07.01.3013: Awakened Insurrection
Summary: Nitrim calls a group of Awakened he trusts for a private meeting about what to do about the dreams.
Date: 01 July 2013
Related: None
Nitrim Ithaca Talayla Helena Soleil 

RP Suite - Penthouse Hotel on Volkan
Room description - Provided in scene
July 01, 3013

The messages had been sent out by personal courier carrying hand-written notices veiled in an air of secrecy. Each of them said the same thing to the intended recipient, and had an address attached:

We need to talk. This is about my message. Others will be there.

Now, hours later as evening falls, Nitrim stands in front of a wide, sweeping window overlooking the city of Volkan. The Blackspyre stands dark and proud in the distance, a mirror-reflection of the same gaze the man often casts down towards the very hotel penthouse he's rented. The room, clad in black furniture and blood-red accents is a pit of a room, with a large double-door entry that leads down into a sizeable sitting area like an arena bowl with posh leather furniture and a collection of expensive drinks, both alcohol and non.

The entire west wall of the room is the sweeping window where Nitrim stands…and he looks worse for wear. Clad in his black pants and boots with his sword on his hip, he's dressed down into a black, sleeveless shirt that leaves the muscular sides of his torso bared. The cigarette dangling from his lip is connected to a mouth with a freshly cracked stain of a recently cleaned split lip and is a fun-filled match for the purpling black eye he wears. As he moves, pacing quietly in front of the window, his side moves to reveal more bruises. The man looks as if he's been in a fight.

So does the woman currently sitting on one of the sofas with a bag of frozen peas pressed to one side of her face. She has a mirror image split lip and black eye, but any other bruises are hidden by the layers of dark clothing she's wearing. Rook, as most know her, is in a hooded tunic under a black leather jacket and pants, with clunky boots. She has piercings in her nose and one brow, and both ears, and her eyes are lined in dark black makeup, matching the black lipstic. She's quiet, but watching Nitrim with her one non-blackened eye.

Nitrim comes to a stop in front of the window and his eyes unfocus, finding the reflection of Rook watching him from one of the sofas. His eyes, all green and white, though one made bloodshot and angry from the blood that has seeped into it, makes it look as if he's dosed one eye. From a closer, medical inspection, it would reveal that it's a telltale wound from a streetfight. A long silence overcomes him as he watches her and then turns back to the window. His reflection is what greets him. Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he blows smoke at his mirror image and fails to make eye contact with himself. "They shouldn't be long, now." Nitrim says to Rook, stepping down the small few vanity stairs to stand against the arm of her sofa. His brows lower at the sight of her face. "You're sure you're alright?"

As if prepared for the dark and dreary decor of Volkan, Helena is dressed in white and pastel, and this combined with her blonde hair has turned her into a beacon that fairly glows against the black backdrop of the hotel room. She hesitates on the threshold, her already light features rather wan. Dark rings beneath her eyes serve as a silent testament to a sleepless night, and she moves stiffly as if recovering from overexertion.

Hesitating, the doctor raps her knuckles against the jamb to announce her presence, not wishing to interrupt whatever might be unfolding within the room. "I got your message," she announces, and her voice is hoarse from too much screaming. The Awakened across the planet must all look and feel like death warmed over. "May I come in, my lord?" Her gaze darts to the unfamiliar figure on the couch, studying the bag of frozen peas with a knowing - but surprisingly non-judgmental - expression.

"Sore." Rook is bluntly honest as she pulls back the peas to test the split in her lip with the tip of her tongue. She winces slightly. "You?" She arches a brow and immediately regrets that little movement. The rap on the door has her putting the peas back on her face and looking at it warily.

"I feel like I look." Nitrim replies in a murmur, down to Ithaca. Ever since his arrival he's been the stereotypical image of a dark, brooding drake. He'd never admit it, but he looks far more like his father now than ever. Bitterly, he presses his tongue to the inside of one of his molars and leans out to ash his cigarette in the ornate tray that rests on the edge of the table.

The voice at the door, Nitrim recognizes almost immediately. Exhaling a small cloud of smoke, he turns his blood-red eye towards Helena. Looking like a bitter, angry junkyard dog, he raises an arm to her and waves his fingers towards the center of the room, beckoning her closer. "Thank you for coming, Helena." He frowns, taking a step back to stand near the center of the room, a move expected of a host. His arm lowers, motioning Helena towards Rook. "Helena? Meet Rook. Rook? Meet Helena. I've told you both about what trouble I've been up to, and you've both given me the same response. I figure it's about time we start talking with each other."

Rook dips her bruised and bloody head at Helena with a grimace. She looks between the two before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up. Her hands are still shaking somewhat. "Yes," she agrees with Nitrim's words.

Even when the invitation is issued, Helena does not move immediately. There is something about the room that keeps her held in place; however, Nitrim's words serve as the catalyst to propel her forward, and although she walks as if doing so against her will, walk she does. Her silent steps carry her across the room, and she descends the steps into the sunken lounge with ease. Picking out an empty seat, she lowers herself slowly and perches on the edge, clasping her hands together in her lap so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

"Rook," Helena repeats for the sake of memorization, offering the woman nod of her head in greeting. She waves away a drifting wisp of smoke from in front of her face before licking her lips and looking up to Nitrim. "Alright."

Talayla is surprised. Nitrim always seemed a busy, distant mystery. A river with two currents, distant and unimaginable. But she's not cruel and hey, people deserve chances. She's brought a box of cupcakes and tea drinks balanced neatly in her good arm. Is this the place? She carefully raps at the door with a toetip. "I think I have the right room. I'm not a pervert, just lost!" She announces helpfully.

Brushing a hand through his short, blonde hair, Nitrim reaches down to the coffee table and picks up on of the bottles, this one with a black label, and uncorks it. He pours two-fingers worth of liquor into a tumbler and moves to stand where he can watch the door and the others coming through it. Sniffing awkwardly at the pain in his face, he brings the glass to his lips for a short drink, nodding to the newcomer. "Helena, Rook, meet Talayla. She's incorruptible." Nitrim comments, as if that explains everything. He stops, pressing the glass of cold liquor to the side of his face and pauses, wondering just how to say what he wants to. It's important.

"I'm calling everyone together, some of you know what this is about and for others this is your first time hearing about this. This is about the dream last night. This is about the dreams last week before King Symion died, the dreams before of the Hostile in the mirror, all of it. We are seeing things before they happen now and they're all important. Some of us knew that the King was about to die and with the dreams of the Hostile before they attacked we could have sent a warning, only we didn't know what to do at the time." His split lips flatten to the room as he slips a cigarette between them. "You all had the dream last night and you're a group of people I trust enough to believe you can all trust each other. I intend to convince you all to move in secret as a team and we keep politics, social standing, everything out of this to do the right thing. We can save lives." He swallows, eyes scanning all of their faces one-by-one. "The dream last night, the Chantry brand. In the field I made contact with a Hostile who told me our six gods are obsolete…last week. Rook is gathering up all of the information that we need to start getting to work. So what I'm calling everyone in today is to talk and get this started. We stay anonymous, decide what to do together, stay under the radar and save lives. Plain and simple."

The figure who comes in— or one should say figures— are dressed in black. Cowls cover hair and faces, everything but eyes, and one of them, the smaller of the pair, even has shades over the eyes to hide them too. The posture somehow hints at…reserve. The larger of the two— doubtless male (while the smaller suggests a female of slim figure) has a sword belted at his waist.

Rook flexes a fist, her knuckles bandaged on both hands, spots of blood seeping through here and there. She tosses the bag of peas on a table, revealing a black and swollen eye, and leans forward to rest her forearms on her thighs, watching Helena for a long moment with dark, fathomless eyes. She is not what anyone would call "comfortable to be around". She takes a long pull on her cigarette, letting the smoke slither out of the corners of mouth, over her split lip. She nods to Talayla, her odd, unblinking stare fixed on the girl for a moment. As the cloaked figures enter, she looks to Nitrim and asks, "Trust?" gesturing at the hoods with her cigarette.

Saving lives, working in a team - none of this is a foreign concept to Helena; but the thought of working with strangers on something so seemingly intimate has her screwing up her face in distaste. She agreed, however, and so remains silent while Nitrim speaks. The cowled pair moving along her periphery catch her attention, and she turns to peer at them unblinking. Her eyebrows arch upward, and in her mind the meeting has gone from 'uncomfortable' to 'excruciating (but interesting)'. "Lady Talayla," she greets quietly, happy to focus on someone else. She pats the seat beside her in invitation.

Turning slowly, she refocuses on Nitrim, and when Rook speaks she cannot help but bark out the quietest of laughs. Perhaps the tension is getting to her.

Oh dear. Talayla is put on the spot. Like a deer in the headlights, she freezes. It doesn't help she has one arm in a cast. She does move towards the nearest table and set the cupcakes out. "I thought it would be rude to not…" She offers quietly. They do look like nice treats, luxuriant and well made. She looks over her shoulder to the hooded figures. Then a pause. She listens to Nitrim. There's a polite smile for Doctor Helena and a half-bow. And yes, someone has signed her cast! "Hello, Lady Doctor Helena." Why not? She will sit next to the doctor and look to the hooded figures. There's a pause as Rook looks to her. Wait. Familiar. Waitaminute. She blinks.

Nitrim's eyes, one blood-red and rimmed with black, aching flesh, and the other clear and green, lift at the sight of the cloaked figures. His eyes narrow at the eyes visible through the stris that provide view to them. He settles a long, sweaty stare at the female one before he nods, looking down to Rook. "Yeah. I know who they are. You can trust them." His smokey voice murmurs, slightly muted by the feel of the cigarette trapped between his lips. "We don't have to face each other if we don't want to so long as we vow to protect each others' identities. So if anyone here is unwilling to keep that secret, please leave."

Leaning down to snatch up one of the cupcakes, Nitrim stands in the center of them, eyes on the frosting as he gives it a little sniff. "Politics are messy. Noble-to-Citizen lines have nothing to do with what we can do. With real world information floating in through the Infosphere that Rook has provided we'll be able to gauge just how likely these dreams are prophetic from random night terrors. Since the last thing we want is to deliver this intel to our own houses and risk getting tangled up in doing what's best for the house versus what's best for Haven, we have to remain under the radar. If at any time any of you need a scapegoat to take the fall for this, I want you to point at me. I'm willing to suffer the risks."

Once again, his eyes can the room, gauging their interest despite the obvious stand-off that has yet to settle. "The Hostile spoke to me in the field about our gods. Now this. I think we need to warn the Chantry so that they can bolster their defenses just in case this is turning out to be a holy war. Thoughts?"

Rook looks dubious at trusting people who trust her so little they come cloaked, but she shrugs and eases slowly back on the sofa, every motion an ache. "I can take the fall. Can't touch me," she says. She's no one, barely even a citizen, but she's also part of LucCorp and has value to the Syndicate. They can protect her. "Data is still compiling," she adds, in reference to her program. She doesn't comment on the Chantry bit, waiting to hear the others.

The doctor offers Talayla a fleeting smile as the woman sits beside her, and she reaches out to help herself to a cupcake. Nothing like sugar when the tension is mounting. She peels the wrapper away carefully, glancing up the others from beneath her lashes to watch their expressions (the ones she can see, anyway) as Nitrim speaks. Her gaze drops to the floor a moment later, and she speaks up, her quiet voice filling the silence. "I am not sure I can keep everything from Lady Dalton," she murmurs, picking at the cupcake wrapper. "She is my mentor, my teacher, my friend, my aunt. If she were to ask my opinion, I would not dare lie about what I am thinking."

There, the shoe has dropped. Now she will let the dice fall where they may. She takes a bite of the treat, glancing sidelong to Talayla and lifting her eyebrows to indicate that it is, in fact, quite tasty.

Soleil stays stonily silent for the moment. It really is a friendly group!

"By all means, Helena, give her your opinion. I respect your aunt. All I ask is that we keep the majority of our movements and identities, at least the ones we decide, safe. Say what you have to say, but we need to promise to protect each other." Nitrim replies, turning his head to stop in a long stare on Rook. Slowly, he nods and moves over to the video wall. He slaps a chip into the reader. "I'm not asking anyone to commit treason, but if the Hostile find out we're doing this because it's being broadcasted, we'll be in trouble, as will every last Awakened in Haven. We would be the early warning system."

The video-wall flits to life, revealing an icy battlefield, littered with the dead and dying, both Hostile and human alike. The perspective is a first-person view, likely a camera feed from Nitrim's communication monocle. One massive Hostile is squaring off against a circle of knights, holding its own against a furious onslaught.

HEY! Nitrim's voice can be heard, calling out to it. Your gods are OLD and DEAD. They've abandoned you! If your masters hear me, we'll send them to the Devil.

On the screen, the Hostile turns its head to stare right at Nitrim, its voice mechanical and hollow, rumbling loudly. Your Six are obsolete. They have been replaced.

Nitrim presses a button on the console, stopping the feed in place.

Talayla smiles back. It's a freshly made cupcake! Poison free, too. She smiles at the indication that the cupcake is quite tasty. She seems relieved. She is careful though, her right arm useless as it is. "Yeah. I don't mind keeping secrets as I need, but if my father really really asks… If it's all the same, I'd rather not be shot out an airlock or something." She listens. "And um. Wait. I think - I wonder if - more than that one could talk then. So yours talked, too." This is something to ponder. She looks to Rook, tilting her head. A glance to Nitrim. She seems curious, although Tal was sort of dropped into a stand off and rather startled.

Rook inches forward and then lunges to snag a cupcake from the pile like something in there might bite her, or one of the others might smack her hand. She gives it a sniff, touches her tongue to the frosting, and seems to decide she's not gonna die if she eats it. She's already seen the feed, repeatedly, so she omnoms away, trying to work around her busted up face.

"I'd like to know whom else you plan to invite to this," the cowled woman says, in an accent that's hard to place, and a voice that's low though not thoroughly disguised by any means. "And, mostly, why we should trust /you/."

"Well, clearly they have opinions about our Gods Talayla, and that dream couldn't possibly be bullshit." Nitrim says, pulling the chip from the console and slipping it back into his pocket. With Rook and Helena silent, he directs his attention to the cloaked figures and Talayla as he crosses the room, chewing on his first bite of Talayla's offered pastry. Swallowing, he sets the cupcake down and reaches for his glass of bourbon. "I've told Helena that I know I'm not the man with all of the answers. We all have skills to bring to the table. Rook is a ghost on the Infosphere. Talayla is incorruptible. Helena is a font of objectivity. Others of us are well-connected. I've given Sophie Saveur a slight intro to what I'm up to, but in recent days she's become unpredictable. I'm willing to be the rally point but I don't want any leaders here. Who do we think is willing to be up to the task? We'll start there."

"No. One threw a baby at Sir Erik," Talayla states simply. "I thought it said something like 'take it' or take something. I couldn't hear well," She admits. "Like he expected, watched our reaction." Which means that Talayla admitted to just being in a fight. Which also explains her cast, which has a signature or two on it. She offers and smiles a little. "Hopefully those're good. Hadn't tried a local bakery," She admits. She pauses. Incorruptible? Hmm. She seems uncertain. "And also the dissecting people makes more sense now," She taps her chin.

Rook wants none of that leadership stuff on her, clearly, as she's picking at a second cupcake and trying to also be the ghost in the room. She didn't exactly have breakfast today, or her usual dose of bad stuff, so she's feeling a little itchy and half starved. She flits Nitrim a look briefly, and a small shake of her head, declining the lofty position. She's sure no one else will argue that, as she doesn't seem to be able to communicate in full sentences.

"Sophie has /always/ been unpredictable and it'd very unwise to bring her into this." The cloaked figure says, and after a pause she unwinds her cowl. Everyone here has met her, save for Ithaca, but it's possible that particular woman has seen her face in the papers or news. Or maybe not, Soleil doesn't really put herself in the limelight, and when she does, she's usually so made-up it might be entirely possible to miss the fact the completely natural-looking woman now standing there is one and the same.

"What do you mean one threw a baby? And what do you mean the dissecting makes sense? Do we even know where these dreams come from? Do we even know where our /gods/ come from? The Hostiles are…gods know what they are."

"I'm inclined to agree. She means well, but she's a flight risk." Nitrim replies, settling in to watch Soleil unveil herself. Despite the definite chill that seems to exist between the two of them, he offers her an appreciative nod of his head. "But you make a good point, Soleil. It's been argued over for years by the Druids, the Hermetics, and the Sorcerors, and we might never know, but what we don't know for sure whether or not we can trust these dreams. We've got to investigate that just as much as we have to what comes from Rook's algorithim."

Lowering his head, he presses the glass to his black eye once again, closing his eyes for a moment's respite. He turns his head against the icy glass and opens his eyes towards Rook, watching her reactions. "But if they threw a fucking baby to get a rise out of us, think our gods are obsolete, then that's another point in the realm of possibility that they might think our emotions make us weaker than them. I've got a meeting request to the Chantry, in my name. They're a demoralization nexus and aren't exactly known for their tight security."

Rook gives Soleil the same blankly intense look she gave the other women, but there is a momentary spark of recognition. She lives within the realm of information after all. She looks at Nitrim, raises a brow, and makes a tomahawk motion with her hand very briefly. Then she looks at the others. "The brand." She gestures at her forehead. "Are we marked?"

Talayla is quiet for a moment, listening. She shakes her head. She does not want to be leader. No siree. She is quiet while the others talk, but she does answer Soleil. "I don't know if you watched the news or heard. Someone mentioned medical stuff that looked like it was used or useable on people at the camp," She explains. "During the battle, one of them came out holding a toddler. He waited to see if we'd hit him. People tried to without hitting the kid. Then it chucked the kid at Sir Erik." She explains. She goes quiet. As for the brand, Tal goes quiet.

"I might know a couple of people to bring in, but I think we need to discuss any potential recruits before anyone speaks t them. Otherwise we start to have problems. That goes for whoever DOES take leadership of this, too. I presume Nitrim had a good reason for including the people he did but from here on out, we need some form of consensus before anyone else comes in. Any one of us might know profound and compelling reasons to exclude someone." Soleil finally takes a seat, which might be seen as a sort of acceptance of the whole thing, though the looks she occasionally levels on Nitrim aren't very forgiving. She leans back and crosses a leg over the other. "So you want a leader or not? Everything needs leadership. But there are levels of leadership. Whomever does it…no one should be giving orders or making demands, yeah? If you want this thing to be like a cooperative project, that is."

Rook looks around at the others and finally speaks up. "Three. Hermetic. Sorceror. Mystic." So she's suggesting a council of three, one from each of the paths.

"That or our gods have branded us like cattle." Nitrim narrows an eye, the good eye, towards Rook as she makes her sarcastic hand-motion towards him. He brings the cupcake to his teeth and devours the last of it, then balls the wrapper up and lofts it onto the coffee table. He dips his fingertips into his glass of bourbon, and just like the priests at the Chantry using an aspergillum, he flicks the bourbon at her as he rises. "I'd be a poor person to bring this together and not accept the idea that I might be that person, but no. We shouldn't be controlling each other or giving each other orders. We're a coalition, a Cabal, which means even the Citizens are at equal standing, even if one of us becomes King." As he walks, he passes Soleil and almost dips his fingers into his glass, but thinks the better of it. The looks have been bad enough, he'll take what social graces he can keep. "But I agree. No one is brought in unless we approve. That will keep us safe, too."

Helena has been silent up until now, watching each person as they interact. Her eyelids barely flutter when Soleil reveals herself, but she is absoltely quiet on the subject. When the talk turns to leadership, she holds up a hand as if to ward off any nominations and slides back in her seat. "I know where my strengths lie. Leading a secretive group of Awakened investigators is more on my plate than I can stomach. I will do what is asked of me, and that will have to be enough. I have no one to volunteer as an additional member." She crosses her legs at the knee and leans back in her seat, having said her piece.

Rook gets baptized with bourbon, and in return she flings a gob of cupcake icing at Nitrim's head. Oh yes, these two are mature enough for leadership. NOT.

Talayla stifles a giggle at Rook and Nitrim. She seems amused. "Well, I'm glad the cupcakes are a hit…" She remarks quietly. She nods at Helena. "I don't mind helping as I can, but I seem to be raising food and getting speared these days." She offers. "I cannot be something I am not."

Soleil caught that gesture of Ithaca's and filed it away for after she had divested herself of more important thoughts. The interaction between Nitrim and Ithaca brings it back to mind, and she eyes the two, but her eyes lack the smouldering quality of jealousy. Maybe something else smoulder thee, though.

"Some of us met another time," she says, folding her arms beneath her breast. "An ill-advised meeting, in my opinion. The truth of the matter is most awakened have nothing in common. It's like owning a fucking gun used to be. Good men, bad men, criminals, people trying to protect their families, cops and robbers— different kinds of people had different kinds of reasons for having guns and they all did very different kind of things wit them, but you never saw anyone calling a meeting of all gun owners so they could come together and work for some single purpose. It went nowhere. After that I found Nitrim. The two of us hatched this idea that a group of Awakened who could have a single purpose could be powerful. Now as things have progressed in this war, I see the idea has evolved. And it probably will continue to do so. Since everyone here is holding up the 'not me' card, Nitrim and I will guide things for the time being. I am sure you all think I am Janelle's flunkie, but I assure you— I'm my own woman." She levels a look around the room.

"Any problems with that?"

Helena watches Soleil quietly, her expression carefully neutral. She crumples her neglected cupcake wrapper and tosses it onto the table beside Nitrim's. "Now that I've the details, I think I'll skip the following pissing contest. I have actual work to do," she interjects, glancing toward Nitrim as she rises smoothly from her seat. She dusts her pants carefully - white is so hard to keep pristine - and glances to each person present before returning her attention to the Khourni. "You know how to reach me. Understand my position means I will not always be at your beck and call, but I will do what I am able. Lady Talayla, as always your cupcakes were a delight." She turns and steps away, making toward the door.

Nitrim looks over to Helena, a dot of concern lining his brow. As she turns to him, he frowns softly, but nods his head in understanding. "I wouldn't expect anything less, Lady Helena. I wouldn't dare abuse this relationship. Please, be safe."

In a nonchalant, sweeping motion, Nitrim uses an index finger to pry the frosting out of his hair and take a look at it. He sticks the end of his finger into his mouth and cleans the frosting off of it. He heads back to the window and stares out of it, looking up towards where his room at the Blackspyre should be. The ice in his glass of bourbon shifts as he presses it to his black-and-blue face and nods quietly, agreeing with Soleil. "I don't have any problems with that, but there's one of us that isn't here. She was in the field with me at Niveus. She's expressed her agreement to be involved, the secrecy, everything. Chances are she's also on board for warning the Chantry. Lady Devon Grantham has contacts in the Chantry, and should be considered one of us. She's safe and discreet. Apart from her, no one else has responded to the call, and she's informed me she's away with a medical emergency. She may be arriving soon."

Talayla smiles and waves with her good hand. "Thank you," She pauses. "You'll have to sign the cast sometime." She remarks wryly. "And yeah, I'll help as I can but …" Few kids have the threat of an air locking or something. "I'm afraid all I have is stuff about the recent skirmish. I guess I can meander because to be honest…" She goes quiet. She seems a little out of her element. Still, she is a helpful party. Usually.

Rook sucks the rest of the icing off her finger, because it's damned tasty and not something to waste. She looks at each person in turn as everyone wants to help, but no one wants to lead. Gathered Awakened seems to be akin to herding cats. As Soleil steps up, she shrugs, which causes a slight wince, and seems ok with that decision. She rummages for another cigarette.

Soleil doesn't say anything after Nitrim speaks. She just looks at him. Smouldering quietly.

Helena gets a nod from her and no sarcasm, which may be an improvement over their last encounter. To the room at large— "Good. Watch for others you think might be up to this unique challenge. And consider exactly what you feel we should be doing, and how to go about it."

Catching the look from Soleil, Nitrim moves away from the window and keeps the cold glass to the side of his face. The look he returns her is silent and expressionless. It is…as they say…what it is. If he runs out of ice in his glass, he could replace it with the layer of ice between the two of them easily.

"Rook's algorithim is running and we should have the tallies soon. Rook do you want to speak at all about that? Is there anything you have to say?" Nitrim asks as he moves to a sofa, settling himself down. "And Talayla, just like the rest of us you have eyes and ears. You're also a rather sweet person, and other people trust you. You don't sell snake oil. That's something you definitely have going for you. As for myself…as mentioned before, the meeting with the Chantry has been requested and I'd like to pick Devon's brain about warning them. No doubt she's got opinions on the matter, and might provide some legitimacy to the warnings to them." He rummages in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it. "Does anyone here disagree with warning the Chantry?"

Talayla is quiet. "Thanks." She nods. "I appreciate it. And I don't object," She shakes her head. "Though, I guess I should go prepare some stuff. I hired someone to help me take care of my fish and plants while my arm is busted up," She smiles weakly. "I hope they listen." She looks concerned by Soleil's look, glancing between her, Rook and Nitrim. She left being a hermit for … Hum. Seclusion sounds awfully nice again some days.

"No." That's Rook's answer to both questions. She lights up her cigarette off a black-painted fingertip. She partially turns to prop her feet up on the couch, and reclaims her bag of frozen peas to press to her battered face.

"I don't know that it's a good idea." Leave it to Soleil to be the one perverse voice in the room. "I don't know that it's a bad one. Find someone in the Chantry you trust and speak to them unofficially, go from there." The cold look she gave Nitrim abates, but only because she doesn't seem to want to waste time on /feelings/. Instead of cold looks, it's a cold Soleil.

"I hope that they listen, too, for their own sake. The playback from the battlefield speaks to itself. Add that to the ramblings of a thousand Awakened and I'm sure they'll get the right of it. Both Devon and I were there, and I'm sure we will be able to find a good enough contact to make the point stick." Nitrim replies, bringing one of his booted feet up to rest on the edge of the coffee table. Scanning the faces present, he folds his arms across his chest to smoke his cigarette, deep in thought. His eyebrow quirks towards Rook and Talayla, speaking to the latter. "If something comes to mind, Talayla, please don't hesitate. We're in this together."

Swirling the ice in his glance, he spares a look to Soleil before pressing the ice to his face again. His poor face. "This entire thing is about staying one step ahead. If we take the pieces off of the board from the Hostile ahead of time and stay quiet about it, we'll frustrate them to no end. If we get good at this, and if we are able to find out if they're scanning the Infosphere, we can aid the troops eventually by luring them where we want them. There's a million possibilities, we just need to get information first."

Sweat is beading on Rook's forehead. She hasn't had any Red Eye today and it's starting to show. She flings the arm bearing the cigarette across her eyes to block out the light, cradling the bag of peas to her cheek. "Easy enough," she says in regards to misleading the Hostiles if they're monitoring the Infosphere.

Talayla smiles sadly. "They were dissecting people, I think. There were things useable, possibly instruments for people. They are pulling us apart. It's awful," She offers. "They were killing them. I didn't get to see too closely. I had to pull someone off the field. But you may wish to speak to some knights and watch the news." She goes quiet. "That's all. And those sonic tentacles hurt." She shakes her head. "But be safe, and stay well, alright? I should probably make sure my armor's fixed anyway." Sigh. She waves her good hand. A look to Soleil. "I am sorry, my cousin. I was thoughtless. Please keep the cupcakes." Nod. And she will drift quietly.

Soleil rises too, which causes the large man who came with her to push off the wall. She shrugs at Talayal in a 'forget about it' way, and also seems to be moving toward the door. "I plan to go talk to the pow's myself, I have a psych degree from the Academ— that and a little name dropping should get me all access."

"Soleil." Nitrim speaks up, lifting his chin in the direction of the retreating noble and her bodyguard. Despite the ice and the troubles in the room, he gives the woman a concerned look and holds his cigarette aloft, keeping the smoke away from his face. "We should speak soon." With no better way to put it, he turns his eyes to Talayla and gives her a little salute. "Be safe, both of you. I'll figure out the Chantry thing through Devon and Rook should have the results in soon. I'll mail-man out to everyone. I'll find a way, somehow." He sighs a cloud of smoke and looks over to Rook, recognizing the sweat on her brow. He frowns.

Rook peers out from under her arm at Nitrim with her unswollen eye. "Can dig up official reports," she says, her voice raspy. She doesn't need a degree or name dropping to hack the crap out of the Watch's computers.

Talayla looks to Soleil. "Well. Don't sweat it. But do visit sometime." She pauses. "You'll have to sign my cast or something." She's being a bit wry. Her right arm is useless for a little longer. She genuinely seems to care, but there's not a lot she can do beyond support her cousin. She waves to Nitrim and them, leaving the remaining cupcakes for the group. "… don't worry, we all have our bad habits." If she notices, anyway. She will go quietly. "Be well." She smiles at the salute and returns it. Zip! Away with the Tal.

"About what?" The innocent way Soleil asks Nitrim, casting a look over her shoulder— it's not really innocent at all. Pointedly ignoring any personal issues they have— that's more like what it is. Like it never happened.

Like none of it /ever/ happened.

She smiles a little at Tal and nods, heading out on her cousin's heels.

Nitrim just stares across the floor at Soleil, then gives her a quiet little shrug. "Alright, then." He says simply, then rises from the sofa. He tilts the glass back, downing the last of its contents, and sets it on the center coffee table. Spinning it in place, he reaches for the bottle of bourbon and goes to make himself another drink. He looks over his shoulder and waits for the door to close before he nods upwards to Rook. "I can get a delivery. How bad off are you?"

"Interesting." Rook murmurs into her arm. "All have the Sight. Completely ignore our fucked-up faces." She sighs and shudders a little bit feverishly. "Won't see shit if they don't look at the ugly once in a while." At his offer she grimaces and swallows. "Fever already. Don't go this long normally." Plus she's a bit beaten up which doesn't help.

"Asshole," someone says on the other side of the closed door. That sound proofing needs improvemnt.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License