Late afternoon, and Gisa is tending to the Wayhouse. She isn't a Waykeeper -- just a Custodian -- but the Dawn Court has been spending time here of late, contributing to the positive growth of the individuals in the Freehold who are just arriving or need a bit more help. Sometimes that means teaching people how to read. Sometimes it means getting them a new license. Sometimes it means making pancakes.
Gisa is making pancakes. The sigil on the golem's forehead glows gently as she stacks up flapjacks on a platter.
Is it the smell of pancakes or the promise of shelter for a brief moment? Honestly, it doesn't matter why the second door creaks open, allowing a huge, broad-shouldered man to walk in. Pushing his black hair behind his ears, he peers around the space, almost hoping that no one notices him, and yet knowing that that's probably impossible.
He needn't have worried; it's not that busy. Still.
Oh. Right. Pancakes. He tries to find the source of the smell...
There.
Why is her forehead glowing?
"He.. Hello?"
Her forehead glows in the same way that her eyes do: Gisa's eyes aren't actually eyes, not really. They're black pits in her head with a flame glowing in each pit, like a candle burning in each window. The sigil on her forehead is a bit like a W leaning to one side with an extra arm. Gisa looks up from the pancakes she's making, and gives Allen a long, considering look before reaching for the platter, and dishing four pancakes from that platter onto a plate and holding it out toward him. "Shalom," she greets. "Are you new?" This may seem obvious, but she asks it anyway.
How long has it been since Allen has eaten pancakes? A while. And the smell... Wow. He stares at the plate for a long while before nodding his answer.
A few seconds pass, and then it seems to dawn on the giant that he should probably say something, or take the pancakes, or sit down, or do something similar to what people with average social skills should do.
"Are those for me?" he asks. He holds his hand out tentatively, as though no one has ever been nice to him before.
"Those are for you," agrees Gisa, and her expression remains -- very unreadable. He ought to be used to that, though -- the same sort of stony, blank visage greets him in the mirror, after all. "You did not answer my question. Are you a visitor, a new resident?" She leaves the current batch of pancakes cooking in the pan, takes a step to one side, and fetches him a fork and a knife. Funny thing: the fork and knife make the same sound against her fingers that they make when she sets them on the plate. She's not stone: she's ceramic.
"Thank you." He takes the plate in his massive hands like he's taking hold of a duckling or chick that he doesn't want to accidentally crush.
Oh, right, the second question.
"Yeah, I've just arrived," Allen admits, taking hold of the utensils and cutting into the pancakes with what can only be oxymoronically described as restrained gusto. "I think I'm on my way to Canada. Or, at least, as far as I can get." He stabs the eighth of the stack that he's carved out and takes a bite.
He smiles and falls silent, chewing with pleasure.
Then.
"Um, do you have maple syrup?"
"Why Canada?" asks Gisa, and then she trundles over to the fridge and takes out a metal container of real maple syrup after a bit of rooting around. None of that goofy caramel-colored sugar water when a golem makes pancakes. Her fingers squeak on the metal when she picks it up, and she carries it over. "You are welcome here in the meantime, regardless. I cannot officially welcome you, it would require a Waykeeper for that. But this place is here for that purpose." She brings out the butter, sets that out, and then calmly flips the pancakes.
Heaven. Allen is clearly in Heaven. He takes a pat of butter that's probably more like two or three to an average-sized person and slathers it all over his remaining pancake pieces, then covers the whole mess with a tooth-aching amount of syrup. Then another fourth of the four-cake stack is shoved in his face.
(Oh, wait. She asked you a question.)
"Um..." he begins, maybe chewing a bit too long before continuing, "I've... just... I dunno." He finally concedes. "It's far away from where I started, I guess." A few more chews as he looks around. "I like this place, though. I don't see why I can't stay. For awhile." He quickly adds.
She doesn't interrupt the eating. I mean, would you? He's eating food that /she made./ So, you know. Gisa stands patiently, waiting for him to finish eating. Or at least for him to finish that bite. "You are not obligated to stay." If he's capable of discerning accents, Gisa's is a very clear Israeli accent. Or, to put a fine point on it, if Allen saw Wonder Woman, she sounds like an Amazon, even if he can't figure out that everyone was using Gal Gadot's native accent. She's short for an Amazon, though. Her fiery eyes flicker absently as she watches him. "I will let Logan know that you are here. He is Dawn, as am I, and a Waykeeper Recruit. If you would like."
"I mean, sure," answers the young man, then seems to slowly realize that he hasn't specified which statement he's responding to. "I'll need to tell someone I'm here anyway, even if I'm just passing through. Which I am," he finishes without too much conviction.
He's now more than halfway done with the stack of pancakes, somehow, even while holding a conversation. "These are good." He indicates the pancakes, of course, then pushes away hair that somehow has fallen back over his left eye. "Thank you." So talkative before, he seems to go back into a far-away place.
"You can start with me," Allen's prompted gently by Gisa. There's a sense of possibility around the golem; the scent of a matchhead striking, of ozone in the air right before lightning strikes. "My name is Gisa Cohen. I am the golem of Fate's Harvest, a Custodian of Dawn, and a member of the motley Fully-Automated Luxury Queer Space Communism." Really, that's her motley's name. Really. She dishes herself up the last round of pancakes, shuts off the burner. "What is your name?"
The gargoyle, er, young man squints his eyes as the golem rattles off the name of her motley, then seems to mentally file it away as potentially important information. At the least, it's worth remembering for its uniqueness.
"Allen. Allen Wright," he finally responds, his voice now a touch deeper and more gravelly. "I have no freehold, motley, or permanent home." He mutters something else, then stabs the last of the pancake stack on his plate. Shovel. Chew.
"We figured we ought to name it what we aspire to, and so there we are." Gisa picks up her pancake plate and spends some time taking a few bites; she eats as though she's used to packing away the food quickly, for whatever reason. Getting back on the road, getting back to work, possibly getting chased. Who knows. She isn't telling. "It is good to meet you, Allen Wright," she offers, and her fiery eyes sparkle sharply. "Stonewright. Fitting." Of course she knows what names mean. She's made of words. And by the time she finishes saying that? She's done eating.
Her phone starts playing the Internationale, and she offers, "Excuse me," and answers the phone in Hebrew. A moment's speech, and then she takes the phone away from her ear. "A pleasure to meet you. My motleymate calls. I will tell Logan you are here. Rest well, Allen Wright." And then away she goes.
Allen watches the golem leave, then looks down at his empty plate. "Well, here I am, I guess," he mutters. "Good a place as any. It's probably far enough away." He sighs, then stands from the counter and heads back to where he dropped his gear before entering this place.
Wayhouse. It's literally a way-station, because of course it is. A place to wait and start anew.
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