Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.
-- Ernest Hemingway
It is through Nicholas Hyde that the orchestration or the dinner they'd discussed at the holiday staff party occurs. So far as their mentor is concerned after all the stunts they've pulled insofar as appearing unannounced or calling in the middle of the night to introduce some fresh hell to his life neither Margot nor Ned have much say if the adults plan something and it's at a certain time and they already have something going on.
The date the adults settle on is one set far enough in the future the people in the equation can arrange their schedules accordingly but not so far enough away that it will interrupt Important Hermetic Business.
Symposium, said the text message he sent Margot and Ned. Two of my Colleagues are coming. Comb your hair and prepare to drink a lot. Address incoming.
As for location: this venture had been Sepúlveda's bright idea so he volunteers his home. A blue-gray two-story three-bedroom Victorian in the Baker neighborhood. With a single-story home and a low brick building on either side the thing looks hemmed in. A weary wrought-iron fence stands out front. A small yard containing a sidewalk and of all things a pear tree. The directions the medical examiner gave his guests involved parking out back.
There the yard is huge. A bit creepy at night what with the lack of lighting and winter killing everything that needs warmth and light to live. The dead grass crunches under their feet as they approach the house.
Once inside the floors are hardwood. The layout is brighter and more open than one might expect of a Mad Scientist. Utilitarian and sparse and clean. That they could expect from him. The appliances in the kitchen are stainless steel and gleam with newness. All of the bedrooms live up a flight of stairs. It is cold inside. Hard to tell if he doesn't have the heat on or if the place has already started to absorb his resonance.
He does not offer anyone a tour. He does offer wine.
Margot
More drinking? I have to wake up for class in the morning, you know.
Margot had protested at first-- work and school were stressful enough for a girl on her own to balance without having to throw all of the rest of her baggage into the mix-- magical and familial alike. But the date was set out far enough that she had to accommodate-- she kind of owed it to the Doc anyways.
She may have shown up on her own, driving a nondescript four-door sedan that was forgettable-- like her own little Arcane-mobile. She may have had Ned in the passenger seat as well-- Margot was always game to play driver on their escapades. She could empathize with reasons he may have for opting not to drive them himself. On the day that they were meeting Margot arrived about ten minutes early (as was her custom, she liked to be timely to places [but ironically lacked any sense of Time itself]) and parked around back as the lot allowed.
When she arrived she was dressed more neatly than usual, having taken his comment about combing their hair to heart. She'd come in a navy blue skirt that hemmed above the knee and a matching cardigan over a gray shirt. Black nylons blended with black boots, and though the two inch heels built into them helped her appear a little taller that still only brought her up to 5'3".
She didn't look old enough to drink, but carried a driver's license that said otherwise and carried the wine glass without acting too suspicious about it. She was meeting strangers, but they were magic strangers, so they probably didn't give much of a shit about drinking age either. She sipped and looked back to the front door for the fourth time since she was introduced to the kitchen space.
"Who are we meeting, anyways?"
Ned
"...Stupid thing..."
The Tie he was fiddling with, hung in a brutal knot around his neck, loosened enough there was a spare few inches of space and slackness. Black, simple and thin, he'd opted for it over the light blue shirt plucked off a sales rack that screamed 'This is what adults look like, isn't it?'. Dark jeans with no holes (professional as far as he was concerned) and hair held into place, swooped back from his brow by an industrial strength gel. The long wool coat was the only thing about his appearance that would have suggested formal and that illusion would go when they arrived.
He'd taken Margot up on her offer to drive, hanging in the passenger seat with a careful sort of nervousness, one might attribute to the evening...or the driving. Or both. He's grateful for the ride but quick to get out of the vehicle and slip the door shut behind him. A glance up at the landscape of the house says all it needed to say. The Doc lived well.
The Wine glass offered when they enter the house is taken with a cursory nod and minor smile of appreciation though he is hesitant, even dismissive of taking a sip, letting it hang in his grip like some sort of purse or accessory. When Margot glanced behind them at the door, he did as well, a brief bout of paranoia making this entire meet and greet, somewhat charged with expectation.
More Magic People his fellow apprentice had called them and it had brought up a frown in Ned. He doesn't say much. Hasn't said anything actually since they arrived, other than a vague 'Hey Doc' at the door. Distracted, for all intensive purposes. Waiting and content to let Margot take the questioning lead.
Dr Sepulveda
Griping about class in the morning is answered by an emoji of a violin. Welcome to apprenticeship, Margot.
--
Ten minutes is a lot of time to someone who is versed in the Sphere. They have to wait another sixty seconds after arriving for Sepúlveda to finish whatever the hell it is he's doing inside to prepare his house for guests and when he throws open the door he takes in the state the apprentices are in and chases it with a deep breath.
He's wearing part of a suit. Charcoal paints and waistcoat with a gray shirt and a black tie. The sleeves of the button-down are not cuffed. His intent is to roll them up so they survive his attempts at cooking. His hair has not been combed by anything other than fingers. It appears as if it has been that way since he got out of bed. Whenever that was. He's wearing black-rimmed glasses. No watch. Wedding band on his left hand. They're familiar with his fashion sense by now.
"Damn, you two clean up," says the Etherite and lets them inside.
So: Wine. Offered and taken. They're early. In the kitchen Sepúlveda rolls up his sleeves and starts pulling bags of marinating meat and vegetables out of the refrigerator and piling them up on the counter.
Who are we meeting, anyways?
"His name--" He claps the refrigerator closed and starts to pour his own glass of wine. "--is Nicholas Hyde. He's a hospice counselor. We 'met' at work, for given values of 'met' and 'work,' about a month or so ago." Quick swallow of wine. "He belongs to the Chakravanti, which is a tradition of folks who deal with Fate and Death and so on and so forth. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to discuss his Work with you." Hard to gauge if he's being sarcastic or not. They are beginning to learn how dry is the Doc's sense of humor. "As for Pen--"
A beat. He sighs through his nose and takes a thick swallow of wine.
"Pen, if she is who I think she is, is a Hermetic of House Flambeau." Another thick swallow of wine. "We've met, before. Years ago." He sets down the wine. "She and Nicholas are married." His fingers wiggle as if trying to remember what they were doing, and then he remembers something that happened weeks ago and points between the two of them. "If you have any Hogwarts analogies percolating, get them out of your brainpans now."
Margot
"That sounds pretty dark," Margot mused aloud over the rim of her wine glass. Her summary of a Chakravanti was apt, if not very limited, but then who was she to talk? Her magic was strongest when rooted in blood and came from a Goddess who brought rivers of blood and had war drums for a pulse.
As for the second person they were meeting, his wife, Margot didn't know what any of her titles meant or what to make of the fact that she married a Death Dealer. She creased her brow a little at her mentor, their host for the evening, and scoffed a little
"Come on, not everything has to be a Harry Potter reference."
She set her wine glass down on the counter in the kitchen, someplace out of the way where it wasn't likely to be knocked over, and asked: "Can I help with something?"
And then, to follow after that: "What is a Hermetic? Or a Flahm-boh?"
She wasn't exactly taking notes as she probably preferred to be able to do when talking Traditions and Magicks and Paradigms and what-have-you, but her curiosity was something that was hard to extinguish. Where Ned was taking a stance of quiet anticipation, Margot, it seemed, opted to chirp questions to fill the quiet instead.
Ned
"....So Gandalf can marry Galadriel afterall sometimes..."
Ned murmurs it over the table on the heels of Margot's 'Not everything has to be a Harry Potter reference', proving her and the Doc's point simultaneously. He doesn't look apologetic about the joke, merely leans back in his chair, untouched glass of wine sitting on the table infront of him, contents dancing and swirling gently while Margot played at helpful and question.
"Hospice Worker, huh?" Ned's obviously had some interaction with them before, in some capacity though what he doesn't seem willing to expound on. He merely nods at the information, followed by a brief look of confusion at the Hermetic and House moniker. Unfamiliar words and the Doc hadn't explained anything about the tradition even in brief, like he had the Death and Fate Mr. Hyde.
"...And what do they Deal with?"
Dr Sepulveda
"Who? House Flambeau?"
A deep frown in the Etherite's brow. Prominent because he has such prominent facial features and half of his face is occluded by a beard anyway.
"They set things on fire, Edward."
Duh?
Nick
220 Bannock Street: it has some of the echoes of the place they recently left. The scaled siding on the house, the single window in the center of the front peak peering out like a third eye, is reminiscent of New England in a manner that surprises Nick as he and Pen pull up in front of the house. His car is a small sedan, appropriately black (this makes it much much easier to clean and less likely to show salt stains in winter, but they don't have to know that), and he leaves it parked on the street a stride or two away from where the fence begins.
Perhaps he will meet the apprentices' expectations of a Chakravanti, based on what they have so recently heard. He is a tall, slender figure sketched dark against the grey backdrop of winter, in spite of his best efforts at color (a light grey tie and pale pink shirt, the top button left undone beneath the knot.) Nick's hair would be a lost cause even were he inclined toward neatness in any way; dark and thick, it spirals out of control and lends him a sort of ethereal, fey quality.
He has his jacket folded over his arm (the door isn't too far, one just never knows if the car might break down) and a bottle of Scotch in the other hand. It's good Scotch; this is polite.
There is a moment in which he fiddles with the gate, opens it, strides through after Pen, and walks up to the door to knock. This is a bizarre converging of his worlds, meeting a magus he met at work outside of work, for a Responsible Adult Dinner at his house (with his apprentices!) and Pen. He, while not normally a man given to anxiety, in fact spent some time waffling over whether or not a tie was appropriate, and this may be in fact part of the reason they are late. No one in the house knows that.
He knocks, and when invited, he enters.
Penelope
Ladies and gentlemen! The mo-ment you've allll been waiting for. The Hermetic of House Flambeau. One of them, anyway. Denver has three right now. (Bright Day, Red Sun, Black Night? Baba Yaga's three horsemen?)
The Portrait:
Pen's hair is a deep and bloody red with that rich shadow-bright quality burnished things have and worn tonight in a loose tangle of curls and wavelets Maenad-wild the thick bangs swept (an Elegant Swoop of Rakishness) to the side. Between car and front door, she is wearing a coat. The coat's got sweep, too. It's got swoop. It's royal blue. Under the coat is some long raw silk silver jacket, the colour of a sword-light on gray dawning, fog gone to smoke from heath-fire day, fog in with sea-witchery dragging in its wake. The royal blue coat'll come off in the warmth but not the sword silver jacket, which is part of the dashing ensemble, and underneath which is a neckline that leaves a lot of breastbone naked and plunges right on down past where the jacket is fastened. A lot of naked breastbone is a perfect frame for a dramatic necklace. Metal rings on every finger.
Penelope Mars looks like a Pre-Raphaelite painting, right. Modernized. Updated. Archaicism, the Golden Age - given new shift.
The Atmosphere:
Daring (not to be - but often is - confused with Recklessness. Daring is different. Bold, not careless.) is what Andrés Sepúlveda will remember from Years-Ago. Ardent (Passionate, Burning [Archaicism, again], A-Smouldering, Wholehearted [which connotes Heart]) and Resplendent have joined it. The notes of Pen's resonance balance one against the other.
The Action:
"Look, Nickelungenlied. The Tower." The 't' is capitalized. The nickname: worthy of a championship nicknamer. The tone of voice: alert, reflective. The comment: made when Nicholas is still parking the sedan, and Penelope is peering out the window at Supúlveda's home. She flashes Nick a glance and a half-smile when the car is fully parked, but remains with her elbow on the window-sill near the lock for a moment before dispelling languor to get on out.
It hadn't taken her very long to get ready, and she'd spent much of Nick's agonizing over to Tie or Not to Tie reading a book and, whenever quiet fretting seemed to be reaching a boiling point, helpfully saying such things as He's with the Society of Ether, they're notorious for their disheveled mode of dress - I mean, Mad Science! Exclamation mark! One cannot care about ties when one is being an Exclamation Mark!! You should wear a lab coat, I can wear my robes and You look hot like that (with the tie) and You look hot like that (without the tie) and Why don't you try a cravat? …I AM being serious!
Knock, knock.
If the invitation to enter comes in the form a hollered 'Its open!': Pen opens the door for Nicholas and follows him in after casting a glance over the street. Fishing-line kind of glance, a hook attached to it. What's hiding in the deeps, hm?
If the invitation to enter comes in the form of a certain Society of Ether man opening the door his ownself: well, she lets Nick speak first - shaping her own response to the Etherite's presence while Nick does so.
If the invitation to enter comes in the form of an apprentice: a smile like a spark goes flit-flying up through the eyes - reserved without being cold, a(n rather earnest) thoughtful cast to her eyes. "Hey. Where should we put the Scotch?"
All of these reactions are going to occur. The moment taken to shape a response to Sepúlveda's presence, let Nick sweep in to cover that - not hide it, just cover it. The smile like a spark, the where-should-we-put-the-Scotch, the Hello. But they're cards for now, shuffled at random.
Margot
Knock-knock-knock
Knuckles on the door announced the arrival of guests that Margot and Ned both seemed anxious (albeit in their own ways) to meet. Margot glanced quick and brief to the other two in the kitchen before announcing "I've got it" and exiting one room and moving through others to reach the front door.
So, it wasn't a hollered 'come in' to invite the pair in, but rather the sound of the latch turning-twisting-clicking and the door pulling open from the inside. It wasn't The Doc that answered the door, but what must have been one of his apprentices instead.
Margot appeared as a very petite young lady, perhaps five feet even at best (but taller tonight with those heels! not by much but you take what you can get), with a young face and wide, inquisitive eyes. She had nut-brown hair that was curled and styled and hovered neatly in between her jaw and shoulder lines. A small silver hoop was pierced through her right nostril, and her outfit was appropriate for interviews, church sermons, and things of that nature.
She'd started with a smile and greeting soon as the door was open. "Hello!"
Whatever manners she'd learned through childhood when it came to opening doors and letting guests in were forgotten in the initial impression of the pair. Maybe it was because she'd forgotten exactly what their names were (was planning on using Mr. and Mrs. Hyde but that sounds too proper, but she didn't quite know if first name basis was kosher or not, oh social woes!). More truthfully, though, it was the impression that the pair of them made. Specifically, the impression that Pen made. Margot was staring at her, impressed, when she stepped back and pulled the door open along with her to invite them both in.
Where should the scotch go? Margot blinked and nodded her head toward the interior of the house. "Ahhh, The Doc and Ned are in the kitchen. Scotch probably goes there."
Then: "Uhh, can I take your coats?"
Dr Sepulveda
Were he not possessing some semblance of attention to Time he might not have given half a damn about what he was wearing when he had guests over but then again there is always the art and appeal of defying expectations. The kids have already seen him disheveled once recently. If he wanted to come to the door in a cardigan and old-man slippers he would have.
Or maybe he just forgot what day it was and had to wear a suit anyway. Scientists are always trying to impress each other after all. Industry secret.
The layout of the house is not such that one who is stood in the kitchen can see what is happening at the front door. One has to walk past the stairwell and through the dining room in order to reach the kitchen. But they can hear each other as echoes. The low hum of an impression of voices.
Pen's voice he recognizes.
To Ned he says, as an aside, "That is who I thought it was. Speaking to a war mage may actually do your friend some good."
With that he goes back to reassembling the bags of foodstuff dragged out of the refrigerator. Dinner isn't going to cook itself.
Or will it.
Ned
"...Uhhh...War-mage? Is that a thing?"
Ned offers, quieting to a conspiratorial whisper when Margot engages the pair at the door, so as not to be overheard. He wasn't sure if it would be polite or disrespectful or...well this is new territory afterall. There are probably rules or rituals or pentagrams that need drawing to ensure the right amount of Autma was being foreshadowed or some such-
"...Also, do I have to tell them anything about myself? Rather is it required?" Oh Mentor, my Mentor.
Nick
It is not Sepulveda who answers the door, but rather a small young woman, who is easily surmised to be one of the apprentices the Doctor mentioned would be present. Margot is staring; specifically, Margot is staring at Pen. Nick takes this in with some amusement. He is used to Pen being the one that people stare at, to being the yin to her yang, so to speak - he is content to be so, even.
She offers to take his coat, so he extends his arm to her slightly so that she can take it from him. "Thank you." He doesn't yet move into the kitchen to bring the Scotch to the owner of the house, and instead spends a few seconds (perhaps it seems like longer than that, to the apprentice) studying Margot.
Perhaps he senses that she has little frame of reference for how this interaction should go. Perhaps he is also aware of how people from his Tradition are generally perceived, and this is why his voice is kind. "I'm Nick," he says, and swaps the bottle of Scotch to his other hand so he can offer her a handshake. He leaves space for Pen to introduce herself as well. Then, "Dr. Sepulveda mentioned his apprentices would be here, but he didn't mention your name."
Margot
Margot was in the act of accepting Nick's coat when he gave a kindly introduction for himself and specifically handed off Scotch into a different hand so he could get a handshake from her. She hastily nabbed up Pen's coat as well (were it offered) before draping them both over her left arm and returning the gesture by seizing Nick's hand to shake. Her own hand was small, like the rest of her, with a warm palm and firm grip (like somebody who thought you were supposed to have a firm grip if you were going to be impressive yourself).
"I'm Margot," she said. "It's nice to meet you both."
She looked harmless, small and young and wide-eyed as she was, and that was what made the impact of her resonance all the stranger. It left the impression of something cloying left to rot in a cellar, bloodied walls and carnage left over after great violence. Like the ER without the morphine, Ned once described it. You never would have guessed upon first sight that her Magick was so closely tied to war and violence.
Dr. Sepulveda
The two of them are going to slice a permanent frown between their mentor's brows at the rate they're going. His hair and beard are already going gray in places. It would be easy enough to blame the silver on Margot's adventures last month but let's be real here it isn't as if he's the youngest person in the room.
While Margot takes coats and directs the Scotch to the appropriate place Sepúlveda waves Ned out of the way of the cabinet in front of which he's currently standing and digs around for serving dishes. They are metal and rigged with conduits and don't look like serving dishes he or anyone else could buy at a store.
"The only thing I require from you," he says as he upends the meat into one dish and the vegetable-type matter into another, "is that you chill. You're having dinner, man, not defending your dissertation in front of a committee."
The stove has likewise been rigged although its rigging is subtler than the serving dishes. The food is totally ready to go he just doesn't want to have to pay attention to time and temperature. So the stove transmutes the matter inside of it to its optimum state of doneness and calls it a day.
"Come on." The machine beeps and he ignores it. Puts a hand on Ned's elbow and steers him out of the kitchen. "Let's go 'mingle.'"
Penelope
I'm Nick.
As Pen is slipping the silver buttons through the button-holes on her royal blue coat, Nicholas is kind and Margot is polite. Margot's resonance feels like an abattoir, a battle-field. Pen's eyes are the color of a lake reflected on a sword or a sword reflected in a lake: they are yes quite thoughtful, but the spark's still in them: ready warmth, even if it is reserved. Some Traditions and some Traditionalists are very casual, and Pen goes by 'Pen' just one syllable out of the many, but her sense of propriety in context of this casual affair between mages means that in the space Nick gives her to introduce herself what she says is not 'Pen' but:
"Penelope Sylvia Mercury Mars, bani Flambeau ordo Hermes."
And she says it with dash, baby, (a swashbuckler's quiet smile), with fucking grace, as if it is the most natural follow-up to Nick that could ever there be, as inhale is to exhale.
"I hope you'll call me Pen."
Pen relinquishes her coat when Margot reaches for it. Expressive nod of thanks rather than words because after all Nicholas is speaking.
I'm Margot. It's nice to meet you both.
The kitchen boys are possibly deciding to come out and mingle now, and Pen flashes a half-smile which seems to echo Margo's sentiment. Nice to meet you. "Have you been Andres's apprentice long, Margot?"
Nick
Pen offers her full name to complement his single syllable, all grace and poise. Nick: he's from a Tradition notorious for magi who steep themselves in Death so often that they forget that for most people, death is fucking scary, and he's from a profession where many of his clients couldn't recall his last name if they tried. He has not forgotten, and there is little he does without intention: he chooses what he chooses because it makes him approachable.
Margot says she's pleased to meet them, and there is something bloody, visceral, about the wide-eyed girl who has just greeted them and taken their coats. Awakening: it leaves its marks on people. He knows very little about either, and yet something in him is not surprised that she has found Sepulveda. He absorbs this, looks between Pen and Margot as Pen asks Margot about herself, and sidesteps to peer around into the kitchen.
Perhaps he catches Sepulveda's eye as he and Ned are coming out to 'mingle,' at which point he waves and extends the bottle of Scotch toward him. It's casual, without ceremony and without expectation. "Housewarming," he says, and then, "Good to see you, Andres," warm: as if they are old friends.
Ned
Ned frowns. Per usual, when the Doc tells him to 'chill' and then takes his arm and swerves him boldly into the company of their present...well, company. He seems a bit bewildered (probably because the Doc, mentor, teacher and ancient Disciple that he is, just used a word like 'chill') when they finally emerge into the landscape of 'sociable' and it leaves Ned with little to do but clutch his glass of wine and take turns bouncing eyes from Pen to Nick, without really focusing on either.
If he's approached with eyes, feet or words, he offers a nod of confirmation and a lip-pressed smile that is at once courteous as well as awkward. A hand rises to ensure his hair is still somewhat tamed every so often (habit).
For the most part though, Ned is not much of a mingler. A timorous sip of wine and a hand in his jeans pockets. That was Ned. Yep.
Dr Sepulveda
"Nicholas!"
He isn't drunk but as effusive as he is and as abusive as he has been towards alcohol in the past with... well... everyone present to varying degrees no one would blame anyone if they thought he was. Then again he is a short-statured Mexican-American from the Society of Ether. 'Drunk' may not enter into the equation.
Either way he greets the Chakravat warm though they've only met once before. Grips him by both elbows and kisses him on both cheeks as is customary in his culture and asks how he is. Genuine question for the cursory nature of it and then he turns to Pen.
Pen and the Doc are equally powerful. His resonance creates a sense of dread. Hers is one of awe.
When Sepúlveda has finished greeting Nicholas he turns to Pen and nothing changes in his demeanor or disposition. Same greeting. Gripping of the elbows room left for her to do the same a kiss to each cheek and when he pulls back again he says, "Hello, Penelope."
That done he releases Pen and turns to his apprentices.
"Penelope, Nicholas, meet Margot and Ned. My interns." Though his green eyes are full of good humor he doesn't hold the kids' gazes like to let them in on the joke. Maybe it isn't a joke. The fuck else is he supposed to call them. "Margot, Ned, Nicholas Hyde bani Chakravanti and Penelope Mars, Hermes bani Flambeau."
Oh hey. Scotch. He hoists it now that it's in his possession.
"Shall we?"
Back into the kitchen. It's large enough for everyone to mingle without worrying about being in the way.
"Forgive me, Penelope and Nicholas, but I am not on the Facebook, I did not realize you two had wed until recently. Congratulations are in order, yes?"
Margot
Perhaps later in the evening Margot would look back on this moment of First Impressions and kick herself for being so curious about Penelope without showing such same awe for Nick. It wasn't anybody's fault, really, it was just consequence of who they were, and What they were. Swashbuckler was well-described, she ensnared attention and held onto it well. Plus Margot, though polite, was not necessarily the most socially graceful person. She seemed bashful and smart but not the most confident-- almost like she was an Apprentice or something.
"I've--," she started, but then The Doc arrived with Ned being hauled along by the elbow, holding onto his wine glass in a way that made her think of holding an umbrella (for shelter?). Greetings were enthused and full of kissed cheeks, and Margot was glad that she and Ned had dodged that particular greeting whenever they came through his front door.
As they were ushered back to the kitchen, Margot fell into step beside Ned. It was there, not far from her fellow Apprentice's elbow, that she remained. She didn't look nearly as uncomfortable as him, necessarily, but was watchful and curious and, for the time being, sipped her wine in observant quiet.
She could only imagine what initiated Mages spoke about at dinner parties, and was about to find out.
Nick
Sepulveda is probably not aware of how irrevocably he just associated himself with maternal family gatherings in Nick's mind. He can almost hear Anna hiss "Incoming!" in his ear the moment Sepulveda grabs him by the elbows, and his return of the greeting, his hands clapping on the back of the other man's arms, is purely reflexive. When Andres pulls away and asks how he is, Nick says, "I'm good," and his expression is for an instant the one of a mildly shellshocked teenager at Christmas. If he knew how rare it was to unbalance Nick, Sepulveda might even treasure the moment.
He recovers quickly. "We've just met Margot," he says, and "Hello, Ned." There is a smile for Ned, some rueful and apologetic acknowledgement perhaps of his discomfort, before he begins to move after Andres into the kitchen.
He smiles at the Etherite's next question, regarding their marriage. "For a little while now," he says. "Pen tells me you knew each other from a while back." A glance back to Pen, inviting her to elaborate. Nick, it should be noted, also slows his pace if necessary to keep Margot and Ned either beside or slightly in front of him - not excluding them from the conversation, even if they aren't its direct subjects.
Ned
Ned offers a quick, lip-pressed smile and a nod toward Nick, the wine glass indeed clutched like some barricade against awkwardness, an object to fuss over or plink with fingertips, accompanying the carefully constructed reply to the man's greeting.
"Hello."
Perhaps Ned was being careful to avoid the stringent layer of potential jokes or humour that had occurred to him wrapped around calling someone 'Mr. Hyde'. Regardless, it is left off the greeting and 'Nick' was much to familiar a taste in the mouth for Ned to warrant it's use. His attention lifted toward Penelope for a moment, offering a nod and a similar greeting.
"Hello."
Before the entire party is underway and they are retreating toward the kitchen with it's plentiful other objects of distraction from awkwardness (Chairs! And Cutlery!) that will occupy Ned's hands. Margot falls in line with him and he glances at her as well, a more familiar, maybe even apologetic half-smile delivered as they trail the Disciples.
Penelope
Pen studied Margot for a longer beat (delaying tactic because she needs must marshall her reaction to Sepúlveda and she still does not know what it will be tonight though he is come down the hallway), but Nicholas's I'm good had the corner of her mouth hooking up. Turns out her reaction to Sepúlveda is sheathed (Inquisitive, and a touch careful), but the vibrant hint of a smile in her eyes is sincere and she clasps(Companionship [Soldier]) his upper left arm with her right hand.
During the introductions, Penelope's attention rests on Ned -- he's the newest and the quietest and so curiosity like a cat beelining for the person who likes cats least wants to spend time with him. The Hello gets an incline of her head and Nick (not to mention Andrés) also gets a " - but I go by Pen for short."
And they all shall troop into the kitchen, and Scotch will light the way. Or the Mage will who feels like an oncoming fate, wintering, ominous or auspicious and who's to say which way the coin will fall when it's no longer in movement.
Effusive, huh.
--
Are there seats in the kitchen, or an island devoid of cooking goods? Are there any unusual in appearance apparatus? Penelope composes herself against the island or takes a seat or considers an unusual in appearance apparatus with skeptical interest.
Forgive me, Penelope and Nicholas, but, and her heart gives a little leap and her eyebrows echo the sentiment. (Congratulations are) Pen glances at Nicholas, touching her left earlobe with the thumb and index finger of her left hand. The black crystal earring she is wearing sparks, dim radiance. The back of her thumb brushes against the side of her neck, the pulse-point, and she adjusts so is holding her earlobe between middle finger and index, and her thumb swipes upward. (in order, yes?) She'd leave him alone and palely loitering on a fairy hill and come back. She'd palely loiter herself, and his resonance'd be what was left. Hand drops back to her side. For a while now, and hard on the heels of that comment, "Thank you."
Fuck. Doesn't feel like the exact moment to express condolences over the loss of his wife. Pen can wait. Like a kid playing double-dutch waiting for the moment to jump in, except it's social games. Nick's glance back comes after she's done gazing at him with intent and wonder (though god help anybody who describes her so).
"And I was just asking Margot how long she'd been your apprentice, but I'm sorry you prefer the term 'intern'?" She sounds as if she's testing the word 'intern'; perhaps because in Pen's mind 'intern' is a direct analog to 'consor,' unpaid hopefuls who help with the grunt-work but don't get to do any work themselves. "How do you three know one another?"
Dr Sepulveda
One day he will have to indulge his students with stories about the symposiums his mentor brought him to when he was their age. Thereabouts.
Pen knows how he is at parties. About the same as he is in any other social situation except for he can drink and smoke and curse which are all things he tends to try to avoid doing in polite company. For a given value of 'polite.'
Pen tells Nick they knew each other from a while back.
"Yeah," Sepúlveda says and frowns as he tries to remember specifics. "When was that? The early aughts? I think the shrub was still president. Those were dark days, eh?"
To the kitchen.
---
If the members of the congregation wish to sit they're going to have to go into the dining room. Its spacious layout and modern design don't seem to speak to his tastes at all. He had had another in mind when he bought this fucking place and she will never see it. The dining table is blocky and dark-stained and can seat six.
That's one way to avoid having to talk about the dead. Talk about the living. Brilliant, Doctor.
So she was asking Margot. He bounces on the balls of his feet while he adjusts to standing still and takes a quick swallow of wine as she's asking how they know each other and maybe the kids think they're going to get away with not talking he talking as much as he tends to talk but:
"Ah, shit, that's... no, I don't know about 'prefer,' but that's a funny story. Actually." He scratches his beard with his free hand then pockets it and uses the index finger of the hand holding his wine glass to point back-and-forth between the apprentices. Eyebrows aloft. "You two wanna tell it, or should I?"
Margot
A wine glass waggled between the two of them and a perk of eyebrows invited the apprentices to tell the story of how they met their mentor. You two wanna tell it or should I?
After a quick glance between Ned and the Doc, Margot spoke up to bite the bullet of attention for her anxious friend.
"Well Ned and I are both pretty new to this. We just figured out how to sense the resonances of others like us. I was at work and Ned came in to my shop and--" She paused because she hadn't yet thought of a way to describe the impact of Ned's resonance without it sounding painfully shmaltzy. Everything boiled down to some approximation of having your breath taken away.
"Well, you know." She waved a hand to get through that part and continued on. "We hadn't really met many Others before so we exchanged numbers. Few days later Ned calls me saying he'd found somebody else, and we went to the hospital and found The Doc."
She stopped there for a short length of time, like that was the end of the story and it should be as simple as that. Soon blushed just a little and wrapped it up more appropriately.
"He figured out pretty easily that we're new and offered to show us the ropes while we get things sorted."
N. Hyde
Nick wanders along with the rest of them into the dining room. The word wanders is especially appropriate here; the Chakravanti gives the impression of someone who might just linger by himself or flit along to anywhere in the house were it not for the saving grace of herd mentality. He is paying attention to the conversation, yes, but also to little details in the environment: whatever Sepulveda has chosen to hang up on his walls, whether doors to other rooms in the house are closed, objects of interest that may happen to be lying about.
The dining room seems to have been designed to suit modern tastes. He does not yet know Sepulveda well, and it does not clash with any preconceived expectations he has; it just is.
Nick takes one of the seats. A glass of wine somehow appeared in one of his hands; he looks at it as though he doesn't really remember having picked it up (he doesn't.) It is more clear that he is focused on what Margot is saying, now. We hadn't met many Others before -
Yes. He remembers that. But he waits until she finishes, gently swirling his wine in its glass and taking the first sip from it before he says anything.
"You must both have a lot of questions, still."
Margot
The room felt oddly still, and perhaps this was nudged along by the overall resonance banging around in the room together (Pen a different kind of force altogether, though). But, in truth, everybody else was quiet and looking at her and waiting for her to talk. She'd already agreed to step up to the plate and serve as the mouthpiece for The Apprentices, so there was no backing down now.
The little witch's eyes turned to Nick and she pressed her lips into an ironic twist of a grin.
"So many that I haven't even narrowed down all the groups of questions that I'm wanting to ask yet. I'm not a philosophy student, but all I ever think or worry or work for now has to do with the Meaning of Existance, so to speak. That question's so absurdly huge that I'm still breaking it down into smaller questions to start."
N. Hyde
Nick, now that he is seated, typifies a sort of casual languor, one leg stretched out in front of him under the table. He is slouched slightly to the side, resting his chin on his thumb; two fingers curve around in front of his mouth as he listens, muddling whatever expression might have been there. Her ironic grin seems to have pulled at the corners of his eyes and mouth though, a mirroring of sorts.
His hand falls slightly to the side as he straightens himself just slightly to reply. "I don't think that's uncommon, early on. So have your smaller questions gotten answered? Not," he is still amused, if sympathetic, "to put you on the spot. I just find it interesting how early experiences differ so greatly."
He has set his wine glass back on the table. There is a brief glance toward the other three, mainly to ensure that they haven't been lost, and that Ned hasn't grown too uncomfortable with the topic.
P. Mercury
"I believe both Nicholas and I took time to find our Traditions," Pen says, and she doesn't look at Nicholas when she says that. The Hermetic's attention, once everybody's arrayed themselves around the table, is rather firmly on those she's come to visit (Visitation), which does not exclude Ned or Andrés. Thoughtfully responsive, see, and it seems like this is going to be the kind of dinner party where everybody listens and is engaged in the same topic.
"I know I, at least, had no one at all in the beginning; and after the beginning there was no one I would listen to."
Then an up-tilt of her chin, like: back to you, Margot (or Ned, who her glance snags on on its way to Andrés), tell us about the small questions.
Sepúlveda
Not to put you on the spot.
Sepúlveda grits his teeth to keep his knee-jerk reaction from leaving his mouth. Amusement in it. Takes a glug of wine to further stopper his speech. Then Pen is speaking of hers and Nicholas's.
"Iona found me," he says. "Before I had enrolled in the university. Based on my, eh... extracurriculars. Slipped me the Kitab al-Alacir." A beat. He isn't telling them plenty. "I am trying to answer their smaller questions, but, eh..."
Wine. Shit. He needs a refill. Time to disappear.
Ned
"...How do you trust anyone?"
It's the first thing out of his mouth as the Doc makes his way into the Kitchen (perhaps catching Ned's indication before had stepped out of earshot). The other apprentice has been quiet up until now, gaze firmly averted into his wine glass as if the arterial liquid contained all the answers he could ever really hope for. When they begin to talk of little questions surrounding the larger, his lips quirk slightly. An expression that doesn't last long (amused to somber in .3 seconds). Then of course, Penelope makes her statement. About beginning and not listening.
"All of you are so different and fractious and proud, from the way the Doc says it. From what I've heard about you and from what I've seen..." His eyes flick upward, narrowed slightly. Not accusatory but...not far from it either. "There's no real way to accurately 'find' anyone either. It's different each time. Some of us just wake up one day and it's all brand new...seems to be a common thing at that. Others maybe wake up and go searching for a cure." He exhales, eyes falling into his wineglass, a murmur crossing his lips. "Or a bullet."
"So what got you to where you are? Strong enough opinion to work or solve or craft or whatever word you like to use? But careful enough to recognize when you need to listen? More importantly, who you need to listen to?" That was accusatory. Scrutinizing between the married pair with a clumsy, but forcefully unspoken question.
Who are you to listen to?
Nick
These are poignant questions that Ned asks: out of the mouths of babes. And Nick, who would perhaps still be a Disparate had a wandering Chakravanti not laid hands on his fractured self and persuaded him to shoulder the heavy burden of responsibility to a larger world - well, Nick is perhaps not the best person to give Ned a response. There is this way in which he appraises the apprentice, see, with eyes that look more amber than brown in the dimmer light of the dining room.
"I don't think we - or, at least, many of us - ever stop searching or doubting ourselves. I fear the day that I do."
He has let his chin come to rest on his thumb again, his index finger curled over his mouth; this is as he thinks. Ned asked them a few questions, and Nick has not yet decided which ones to answer; there are some answers that can and should be given, and other questions that beg for more questions. "How did you decide who to trust before you Woke?"
Ned
"That implies trust is something wholesale. Complete handover or complete retraction." Ned snorts. Maybe he doesn't mean to be so blunt with Nick, but this situation has him anxious and anxiety breeds...defensiveness. Or at least, a willingness to defend in earnest.
"Trust is a measure of degrees. I trust Margot enough to share information with her and interact with her, because she's going through the same thing. I trust the Doc to share my experiences with and believe what he has to say because...well-" He pauses. Uncertainty. "I honestly don't have any other options. But that's as equal a task as knowing he's shooting straight with me when he talks. Or as straight as he can."
"By the same token, I don't trust either of them to know enough to satisfy my own search for answers. Not entirely. Because their trek is different. Because searching and doubting ourselves seems to be part of the cure." An eye at Nick. "Unless I'm mistaking your meaning."
"So how did I decide to trust? I didn't. I just invest the time I have in the least possible chances of harm and detriment until I know better. Better enough to warrant further degrees of trust, but there is no absolute. That would be as silly as lacking doubt."
Nick
That implies trust is something wholesale, says Ned, and Nick's eyebrows lift just a fraction. Expressions can be eloquent, and perhaps his says: Does it? His eyes are still fixed, in this earnest manner which implies nothing other than interest in what Ned is saying: he does not appear to have been offended.
That expression is maintained as Ned describes the manner in which he arrives at trust, the degrees of trust he has developed for both Margot and Andrés. "Everything you described sounds completely reasonable," he says, "and it sounds as though you already have a way in which you understand how to trust others - to whatever degree you trust them." Read between the lines: Ned doesn't. "Granted, I've only just met you, but I get the impression that you're a skeptic - rightfully so. In which case I'm not sure any answers I can offer would satisfy you."
A beat. "So, when you're asking us how we trust anyone, are you asking because you want to find a way to change this system you've developed for yourself, or," and a flicker of a smile here, something only a little arch, "because you want some reassurance that we're trustworthy?"
Ned
Ned's answer is simple and direct. He meets Mr. Hyde's gaze evenly across the dinner table, to the exclusion of the others, jaw put forward with a thoughtful sort of huff under his breath. Then says, quite matter-of-factly.
"Yes."
Nick
Nick's eyes, when Ned meets them across the table, are even: there's a gentle sort of humor in them as he watches the apprentice, notes the meditative little sigh. There is this direct, simple answer from Ned, and Nick laughs; the sound is clear, sharp, like church bells at dawn, a far less calculated sound than the one he had made earlier. It's sudden and brief, and after the short silence that follows, he says, "We are very different and fractious and proud, but you can find people who don't buy into that, if you're patient."
His fingertips walk up the length of the stem of his wine glass, and he is looking at it now, his gaze somewhat absent. "Sometimes things happen that force people together, or force you to rely on others when you might not otherwise. I spoke with a lot of people and listened to what I wanted to listen to, and I eventually chose my Tradition because its purpose was compatible with mine. But there's also no shame in not choosing." He glances to Pen then, an invitation to add if she wishes.
A beat. "Has Andrés brought either of you to the chantry?" This, to both apprentices.
Margot
The back-and-forth between Ned and Nick* brought a tense kind of quiet from Margot. She watched the exchange with her lips tight together and her eyes a little worried. Like she was worried that Ned would offend the guests and god knows what it meant to offend a wielder of reality. Could he get himself cursed?
But then laughter, and the little apprentice sipped her wine with relief.
When the question opened to both of them, Margot's expression of confusion no doubt answered before her words could be piped in.
"What is a chantry?"
Penelope
Sepúlveda vanishes: fare well for now, ominous cold, frost & fortune. There is a submerged glint (barrow treasure, dredged up out of a still [holy] water) in Pen's eye, something quizzical about the cant of her head. Ned. Edward? Eddard? Ned, Nettle. Nettle Ned: stinging, accusatory, anxious but a balm (perhaps), How do you know how to trust? He wants to know, and Nicholas is in the opinion of Mars the perfect person to frame a reply. A reply to a question like that: it is scaffolding, on which to hang later conversations. Nicholas and Ned and Margot and Pen and Pen's attention is shared equally, and of course it is intent and present and direct, but just this: a lovely sword, laid on a mantle, votary prayer stone, pick it up (dare you) but it will still only be present.
Nuances, certainly! The way she looks at Ned, clear-eyed and frank but frank is not the same as open and poise lends her a reserve dam against whatever passionate response she might have a few years ago flooded him with. Both Pen and Nicholas are even, steady, steadying; the way Pen looks at Margot is the same as how she looks at Ned (Pen can school herself to be studious), not quite struck but almost, we are matches and we burn when we are struck. Inviting, even: curious. And the way she looks at Nicholas during this portion of the conversation: like he is a cup of moonlight, see, a ring made of owl-light, and the night's too dark and it's been too fallow of wonder a hard cold season and now here here is that Mystery come again familiar and beloved, although by the time Nick glances at Pen to see again if she wants to add anything, her expression is one of sharply drawn together brows crinkling forehead heard a wrong note a sour note oh but no that is no disagreement sense of fairness and justice ringing pea under a hundred mattresses can feel it how to express it without being -
- hmmmm. Meanwhile: what's a chantry?
"A club, and-or a club house. Often along the lines of those fancy athletic clubs that were popular once, the ones where you can stay for a while and are chalk-full of amenities, or one where there are different levels of membership. Sometimes it's a school. Sometimes it has grown up around a sacred space or a divine one, a magical site where you can be touched by enchantment or take a bath in power."
Ned
"Uh....huh. So a clubhouse. With it's own rules operated and defined by all those of our kind who join it. Does this club...even allow for everyone to work and act and solve? Like some universal art gallery to reality?"
Ned's got a thing about analogies. Sometimes they partially work, suggesting a wrong direction taken. Other times...the Doc has to start drinking more heavily.
Nick
It's an interesting thing, to note the two apprentices and how very different they are: Ned, his borderline forceful quest for answers, and Margot, who for her air of blood-drenched fields seems to carry a sense of awe within her too. They trust each other, or at least Ned trusts Margot because they are going through the same things: this has been said. Nick is watching the two of them as Pen speaks, as they reflect his questions back and ask more, and his expression is hard to read -
but perhaps it's something akin to relief. The kids are all right.
Even if they don't know what a chantry is yet. Nick is not sure he knew what a chantry was yet. He does not miss Pen's furrowed brow, and there is this moment where it occurs to him that perhaps he was not impeccable with his Word as he ought to be, but too late now. "I think it depends on the chantry," he tells them, because for all Ned is asking the questions he suspects Margot may have some of the same ones (if not now, then later.) "Some work together better than others, like any group of people. I think a better analogy is...a community center, maybe. It's going to be used as an art gallery by some and a social group by others and a place to take classes by more than that, and many different people will have different ideas about what it ought to be used for."
Margot
"But not everyone joins a Chantry, it sounds like."
Margot had been quiet up until that point. Speech swung like a pendulum between the apprentices, so while one asked many questions the other was content to listen. It was a good assumption to make, that they had very similar questions.
Every so often the pendulum had to swing back, though.
"I expect you don't really know what you're getting into with one until you've already signed on and seen how the gears move and fit together on the inside-- behind the clock's face. And by then you've already signed the membership waiver." The wine glass that Margot had been holding was, at last, relinquished and set to rest on the table. Now she was free to straighten her cardigan and fold her arms in front of her chest.
"It's easy to get swept away in the paranoia, once the blindfold's off."
Ned
"...Especially considering people seem to keep handing you blindfolds to put back on."
Ned offers on the tail-end of Margot's phrasing. Unlike the younger woman, he's not bothering with his wine glass anymore. No sips, no fidgeting, no touching. It sits there, inanimate and half-full while he regards Nick (and occasionally Penelope).
"Traditions are one thing. Different ideas, philosophies, even ways of doing things. Each of them will tell you there's a way to work the world that works for them and if that line is believable, it should stand that everyone just agrees that it works in different ways. Except no one can really agree. Chantry, Tradition, Technocracy or even Philosophy. So what exactly is there to unite us?"
And he turns to look at Penelope now. Firmly and without wavering. No real...politeness though he doesn't seem rude. It's more that this is turning from a dinner, into something like a cross-examination. Kids today.
"Cause I've heard all about how different we are. I've heard that you lost...the last war?" He squints, head tilting to one side, eyes flicking from Pen to Nick and back again. "And now I'm hearing rumours about a new one starting up. What exactly unites you against it? Or rather...what's stopping you from losing the next one?"
Penelope
Pen is:
not drinking yet from her cup (chalice [it should be in her fingers, call it even a goblet anything but a glass; mirrors should be glasses where Penelope is, not cups]) of wine, other than one symbolic sip to wet her throat, and another (whett her throat) just after Margot and Ned mention blindfolds. The cant of her eyebrows up up at this or at that under the rakish fall of bangs is wondering, rather than cynical.
When Ned so definitively settles the question of Unity and War on her, Pen looks at him, clear-eyed and considering. There is a stitch between her brows now and her regard (and 'clear' here is synonymous with 'water,' and with 'witching,' and with the air at bat-tide, even-gloam, with tempered metal, your face in a sword) is very careful for a moment. For a Flambeau, Penelope is:
No. This is what Penelope is. She belongs to House Flambeau. Make up your own mind. Hawk or dove.
The stitch loosens. Her voice is clear, too. And low, and easy to listen to. "Listen. The war didn't end: it went cold. We couldn't crack their hold on the world, they couldn't crack the spine of our spirit and bring us down to less than the height of a shadow. But there were wounds, deep ones. Does 'lost' now mean nothing more definitive than 'not yet won'? The only way this war can end is as other wars between traditions have ended - alliance. Until then, sometimes it is cold, sometimes it is hot.
(Ardor) "Always you have a choice.
"One of humanity's most graceful attributes is to want a choice. It's that want is why there is this war in the first place.
"We won't lose because we must not. We have, as you just pointed out, a great bredth of diversity on our side, people with firmly held convictions that do not always agree with one another and yet still we must find common ground. What common ground is there? What do you want, Ned? Margot? What do you hope for the future? What do you want to be able to do? War is because of hope. That's what we fight for and that's what we hold to. The Nine Mystic Traditions have said 'No, I will not settle for what is handed to me by those who settled for what was handed to them by those who settled for what was handed to them and so on. I will not settle for thoughtlessness when perhaps I could be great. I will not settle for a lack of wonder when there might still be wonder in the world. I will not settle - I will be."
"What can unite us, what often unites us, is human spirit and common cause. We mostly want our Will to matter, even if what we have chosen to Will for ourselves is service to some greater purpose. We are united by the hope that we might live and do what good we can do, if only we were unfettered. Here is an easy analogy for you: Against the Technocratic Union, we have been the Resistance in Occupied Territory. They are recklessly without compassion. We must be generous with ours."
"I could go on about this, or about war. If either of you have questions about the subject feel free to ask me. Perhaps," and she sounds grave, "you have been told that the House of Flambeau specializes in war. But look - in fairness the Union doesn't need to be your enemy, but if it is not you don't ever get to say a word and fly. You haven't actually been drafted. Maybe if cold turns hot you'll find you can't stay out of the thick of it. War isn't just fought with fire and sword, but words and intention too - and that's where it's important, get it? But I know any number of Magi who have never had to fight the Union." It is worth noting that Pen is careful here, because she doesn't know any Magi who have never had to fight.
"You two are Awake now. What have you done with your Wills thus far? What have you seen that is different from the way you thought reality worked? What would you like to do in the future if you had the power to do it?"
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