perry ranch. [ian]

Kiara

The property that belonged to Neal and Debra Perry was impressive. They had a good situation on the crest of a small hill that gently rolled down until it met a thick bracketing of trees and a small, gurgling creek. The treeline offered some small degree of privacy from the main road, the winding entrance to their property announced with a wooden framework that had their surname carved into the arch as cars passed beneath, over a small bridge that allowed a glimpse of the rocky creek bed and through into a long, arching driveway that detoured around the edge of the property.

There were horses grazing in a paddock that barely ticked their ears at the sound of an approaching vehicle and the dust that it kicked up. They were beautiful creatures, dark coats shining with health and clear dedication by someone on the property. The house itself had surely seen better days, it was modeled after an older generation of southern homesteads with shuttered windows and a porch that wrapped around both sides. There was a love seat suspended from one corner and a hammock from the other.

Jutting out behind the two story homestead was a barn with its doors swung wide open. There were cars parked out the front of it and the interior was lit up; strung with fairy lights and flooding the diminishing afternoon light with an inviting golden glow. It was toward this that Kiara directed her car, bumping along the paved drive and casting a brief, surveying look at Ian as they approached.

A figure drew away from a number of men gathered around a tractor as they did. He was tall by most standards, his attire that of a man not entirely comfortable with what he'd been forced to wear for the occasion. A long sleeved dress shirt and jeans, the arms already wound up to his elbows, the collar absent a tie if it ever had resided there to begin with. His face was dark with scruff and his eye followed the trajectory of the car as it pulled in.

He had the stance (and build) of a man well accustomed to life on his feet.

-

"That's Neal." Kiara murmured as she cut the engine and peered out into the gathering being set up around the barn. There was a long table with chairs placed around it, or at least, several dragged together covered with table-cloths and laid out with an extravagant offering for the occasion. Pumpkins and stalks of corn, acorns and apples and candles set amongst them.

Women were moving around the length of it, setting items down. Further back, a bonfire stood ready to be lit; large piles of wood stacked neatly. A cluster of young children played around it; darting around until they were shooed by one of the women carrying plates out to the table.

-

She hadn't told Ian much before the drive out, had arrived to collect him in a flowing white dress with a belt that cinched it in tight around her waist; her dark hair had been pulled back and her wrists and neck adorned with wreathes of small black stones. They gleamed when the light hit them just so. There had been a plate covered with foil resting on her back seat; a bouquet of wild flowers that seemed to hum with Kiara's energies set beside it.

"It's traditional to bring an offering for the feast." She offered at some point as they headed out of the city limits, the barest hint of some anxious energy stirring around her.

-

"It's about time you showed up, I was about ready to give up your seat at the spread."

The voice that greeted them, Neal, Kiara had named him, had the faintest hint of twang to it; Texan, perhaps. But faded and worn in.

"Traffic was bad getting out of the city."

"The way you drive? You probably caused half of it. This him?" The Verbena's head re-appeared from inside her car, balancing a plate of food and flowers; her mouth curved in a smile, eyes bright as they ticked between Neal Perry's dark, assessing perusal of Ian and back. "This is Ian. Ian, meet Neal. He and his wife own the land here. He's very nice." She added, with a pointed lift of her eyebrows.

Neal's mouth twitched, he held a hand out for Ian to shake, his palms were rough and calloused. They were the hands of a man who worked on the land. "I'm damnably nice. Welcome to the gathering."

Ian

It's the first time Ian's had the occasion to let Kiara drive him somewhere. Truth be told, he seldom lets anyone drive him anywhere. One could probably read into that. They might not even be wrong. But this day - it belongs to Kiara. And so she pulls up to his place in her hatchback wearing a white dress and black jewelry and Ian, true to form, is ready and waiting. He's dressed in dark fitted jeans, tight around his hips and thighs with a slight boot cut at the ankles. The boots he has on are a little more hipster than high fashion - black leather Redwings - which is probably about the closest he ever gets to wearing work boots. On top, he has on an extra-slim black dress shirt. The top two buttons are left open to reveal a little V of bare skin.

He doesn't tell Kiara how long he spent trying to figure out what to wear (whether he ought to dress up or not, if he maybe ought to buy something farm-appropriate.) She doesn't need to know that part.

When he gets in the car, he throws a glance at the back seat (at the plate and the flowers that hum with Kiara's energy.) His eyes slide over the rest of the vehicle as well, noting all the little marks of Kiara's ownership. The car smells like her (and like food and flowers.) Once they're on the road, he looks over at her for a long, quiet moment and says, "You look nice." His hand touches her arm, dragging knuckles softly over her skin in a gesture that's meant to be both affectionate and reassuring.

Though in truth, he is probably just as anxious as she is.

He's quiet on the ride out, watching the landscape pass and occasionally throwing observant glances Kiara's way. When they arrive at the property, he cants his head as they pass beneath the archway, watching the sign pass by overhead. The house looks like something out of a movie. More traditional than the Chantry's newer, more architectural design.

Eventually they arrive at the barn. Kiara points out Neal as they park, and Ian's gaze fixes on him for a moment in this subtly appraising way. He lets Kiara exit the car ahead of him. When he gets out, he starts to offer to carry something for her, but then there's Neal approaching him with his hand outstretched saying welcome to the gathering. Ian smiles, takes the hand and shakes it. His own skin is significantly less work-worn and calloused than Neal's is.

"I wouldn't really mind if you weren't," he offers, leaning in a little as though he meant to conspire with the other man. "Thanks for having me."

This much, at least, he can manage. But the sight of the barn - all the food and the offerings and the women setting things out - and, in particular, the children, seem to make him go a bit quiet. His eyes stray toward the kids for a long moment.

But whatever he's thinking, he doesn't say it.

Kiara

Kiara had spoken to her Goddess here. On this land, once, months ago. Had woken up on the Perry's lawn with flowers around her and a strange lightness in her limbs. There's an affection for this place in her bones, a part of her that feels deep and prolonged satisfaction simply by setting foot back on its rolling grassy slope. It seems to shine out of the brunette as she allows the two men to make their greetings.

Turning her face away with a slight smile as Neal did his best to draw himself to his full height. The intimidation was bravado, she knew Neal Perry well enough to recognize his best attempts at playing the protective, older and worldly wise friend. By the time they were done, Kiara had locked the car and traversed around it to Ian's side.

Her fingers briefly touching the edge of his wrist before she leaned up to brush her lips against Neal's coarse cheek. "It's good to see you. Where's Deb?" There was an appreciative noise when the Verbena presented him with the plate, the enticing aroma of apple and pastry seeping from beneath the foil covering and the taller rancher twisted back toward the house.

"Directing the masses. C'mon, she'll want to size you up herself." Ian receiving the benefit of a hearty handclap to his shoulder before Neal turned and began ambling up the hill, leaving Kiara and Ian momentarily to their own devices. The pagan's dark eyes assessed his expression for a beat - her gaze sliding over in the direction his had taken. Absorbing the milling figures; some adorned far more elaborately for the occasion than others, the children (two boys and a girl) chasing each other around the barn, clambering up the ladder to the hayloft.

"You up for this?" Her hand slid down to his wrist, fingers sliding through his. She leaned into his space, smelling like some sweet combination of pastry and sugar and the daubs of perfume she'd rubbed into her skin earlier. "We can always leave. They won't care."

It's a low murmur, the way Kiara says it, her eyes searching his face for a beat before they shift toward the gathering up the hill. Music and conversation drifting down to them, the screen door protesting each time it was pried open on old, well used springs. (Her tone implied that wasn't entirely true, but that it was a honest offering, she would leave, if he couldn't handle this, part of her had expected it would be too intense, that much is read in the offer, too).

In the neighboring paddock, one of the horses exhaled with a noisy flick of its tail. The atmosphere had a festive, if ceremonial energy to it, the candles on the table carefully lit so they danced between the laid offerings. It had every appearance of community - a gathering of like minded souls.

These were, at least in one manner of speaking, Kiara Woolfe's people.

Ian

Neal's momentary bravado doesn't seem to phase Ian much (if at all.) His eyes tilt up slightly (the two of them are maybe an inch and a half apart, height-wise) when they greet each other, but there's no evidence that he's intimidated. Nor, probably, does Neal really mean for him to be. It's a show - and an expected one at that. The clap on Ian's shoulder is slightly less welcome, and it's met by a smile that thins out and goes a little tense, but the difference in the expression is subtle enough that Kiara is likely the only one to notice.

He sticks out here. Probably more than anyone else. And Ian is used to being noticed, but he isn't used to feeling this much out of his element. That isn't really the reason why he gets quiet though.

Kiara finds him then, linking her hand through his. It draws his attention back to her, and when she makes that offer (tells him they can go,) he shakes his head and squeezes her hand. It isn't entirely clear whether he means to reassure her or himself (perhaps a bit of both.) "This is important to you. I want to be here."

And for what it's worth, that isn't a lie. Though the full scope of his feelings on the matter are rather more complicated than he suggests. When one of the horses draws his attention, he glances at it with a softened expression.

It's been a while since he last rode one, but that's probably a story for another day.

When he turns back, he brings his hands up to cradle Kiara's face and kisses her like he would if no one were watching. (Though probably someone is.) "I'll be alright," he murmurs, before pulling away.

Kiara

They were not modest people, by and large, Kiara's friends. There are curious eyes that linger on the pair by her car but they don't look away when the pair draw together and kiss. They watch the way the brunette coils her arms around Ian's neck, flowers in tow and turn away after a moment's open and easy consideration of the display.

There's no wolf whistling or catcalling to be had, but neither do either of them find embarrassment written into the faces that turn friendly, welcoming eyes on the pair as they begin to make their way up the hill, Kiara gently leading the newcomer by the hand. Nothing about this gathering spoke of the sort of magick Ian knew the woman beside him was capable of.

Rather, theirs was an older kind. Tied to the land and the seasons.

-

It smelled like pumpkin and nutmeg inside the Perry residence.

Their porch was made of solid, old wood that creaked beneath their feet with well accustomed endurance for their presence and while the screen was fitted with state of the art mesh; its frame was older; a match for the dated quality of the foundations. It creaked open as Kiara drew Ian inside, smacking shut in their wake.

The interior had a homey, lived in quality that somehow overcame the hints of deterioration long since beginning to set in. The ceilings had patches where the paint had begun to peel and the floorboards were covered in scuff marks; scratches and tiny blemishes telling of their age. The walls were covered with pictures; some black and white, some colored. Most depicting who could only have been ancestors of the current owners.

Old, well worn faces stared out with their arms around horses; wide brim hats resting low over their brows. There were wide windows that looked out over the rolling expanse of property the Perry's called home, in the settling desk, the broken down husks of tractors in a neighboring field looked like sad relics of a time long gone. There were trademarks of their life scattered everywhere in here, toy blocks and picture books, framed photographs along a mantle with more candles lit between each.

A small bowl with an offering of seasonal fruits and nuts set on each corner. To their left, a staircase with carved banisters wound sharply up and around and from inside a swinging kitchen door, the sounds of voices. One lower, Neal's register and another, softer.

The door swung open and the owner of the second voice made her appearance. She too, had the look of the country about her with an angular face that was not precisely pretty but projected a sort of genteelness. There was a quiet strength to her that spoke of a woman who understood the usefulness of words (and the wisdom in silences). Her eyes were a very piercing blue - they reflected a gentleness not instinctively garnered from first sight of her.

Debra Perry was a small, wiry-built woman with hair as dark as Kiara's, if beginning to show traces of grey at the temple. Neal backed through the door in his wife's wake, a squirming child in one arm and a bowl in the other; he carried both past his wife without a saying a word; though his eyes were fixed on Kiara and Ian as he passed.

The Verbena reached out to briefly touch a chubby, kicking foot as its owner passed.

"Kiara, glad you could come." Deb's voice was softer than her appearance would have predicted, her mouth, when it offered a smile, opened her features up into something charismatic and engaging. "Neal mentioned we had an extra this year." This, with a brief, assessing sweep up and down Ian's form. Unlike her husband however, there was no false bravado in the older woman's greeting. She simply turned her eyes on Kiara, as the latter offered over her flowers and noted, with gentle humor: "You never mentioned he was handsome. You'd better hang on to him tonight."

Kiara slid her fingers over his arm. "I think he can hold his own."

Deb's expression was thoughtful as her eyes passed between them. "Glad to hear it. Why don't you both help make yourselves at home, dinner won't be long."

-

The screen door swallowed Debra Perry and Kiara's focus drifted to the mantle. She picked up one of the black and white portraits. "Debra's family has worked with horses for generations out here. They used to have a lot more but - " The Verbena's fingers slid over the frame, she set it back down, a frown etching into the corner of her mouth. "Money got tight. They tried to pay me every time I came out to see Deb when she was pregnant."

Kiara's eyes read a quiet sort of empathy. "I think after the third time I refused, Neal gave up and insisted I come to gatherings instead."

Ian

It isn't the first time that Ian has been inside this kind of home, but he can count the others on one hand. Even in New Jersey, where he knew other Verbena, he only occasionally ventured into rural areas. The times he did, it was usually a wilderness outing. Camping and hiking trips, rock climbing... the things he liked about wild places did not typically involve other people. He steps into the house ahead of Kiara, and there's a fractional little twitch of tension when the door smacks shut behind them (if only for the suddenness of the sound.) Inside, he moves about slowly, sweeping his gaze over the interior of the house as though it were a museum. He's careful where he sets his feet - avoiding any small objects that might be on the ground. Despite the old boards, the floor doesn't creak much beneath his weight. It's habit for him, treading lightly. More than that though, he feels like an intruder here. (Like a tiger in a wolf's den.)

When Neal appears with the baby, Ian makes a smooth step to the side so as to avoid any accidental contact. It's not precisely awkward (the way he moves could never be described that way) but anyone watching closely might wonder if perhaps he's not wholly comfortable being around children. His eyes ghost over the baby for a moment before hovering with more focused attention on Kiara's hand (on the way she reaches out to touch the infant's foot.)

Deb greets them, and Ian lets his attention refocus on her. He smiles when she calls him handsome and something about that seems to relax him a little. Less the compliment itself than the fact that he understands how to respond to it.

You'd better hang onto him tonight.

He raises a brow at that, but seems mostly amused. When Kiara says that he can hold his own, he utters a wry, gentle laugh. "It's nice to meet you. You have a lovely house." There's a longer pause before he adds, "And a nice family."

(Look at him, on his best behavior.)

Deb makes her way out; tells them to make themselves at home. Once she's gone, Kiara tells him about the family's history. There's a sympathetic glance from Ian at that. That they had to cut back because of financial troubles.

"Or maybe they just like you," he offers knowingly. After a pause he adds, "They seem like good people."

Kiara

She's quiet for a moment, then.

Her fingers sweeping along their mantle, careful in the way you were in another person's home. "They are. Though I sometimes think - " She pauses and a tiny line creases her brow, tension creeping in around her mouth. "They think too highly of me." There's a flash of her teeth when she smiles. This abrupt, tense little reflexive thing. "There's the Kiara that they trust and know and then there's ... " Her eyes tick to the window, outside dusk was settling in and the lights burning on the table emitted a cheery glow; the voices rising and falling scattered with laughter.

Someone had brought out a guitar and was absently picking at chords with lazy consideration.

The curl of wood-smoke seeping inside, someone was likely stoking the bonfire; jostling the logs into feeding the flames.

The pagan's eyes are a complex mix of emotions; the tension not wholly leaving her frame as she refocuses on him. "The real one. The realer one. I don't think I'd ever want them to know that version." There's phantoms here, dancing on the edges of Kiara's expression, the soft confession of her words of their conversation in the woods.

(I don't think I'm built for that.

I don't think I'd want to be.)

She leans in, after a pause, apropos to a branding of her words and kisses the edge of his mouth, a little aggressively, a little hungrily. As if to maintain some boundary between the Kiara of this place and the version that belonged with him, within the city limits. Belonged to magick and danger and the swirl of potential catastrophe that seemed to perpetually circle their lives.

The screen door swings open as she draws back and there's a deliberate, loud clearing of a throat. Kiara's face lowering for a moment, into the crook of Ian's neck to half muffle her amusement. "Not to break up the moment you're clearly having in my living room but the food's about ready." Neal's arm was braced against the wall, his fingers scratching at the edge of his jaw.

"Okay, we'll be right there." Kiara's fingers swept over his back, she drew away with some semblance of regret.

Ian

He doesn't interrupt her while she speaks, but there's a sudden way that he looks at her - when she says that Neal and Deb think too highly of her - where she can see this warring moment of tension and empathy in his eyes. He's being so careful not to dislodge anything, not to leave so much as a fingerprint in his wake, and perhaps part of that is because he's thinking something not all that dissimilar to what Kiara says out loud. But the way she says it... it crystallizes things.

He steps in close, placing a hand on her arm, and he's about to say something when she leans in and kisses him. He makes a sound then, soft and... complicated. (It sounds both happy and concerned.) His lips move slowly beneath the more aggressive push of her own.

He hears Neal coming, but he doesn't try to pull away until the man clears his throat and Kiara hides her face in amusement. Her breath is warm against his neck (distracting.)

The food's ready.

Ian isn't really there for the food. (Has Kiara ever even seen him eat? Maybe once or twice. Certainly he does eat, but it doesn't seem to be something he socializes around.)

He grasps Kiara's wrist before she can start out the door. Waits until Neal is further away before he says, "I know you. Better than they do, anyway. And I still think highly of you. Not just because I have feelings for you, either. I know it's..." he hesitates. "...Easy for us to do that. To think that people don't know us. That if they did they wouldn't like what they saw. But everyone is like that. Everyone has shit that they hide. Even them." He glances after Neal's retreating form through the doorway.

"None of us are just one thing." He puts his hand to his lips as though to mark her kiss to memory.

When the hand drops, he steps out the door. "Come on. Neal probably won't be happy if we have sex in his living room." There's a slight lift of his mouth there. A glance thrown across at Kiara that's both intimate and teasing.

Kiara

In truth, the food was merely part of the process.

A portion of the ritual to honor those who had passed on, to mark the passing of the Sun God into other lands. The plates of food laid out around the house too, seemed far less anything set out for consumption so much as offerings. The fruits of the season laid out to guide those onward who needed it.

The barriers between the worlds, this one and the next, were at their thinnest tonight and she'll react to it, for a moment, the Verbena, when they step outside and take in the feast laid out; the stars winking into existence high above. Breathe in the sights and sounds and for a moment seem so far away - her eyes on the crackling flames rising up from the bonfire. It hadn't yet risen to its full height but already the heat it gave off could be felt; the shadows glimpsed dancing across the side of the barn, throwing long patterns into the paddocks.

But first - Ian takes her wrist and she turns into the motion, her smile diminishing only at the expression on his face, the quiet sincerity in his words. He knows her. Everyone has shit that they hide. Even them. Kiara's dark eyes bear down on him for a long moment and it's not until Neal's footsteps retreat that she seems to relent, to allow tension to seep from her bones.

"I know. I know they do, but the things I've done for them. For their baby." Her voice drops lower, hushed. "I don't regret that I did them but truths like that - " Kiara's mouth flexes into a supple tilt down. "I think there are some walls that have to stay in place. For their protection, if nothing else."

Neal won't be happy if we have sex in his living room.

Her smile resurfaces and she treks after him, toward the door. "It'd certainly make a bold impression."

Then - Kiara's eyes on the fire for a moment, the chatter of voices, chairs scraping back against the ground. She leans into Ian's space, her fingers curling into his shirt. "After the meal, we gather around the fire. Remember everyone who's passed on. Sometimes there's dancing." Her eyes gleam for a beat where they rest on his face.

"Maybe you can show everyone up later." A low murmur that, she nudges into his space before treading down the steps. Two chairs had been left for them, seated directly across from each other, food already being passed along. There was a subdued note when Debra rose to her feet, her pale eyes sweeping the length of the tables; a Samhain breeze playing in the candleflame, flickering it wildly.

"Tonight, we come together to honor those who have passed before us and those that will pass after us. We celebrate their lives and let our great light guide them."

There was a low ripple of agreement and Debra lifted her glass toward the bonfire before taking a careful sip. Kiara's eyes found Ian's across the table, the firelight was reflected in them, the candlelight dancing across her features, the slant of her mouth.

"Now, everyone eat." Man of fewer words, was Neal.

Ian

There are some walls that have to stay in place.

He doesn't respond to that except to nod slowly, his eyes reflecting this subdued sense of shared experience. These are secrets they both keep. Outside, the bonfire's been lit. It glows bright and hot in the dark, flames licking high toward the shrouded sky. Ian can smell traces of ash in the air. Kiara's fingers find purchase in his shirt, though there isn't much of it to grasp. The cotton fabric is soft beneath her touch, melding over the shape of his torso. She tells him that after they eat, they'll gather around the fire to remember those who've passed.

He looks at the flames for a long moment, but keeps his thoughts to himself.

Maybe you can show everyone up later.

"Maybe."

They make their way to the table, parting from each other's side so they can settle into their seats. The combined scent of the food, warm and rustic and welcoming, permeates the air around the gathering. Ian's attention slides over the assembled crowd, taking them in one at a time. These are the people Kiara calls family (or at least the closest thing she has to it.) There's a longer glance and a quiet greeting offered to whoever happens to be seated beside him before Deb stands up to speak. When she rises, a hush falls over the group. Ian tips his head a little as he watches her. His body language is very still. Kiara's eyes seek him out across the table, and though he can feel the weight of her attention he doesn't let himself meet it until after Neal offers his own (brief) words.

Now, everyone eat.

There's a small, private moment then when their eyes meet. The light from one of the candles reflects in miniature off of Ian's dark irises. Then there's food being passed his way, and the energy around the table settles into something more relaxed.

There are things one can glean about a person based on the way they eat. Ian's plate ends up neatly partitioned. Given the offerings on display, he could easily overfill it, but he doesn't. There are things he avoids - carbohydrates, mostly. The fact that he does take some of the pastry Kiara brought is notable.

Kiara

The food was generous, to say the least. There's a lot of it on offer (pies and pastas and salads and bowls of seasoned, steaming potato, tiny round pumpkin cakes decorated with the spices of the season, scalloped corn and freshly baked rolls, golden brown and still warm from the oven) and as food is passed around, commentary falls into the predictable sort of a holiday gathering. With some clear differences.

"John's not here this year, Neal?"
"Went wild walking over Mabon. Decided to keep going."

" ... said to me they found a Cairn out near Woodland Park. Big old pile of stones."
"They're always claiming they're finding the next Stonehenge."

"Any news on your foal, Deb?"

"Would you like a Remembrance cookie?"

The last directed at Ian, a plate of cookies shaped like people offered his way. They smelled faintly like vanilla and the plate's holder wore both a smile and a blush. She was one of the younger women in attendance with long, curling blonde hair tied into plaits and a wreath of flowers woven into both, her fingers covered in rings; a piercing in her nose and clear eyes that openly read appreciation for what she was looking at (which was the newcomer she'd happily found herself next to). Down the table, Debra Perry caught Kiara's eye over the rim of her glass and delivered a pointed look.

The edge of the brunette's mouth curled and she cast a fleeting back and forth look between Ian and the teenager. "We bake them fresh every year."

"Ian, meet Cassie. She lives across from Neal and Debra. She's a junior this year."

Cassie, so introduced shot Kiara a sharp little look, coupled with the toss of a braid. "I'm also on the school council and I'm the leader of the Junior Pagan Society."

Kiara's smile grew and she reached over to take up a cookie shaped like a slightly misshapen human being. Cassie's smile wobbled and it looked like it took effort not to rip the plate away from the brunette's reaching fingers. "I stand corrected."

-

There's other discussion, after that. Kiara's opinion, Ian would notice, was readily sought. Mostly, it seemed, regarding physical maladies. This was aching, what did she recommend. What herbs had she given Deb during the last months of her pregnancy, why didn't she come around more often. How was her clinic doing. Ian too, it seemed, was a ready source of interest to more than just Cassie.

"So, Ian." Neal had craned over to spot him down the table. "Kiara here tells me you're a dancer. Course, that's about all she's told me." Several pairs of interested eyes turned on the newcomer.

Ian

It is perhaps not a tremendous surprise to anyone at the table (certainly not to Deb) that a girl Cassie's age might find Ian attractive. The look that Deb shoots across the table to Kiara might as well be an I told you so. Ian turns to regard Cassie when she offers him a cookie, eyes lowering to the plate in her hands before rising again to note the soft flush of color on her cheeks. There's a second's pause where he considers his response, and Kiara takes the opportunity to introduce the two of them. There may or may not be any ulterior motive behind the information she elects to present.

Kiara takes a cookie. Cassie seems less than pleased by the interruption. Ian, meanwhile, looks at the human-shaped Remembrance cookies like maybe the entire concept is a little unsettling to him.

"That's a lot more motivated than I ever was in high school." A softly appealing smile lifts the corners of his mouth when he meets Cassie's eyes, and though he wants to tell her no, he reaches out and takes one of the cookies anyway. "Thanks. I like your hair, by the way." Smile still in place, he neatly bites off the cookie's head.

As soon as Cassie looks away, he shoots Kiara a conspiratorial glance.

Conversations resume. Many of those at the table seek out Kiara's advice. Ian seems largely content to observe, but he makes enough casual small-talk not to appear disengaged. When Neal addresses him from across the table, Ian leans forward a little to make eye contact.

"Well, you know. We like to keep the mystery alive. I only just told her my real name yesterday." He's joking, of course. There's an edge of dry humor in his voice that falls away as he continues. "I dance contemporary ballet with a company in the city. We just finished a show this week."

Kiara

Morrison was not so far removed from city life that something like what Ian mentions he does professionally garners blank expressions or murmurings of confusion and mistrust. It was, after all, home to the Red Rocks Amphitheatre that had seen its fair share of celebrity. But his confession, of contemporary ballet, does draw a raised eyebrow from Neal Perry.

It also drew lingering consideration from Cassie, who had taken to fussing with one of her long braids ever since Ian had complimented her hair.

"You know, that really wouldn't surprise me with Kiara. Took me months just to convince her to come out here and visit." There's a fork with potato attached that finds the brunette down the table, her lips curving in a smile as she swallows a mouthful of food discreetly and lifts a slender shoulder in a casual little shrug. "Course once she did, she wouldn't stay gone. Damn good of you to take her off our hands."

There was laughter from a few sources and Kiara's eyes narrowed as she stabbed her fork into a slice of pie, focus flitting to Ian's face. There was a liveliness in her gaze that suggested she was accustomed to the barbs being flung her way and that, if anything, the presence of them was reassuring to her.

"Ignore Neal, he's all talk."

"That's very impressive, Ian." This interjection from Deb, cutting off whatever retort had been about to leave her husband's mouth, who filled it with a forkful of food, instead. "Kiara took us to see a show in the city the other week. I have to admit, it had been a while since I put on anything other than jeans." There was a flicker of answering warmth in Kiara's smile for the older woman.

"You looked great, Deb."

-

Once the meal was done, there was a general unspoken consensus about what came next. Chairs pushed back and bodies began to meander toward the bonfire; some taking chairs closer, others laying down blankets to sit and watch the dancing flames.

Kiara, slower to rise than some, snapped a cookie in half and slipped a piece between her lips, canting a glance across at him as some of the ladies carried dishes into the ranch. "So, you survived. I think I'm a little impressed."

Ian

"You should come out more. I could probably get you cheap tickets." This to Deb, who Ian regards with quiet consideration as he rests his elbows against the table. "I know a lot of people in the arts scene, so if ballet's not your thing..." he glances at Neal briefly, then shrugs. The offer is an open-ended thing. They can take it or let it pass - as people often do in these sorts of conversations.

The meal slows down and people begin to wander toward the bonfire. Ian watches them lay out blankets with a subdued, thoughtful expression. He doesn't seem to be in any special hurry to get up from the table, though he finished eating long ago.

Kiara's impressed he survived. Ian lifts his gaze, then slowly rises to his feet. "I've survived after-parties during Fashion Week. This was pretty calm by comparison."

Calmer, yes. But that doesn't necessarily make it easier.

"It's actually a a lot more low-key than the last pagan ceremony I went to. There weren't any kids there, though."

(There also hadn't been any Sleepers.)

He slides his arm around Kiara's waist and leans against her for a moment. "Let's go sit by the fire."

Kiara

"Mm." She makes a low noise of agreement when he suggests it's more low-key than some pagan celebrations. "This year there aren't as many of us." Kiara seems to regret it, if the way her eyes travel over the figures beginning to mill around are any indication. Plates of leftover food are being carried over to the bonfire by some of the guests and set out.

Others, like Cassie and Debra, stand beside the crackling flames and throw pieces of the remembrance cookies into the fire. Their progress watched by others settling down. The gentle twang of guitar drifts across to them and when Kiara feels his arm slide around her waist she turns a smile on him and her fingers lift to briefly trace the edge of his jaw as so often seemed to be her habit.

This brief, tactile reminder of his presence.

Let's go sit by the fire.

"Okay. C'mon." She slides her fingers through his and draws him forward, walking backward a few steps before she twists and leads him toward the bonfire. In times gone by, there would have been revelries that far outstripped the more sedate atmosphere of the Perry's Samhain gathering. Most of those settled by the fire seemed content enough simply to enjoy the radiating warmth coming from its presence; to sit, cradled against each other and chatter in low, somber tones.

The brunette leads him over to the far side of the fire where there were fewer couples and draws him down onto the grass. Behind them, the fields dipped into shadowy vastnesses of space, undefined and mysterious. Above their heads, the stars were visible where the clouds had rolled back and everywhere, the aroma of the wilderness - the grasses, the dampness of the soil, the woodsmoke - drifted and wound around them.

The rise and fall of voices blending with the slow picking at a melody on a guitar.

"Aisling always used to love this time of year," Kiara notes quietly, where she settles back against him. "I think she'd have liked them." She tilts her chin toward the Perry's, Deb had carried their son over to watch the fire from a safe distance and was jiggling him up and down on a hip while his hands reached toward the flames and opened and closed on thin air.

"Though she'd have been scandalized that I was letting myself get close to them." She lifts her face up. "She had attitude about the unenlightened, as she called them. Said it was a recipe for disaster to get attached." There's a twinge of something almost wistful there, for a beat. "She was crazy but - maybe she wasn't entirely wrong."

Ian

The fire relaxes him a little. The air outside is late-autumn crisp but the heat from the flames radiates out like a furnace, baking into their skin and clothes as they settle in beside it. Ian makes himself comfortable on the ground, creating a cradle with his body for Kiara to tuck herself into, both legs bent at the knee as they rest outside her hips. He watches the flames lick high toward the stars, brushing a section of Kiara's hair from her shoulder in this slow, quietly affectionate gesture. He tilts his head down and kisses the bared skin there, at the spot where her neck and shoulder meet.

He's quiet for a while. Kiara talks about Aisling - says she would have liked this place (these people.) Ian voices a subdued sound when she suggests that maybe her mentor wasn't entirely wrong about forming attachments to the unenlightened.

"I try not to form attachments to anyone," he admits quietly. "For a lot of reasons. With them... I worry I'll put them at risk. But I don't think it's good for us to do that - live like we aren't all part of the same world. Some days I think maybe it isn't good for anyone."

Kiara

He kisses Kiara's bare shoulder and she makes some quiet noise of pleasure, tipping her face further to the side to bear the stretch of her neck to him if he so wishes. It was not the only open sign of affection among those gathered at the fireside. There was little modesty here with those who shared Kiara's beliefs, her connection to the earth. It had never particularly been part of Kiara's nature, to exhibit anything less than total confidence and acceptance of her body.

It seemed to reach further than simple physicality, though. It was part of her, on a deeper level. The way her essence seemed to thrum with the very vitality of it; the slow, steady pulse of life. The surge that came with that first, deep lungful of oxygen after the plunge.

They didn't share that aspect, the Sleepers around them, didn't possess the same crackling awareness in their bones, in their blood. Feel the way the world shifted and moved around them (with them), the way it shuddered when a Will was forced upon it. Understand the way their patterns were spun into a greater design. There is some sense of that - the differences between them and the others in the way Kiara observes them after Ian speaks.

Admits what he does.

She drops her eyes to where their fingers are entwined over her knee and draws the edge of her thumb along the tiny bumps and planes of his finger; down to the knuckle and back.

"It's strange to think there's even a line, sometimes. That they couldn't look into the fire and see what I do. But they believe the same things. Even without knowing the things I do." She murmurs, her gaze ticking over her friends faces; Neal's, open with laughter; a dozen tiny lines crinkling around his eyes; Debra's quieter pleasure; her chin lightly resting on top of her son's head.

"It's just - a simpler acceptance of it. Maybe a more honest one, too." She's quiet a beat, then curls her palm over the top of his hand, squeezing down on his fingers, her voice a low, teasing curl of humor. "Does that make me the exception to the Ian Lai rule of forming attachments?"

Ian

It would be very easy for them (for him) to believe themselves some higher form of being. Many of the Awakened do believe that. Ian, with all the things that set him apart from other people - he says it isn't good for them to think that way. Perhaps he speaks more from experience than idealism.

It's a harsh thing to say to someone he loves - that he tries not to form attachments. To anyone. It likely says a lot about how far they've come, as people and with each other, that Kiara's response is to quietly tease him. She squeezes his hand and asks, amused, whether that makes her the exception to his rule.

Ian exhales this brief note of laughter. He leans his head against hers, nestling his face into her hair. His answer doesn't come for a long moment, until he lifts his head away and kisses her temple. "I've made a lot of exceptions to that rule lately. You... in particular."

In the background, someone is playing the guitar. Ian closes his eyes and lets the notes sweep over him. Then he lifts his hand to Kiara's jaw and turns her head gently into his own. They're far enough from the others that it doesn't really feel as though they're on display, though anyone looking their way might notice their affection - the easy way they touch each other. The emotions they communicate through their bodies. Ian kisses Kiara slowly, his lips lingering and soft. To anyone looking on, it feels like a private moment.

Kiara

It's deceptively easy where they are, surrounded by the notes of nature and the slow, dreamy strum of guitar strings to believe that they're beyond the reach of terrors in their respective lives. To cling to each other on a crisp October night and put faith in nothing more than that. The way it felt to be here and now, to listen to the slow, steady beating of each other's hearts. To watch the others around the bonfire as they in turn watched them. To slide fingers over faces and draw lips into a sweet embrace.

Kiara would come face to face with the extremes of their reality in the days to come. Would help set the spirit of a tormented young woman free and come face to face with the poisonous essence of a true Fallen One.

But she doesn't know of that now, is no Seer the way her Mentor had been. Can only cup Ian's face in return and allow herself the pleasure of being kissed and feel the warmth of the fire against her skin; feel the affection in Ian's touch against her face like a balm. It's worth holding to, the sensation. The awareness of it. It was partly what drove the brunette's survival instinct in the Umbra. It will be the underlying steel to her endurance in days to come. The capacity to feel. To understand.

To love.

In the here and now: someone begins to sing along with the guitar. This soft, sweet voice that rises into the night air.

"Samhain, Samhain, let the ritual begin,
We call upon our sacred ancestors to come in
Samhain, Samhain, we call upon our kin,
We call upon our dear departed loved ones to come in

The Veil between the worlds is thin
Our hearts reach cross the sea of time
To bring our loved ones in
Samhain, Samhain we honor all our kin
We honor those who've gone before
As the Great Wheel turns again."

There's a wistfulness to the song, the lyrics offering a lullaby and recognition to the departed, the ones long gone and those seeking the bright beacon of the bonfire to guide them on. Kiara seems lost to it for a long moment, staring into the flames before she turns her face, murmurs against his neck. "Let's take a walk."

Ian

Ian seldom speaks of the people he's lost. Here they are on Samhain, a day meant for honoring the departed, and he still does not speak of them. He exists in this place and this moment not as an active participant but as an observer. Perhaps there is some regret, in that. That for all the things he and Kiara share, there are places where their beliefs do not fall into sync. But there is no correct way to grieve. The process of losing loved ones, of comprehending the nature of life and death, is a maddening experience - that people can one day exist and the next day... not.

He is not accustomed to the idea that grief could be a communal experience. But then, many experiences have always been solitary for him. Perhaps there is some element of fate in that. Perhaps it's just his nature. And yet...

He is not alone now.

Some would say that it's a blessing - not being able to see the future. If Ian could, he would be terrified to leave Kiara's side. Already that urge plagues him. Will there come a day when he's grieving her too? When she is grieving him? They take what they can with each other. And right now, it's enough. (To keep them alive. To keep them sane.)

The song starts, and it feels for a moment as if they've been transported to some other place and time. Some experiences are as old as life itself.

Let's take a walk.

Ian's response is slow to materialize. They're both gazing into the flames as though the fire holds some vision of what's in their hearts, lost in each other and in their thoughts. First he makes this low, thoughtful sound, then he pushes up to his feet, taking her hand so he can pull her up with him. "Alright."

Kiara

She doesn't articulate beyond the suggestion why she wants them to walk.

To slip away from the comforting warmth of the fire and into shadowy fields where the insects sang and the smell of the horses grew stronger. Perhaps there's a mercy in it for him, some recognition cutting deep in Kiara that this part of her belief, this open grief, the unflinching acceptance and honoring of the dead would be difficult for him to accept. There was a way that the pagans (and even, perhaps more so, the Verbenae) dealt with death. They pressed down on old wounds and scars with a deliberateness, an intent to regenerate those emotions, to feel the well of blood back to the surface.

To live in the memory of those pains, those losses, for one night. It was part of the celebration. Part also, of the way they honored their deities. Shared in the death, however temporary, of their Sun God before he was returned to them at Yule. The seasonal change that was a death but only in the way a regeneration could be.

Should be.

So she (rejuvenation herself) takes his hand after he pulls her up and tugs him into a direction, down the sloping hill, beyond the dancing flames. Someone calling out after them, Neal's voice, perhaps, but the words are lost to the widening distance and the laughter that rises up in their wake. Teasing, no doubt, the lovers escaping the gathering.

-

Darkness settles in as the sounds and sights of the gathering fall behind them, light chasing over the blades of grass as they pick a pathway that winds along the fence, great slabs of wood protruding from the earth at intervals, wire twisted around to keep the paddocks secure. Wild snares of drying weeds tangling in the lines of it. As if nature were slowly consuming Perry Ranch's attempts at taming it.

Somewhere nearby the horses nicker, moving about in the dim.

It's hard to make out much of Kiara's face, but she's looking into the distance, out toward where one imagined the horses to be. Their fingers still wound together. "Do you ever talk to them?" She looks over at him, the movement feels as if she is, anyway. The way her voice seems to grow closer, drawing in. "Your family, I mean. I used to talk to Aisling a lot. Not so much these days, but, the first few months."

A beat. "I used to tell her how angry I was at her."

Ian

They drift away from the fire. Ian's head tilts a little when Neal calls after them, a subtle lift of an ear toward the sound. Perhaps he does hear what's said, but if so he doesn't react to it. It's dark in the country. The stars are much brighter out here than they are in Denver. As they walk, their eyes adjust to the changing light. Everything around them is shadows and indistinct shapes. Glancing toward the pasture, Ian can just make out the rounded outline of the horses.

He never used to like holding hands. Couldn't really tolerate it for long periods of time. With Kiara it happens like second nature. Every now and then, it occurs to him to wonder about that.

He looks over when she asks if he talks to his family. In the dark, it's difficult to read his reaction.

"Sometimes," he admits quietly. "Not very often. Usually nothing that bears repeating." There's a long pause before he says, with more hesitance, "There's a book I used to read to my sister. About once a year I get it out and read from it. I think that's more ritual than conversation though."

He steps in a little closer. Flexes his fingers before wrapping them more securely around Kiara's own. "Are you still angry with her?"

Kiara

She's silent for a moment after he mentions his sister. His own private ritual with her favorite book. Doesn't say anything directly about it but does move a little closer, does untangle their hands only as long as it takes for her to thread her arm through his and tuck herself against the curve of his body, her head briefly brushing his shoulder.

Her hair spilling over it in a wild tangle.

She re-links their fingers and breathes in, there's a crispness to the air as they wander further from the bonfire; late October chill creeping beneath their clothing. "No, I don't think I ever really was. Being angry at her just helped me deal with her being gone for a while."

There's a beat, she lifts her head from his shoulder, sweeps the fall of it over her own. "I saw her, that night. Out here. I don't know if was really her or just - what I wanted to see, but - she looked the way she was before. Happy, I think. She smiled at me and then I woke up."

There's another moment of silence, broken by another, closer, hard exhale from one of the horses. It's moved toward to the fence as they've been strolling closer, all but invisible with its black coat, one large eye turned toward their approximate position as if in anticipation of being fed. There was a flick of its ears.

The Verbena made a quiet noise.

"That's Artemis."

There's a smile in Kiara's voice, a low threaded murmur of it. "She's one of Deb's. The others don't tend to come as close but this girl," her fingers stroke over the slope of the mare's nose, "she's a little more fearless. She just doesn't seem to be able to breed." There's a twinge of something almost wistful in the pagan's tone, her eyes shifting to Ian's face.

Ian[Cha+Animal Kinship - can he manage to charm the horse?]

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

Ian

Horses don't always tolerate Ian well. They know a predator when they see one (even wearing human skin.) Last Christmas he spent time with another Verbena, a man who (owned is not the right word) befriended a beautiful Andalusian stallion. That horse had also been more than what it seemed. While Ian was being introduced to it, it looked at its friend and said: You should know better than to trust a tiger.

It hadn't really been wrong, in that case.

But there was also Dusk, the mare who'd carried him through an endless wasteland. Who not only tolerated but loved him. Some horses see a predator. Others see something else.

Artemis doesn't seem especially intimidated, though perhaps that's as much Kiara's doing as anything. When she approaches the fence, Ian lets Kiara lead him closer. He watches as she runs her hand over the mare's muzzle. Listens to the hard exhale of its breath with a nostalgic smile that's gone by the time Kiara looks at him.

"Appropriate name, then." He slips away from Kiara's grasp, reaching up slowly to trace a hand over the arch of the mare's neck. The touch is slow, soothing and exploratory. And he makes this sound, whisper-soft and reassuring. It isn't so much intentional as reflexive.

If she lets him, he puts both hands at either side of her cheeks and slides them down the length of her muzzle.

"I've never seen my family like that." (In visions. In Seekings.) "I dream about them sometimes. It's hard when I wake up from those."

(To remember all over again.)

"I get angry at my parents sometimes. Just... things kids are always angry at their parents about. I had a fight with my mom before she died. She didn't want me to go see my girlfriend. We used to fight about that a lot."

Kiara

Animals had degrees of sensitivity to the woman at Ian's side, less for reasons of fear (a predator could always be felt, deduced by a myriad of primal, instinctive tells that perhaps even Ian did not fully understand the nuance and complexity of) the way they did the tiger in him but more simply for her essence. The thrum of Awakened energy, the pulse of nature, of her Tradition in her veins.

Some, like Artemis seemed more naturally drawn to Kiara's side, nudging against her palm. Others set their tails between their legs, whined and grew agitated.

In some ways perhaps there was a likeness there, the tinges of otherness in them both coloring the way the world and the creatures within it observed them, interacted with them. The earth witch has never spoken of it with him, the fact that it happens - that animals sense it. It's occurred to her, fleetingly, that perhaps some tiny spark in him is drawn the same way. To her energy, to the way it radiates.

She strokes her fingers over the slope of the horse's muzzle as Ian's fingers find her neck, there's a tiny flick of the mare's tail and one great eye seems watchful of him, the animal shifting its weight from hoof to hoof by the fence, lowering its great head after a moment in search of food, strands of dry grasses were growing through the gaps in the fencing.

Kiara's gaze shifts, then. From the horse to Ian's face, when he mentions his mother. The girlfriend Kiara knows only in hazy, vague formation. Wisps of knowledge that he's offered. Her eyes return to the mare's form, her fingers reaching to gently stroke against the warmth of its side. She can feel the strength of her, the steady rhythm of Artemis' heart, the great muscle pumping blood through her body; fueling every toss of her head, every tiny flick and turn of her ears.

The brunette's brows constrict, briefly. "She didn't approve?" She fights for detachment with the next, though there are traces of interest she can't begin to conceal. "I wonder what she'd have made of me, then." Kiara's mouth ticks upward.

Ian

"I'm not sure what she would have thought of you. My mom could be kind of... hard to gauge." (A family trait, perhaps.) "I don't think she'd have disliked you though." He takes a step back from the fence and brushes his hands together, as though to rid them of potential detritus (horse hairs, dirt.) "It wasn't Naomi she didn't approve of. I think she just thought I was growing up too fast."

A sad irony then, given how her death affected him.

This is the most Ian's spoken of any member of his family in a long time. The vulnerability of it feels delicate in a way that's less strained than usual. Maybe that's to do with the darkness (the way it shrouds and blankets them,) or Artemis (animals have a way of bringing calm) or... perhaps it's because it's Samhain.

"My dad would have liked you. So would Jenna. Jenna had good taste in people." He smiles a little at that. The edge of it is sad, and it doesn't linger long.

"I had that fight with my mom the day of the accident. Before they left. I was supposed to be in the car with them. Instead I called her a Communist dictator and ran away so I could go have sex with my girlfriend."

He doesn't explain the exact degree to which his choice of words had hurt her (had hurt his father, who lost both parents during the cultural revolution,) but there's some sense of it in his voice. In the way it constricts. In the way his eyes glisten when he turns to look at the moon.

Kiara

There is something cathartic, perhaps, to talking about this now. Here, in the darkness on the night when the barrier between the living and the dead was fine toothed. When to some it felt as if there were barely a curtain to be brushed aside at all to feel the presence of those who had gone before, who came back.

Kiara, petting Artemis once more, draws back in the wake of Ian doing the same and the horse seems to regard this as dismissal (and the lack of any food forthcoming) and begins to slowly move off to graze further out in the paddock. She dusts her hands off against her jeans and leaves them there, threading her thumbs through the belt loops and leaning back on her heels.

Watches him as he talks of his family, her gaze searching his features for a long moment before her eyes lift to follow his. Finding the bright certainty of the moon. In the distance, over the crest of the hill they'd descended from, there is the rise and fall of voices, the smell of the bonfire smoke, curling up into the night.

The quiet commiseration being offered through the strokes of a guitar's strings.

She could say a lot of things. It's in her to offer them, to hold them out to him as some sort of balm to apply to the old, deep lashings guilt has left on his soul but they would feel as paltry and superficial as commiserations often are - given for the sake of something to mold and shape into comfort. Verbalizations of sympathy. Instead, she moves toward him where he watches the sky and slides her arms around his waist, clasps her wrist to loosely chain herself there and sets her face against his neck.

This close, she smells like woodsmoke and grass. Like the subtle notes of perfume in her shampoo.

Her nose brushes against the slope of his jaw and she turns her face after a beat, after there's little to break the silence but the sounds of nature surrounding them; the chorus of insects in the grasses, the sweep of an evening breeze rolling down the slope of the hill. The creak of old, rusting metal as time wore down the mechanisms.

She kisses his temple. It's a brief, fleeting imprint, her lips cool for the evening air. "We can walk back, when you're ready." She murmurs eventually, her weight against him neither an anchor or a means to move on. Simply a presence, solid and warm and there.

Ian

It isn't something he can easily process in that moment - the nearness of her, the quiet empathy and reassurance in her presence. Kiara laces her arms around his waist and when she does it she can feel the ripple of tension that crawls up his torso. It isn't the reaction her touch usually elicits. There's an urge, sudden and irrational, to push her away. To deny the thing she tries to offer. One of his heels steps back and there's a muted flinch when he turns his head to look out into the field.

He doesn't push her away, though. Instead he just... breathes.

He starts to try and put his arms around her, but some subconscious instinct won't let him do it. The nuance of it, the way he lifts his arms and hesitates, feels less like he doesn't want to touch her and more like he's afraid he might hurt her if he does. Finally he curls his fingers and drops his arms back to his sides. A moment later he lets one hand settle on the small of her back.

Her breath is warm on his neck when she leans her face into it. That more than anything seems to get his nerves to calm.

He couldn't say really, how long they end up standing there. Time passes. The horse moves away to feed in another part of the field. Distantly, people sing songs by the blazing glow of the fire. At some point, the tension in Ian's spine relaxes and he tilts his head to rest against Kiara's own.

She kisses his temple. We can walk back, when you're ready.

"Sure." He steps away and allows the two of them to untangle. Then he leans down and rips a blade of grass from the ground. He plays with it as they walk, occupying his hands. By the time they get back to the gathering he's tied it into a string of little knots.

When they stop, he tosses it quietly into the fire.

don't think it's forever. [serafine]

Kiara

Kiara Woolfe lived in a nice apartment complex.

It wasn't outrageously showy but it was evidence enough with its marble foyer and neat row of resident mailboxes that 817 17th street observed inhabitants that enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle, if nothing else. There was a gated underground parking lot and the main elevator was styled to mimic those from another era; the interior of it lined with reflective panels and polished gold handrails, an arrow ticking up floors that announced each with a quiet chime as the doors rolled open on handsome, rose and cream colored corridors.

Each contained a row of dark doors with brass numbers screwed into place and a small end-table at the very furthermost point of the stretch of hallway. It stood before a window overlooking the winding artery of traffic below. A lamp set on it cast a muted golden spill of light over the length of the hall once the sun dwindled down.

The sun had long since set by the time Kiara returned tonight (or was it tomorrow, by the time the elevator doors slid open on the Verbena's slight frame?) and stepped out with a set of keys tucked into her palm and a heavy rucksack toted over one shoulder. She looked uncharacteristically casual, rumpled the way one might after a long car trip; her shirt creased; dark hair wound over one shoulder in a french braid that had seen neater hours before this one, strands escaping as the brunette shuffled out of the elevator and headed toward a door at the end of the fourth floor.

422, it declared itself with as little fanfare as the others in the hallway, save for the fact its owner was returning to it in the darkest hours, smelling like the open road and the pine-riddled stretches of wilderness outside of the city limits.

Serafine

422 with no more fanfare than the others in the hallway except that its owner is returning at some late hour, smelling of more-than-whiskey and smoke, more than the dry brilliance of the city-in-autumn; and - of course - except that there is a certain creature curled up on the floor of the corridor.

Fishnet-clad legs drawn up to her body, arms wound loosely around them, head back against the wall, eyes closed.  Breathing steadily, easily, either stoned or sleeping on perhaps both.  There's a dog curled around her too, resting its head on one of her booted feet.

The dog's awake, eyebrows twitch upward as the elevator sings its muted little notice that someone's home, this alertness knitting itself into its body, the long slow chain reaction of it.    If Kiara's neighbors could see her visitors, they might've been alarmed that a building this fine was being invaded by homeless gutterpunks, right?  That's what Sera looks like, in her Docs and her fishnets, cut-offs, the battered old leather jacket, nevermind the Prada sunglasses perched on the crown of her
head.

Kiara

She'd made the offer without really knowing if Serafine would take her up on it. Would even remember, find that little scribbled address later and remember why she had it stuffed in her bra in the first place, who gave it to her. It was sincere, though. That must have become apparent (or surfaces now, at the very least) as Kiara manifests down into an easy crouch in front of her.

Keys jingle, there's the soft rustle of fabric.

The wash of a familiar energy, notes of rejuvenation, of steady constancy (like a drumbeat). Sid stirs to her first and maybe the tail thumps too, picks up the scent of the brunette as she carefully sets her bag down beside her and reaches out to scritchscritch behind the ears, her eyes on Sera's still form.

"Hey."

It's a quiet little thing, that greeting. Dark eyes searching her face for a long pause. "Why don't you come inside?" She gives Sid another ear scratch and pushes to her feet, the key sliding into the lock a magnified noise after the relative quiet.

-

Lights are off inside when the door swings open but lamps have been left burning. It's a lived in space, this apartment. A tiny little hall that reveals itself to have a joint kitchen and dining area, bedrooms veining off right and left into polar corners, a bathroom tucked into one side. Smells like incense, a corner of the living area by the window has a little table set up on it; there's a jumble of things there (herbs and ornate crystals and what vaguely resembled a knife). Paintings on the walls, too. Big canvases, three of them with figures streaked in reds and blacks and whites, twisting and dancing all tangled together in some abstract orchestration so there's no sense of beginning (or end).
And plants. So many of them.

Two by the door, ferns with long, thin tendrils and a vase of wildflowers on the bench by a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. Another monstrosity of a houseplant with larger, broader fronds in a pot by the window. It overlooks the side of the building but there's a sliver of city, too. Lights flashing by, the intersection below; horns and faint rising reminders of the cityscape.

There's a sofa pressed back against a wall, a laptop left charging on a low coffeetable in front of it, a tiny light blinking on and off as it hibernates. Empty coffee cups and the stray piece of the Verbena's clothing, folded over a chair, left on the arm of the sofa.

Serafine

Sera couldn't've been asleep, she rouses so easily.  This sharp little burst of an inhale, all through her nose.  Eyes opening, pupils huge, so dilated that Kiara could certainly see her own reflection in the dark discs if she looked close.  Still, it is also somehow like surface: from a dream, from an ocean.  That momentary dis-orientation as she searches for some familiar horizon.  Oh, there.

Doesn't even need help up tonight, and she rises quite on-her-own into a long, slow, luxurious stretch that gives Sid the permission she needs to rise too, nails clicking on the polished floors, tail making these long, lazy sweeps.

"I think you're the first person who's spoken to me in thirty-six hours."  Sera says, wry, as she follows Kiara into the apartment and takes a slow circuit of the Verbena's living space.  Pausing in front of what appears to be the altar to take in the things laid out there.  The ritual of it.  Reminds her, for no good reason except that he also had: altars, rituals, an athame that she never saw him use, of Hawksley and that gives her a little twinge that makes her rub the bronze ring on her right index finger with the meat of her right thumb.

"Would've guessed you'd be living somewhere out in the country.  Like Katiana.  Ever meet her?"

Kiara

She's bending low to click on a lamp she'd forgotten to turn on hours ago, it bathes the brunette's features in soft, mellow light. The long thin nose, the dark eyelashes; that lovely, full mouth. It cants into this brief suggestion of a smile at Serafine's words, bag thumps down on the sofa, keys clatter onto a bowl. "My neighbors are mostly assholes so you weren't missing much in the way of stimulating conversation if any of them were around."

Because she has no idea precisely when Sera curled up there in her hallway.

There's a little sympathetic pang in her chest for that, a hint of it in Kiara's eyes as she makes her way around into the kitchen, opens cupboards. Clinks glasses. Allows Serafine (and Sid) a moment to explore, drink in their surroundings. The altar is - well, what it seems. A low table with a small cushion before it, a length of silk set across the width. Large crystals of varying color and kind and a ceremonial knife across the center. There's a mortar and pestle with the remnants of something ground inside it too, the air around the altar feels charged, somehow, Kiara's resonance lingers there the strongest.

She re-appears behind the bar, uncorking a bottle of wine.

"Katiana. I don't think so, what was she like?" She pours out a generous glass, makes the wordless offer of another, if Sera shows interest and carries them around into the living room, settling herself into an armchair; her feet curling up beneath her. "I like the city. For my work, more than anything. There's a lot of reasons for people to need healing in one, but - " She lifts a thin shoulder, sipping from her glass, reaching forward to set the stem down on the table. "I have to go out there sometimes. Back to the trees. The grass. I stay too long here," she gestures, her expression thoughtful. "I start to feel weaker. Like I'm missing part of myself."

She offers the last gently, and then: "How long? Do you think it'll be before - " She hesitates to say it, until the world stops ignoring you. Until Paradox has its fill.

Serafine

Makes some noise, Sera.  Acknowledgment or awareness.  Something low and physical, in-the-throat.  She lingers at the alter but does not touch it.  These are someone’s else’s ritual tools; someone else’s path;  someone else’s work.  This, she is acutely aware of and she feels it both as a connection and a dislocation, a separation, a distance.  How could she feel anything else right now?
Wry little smile.   The ecstasy gives her both a feeling of wellbeing and an awareness within that feeling and she is here and also separate, the euphoria, the intense sense of connectivity transliterates so strangely with her actual imposed isolation that she feels part of the walls, the streets, the buildings, the landscape more than the people inhabiting them.

“I didn’t really know her.”  After that walk-about – lingering at the altar – Sera returns to the couch and flops down in the embrace of the arm.  “First time I met her I was pretty fucked up.   She came to heal Pan when he was in the hospital.”  Still-quiet, distant but very present in her body.  “Picked me up at my house and she had this stuff in these mason jars that tasted like herbs and she gave me some and it made me feel better.  I really, really wanted to go in to the hospital with her but sometimes me and hospitals don’t mix, and she was pretty fucking – I dunno.  Cool about it.  Like aware, empathetic, but cool.

“And she went in alone and healed him.  And I went to her house once, when Pan was recovering.”  Neat little shrug.  “And I was, too.  Was pretty fucked up then so I don’t remember much except it was this big old house in the country, smelled green as fuck and felt like the sort of place that should be home.  Not mine, but maybe Home, like ur-home, the original idea-of-home, warm and rich and settled and intense and a little bit scary.

“And I have no idea how long this is going to last.  Fuck, maybe forever?”

Kiara

Kiara never met the Chorister Sera mentions, but she offers this slight smile of recognition at the name.

She's heard of Pan, of his time in Denver, of the opinions some of the others held about him. Sits there for a moment, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped in front of her, watching Serafine as she moves around her apartment; flops down onto the sofa, tucking into the arm. There's a beat before Kiara gets up and joins her, cedes her one side and settles into the other, leaving a cushion between them. Allowing that island of personal space to exist between where the Verbena's drawn up knee rests and Sera's body begins.

One elbow goes to the back of the sofa; sinks in; fingers thread into all that dark hair and she just - resides there, for a while, Kiara. Thoughtful in the quiet, before: "I got hit after I stepped across. Into the Umbra."

She pauses, turns her face to study her coffee table; the profile of the pagan's face is rather lovely, the long nose, the cheekbones; the slant of her jaw; long dark lashes that sweep down when she dips her eyes toward the floor with a momentary frown. "I don't even remember half of it. Just - feeling this sudden disconnection with my body and when I woke up, I was in a bed at the Chantry. Annie found me lying outside."

She turns back, her mouth slanted in this half rueful little smile. "I was actually glowing." There's a certain gleam of dark humor in the Verbena's eyes for it, for what reality had dealt her, the manifestation of her workings in the spiritual dimension. "My whole body had this glimmer, I couldn't step outside the Chantry for a week." She lifts a thin shoulder. "I had no idea if it'd last or if stepping across like that, I'd somehow screwed things up ... it was hard." She sweeps her hand out, drops it down to rest over her ankle. "this - is harder." Quiet. "It's crueler. I'm sorry."

The last a murmur as her expression softens, the edge of her mouth flexing as if unsure about its intent, to smile or twist into some semblance of a frown. "Dan mentioned Thailand, is that where ... ?"

Serafine 

“I turned back time, once.  Not long, but enough, you know?  The universe doesn’t like that shit.  Knocked me out, but there wasn’t anything else.  Took me about a week to get better, gave Dan a goddamned scare.  Plus all the blood he had to clean up.

“He’s pretty good at that though.  You know?  Steady.”

Quick little grin that somehow manages to both: reach her eyes and miss them entirely. 
“I’ve never been to the other side.  Of my own doing, anyway.”  And Sera toes off her boots and pulls her feet up onto the couch.  Wraps her arms around her calves.  Nestles her sharp little chin in the bony prominence of one knee.  Doesn’t seem to react when Kiara tells her she’s sorry, except with a drifting frown that ghosts over her brows and mouth and doesn’t quite reach her eyes, either. 
“Yeah, well.  I was in Thailand.  Woke up in LAX like this, though.  Everything in between is pretty fucking hazy.”

Kiara

There's an answering little smile from the Verbena at that remark about Dan.

"Yeah, he really is. He was worried, though. About you." There's a pause where Kiara doesn't elaborate but just sort of observes the Cultist. The way she draws her feet up, rests her chin on her knee. Kiara's fingers idly carding through her dark hair, tugging at the end of that braid before: "I was too." Soft, that offering. With a smile that curls up the corner of the brunette's lips. Gives some spark back to those dark eyes of hers.

She turns her face away after a minute, the expression fading into something a little more somber.
There's a smudge of dirt that's escaped the Verbena's notice on the edge of her jaw, just this tiny smear, like a finger dipped in soot and touched to the length of it. She hasn't said where she was tonight, what the rucksack had been for; why her clothes look slept in. Why there's shadows under her eyes when they eventually tick back.

"There's too many ways we can be anything but okay, right now." The Verbena's tongue traces the edge of a tooth, she sits back, wineglass in hand and allows a leg to draw up; tilting the rim to her lips. She gestures toward Sid as she swallows, twisting her body a little more, leaning into the edge of a cushion. "That where you found this one? Somewhere in between?"

Serafine

This neat little tick of her dark gaze when Kiara remarks that Dan was worried, that <i>she</i> was worried.  Something strangely sober there, spare and framed with a pregnant awareness that cuts the curve of her straight mouth into something somber and fine.  Sera does not say anything, or perhaps, not <i>precisely</i> anything.  She is reserved in that moment in a way that she rarely seems to be. 
That look lingers, right?  And shifts, almost wholly slant-wise.

“Just okay isn’t ever really a thing I’ve ever wanted to be.  Somehow I don’t think it suits you all that much, either.”

--

Then, a lilt of her chin, attention on Sid who has settled onto the floor, muzzle over her folded paws.  “Naw.  Found her after I got there.  Woke up in LAX and not a goddamned thing worked.  Snuck onto one of the buses.  Is it even sneaking if no on can see you?  Anyway, found her in a back alley, pretty bad-off.  Had this collar all ground into her neck that she had longsince outgrown.  Healed her and calmed her body and mind and she wouldn’t leave me, after. 

“Remembered me of being sixteen, waking up like that.  You remember being sixteen?”

Kiara

She perceives it of course. The sobering expression, that moment where there could be something to say in response to it. Her offering of concern, her awareness of Dan's. Sera's look lingers and the Verbena's eyes cut back to her face long enough to glean some idea from it. Some little crease that edges there between her brows in response to it; the corner of Kiara's mouth hooking downward and pulling into this suggestion of thought.

Of consideration. For what she does offer and for the way the brunette's expression tugs into some dawning little revelation. A little lingering of her own fine, dark eyes before they pull away and she weighs the glass in her hand instead. There's a texture to it, that silence. That build of the sobering unspokens between them.

-

Somewhere floors below, a siren sounds; this distant wailing that rises and falls and then slides away again as the traffic weaves on.

-

You remember being sixteen draws a noise, this little curl of humor reigniting into Kiara's face, her voice. "I remember what a mess I was. I attended this very elite private school in Manhattan," she tugs at her earlobe, idly drawing at the hoop in it. "I used to skip classes in the afternoons. Spend it in the city, my friends and I. Sneak into clubs." The Verbena's shoulder lifts in this simple, unfettered shrug. A little dismissive, a little whimsical. "It was always better than being at home, back then."
She lifts the glass of wine to her lips, uncurls herself to set it back on the table after a beat. Her eyes returning to Sera's face as she settles back; picks one of the smaller cushions up and hugs it to her stomach. "I miss it, sometimes. Not the mess, not exactly, but - " She traces her fingertips along the seam of her sofa. " - feeling that invincible. World at your feet. Like the city was there waiting to be discovered." Kiara's lashes dip against her cheek when she lowers them, they're long and dark, unadorned tonight with anything to dramatize the effect.

"I don't know where exactly I lost that feeling."

Serafine 

Strange how connections happen.  How concordances occur.  How the world arranges itself and rearranges itself in the most remarkable and strange ways.  Sera’s gaze is dark and fine and keen and flashes up from somewhere rather more level, some indoor, ineluctable, thoroughly strange and steady place.

“Have you really lost it?”  This pause not precisely unbending but: strangely steady.  “That feeling?”

Kiara

There's a pause, then: "Maybe. I think after Aisling died," there's this brief touch of her gaze on Sera's face, "after I had to leave New York like that, it changed things. To be honest," she smiles, this flash of teeth and slow, gathering humor, restoring itself after the momentary lapse of it when she mentioned her mentor's name. "I'm not sure it's all bad. Feeling invincible sounds great in theory but in practice - " there's a low, threaded noise. "I don't think it's smart to see the world without both sides. All the mess and chaos.

It's there for a reason."

There's a lot in that, about the way the healer saw the world. A pagan by choice as well as one of the Verbenae, she must have seen it, life, their duration in it, as a cycle. A process that ought to naturally wear down the body, leave the vessel as a tired and broken shell to be given back at the end of things. As the spirit passed on and the cycle began anew. They paid homage to the seasons, those of Kiara's ilk. Saw meaning in the turn of the leaves from verdant green to brilliant wine reds and sunset oranges.

She ticks her eyes over the Cultist's drawn legs, back to her face. "I don't think this is forever." The brunette scoots forward a touch, sets the pillow to one side. "Have you ever had a healing done?"

Serafine 

Kiara doesn't think this is forever.  And Sera - who both believes and does not believe in things like forever - gives her this strange tic of a smile, which seems to be distilled from equal parts of sorrow and grace.  Nudges her chin a bit on the bony part of her knee.  Doesn't say anything.  Doesn't know.  Doesn't quite believe.

Already knows what her next move is.  Has to be: if this is anything close to forever.  Or, hell, even another couple of months.

"I've been healed."  Her dark eyes tick upward.  Touch on these cardinal points, both shadow and skin.  "Somehow I don't think that's what you mean?"

Kiara

There's a little smile that notches into the corner of the Verbena's lip. Somehow she doesn't think that's what she means. "Not exactly, no." Kiara gestures behind them, this absent little flick of her fingers toward one of the bedrooms. It had belonged to Kiara's room mate, not so many months ago. Now it ventured between guest accommodation and Kiara's treatment space. "C'mon, I'll show you."
She pulls herself off the sofa, snagging her wine glass by the stem, careful to avoid stepping on Sid's paws and crosses over to the closed door, flicking a light on inside as she pushes it open. It's of much the same design as the rest of the Verbena's apartment. White washed walls, polished wood floors, wide windows that overlooked the city with blinds that were half drawn against morning sunlight where it would no doubt trickle through. A bed took up residence in one corner, pushed snug against the wall to make room for the only other pieces of furniture.

A large reclining examination chair with arm and head rests and a small side table equipped with a small towel and various tiny bottles. There were a small assortment of candles of varying height and thickness and a collection of crystals, smooth to the touch laid atop it.

The room carried with it the faintest traces of essential oils.

"This is where I do most of my work." She offers quietly, moving to gently perch on the corner most edge of the bed, a knee tucked beneath her body. "I used to run more professional sessions in an office, but - " She considers the chair for a long moment. "This way is easier. I can control who I see, when I see them."

Serafine

Sera follows, of course. Uncurls her body from its neat little knot in the arm of the couch, and rises. Steps around Sid's paws with an uncanny precision, reaching up as she moves to drag back her wealth of hair away from her face. There's nothing to tie it back with, though, so the movement is vestigal, physical, habitual rather than functional. Sid for her part thumps a tail against the floor but doesn't get up. Not quite yet.

And while Kiara makes her way into the room, Sera lingers framed in the door from living room to bedroom. Belongs there, doesn't she? That's part of how she feels: liminal, between, places, definitions, states of being. Hair loose, dark eyes made darker by her too-large pupils, she takes in the space. The bed. The blinds, the glimpses of the city behind the slats like a strangely interrupted nervous system, the firings of the most minor synapses. The examination chair and the evidence of Kiara's practice: the implements, the instruments. This precision again, and very strange reserve, in the way her dark eyes tick over the them each to each, both separate and whole.

Quiet, as Kiara continues. Explains that this is easier. That, here, she has more control.

"What is it you do, for the people you see? Is it confessional? Like a cross between a priest and a psychologist. Empty yourself of your sins, come back clean and new?"

Kiara

"Mm." A quiet, considering noise, that. The Verbena seated there on the edge of her mattress, fingers clasped around that wine glass, steadied on her crossed knee. "Less confessional, more ... re-balancing." She clarifies after a beat, smilingly. Nods toward the chair. "I channel energies. Someone comes in to see me, usually with complaints. Bad knee. Bad dreams. Physical or otherwise. They don't always know where or why they started. I connect with their energy, find the chakra points, find the places where there are blockages."

Kiara slides to her feet, pads over to the chair, sets the glass down on a small side table and takes up a piece of crystal in her hand. It's been polished down to about the size of a pebble and the Verbena sets it in the palm of her hand gently and opens her fingers out, balances it there and raises it to her eye level, then looks over it to Serafine, framed there in the doorway. "I use the stones to help harmonize and balance. They respond to the natural electricity in our bodies.

Quartz is best but, sometimes I use others. Depending on the person."

There's a pause. The brunette's dark eyes hovering there, scoping over the Cultist's face. Searching, perhaps, for some aspect. Some sign that she could help offset the recoil reality had left, the intangible bruising, as if the world needed time to fade the mark before it allowed the female back into its depths entirely. "There's less exact science when you're trying to heal the spirit." Kiara's smile returns, briefly, her eyes dropping to the chair.

Serafine

Kiara says that the science is less exact when you're trying to heal the spirit and Sera understands the word science as a metaphor but it still strikes enough of a chord that it makes her smirk. A small smirk, wry and darting. She thinks science is bullshit, does Sera. Almost says so, but the impulse is a fleeting one and her neat little mouth remains closed and that small smirk slides into a rather strange, rather tender (the wince around an enduring bruise) little smile.

Which is so exquisitely expressive and so utterly private as to be quite nearly naked.

Lasts for no more than a moment, that. The Cultist is not especially given to introspection, and for all her apparent openness is also remarkably private. No calculation in this, precisely. Just that glimpse and then that drawing-back.

"I don't think there's anything you can do about the paradox. I thought about it when Samir was in Quiet. Remember when you called me? He was all fucked up in the alley. I wanted to try to pull the consequences, the madness, some piece of it from him to me, see if I could free him from it?" Shrugs her narrow shoulders, " - couldn't figure it out, though. If it's even possible I don't think I'm powerful enough."

She's walking forward, though. Pushing away from the doorframe and padding toward Kiara.
"I spent alot of time in rehab, though, reform school and psych hospitals when I was a teenager. I was also held in a cell, once. By these rogue technocrats, while I was dying of this disease they created to target us. That's kind of what this feels like, you know? Like I've been locked in solitary confinement. And I - "

Arrest. (Once? More than once.) Something darkens her already bruised, bruising gaze. Sera closes her eyes and for a moment simply: lives within that darkness. Wherever it was born, whatever it contains. Just lives there, whole and entire, then allows it to pass. Takes a deep breath, finds Kiara once again.

"I need to remember that I'm free. That I can be, even in a fucking jail cell. Maybe you can help me remember."

Kiara

Serafine mentions Samir and there's a brief give of remembered empathy that slips into the brunette's gaze, into the edge of her mouth. She drops her chin a little, contemplative perhaps, of the Cultist's thoughts on the nature of paradox. Of the ways reality pushed bruises into flowering in their patterns. When she mentions rehab, reform schools and hospitals and Technocrats there's a neat little snap up of the Verbena's eyes.

Her face tilting to one side in a gesture that almost read as something bird-like. Avian and keenly focused.

"I'm sorry." For what? The past, the confinement. The misery of her, perhaps. It was within the pagan to feel it acutely, the suffering of the people who came and went from this room, a thousand and one echoes of lives and losses and longings - the walls must have resonated even now with it. With them. Kiara's eyes remaining on Serafine's face as she speaks. "I remember the first time I saw Arionna, after she'd gone through ... something." She doesn't presume to name it, the Verbena, just gives it pause and consideration and then plunges on. "The price she paid. Her vision. It seemed harsh to me.
I remember I said as much." She carefully sets the stone back on the table, turns to rest both hands on the chair between them. "I want to believe there's a purpose to it. That nature will restore the balance. I think there's probably a reason why there are some things we can't fix." A little bend of her mouth. "Shouldn't, even if there's a way."

She moves around the chair, then. Comes to stand closer to her, close enough that Serafine can smell the dust and earth and the stronger aroma of the wine that cling to the brunette's skin, her lips. Reaches out, with that polite little hedging for a beat people have before they initiate contact.
The allowance for pulling away, for rejection. Kiara's hand brushing her arm, the flutter of her fingers sliding over fabric.

"Hey, we're always free. I think - as long as we can feel. And choose to." Her touch falls away. "I can help you do that. At the very least."

Serafine

So much wrapped up there. Kiara tells Sera that she's sorry and Sera's response is this ghosting shrug and and the supple resurfacing of that half-banked smirk coupled with a spare and oddly sober look. Acknowledgment of the instinctive, responsive empathy, dismissal of the need for anything like an apology. Some part of her rebels against the words I'm sorry as unreal, unnecessary, fucking inadequate, form over substance, a kind of marking time but she understands, too, that so often there is also: substance in the form.

More than that: Sera does not think that there is a purpose beyond the purposes we give ourselves, does not believe in nature or her balance, in the cyclic cleansings, does not think that anything is a reason (other than bullshit consensual reality or not-bullshit respect for the self-determination of others) that there are things that they cannot or should not change, alter or fix, but she isn't waxing philosophical tonight. Rarely does, really. Lives and breathes that shit more than she ever preaches it and none of that matters.

Sera does not shy from the touch. God, who would expect her to? And how long has it been since someone touched her. Just simply, physically: touched her. She makes this noise in the back of her throat. She is somehow all stiff, all at once. Straight spine, straight shoulders, holding her body so-suddenly-rigid that her knees lock.

"I know that, you know? Always have. Always have. But it's so goddamned hard to remember that right now, because everyone is right there and I'm not. Can't be. Can't be there, can't be seen, can't be fucking heard." Oh fuck, there are tears in her eyes. "And some days it hurts like hell but those are a damned sight better than the days where I just feel numb. Like I'm drowning within sight of shore. I don't - "

One deep breath.

Another.

Kiara

It was like pulling on a piece of a string. Not a single piece but one bound up, knotted and twisted and you found the right angle, the right amount of pressure and it all unwound. All the kinks and masses of it. In a very certain manner of speaking it was where Kiara Woolfe lived and breathed. In those unraveling moments, especially in this room. Especially when she was gently probing and pushing, seeking out the tender points inside a pattern, within muscle and memory and bone.

Her dark eyes settle there, hold steady on Sera's face when she speaks and at some point the Verbena's brow evolves a tiny furrow, a crease of concern and empathy that dips in there. Kiara's mouth twisting into a little schism and her hands move almost without consideration this time - or no, perhaps with too much of it - she puts her hands out as if instinct guides them now and ghosts them over the Cultist's arms. Skimming over the space between, brushing barely against her knuckles.
There's a tidy focus about it, a precision there in the way Kiara's fingers comb through the space around Sera, as if she were drawing through, down, intangible strands.

"Let me?" She rests her palms there, just above her shoulders, asks that in a quiet voice that resonates with their conversation: the choice was still hers. If she lets her, though: Kiara's hands settle against her shoulders, slide up to cup the point where her pulse beats, down her arm with the other, over the point of an elbow, find and hold her wrist. Not so much searching but - experiencing. Attuning.
The pulse of Serafine's heart in time with the one that thrummed through the Verbena (the stabilizing rhythm that curled around the elemental flavor of her essence).

Kiara @ 1:02AM

[Life 1: Just a very basic sensory rote. Coincidental.]
Roll: 3 d10 TN3 (5, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
(Witnessed by Howl)

Serafine

Somewhere in the middle of this Sera closes her eyes.  The dark smudge of her lashes against her skin, the smear of half-smudged away eyeliner which has, perhaps, been there for a day, maybe two.  The tension lashed through her narrow frame does not come from closeness or apprehension, the natural apprehension perhaps of allowing another to work their will close to, on, over, in, but is rather deeper and broader, all at once.  Lingering.

--

She's high, though the traces of MDMA are a loose slurry now in her veins, the last shreds of heightened sensation contributing to the tension in her body.  Hungry, too.  <i>Physically</i>.  Doesn't eat enough in the ordinary course of ordinary life, just burns and burns and burns, and now: well, there's no one to take care of her.  To wake up her hung-over ass and ply her with Darjeeling and croissants or potatoes stir-fried in (local, humane) bacon fat.  Sleep-deprived too, this ache in her back of her throat, in the core of her body that has no evident origin.  The beat of her heart, the warmth of Kiara's hands settled over her shoulders.  The rigidity in the long muscles of her body - flanking her spine, wrapped from hip to thigh to knee.  

--

Doesn't say anything, Sera.  

She just breathes.  

Tries to remember how to take pleasure in that simple act.  

With almost everything she loves denied her, it's fucking hard, and yet -

Kiara

Serafine closes her eyes. The Verbena's remain open, at least for several moments.

She's looking intently at Sera for a long time, her hands resting steady on her until they shift away. Until there's a brush where they resettle against the crown of her head lightly, down again, to her shoulders. Further. The set of her narrow waist. Hips. One sweeps up and finds the point over her chest where beneath layers of clothing her heart beat and the pagan's palm settles there. The pulse of the brunette's rejuvenating energy pouring outward from each point she touches. A tingling, infusing warmth that spreads from her toes to her fingertips, raises the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck.

Every small nerve ending firing in Sera's body (the spark of life, the rejuvenation).

She doesn't speak while this happens, the brunette, but she is so very present throughout. Her hand moving away only after several beats of Sera's heart and there's the subtle brush of Kiara's fingers where they move back to her face, settling the tiny aches and strains beneath the skin, smoothing away the lingering effects of the drugs in her system. When she does talk, it's muted. Quiet for the process, perhaps. There's something intimate to the murmuring, a private offering meant to calm and center as directly as each paced movement, each alignment of her hands. "So we all have seven energy points, seven chakras. They're like the axis points, where all the energy in our bodies circulates from, through.

All I become when I do an attunement is the conduit. The medium to harmonize that energy that passes through the human body at those points." She slides the pads of her thumbs over her brows, gently touches the tips of her fingers to her temples. "A lot of people misunderstand the principles, I think, of what Reiki is. What it can be. It isn't miracle work." Kiara's voice betrays a whisper of humor. "It just helps you find your center of gravity again." The Verbena's fingers lower to Sera's throat and linger there the same way. She passes over each point, her solar plexus, her abdomen, a palm sweeping down and settling gently over the small of her back.

There's a smile, quiet and contemplative that flirts with the corners of the pagan's mouth. "Right here, is your root chakra. The spine. What sustains us. Survival instinct. Safety. Sometimes when your back aches, it's as much that instinct as anything physical." Eventually, gradually, the touch tapers away and Kiara's fingers slide down to encircle both wrists. She holds there last, squeezes down lightly.

"It helps remind us that we're alive. And breathing. And here."

Kiara @ 7:53PM

[Life 2: Balance the Flow. Coincidental. Base Diff 5. -1 Mythic Threads, -1 taking her time, -1 instrument for Life]

Roll: 3 d10 TN3 (2, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Kiara @ 7:57PM

[Intel + Medicine, -2 Diff from Magick roll.]

Roll: 7 d10 TN4 (1, 5, 6, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 8 ) [Doubling Tens]

Kiara @ 8:02PM

[Extending effect once. +1 Diff.]

Roll: 3 d10 TN4 (3, 4, 7) ( success x 2 )

(I ran this by Howl since initially I wasn't sure on M20 mechanics on magick fueling mundane abilities (I totally thought it was -1 diff mod per 3 suxx) but apparently the diff mods are -1 per suxx on the magick roll up to -3 now. The things you learn!)

Serafine 

No one has touched her like this since Claire.  The careful, almost pristine focus.  The gentle precision.  The spreading warmth.  The supple, healing clarity. 

Each intonation is: different.  Distinct.  Divine. 

--

She's heard about chakras, of course.  Cultist, she must have.  This is where your heart bursts, this is where your blood sings, this is where your body, and soul, settle.  This is where you open-up, this is where you: rise, rise, rise, as if gravity had been shut down. 

And gravity can be shut down, she knows.  One of her hands always feels lighter than the other, like it is just on the cusp of - something, anything, <i>soaring</i> and earthbound at the self-same time. 

Claire had them tattooed right up her spine.  And if you looked at her just right, eyes slitted, the haze of smoke drifting like fog up from some low-lying river, lungs raw, body lashed, the world opening, opening, opening beneath the focus of your will something like a crown hovering above her head.    Queen of Fucking Heaven.  Saw that the way she saw the sky-god Hawksley is, across a crowded rooftop bar, the sun setting behind him, what feels like a long, long time ago. 

Sera: doesn't have any misconceptions about Reikki because she doesn't know about Reikki.  Hasn't heard the term, perhaps, or has heard it and ignored it the way she ignores so-many-things she is pretty goddamned sure she cannot understand, like phone books and fireflies and multilevel marketing schemes and high ritual and why people choose to be assholes to each other and canned bread and James Joyce and arcane symbols and Why A Car Works or to be more precise: why normal people think a car works but refuse to believe in the simplest acts of transcendance.  Of ascendance. 

So: Kiara Works.  And the creature on whom she works, wound so tightly around these physical points of failure, tension, un-ease, constantly throwing herself against them, into them, because anything is better than numbness, absence, failure, exile: allows it.  Allows herself to feel it, allows herself to open to it, allows all of these small wounds to be healed. Allows herself to be: touched, handled.  Allows this: ritual, which is not her ritual.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, she starts to cry.

And <i>god</i> how she cries: open, agonized, vulnerable.  Ecstatic. 

Alone.  Ablaze, the way we all are.

There's no interruption to the ritual.  Maybe this becomes part-of-it, the opening, the breaking apart, the restoring-of-balance because she was not made to be balanced she was made for extremes, for tearing apart, for rising, for chaos, for change. 

--

It subsides.  Perhaps not as quickly as it arose but: it subsides, and in the moments between she eschews any gesture towards comfort beyond the ritual in which Kiara is engaged.  Maybe she came here to spend the night?  There was an offer, right?  The spare bedroom.   Maybe she came for something else, some other threshold of intimacy.  Maybe - and this is most likely - she doesn't know why the fuck she came. 

But she knows, now, that she has to go, too. 

--

"Thank you," when it's over, when she's done, when she comes to, maybe, when her closed throat opens enough to allow her to speak. Means it, too.  Says it with such presence and feeling and immediacy that the words are imbued with meaning. And that's all, really.  Sera will pull Kiara into an embrace, if Kiara allows it.  Tip-toes, mouth to the other women's temple, spare and graceful and merciless as any member of the seraphim.  "I don't - I think - we're gonna go.  But thank you."

Which is exactly what they do. 

There's no sign of Sera in Denver for almost a month, after that.  No calls, but her phone doesn't work, no sightings.  No glancing-blow of resonance lingering, or felt-from-a-distance.  No texts, no word.

She's just gone. 

-- 

On a certain Tuesday in November, four-and-a-half weeks later, Kiara gets a text that says simply:

<i>I'm home.</i>

That Friday, a bonfire.  An invitation to the afterparty.  Whatever it was that was that was caging her in: gone.