08.31.3013: Journalistic Integrity
Summary: Nitrim and Cyrielle meet for the first time and discuss their differences, the Awakened dreams, and doors are opened.
Date: 31 August 2013
Related: None
Cyrielle Nitrim 


RP Room - A small tavern at Landing
Room description included in scene
August 31, 3013

Of all of the places to be found at Landing, one of the available libraries isn't known to be the most glamorous of them. In fact, the only library deemed glamorous is behind the safely guarded walls of the loyal palace. There are conduct rules in the Royal Library, however, which makes one of the smaller ones the preferred perch for Lord Nitrim Khournas. More specifically, his preferred perch is a small tavern tucked against the side of the library, close enough that the library's data connection bleeds through the walls just enough to allow him to browse with his local account while nursing a beer and a cigarette.
Wearing his signature long, black coat and his gauntlet-like rings over his fingers, the black sheep of Khournas tucks into the corner of a booth with his data tablet on his lap and a cigarette dangling from his lip. A half-empty (or full) pint of ale rests before him as his finger taps at his screen, browsing a number of intricate, scanned pages from an old book on his screen.

The Hand is perhaps Cyrielle Hollolas’ least favorite place to be these days. Yes, at one time, she loved the sound of the waves crashing upon the walls. Now they bring back memories she’d much rather forget. However, Arboren is not quite the right place for one to do the things that lead to forgetfulness. Such as dose up with a lovely amphetamine and explore one’s creativity. The young noblewoman has been exploring and taking photos of the things that catch her eye. Now, however, it’s a bit of time for food and drink.

Letting a satchel fall heavily upon the table next to the man in the coat, Cyrielle falls into a seat of her own and sits back. She exhales a long sigh before leaning forward and pulling things from the satchel. The small device for taking pictures, her own computer (slightly larger than the average one might carry), and a few other odds and ends. Each gets particularly arranged on the table surface.

Of all of the things that catch Nitrim's seedy, green eyes, it is the camera that gathers their attention. Like the serpents he's so fond of, he lets his eyes provide all of the movement as he neglects to move his head. No, that would be obvious. Instead, he stealthily gathers his own opinion on her belongings until he stirs to reach out and tap the ashes of his cigarette into a tray before him.
"People or architecture?" He speaks loudly enough to be heard with a smokey, almost choked voice, lips pursed as he exhales his most recent lung-searing drag. As if to make his point clear, he nods towards her camera. "It's always one of the too, aye?"

“Except when it’s both,” Cyrielle says, in a lightly accented… but distant tone. She’s still caught in arranging a few stylus implements for her computer on the table. This one just there, this one just next to it. That one… no, must swap them. She seems, for a moment, to have perhaps forgotten the other man is even present. When a serving girl steps forth, her order is placed after a long moment of thought. Wine and bread. Simple, but it will do.
Only then does she seem to recall that someone had been speaking to her. Turning slightly, she takes Nitrim in for a moment. There’s a shrug, finally. An almost lazy, careless movement for someone dressed as she is. “I capture whatever strikes my fancy.”

"That's really the only way to do it," Nitrim replies, his words cut off as he brings the pint to his lips for a frothy sip. The spot where the pint once was is left behind with a blurry ring of condensation, one of many stains on the wood. "I've always found that if you seek out to catch a specific thing you're cheating the experience of finding it. At that point you may as well open up a portrait studio for little kids." A smirk forms at his lips as his eyes trail back down to his datapad for another turning of the page.

There’s a shudder of bare shoulders, sending a ripple of color along the tattoos. “Portrait studios are where art goes to die,” she says with a small shake of her head. There’s a slight movement of skirt as Cyrielle slouches somewhat in her chair. She picks up the camera device and touches it against the computer, which brings both to life and seems to initiate a transfer of the images taken. “Art cannot be forced… I do find I prefer photos of nature or architecture because they do not move and there’s no fuss of getting permission, but I will not shy away from a photo of a person or group if it suits.”

Portrait studios is where art goes to die. That gets a smirk out of the Khourni lordling as he finds a new spot on the table to stain with his sweaty glass. "The tourney a few months back was an absolute goldmine," Nitrim begins as he slips to another page. Pulling a camera of his own out of his pocket, he sets it down next to a datapad splattered with scanned images of Hermetic black mathematics and lore. "I found two street-children with a trove of stolen food, covered in mud, having scampered to find a safe place to feed each other. They never knew I took the picture, nor that I was fully aware that they'd found the fifty dollars I'd dropped on the sidewalk."

There’s a sidelong glance at the camera and Cyrielle’s eyebrows raise. A brief hint of interest and curiosity showing there. “At least you aided them,” she offers, glancing back to her own tablet where a series of thumbnails now display photos. “The news agencies love to show images of people and children suffering, but one knows they never stop to help them. They care only of having the … best,” she says the word as if it almost pains her to name it such, “photo of whatever event they may be covering.”
Her wine and bread arrive and she murmurs thanks as she reaches for the glass. A long sip is taken, as one who thirsts from a long run might take. Except one usually, when they thirst so, does not drink so deeply of alcohol. Dark eyes do flicker to the man’s datapad once again. “Student of theory or practice?”

"Practice," The reply comes simply, as Nitrim turns back to the diagrams on the screen before him. Tracing one with his claw-ringed fingertip, he lowers his brows deeply over his green eyes and commits it to memory. "At least, practice in the form of performing the diagrams and workings, not from a scholarly perspective for knowledge's sake." The ring taps against the screen, a trio of muted echoes sound from his direction. "Whatever gains an edge in the war or keeps my lungs on the inside of my body, more like."

With a sigh, he taps the power to the screen off and reaches for his camera. Turning it on with a nearly inaudible whir, he turns his attention to the small view screen and the pictures inside. "The news agencies couldn't bother to report the truth. Too many lies to hide. Besides, no one who watches the news really wants the truth. They want stability. They're asking to be lied to, to be reassured, but I'm sure I'm not telling you anything we both haven't said for years, I gather?"

“I would rather there was no war, but I find myself less concerned for my own lungs than the flora and fauna that yearns to sustain us.” Cyrielle casts another glance towards the darkly garbed young man. “But to do either, one must have a great amount of control and knowledge of their craft.” She picks up one of the stylus devices and starts to work on the screen, flipping through images with little care. She does pause upon one, showing an arched entrance cast in shadow. A program is brought up and light adjustments are made.

“Thought, yes, but I find it is often prudent to not speak such things carelessly. However, in a fellow photographer… is bound to be one that would understand.”

"Perhaps it comes down to upbringing, I suppose." Frowning at his beer, Nitrim's eyes wash over into solid white and a faint aura of a serpent rises from his shoulder. He reaches for his glass and the glass starts to frost over, no doubt having grown warm from busying himself too much from his work. Once the work is done, his aura recedes and his eyes uncloud to normal.

"Since the beginning of the war I've heard it all," Nitrim continues, motioning to her. "Protection of the ecosystem, fear of biological warfare, a strong offense is the best defense, the list goes on and on. Weeks before the war I was this," He nudges her camera to make his point. "And noble or not there's a long term playing into this that could really go any way. Still, it's a shame we've all lost our…avenues." He looks up. "I'm Nitrim."

The gaze of an Awakened is little to Cyrielle, who like as not finds them better company than most. She waits patiently as he does his task, cooling the beer. She merely sips her wine as she waits, leaning back further in the chair. Her nose wrinkles slightly once he speaks, but she doesn’t interrupt. There’s a glance — annoyance? — as he nudges the camera.

“Sometimes I wonder if anyone knows the difference between what is lost, what is taken away, and what is given up.” The words sound almost spoken to self, rather than to an audience. She does glance up as the introduction is offered, mind shuffled through for a moment to attempt to locate the name. Years away… they muddy what once mattered. “Cyrielle,” she offers in return.

"Well met, Cyrielle." Nitrim replies, canting his head only slightly to get a very poor angle of her screen. He doesn't quite know what has caused it, something in her own eyes or a trick of the light, but his left eyelid begins to twitch in an all-too-familiar way. He blinks hard at first to quell it, but to no avail. He settles for turning that side of his face away from Cyrielle to rub at the eyelid in soft, sweeping motions. "So is that what you look for when you shoot? Preserving things that others have forgotten to appreciate?"

As he tends to the tic in his eye, Cyrielle makes a few more adjustments to the image currently upon the display. Bringing out the shadows here, sharpening the lines there. Each is a practiced motion of one who knows well what they’re doing- not a child at play. However, the question draws her attention back and the stylus pauses; hovering over the display. “I have never put thought such as that into it,” she admits, brow furrowing for a moment. “I simply enjoy capturing things that catch my eye. I’m always wanting to preserve that moment. To preserve… how I see something.”

Leaning back from his fingertips, Nitrim blinks twice as a tentative check to see if the issue has subsided. A few heartbeats pass and he gives the negative space between them a scant nod, deciding that it has. "I don't think I'm so different, but I seem to have this little obsession with people who live drastically different lives than I do. People living in alleys watching tourney feeds on stolen data connections, hopeful couples at Midsummer's, those sorts of things. Things that I should remember that I saw and why it was important at the time. I sometimes just lend people a camera, telling them to shoot what they see then return it to me." Slipping his tablet away, he reaches for his beer and his camera. "Mind a booth intrusion to share work?"

This seems a curious methodology to Cyrielle and her brow furrows somewhat as she mulls it over. Perhaps something the young woman has never quite considered. It’s just a faint nod in approval to his request as she starts shifting her things around. She seems a bit distant now, eyes losing the sharp focus they had held within their dark depths when she first entered. Bread is picked up and a bite taken, chewed upon as she remains deep in thought.
Finally, she does speak: “Why?” It’s a simple question, but as full of depth as it often may be when spoken singly. “Why be so obsessed with those who are so noticeably different? No one is the same, but many just hide their differences beneath the trappings of their station. Why an obsession with those who do not hide what makes them different from you or I?”

"Because we live in a society where the main thing that separates one person from the next is their ability or willingness to lie." Nitrim starts as he slides out of his booth. Beer in hand, his heavy, buckled boots thud against the floor as the display makes his overall ensemble seem all the more martial. "I am a Khournas," he adds, slipping in across from her and setting his glass down so that her table will suffer the same sweaty-glass stains. "But unlike my brothers and sisters I am Awakened, so my talents, my upbringing, have all been rather different from theirs. So what else out there haven't I seen? It's all just part of a curiosity that will keep me questioning, which is a good thing. Questions, that is."

As the name of his House is provided, there’s something across Cyrielle’s features. There and gone in a flash. Uncertainty? Distrust? Perhaps an edge of distaste. A sharp eye may notice her shoulders tighten somewhat. Her gaze takes on a hooded sense as she reaches for her wine glass. The remainder of the red liquid is drained and she lifts it to signal the serving girl. “Questions are important. How do you feel… or… contribute to your House’s…” she pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. “Contributions to the war efforts.” That seems safe enough.

The changes in her posture, no matter how slight, do not go unnoticed by the Khourni lordling. His eyes glance over her tattoos and that new vein of tension around her neck. At the very least, the change in cadence to her question is a tell that he is familiar with. "Being what I am, who I am, there are times that I am expected to take the field, but from what I've learned about the Hostile since this started it's nothing less than a shame that this is happening at all to begin with."

Casually, as he is known to lean, he stretches his long legs out beneath the table and wraps an arm over the padded back of his bench. "The best thing that anyone can contribute to the invasion is to think, which is where I feel my skills best lie," His wrist turns, pointing a copper-colored claw ring towards her. "Bloodlust isn't my preference when there are more logical solutions. Just like we have people that have lost their way, I don't think we should assume they don't have the same."

“All should take the field when it is called of them.” Cyrielle’s voice holds a hint of bitterness to it, but she focuses instead on tearing pieces off of her bread and eating them. Giving her time to think between statements. There is a sidelong glance to Nitrim and her nostrils flare slightly.
“I have no qualms against fighting the Hostiles, but is it truly worth it to mine away and destroy our home to do so?”

Lifting his brows over to Cyrielle, Nitrim pauses at the question as he slips a new cigarette between his lips. He offers the case of cigarettes to her, giving her a chance to pick her favorite. "I couldn't say. There's not much point to surviving this war if we aren't going to be able to sustain afterwards, but I assume need is going to overwhelm." He tilts his chin upwards to her. "Are you in any position to suggest these sorts of things? You should."

The case is considered, but Cyrielle has long not been one to turn down a vice. She takes one of the cigarettes, lifting it to her lips. There’s a pause as she listens, before her eyes slip into whiteness. It’s a brief thing, that display, but it enables a small flame to flicker from her fingertips to the cigarette itself. When they return to their usual, chocolate-hued darkness, she looks to the man. “I am a Hollolas. We deal little in political matters, if possible. But the Arboren cares greatly for the land, as do we, and…” A glance aside, her lips turning. “Your… family seems to care little for the damage they cause, not only to the land, but to the creatures that inhabit.”

"Cyrielle Hollolas then, I thought the name sounded familiar, and you don't seem a local to Landing." Pressing up on one hip, Nitrim begins the slow process of shrugging out of his heavy, black coat to reveal an ash-gray sleeveless tunic that allows better view to the tattooed artwork needled into his arms. The cigarette bobs from his lip as he replies to her. "The factories don't help the air, no, but even without the factories Volkan would still be ashen waste. It's the price they pay for industry. Still, there's a certain poetry to the creatures that thrive in the ash. Have you ever seen Volkan, Cyrielle?"

“I have spent little time outside of my own homeland,” Cyrielle admits, glancing sidelong. Away from the table and away from her conversational partner. “I spent my childhood much upon ships, learning the ways of sailing. I had intended to go into the navy, as many in my family do. But when…” she pauses, seeming to rethink what she’s about to say. “But when I was Awakened, I was sent to train with a druid who is a close friend of my family. I’ve lived away from…” a vague gesture, meant to encompass the city. Civilization perhaps. “this for so long. I could not imagine it all being… gone.”

Something softens in Nitrim as she explains the conditions of her Awakening, bringing a relaxed pair of brows to rest over his dark, green eyes. His tongue runs over his teeth and a soft scratching sounds as he digs the tip of one of his rings against the lacquered wood that separates them. "As a child I was complicated to the point where I had to be sent away; I was mostly raised in a private space with private Hermetic tutor." He replies, lowering his voice to a far more sentimental tone. "I'm not entirely sure I ever really emerged as all of these things that are supposed to be familiar to me or my family are —" He tilts his eyes to his beer, as if hoping it will sprout letters that form the right words. "Foreign."

There’s a shift in brown gaze and a slight creasing at the edge of those eyes. Cyrielle glances over to the other young noble, seeming a mixture of confused and sympathetic. “I… I almost wish they had known when I was younger, but I suppose it took an… event to bring it forth in me.” She looks back to the table, taking up her last piece of bread to eat it. Thankfully, it is this point when the serving girl arrives to refill her glass with wine. A brief word and gesture leave the carafe with the rest. It’s not as if she cannot afford it all.

“I knew what I wanted of my life. Who I was going to be, then it… all changed. Now I don’t know and with the war…” A long breath is exhaled and for that moment, she looks less a young noblewoman with a countenance befitting her bearing and more a lost child. “I feel sometimes that perhaps I should have stayed with the druid. Lived out my life in the forest.”

One of Nitrim's shoulders tucks up quickly in a shrug, followed by a conflicted showing of the teeth to one side of his mouth. "I don't know anymore. I was a kid and the thing I keep hearing is to get over it. At some point I was left to self explore, which I did, and made a few headlines that didn't do me any good." With a brush of he hand through his hair, he levels his gaze back onto her. "Be who you want to be. My name, my title really only aligns me, but I choose to be who I am, and in that I'm free."

Reaching out for his beer, he tilts the glass to his lips and downs the last of it as his eyes unfocus, taking on a degree of thought. With a happy, little with the empty glass is set aside and he dips his head towards her. "Though…if you really are interested in doing something that will be of worth to something or someone…I could probably help you with that." He smiles like the shark-of-the-ash that he is. "I dabble in information and knowledge. You might like what I have to say."

“There are some things one cannot just… get over,” Cyrielle says distantly, turning her head to study the Khournas for a moment. “And what I wanted to be… I cannot. I haven’t found where I belong yet…” Which is perhaps much a cause of many of her problems. The young woman lifts her glass and drains a fair bit of it. She’s lowering it as he makes that offer and her brow lowers a bit.

Her expression is dark as she listens and lets it roll around within her subconscious for a moment. “I am sure you understand that I will be the judge of what I like, but I am willing to listen.”

“Perhaps I’m the lucky one, then, that I did not know what I wanted to be, or wanted to do, before my Awakening became an issue. I was a bit of a blank slate back then.” Nitrim replies, setting his glass to the edge of the table so that the next time the server drops by it can be collected, refilled, and returned to him. “But of course, I don’t know you well enough to presume I know what’s best for you, and I’ll never know anyone well enough to be the man to presume that for anyone. Really all I can do is offer possibilities.”

Turning at the hip, Nitrim slides into the corner of the booth and brings his knee up to balance against the lip of the table. Wrapping his tattooed arm around it, he leans in and lowers his voice. “I know a girl, a common girl, who’s recently been Awakened. I was there for her awakening and she’s not a Hermetic sort. She loves horses, poetry, things that are worth saving in the world. If you’re looking for direction, or for someone who might be a kindred spirit to teach so that they have the opportunities…she may be in need of a mentor.” A pregnant pause settles over him as his brows arch, suggesting that there’s possibly more. “And if you’re looking for something more…effective, there are other things. Other Awakened that aren’t playing politics in the war for the better of all.”

As Nitrim settles further into the booth and thus closer, Cyrielle adjusts marginally for him. Her items — such as tablet — are still spread out before her. She swiftly moves them into a closer, but still orderly arrangement. Her wine is lifted and held, poised, before her lips as she listens. Her eyes lower a bit as she focuses on hearing him over the other ambient sounds within the small tavern.

At last, there’s a slight tilt of her head. “Perhaps,” she murmurs, thinking it over. “Effective is… what it is. Whether it be in improving one’s life or the life of another. If good comes from it, surely it will show and affect others.” Cyri pauses then and gives a decidedly childish shrug. “Or something along those lines. I’m still waiting to see it.”

“Then remember the name Lorelei. Perhaps after today you and I should keep in contact if you’re curious about this. I wouldn’t want to terrify the girl with letting her know that I’ve had this conversation, but for her the dreams and the feelings that come from them are new. I just might terrify her with my perspective but a druidic…” Nitrim lets the idea trail off as he lowers his gaze down to her organization of her tools. His eyes dance over the positioning of everything, matched with a curiosity that he levels towards her. Why, he seems to ask, but stops short of actually letting the question find his voice.
“The dreams.” He quietly offers. “I’ve seen too many of the dreams turn out to be prophetic lately. What’s your take on them? Dying eagles, drakes fighting over them, blue-eyed Hostile shouting release me?”

If the question were voice, she might still barely understand the purpose. Cyrielle seems to organize her things as one might blink or breathe. It’s of a second nature- as old and normal as stretching in the morning. She forms the name with her lips, though doesn’t speak it aloud. Her glass finishes movement to her lips and she drinks deep.

“The Hostile… obvious, is it not?” She speaks softly, staring at the table when she does. “It must be the one they’ve captured. It was held in Arboren for a time…” She glances towards Nitrim. “But it’s odd that it is in our dreams. Are the Chantry attempting to tell us something? Or do you thi-” she cuts herself off and bites on a lip, brow furrowing deeply. “No, that… wouldn’t be.”

“The Hostile, at least as far as we know, don’t have Awakened nor they get the dreams like we do.” As expected, the glass of beer is picked up by a passing server on her way back to the bar.With a quirk of his brow, he turns his head to watch the server walk off, waiting until she’s well out of earshot before he continues. “The dream, the release me dream, was echoed back to me as that Hostile in the cell growled at me to release her with those glowing blue eyes of hers.” His head swivels, locking his eyes onto Cyri’s chocolate-brown orbs with a dim look of his own. “What wouldn’t be? Please…share. I know you’re not entirely fond of the way my House manages their lands, but we’re speaking as Awakened, not as politics.”

“I just hate to conceive of it,” Cyrielle says faintly, staring at the table’s surface. Her glass already set aside, she lets her hands curl over the edge. Fingers press into the surface. “As far as we know.” She echos him, pondering. “Why… would we dream of a Hostile demanding release. What if…” She glances towards Nitrim and there is a level of fear in her eyes. More than that: uncertainty.

“What if they have a way to invade our Dreaming?”

The air around the table stills and Nitrim stares across to her, his dark, green eyes unwavering as she lets the question hang in the air. At the point where the stare starts to become uncomfortable, his eyes rise and fall as his head starts to nod. A shudder of his aura forms and his green orbs wash over into a milky cloud, as he takes away his outside voice and replaces it with his inside voice.

All points so far suggest no. His voice reaches out to hers, like a brush of fingertips over her front door, invasive and polite in their intrusion. And so far it’s unknown that we know we are dreaming things that later turn to reality. Just by being, just by dreaming, we could be the early warning radar to protect and save lives, Cyrielle. If the Hostile learn that we can see what may come…we could be in danger of them, but we -could- save lives.

Slim fingers reach out and grasp the stem of wineglass. Cyrielle turns it slowly as she listens, her own aura sinking into place as the darkness of her eyes fades away. The white takes over, almost signifying that she’s no longer paying full mind to what goes on outside the small booth. When she draws in a breath, it’s audible both in the physical sense and upon the plane of the Awakened.

I can only hope. A pause, We can only hope. But how do we interpret what may come? How do we avoid the risk of needless panic? If the dream… if it signifies that the Hostile will escape or is calling help… As it suggests, to some. That would set all who hear of it into a panic. And if we were wrong… it would cast doubt on any future portents.

Which is why we, as Awakened, should keep quiet and work together in small groups to sniff these things out, investigate the dreams, use the evidence as it comes to our advantage in hopes that we find something useful. Nitrim replies quietly in her mind as he turns to the approaching server. She double-takes at his white eyes, but has seen it before, and offers him the beer with a less polite smile than before. He nods to her and sips. To speak telepathically while eating and drinking, without sounding with food in one’s mouth, is a blessing. This is that effective thing I was speaking about earlier. If you are interested…I would be able to oblige such an effort. There are rules, though, to protect the names and faces, Lady Cyrielle. Would you hear them?

It is a blessing, this much is true. It also enables Cyrielle to open up more or share more than she otherwise may. There are certain appearances to keep up and certain levels of interaction she desires to engage in. I only ask that the focus, at least for myself, to be on bettering the people of Haven and where they live. I have no desire to do anything that would push anyone undeserving to risk their lives needlessly. She may not, on the exterior, appear to be one that cares for the lives of others, but to an Arboren — especially a druid — all manners of life are important.

People have told me that I’m perhaps a little too paranoid or conspiratorial, so you’ll have to forgive me. Nitrim laughs inside of her mind a self-deprecating laugh as across from her he slips his cigarette back between his lips. The end of the cigarette flares with orange-red embers that crackle as they’re superheated by the incoming air through the filter. He leans back and taps the ashes away. Too many years slinking through my own halls and too many secrets, and now the only thing I think that provides real safety, or the ability to work without being interrupted is peace and quiet and the anonymity that comes with it, just like the pictures I take. I don’t ask for permission. I just shoot and move on.

Nitrim’s head cants to the side and his lower lip sucks in with a bite. His fingertips tap at the tabletop as he considers what she’s said. What to do…what to say…? I don’t wish to put anyone in undue danger either. I’d rather shoulder that burden personally. As you know, I’m not entirely the jewel of Volkan.

For one paranoid, Cyrielle muses, her thought drifting as a faraway voice to the Khouras lordling at her table, you have certainly been willing to share and reveal much to me. A pause then as she moves cigarette from lips with one hand, to raise wineglass with the other. A long drink before it is set back aside and the burning roll of tobacco placed back where it was before. That is not to say your trust is misplaced. I have little mind for politics or war, but I wish to do what I can.

They only say I’m paranoid, what they don’t know is that I’ve been a bad enough judge of character in the past to become a good one. It’s a learned skill. With a shake of his head and a roll of his shoulder, he eases back into a certain degree of calm, planting his boots on the foot-rail that lines the bottom of the table between them. Mostly what I’m interested in is investigating the dreams more than being in danger, but one can tend to lead into the other on a long enough timeline. I haven’t really given you information that could put myself or anyone else in danger, but if you’re interested I may be able to get you involved. At the very least, I’m rather glad we met, Cyrielle.

Eyes turned white by dipping into those abilities that come with being Awakened study Nitrim. A visage that might be unnerving to some, to be certain. Eyes faded to white and an aura that evokes the deep greens of the forest. Cyrielle is quiet for a time, both in the physical realm and the mental one between them at the moment. Her thoughts and conclusions kept at a deeper level as she considers. It’s with a final drag upon the cigarette before it’s pressed to rest in the ashtray upon the table that she responds.

I am glad as well, she begins, though it’s with an almost careless mien. Spoken as if it matters, but not as much as one might expect or hope. A forced expression, perhaps to cover up something else. And I do wish to be involved. To better understand the dreaming… I would quite like that.
Lets keep in touch, then. The dreams, the captive, the war, it is all important and too many Awakened play politics when we should be binding together as a team. Nitrim smiles genuinely to her, patting the empty table space between them as he seems to be preparing to leave. With a small shuffle out of the booth, he shrugs his coat back on and looks down to her, at least he seems too with his all-white eyes. I will message you when my little gathering is getting together next. If you don't mind large groups, that is. Like you I think politics get in the way. They're an evil, and its best we make good friends before our Houses start to get desperate.

Feel free to send any correspondence my way. I have public contacts. Cyrielle pours herself another glass of wine, appearing thoughtful for the moment. Finally, there’s a slight shrug. I am not overly fond of large gatherings, but I will certainly give it a chance. She lifts her chin, looking towards Nitrim. The color returns to her eyes as her aura fades. “It was a pleasure to meet you. We’ll speak again soon, I’m sure.”

"We will, if that's how fate sees it, Cryielle." Nitrim replies as his eyes uncloud and his mossy green orbs float back to the surface. With a shrug of his shoulders, he pulls his heavy coat into place and lowers his head in a simple, yet not really necessary show of respect. He taps one of his claw-like rings to his forehead and turns on his heel, turning for the door without another word.

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