Also, what Jon means by 'hamster'
March 30th, 2017
The Dawns gather to chat and discuss the Soundless.
Not much has been changed in the Dawn cavern for this little shindig. The cavern is pretty enough as it is! And who doesn't enjoy a fire of possibility? What has been added, however, are some tables. The tables are laden with all kinds of treats. Most of them are sweet! Not all, no, but most. There's also a collection of drinks: water, juice, soda, and even some beers. Amongst the cookies and brownies and the like one can find ice cream. Lots of it! Each container is hand-labeled. They're combinations of fruit (or berries) and herbs. Lemon and basil. Blueberry and thyme. Other such things.
Iris is already present. The Airtouched is likely at least known around the Freehold- she's been around for roughly six months and has already provided fruits from her garden for the Harvestmen. She's dressed in a pale blue sundress, showcasing the colors slip-sliding across her skin. Her feet are tucked into boots that would be better suited for hiking and her hair is held back -- barely -- by a tie-dyed bandana. The woman is fussing over a stack of bowls and spoons set in place for the ice cream, as well as scoops laid out carefully before each.
Dielle comes in. She's been around the area for about two years now. She kinda opted in, swore to the freehold, and has been keeping her head down for over a year, now. She's been busy with mortal things. But she's finally getting back into remembering that oh, yeah, there's more to life than work, school, study, track and sometimes volunteer-work. It's a nice change, and so there she is, walking in. She's wearing buttery-soft, blue-green leggings that disappear into her cowboy boots. Over that, she's wearing a tunic that comes down to about mid-thigh, belted to turn it into a dress, of a silvery grey, and open over that is a shabby black wool coat. Her hair is loose under her brown cowboy hat. She looks around when she comes in and doesn't head straight for the food table, for a shocker. Instead, she's looking to see who's here and what they look like.
Tzedek tzedek tirdof: Justice, justice you shall pursue. Well. If justice is being pursued by Gisa, let's hope it isn't moving very quickly. She moves the way that mountain ranges do: slowly, and through great application of inertia. It isn't that she's big, not at all -- five and a half feet tall, give or take an inch -- but that she's solid, and every step taken is as though she has thought extremely thoroughly about the halachic implications of exactly where the sole of her boot will fall. Gisa (who has been a member of the Freehold since its inception) went back to Israel for the High Holidays. She was unavoidably delayed, apparently, because here she is now, again, without explanation. Thud. Thud. Thud. She pauses by a wall, and slowly leans back until her sweater-covered back thuds faintly against the cavern wall with a clink of ceramic wrapped over in cloth.
Grillo has only been in town just a little over six months. Maybe closer to a year's anniversary. But he's hard to miss; the cricket does not dress like he comes from some small burg in Vermont. Tonight is no exception: three piece tweed suit, an amazing plum-purple dress coat that wouldn't look out of place on Willy Wonka, a blue-sky scarf that shouldn't work but somehow does, sunglasses over his eyes. Big eyes, bug eyes, and when up close, it's hard to miss how they're all pupil, all watchful. And of course, an umbrella hooked over one arm, just in case. "Ah. This time, I'm fashionably late," he announces with satisfaction, moments behind the others, and apparently pleased to be, as that means company is already in place. "Evening, friends."
The living, walking rainbow moves with a sort of ease through the cavern, but mostly around those tables. Fidgeting with this and that so it's just-so. Perfect! Or maybe a different angle? Perhaps over- oh, people! Iris claps as she turns, rolling from heel to toe. It gives her an added inch! Briefly! "No late, nor early. I just thought perhaps with these..." she takes some time, remembering, "Soundless! Yes, that's their name. We should meet. Talk. But-" shrug, "if you just want to eat, please do, else I'll have Jonah come in and finish it up once we're done." She grabs a cookie and a beer for herself, moving through and grabbing a seat.
Dielle comes moving forward and putting some fruit and a few other goodies on her plate, and some iced tea. She takes a seat, and says, "I ain't really heard much about these Soundless. Someone mind explaining it to me? I'm Dielle, by the way." She's also Southern, clearly, and pronounces her name like it's initials: D.L.
"Soundless?" Gisa's query grinds into being as she slowly leans forward again, beginning the incredible trek from her leaning post against the wall to Where The Beer Is. The way she moves, there might as well be a Red Sea between herself and her destination, with a stop off at Sinai and etc. She moves like it's gonna take forty years, that's the joke here, people. When Dielle speaks at greater length, Gisa's hand comes up and she points at the other woman, as if to say: what she said. Her chin chucks up in recognition or greeting or both toward Grillo, and when she gets to the beer, she takes equal time picking up the bottle, her baked-clay hand squeaking against the glass. Just shy of nails on a chalkboard, that. Her mouth opens. Her teeth are cut marble. She bites off the cap, even if it isn't strictly necessary that she does so. CREAK. CRUNCH. Clatter, cap into hand, from hand into trash.
Jon was late. He had a duffelbag that could fit a small platoon in side of it and looked a little irritated with it dropping it to the side of the hollow. He made no introductions as he blotted out teh light in the entrance for a moment and then came into the room. He made no interruptions either. He paused and looked around at the ice cream. Blinked. Looked at more ice cream and blinked. Finally he said "Dee... I smushed you didn't I?" He wasn't talking to DIelle. He was staring at the tub of rainbow sherbert warily.
The question regarding the Soundless gets a shrug from Iris. She's got a cookie to munch on and a beer to drink. But after a bit of each, the rainbow goddess speaks up. "Dunno, really. Some other Freehold who claims this land belongs to them." She's in a blue sundress that reveals plenty of skin, which rainbow hues slide across as if blown by a breeze. "But I'd guess-" head-tilt, as she considers, "the big question is why now."
"Just the question I was hoping someone would have a good answer to," Grillo says to Dielle. He might sneak a wink at Gisa for a moment. Cheeky, out of his usual politesse. He looks over his shoulder at Jon, raises one thin-fingered hand in greeting, then continues smoothly enough as he studies the food table before actually serving himself. "It seems odd to wait so long to object and stake a claim to an area, if it does belong to some other freehold. And a land usually goes to those who protect it, and those the Wyrd recognizes."
The wink earns, in return, a subtle brightening of the way her firey insides illuminate the four-armed shin carved through her forehead, and of the flickering flames which approximate eyes in Gisa's eyepits. Then one of those eye-flames, ever-so-briefly, goes out and comes on again. She brings her beer up to her lips, clinks the neck against her lips, and takes a long, thoughtful drink. "The Wyrd has spoken, yes?" One of those mountain-range shrugs of hers, and she finds another piece of cavern wall to hold up with her back. "So what can they dispute?"
Dielle smiles at Grillo and then waves at Jon as he comes in. Moreso as he stares at the sherbet. "Didn't melt, Jon, I'm over here." She glances at Gisa and says, "That's a damn fine question. Wish I'd thought of it."
Jon grabbed the sherbert, clearly just joking about the ice cream but sticking a spoon on teh tub of sherbert and bringing that with him. Jotun worked hard. It's the icecream or half the room. This seemed fair. He dug at it with a spoon, gived the Unicorn a wink and the room an upnod. He simply asked, "Before you talk freehold issues and politics, is everyone present even in said club? Something something loose lips. Hi."
Grillo points out to Jon, "If somebody who wasn't found the freehold Hollow right here on their own, I'd be impressed. But as it is, I'm pretty sure everyone here so far has joined Fate's Harvest." Almost apologetically: "I remembered as much, anyway, for what that's worth." Says a Lord Echo, so it might carry more weight, even if tallying a freehold roster might not strictly be his job. "You should definitely try the lemon ice cream with the cookies," he adds. "If you like what's sweet, anyway. Pretty exceptional."
What is a gathering of Dawns without not one, but -two- deities?
Two -rainbow- deities, more to the point, and a rainbow not-a-deity.
The first hints of November's impending arrival are subtle ones, the strength of her connection to the Wyrd mingling with that of Iris' to heighten the weight of power in the room. To those who met her last night, the soft internal whispering of danger-signals to the hindbrain ought to be familiar, the too-Fae Fairest striding in both late and unashamed -- and not alone. A white crow with black eyes and iridescent scales is clinging to one wrist, flapping often, and seems to be having a rather tough time keeping his grip.
Proving that sartorial diversity is the least of her worries, rather than tie-dyed mesh and fluorescent sneakers, THIS evening the icier Ancient is both completely colourless and clad in fluttery snow-white silks just the safe side of sheer, the floor length gown glittering with the icy fire of thousands of tiny clear crystals. Delicate embroidery picks out the fine lines of illusory frost to match the true frost on the transparent body beneath.
The very instant he can, the crow half-slips, half-lunges off her wrist to flap toward the table, cawing a disgusted, "FINally," and cocking one beady black eye toward the nearest plate of food in corvine speculation. November agrees with Grillo, given that his was the comment she walked in on. "When we adopted this Hollow, it was for the purposes of Fate's Harvest, given that there were, at that time, no known members of the Court beyond its auspices."
"I only went on holiday." Gisa tilts her head to the side, the copper wires of her hair catching on her sweater a bit as she does. That is, apparently, her answer to Jon, for whatever it's worth. She takes another drink of her beer, finishing most of it on the second swallow. Grillo's suggestion causes her forehead to wrinkle up like fault lines forming in wet earth, and she nods slowly, as if he'd suggested something that requires deep thought. Study. Yes. The arrival of the third of the rainbows has her tipping her chin up toward November in greeting, as if they'd seen one another a few hours ago, and not a few months ago.
Daisy nibbles on an apple slice. She's not a diety and has no wish to be one, but damn, it is FUN being around a bunch of Dawns and look at how clean and new everything looks! "Does this mean someone's gonna answer those Soundless questions, now that we've got our bona fides in line? Jon, you damn best bet you're gonna share that, 'specially after yesterday's hamster crack!"
Dielle adds, "Hi, November! Nice t'see you again!"
Jon noted to teh cricket, "I dig my ice cream like my coffee: cold, bitter, and full of callories." He ate right out of the container and noted to teh Cricket, "I never assume anything." The wind shifted, his mantle felt like something between adreneline and a second-wind right before he wall. THis was way different. It was jarring and awesome to have someone so attuned with ther element or vocation as the Pantheon and he watched November for a long moment, stoically, and nodded. "Good to see you could make it." Always, tone was flat and deadpan but that wasn't necessarily a lack of sincerity.
Jon eyes Dielle and shook his head no. "Hamsters don't eat ice cream. Bad for your digestion."
The ice cream is not bitter! But it's not ultra sweet, either. Fruits, herbs, all that fun stuff. One container, well, it may be marked as having Chu Chu Clum because everyone wants ice cream that gets you drunk, right? Even if it is a bit sour of a frozen treat. Iris has largely zoned out, enjoying a brownie and beer. Just sort of eating and watching the flame. She dos squint at November as the other deity arrives, squinting slightly. "I remember you." Hey, that's a rarity for her! Sometimes. Sorta. Her own mantle is the calm before the storm; the scent of ozone, the crackle in the air.
Grillo gives an eloquent shrug, one which seems to stick in place for a moment when November makes her entrance. He, too, has a powerful enough Mantle, but there's just something about the godlike ones. Grillo's assessment is: "Upstaged again, and even more fashionably late." This is admiring, papering over a certain natural apprehension, especially now with two such deities; antennae at alert.
More's the pity. A trifecta of divine Dawn rainbows would surely be on the fast track toward awesomeitude.
November drifts in her crow's wake, and, once he notices she is approaching, is promptly the recipient of a corvid complaint in the form of, "You think they got anything other than all this -sweet- shit?" and a flap-hop nearer the edge of the table, the large bird nonetheless careful not to touch anything as he meanders through the colourful comestibles.
Where Iris is the calm before the storm, November is the giddy, heady energy of the millisecond just before it breaks, the threat, and promise, that anything could happen -- and very likely will.
In this case, what happens is a flick of fingers toward the crow and a chiding, "Don't be rude, Yrrh," before she approaches Iris and, unasked, lifts those transparent digits toward the other woman's jaw, idly caressing iridescent skin and studying SOMEthing about it. "I haven't yet heard word from the Custodians," is her comment toward the Soundless problem.
Dielle's question about who's going to tell things gets her one of those silent, slow, eloquent shrugs from Gisa. Subtext: 'you know as much as I do.' Her head turns for a long moment toward the table, though it's difficult to tell at what, exactly, she looks. In the end, though, she finishes her beer, and goes to trade the empty for a full, skipping on all of the confectionary items on the table in favor of alcohol. Biting off the next bottlecap -- what a crunchy squeaky sound -- she spits it out, and into the trash. "More late, maybe." Those three words come on considerable delay, and toward what, erm, who knows? Her face is aimed vaguely toward the on-guard cricket, this might be a clue.
Jon relented to Dielle handing her half of the sherbert and watched them slowly. As it seemed no one had brand new intel on this beyond what was witnessed at Crown he asked, "So what are you all working on these days?" Elbows leaned on knees and he looked to them all. Curious really. To Gesa and Grillo heoffered, "Jon. Dont' think we caught up yet."
"C.J. Grillo," the cricket says to Jon, with a little tipped salute with his long fingers. "I've been around some time, but sometimes there's just not the opportunity to be as social as we'd like. Plus, I've been working on my book. Made me a bit scarce these past few months." He continues indulging in the lemon ice cream, with some cookies. Sweet stuff seems quite fine by the dandy-dressed bug.
There's a few blinks at November, but Iris doesn't reject the touch. She just lifts her chin and watches, with a slight tilt of her head. There's a few more blinks at the icy one, but she of breezes and color doesn't seem phased. Curious, more than anything else. "Does anyone know any of these Custodians? I don't think I do."
-> >> November to Here << <-==========================================
Rolled 2 Successes < 1 1 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 8 >
==================================-> >> Wyrd + Crafts No Flags << <-
Yrrh, with a healthy lack of self-preservation, caws a coarse-voiced, derisive, "Or what, snowglobe? You'll make me eat -this-?" He taps his beak against a container of ice cream.
November doesn't answer the bird at first, preoccupied with .. well, leaving the ice equivalent of snail trails over Iris' cheek. Meltwater happens. Chasing colours? Something. Whatever it is, she steps away with a vague moue of disappointment to glance at Yrrh, assuring, "No," and moving to acquire the most exotic, rare, indefinably wonderful beverage...! ...nope. Just water. Yrrh, behind her, is suddenly afflicted with a dreadful case of flamingitis, snowy plumage abruptly becoming bright flamingo pink.
With blithe disregard for the potential wrinkles she might cause, she tucks herself up in the corner of a crystal chair, glass balanced on the long facet of its angular arm. "November an Nua," she introduces, for those who aren't acquainted.
Dielle leans over and uses her fork to dig up some sherbet. It doesn't work very well, but Jon gets a friendly shoulder bump and offer of a cookie for it. "Nice t'meet you, C.J.," she says. "Ok, so, we've got me, Dielle. Jon. C.J. November. Who are you two?" That's asked of Gisa and Iris.
Grillo twitches his fingers towards Iris. "I confess I've been recruited, but a recruit is all I am in the Custodians. Haven't even been around long enough to get much more information than any of you, I'm afraid. But I am a rather raw beginner among them, at least until I prove myself." There's confidence there; the cricket has an air about him, perhaps partnered with that style, that suggests he has self-assuredness for days when he wants to.
"Gisa Cohen," answers the mid-sized mountain of a woman, raising her beer in a ponderous salute. "Shalom." Her shoulders rise, and fall, and she explains, "I belong here. I went to Israel. Now I am back. It took longer than I expected." With that novella of an explanation -- on her part, in any case -- she takes a swig of that beer, rather than just saluting with it.
"I am Iris," the woman answers, providing no more. No surname, at least. Just Iris. She seems satisfied being a single name for the moment. The woman does finish off her beer, moving to her feet to retrieve another.
Jon got himself a beer and looked between them all and let them talk. When everyone met he asked curiously, "Nice t'meet'choo all. So , hypothetically speaking, we know if we have any programs or a support line set up for people escaping ? Terresterial refugees at t were?"
Yrrh doesn't immediately notice his newly enpinkened plumage, but when he does, he caws a raucous jeer November's way and crouches on the table's edge, head bobbing as large wings extend to launch him up into the air. "Forfeit!" he snaps, flapping heavily at first to get height, then banking to make the corner out into the massive open space of the mountain's heart.
November, laughing, rises from the seat she had -just- settled into, excusing herself with a light, "A bargain is a bargain," over her shoulder to follow him out.
Dielle watches November leave, and keeps quiet, still eating and waiting to see what kind of answers Jon gets. She looks around at the various people there, from face to face to face and back, but none of what she's thinking shows on her face. Just that she is thinking.
"Define 'we'?" Grillo says to Jon. "Are you asking about the freehold or are you asking about the Court itself, more specifically?"
November's abrupt exit doesn't seem to even faze her: her wave goodbye's delayed until November is, indeed, already gone. When Grillo speaks, Gisa gestures toward him with her beer bottle, as if to say: he got to the question before me. She adjusts her leaning spot against the wall; her shoulders squeak a little against her shirt and the wall behind her when she does. Her head turns slowly back and forth, and while it's near impossible to tell exactly who she's looking at, she seems to be generally surveying those who remain. "Oh. Custodians. Reminds me." She gestures at Grillo with her beer again. "Probably a good idea. We'll talk later?"
Jon tilted his head sideways and answered as best as he could. "We as in those who have survived to come before them, teh Lost. THe freehould. The court. The four of us and the hamster." He looked to Dielle. Why hte hell he was referring the the unicorn as a hamster seemed to be an oblique reference or he finally lost his damn mind. "it's one thing to have people go here's a place to stay but is there a program set where we can help that transition as a person?"
Grillo steeples long fingers in front of his mouth. "Well," he says. "I think most people would suggest that the Waykeepers here follow that function. How well they do it, and whether they quite actually fulfil what you're looking for, I don't know, Jon," he admits. And then, he has to ask. "Just why do you call her a hamster? She's quite a lovely girl. Is this some in-joke I'm missing?"
With a half-full beer in her hand, Iris seems to have dozed off in one of the crystal seats. They are, indeed, deceptively comfortable!
Dielle lightly head-bumps Jon's shoulder, as if she might head-stab him. "Go on, Jon. Tell him." She's snickering softly. She wants to hear this.
A geologically slow look of puzzlement crosses Gisa's face, and she tilts her head to one side, wiry hair catching on the shoulders of her sweater. The trouble with being a few steps behind the conversation -- and short-spoken -- is that sometimes it moves past you by the time you've commented on it. This time, she doesn't try, just listens, instead.
Jon summed up succinctly, "She's got an unhealthy fixation with running on her treadmill. Reminiscent of hamster in wheel. Seriously though we antognize her about it but it's impressive as shit. So I might wnat to talk to Watchers about this then. Huh. I was tlakin to a SUmmer who was contemplating finishing ther GED. Just occurred to me, it's a lot to take on, but I'd kinda like to see some development in support programs for people to take back the parts of their life that were taken. Like help them recut their own jigsaw pieces or somethin. We have the resources." He shrugged. He wasn't entirely comfortable being so verbose, so he stuck to the basics. As the afterthought of, yes Jon that was 20 min. ago he noted to Gisa, "Your trip sounds interesting. Love to hear about thatif you're ever down.
"Wayhouse and Waylady," Grillo says, a mild correction. "But it is the truth that we often come back without ways to carry out any goals or move forward. Hard to change much without the tools. It's a really good idea. You should definitely pursue it." His comment to Gisa brings Grillo back around. "You had something you wanted to bring up? You said 'Reminds me." Sorry. Didn't mean not to follow up."
Dielle murmurs, "He's good at it. Helped me go to college." But she turns her attention to Gisa, an attentive look on her face. She's curious.
Jon's explanation brings an amused snort from Gisa, hot breath over the mouth of her beer bottle, blows a cloud of heated beer up in front of her face; a bit of it condenses on the tip of her nose. It takes her a little bit to sort her way through all of the various and sundry things now coming her way. First: wipe condensated beer off of nose with palm. It goes squeak squeak when she does so. Her hand passes down the front of her sweater, then. Both of the lights in her eyepits go out for a moment before slowly coming on again, a preface to the understatement of the century: "I would always like to speak about Israel." Her eyes and the shin on her forehead briefly glow very bright indeed at that. "Yes. Custodians. An appropriate method of service, I think, for me. We should talk."
Grillo stands up and unfolds himself from his relaxed position, rehooking his umbrella on his arm, setting down his dish of ice cream. From a pocket on the inside of his coat, he fishes out a card, which he plucks up between his fingers to offer to Gisa. "We should, and we shall. Remember, I am only a recruit, but I would be happy to tell you about our meetings and share our Kool-Aid." He pronounces "Kool-Aid" with such funny glee. "But the hour's growing late, so I might not be able to stay and share that talk tonight. Will you call me sometime?" His smiling gaze turns towards Dielle and Jon. "It's been nice to meet you, as well, Hamster-and-Friend."
Dielle stands up, and offers a clean hand to Grillo for shaking. "Nice t'meet you, too, sir." She doesn't kick Jon for the fact that her new nickname is 'hamster'. Because she got top billing, at least. "I hope to see you again, soon." But in the process of standing up, she does manage to knock her sherbet over onto Jon's lap. It's a small sacrifice.
She takes the card and carefully tucks it away in the pocket of her jeans, as though shelving a very important relic. "Yes. I will call you at the first interval which is polite." Finishing her beer, Gisa sets the bottle neatly with the others, ever-so-aware of the noise that ceramic and glass make when they interact, and straightens, carefully attempting to smooth back her wire curls.
They disagree. Her curls go SPROING back out onto her shoulders. They will not be tamed.
"Good to meet you, Jon, and also Dielle, the Hamster." And so begins the ponderous exit of the mountain, accompanied by a slowly waved hand and, "Shalom, friends."
Dielle waves back. "It was nice to meet you, too, Gisa! And C.J.!" She looks down at the newly-sherbeted Jon and says, "Sorry about the sherbet. At least it wasn't coffee. Or hot." He is so totally in trouble, now.