the deep and meaningful shit. [elijah] [in progress]

Kiara Woolfe
[Okay, awareness, ya'll. Just because.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Elijah[Awareness, totally not looking for people]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )

Kiara Woolfe[And because Kiara might be doing a little somethin'. Life 1, I think I called this talking to the goddess, -1 Foci, -1 taking her sweet, sweet time, -1 practiced, coincidental, yadda]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (8, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Kiara WoolfeThe York Street Botanical Gardens. You know where that is?

A beat later.

Meet me there at 2. I want to show you something.

That had been the text Kiara sent out; to Elijah; possibly to a few others too, on a lazy Saturday afternoon. The Botanic Gardens in the Spring were nothing short of bustling. Schools liberated of their pupils for the summer vacation meant there were kids everywhere; families milling through the York Street branch of the Gardens, most content to admire the walkways that threaded throughout; botanical collections of Western natives; the tenderly cultivated Japanese bonsais in the tea garden; the gurgling backdrop of artificial rivers that wound throughout the gardens; pastel pink and white lilies floating atop all.

There was an Orangery, housed inside replica french planters; the tang of citrus potent as visitors milled throughout; Herb gardens, greenhouses and a section dedicated to conversation. The Verbena, however, was to be found inside the tropical conservatory. Housed inside a climate controlled building; the doors opened to a rush of humid; sticky air. Strong with the scents of earth and water; food plants were cultivated here. There was the sweetness of pineapple, the cacao for chocolate; heavy bunches of bananas and the arabica for coffee.

Frogs sang in the heavy undergrowth and standing with her arms folded on top of a walkway that threaded and wound around the display was the Verbena. Her dark hair drawn on top of her head; perspiration gathering at her temples and nape from the warmth. Kiara had been there long enough to discard layers; her arms bare but for a shirt; a pair of denim shorts left her legs on display and her sneakers sat beside a small pile of her belongings; bare toes peeking from the edges of the bridge.

The scene was one of vibrant; verdant growth and in the midst of it; Elijah could sense something else. Something revitalizing; beating and alive and oddly entirely befitting the location. The swirl and rejuvenation of Kiara's presence. Stronger in the moment as she stood; hands closed around the side of the bridge; eyes unfocused; fixed on some distant point.

There were ducks gliding along a river; water trickling somewhere unseen; feeding the enclosure and in the midst of all of it; Elijah's host for the afternoon.

ElijahThere is a text on this lazy, lazy Saturday. There is a text and he responds:

I know where that is, see you at 2:00!

And he is there. He is there promptly because he has a sense of time. Because he has a feeling about things, and like some wizard he arrives precisely when he means to. Not too early, not too late. It is a skill he is trying to cultivate, being aware of his relationship with the now, in what place of a moment he is occupying and whether or not he can pass on to the next. The Botanical Gardens are the destination, and the only delay that he experiences is the one because of his own attentions.

Someone loves this place. Someone actively loves this place because he can hear them, quiet and in the distance, can't see them but knows they are there by some tenderly cultivated bonsai and he knows, because he can hear her humming to herself. He can feel serenity, he can tell by the voice that lives between the worlds that this was a good place. This was a place where a passion had not run violent. Sometimes, he does seek silence but the thought of it still makes his stomach hurt and makes his fingertips cold and the memory presses that even in the void You Are Not Alone. The humming was nice, that was enough distraction, past babbling waters and artificial bounties.

He considers, for a second, checking. He considers lighting some cigarette just only enough to breathe in smoke, take it into his lungs and exhale, bring down the walls and play with symbols- it's all a sham. A ruse, there is no separation, As Above- So Below. It was a reflection within a reflection but he couldn't' bring himself to do it, not here. Not here because it was beautiful. Because he couldn't light sage or swish incense or anything of the sort. He'd have to profane something lovely, he'd have to tarnish the carefully groomed landscape with something vulgar because today's tobacco isn't the true thing. Doesn't pay credence to its spirit but we digress.

Kiara has something to show him.

It's off to a place that is radiant, it is tropical and he knows they're going to be somewhere warm. As such, he didn't layer, not like he usually does. Jeans and a tight-fitting tee shirt. Something that was meant for running, something that was meant to breathe and be more a second skin than a hinderance. It's white, there's the hints of blue at his side, obscured by the fabric's presence. He's got a pair of jeans on and a messenger bag. Pocketwatch tucked away. He comes up on the bridge with rhythmic steps. Metered and measured and aware, he doesn't quite feel her at first, not until he's upon the bridge and he'd been playing Marco-Polo with her resonance only to realize he's not quite as in tune has he had thought.

Her eyes are unfocused, he takes a seat beside her and he exhales, long and deep. His heart beats steady. Solid. Doesn't say a word.

Kiara WoolfeStepping inside that space; feeling the first push of heated air against your face; it steals the breath. Forces the gasp of sudden, needed oxygen. It's instinctive; instinctual. It's why travelers to warmer climates need time to adjust; to let their bodies soak in and adapt to the change in air quality; the potency of it.

The rush. It feels much starker here. The sticky residue that clings; the fine mist of damp that adheres itself almost instantly to Elijah's skin. Everything and everyone around them feels amplified. Greener; lusher; more vital and with nothing but the sounds of frogs and water and the distant hum of humidifiers at work - it's easy to see why she asked him to come. Why she said to listen can be a thing as seductive and overwhelming as any other preoccupation.

Elijah sits down by her legs and after a moment; he feels the stir of movement; feels a hand; hot; solid on his arm and Kiara's dark eyes swim into focus as she crouches down; sits beside him cross legged. The hum of her working clings; lingers like intangible crackles of electricity where she's touching him.

She smiles, this slow, satisfied thing like a sleepy cat stirring. "Do you like it?" She asks softly; voice reverent as she cranes her head up to watch a pair of brightly colored butterflies flutter overhead.

"I come here sometimes to think."

Elijah[I swear, Elijah, your perception specialty is ADHD. per+alert]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) Re-rolls: 1

ElijahHe's begged for silence before. Pleaded, insisted, bargained away for a moment where there wasn't everything pushing in and being loud and vibrant and he just wanted it all to stop. But he's learned to live with it, learned to enjoy it because sometimes? Sometimes the rush of everything reminds you that you are here. That there are sounds and sensations and they all point to some place of being, some place where there is no difference between yourself and another. Maybe he could push here, maybe he could test the bounds and reach, reach for something more because that's how he is. That's how he is now, the unrest in men's hearts before revolution. A living, breathing, beating disaster that wants to be more than what it is.

Funny how chaos craves.

He can feel it, bright and living and vital and a smile crosses his face and it's hard to think of Elijah as anything but genuine. He smiles because he wants to smile, does because he wants to and there is nothing that impresses outside of his own desires, or the desires of others, or anything because- again- his concept of the division between himself and the universe is thin. A manmade boundary. A barrier for which he has no time to entertain when he remembers that it's there.

He doesn't seem like he'd fit with his chosen path. He's doubted. We are not discussing it.

"There's nobody talking," he says, revels in the lack of voices and Voices, "it's nice enough here that I almost don't want to peek."

She sometimes comes here to think and his attention flickers to her. He has a butterfly attention span, flitting from place to place and just striving to take it all in. When he isn't looking for something, he sees everything. The butterflies flitting overhead, the ripple in the water, the cadence in Kiara's breath but for now it isn't too much. He focuses on the singular- his current companion- and lets the rest of the world deal. "Whatcha think about?"

Funny, how chaos sounds like the south. Like Katrina. Just at the edges, how he feels a little like a conceptual hurricane. Not the real thing, just an idea, just the feeling of what a feeling might be.

Kiara WoolfeThere's nobody talking.

He can feel as much as see Kiara's smile when she answers that: "Mmhm. Most of the people who come through here go to the other gardens. I like this one." She's breathing deep; settling herself into the Lotus position; her hands on her knees; palms turned up; her shoulders pushed back. There's a sheen of moisture clinging to her skin; it offers her cheeks a deep flush; his too, given enough time here.

"I like the warmth. It feels ... distant. Like you could be anywhere in the world, not Denver, not New York, just - " The edge of her mouth hooks in that familiar; teasing way of hers. " - somewhere." The smile flickers; her eyes leaving his face to journey beneath them; there's gaps in the bridge they're seated on; it's made with bamboo and tied together with some sort of rough, strong rope; water runs somewhere beneath it; under draping leaves and shadowy nooks.

Her gaze, when it resettles on his face, is considering; searching as her eyes rove his features; taking some silent measure of his interest, for better or worse. "The deep and meaningful shit," it's a joke, it comes across as such (it's easy to forget sometimes she's a New Yorker by birth, much as Elijah's accent betrays the South, Kiara's occasional deadpan sarcasm does her Manhattan roots) but then her head tilts a touch.

Expression softens, sweetens. Lets Elijah in.

"But also - people. The ones I've met here. The ones I've lost. It's a lot easier to figure out where you're going and where you're coming from without all the - " She gestures absently. " - white noise. Sometimes I look across, too. You've never really seen nature until you look at her from the other side."

Elijah"Louisiana gets this kind of hot… not quite, but the air gets thick and you feel like you're chewing on it and it's so damn hot," a second, but he continues, "makes me think of fireflies."

He does turn his attention her way, his eyes are bright and green and glimmering. He's young, that seems to be his defining feature, that he doesn't quite have a beard (he possibly keeps close shaven but, more accurately, Elijah can't grow a beard to save his life). He's present, and that is the biggest merit to him. He's not lost somewhere, thinking of what could be (it's quiet, he'd said, he'd meant it so many different ways. He could appreciate the lack of distraction.) He's looking at Kiara and he's looking at her. He's got the hints of a tan coming in; he likes being outside, all things told. Likes the sun, likes the grass, likes being somewhere out in every sense of the word.

Clubs. Raves. Rocks. Trails. Out.

The deep and meaningful shit, she says. It gets a grin, a little lopsided but his constant companion. He has mischief at the edges. She clarifies and he converts to a look more pensive.

"It's one of my favorite things," he tells her, "looking across and seeing things and it used to scare the shit out of me- but sometimes it was beautiful and-" he inhales sharp, recanters, you're rambling, "-anyway, looking through and things seem genuine."

Kiara Woolfe"Oh, have mercy. A Southern boy." It's a drawl, a wink and the appreciative flit of dark eyes over his frame.

Elijah feels like movement to her. The embodiment in many ways of a city. Ever moving and changing, never content for stagnation or idleness longer than it took to get the job done. To move on. In some ways, it calls to her. On a level, one that sends her moving across countries and changing lives; shifting interests; onward and onward - out of planes and boats and God knew what else.

Kiara's energy contains that of the pulse of things; his the battle for it; the vortex and the hurricane.

Maybe it was why she understood what he meant; maybe it was why she invited him to join her in the first place. She'd said it to Kalen last night, she knew who she trusted and it wasn't a wide circle but there were people inclusive to it. Those who received the benefit of Kiara's attention; her thoughts; her consideration, sometimes even her body.

She offers that now, in a way. Wiggles the fingers of one hand at him, her mouth returning the lopsided invitation in his. "Why don't we? Let's look across."

Elijah[Let's see if I can share. Spirit 1: Peeking across the gauntlet. base 3+1 (sphere)= 4 +3 (no foci) = 7 -1 (practiced rote!) -1 (taking his sweet-assed time)= 5!]

Dice: 2 d10 TN5 (2, 3) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

Elijah[Aaaand a little more, +1 diff]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 7) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

Kiara Woolfe[Let's see if this helps. Spirit 1, let's peel back a layer or two. We'll say she's going to get her chanting on so -1 Foci, -1 rote she totes knows and -1 for taking her time. We may extend this shiz.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (8, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

Kiara Woolfe[And once more, +1 Diff cuz magic is hard you guise.]

Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (3, 3, 4) ( success x 2 ) [WP]

ElijahElijah laughs, and it comes easily. He isn't tentative when he makes contact with people, though he should be. He should be aware that some people might not be quite as candid with their touches, that it might mean something different to them than it does to him. He's free with his affections, but guarded with truths and facts and details.

Elijah's figured out that he can talk for a long, long time and not say a damn thing worth noting. Nothing that pays out with something that might hurt, that might get used later. His honesty, something that seems so natural for him, is a currency. A sign of trust- he is a young man who wanted to learn everything, so the giving of anything was an act of vulnerability, but isn't it that way for anyone? Giving of yourself to another.

And that was what it was. That was what made him want to do this, because he knows, because he thinks for a moment and slips his hand close to hers, something almost chaste, as if anyone could ever call Elijah Poirot chaste. It's a connection, because he needs it.

but he focuses. This isn't easy, and it's clear enough that there isn't anything really aiding him save for his sheer want of it. And perhaps that will serve him well in a tradition that believes their Will is law. That it is strength, that through one's will all things are possible. He pushes, and there is a feeling. He pushes, and it's the insistence, the striving, the desire and the want and the railing against the walls and the edges more. This is bullshit, this isn't true.

There is a world ahead of theirs, and his green eyes are keen and focused at a point that is nebulous, but he insists. His Will insists that the world yield, that the Truth become clear.

Kiara WoolfeHe wasn't prepared, not to work his will the way she invites him to. Elijah's intent is what pushes; raw and unadorned by any conduit. Kiara feels it; feels where it exerts; feels the squeeze of his fingers as they close around her own and she watches him for a moment, the brunette; watches the way he works. Feels her body reacting to it; parts her lips and then -

There's a gentle thrumming (soothing) jolt as her magic joins his. Kiara's lips uttering phrases under her breath; the barest whispers but they swirl and form and collide with his intent; were one to bear witness to that; to watch the way the threads of their energies collide and wash over them; the garden; the insects and windows and frogs and water. They'd see a vivid pulsing; an undulating pattern; twisting and warping the air around them in greens and golds and brightest; purest white.

She keeps his hand, Kiara, presses her warm palm against his and lets the walls bleed away; the flicker and then illumination of the Umbra; the hazy glow of it. The other side beyond the Gauntlet. Her chanting grows softer after a point and then stops and they can both feel it.

Sense it and when Kiara's eyes re-focus: see it, too. The way the garden is alive in ways it hadn't been minutes ago. There's a beauty to the other side that can be easily forgotten when you don't glimpse it often (or, for some of them, at all). But for those who could see - it wasn't a beauty you could replicate. Kiara makes a quiet noise after a beat.

"Beautiful."