[Ashley McGowen] In River North, a bit off the beaten path and the gloss of the Mile's skyscrapers, there's a series of shops tucked away into a corner: a small independent art gallery, a coffee shop and cafe, an occult shop, and an antiquarian bookstore. They tend to get plenty of traffic from the students in the area, particularly the ones that come over from Northwestern's Chicago branch campus. Like a certain Hermetic.
The bookstore is deceptively small on the outside. Within, it's rather dimly lit, sparsely decorated but for old pitted shelves that are lined with books that are older than either Jarod or Ashley, and it extends far, far back. Some of the books have to be contained in plastic bags to shut out moisture, some are a bit tattered, some are exceedingly rare, all are rather valuable in their way.
Ashley, trawling through what the place has to offer late in the afternoon, is poking around through a collection of shelves that are rarely picked over if only for the fact that every book is titled in Latin. She has one spread out in her small hands now, paging through it, trying to edge toward one of the room's few lamps for some extra light. Her dark hair, thick and short and mildly unkempt, ruffled from the wind outdoors, has to be pushed out of her face from time to time.
She hasn't bothered to take off her coat in spite of the fact that she's been here for a while, and it's still buttoned; perhaps she doesn't intend to be in for long.
[Jarod Nightingale] People frequently made assumptions about Jarod Nightingale based upon his appearance, his lifestyle, or his profession. Assumptions that tended to rule out more academic pursuits, like scouring small, out of the way book stores in search of the occasional rare piece of archaic Chinese or French literature. He wasn't here for precisely the same reason that Ashley was, but for once, the two of them probably had similarly high-minded motives.
He was already standing next to that lamp when the Hermetic approached, and since both of them had their head in a book, it could be excused that they did not immediately recognize the other. Still, being constantly aware of the details of one's surroundings was an instinct that Jarod would never be able to shake, so when movement happened in the periphery of his vision, he glanced up and away from the pages of the book in his hand. When he saw who it was, he even smiled a bit.
"Suppose I should have expected to run into you here, eventually."
It was, after all, exactly the kind of place that a Hermetic would hang around in. Though Ashley did not look like she'd planned on hanging around for too long. Jarod himself had removed his coat by now and folded it neatly over one arm for safe keeping. (Old bookstores generally collected a lot of dust, so actually depositing said coat anywhere was out of the question.) It was a casual day for him, though Jarod's version of casual attire still consisted of clothes that the majority of the population would find overpriced and pretentious. His shirt was a button-down, black cotton with satin accents, and the jeans he had on (dark blue, designer label) looked like they'd been tailored to fit him exactly.
Both shirt cuffs had been loosely rolled to midway on his forearms, and the swirling design of a tattoo was visible on the right. The book in his hand had Chinese characters on the binding, and looked like it was on the verge of falling apart. He held it carefully.
[Ashley McGowen] Someone is talking to her, a voice that is familiar but that she can't quite place immediately, and Ashley looks up. He's at her left (she didn't see him) and she has to make nearly a full ninety degree turn before she can face him and look him in the eye. Well, look upwards to look him in the eye. The Hermetic barely clears five feet tall.
"Oh, hi," she says, and she sounds surprised to see him. Not in the bookstore, necessarily, but just surprised period; they've both been in the city for quite some time but she has only seen him twice, and on one of those occasions she called him to her apartment. Her clothing is not quite as polished as Jarod's: a pair of dark jeans and red Chuck Taylors (washed now of Dylan Willis's blood) are beneath the black wool coat, a slate gray scarf stopping up the opening at the throat.
Her eyes light on the book he holds in his hands, the loose binding and the care he's showing with it, and gives an interested look at the title, at the characters contained within. She speaks fluent Mandarin, but has never had occasion to glance through a book as old as this, a more archaic version of the language. She lowers her own book, supporting its spine on the edge of one of the bookshelves (her hands are too small to hold it comfortably for long.)
And though she is generally not much of a fan of smalltalk, she has to search for words: she has heard many times -of- things Jarod was doing or has done, but spoken very few words to the man himself. "How are you? Things heal okay after you came and saw to Alice?" The Paradox, of course: she couldn't see it but she's all too familiar with the marks it leaves.
[Jarod Nightingale] Ashley was about a foot shorter than him, and if anyone were to walk over and glance at the two, it wouldn't be the hermetic who drew their attention. The Verbena was like some kind of beautiful feline creature, all flawless grace and primordial instinct. He was a snow leopard perched on a snow-capped mountain, looking down from on high at the graceless, ordinary beings that existed below.
But the image that one projected of themselves and the reality of what they were capable of were not necessarily the same thing, and of the two awakened beings in the room, it was debatable as to which of them was actually the more dangerous. Ashley asked if Jarod was feeling better, and he gave a light roll of his shoulders as he closed the book in his hands, being very mindful of the old binding and the delicate pages. It was a collection of poetry from the Tang Dynasty. Not an original (that would have been in a museum), but old enough and rare enough to be worthy of interest, all the same. The fact that he didn't move to put it back on the shelf, but rather tucked it in gently against his chest, suggested he was probably planning on taking it home with him.
"I've had worse. A week of bruised ribs won't kill me. Find anything interesting?"
By this he meant the book in Ashley's own hands, and he nodded toward it with an expression of reserved curiosity.
[Ashley McGowen] Jarod is flawless grace. Ashley, too, exudes something primordial, fierce and predatory: something that lurks beneath choppy ocean waters, something that waits and surges upward and swallows whole and doesn't stop until everything is gone. It's beginning to leave its marks; though always small, she's gotten leaner since this summer, sinewy and hollow. Bizarre, perhaps, an oddity for her Tradition, but the Order of Hermes draws all types.
Amusingly, they are both looking at poetry. Ashley glances down at the book in her hands, then back up toward Jarod. "Some old Roman poetry that was collected into this volume in the eighteenth century," she says. "...It's good to be able to get it in the original language. Poetry's one of those things that can lose a lot of its integrity if it has to be translated."
She tells him without the same reservations he has, with the ease of someone who is used to other people making inquiries as to what she's reading. She probably gets asked a lot, and is used to a nod and a murmur, the polite response of people who were never terribly interested in the first place.
[Jarod Nightingale] "Translation is, indeed, very tricky that way. Should we leave something untouched, and allow it to be ignored by those who can't understand its original language, or do we re-cast the words, and inevitably create change in our wake? I often wonder whether the best translator is one who leaves no impression of him or herself at all on the work, or if taking a piece of work and making it your own is an art in itself."
So spoke the man who would be translator. And apparently, that reserved interest had not been feigned after all. (Either that, or he was very good at pretending, which, admittedly, he was.) "I'm working on learning classical Latin, but I haven't really had much time for it lately."
After a beat, he added, "You'll have to forgive me if I was rude, last time we met. Dashing in and out of someone's apartment isn't usually my style. Well, not in the course of a few minutes, anyway." There was a subtle joke somewhere underneath that, but since he didn't alter the tone of his voice or otherwise draw attention to it, one might just as easily not notice.
[Ashley McGowen] He talks about the nature of translation, and her dark eyebrows arch up, disappearing beneath the thick tufts of hair that spill over her forehead. "I'd imagine it's a bit like playing a musical piece," she tells him. "You don't try to change or alter it, but you do your best to do it justice in the form it has already. You claim it that way while allowing it to keep its shape."
So speaks the woman who can't hear it. He says he's working on classical Latin, and she nods. "It's useful for handling a lot of older texts. And a lot of...more esoteric stuff. It was almost required learning, for me."
And then he apologizes for running out of her apartment so soon, and she gives him a shrug. The joke indeed appears to go unnoticed: she doesn't really know Jarod's ways, and Ashley herself tends to have people darting in and out of her apartment all the time, though for much different reasons.
"It's all right. It was an abrupt call. I'm just glad you could make it. I think Alice might have died if you hadn't." There is not an overwhelming amount of concern in her voice, but neither is she careless: they are the tones of someone who would have found it regrettable, yet without much of a show of compassion.
[Jarod Nightingale] "She would have," he agreed, and like Ashley, his voice sounded fairly matter-of-fact. As if the fact of Alice's possible demise was not so much a tragedy as it was an unfortunate reality. He'd known better than anyone just how close to death the other Verbena had been; had seen inside of her and felt the depth and damage of the lacerations. "Within the day. I wouldn't have helped otherwise."
Again, he was matter-of-fact. Maybe even cold. There was an implied statement there: he wasn't some all-loving healer who went around constantly putting himself at risk to help others. (Though anyone who had been around him much lately might wonder otherwise, considering how many people he had helped.) Maybe the fact that Alice was both a tradition-mate and a former lover had helped to engender his sympathy, but if that was the case, he certainly hadn't given any indication.
"Anyway, how are things in the land of the Hermetics?" He spoke that with some gentle humor, easing away from thoughts of Alice's near-death, and of the marauder that had put her there. "If you can talk about it, that is." (They were, after all, in a public place, though it didn't seem that anyone was immediately paying them any mind.)
[Ashley McGowen] Her eyebrows raise again when he asks her that, and the book makes a soft thud as its pages come together, as she pulls her thumb out of the holding place and presses the covers. She keeps it in hand, letting it swing down and rest on the edge of one hip, though it isn't heavy, pressing it between her side and her elbow. "Got another one in town lately," she tells him, and the way she feels about this seems to be oddly mixed; once she has said this her brow furrows.
There's a quick, cursory look about to make sure that there isn't anyone standing too nearby, but it is an old bookstore: it isn't exactly packed with customers, and the ones that are there aren't likely to be the sort to take much of an interest in odd people talking about odd things. So she continues. "...Guess it's nice to have someone like-minded in town."
And then, after a moment, "My apprentice has kept me busy. Had a problem with mirrorshades. Do you know Enid?"
[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod's own feelings on the Hermetic population of the city were fairly ambivalent, and so, news of another did not elicit much of a response from him. That last comment, though...
He actually laughed, a bit. The sound was silky; pleasant... but not warm. Just like Jarod's accent was so difficult to trace (at times completely neutral, with the occasional hint of someplace-not-here), emotions very rarely expressed themselves in his voice. Usually, if they did, it was because he was angry, as Enid had seen him once after Dylan had escaped.
"Enid's your apprentice? I'm sorry." There was a knowing inflection, in that apology, so perhaps he'd had some experience with the seventeen-year-old. In any case, the answer was clearly: yes. He knew her. Or at least, he'd interacted with her a few times. News of technocrats was a sobering thought though, and he frowned a little as he pondered it. "Mirrorshades an ongoing problem or something that's been dealt with?"
Technocrats were always an ongoing problem, but he could hold out some vain hope that these ones in particular might not pop up again.
[Ashley McGowen] "Her mother," is Ashley's only response to the question at first. She does not share in the laughter; this is clearly a matter which has been a source of no small amount of stress over the past few days. Ordinarily it isn't even something she would mention at all: it's Enid's business, and she has never been overly concerned about whether other Awakened individuals in the city are informed about what's going on.
People change and adapt, though, to fit the circumstances. And he's caught her in a period of tension and reflection.
"I'm sure you can fill in the blanks. I don't think it'll be a problem for most people here, but you might want to keep your head down anyway." A moment's thought. "I guess the thing with Dylan Willis had a few of them poking around too, so it'd be a good idea regardless."
These are the tones of someone being dragged kicking and screaming into the realm of responsibility and leadership, who has gradually come to accept a position as an intermediary. "...Enid's a good kid, don't get me wrong, and couldn't have known. The whole thing's just sort of..." And a shake of the head, something approaching frustration and irritation. "But yeah. Things have definitely not been quiet since the year started."
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Empathy - you seem a bit stressed - diff 5 for secondary ability]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 5)
[Jarod Nightingale] Ashley's response to this question had a noticeable affect on the other Disciple. What was once relaxed and aloof sharpened into a kind of razor-like focus. He leveled dark blue eyes on her face and kept them there, watching for subtle hints of emotion. And he was quiet for a long moment, simply absorbing what she had to say. He could, when he wanted to, be almost alarmingly good at reading the shifting signs of a person's mood. There was what was said, and then there were all the things that lay beneath it. Like the ocean's undertow.
When Ashley suggested he be careful, Jarod responded calmly. "I always keep my head down when I need to." Which was both true and a potential point of annoyance where other mages might be concerned. Nonetheless, that quality had kept him alive this long, and it was likely that Jarod was the sort of person who put his own survival on a high level of importance.
After a moment, he pursed his lips thoughtfully. Still watchful. Still absorbing.
"That's a lot to deal with." And no, he did not sound... comforting, per se, but there was a kind of quiet understanding in his voice. "I'm willing to bet that you could use an evening off." (If only such a thing were really possible.) Jarod took a step toward the Hermetic, reaching out with the tattooed arm to slowly (carefully - since people who were tense tended not to appreciate sudden contact) brush a bit of hair away from Ashley's eyes. Fingertips made contact with her forehead, and judging by the thoughtful and intent expression on the Verbena's face, Ashley might very well wonder if he was about to try and read her mind. He didn't.
"If you like, I have tea back at my apartment. Proper tea. And no men in black suits with sunglasses."
[Ashley McGowen] This could be an innocent enough offer: Ashley goes over to a lot of people's houses for tea, and usually her general demeanor, the fact that she is aloof and undemonstrative, nigh on a workaholic, make sure it is exactly that. She is used to being thought of as a Hermetic, as Hunger, as someone difficult to get along with who, occasionally, other magi are tempted to throw things at (and they have), and so it is rare that she ever thinks of herself as anything else.
Except he reaches up, very deliberately, and brushes hair out of her eyes, and that implies something else. It's done slowly enough that he can see her recoil for a split second before accepting it: she's clearly not used to that either.
"I, um." The look she's giving him is surprised but not shocked, blue eyes (a much lighter blue than his) piercing his face, searching. The sort of look that suggests she isn't sure of his intentions and is trying to find a response.
Not every bookworm can claim good social skills in spite of all that time reading. For a second it looks as though she might turn him down, before she says, carefully, "I like tea." Smooth.
[Jarod Nightingale] It was smart to be wary of this man's intentions. He was too perfect; too unreadable. This close, and with the glow of the lamp catching his face, his eyes were an impossibly rich shade of indigo. A beautiful color, but one that invited skepticism. Asian features seldom went along with blue eyes, and this was a very odd shade of blue. They looked dark and inky from a distance, like the ocean at midnight, but right now they were bolder (seductive the way that sapphires wanted to be looked at), and occasionally, as the pupils shifted ever-so-slightly with the subtle change of brightness and focus, it looked like they wanted to narrow in a way that human pupils couldn't do. But maybe that was just a trick of the light.
And maybe he really didn't have much in the way of motive for this particular endeavor. Maybe he really did just want to have tea. Maybe he wanted to talk more about ancient poetry. Maybe he was just passing the time. But Jarod was an almost unfairly attractive person, and too much in control of his behavior to be innocent of manipulative tendencies, so it was probably fair to say that even when he had no motives, his motives could be suspect.
And he probably had motives. (But depending on one's point of view, they might at least be mutually beneficial.)
He took stock of Ashley's reaction, both to the way he'd touched her hair and to his offer, and a smile pulled at one side of his mouth. Look here: the all-powerful lady magi, rendered almost speechless. "Well I'm glad to hear it, because I so rarely get a chance to show off my collection to anyone who appreciates it."
Then he turned and walked to the front counter to purchase the book he had in his left hand. Once that was settled, and any business Ashley might have, he slid his arms back into the sleeves of the black wool coat he'd been carrying and held the door to the shop open. His car was parked in a lot across the street, and after checking quickly for traffic, Jarod jogged across the road, fishing his keys out of his pocket. In the distance, a black BMW chirped and flashed its headlights.
"I don't live far from here, so it's a short drive."
[Ashley McGowen] Though she's often daring, bold to a fault, it is actually not that difficult to render Ashley speechless, as he will doubtlessly find out as the evening persists: it's just under a number of very select circumstances. She herself doesn't really do ulterior motives. Or, more accurately, she does, she just almost never bothers to conceal them. His smile gets one in return, smaller than his, tinged with something both nervous and genuine.
They both pay for books, and hers, bag and all, is tucked away into the leather messenger bag she carries at her side.
She is slower than he is in getting out to the car; the senseless void on her left side necessitates caution. She's able to follow his lead, though, keep him to her left before they arrive on the side of the street where the vehicle is parked. She's seen the car before, rode in it on the distant occasion when they checked out the derelict house together. He'd dropped her off at her place then.
"That's fine. I'm used to walking everywhere, so even if you lived in the suburbs I wouldn't have much room to complain," she says, with a touch of wry humor as she settles herself into the passenger seat. "...What do you do, anyway?"
[Jarod Nightingale] The car was just as Ashley might remember it, if indeed she bothered to remember something so insignificant about that particular day. On the outside, it shimmered in the way that only freshly-cleaned paint ever did (especially in the winter, when most cars tended to build up a layer of residue from the accumulation of silt in the snow), and inside, it smelled subtly of leather (not new enough to be all-pervasive any longer) and the faint hint of whatever cleaning agent had recently been used to shampoo the carpets.
As they got in, and the engine purred to life, Ashley asked what Jarod did. It was a question that could be interpreted in many different ways, and he briefly considered his response as they pulled out of the lot and onto the street. Jarod handled the car like he'd been driving it for a long time. (What a terribly bad Verbena he was.) An M3 required a certain amount of precision and quick reflexes, which was why spoiled teenagers across the globe seemed to have an alarming tendency to crash them.
"I do freelance translation work. Mostly books. But if you're asking what pays the bills," (because if he existed on the paychecks he got from publishing companies, he'd live in a little house in the suburbs) "I also book a lot of modeling jobs. But don't expect to see me in anything here. The agency I work for is in Asia. I spend way too much time on airplanes."
Which may have explained why he wasn't always around or easy to find. Interesting though, that he chose to list his more academic pursuits first, rather than as an afterthought. As if the career that put him on billboards and in magazines was somehow the less worthy accomplishment.
And true to his statement, it didn't take them long to get to his apartment building. They were close to the center of the city, bordering the lake, and Ashley would get a glimpse of a sleek and towering structure of beige stone before the car turned down into an underground parking lot. They passed a security guard sitting in a glass booth before parking at the far end of the lot, nearby an elevator.
[Ashley McGowen] Ashley does remember the interior of the car, if only because she forgets very little: even small details are usually stored away in her memory somewhere. Locked onto and devoured. She notes the smell of leather, as she did then, with some faint amusement: most leather she scents around Verbena has been in the form of clothing, in the past.
"I see," she says, when he explains his occupation, taking note of the fact that he talks of his academic pursuits first and foremost. "Why do you model, out of curiosity?" A pause, and then she looks sidelong at him, realizes how the question could be interpreted, and adds, sheepishly, "I mean. It seems like the translation work is more important to you and you'd have more time to pursue it if you just did it on its own."
So asks the woman who, until recently, was attempting to hold a job, go to grad school, take on an apprentice and keep up with her obligations to the Order of Hermes.
She turns to scan the building as they arrive there, taking in the beige stone, the security guards. "You're definitely the first Verbena of your kind that I've met. Most of the ones that I met in Europe were very...dark. Very absorbed in returning to the old ways." Blood and darkness.
[Jarod Nightingale] No, he was not very much like any Verbena he had met either. At least, not in any of the superficial ways. This was a mystery he often preferred to let his fellow awakened beings wonder about, without bothering to fill in any of the blanks himself. Not surprisingly, when Ashley pointed this fact out to him now, he merely smiled in a way that seemed a little wry and knowing. And said nothing.
Getting out of the car, he hit the button on his keychain that locked the doors and turned on the alarm system, then led the Hermetic toward the nearby elevator. It was the kind that needed a key in order to access, and once Jarod had turned his key in the lock on the control panel, the doors opened to allow them entrance. He had to repeat this action again, inside, in order to take them to the top floor, where his penthouse was located. Then they were moving, and the Verbena leaned back against the plush burgundy wall behind them.
"I model because it pays well, and I'm good at it." A very... practical response, and he delivered it matter-of-factly. "Usually I fly out on the weekends, so I have the rest of the week to devote to other things. It's really not a bad arrangement." Maybe on the outside it seemed as if he was... selling out, perhaps? An academic mind might see it that way. Jarod did not.
They reached the top floor, and the elevator doors opened to reveal a plush-looking entrance-way, complete with marble flooring. Unlike the regular levels of the apartment building, there was not a long hallway, but only this small open space, and then one large, heavy-looking white door. Jarod walked up to it and turned his key in the lock, holding it open for Ashley to enter as he flipped on the lights.
"As for my particular interpretation of the Tradition, you aren't the first one to mention it. I suppose we all have our... preconceptions."
[Ashley McGowen] An academic mind might view it as selling out. The academic mind accompanying him does indeed. At least for a few seconds, as she skims her fingertips over the plush red wall behind them and watches the lights as the elevator makes its way up to the penthouse. Then she says, "Well, I suppose if you have the gifts to put yourself ahead of other people socially, you might as well use them."
It's social selection: just as natural selection, just as capitalism, just as the process by which memes are taken up by societies and then abandoned, dismissed in favor of ideals that are more suited to the times. And this is something Ashley's Tytalan philosophies can solidly back. "We re-interpret old ideas to fit the times, I suppose. The good ones persist."
She steps into the apartment ahead of him, and the first thing her gaze lights on is the piano in the corner. For a few solid seconds, her expression is completely inscrutable: not flooded with emotion, but they are too mixed to read, half-suppressed.
So she turns her attention elsewhere, filing away small details about the interior of the apartment for a lot of reasons: because she is curious, because it tells her things about Jarod, because one never knows if they'll be called upon to fight their way out of a place in the dark. "Not everyone can be expected to fit their stereotypes as much as I do, I suppose," she adds, and this is with a touch of wry amusement.
[Jarod Nightingale] Social Darwinism: not a pretty theory, but coldly accurate more often than not. Some people excelled, and some were left stranded by the wayside. If one really considered the comparisons, human social culture was not at all dissimilar to the laws of nature. It was a harsh and unforgiving landscape, and only the strong and the clever survived to rise to the top of the evolutionary food chain.
Perhaps it was this perspective that allowed a Verbena, of all things, to understand it so well.
Ashley pegged this aspect of Jarod's worldview more quickly than most, perhaps because she too could understand it, and for this moment of insight, she would be rewarded with a charming and enigmatic smile from the attractive man. "People will always behave as their instincts dictate. Change the environment, replace one set of problems for another... it doesn't matter. We're still no different from animals."
Ashley looked around, making particular note of the grand piano. This was an interesting focal point in the spacious apartment. Rich people often purchased such ostentatious marks of their wealth, as if somehow they could buy their way into having a sense of class and artistry. Maybe the Hermetic was wondering if that was the reason that Jarod had one, or maybe she had her own, more personal reasons to find it intriguing. There were other things to note about the space as well. For one, the place was absolutely spotless. Everything was in its place, and not a single speck of dust could be found on any of the smooth, shiny surfaces. Everything in the apartment was fairly new, from the furniture to the appliances, and the over all feel was, unsurprisingly, as cold and elegant as Jarod himself was.
After locking the door behind him, he opened the closet and slid out of his coat so that he could hang it up. There was a small rug just inside the doorway as well, and on this the Verbena deposited his shoes. He did not go so far as to specify that Ashley do likewise, but given the way this place looked, one might surmise that he was the type of person who was extremely finicky about neatness.
Ashley mentioned stereotypes, and Jarod laughed gently. "So then, I take it you would define yourself as a fairly typical Hermetic. All work and no play? I prefer experience to dusty libraries, myself."
[Ashley McGowen] She does indeed take note of the neatness of the place, of the fact that the floor shines and the wood appears to have been waxed. That the fine sheen of dust normally found on the top of pianos, on the lids, is absent on this one. Leaning down, she tugs at the laces of her sneakers and leaves them, shapeless canvas and rubber without her feet inside them, at the edge of the rug.
She unbuttons the toggles of her coat and shrugs herself out of it, letting it slide backwards off of her shoulders. Beneath the coat she's wearing at least three shirts: a buttondown (a medium blue striped with pale gray) over top a gray T-shirt with another shirt on top of it. Given that most of her weight loss seems to be recent, it wouldn't be difficult to imagine that she's cold.
"Socially constructed concepts work that way too, interestingly," she tells him, as he tells her they are like animals. "You'll notice that ideas and Wills compete against each other and stronger, more appealing memes dominate. Crux of my thesis, actually. I'm a conflict theorist."
Her hands find her pockets as she continues to search the apartment. She does not step away from the doorway until he does: it would be disrespectful to move into his space without invitation, so she waits. "Well, arrogant and elitist and pushy. But I meant more that I'm a typical Hermetic of my House," she clarifies, again with wry humor. "Conflict theory plays into it. I appreciate a lot of study and practical application both...until you're challenged, none of the study means anything."
[Jarod Nightingale] "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
Jarod listened while Ashley talked of theories, and his interest seemed genuine enough. These were the details that defined people - their ideas and interpretations; the things they chose to talk about, and the particularities of viewpoint. As they moved into the apartment, he detoured into the kitchen so that he could grab a stainless steel tea kettle and fill it with water. "Feel free to look around, or have a seat on the sofa." It was a a courtesy, that permission. The kind of thing that people said to guests when they were invited over, so that they did not feel uncomfortable in exploring another person's territory. (Very much like animals indeed.)
"Though I have to say, I don't find you terribly pushy. Maybe you're holding out on me." Jarod smiled a little to himself, at that. He as well could easily have been called both arrogant and elitist, but not pushy. It didn't serve his goals. No, this man was much more subtle than that, preferring perhaps to lure and seduce.
He set the kettle on the stove-top, then opened a cabinet that appeared to contain a large collection of small ceramic jars. "Do you have any tea preference? I was thinking of oolong, myself. One of the jade varieties." He did not offer her a list of different teas to choose from, and this was more than likely because the list was lengthy enough that it simply wasn't worth the trouble.
[Ashley McGowen] "I haven't had occasion to be," she says, when he says she doesn't strike him as pushy. It's dismissive: the sort of tone that suggests that she doesn't go looking for trouble, but would be entirely amenable to confronting it if it came to her. Like him, when it suits her goals.
He invites her to look around or have a seat, and she settles on the latter, moving about the living room while he busies himself in the kitchen. "Oolong sounds good," she says. Vaguely pleased.
She doesn't touch anything - she wasn't invited to, and the place is so spotless that there's a sort of discomfort that accompanies the thought - but she pauses in front of the piano. Glances at nearby sheet music, if it's there. And its keys are the one thing she does touch, ever so briefly, running fingertips over the ridges and valleys formed by black and white bars and still with that same unreadable expression.
Then she is moving through the rest of the place again, and when she's satisfied her curiosity she does sit.
[Jarod Nightingale] It would take a moment for the water to reach optimal temperature, so while that happened, Jarod joined Ashely in the main living space. This apartment looked like the kind of place that would cost a great deal to keep properly warm in the winter months, between the wide open spaces, the hardwood floors, and the large windows. It was actually quite warm, however, and if Ashley was particularly observant, she might notice that the heat seemed to radiate up through the floor.
The cuffs of Jarod's shirt-sleeves had been rolled to the elbows, but time moving about and sliding in and out of his coat caused them to loosen, so he set about adjusting them now, so that the sleeves sat neatly to his liking. Ashley pointed out that she hadn't had occasion to be pushy, and he nodded thoughtfully at that. A fair enough response.
"Do you play?" he asked when he noticed the way that the Hermetic eyed the piano. By now he'd moved in closer, so that their patterns existed within the same space. It was a subtle thing, this nearing. One moment he had been across the room, the next... there he was. Jarod moved gracefully and quietly, but he was considerate enough to come up from the side of Ashley that was not blind. Had he noticed that, at some point? Maybe it was the way she'd crossed the street earlier.
[Ashley McGowen] She looks over her shoulder at him, brow lofted in a manner that recognizes that he's making the effort to approach from her right. Her hand drops away from the keys and falls back to her side, and she turns around to face him. "I used to," is all she says.
She hasn't bothered to roll up her sleeves. The place is warm, about the temperature of her own; even the wood beneath her feet is warm, as though it's been sitting out in the sun.
"I stopped being able to hear music when I woke up," is the addendum, because she knows he will ask and because she has no reason to be dishonest. Her tone is not sharp but it is final, something that does not invite further questioning. At least for right now. She looks up at him then, taking in for a split second that they are within the same space, and suppresses the urge to step backward. "You have a very nice piano, though. I take it it isn't just for decoration?"
[Jarod Nightingale] She'd stopped being able to hear music. This... struck him as incredibly sad, for reasons that the Verbena was unlikely to offer up. When she said it, he looked at her for a long, quiet moment... but there was no trace of pity on his face (and perhaps Ashley was the sort of person who would be grateful for that.) Neither did he attempt to offer consolation or press any further on the subject.
(Enid wondered what Emily saw in him. Maybe it was this.)
"Many people assume that it is, but no. It's not for display." So he did play, then. But he hadn't made an offer to do so (this was a personal thing, music) and now that Ashley had admitted to her defect, it would have been a fruitless exercise. In the kitchen, the tea kettle began to make a faint sound as water gradually heated up. It wasn't boiling yet, and therefor did not whistle, but when you made tea frequently, your ears adjusted to the minute differences of the various stages of pre-boil.
So Jarod disappeared back into the kitchen again and took the water off the heat before it had a chance to reach too high a temperature. Leaves were scooped into matching infusers and left to slowly unfurl in the hot water. After a couple of minutes (they didn't need long), he strained the tea into a couple of elegant-looking glass mugs and carefully carried them out to the living room. He handed one to Ashley before reaching around to snag two coasters from where he'd momentarily stashed them in his back pocket (clever boy). These were set down on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa, then Jarod sat down, still holding his own cup in one hand. He took a careful sip (slow, contemplative) before setting it down to cool a bit.
"So tell me. With all of this mess that's been hanging over you lately: a new apprentice, marauders, nephandi, technocrats... have you actually had a spare moment to think about yourself?"
[Ashley McGowen] Ashley, too, takes a seat on the couch - close to the edge, close enough that she can lean over and still reach the coffee table. Close enough to get up quickly, if she wanted, to gain her feet back with a simple push of forward momentum. She does not sip from her mug yet, instead inhaling the steam and then setting it down on the coaster.
The question he asks is a difficult one, to judge by her expression. It's a furrow of her forehead between dark eyebrows, a sigh as she reaches up to brush some hair out of her eyes (despite his earlier attention it had stubbornly flicked out in front again.)
"I wouldn't really consider myself horribly altruistic," she says after a second or so, "and I've thought about myself a lot. Just a lot more responsibility than I'm used to, I suppose." Because others have looked to her, because she is Hunger, because she is a Hermetic and that is what Hermetics are supposed to do...there are a lot of reasons.
It's more complicated than that, though. It's readily apparent. For the seconds that hang in the air it seems that it's all she has to say, and then, "I saw what...made Dylan what he was. In his Mind. Wharil says it left taint behind, and I don't know a lot about that, but..." And here, a shrug. "I've been trying to look to myself to make sure it doesn't get out of hand. So yeah, a lot. More than it probably seems like. And I'm dealing with it."
[Jarod Nightingale] "I would never dare to presume altruism on another person, even if said person claimed it for themselves." And the little touch of wry humor that showed in his expression was a knowing thing. Human nature was a particular specialization of his. (Small wonder he never seemed to form lasting connections.) "I only asked because it seemed to me that you were a bit worn down, and people seldom ask those in positions of responsibility whether or not they need a break."
It may have been interesting to listen to this coming from Jarod's lips, but he stated it very plainly, and not as if he was trying to affect sympathy.
"I don't even need to use my abilities to see that you're tense. You're sitting as if you half expect me to attack you the moment you let your guard drop. Unless that's just a reaction to me, personally, in which case... I suppose I should be flattered." He picked up his cup again and breathed in as the scent of the tea reached his senses. (This was monkey picked oolong - a very delicate variety with very little fermentation.) After taking another sip, he concluded, "I'm not going to pry, and I would never dream of claiming to be a halfway decent person, but I do find you a little curious, and for the moment it suits me to contemplate what it might take to make you relax."
[Ashley McGowen] That she's tense isn't really news to her: even if she weren't as aware as she is of her own moods, people have been asking her since January the first if she's okay, if she feels all right, admonishing her for how boldly she plunged into the mind of a madman. Bringing up that she looks different, tired, hungry.
He picks up his mug, and she reaches for hers as well, breathing it in and holding it against her palm, letting it delay her response so she can consider the question. The final response is a grin that would be sheepish if it weren't only a quick flash of teeth. "In recent memory, large quantities of alcohol have been the only thing that works, and I don't do that very often."
"It's not you," is the next thing she says, after a beat. Not reassuring, but matter-of-fact, the same way she spoke about the possibility of Alice's death earlier this evening.
[Jarod Nightingale] "I'd be more than happy to get you completely wasted, if you like," and Jarod laughed at this, briefly glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen again. "I also have a pretty sizable collection of illegal pharmaceuticals, but usually only the cultists take me up on that." Jarod himself had no particular desire to partake of them, which made his possession of such substances all the more interesting.
"But I think... I can come up with something just a touch more creative."
And he let that sink in for a moment as he set his mug back on the table. Until now, he'd been leaning back into the crook of the arm rest with one knee bent and the heel of his foot resting on the edge of the cushion. Now he unfurled from this position and reached across to repeat the action he'd attempted earlier in the book store, brushing bangs out of the Hermetic's eyes with lightly tracing fingertips. The self-mimicry was intentional. And this time he let his fingers continue down to trace the outer edge of her ear and, hand curling in, brushed his thumb down the side of Ashley's throat.
[Ashley McGowen] A short laugh - something barely audible, more a huff of breath - is half a beat behind his own. "I'm tempted, but I doubt I could get myself home if you..." is the beginning of her response, and then he says he could think of something a touch more creative, and she trails off. "If you, um..."
She doesn't recoil when he reaches out this time, but she looks just as lost for a response as she had been in the bookstore.
It's been nearly two years, and she can't really claim to having been with someone she didn't already know quite well, and needless to say ever with someone as attractive as he is, which is in large part what contributes to the seconds-long stare he gets in response. Mixed: searching, wanting, fighting back discomfort and uncertainty.
But in the end, she's not a passive person. Not someone to reject opportunity or let discomfort determine what she does. Her hand crosses a scant few feet of distance, fingertips trailing up the top of his thigh to his hip. "Show me what you had in mind, then."
[Jarod Nightingale] [Life/Mind 2, coincidental - Relax - diff 5 -1(focus) -1(resonance-appropriate)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 3) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] Despite her mixed feelings, Ashley inevitably pushed herself toward action rather than inaction. This push did not go unnoticed by the hyper-observant Verbena, and he smiled a little, as if somehow this was a kind of challenge, and Ashley had answered her riddle correctly. His offer came in two parts, because Jarod seldom set himself a task that he did not desire to complete flawlessly, and the effect that he weaved began to coalesce the moment that Ashley herself initiated the ritual.
It wasn't the kind of ritual that a hermetic might be used to. This was significantly more organic and instinctual in nature. Ashley stared, and Jarod met her gaze (behind eyes were thoughts, feelings, memories). He touched her skin, she touched his leg. Show me what you had in mind, then. And he did. The last of the small distance between them was crossed, and Jarod let his hand trace around to the back of Ashley's neck (fingers weaving gently into hair) as he leaned in and kissed her. There was an intimacy to the touch of lips and the exchange of breath, and suddenly her pattern was so much clearer - warm and alive and something uniquely her own. His will touched her at the same moment that his lips did, and this was not a thing of brute force. Far from it. It crawled inside with a silky warmth that was all at once delightful and seductive, tugging at tense muscles and soothing anxious thoughts.
Relax, that will said. And then that kiss was something a little more than exploration, and he drew her lower lip into his mouth and bit down on it lightly.
And then... he pulled away, but not far, and not for long. Only to stand up, and find her hand with his own in order to draw her up with him. And if she complied, he would lead the way down the long hallway that led into the bedroom.
[Ashley McGowen] She's not very good at doing what she's bidden. So often things come down to a battle of Wills, when someone else makes a request, makes a demand, and she pushes back with so much heat and fervor that her Flambeau influence becomes clear. She's urged to relax, and that has to turn inward, quelling her urge to fight him and grow ever more tense, Willing herself to calm and let go. It's slow, it's done in steps and yet it happens; her muscles ease against his after a few seconds of ebbing tension.
The pressure of her mouth on his is insistent, not forceful or demanding but urgent, full of blind need. He rises and, for all the encouragement she needed to relax, she doesn't need any to follow him back. And then there's just hunger.
It will be much later, when she's easing herself into a state of calm again, that she'll say, "...Thanks, Jarod, I needed this," and realize how deeply it's meant.
