It is not officially Spring yet, and even if it were the mountain peaks would be the last to know its coming. The ground here is still frozen. The year here is still new. It is still Winter's Kingdom even though the morning light comes earlier, and earlier with each day. Soon they will pass over that threshold, when Winter becomes Spring, when freezing becomes thawing, when days are even-armed and then longer in the light, when the right hand path wins and the year fully awakens.
This is part of why Ari had been insistant that they go sooner rather than later; that and because Penelope made a very sane and strong argument for haste; that and because the confluence of liminal spaces, this layering of symbolic folds, wanes and waxes with the alignment of the heavens and now is just as good a time as any -- now is better, even, than tomorrow, because in starting a thing, she feels, you are halfway to finishing, and because, if Penelope would recall, there has been this them of What Might Ari Aspire to and the answer, today, is this:
Tass.
To do anything at all toward the making of Zachriel's stalwart shields, she needed this base Essentia and, being cut off from the convenience of larger Chantries and the trading and bartering of favors and all the other social niceties that come with the weight of the yoke of the Order, they must well and truly go out hunting for it themselves. To a place where, as Penelope has said, the air is so thin that it is gossamer, where things are closer to the surface, where their words and the slash of their noses and the presence of their Wills cut like swords.
Then there is the mundanity of it: Ari has gotten a car, so this time she can drive them. A second-hand but very well maintained something, with four wheel drive, and leather seats -- not because they are sleek and soft and supple, but because they are easier to clean, thoroughly and completely, when the obvious collateral of their lives land in laps, metaphorically or otherwise. She wears one of those puffy jackets, silver hued, that swish-sighs with her movements. It would look ridiculous on many people but that (arrogance) confidence about her makes it almost seem acceptable. Like armour against the cold, a thing woven of down and sighs and starlight. And she has shoes that are flat enough for hiking, but, make no mistake, Ari is an indoor flower. This is for her an expedition; a quest. Here be there dragons.
MarsPen has been to the Hanging Lakes already, which in March is a root-tangled frost-limned steep and cutting path, the cliffs long and the river running, though white ice veins as cool as moonlight fork over the rock because the waterfalls are frozen mid-spray, mid-motion. Air cuts in Denver; Air is close to a Sword in Denver, outside of Denver, without Denver, above Denver, here where there are any number of trails leading upward toward some mountain glacial lake some mirror for the sky some metal sharp thing that might at its heart protect a sword a sword that might be tempered just so the moon-bright flat of it is counterbalanced by the moon-dark edge of it should it come down for justice's sake or something or something there might be an enchantress out here someone who will lead men astray who will lead would-be heroes astray and make of them fools or consorts who might -
They're gone to one of those trails. Penelope is dressed for the cold spell, winter's last gasp, last closed fist, in a coat that is not quite as warm as Arianna's, a pair of green corduroy trousers which are so well-worn she could be clad in moss, a pair of boots which go up mid-calf and gape somewhat, their laces a-trailing, inside them snugly fit a knife for protection's sake a woman alone you know. Sometimes she surely keeps her wand there, wizardess that she is. Sometimes the wand is surely tucked up her sleeve, and if you were to look closely at the buttons on her coat's cuffs you'd see they have lions roaring except for on one button where the lion is placid, Prague-alchemical. There are five rings worn today: her wedding ring, a ring on the finger of mercury, a ring on the finger of Saturn, a ring on the other finger of mercury.
Her knap sack is mostly empty, except for a special box (empty) and a silk pouch (empty), her cell phone (off) and a bottle of some distilled liquid (or metal - mercury), a tiny glass cylinder of gold. A couple of bottles of water, a little baggie of almonds and cashews.
Arianna parks; they must hike a ways to get far from the tread of many feet, and of course they talk - bright intelligent young women who like one another; friends. There is probably a great deal of huffing and puffing, too, given how new the altitude is to Arianna, how new it is still to Pen who has not gone hiking for materials near as much as she should have.
"Should we go further," Pen says, eyeing the way they have come, "or shall we do [cool name for Hermetic tass-finding ritual] now?" Her smile when it comes is warm; there are lines around her mouth, around her eyes, when she smiles like that. There is a certain kind of glee Pen has sometimes - it actually draws out dimples. That requires goofball laughing, usually. This isn't that smile. It's a warm one. "Or we can slog on, and you can tell me more about the house you found? I hope you don't feel as if you cannot stay with Nick and me as long as you like."
GiamettiWe have discussed, at an earlier time, how out of place Arianna seems in jeans, how wrong it seems for her to wear denim of all of the fabrics at her disposal. It is like looking back at a drawing of Arthur's coat and seeing someone in a baseball cap. Or, even like seeing Ari in a non-ironic baseball cap, which might happen someday. But this is not that some day. And she is posssessed of a limited wardrobe until said house closes, until her books and important things are sent for, and then, at last, she can tend to the pressing issue of wardrobes.
Her wand is, point of fact, up her sleeve. A slip of yew just shorter than her forearm, rests against its distal edge. The sleeve of her jacket is cinched in to keep it safe but readily accessible. Her other instruments, what is possible to carry with her, are collected in that crossbody bag with which she arrived the first night and, if it is large enough to secret that sizeable stash of whiskey, it is well enough to transport the tricks and trade of a Hermetic's work.
Though, true to form, she did pre-design and scribe some circles to help with their seeking -- scrolls that may connect the metaphysical to the physical in their minds and help their sense of placement and wonder bear fruit. In short: she draws to set a ritual, as a beginning, layered with languages and symbols and this is not best done on a mountaintop, freezing one's ass off, even in the best of company.
There is also a packet of fine gummi strawberries; intensely sweet and flavorful; smuggling back from abroad. It is a treat Penelope does not yet know of. Because Ari likes the way she smiles when she is done being Lady of the Lake and Guardian of the Swords (of destiny or otherwise).
"A little futher yet, I think," she huffs. There is pink to her cheeks already, and thoughts of getting older cross her mind. Not in her twenties! Alas, alack. "Though once it would be nice if such things found us out instead of seeking -- Lo! I heard you had need of me! A present of myself I make," she puffs. Her bangs move with the passing wind.
"And I will stay with you a lifetime if you let me, but no. No, you and Nick need space to be you-and-Nick without a sister pressing near and I need a studio for Work and anyway, haven't I told you the best of it yet -- it's close enough to walk right over." Huffpuff. "All, may I borrow some..." Huffpuff. "Well, we don't exactly borrow sugar. All may I ransack your gardens for rosemary or whatnot..."
She eyes the path ahead, looking for a ready outcrop. Perhaps around the next time. Perhaps. "Why does Thane enjoy hiking?" she wonders, and there is just the touch of well meaning whinge to it. A sidelong look wreathed with rue and riddled through with mischief.
Mars"Because it lends the blood vigor, is as water to a parched soul!" Pen says, and there is this quicksilver flash of a smile (and it is a fallacy to say that all beguilers are wicked serpents; some are quite nice sorcerer-damosels) which follows - because Pen finds the difficult climb bracing in a way which is welcome. She likes when her heart strains against her chest and her lungs ache for oxygen they cannot seem to get enough of and she likes the happy feeling of really working, because she can go for a while. Maybe it is because way back in the beginning of her Hermetic training she was very surprised to find, that alongside Ancient Greek and Latin, she was expected to learn physical sports as well - fencing, archery, mountain-climbing, sprnting, rope-climbing, a great deal of fucking climbing all told. But the hiking in New England is far gentler than the hiking in Denver, and it is a definite challenge. "There are trees and animals and ticks. Are there ticks out here?"
Pen eyes the spare winter-blanched grass (withered sedge) with suspicion. She may enjoy hiking, but her survival skills could use some work. Having a Verbena around to know all of that provides one with crutches. Having a Tytalan around to take care of one's erstwhile Ars Mentis woes also provides one with crutches. Easy to use and not sharp up one's own knowledge.
Sigh.
Pen is touched by something Arianna said, so she reaches out to brush her fingers across the silver-soft whispery (it must be sewn of feathers; filled with swan-down and thistle, something culled by moonlight) fabric of Ari's coat and snatch her hand and hold it for a moment, swing it, squeeze it, like Snow White and Rose Red out on an adventure in the mountains, and what ever happened to holding hands? Why does it die out after Middle School/Junior High?
"You may take all the rosemary or whatnot you want. Will you have a garden behind your house too; or get an animal? You must be longing for your books and a proper desk that is yours."
The desk in the guest room (of course there is a desk in the guest room) is a very nice secretary with all manner of pigeon hole cubbies, but it is not very very large, and one likes to have one's own desk.
Giametti"All the ticks, I think are frozen through. They've ticked their tocks and if they were smart, they'd be huddled up close to something with a warmer heartbeat. Thane's not here to find them if they follow us home," rue again, and a touch of whinging. And allusions that the Verbena was well and truely missed -- not that Ari would come out and say it, but, there it is. Between the lines.
Her fingers tangle with Pen's. This affection does not seem to her a transgression from childhood or adolescence; the rules are different in the places Ari is from. The sense of kinship is felt more deeply; love is less caged; and then, in contrast, everything itself is caged at conclave. She is used to the bright-flat of the blade nestled up against the dark of its edge. She keeps these boundaries less completely with Nicholas and Pen. They are near to her heart, in the cage of her breast.
"I haven't decided on the garden," she says, though it brings to mind a chance meeting of earlier inthe day. "I'm not very good with plants, myself, or dirt. Or really most things out of doors, but I do enjoy them -- gardens."
I would speak to him of cherry trees, she'd said, though that thought had been poetical and not literal in the moment. There is a ring, a thin band of silver, that is usually on the middle finger of Ari's right hand. It always has been there, as long as Penelope has known her. Today it has migrated to her ring finger.
"I will have a desk so big, Pen, that I cannot reach all the edges of it at once -- it will be wide like the sea and as steady as the horizons -- for drafting, and calligraphy, with such immaculate light. It will be nice to have space an no apprentices in my inkwells." Because aside from her time in New England, all her workspaces had been shared. "And a dog, I think."
This brings a look over to Pen, a little tug on their joined hands to emphasize the question.
"Have you ever had a pet? Not a familiar, really, but a companionable animal. Just for the fun of it. Or for normal reasons, like the chasing off of rabbits or the hunting of mice? I hear it is a thing that people do." She is fascinated by the strangest things. Were Thane or Rob here to mock her, she might not be so candid in her delight at the proposition. But it was just the two of them, and the search for something greater.
To that end, up there, around the next bend, coming, it a flat just of rock that overlooks the switching back of the trail below. It is big enough for them both to stand on; relatively secure as it just into the margins of the realm of Air.
MarsA dog, again. Will Denver not let up with its doggy (doggone, even) aspirations? Would Nick be satisfied visiting Arianna's dog? Pen does not think he would be. Would Nick be satisfied dogsitting Arianna's dog? He might be for a while. Pen is accepting of dogs in their place, which has never before been her place. She made a deal. There is a touch of heat to her ears at some thought.
Liz had a dog, their Fallen cabalmate. He was a fluffsome silky lap dog, useless and hyperactive. Thane loved him. He came to no good end: he belonged to a Nephandus. Thane had dogs, too, but farm dogs. Thane the farm-worker, the migrant. Working with his hands whenever he could.
Penelope, though:
"No, not really. My parents gave me younger siblings instead." Arianna's fascination is given its due. Another flash of a smile, another squeeze of fingers enlaced. This is not flippant: it is considering, nostalgic without wistfulness. "There was a dock dog around my father's boat. And one of my brothers kept a pet mouse for a little while, but it wasn't an official pet. Henry, one of our tradition mates here, a much older gentleman - he has a fox familiar companion!" Wistful. "Foxes are like cats in that they traverse the boundary between here and fairyland. His name was Red."
And Pen promptly began to covet a talking familiar, which she is not near as familiar with as Ari.
"Have you never had a pet? Why does a dog appeal to you?"
Giametti"A fox!" Sheer delight at this. How very clever, fantastic even. It breaks Ari away from her thoughts of pet ownership for a moment. "A fox that talks. It even has the good sense to rhyme -- that must please you doubly," she grins.
The talk of Henry and Red has brought them even up with the jut of rock and the view it offers. Arianna steps off the path to consider the place, also to stop and let her breath catch up with the rest of her. She had gone hiking in the Alps when she was younger, but that had not been in the winter, and given time she would come up with other differences.
"It seems we are represented in force here. Henry, William, the Flambeau you seem rather disappointed in and the one that might miss your missing one. And, also, we two. That seems quite the constellation," She leaves off Silas, for now; at least until she has confirmed his presence. Perhaps also until she has confirmed their quantum state of entanglement. This thought is left off in favor of: "This will do, I think. How do you find it?"
And then, again, somehow: "There are no pets in the Chantry I grew up in. None. Familiars and useful creatures only. But I like the romanticism of a beast that serves a purpose but is also bent on friendship in its own and gentle way.
"And they are soft. And hardy. I think a dog might survive me, while a cat with any sense at all would run straight to you to save it from my careful ministrations." Hah. Traitorous cats. Loyal dogs. Or maybe, truly, she wants a surrogate for something missing that she isn't quite capable of saying. Hands into pockets at that thought, searching for something -- found! -- and then hands into the pocket of her side-slung purse-pouch, pulling it around to her forward, seeking out, no not that one, this one, Ah! A tight coil of white-bright paper, rolled up together: a scroll.
MarsPen does seem extremely pleased by a fox who talks if that faint promise of a smile is anything to go by. The promise dissipates while Arianna considers their numbers, and she says, "Richard, who may go back to Boston, Orrin, who you may remember, Kalen, William, Henry, you and me. I don't think that is so well-represented as all that, but ah well. Oh! Grace, the Mercurial Elite, told me about a bookstore one of our own used to work at -- it is owned by his aunt, I take it? It may be of interest to you. And to me, come to think of it."
How does she find it?
Pen releases Arianna's hand when Arianna steps off the path to catch her breath and consider the place. Pen stretches her arms over her head, reaching for the sky before she climbs the jut of rock and balances atop it. Pulls herself into a crouch, careful and elegant on the balls of her feet and she takes from her bag a water bottle, and as she compasses the horizon with her clear gray gaze, as she drinks in the vista and thinks about liminality and liminal spaces, she takes a sip. Water beads on her chin, traces a lover's path down her throat and wets her shirt beneath her coat.
And then she says, "I think it will do!" How bright her eyes are; how radiant their gray, which is lake-bright, sword-luminous.
She stays crouched for another moment, bouncing slightly (letting her legs both rest and stretch), before thinking to climb back down. Slower to climb down than she was to ascend; perhaps she is thinking about how she should just fly instead.
Faint smirk at the idea of a cat running to Pen for salvation, but she is still thinking about something Ari said. "No pets at all?" Reflective: "Ari, will you promise something to me; vow it, most solemnly?"
Giametti"Another of my House is here," she adds, though quietly, to the list of names that Penelope strings out to enummerate their standing. It slips through and does not break up the flow if it as much as intimation of an interesting bookstore. Ari makes her best considering-and-also-approving face. Pen knows it well. It is impressive, and speaks to future adventures that must needs happen.
Pen explores and studies and takes the measure of the place while Ari waits, hands in pockets to ward against the chill, face tipped up to catch the shape of the clouds in their transits; to mark the presence and angle of the sun. There are Hermetic reasons for this, sure, but also a simple pleasure in being so high up that the air was thin and gossamer and spoke of things that might slip through. Close enough, even, to imagine that the sun feels all the closer, and a little warmer. Spring will not touch these altitudes for a while yet, but the sun is already canted toward it, it is already golden in its heavens.
When Pen climbs down, Ari lowers her chin. She catches the smirk, faint though it is, and her smile broadens in reply. But Pen is still thinking about something more serious, and so solemnity touches Ari's eyes as well. "I should hear your request before swearing my Word, but truly, Pen, there is little I would not do should you ask it of me.
"Ask, dear Weaver, and I shall answer."
Mars"Should I ever pare my life down to only the necessary and useful, break my wand across your knee. Not of course that things like pets and love are not useful! But you know the manner of 'use' I mean. I am certain it is very elegant to order one's life so that there is nothing that does not fulfill a working obligation, but I just feel like it is important to keep some disorder and mess."
Her smile is lopsided but sincere, her mouth set neatly and so it dredges two long dimples from her cheeks and her sword gray eyes (clear gray, the gray of metal not gravestones which are grey, the gray of fog in a churchyard lanced by moonlight not the grey of fog in a city street in Springtime, gray like a mystery rather than grey like a secret) are touched by some lucent thing.
"Breaking my wand across your knee would certainly recall my attention to important things. Or so I hope. What Bonisagus is in town; do you like them? Will you have competitions, to see who can come up with the most artistic cantrip for - "
Pen presses her thumb against her lips, consideringly. Her eyes are steady on Ari, even at their most considering, and her dimples disappear; then one is carved back, visible again, "Self-cleaning dishes."
GiamettiThis, this Ari can promise most whole-heartedly. Still, though, she has that scroll caught up between her hands, brilliant white in the bright of the sun, rolled and bound with a thin piece of twine: almost like scepter (almost like a stave).
"This I will swear to you, on the transits of the bright and guiding stars, on the certain circuit of the sun: should you lose your lust for life's less ordered things, and should your sphere and influence become aesthetic and precise, I shall break your wand across my knee and tell you thusly: that the art of life is in the living, as messily and whole-heartedly and caution-to-the-wind and wind-be-damned as ever you might, and that my friend, my well and truly best of friends, Penelope Mercury Mars, that she delights in the scrape of syllables across her teeth, in the juice of a fine and fragrant peach in summer, in the swirl of sediment in the last glass of wine that is drawn from a bottle that was too fine not to buy but too expensive to be practical -- that my Penelope Mercury Mars is steeped in the magic of the places between, where practical becomes and doesn't dictate, and flame flickers, and Will invites."
She pauses, as much to breathe as to secure Pen's approval at this oath between them. And she is bright and shining, she is an earthbound star, and grateful for the isolation that the mountain path affords them, that they may speak freely, as keeper of swords and guiding lights must sometimes do.
And then, in the wake of this, the next seems so pedestrian: "A friend of mine from years ago. Though I don't suppose he is the dish-doing cantrip type. Perhaps, then, a rote about double-knotting ones shoelaces without having to bend low and over...?"
MarsPen listens with her thumbs hooked on her belt and her head canted to the side. Pen does not look insouciant, or reckless, because her particular breed of Daring is not reckless or insouciant. It is conscious of the danger, it is conscious of a possibility of failure; it is that which chooses to Dare anyway, because to Dare is very (but ugh, this word) great, and necessary. and there is a hope at the end of it. Maybe it is something to dare, any sort of oath invited (beguiled) or spoken (on a mountain top into the thin air), even if it is only by one of your best friends, who wants nothing but the best for you.
"Very good, though I like being precise. Just not exclusionarily precise, just not detrimentally - you know. You should get a pet if you want one, even if it is a dog. Does your friend from years ago have a dog; who is it?"
Pause; easy smile, more in the eyes than the mouth, though there are lines. "A rote about double-knotting one's shoelaces without having to bend low and over? Is he lazy or physically unfit? Or is that simply the last time you two saw one another?"
Giametti"No, he is neither. Though I often am, lazy that is," the grin is answered, with some cheek of her own and Ari steps close enough to extend the scroll to Pen for inspection. It is just like this: the passing of batons in a relay race: commutation of command over a principle instrument: trust and shared capacity.
"And there is much to say for precision, but not for narrowing down to too fine a point." She says, to that cavalier and daring, with an edge that pushes but does not push over. "You asked, and I answered, and in answering I choose my truths. And yes, he has hounds," she says, for of course Silas does.
"I haven't met them, though. Perhaps they are terrible; I wouldn't know." She says this because, perhaps, they are. Ari uncinches the sleeve that houses her wand, which takes a measure more attention than may otherwise be required as she would be loathe to drop it down the mountain and then, vexed, be forced to search for it among the trees.
MarsPen will ask a number more questions about Silas; Ari knows this. Ari knows this with as much certainty as ever any Hermetic knew that Names have power and the power of Names is such that anything can be spelled.
There is a reason that in the English language a 'spell' is a way to communicate via language written you spell a word and a 'spell' is also a magical cantrip a piece of sorcery of witchery of power Effecting a change because language, the expression of the world as it is and the world as it could be and the world as it was once, giving expression to - oh - all, language is actually one of the deepest enchantments there is (one of Merlin's nine [one the Bards know]).
But Pen does not ask right now. He has hounds; Pen is unrolling Ari's scroll, and there is care in her hands when she does it; the light touches her rings, the stones in her rings, the burnished top of her bent head, the elegance of her jaw line the lines around her mouth, the solemn fall of her eyelashes as she gives herself over to study (inspection), and there is this, too -
Pen is always prepared to be heart-stopped by the beauty of what Ari has put to paper; she is always prepared, and never prepared, to for just one moment feel something that is outside of happiness and unhappiness, that is a settling, a readying, that comes from holding an instrument that is made by a master and only wants somebody to make it sing.
Questions and conversation can wait; their quest wants focus.
GiamettiThere is an unceasing font of questions regarding Silas to be tapped, which is why Ari does not see the need to address each and every one of them too eagerly, lest she invite the throwing wide of flood gates and the deluge of interest that will surely sweep them from their committed task. And names, as they were, are to be given by their owners freely, or when coerced, but of their own tongues when possible. At least within their Order, as the mastery of names is a studied and storied thing.
There is some sense of lesser magic to birthing art, be it poetry, or line or color, or the sigh of instruments, or the sway of limbs. To take a thing, agreed upon, and twist and turn and tumble it into shapes both lithe and useful -- it is satisfying in the highest way. She is not smug when she passes over her artwork, but she does relish the look in Penelope's eyes as they search its circuit and unweave its secrets.
Ari runs settles her wand into her dominant hand and it is like a fiddler taking up a bow, or a fencer to his rapier -- it does not so much augment as extend her capabilities to their fullest breadth and width and reach. She tests the sweep of it, careful to keep it pointed away from her companion, and marks how the swish-sound of her jacket affects things.
They have debated the finer points of the ritual -- not ad nauseum, but to the precipice thereof -- so Ari does not need Pen's mark to find her position in the arch ascribed by the jut of stone out into sky. She waits for Pen to signal, though, and for this work of theirs, the Dowsing of Baetylus, this calling out to ambrosia and essentia, to begin in earnest.
Giametti[Retro-roll: Dex + Art (Calligraphy): Ari's ritual circle calligraphic awesomeness ?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 5, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Mercury[Speak The Enochian. Speak It Well, please.]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 ) [Doubling Tens]
MercuryThanks, Syll, for figuring out this roll:
Find Upwelling! Prime 1 + Corr 1. Coincidental (Dif 3 + highest sphere) = base diff 4
Successes needed: 2 or 3 (Correspondence range) + 1 (duration) + 1 = 3-4
Working in concert: both roll, add successes together
-1 diff 'coz Enochian.
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (4, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )
Giametti[Ari,Round 1: Prime 1 + Corr 1; Coincidental, base diff 3+1 = 4. -2 for coordinating ability (see roll). Min diff = 3. +WP (Don't be a glorified assistant.) ]
Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (6, 7) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
GiamettiTally:
Pen: 3 suxx
Ari: 3 suxx
Total: 6 suxx
((And Syll does not try to do math))
Giametti[Dex + Ath: Oh god, outside, and climbing. Where is Thane when you need him?]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )
Mercury[Dex + Ath. I will climb instead of teleport. I still want to surprise Ari with the fact that I can now teleport and now is not the time. Mwahahahahahahahahaha.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 6, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
Giametti[Stamina: I am totally up for more adventure.]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (3, 3) ( fail )
Mercury[Stamina: I coulda kept going though, right?]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Mercury[An hour of rest passes. Then!]
Giametti[Dex + Ath: Higher into the mountains, narrower through the passes. Totally still up for the adventure.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (4, 6, 10) ( success x 1 )
Mercury[Climb climb.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (5, 5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )
Giametti[Stamina: Am I like a hobbit? do I require regular meal breaks and lulls in the adventure?]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Mercury[Oh man, let's not be Hobbits. That ends with somebody losing a finger. D:]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )
Giametti[Dex + Ath: Across this dangerous and frozen thing?]
Dice: 3 d10 TN8 (2, 7, 10) ( success x 1 )
Mercury[Why is the Tass so hard to reach?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN8 (1, 4, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )
Giametti[Dex + Ath: Oh. Getting back. Well, crap.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN8 (6, 7, 7) ( fail )
Giametti[Dex + Ath: + WP Well, shit. ]
Dice: 3 d10 TN9 (5, 5, 9) ( success x 2 ) [WP]
Mercury[Oh man, do I fall too?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN8 (3, 3, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 1 )
Mercury[Phew]
Mercury[Stamina]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
Giametti[Stamina]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (5, 6) ( success x 1 )
Giametti[Dex+Ath: Man. This better get easier soon.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (6, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Mercury[>.> The Hobbits got Eagles, didn't they?]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
GiamettiThis is how it begins. This is how it always begins. The air around them is already thin, but it stills and waits on baited breath when Penelope unrolls the scroll and shapes the Enochian with her resounding voice. All of Heaven pauses to bend an ear, to bow their attention to the slate-eyed Lady of the Lake. She is resplendent; she is silver tongued: Taliesin come to visit the most modern age. Hark! Threads and tremulous weavings of the tapestry, Penelope speaks directly to you.
It even catches Ari unaware, as if, for the first time Pen's voice is new and magical again -- her voice is always magical, it brings forward the best in Ari, it gives them something to wrap their Wills around: a common instrument. And this is where the Order serves them best, in offering the scaffolding upon which they hang the shapes and symbols of their own individual Truths; in this ready realm of shared epiphany.
First, then, comes the sense of knavery amid good friends: daring, mercurial; playful, resilient, resourceful, shadowed. Then the upwelling of more earnest and devoted things. How Penelope burns (ardent, respledent), how Arianna shines (luminous), how this place is touched by their kinship as much as their differences.
The Dowsing of Baetylus hangs between them, pulls like a lodestone at their sense for things unseen. It draws them up and further into the mountains, where the path thins and is less clearly marked and then out and into the frozen rolling spaces between marked trails, where the ground is less tamped down and certain and the rocky outcropings impenge as much as provide handholds. The wind is cold here, and rushes through the passages, and whistles out in warning to them, but they are not deterred.
At the next crest, they stop and Ari pulls out of her satchel the little packet of gummi strawberries to share. They are a treat from far away, intensely flavored and adorably shaped. A thin metal thermos of tea, now only luke warm, is brought out to share. They pause only an hour, enough to let Ari acclimate to the altitude, before they press on.
From here, the path requires their full attention. There is some scrabbling over granite faces with scant hand holds and the surprise of patches of well hidden ice-mud to confound their travels. The wind is biting. Conversation stills. The pull of the Dowsing rite is stronger here, and they agree to push on without stopping. Pen is wisely worried about the cant of the light; Ari is troubled by the storms sweeping in from deeper in the mountain range.
At long last, they come to the seam in the mountains where a small frozen stream is held in stop-motion. When the ground thaws more fully, it will reanimate and spill down from this headland, carrying with it the run off from snowmelt. It is only now, in its frozen state, that the naturally abundant quintessence is unadulterated enough to condense into Tass. After the thaw, it might serve for pure or holy water, but it will not be concentrated enough to solidify. The few pieces here are barely enough for the charms Pen has asked for, and certainly not enough to craft a second batch if the first is fouled. There is a cluster higher, across the frozen face of the stream, up a narrow crevasse and in a small, lofted clearing. The Tass must have been moved there by birds, or by the motion of the wind and winter snow. It is a difficult and dangerous climb but they manage.
The way down is more treacherous. Pen is sure footed and has a solid grasp on her hand holds. She is down and across and standing on firm ground again before Ari makes it down the narrow crevasse. She is steady enough to shift and notice as her adventuring partner's footing slips, and Ari begins to slide, slip, scrape, fall down the rocky face of the mountain. Luckily there is something firm and unmoving to impact and be wedged into or against not far down, and thankfully again, and after a string of unmentionable words in a plethora of languages, and through no small exertion of determination and willpower, Ari finds her way back to Pen. Ego and self bruised slightly in the process. There is a dent, now, in the slender cylinder of her thermos. Other things have been crushed slightly (Pride among them), but the essentials are fine: she can walk, still, she can talk still, and praise thrice wise Hermes her wand and instruments have not been broken.
The rest of the way down the mountain is less treacherous. The air seems to coalesce and thicken as they drop out of the windy peaks and back toward more frequently trod paths. The sun is low on the horizon and threatening to set when they pass their ritual location. There are no breaks on the way down the mountain; they make steady progress hounded by the knowledge that a winter night will greet them if they are not out by dark fall. The last bit of the trail is traveled in twilight, with the humming of the first spring insects cautioning them to hurry on their way.
PenTo Pen's credit she did not panic when Ari fell; she paused herself, one jump ahead, keen of wit, and waited to see how much damage there was; waited to offer the strength of her arm, the surety of her hand; made no comment to further bruise Egos already bruised, but sympathy flashed in her eyes, like the fin just-surfacing of a river fish. A brief and solemn once over, and so it was back to the descent -- and Pen, just after, less sure-footed less given to an impression of daring ease. There isn't a lot of ease: it's hard fucking work, ascending a mountain, and it's harder fucking work descending a mountain, because that's when gravity knows you're returning is ready to be your lover is ready to embrace you to crush you in its embrace to pull you in, and with the ice and the narrow chasms just there and a stone that arches in that fashion and here where one must climb over a tree because it is so long and so very fallen and nothing else will do, well. It's hard work; Pen's breath goes ragged now and again, and she takes due care.
For most of the quest: Pen went first in order to tell Ari where to step. Pen went first because she is in better physical shape than Ari, has tempered herself just slightly more, is pushing herself not hard but with an eye to purpose. The Order of Hermes teaches its initiates that hard work will be their lot; that they will be refined, refining; it is exactly as simple as wanting just for wanting's sake, and never as simple as wanting just for wanting's sake. Wizards must quest. So must Enchantresses, the oath-bound, the geas-written, the magick-riddled -- wizards must quest, be it for knowledge or for purity of purpose or those stones which are really Quintessence hardened into gleaming pebbles of condensed lucence of brightness and clarity the taste of ozone the promise of a storm brewing the sharpness of wet stone the unyielding treasure which is brightness distilled and
and Pen wonders why it seems easier to find Tass out in nature, sometimes. She has definite thoughts on it, on the Romantic poets and their influence on the Sleepers' perspective Nature versus Industry, and how it hardly fair that Industry be so maligned, so much left to the cold and sterile work of the Conventions when what is more Entrancing than humanity's virtue of ingenuity and creativity and anyway Pen has thoughts.
And when they are off the mountain again, that's when Pen says, (and she is more wild-haired than is usual, a streak of dirt on her forehead and on her cheek, pretend it's blacksmith's dirt, it's coal - ) "Will you help me make a mirror? It is a new project I wish to try; not a mirror for arcane purposes," a pause, a side-long glance, "necessarily, but..."
And she will outline her plan for a mirror, just so. Clearly there is some inspiration taken from the feel of the mountain air against her skin and in her blood; she is enthusiastic about it, and tries to seduce Ari into the same enthusiasm.
AriWhen they make it back to the car, Ari is secretly quite grateful for the button that makes their seats warm while they drive. It is a silly thing, a luxury she would not have chosen had it not already been installed, but in this post-mountain-climbing ache it is glorious. It makes the small of her back recant on its position of out-right hostility. It makes the weariness recede enough that she can drive them back the long and winding way to the House of Hyde and Mars, with a stop somewhere to collect dinner for the three of them because -- because, "Listen, Pen. I am exhausted. Let's just get take out, my treat, so no one has to worry about cooking... or dishes. Anything your heart desires, so long as it is on the way home."
Anything she said, and Ari well and truly means it. Pen can dream up the most fanciful feast and, so long as it is take out and on their way home, she will happily oblige. And then, when the heater has done well enough to thaw their toes and bring feeling back to the tips of their noses, then Ari addresses this question of mirrors in the only way that friends of the heart and partners in crime can do:
"I... have never made a mirror. But I think that I should like to."
So the topic for the car ride home is this: The Mirror; plans therefore and thoughts thereabout. With a secondary theme of: Zachriel, the status of the charms project. And a brief intejection of: Where is this place you said you wanted food from? We have driven around this block three times and I do not -- nevermind, I see it now.
Pen[WRAP!]
No comments:
Post a Comment