and imprison yourself. He doesn't want to be erased and made over into Nothing for -- nothing.

But there is something else, occupying Zeke. Actually: Enid can sense its presence all around; can sense it all of the people in this little circle. Can see it, dwelling in the red, red, red of whatever they've got that's red. Zeke reaches up and pulls his mirrorshades down, and Enid's hair is very red in the reflection. She can't see his woeful, determined gaze. And she can feel a push against her own mind, a shove: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Ashley makes an impatient sound.

And it's her father who answers, Eric Geraint, in a deep, resonant voice -- the kind of voice that commands the dreamy attention of his students: possibly the voice that first drew Kaye to him, back when they were (maybe) in love. "If you think it's an important piece..."

[Verity] [ignore this!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Verity] He presses against her and first, there's a step back; Morgan - Enid - is a good girl, she does what she's told (except when she doesn't) if it seems there's reason to, or if she's given explanation. Or she used to, anyway, and Uncle Zeke, in that voice . . . but there's the glasses, and that touch on her mind and again, there's that instant reaction (the one Ashley knows she'll need to be broken of) of shutting off, down, of slamming up doors and walls and everything she can think of to make it stop, to make it go away, to get the feeling of someone else's thoughts in her head out. She doesn't realize when her arms cross in front of her, protective, making her smaller, curled in on herself and more difficult to see.

Then, though, there's her father's voice and the automatic inhale, gasping, trying to breathe that voice into her, to memorize it. It's been . . . way too long since she heard it, she thinks. It draws her head up, her shoulders back, but her arms remain crossed in front of her, and that frail, fragile wall still raised between herself and Uncle Zeke.

"Don't do that," she says to the latter, just before that gasping, that heart breaking. "Daddy . . ." Because of course he was the one she never shut out, even when Kaye lamented that Morgan ignored things just because they came from her mother's mouth. It takes a moment to gather herself after that, and she carefully stays out of reach, and tries not to stare at too much red.

(Red is her favorite color. It's harder than one might imagine.)

"If you're attempting to determine my innocence or guilt, or my intent, of course my testimony is an important piece. Particularly in the case of the latter." Not that she knows what her intent was - she just knows how empty (hurt, betrayed, angry) Enid-that-was felt, how empty Morgan-that-is sometimes feels. "Character witness only goes so far."

[the court] Uncle Steve answers. He says, "We've already judged you."

And Eric Geraint looks at Enid Geraint who no longer exists, who is erasing herself, and his expression is full of sorrow. He is losing his hair, at long last. He won't look like a knight for very long. He says, "Baby. Prove that it's an important piece. Tell us why it's so important. Tell us why you matter."

Uncle Steve again. "The verdict is: guilty."

And then: that red voice -- that voice as red as blood: copper, iron; it fills Morgan's mouth. But who's using it? Not Zeke, this time. Uncle Steve. Seems like Uncle Steve: "Does intent mean anything?"

[Verity] Of course she's guilty. She's killed two people, stood by while another was killed in attempt to help her. She's the cause of one being wiped clean, rewritten, and a fifth moving across the country. Morgan is guilty of an awful lot, and it weighs on her. But she's no more guilty than anyone else here, really, except for maybe her father; he's a Sleeper, a professor. He's never hurt anyone, let alone killed anyone, as far as she knows - but then, he's her daddy, and elevated near to godhood by that status.

"Intent means a lot. It pushes and drives, but doesn't always end up with what you think you meant by it. Intent is . . ." She thinks, and wants to move closer to her father, to Ashley, but also wants to stay out of reach, untouched. "Intent is Will, and one has to learn to direct it just the same. I matter because . . ."

This takes more thought, and a longer pause. She's not sure why she matters, honestly, unless it's that Will alone that makes her.

"I matter because I am, and because I'm unbroken. Battered and bruised a bit, maybe - not the same shiny whole some of you knew - but still here, still fighting and studying and learning and growing. I matter because I've taken what each of you has given me, good and bad, and become something different than the sum of its parts - more and less both, depending on the day. I matter because I want to know the Truth, and because I'm not afraid to seek it. Most of the time."

Sometimes, she's terrified. She does it anyway, as much as she can.

"I matter because each of you thinks I do, on some level. But mostly, I matter because I think I do."

[the court] "Taht eveileb ot tnaw tsuj ouy od ro, taht eveileb uoy od? Rettam uoy kniht ouy fi rettam ti seod yhw?" Kage says, and then, "Look around you. Why are you standing here?" Her voice may or may not have been that red voice; that red voice is starting to blossom out've Kage's normal voice. The smoke from her cigarette spirals lazily upwards, and she rests her foot on her half-mask. It teeters, gently. It makes a sound like ceramics on tile.

Uncle Steve snorts. He flickers: in and out -- just a movie dream. He says: "Even as a little girl you could never just pick something you wanted to bake. It always had to be maybe this, and maybe this, and maybe this tomorrow, but this right now." His voice is red. "What use is that, as a defense?"

[Verity] [Wits!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Verity] There could be many reasons she's standing here, in the woods off of a kingsroad, around a fire with people who only know parts of the whole - Steve knows Eric and vice versa, Eric and Ashley have met, Ashley knows Kage and has met Steve in passing (she knows who these people are, thinks she knows why they're the ones here, for the most part). It takes a moment to puzzle out Kage's first couple of sentences but not terribly long. What takes longer is figuring out why here, but there is no real answer for that. She suspects it could be anywhere.

"I'm standing here because I want to know. Why it's you, what precedent was set for this, how it effects what comes next. I'm standing here because I'm able, and because thinking it through, putting in the pieces, determines the next step. Why are you all red by turns?"

This is curious, thoughtful; she may think she understands why them (except for Kage, who makes 'one of these things is not like the others' run through her head), but the Other Voice is troublesome. Maybe it's Her. Or maybe . . . Her brow furrows, and she scowls at Steve. Being dead hasn't saved him from that particular expression, apparently.

"When I was little, there was a process. Bread dough has to rise, and it takes time. Baking days meant making more than one thing - bread, cookies, cakes, pies. You never complained when you were one of the beneficiaries."

[the court] "We're asking the questions here," Steve says, in Just That Tone. That quelling tone of voice that has -- although Enid never knew it; although Morgan knows it, now -- been the last thing a lot of strongwilled men and women've heard, before breaking down: before confessing [a witch, a witch (whatever you want me to be, remake me)]. He'd quell her if he could. Not because Steve didn't love Kaye's little girl. He did. He was her Uncle Steve, harsh, but just.

"You should think about that," Kage says, and she picks up her mask: "You should consider, carefully, the subject of where you are. Do you really think you're standing in a place with a name? You should think about tahw ti snaem ot be der. Tahw ti si taht si der taht si der." Then, that red, red voice -- ripening: "Objection. Leading the -"

Ashley, in her blood, bloodred robe, has been inattentive. Has rocked back, and looked up at the sky a little. Maybe she's looking wistfully toward that tower. When she brings her attention to bear on Morgan again, she says, a touch impatiently, "So you think you matter because you've taken things from us and made them into something greater. Okay. You think you matter because you're looking for the Truth just like anybody, everybody, else is," and maybe Ashley's voice is rust; maybe Ashley's voice is rimmed in Otherness, maybe there's a grim little smile there - "You think you matter because you're Unbroken."

A beat. "Prove it."

And then - the crushing sensation of sheer Hunger, of ravening, slathering, foam-flecked drool-flicking jaws coming right for Morgan, coiling right around her Thoughts, Devouring its way into her mind, wanting to Swallow, Swallow, Swallow.

[Verity] There are very few things of which Morgan is truly intolerant or afraid, which isn't to say she doesn't have fears and intolerances, just that most of them don't rule her, drive her. She has a healthy dose of competitive spirit, a dash of desire to learn, a pinch of Head of the Class. It's an interesting recipe, hers, if she thinks about it, but then there's Kage asking about what it means to be red, and her automatic answer (hand up as fast as Hermione's, waving around, desperate to be called upon).

"Red's hot and strong and conflict and opposites in one, instead of at opposing ends. Love and hate are both represented by red. In studies, it's been shown that it raises heart and respiratory rates along with blood pressure. It's power and danger and urgency and in some cultures - Chinese, for one - it's purity and joy."

Morgan has a lot of answers. And they're all right, or pieces of right. Pieces of Truth.

Prove it. Ashley is known, loved, but so was Steve - so is her mother, and Uncle Dan, and a great many other people who have stepped into her mind this way, thinking to . . . to what? Oh, Morgan hates this. She wants to cry, wants to stop what she's doing and yank up her pitiful defense against this sort of attack. She's quiet and very, very pale for a moment, shaking. The grinding of her teeth is audible, just then, and her well cared for nails dig into the fleshy part of her palms.

Her eyes close.
She takes a deep breath.
Continues.

(Quietly. Shaken. Terrified.) "Red is . . ." Throat cleared, and oh, she wants to fight back, wants to hit and scratch and bite. "Red is life and prosperity. Stop it, Ashley."

Beat. Beat. "Please."

[the court] Morgan accepts (rebels [against]) the alien intelligence in her mind without trying to put up barriers, to put up borders, boundaries, fences, without trying to summon a rote she knows from a book she's read and studied. That was something Morgan found comforting: the scholarship of the Order of Hermes; that things could be learned from books, from studious application of her time. And she accepts Ashley, the touch of Ashley's thoughts, of Ashley's curiousity, with its aura of the moon and the sun I will swallow them and all the stars too and they'll all milky-shine in my belly and then I'll swallow the dark and I've swallowed you too you're being swallowed forever now. Ashley doesn't start to dig through Morgan's mind. She's just there, reading it, laying it bare. She's just there. And she's not stopping. Morgan says please, and Ashley thinks

Are you changing 'Verity' to 'Please'? Is that your final verdict [truth]? 'Stop it, please.'

And Zeke, at the same time, his voice so red the sun's rising and setting in it at once -- so red it is slicked back; dark; Zeke says: "Most of us can't follow you if you run away. It's okay to run. I'll help you again, even if it is for nothing."

And Morgan's dad -- no. Enid's dad, he says -- "Baby, think about your name."

And Kage says -- "We've talked about this before. All these definitions. But what's binding them together, right here? Think about that. Or, I'm sorry, I think you're going to -- "

"Fail," Steve says, harsh-Uncle, his eyes narrowing. The light by now has changed, and Morgan, with her dark-piercing, darkness-shaping glance, can see the texture of the shadows, gathering together, thrown by unseen light, bulking up, up, at her feet like the beginning of a dust storm. "Are you truly whole, underneath all those cracks?"

Zeke - "Ashley? Is she?"

[Verity] "Shut up I'm not going to run again." It's a different sort of red, that, and there it is (the rote - defense strengthened by anger, by fear); she'd held out longer than she thought she could without defense, and now she's shoving as hard as she can. (Quiet bzzzzt of a button and cold reason, so much the opposite of red, so black and white and this is how it is, Enid, this is how it should be and [Get out, Uncle Dan, that's MINE] it doesn't matter that Hunger is so very different than Automatic) "And I'm not changing anything. Or rather, I am changing and growing and I will not fail. It's not okay to run, don't say that, don't you ever say that. I should have made you come with us, should have tried harder."

That's for Zeke, of course - Zeke of the pool-water-ruined laptop when she was nine or ten, Zeke of the puzzles and games, Zeke who likes his cookies best in dough form, Zeke who she'd expected to always be her best friend and strongest ally. Zeke who she still loves, who she cries for nearly as often as she does her father, when no one's looking or listening, despite his having shot Austin, who killed Steve, who . . .

"Enid, from the Welsh eneit meaning purity, or more literally, soul. From the base 'ane', to breathe. I remember that." Not much else of any other language than her own, excepting her fluent Chinese (and growing sign). "Or Morgan, also likely Welsh from morcant which is of uncertain meaning."

In her head, she can hear Kaye lamenting her retention of such meaningless things out of legend, out of fiction, when she can't remember a simple conjugation in the language of the week. Can hear her mother telling Eric (who smells of leather and paper and ink and glue, who is a library of arguably useless and ultimately entertaining, very specialized knowledge) that their daughter's intelligence should be put to more important things, more practical things.

"Right here, right now, I'm the lowest common denominator. You're all part of my reality. All fragments. All . . ."

Everything you experience, Enid, everything you come across, is a piece. It makes you who you are. It creates impressions and perceptions and ultimately leads to truth. Pieces of you. Pieces of me. Pieces of . . .

"None of us are. I'm not whole, but that doesn't mean I'm broken. It means I don't have all the pieces yet - and I will. And this will be one of them."

[the court] Morgan (Enid, once upon a time: damsel in distress; damosel) shoves hard against Ashley's will, and of course, people can shove hard against the Empire State building too, just for kicks. That's about as much good as the shoving does, but perhaps it's just the trying that counts. Perhaps it's just the pitting herself against, the inclination to define. However. Beneath the Hunger, there's something else: raw, potential; power, maybe -- something that is also red, and white, and black; something like a riddle, clean, sharp, something like -- see, there. For a second: or does she? Does she focus? There are other questions. There are other things to pay attention to. Still, there is this -- a question that simmers against Morgan's desire to push away, to stand tall on her own, and it is -- Then who are you talking to? Who are you, talking?

[Verity] ".....I'm talking to myself."

She's not sure if she wants this to be the case or not. Some part of her longs to go to Eric or Zeke for the love and hugs and acceptance she's always found there (though she's pretty sure she wouldn't find so much acceptance in the latter, these days), or to ask Steve for help with her math homework, or to curl into a chair between Kage and Ashley for some coffee or tea and talking. (The last is the most likely to happen, when all is said and done.)

"And I am Verity."

[the court] The shadows -- those bulking, sifting things; they've begun to drift up, higher, higher -- and Morgan can't feel them, Morgan can't feel a weight, but the way they move, their mutability -- it's like stage-play water, a trick done with light -- up to her knees, up to her thighs. They continue dancing upward, faerylights, faeryshades, until they're over her head, they're shifting, shiftless, undulating, dancing, and even with her enhanced sight, everything is gloom, as if seen through a thick layer of glass, something that lends opacity to an element not best known for its opacity. There is no color at all.

And the people, they ebb away. Ashley, in her bloodred robe, Kage, with the half-mask and cigarette, Steve, grim, just flickers out with a fzzt, a fizzle, turns to negative, static electricity, and Zeke sadly leans back, and disappears, and her Father stands up, turns around, and walks away, and he doesn't look back even once. And then,

The voice, see. The voice is like metal: like cutting oneself on metal; like it could cut glass, cleanly; a voice to separate water from air -- one swift slice. The sort of voice that can weigh a feather against a heart. The voice belongs to Someone, and here she is, looking at Morgan. She: an impossibly, impossibly tall woman with hair as red as her voice and a perfectly symmetrical face and a bandage wrapped around her eyes and knotted. There are red stones at her temples, and she is burning, and burning, and white as radiance can't ever actually be, and her shadow has an interesting property insofar as it is not there. There is no shadow at all to the woman who Looks at Morgan from her high place.

She is exactly Morgan's height.

And she says - And who am I? And what do I want?

[Verity] "You are Justice," Morgan says, and is awed to see her so (exactly her height, and so far above) - after resisting the urge to call after her father, Zeke, Steve Ashley, Kage . . . all respected, all honored, gone to leave her with this woman, cold and brilliant and red --

We are red. We are white. We are pink. And only we know how to truly worship the Great Goddess Justice.

-- and of such familiar (but not comforting, no, never that) symbolism to the young judge before her. It's a hard voice, a sharp voice, and so very red (like the rest of her, though there's no color at all) that Morgan swims with it, in it, of it. She is not the only one who is red.

"You want security and striving. A basis for all things, and people reaching always to achieve it."

[the court] Then -- this.

Morgan returns to consciousness, her lips dry, and cracked, and her muscles sore, a line of blood tracing from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, her shoulder torced, stretched out flat on the floor in the middle of the circles that she's made. The room she's in has long since passed into darkness, and she feels like this: egg-shell fragile, emptied out inside; scooped-clean, purified: salt-scrubbed, new-shining -- she feels like she is in a lot of pain; she feels like it's too much effort to stand up on her own two legs; she feels as if every time she moves, or thinks, or tries to do anything at all, her energy just withers away into Nothingness.

But she also feels Different.
[This, then -- this. This is what it feels like --]
More connected.
[To be a sword. To be a thing that is True. To twin Justice --]
Consciously Awake.
[With Verity.]

[Verity] ".....ow."

It's small, that sound, and it does feel like too much bother to move. It [she] feels different, cleaner, brighter, and lays where she is for a long moment, during which she only adjusts position enough to wipe the tickling trickle of blood from her lip, chin. It's slow, the progress that is getting up from where she finds herself lying there, in the midst of her circles. It's moving to sitting, first, and even that requires time to recover from wiping her mouth. Then to kneeling, to standing.

There are things to be done. Books to read, precedent to study (and to set). People to call. Achievements to be reached. Striving, always reaching.

There's also, more pragmatically, a mess to clean up and lips that need chapstick and a shower that needs to be taken. Sometimes, the starting steps are small.

[the court] [roll credits]