[Tranquility] New business projects take a lot of time. That's something everyone neglects to mention when they go starry-eyed at the prospect of a new business, a new firm that could Revolutionize The Way We . They take time, and a neverending flow of money: in the days of credit, it's just an abstract, poured into a database to keep the business afloat like blood offered to a god of old. Sometimes they pan out, sometimes they don't.
Fortunately, the one Jarod is involved in seems to be doing well, if only just (for now.) Still, late nights are doubtlessly more frequent than he'd like them to be, with a ten year old (almost eleven) at home.
There are a lot of old homes close to Jarod's neighborhood. A lot of them are being restored. In recent months, some have fallen into disrepair again - or at least they've been abandoned by owners that can't keep them up. There's an exodus out of the rust belt and though Chicago is less afflicted, particularly its wealthier areas, there are marks.
Unfortunately there's traffic tonight. An accident: most of the main roads are clogged, and now the side roads are too, as people are making an effort to get around the blockage. It's a hazard of city living.
There are a lot of red lights. The driver of the SUV behind him keeps flashing his highbeams, as though this will encourage traffic to move faster. It doesn't. His gaze is trapped between the exhaust pipe of the truck in front of him and the glare that flashes in his side mirror every few minutes.
It's at one point when his eyes travel away from the road ahead, the crawl of traffic, and the mirrors that something strikes him. Odd: like the scent of redrot, old books with paper damp and crumbling away. There's a house on the corner, an old brick, that he's passed by before. It's looked empty for a long time: not boarded up as in more dangerous neighborhoods, but its windows are always vacant.
Inside he sees a vast hall, once painted red but now fading to gray and crumbling away. A hall much too large to be the actual interior of that house. If Jarod were anyone else he'd think it an optical illusion, a trick of the eyes.
[Jarod Nightingale] This sort of thing happened to him about once or twice a week. He'd stay late, and inevitably end up calling Nick from his office or his car. Tonight, while discussing dinner options, the other man had cracked a joke about how they were starting to sound like an old married couple with a kid, and this had done little to improve his already sour mood.
Neither had the traffic jam, or the high beams.
His fingers tapped irritably against the soft leather of the steering wheel, and there was a brief moment where he contemplated any number of horrible ways that he could torture said Jackass in the SUV, but to his credit, he didn't actually attempt any of them. Instead, he turned up the volume on the stereo and closed his eyes, letting the sultry pulse of the music lull him into a state of somewhat-less-irritation.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the house.
And his eyes... fixed on the window, and the red hallway. The traffic moved at a maddeningly slow pace, but eventually he passed a small side-street, and here he turned out of the main road and found a parking spot by a meter. (He knew better than to park next to abandoned houses where potential supernatural activity was afoot.) Once the BMW was locked and the alarm activated, he walked back up the street and around the corner, until he drew near that house.
He paused, looking around.
[Per+Alertness, just in case]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Aware]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 4, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Tranquility] The Jackass tries to tail Jarod's BMW as he turns off onto the high street, perhaps thinking that he's privy to a way home that the driver is unaware of. As he parks at the meter there's an angry honk, and the driver is forced to turn around in a driveway, drive back out and rely on the mercy of the line of traffic to let him back in to his spot. The Verbena is vindicated, however unintentionally.
When he nears the front of the house, the window looks much the same. There's still that strange vastness to the interior, and now that he's neared it he can see a tattered, yellowed tapestry hanging within: a reproduction of the paintings on an old papyrus scroll, it appears to be, though the images are difficult to make out from this distance and in the half-light.
He's relatively sure that the house has not looked this way the other times he has passed it.
There is no one else around outside. The neighborhood is empty and quiet; next door there is a family watching television. If there are things of a supernatural nature at this house, they at least don't seem to have disturbed the Sleepers.
The only thing he can sense, in fact, is old magic, rubbed over the exterior of the house like a faded musk. It was strong, once upon a time: strong and thoughtful and isolated and intensely curious. What lingers of that feeling may in fact stir Jarod's curiosity about the house; resonance tends to do this.
Whoever left those Workings, though, is gone now. Perhaps. There's the air of the forgotten over the place, a stillness.
[Jarod Nightingale] Old magic.
It was more than just the resonance that pulled him forward. Something pushed as well - something that was older than the house, older than the scroll on the wall. Something that remembered treading caves and spirit realms before man had even taught itself to write. She was there, now: attentive, curious, desiring.
Hunting.
Jarod looked in the window for a long moment, then glanced at the front door. Given his present state of dress (as usual, he was wearing an expensive suit), the prospect that someone might mistake him for a burglar was... unlikely. Nonetheless, he disappeared into the shadows around the side of the house, walking quietly past a door that seemed to lead into a basement. This was noted, before he continued on to the back. There was a door there, as well. He approached it, debated for a moment, reached out to try the handle... then stopped himself.
Instead he put his thumb to his mouth, closed his eyes, and bit down on the edge of the soft pad. There was a sensation of pain, and a taste of blood, and he could feel his heartbeat pumping steadily.
[Area Life Scan - diff 4 -1(going slow)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Tranquility] It's with that same predatory knowledge that Jarod knows, even before he enters the house, that there are two creatures within. Not very far away. The house is large inside, but not so vast as to lose them within, apparently. He can't tell precisely where they are, but he knows they're there.
Here are the other things his blood tells him: they're old. One has been wounded time and again in battles that are older than Jarod himself. But not recently. He's too sick for that, dying, has been for a long time, ravaged by the sorts of ills that a knowledge of Life could stave off. If he had it. Apparently he doesn't.
The other is in better health. More awake, too - certainly. His heart is beating hard, in fact, his blood coursing, temperature raised. Jarod doesn't need Mind to know he's angry or frustrated or upset. Sometimes bodies give away those sorts of secrets on their own.
The door is old, and it was once painted white. The paint is falling away in flakes now, little curls at the bottom of runs where the original pale wood shows through, as though an enormous cat had come and marked his place there. The metal of the doorknob is tarnished. It's old, this place, and it hasn't been updated: the lock on the door was made for an old-fashioned key to be inserted.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Dex+Streetwise - lock picking, it's not just for miscreant teenagers and bank-robbers]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 5, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] There were two people inside. One was sick - dying. Not from immediate threats but from the wearing-down of life itself. The other was... upset. It might have been nothing worth concerning himself over. Might be, if he simply knocked on the door one of them would answer and let him inside as if this was a perfectly normal evening at a perfectly normal house, and he was just a visitor, come to welcome them to the neighborhood.
Might be they would also try to kill him. Or just neglect to answer the door at all.
He tried the handle carefully, but, as expected, it was locked. After a moment of thought, he reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a plastic card (not a credit card, but an old gift card to Barnes and Noble that someone at work had given him). This wasn't technically the first time that he'd ever tried to pick a lock. Once or twice during high school, he'd attempted it. He understood the basic concept. He'd just never managed to actually pull it off.
This lock, though... this wasn't of the sturdy, professional variety that they employed at schools and in the homes of the wealthy-elite. This thing was old, and barely held together as it was. He was careful not to make much noise when he inserted the card and attempted to pop the lock open. It took a bit of trial and error, but his hands were good at these kinds of careful, delicate tasks. After a couple of minutes, he had the door open.
It was difficult to make out many details with the lights off. Only dim shadows loomed ahead. So he stopped just inside, and reached up to brush the tips of his fingers over his closed eyelids, willing his sight to become more receptive.
[Night Vision (Better Body effect) - Life 3, diff 6 -1(special focus) -1(slow) -1(practiced)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] [Extending]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 4)
[Tranquility] Jarod's fingers are nimble, and he manages to open the lock as though he's a practiced hand at breaking and entering, after a try or two. He might be as far as one can possibly get from being a hardened criminal, but Awakened life sometimes calls for an odd skillset.
It's been a long time since the back door has been opened. It's lucky it was his vision he chose to enhance rather than his hearing: the hinges squeak and sob like old bones rubbing together at the joint when he pushes on the door. Fortunately, it isn't too loud. It doesn't seem to give him away.
He only has to step inside to know that the house he has found is a strange one indeed. Yawning before him is a vast hall, littered with papers and books. There are shelves for them, and some of the books still reside within. The rest are scattered, some are torn open, their pages lost and never to be reunited, as though some mad detective tore through here looking for clues and cast them all aside, one by one, when there was nothing to be found.
There's furniture here, too. A large marble fireplace, though any coals that burned within have long since faded and gone to ash, and furniture that was once expensive and richly detailed. There are dust covers over it now. Fulfilling their purpose in life: they're stiff with grime. He seems to have found his way into a vast library that is, by all appearances, abandoned. Or at least left to moulder.
The pages, brittle, crunch under Jarod's shoes like dead leaves when he moves.
From somewhere in the house, he can hear someone talking. No returning voice, though; someone used to talking to himself, perhaps. Or just to not getting an answer from the dying man. People do what they have to do to stay sane.
The words are quiet, and they echo when they bounce around the corner and into the hall. Too faint for him to make out most of it, though it has a rhythm to it. Like a chant.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Dex+Stealth]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] Were he alone here, he'd probably have set about immediately pouring through the torn and tattered old books. As he walked through, he looked down at the mess with reverent curiosity, and he tried not to tread upon the old pages any more than absolutely necessary. But he wasn't alone. There were the two men, and a muffled, distant chant that barely reached his ears. He followed that sound, walking carefully and quietly toward the source of it. All the while, he strained his ears to try and make out the words, if indeed they were in a language that he could understand.
[Tranquility] [Alertness]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Aware]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 5, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Tranquility] The words are not in any language Jarod knows. There's an odd quality to them: in some ways it's highly tonal, fluid. The language is beautiful, but it doesn't even seem to have root in anything he's familiar with. The voice, though, trembles as they're spoken, and that sense of fear, of hiding, carries over even into the Working.
The chanting dies away shortly, the words just leaving that quivering feel in their wake, only just tempered by a reinforcement of the scholarliness that is woven into the very framework of this house. Jarod didn't go to a public school. If he had, it might bring to mind the ubiquitous nerdy kid, hiding in the corner of the classroom and praying to get through the day. It is a Mind effect, though the particulars he can't quite fathom just yet; trying to pay attention to too much at once, perhaps.
The people he sees don't entirely fit that image. They are both elderly men. One, who sits on a chair looking out the window with his back to Jarod, has a bit of a grandfatherly look to him: bald on top with a fringe of white hair around his head, clean-shaven, wearing a thick offwhite sweater. The other, the chanter, wears a checkered buttondown shirt and khaki pants, however dated. His hair too is gray and thinning, and his heavy frame has gone soft and broadened through the years. He doesn't look frail, or as though he's trying to hide from anything.
Neither of them seem to have heard Jarod.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Empathy - what can I pick up just by watching/listening?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)
[Tranquility] The man who is looking out the window seems...oddly vacant. It isn't quite consistent with the dementia of older people, but there's something emotionless about him, as though something were broken or severed. He's never seen it before - it's difficult to put his finger on, precisely. But he shows little reaction to most of the things the other man says, and not much interest in what's going on outside even though he looks. This is the dying man.
The other man, the chanter, seems tired, and there's an air of patience about him. But he's calming, now that whatever Working he did seems to have been successful. He's wandering over to a stack of books, and he's shelving them. Cataloguing them, perhaps. This room is a mess too.
[Jarod Nightingale] He'd gone to a public school once, for a few years. It had been a source of discord among his family, but like so many other things, once he'd set his mind on something, it inevitably came to be. Nonetheless, he'd existed apart from his fellow students, even there. He was a foreigner, an alien... he didn't belong. (Then, as now, he stood apart - for better and for worse.)
The language was not something that he recognized, which was unusual enough to be worthy of note. He spoke most of the major languages of the world, and recognized common words and phrases from many others. This one, though... the roots of it were strange. Something old, maybe. Something obscure or mystical or perhaps created by the speaker. Jarod crept forward and listened, until the words died away.
The chanter got up to begin re-shelving the books, and in that moment, Jarod made a decision that might prove either worthwhile or extremely unwise. He was, after all, trespassing in this house. Even should the old man prove to be of a friendly sort, he hardly had a reason to trust a sneaking stranger. But the man did not immediately give any sense of danger or malicious intent. If anything, he seemed anxious and tired. (And what was it they say about cats and curiosity?)
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, as he stepped out into the room. "I didn't realize anyone lived here." He tried not to make his appearance seem too sudden or antagonistic, but his appearance might very well cause a bit of a jolt. By all accounts, he seemed like a well-intentioned visitor. A prospective buyer, maybe. One of those wealthy people who went around flipping real estate to turn a profit on old houses in decent neighborhoods. Or perhaps they'd see him as exactly what he was - an Awakened being who'd seen something unusual and come to investigate.
[Tranquility] [Awareness]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Tranquility] Jarod steps out into the room, and the chanter startles, his portly frame bumping into the small table the books are stacked on top of. The tower of text sways, sways, leans...and doesn't fall. Which is probably a relief to at least two of them in the room; they're fragile old things, the books, and what a tragedy it would be to see them topple and break their spines on the threadbare carpet, their insides spilled and scattered among their gutted fellows.
He rests his hand on top of the pile of books, though it's hardly necessary in order to keep them steady. Maybe he just means to protect them. The other man, the one in the chair, turns his head to regard Jarod. "Oh. Hello," he says, but just looks at him utterly without real interest.
The chanter eyes Jarod a moment, his bushy white eyebrows beetling together. His eyes are dark brown, sharp in spite of all the years; it adds to the slightly mousey look of him. But when he speaks, his voice doesn't tremble. "Now you do," he says, and his voice is that of someone who has been intruded upon.
Nevertheless, he adds, perhaps recognizing Jarod's greater strength, "Can I do something for you?"
[Jarod Nightingale] The man had every reason to be suspicious. Jarod was, by all accounts, an intruder, and from the looks of this place, someone or something had come through and caused a fair bit of damage already. And here he was, eyes lighting upon the stack of books with carefully guarded interest (but interest nonetheless), resonating cold sensuality. He was here for selfish reasons, and whether or not the chanter would be able to discern that, he'd be justified in suspecting.
But that didn't mean he wasn't capable of sympathy. Jarod glanced at the man by the window, then said, "Actually, I was going to ask you the same thing. Did something happen here?"
[Tranquility] The man by the window just blinks back at Jarod. Wordless. For a moment it looks as though he might answer, before a confused expression flickers across his face. He shakes his head once, as though he's forgotten whatever he was going to say, and then his gaze wanders back out toward the window.
"A long time ago," says the other man. He just eyes Jarod a moment, his eyes suspicious and a touch calculating, as though he's trying to gauge whether or not he could make Jarod leave.
He must, however, have decided it's not worth the risk. He says, "We're not interested in whatever you're doing out there, so you can go back and tell whoever sent you. We already fought," he says, and waves a meaty hand as though Jarod were a Bible salesman he were trying to ward off.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Per+Etiquette - what's the best way to deal with this guy?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Tranquility] In many ways, this man seems to have the air of a disgruntled veteran. Someone who just wants to be left alone. He's protective of what he has here and he feels like he's sacrificed enough: he has no interest in communicating with the chantry, and he thinks that's what Jarod is here to do. Placating him would be an excellent way to proceed.
One might assume by the surroundings that he's from one of the more stuffy Traditions - Hermetic or Chorus, perhaps. They generally place a lot of importance on proper etiquette, and Jarod hasn't yet introduced himself or stated his purpose.
[Jarod Nightingale] The early stages of these sorts of encounters could be tricky to navigate. One wrong step, and fear, anger or suspicion could slam closed doors that had been tentatively left open. It is because of this that Jarod chose his next words and actions carefully.
"No one sent me," he replied, raising a hand briefly in a gesture of reassurance. "I'm not with the chantry."
He stepped forward slowly, not close enough to invade the man's space, but bridging some of the gap between them. Then he held out a hand and waited to see if the man would accept it. "Jarod Nightingale. Verbena, though I know I don't look it."
It was actually a friendlier and more straightforward introduction than given to probably any of the other magi in the city. That was intentional. This behavior was meant to reassure, and to help break down boundaries. With the others, the boundaries in question had been his own. He smiled, and it was a disarming expression. Warm and polite. Even respectful.
[Tranquility] Jarod says he's not with the chantry, and the man he's been speaking to lets out an irritated sounding sigh. Nevertheless, when Jarod extends his hand he reaches out to shake it. He shakes his head, once, when Jarod says he's a Verbena, as though confirming his suspicions - or he might just be shaking his head at the manners of younger magi. Or primals. His sort call them that.
"William Steward," he says, "Orphan." He speaks the word with some hesitance; perhaps he was used to offering another Tradition once. No longer. Then he gestures toward the man at the window. "This is Abimelech Bergen." There is a pause, as though this name should mean something to Jarod; it doesn't. It stopped being a name of any consequence a long time ago. "He was Celestial Chorus."
Jarod's manner is respectful, but William Steward still seems irritated with him. Suspicious of his motivations, perhaps, even though he's said he isn't affiliated with the chantry. He adds, after a moment, "Try not to touch anything. The spooks knocked everything everywhere when they raided. I just finished recataloguing everything upstairs last month, and I don't want you ruining everything down here."
[Jarod Nightingale] There was a proper handshake, and names were offered, and Jarod nodded.
He might have offered to help with the mess, but it seemed that the man (William Steward, he said his name was) wasn't comfortable with a stranger's hands touching the old volumes. That was a pity, since Jarod was... more than a little curious to find out what they had stashed away here. He glanced at the stack nearest him, to see if there was any indication on the ancient bindings of what might be contained within. Probably very little, if any.
"What happened here? If you don't mind my asking."
[Tranquility] The look Steward is giving Jarod suggests that he would very much like for Jarod to leave. Considers him a nuisance, at best, and someone who might potentially destroy his work here at worst. Endanger him, or the other man here. Who knows.
He waves a hand as though swatting a fly, or nudging aside a particularly curious cat. "It was years ago. Years and years ago," he adds, as though placing extra stress on the word will make the distance greater. "Back during the War. Mr. Bergen was a Master once, you know."
Mr. Bergen does not look as though he could have been a master once. There's a sort of dead stillness to the air about him that accompanies the vacancy in his eyes. He feels like nothing at all. "Anyway," Steward continues, his voice a bit testy as he checks the binding on one of the books in front of him, "let's just say that you aren't the first man in a suit to show utter disrespect for the property."
[Jarod Nightingale] He glanced at Mr. Bergen for a long moment, contemplating. Whatever the man had been once... he was a far cry from that now. Likely there was a sad story behind it.
"I apologize for any disrespect I showed. That certainly wasn't my intention." He paused to consider his words as he took a few slow paces around the room, mindful not to step on anything, if the mess of pages had persisted this far into the house. "I saw something strange in the window when I passed by, and I wanted to be sure that it wasn't anything to be concerned about. You really can't be too careful."
The look he offered Mr. Steward now was akin to that of coworkers who'd been through the same miserable job. As if to say: you know what it's like. These two were old. They probably had more than a few war stories between them.
"Have the spooks been back here recently?"
[Tranquility] When Jarod apologizes for any disrespect, Steward just lets out a little huff. It's difficult to tell whether it's disbelief or acceptance. For as reticent as he'd been when Jarod first stepped into the room, he seems more than willing to talk now; one might suspect that he's spent a long time in this house just talking to himself. Bergen seems to have little to contribute to the conversation.
"You saw the inside of the house," Steward explains, as though Jarod were unaware of the fact. "I've kept the house hidden for years. But sometimes the cloak falls off, so to speak, and I'm afraid I've never been a particularly skilled magus..." He states this in the same tone as the rest, rather than as though he were confiding something. It's something he's been told time and again and accepted; there are magi whose Avatars bend beneath the strain of a simple Working. Rare as the other extreme, those magi who are as connected to theirs as Jarod is, but nevertheless they exist.
He passes the book end over end in his hands at Jarod's question. "Not recently, no. This was...oh, fourteen, fifteen years ago that this happened. They ruined the house and we were in hiding for a long time. Just came back a few years ago. It's Mr. Bergen's house, you know, but I thought it was a shame to leave all the books like this."
[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod may not have been what this man would consider ideal company. Though Mr. Steward had introduced himself as an Orphan, he had all the trappings of the Hermetic tradition. Jarod was a primal (as that tradition like to call him), and he was dressed not unlike the spooks that had come to tear this place apart, which made him a unique combination of suspicious elements, both archaic and modern. He was also seemingly the most powerful Will in the room.
If he really wanted to, he could probably cause the two men quite a bit of trouble (the strong preying upon the weak), but that was the difference between humans and the rest of the animal kingdom - they had more options. For a moment he thought about Ilana, who was probably eating dinner right now. Then he walked closer to the man in the chair (Mr. Bergen.) Jarod reached out slowly, as if to touch the man's head, but he paused and glanced between the two for a moment, his expression questioning. (Asking permission.)
"Would he mind if I take a look at him?"
[Tranquility] Steward looks up once, sharply, as Jarod approaches the man in the chair. Bergen just looks at the hand that is being extended toward his head through a pair of bushy snowy white eyebrows, and it's a peaceful sort of blink that he gives Jarod, lazy almost. As though he knows he has nothing to fear from Jarod. (Perhaps he doesn't, though. Perhaps he just doesn't remember how to fear.)
The Orphan's mouth thins, and after a moment he lets out a sigh. "He's been unwell for a long time. Just be careful," he says. There's an acceptance in the way he says it. They're old men, and whatever greatness the Chorister might have once had is long since gone.
Bergen is still holding the book between both of his hands, in against his stomach. "You won't find much there, though," he tells Jarod.
[Jarod Nightingale] [Searching for Injury and Disease - Life 1, diff 4 -1(specialty focus)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 4, 5 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Extending, just in case]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Basic Mind scan (surface thoughts/emotions... basically, the obvious, is he thinking like a normal person?) - Mind 2, diff 5 -1(focus) -1(slow)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 10 (Success x 2 at target 3) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] [and extending again...]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 6, 6 (Success x 1 at target 4)
[Tranquility] This close to the Chorister, Jarod can see his pattern much more clearly: still alive, in spite of its years and in spite of the many injuries wrought upon it throughout them. He was, perhaps, a Life mage once; his body bears old wounds healed over, and it was quite strong at one point in time. What is happening to him now is natural, if painful. He can see points in the man's body where there are pockets of cells growing out of control.
This happens.
His mind, however, is oddly still. Portions of his memory have been cut away, and there's an odd disconnect with much of what he's heard them speak about so far. There's a lack of emotional connection too, a lack of drive, a lack of interest in knowing the world around him, but the cause of that is more difficult to discern. Something seems to have been cut out of him.
[Jarod Nightingale] This may have been an exercise in futility. There were yet many things that he could not cure (assuming that he even wanted to try - Verbena tended to have strong beliefs about letting Life take its natural course), and after all this time, one would imagine that Steward would have tried to get his friend help, if help was easily found.
But it didn't hurt to look, and so... Jarod looked. Once permission was received, he touched the tips of his fingers to the side of the old man's head, making contact at the temple. His eyes locked on the former Master's own vacant ones (windows to the soul, they say) and for a long moment, everything was still and silent. Minutes passed. Perhaps Steward would become bored or anxious in that silence, but he was probably used to it.
Cancer. Yes, this did happen. And it wasn't something he could fix. Neither was the broken emptiness that he found when he searched the man's mind.
He let his hand drop and took a step back. "Did they do this to him?" By they, of course, he meant the technocracy.
[Tranquility] Steward is quiet while Jarod goes about his Work. He is indeed used to the silence, and perhaps he's already well aware that whatever is wrong with the former Master, it's well beyond his ability to fix. His physical ailments alone are well beyond the ability of most magi to fix.
Accepting one's own limitations is the most difficult thing for a Willworker, sometimes. When Jarod steps back, Bergen just twists his head and glances back toward the window, absent. His hands tap a few times, arhythmically. He can see out into the street, the line of cars that still hasn't really cleared away. There's the distant sound of sirens, luring the mind to the false hope that the traffic will let up soon only to dash it apart; it won't. Probably not for another hour or two.
"Mm," Steward says. "I assume you're familiar with the idea of Gilgul." He waves once more, his expression suggesting that if Jarod is not familiar, he has no time to explain (even though he seems to have nothing but time, now.) "The library was very important to him at one time, so I thought I would come back and restore it."
[Jarod Nightingale] Steward asked if he was knew what it was to Gilgul someone, and Jarod nodded. He'd had his suspicions, and Steward had just confirmed them. His motion took him slowly back toward the bookshelf again, and the stack of volumes waiting to be re-cataloged. "You're a good friend to him," he offered, not so much as a compliment as an observation. It spoke of a great degree of dedication, caring for someone who... wasn't really there anymore.
"I had a library like this once." There was some regret in his voice. The way that someone might speak of a great work of art that had been lost. "Not this big, but... getting there. The shades burned it."
All that knowledge... lost. Old things. Secret things. One could not put a value on books like that.
[Jarod Nightingale] [er...-was]
[Tranquility] Steward looks up at Jarod, at that. Not when he mentions being a good friend; to this the Orphan (now) has nothing to say. He is here because there is nothing else for him to do, because the world's gone by without him and he's a rather poor excuse for a magus, after all, particularly without the protection of his cabal. But it's when Jarod mentions his library, the one that was burned.
"Ah," he says. "That's a shame." But there is a shared understanding there, of lost things, mourning knowledge for its own sake and its destruction. "There were things in here I couldn't recover. He had some old scrolls that..." And here Steward sighs. "So I just wanted to collect the rest. I'm thankful they didn't burn it, at the very least. It would have been something they would have done."
He pauses, and his dark eyes fixate once more on Jarod as his thick fingers tap against the cover of the book in his hands, very gently. It's a sharp, searching sort of look. "You're too young to have fought," he says. It's not suspicious, not precisely. More an inquiry of sorts.
[Jarod Nightingale] To say that Jarod had fought in the Ascension War would not really have been an accurate statement. He'd been Awake for the last part of it. It had effected him (how could it not have?) His own actions may have made some small degree of difference. There was a woman in Beijing who'd left the technocracy as a direct result of his interactions with her. Mostly, though... he'd done his best to avoid them. Jarod wasn't a soldier. He valued survival over fighting for a cause.
"I'm older than I look, but only by a little. I Awakened a couple years before the war ended."
[Tranquility] "I see," Steward says, tapping the book in his hands over again. He sighs; there's a chair a few feet away from him, its plush red covering now threadbare and completely worn away in places, showing the brown weaving beneath. After a moment he places a hand on the arm and slowly lowers his bulk into the chair. It creaks a little in protest when he does.
There's a moment where he casts a glance around in thought. Out toward the pages that spill across the floor in the main hall like corpses marking a battlefield. But that pensive gaze only lasts for a few seconds.
"Well, I suppose they haven't stopped destroying things they don't know anything about, then, for all that supposed dedication to discovery," he snorts. Then, "I'm glad it's winter. Drier air...the most air is terrible for all the pages, and you wouldn't believe the rot that's gotten into some of them..." And then Jarod will be treated to a tangent about the properties of mold and their effect on the delicate parchments of some of the scrolls upstairs.
He's been by himself in the house for a long time.
[Jarod Nightingale] He could be good at listening, even when the subject matter wasn't of particular interest to him. Sometimes, people just needed to talk. And there were always things to be learned, even from the most seemingly mundane conversations. The things people chose to talk about, and the way that they talked about them, revealed certain things about them. Steward clearly cared about his companion. More than cared - respected. (Perhaps the other had been a mentor once.) There was a similarly devoted reverence regarding these books, which may have been because he had a Hermetic's respect for the written word, or it may have simply been an extension of the care he had for the Gilguled Chorister.
The man was also very lonely.
"They destroy many things. Strangle and suffocate others. I doubt they understand any other way." A dreary observation, but truthful. "The war ended, but we still fight. The conflicts are just... smaller and more secretive, now." He looked at the man, seated now in his chair. He looked like someone who'd had more than enough of war for ten lifetimes.
"Are you sure there isn't anything that you need?"
[Tranquility] Steward sighs at this question, a sound that comes out almost as though it had been trapped, the way old goods locked away in obscurity suddenly crumble when exposed to fresh air. It's the sigh of someone who has already made up his mind but hasn't fully realized it yet himself, a sort of giving in.
"If you're a Verbena you must know something about how to help me restore most of these texts," he says, and perhaps that's why he'd gone off on that tangent. Hinting, even if he hadn't fully realized it until he was prompted. He's not about to ask for company (he's gotten used to what he is), or for a stranger to cart off this wealth of knowledge he and the former Chorister are sitting on.
But he can ask for help. "Just so it isn't lost."
[Jarod Nightingale] Funny how something so small and seemingly insignificant could wreak so much havoc. Of course, that was nature for you. A single cell could destroy something as large and complex as a human being. (Bergen, poor man, was proof of that.) The technocracy wanted to tame all of the Life on the planet. Plants, animals, diseases...
As if they ever could.
Jarod didn't need to spend time mulling over an answer, because he'd been hoping for this exact response. Nonetheless, he was quiet for a moment before responding. "I think I can help with that. Would you care to show me the main library?"
[Tranquility] Jarod pauses as though he hadn't been driving toward that response, and Steward seems to believe in it, to think that the offer hadn't been out there until he'd made the request to Jarod. He seems to believe this was all his idea. Or maybe he just doesn't care.
He nods to the Verbena when Jarod makes his request, and then he places his hands on the arms of the chair and propels himself up and out of it once more. The floorboards creak, and his body leaves dust motes floating about in its wake after he's risen from the chair. The fabric is clogged with it; it's become a part of the house now, the dust.
Then he begins to make his way down a hall, and it's dim here too; it's fortunate that Jarod has a cat's eyes tonight. It's a wonder the old man can find his way through at all, but perhaps he just knows it by the feel of the place, by the pitch of each creak as he walks. There's a staircase, and his hand travels the well-worn railing as he makes his way up. It smells mustier up here.
The main library is through a pair of sliding double doors, and he parts them with both hands as he steps in. And this place is much better organized. Obviously better cared for. The floor is clean, and the lighting is much better here; he's lit candles. Perhaps the house doesn't get electricity anymore, or perhaps it never did (it was owned by a Master once.) The walls are lined with shelves which are lined with books.
He beckons Jarod in after him, and then looks toward him expectantly.
[Jarod Nightingale] There was a time, not even very long ago, when being around this much dust would be cause for anxiety. It still could be, if he had nothing else to occupy his mind (or, heaven forbid, if the dust was in his own home). Ignoring it had become easier though. Jarod wouldn't have been able to explain precisely why, or pin down exactly when this had changed. Perhaps it was a sign that he was happier, or more secure. Perhaps he was learning, little by little, to accept the things he could not control.
They ascended the stairs, and Jarod navigated the dim and unfamiliar house without bumping into anything or otherwise appearing awkward or clumsy. Things looked different like this. No color. Everything had a kind of silvery hue. When they reached the library, and Steward opened the doors, the candle-light seemed nearly blinding for a moment, and he had to look away until his eyes adjusted. When he could see again, he walked into the room and looked around.
It was an impressive library. He walked past the shelves slowly, glancing at the bindings (reading titles, where such was evident) and reaching out to run the tips of his fingers slowly and carefully over the books. They were not the target of his Will. He had not the proper understanding of dead matter to affect them directly. But this was part of the ritual. To touch - to connect. He could do magic without it, but it always helped.
After awhile, he slipped off the jacket of his suit and moved to hang it on the hook at the back of the door. His tie soon joined it, draped carefully atop the material. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, letting his neck breath, and he opened the cuffs so that he could roll them up to his elbows.
Perhaps Steward worried, for a moment, that his guest was about to strip naked and do some kind of strange, primeval dance. What actually happened was less dramatic, but primal nonetheless. Jarod did not call the corners or pray to the Gods (such as they were.) His rituals were his own.
He knelt down on the floor, and put his thumb to his mouth again. The tiny wound he'd made earlier was still there, but it had since closed. He opened it again as he bit down, the sharp point of his canine breaking flesh. He bit harder this time. Despite the fact that his teeth were sharper than most, this method was still not the smoothest or most efficient method to break skin. A knife point would have done the job cleanly, and with much less pain.
The pain, in its way, was part of it though. It woke up his senses. He tore into his thumb until blood oozed free, and then, on the inside of his arm, he began to paint a row of symbols. Traditional Chinese characters. They were older than the modern written language. More detailed and complex. And then he spoke, chanting something low and quiet under his breath. It was not English. Not Mandarin either. It sounded Asian. A dialect, perhaps.
Language had power. (But that was not something he'd learned from the Verbena.)
[First off - Life scan on the room to get a sense of exactly what he's dealing with here - diff 4 -1]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 3)
[Jarod Nightingale] [Destroy simple Life - Life 2, diff 5 -1(focus) -1(slow)]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 2, 2 (Success x 1 at target 3) [WP]
[Jarod Nightingale] [Extending]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 4)
[Jarod Nightingale] [...and again. Clearly mold does not like to die.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 4 (Failure at target 4)
[Jarod Nightingale] [...We're gonna be here for awhile]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 5, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Tranquility] Steward does indeed raise a hand when he sees Jarod begin to unbutton his shirt. That the jacket and tie were discarded, well, that he could accept easily enough. He prefers to be comfortable when he does his own Working. But primals are known for being...well, primal. For doing their chants and lighting their fires and bathing themselves in fluids any proper Willworker would be disgusted by.
And no matter how long Steward has been in here alone or how badly he might want the help, he is not thrilled at the thought of a naked man dancing in his library.
Fortunately, that's not what Jarod does, though the Orphan's brow creases when Jarod bites down into the ball of his thumb. Draws down into a wince at the thought of doing the same, at the thought of the pressure needed and how painful it must be, and then further when Jarod begins to smear his blood over the inside of his arm. He's used to a far more sterile magical practice. He might even be a touch squeamish, after all these years.
He'd already been able to see these clusters of life in the library, even as he brushed his hand over the surface of the book. They're everywhere, these tiny patterns clustered so tightly together that they're almost a One, an amalgam: groups of small cells throughout the room that aren't unlike a more complicated creature once he considers them all at once. He can see a few little specs there on his palm, connected to him, interwoven with all the other life in the room. There are mites too; there are a number of things that will feed on dry parchment.
And anywhere there's a connection, it can be broken. As he Works the patterns begin to fade, becoming simple matter on the surface of the pages, along the inside of the bindings and the creases where the leaves come together. He can't clear the mold off quite so easily or repair what damage decay has already wrought, but the creatures preying on the books, at least, do die at the touch of his Will.
He can see all of those small patterns fade away at once, almost as if he'd breathed a touch of Winter into the room.
[Jarod Nightingale] The words and the writing had felt appropriate, given the nature of what he was doing (what he was trying to protect.) This was the benefit of having been an Orphan for so many years before he'd joined a Tradition. He wasn't so hidebound to specific rituals, and he was able to synthesize all of the various teachings (and those things that were simply instinctual) he'd picked up through his Awakened life.
It took some time, but the ritual had its desired effect. By the time the last of the spores had withered away, the blood had stopped flowing from his thumb, and the symbols on his arm had dried. He left them, for now, and got to his feet.
"I did what I could. There's nothing left to feed on the books. You'll need to track down someone more skilled in repairing non-living patterns to do the rest."
[Tranquility] He nods once as he looks about the library. Primal though Jarod's ritual was, it was effective, and any (former) Traditionalist after a while learns to just appreciate results. It's the way of the isolated and those in need of aid, too: the methods matter less and less.
"Mm," is his reply when Jarod suggests that he find someone who knows something about non-living patterns. "I can do...a little. Very little, and it's always slow work." They both know he won't be going out to search for anyone to repair the rest of the books. He's been in here for years on his own; perhaps he fears the thought of leaving. It's likely that he'll be in here until he dies.
"Thank you for your help," he says to Jarod, as he begins to make his way back toward the door again. He has no way to verify what Jarod did, really; it'll be a little while before he can see the results with his eyes that can't read Life. "It'll probably be back in the spring, but I suppose we have to do what we can."
[Jarod Nightingale] "I could come again when the weather warms, if you like."
Though it seemed as if Steward didn't have a phone, and nor was he all that inclined to leave his self-imposed isolation, so any future encounter was bound to be much like this one: Jarod simply showing up out of the blue and at his own behest. After a pause, and a shrewd glance toward the retreating Orphan, he asked, "Would you be willing to part with any of these?"
[Tranquility] Truth be told, Steward had been expecting a request like this; he had wondered whether the Verbena would expect a payment of some kind, or whether he would do it out of a shared desire to keep the books from rotting away. It irritates him to hear the request spoken. If the truth must be said, Steward does not want to part with the books, and he does not want to give up any of the library he has worked hard to preserve.
There's a rise and fall of his rounded shoulders when he sighs, and Jarod can't see his brows furrow again. But they do.
"You can take some of them into your keeping," he tells Jarod, "since I won't get to all of the ones downstairs for quite some time yet. If you'll come again in the spring." He makes it sound like a loan; he makes it sound as though Jarod is to return them once the library is fully restored.
But they both know they won't be. Because Steward's an old man, and perhaps he'd rather see the books in someone's hands than forgotten with the house. This is just an easier way to part with them.
[Jarod Nightingale] He could have left it. He could have walked away with the knowledge that he'd done a lonely old man a favor, and been content with that. But he hadn't come here because he'd wanted to help someone. He'd come here for his own selfish reasons, and although his motivation had shifted slightly since then (he was not unfeeling, and not without respect for old things), he was hardly the kind of person who performed extended effects for strangers out of the goodness of his heart.
He wouldn't have pushed the issue, if Steward had said no. He would have bid his time and tried again on their next meeting, because social dealings required a lot of patience, and that was something he'd learned and mastered a long time ago. In the end, he would have gotten what he wanted. But much like so many of Jarod's interactions with others, the results here were mutually beneficial. Perhaps he wasn't quite as selfish as he liked to think.
He smiled when the man told him that he could hold onto a few, and he didn't attempt to bargain or clarify their arrangement. "Thank you," he said. And then, "I will."
