After Dr. Andrés Sepúlveda's multi-Traditional dinner party, Pen had given Margot (and Ned if he was amenable) her contact information and asked for the favor returned. That seed is what enabled Pen to contact Margot and ask her if she would like to get together. Suggest either a hike, somewhere with solitude and Spring, or time spent in a quiet bookshop, somewhere without dust and where they do not sell coffee.
And so Margot Travers and Penelope Mars are meeting in a parking lot found around thirty minutes outside Denver. The parking lot is not full although there are a few cars, glinting in their paint their tinfoil window covers, their shining armor against the certain ascension of heat as the day turns those metal chariots into fire air so hot it can scald the throat. March is still too cool this year for scalding air to be likely, but the shining foil window armor is prepared for any weather except for blizzards which it is serenely careless of. The cars have parked mostly far away from one another.
This is the entrance to the Hanging Lake trail, popular with tourists and in the summer, but rather spare of people in March, even if it is a beautiful day. A glooming day, a day all gloomy in its beauty; the sky is clouded, tarnished up with silver linings that are worn and weathered, but it does not look like rain. The air is warm; sunlight glances through the clouds dramatically on occasion, and gilds the mountains, gilds the treetops, gilds -
Here is Pen. Pen rode her motorcycle and, when Margot arrives (unless she asked for a ride; then she was handed a helmet and asked to hold on; difficult to converse on a motorcycle), is leaning against it and combing her fingers through the red flag of her hair, un-tangling curls.
Margot
Margot Travers did not ask for a ride, but she did agree to meeting up and thought that a hike sounded like a great idea. She drove out and parked amongst the other cars with their sun-blockers in the windows. Her own car was a modest little four-door sedan, dark in color, decent in trunk size, good on gas and very easy to forget. That was the whole point, wasn't it?
When she stepped out of her car Pen would find her dressed in jeans, hiking boots (old, dusty, broken in over years), and a red plaid flannel shirt that she had rolled up the sleeves on to handle the heat of the sun bearing down through clouds to turn her car into a low-temp oven. Her hair was back in a ponytail, sunglasses on her face, hiking pack (small, reasonable knapsack with no obvious brands or frills) on her back after being carried with her from the passenger seat.
She found Pen beside her motorcycle, standing and untangling her mane of red curls from being mashed up under a helmet. Margot gave a modest smile and waved across the small distance between where they'd parked in the lot, and walked over to join her with her hands grasping her knapsack straps on either shoulder.
"Hey," she offered (eloquent as ever) when she was within easy conversational distance. "Thanks for inviting me out. The mountains are beautiful."
Pen
Here is Margot in red flannel and a suggestion of the abattoir and Pen when Margot steps out of her car - an expectant gaze had marked it when it parked - ceases fluffing her hair by this: raking her fingers up so her hand rests atop her skull, squinting into the spark of light thrown by chance from the driver's mirror, and raises the other hand high above her head in a wave. The sort of open-palmed greeting which is held a moment: then swung away.
Pen's concession to the rigorous physical exertion that Hanging Lake Trail promises is some pale green and dark green foliate (William Morris) bo-ho print long-sleeved, loose-sleeved thing with a short collar and undone buttons over a tanktop of darker green, one slither of necklace around her throat (two, actually; one is on a chain which hangs below her collar, and the tank top is high), and a pair of gray pants with pockets and only a touch of embroidery on the pockets, which are mostly hidden beneath the throw-over robe-or-what-have-you (and see how beautifully it would cut the shape of her if it were closed?). She has many rings on today as usual, too, though less than she wore when she visited Andrés and his interns at the Societyman's house. Her boots will serve for hiking, they go up mid-calf and there gape, a soldier's boots for heavy-tramping and see there is a knife hilt visible just at the top of one.
Her knap-sack is still on the back of her bike and before she reaches to grab it, once Margot is near enough, here is the flex of her smile -
Here is the flex of her smile, incantatory - lending her dark-eyed clear-eyed glance some of their shadow because here there is light. The War Mage seems pleased to see the brunette.
"I'm pleased you accepted my invitation; I was hoping we might become friends. Do you hike often?" Those keen eyes (and they are keen, see; weapons must be keen if they are to be of use! And Pen is not always a weapon, but she is always a myth involving something sharp) take in Margot's obviously worn hiking gear, and there's a touch of rue: ask a silly question. "Do you hike these mountains often?"
Margot
"Not as often as I would like to."
Margot eyed the knife hilt on the belt. She supposed it made sense. There were any number of reasons that somebody might carry a knife around while hiking. All of them served as great excuse to cover what she had no doubt were the real reasons the woman carried a blade. She'd been told about House Flambeau, after all. If Margot had any blade to boast as well, it wasn't on her belt. It had to be tucked away in her little olive green knapsack backpack.
"I went once when I first got out here last year, in the fall, but then school started up and I'd just moved." There was a silent 'and' hanging in the air-- something else that was going on at the time that kept her busy. But she didn't want to talk about it, didn't like to bring it up. So she went a different direction instead.
"Used to hike around plenty back home in Maine. But it's different there-- no mountains, just forest strolls." She gave a smile, almost apologetic. "The elevation's way different too. It took the wind out of me really quickly the first time I came out here, so hopefully I'm more used to it now."
Pen
"My tolerance for whiskey is usually fair; but when I first moved here at the tail-end of last year - " The woman casts a glance up toward the tarnished Heavens. There is something dramatic in the gesture; in the cant of her chin, the exposure of her throat. There is rue here, or wry. Her gaze flicks down and she pulls the straps of her knapsack on and pulls a pair of sunglasses - huge round frames with lenses tinted some dark rose tea color - and places them on her face. The faint mellow smell of sunscreen is already present.
"I was undone so quickly. I could not believe it afterward; fortunately, there were few witnesses who know any of my names and I somehow managed to get home without incident. I don't really know how. If I weren't Awake, I would think I probably gained some temporary superpower."
She crinkles the bridge of her nose, fine lines drawn. Cants her head to one side like well shall we be off and begins to head toward the trail.
"I know somebody - a couple of somebodies actually - who have worked on lobster boats up in Maine, and have a house there. I like those forests. They feel hushed and full of mystery, and the islands - I like them best."
"Do you think you'll go back to Maine after school?"
Margot
[Manip + Subt: Play it cool and casual about going home]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Pen
[Perception + Empathy. Pen's looking at Margot while they talk so -2 Diff Acute Sight.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (1, 3, 4, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Margot
There's a beautiful drama in how Pen looked skyward and lamented the first time she went hiking here in Denver and suffered so from the elevation change. For a moment there Margot forgot entirely what they were discussing-- something about whiskey and being undone, and oh! how the little apprentice's brow furrowed with worry when the word 'undone' was uttered.
But back to reality. It was just a hike, she clearly survived. Let's get going.
Boots belonging to two different sets of feet started from the parking lot toward the trailhead. Margot's legs weren't so long as Pen's were, but she kept up just fine. She was a quick-paced thing and probably used to walking alongside people taller than her as well, after all.
They spoke of Maine next, and curiosity arose-- would Margot return after school was finished? There was a falter-flicker in the girl's face at the thought. Well, not so much at the idea of going home, or even of school, but rather because she didn't know how to answer at first. There was some big obstacle in that conversation that Margot was cranking the wheel mentally to avoid. She recovered quickly enough, but she wasn't the most convincing liar in the world to begin with. Plus poor Margot really did have such a poker face. Let's blame the expressive eyebrows.
"I don't know. I'm not sure about school either, really, in lieu of Awakening. It was something that I'd just always planned on all through school, but now that I'm here there's this whole other world to consider. I'm not sure how I want to fit into the normal world now that I'm less normal myself."
There we go. Talk about school and not Maine.
Pen
Pen does not pursue whatever trouble she sees in Margot's face. Discourteous to do so and also not her business; still the glimpse of trouble stirs her compassion and dredges it closer to the surface. It is always close to the surface.
"Hmm." This is bright. "Is this because you want to focus on your magick or because you think it would be too difficult with everything that goes on you'll notice now that your eyes are open?"
MargotMargot was easy to read, and her story was a sad one that left her with some traumatic baggage to lug around until she was ready to deal with it. She'd been stirring compassion in a lot of people lately-- an awkward and clinching hug from the frigid Doctor in a coffee shop, a steady arm about the shoulders and compasionate reasoning from her fellow Apprentice, an honest offer to help and talk from Nick after a brief sit-and-talk (talented, was Pen's husband, in the art of disecting the mind[heart?]). So, Pen's close-worn compassion being stirred was reasonable. She had that affect on people.
Her question had Margot taking a moment to give it thought. She was glad for the fact that Pen was willing to go along the path of School instead of Home instead, and merrily plunged into the topic as any in her shoes would a distraction.
"I think both, when it comes down to it. Because I don't think that what I have with my Avatar really meshes with the science and math that I've memorized from books. And I'm pretty sure that She's more important than any salary at a university one day would give me. It feels way more important." She tapped her fingers on her breastbone a few times, physically indicating the deep ache and swell of Pursuit and Enlightenment when learning and practicing and breaking barriers into new understandings. She'd unlocked a new Sphere recently, and did so with the intention of doing so. It was empowering. Math in a university was becoming quite boring.
"....What did you do, you know, Before? Who were you?"
PenThe trail begins by being broad and generous as it takes them into Glenwood Canyon.
The two women have already passed the obligatory map and wooden kiosk sign which states the local dangers and a few factoids about flora and fauna of the area. There was perhaps a short description of the Hanging Lakes. They have already approached the canyon itself, the cleft in rock and the spare rugged loveliness of the trees climbing up the cliff a forest of spare branches just beginning to kindle into spring-greenery still blanched and barren from winter still touched gold and brown here and there by their long winter death.
Comes a sudden machine gun spray of bird-song, as if the bird in that bush there they are now passing as the trail begins to weave really wants them to know that This Is Spring, Motherfuckers. The machine gun spray cuts off shyly as soon as they are near the bush, and a few more bursts follow them once they have passed, but with the embarrassed quality of something which didn't quite mean to and yeah you better know spring is coming.
"Oh god," Pen says. The note in her voice is burnished with good humor. Who were you. "That question will lead us into philosophical considerations as quickly as a fox leads disaster to a henhouse -- or so it can seem with people like us. Before my Awakening, I … "
Here is a falter. What to say? How to say it? Perhaps Penelope's story of Before is an uneasy one and sad. Even in the faltering, she seems collected and assured: collected and assured enough to falter like that and not be worried or made awkward by it. Assured enough to be able to study herself, in front of a young acquaintance (no longer a stranger but not quite yet a friend).
"What I wanted to do was become a famous poet and artist and live a very interesting life different from what my family knew. Somehow being a famous poet would bring me loads of money to live off of," said with knowing swagger; a half-glance. This is sincere, "and use to help other people. I'd worked so hard to get into a good university far from home, to afford that good university far from home, so I was a student for a while. But… I dropped out."
"I had some obligations back home, you see. And when I realized my power," Pen holds her hands in front of her (rings on almost every finger, occasionally doubled-up, except for the wedding ring: that one gets to shine in solitary splendor) curling her fingers in. This (and it is beguiling, a Rusalki smile or a Circe smile, a smile with violets in it; a smile to kindle ardence) half-smile which touches her eyes and lives there and under her skin more than it does her mouth, crinkling the skin of her nose. She wiggles her fingers, as though conjuring.
But her tone of voice is serious.
"I was working three jobs." Or four. Or five. No need to be specific with numbers. Were Margot good at reading people, she might see beneath the surface some clot of old emotion and decipher it. "Mundane, pay-the-bills jobs. Thinking about going back to school one day only because I'd worked so hard for it and for so long, but even after, I didn't really want to go back. I was distracted by learning where I stood - and how I could stand. What choices I could make, and still have them be mine. That's still very important to me: Choice. I believe it is what lends us grace and will one day see us in a new golden age, one which might stay for a little while."
"Once I decided I wanted to join the Order of Hermes, that was it for my aspirations of a degree for a mundane job - at least for earning one in the usual way. My tradition has an extremely rigorous curriculum of study."
"May I ask what your Avatar is like? You seem to be confident in your relationship with her; or at least in your knowledge of her. That isn't always the case."
MargotMargot listened to Pen's tale of life as an average Sleeping Mortal quietly and thoughtfully. She drew analogies between her own story and Pen's where they existed obviously-- acadamia, pay-the-bills jobs, wanting a degree because of working hard for it but not caring about it anymore. But the Order of Hermes? And being a passionate poet? Those were some pretty big disconnects.
"It sounds like, ultimately, people end up having to dedicate themselves to their Craft all-out at some point or another. It makes me wonder if the next decade or so should be immersed in Enlightened Learning-- maybe I can just, y'know, make myself some credentials at a point if I want to go access a job in the workforce." She's thought about this. Shrugged dismissively at the idea. It wasn't important.
"I feel like I'm not Who I Was anymore, nor am I Who I'm Going To Be just yet either. Not... Not that I'm stuck, I don't feel stuck. I just need to pick a direction." Said every Disparate Ever.
When the question about her Avatar came up, Margot blinked with realization. Pen was right-- she did have a very solid concept of her Avatar, while many others didn't quite have much more than an abstract. Ned himself said his was more like a drive than an entity-- a puzzle to be solved, an Achievement Unlocked for each new thing learned and done. She hefted her knapsack to adjust the straps on her shoulders while continuing to march.
"I have the benefit, I suppose, of mine being a Goddess. All I really needed to do was figure out who she was and then go Google her name.
"She's Andraste-- a Gaelic Goddess of war and victory, amongst other things. Boudicca called upon her."
Pen"You are at a threshold," Pen says, when (every Disparate ever) Margot says she just needs to pick a direction.
She listens, Penelope. Absorbs. Their pace might slow on occasion, because this isn't an easy trail though they're still in the easier portions of it, and conversation plus alpine air plus the usual rigors of hiking mean that lulls as they pick their way over the landscape are natural.
"Andraste," Pen says, musing. And then, "Boudicca?" A pause; perhaps for the trail, but also for contemplation. Here is the warming of recognition: "Speak to me as a woman to a woman!" Glance at Margot. "I wrote a poem cycle about women oracles once. "So: Andraste - she who will not fall; who is invincible. How do you feel about having such a guide?"
MargotMargot smiled. She liked Pen's quip about women to women. But how did she feel about having a guide who's known for being invincible? Margot puffed a breath-- after a while of climbing, after finding further elevation, she was being reminded that when she ran track it was certainly never distance and it was also at close to sea level. Still, she kept up fine though. Didn't look like she needed a rest. Just looked ahead at the scenery they walked through when she answered.
"It's a lot to live up to. I think I'm supposed to be like a disciple of her or a priestess to her or maybe her firey sword? I don't know. But it's just... I've never been a violent person, you know? Not really. I just kept to myself and didn't bother anyone. It's just a pretty big gear change. My essence is bound to something that loves blood and violence and I'm compelled to follow that, and I never thought I would before."
Pen"What do you want from her? If she were to appear before you right now, instead of being in the background, a presence in your life: if she were to stand right there, a raven on her shoulder, her eyes even-keeled - would you dare demand anything from her?"
Margot"That she tell me why she chose me and what she wants from me."
Margot answered this one quickly-- she's been thinking about it for a while. It was easy to imagine her laying on top of her covers in bed, hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling as though she could will a vision or dream to take her to her Avatar in that very moment. Unfortunately, that's yet to work. It's given her plenty of time to think about what she'd have to say, though.
"I'm not going to make demands of a Goddess, beyond knowing what demand she has of me. She's a Goddess."
Pen"And you will be her people," Pen replies. "Do you believe She is more important than you are because she is a Goddess?"
MargotThat question, though, gave Margot pause. If Pen was patient enough to allow it (and certainly she was), the girl would take a good twenty seconds or so of consideration with only the huff-puff of breath and bootsteps on the trail to keep them company. Then, with a testing kind of resolve (to see how well the idea fit when spoken out loud):
"I believe that she is now, but maybe that isn't always going to be the case. I feel like I need to.... establish myself further, I suppose. The easiest comparison to make is an internship. Maybe she'll pick somebody else if I'm not up to snuff?"
She shrugged. This was the kind of stuff that would take a while to sort through.
Pen"'Up to snuff,'" Pen echoes. "Did you know that phrase originally meant sharp and in the know; canny, cunning? Not 'meets requirements.' You seem sharp enough to me; I can see why a representation of victory would choose you. She won't pick anybody else in this lifetime; she cannot - at least the manifestation of her as expressed by your shard of Avatar cannot. What I'm trying to say, just thinking aloud, is that - well. You can begin as you mean to go on, even if you are in the 'intern' stage. Question; bargain with; be unafraid to get what you want from Her, even as she gets what she wants from you. It might be less a love of blood and violence and more a love of what they represent." A brief pause; and then, "What do you think?"
MargotPen's words made sense to Margot in a logical way. She was right, she wouldn't exactly be abandoned by her Avatar, that wasn't how this worked (except, perhaps, in some very extreme circumstanes, she supposed). But there was still a fleck of doubt. An uncertainty. Something just didn't seem to quite fit.
"Ned said the same thing, more or less," she informed Pen quietly while she mulled that over with a heavy brow. "It just doesn't seem that way. When I've been before Her, it's felt so sharp and visceral and bloody. Not Apocalyptic, but forboding. Indicative of something. Which is why this talk of war has me worried, this situation with the Brandt man. The timing of it seems pretty suspicious, and I don't know how much coincidence actually exists anymore."
kai[Either of you mind if I half-lurk while at work?]
Pen[A Kai, hullo!!! I do not, thank you for asking! Kenna just went afk for half an hour, but I don't imagine she will mind either.]
Pen"They give us tests," Pen says. "Constantly. Our life here - this," Pen pats her chest, the collar bone. Her hair is getting in her face; she should put it up but she likes the wild Lizzie Siddal or Jane Burden mass of it to be free even when the wind tries to put it in thrall as now, when they reach a bluff that looks down at the river their trail has been following. This high there is still some scattered suggestion of snow - moon-gleam glittering. The trail is about to become difficult enough that they'll need to concentrate on that rather than speaking for a little.
But first...
"Wait - hm? What do you mean the timing seems pretty suspicious?"
kai[Iiiiiit's official, I want to play Hawksley with Margot.]
Margot[That would be so much fun! :D :D *Flattered flattered* Margot wouldn't know what to do with him, LOL. Also, you should nab me on AIM sometime so we can get together on what you want for your Adren challenge, then I can make a forums post to get it started!]
Margot"Maybe not suspicious," Margot said, reconsidering her wording with a bit of a scowl. "Maybe 'prophetic'. Andraste is also a Goddess of divination, wo who knows." She shrugged, and huffed, and looked at the incline of the trail ahead of them.
Less talking, for exactly this time being, for the lowlanders needed to focus on conquering this steep.
Pen[Doo-de-doo. Athleticism, do not fail.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
Margot[Please don't make me look like a huffer puffer fish in front of this really cool Knight woman]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )
kai[No one knows what to do with him because he's terrible. :D And yes! I should be around a bit more now that I'm not sick. We will chat.]
Margot[Aw sad, sick. Glad you're better! We SHALL chat!]
PenTheir lungs must ache. How strange it is, the treachery of the high airs; how the blood will burn for it, how one must angle one-self just so carefully plucking one's way up a steep rocky path, one with twists and falls left-over from winter, where the snow was heavy enough to change the landscape and - just here - fell a tree, roots tangling downward like fingers of the dead reaching up or pulling down. That is a difficult go around or climb, the gray scaled bark and there is a portion of trail where the sky is dizzying in its tarnish and the way is narrow and it is hard. It is just very hard.
It is also stunning.
At the top, where the trail evens out again, and they can once again speak: Pen pauses to lean against the rock-face (root-tangled), rest her hip there (languorous from exertion; she feels vibrant, with her heart tested like this - vibrant and immanent and not quite winded but working [a celebrant]), and pulls her water bottle from her knapsack, takes a deep swig. The breeze picks up again; the long medieval sleeves flutter, their pretty green and white Morris pattern a dryadic flag. "Almonds? Some, I warn, may be covered in sriracha powder."
A baggie of them is taken from another pocket in her bag - mostly, Pen's bag seems to be empty, just water and some trail mix and some vessels for holding things (water, say), glint of metal gleaming, a box, some splash of color buried deep within.
"Where were we? Right. Augury and war. Do you want to be involved in the Brandt situation or war? What do you think about all that? We didn't really linger after Ned asked me his questions over dinner. I feel neglectful."
MargotThe view up here was gorgeous, and Margot was glad for the trail that Pen had selected. Could understand why it was selected. This time of year, even with the weather as nice as it was, trails were pretty sparsely utilized. They had freedom to speak.
Not always, though. Sometimes they had to climb over fallen trees and along ledges where snow failed to melt and was now clinging and piled along with ice ready to fall. It made the walk difficult, that and the thin mountain air, but ultimately she and Pen both made it to a resting place without their lungs burning or sides stitching. Still, Margot was bright-faced and her pulse was quickened, heart working hard to do its damn job and keep her going up the mountain. When they stopped she too retrieved her bottle of water and drank a quarter of it down.
Where were we? Right.
Margot held her palm out for some almonds, thankful for the offer, and answered while they were shaken into her palm.
"I can't be involved, I'm too much of a liability at this point. I'd have been involved, though, if I were less new to wielding the craft. I don't know this Brandt guy, and I don't want my friends dying for him, but I'm certain that whatever information he brings back is going to be very worth the risks in retrieving him."
PenThe almonds do have tell-tale powder on them, this hint of red which will stain Margot's life and fate lines and sharp her tongue when she bites into those almonds (or shovels them all in her mouth), a tongue-tingling kick which asks for milk or water. Spice is just a way to trick your body into thinking it is on fire. The physiological responses are one and the same. These almonds, they're not so hot. A campfire glow, not skin-sizzling discomfort.
And Penelope, listening. There are few who doubt Pen is a passionate woman, for all she tempers her actions by thought and her eyes are as a reflective and steady color, changing with the sky or whatever she is wearing. Today they are especially gray; and there is an ardent gleam in them just now, lake witchery, some forged thing.
"I hope so. I hope those who go in, if they need to go in, have their eyes open as well; reconnaissance should go hand in hand with the risk."
"What do you think so far of the different Traditions? You have thrown in with them; that seems evident, and I can guess why; what all have you run up against?"
Margot"Well..."
Ask somebody about the Traditions and you're bound to hear an earful. Margot regarded the steel-and-iron scenery as she did.
"The Doc's the only Scientist I know, and I don't know much about what he is near so much as I do about who he is. I can't say it's the best way to judge an entire Tradition.
"Order of Hermes strikes me as being very... lordly and courtly. I've met you, and a fellow named William, who said he was something of a diplomat? It's all very glamorous and fantastical.
"Chakravanti I... I don't know. I've been told that they deal with death a lot but I only know Nick and he seems sort of... shadowy, but not bad by any means."
As for the rest? She shrugged and popped a couple of almonds into her mouth to chew, feel the bite of spice, and swallow. "I feel like a Witch. I've never met a Verbena though."
PenThere is a lot to learn about how someone makes judgment of others. Margot is showing Penelope a judicious face. These are the facts as she has perceived them in the individual representations of the traditionalists she has met. There is this: a brief flare-strike of good humor crinkle of the bridge of her nose (which may be in danger of freckling, if she goes on very many hikes) and of oh self-awareness, this adrenaline leap of response which looks an awful lot like a breed of stillness a caesura in her posture perhaps a deliberation in the way Pen puts her elbow into the cliff wall and straightens. They can talk and walk for a little while yet, almonds still out and water too.
"Shadowy?" amusement, just after Margot's assessment of her husband.
"I used to be in a cabal with a Verbena. I know there are a couple practicing within Denver, but if you wanted I could see about luring him to Denver for a visit and you two could talk it over." (Wistful. Perhaps Pen misses her Verbena cabal-mate.)
She will wait for a response, and then, "Do you think death, dealing with death, should be bad - is bad?"
Her question had Margot taking a moment to give it thought. She was glad for the fact that Pen was willing to go along the path of School instead of Home instead, and merrily plunged into the topic as any in her shoes would a distraction.
"I think both, when it comes down to it. Because I don't think that what I have with my Avatar really meshes with the science and math that I've memorized from books. And I'm pretty sure that She's more important than any salary at a university one day would give me. It feels way more important." She tapped her fingers on her breastbone a few times, physically indicating the deep ache and swell of Pursuit and Enlightenment when learning and practicing and breaking barriers into new understandings. She'd unlocked a new Sphere recently, and did so with the intention of doing so. It was empowering. Math in a university was becoming quite boring.
"....What did you do, you know, Before? Who were you?"
PenThe trail begins by being broad and generous as it takes them into Glenwood Canyon.
The two women have already passed the obligatory map and wooden kiosk sign which states the local dangers and a few factoids about flora and fauna of the area. There was perhaps a short description of the Hanging Lakes. They have already approached the canyon itself, the cleft in rock and the spare rugged loveliness of the trees climbing up the cliff a forest of spare branches just beginning to kindle into spring-greenery still blanched and barren from winter still touched gold and brown here and there by their long winter death.
Comes a sudden machine gun spray of bird-song, as if the bird in that bush there they are now passing as the trail begins to weave really wants them to know that This Is Spring, Motherfuckers. The machine gun spray cuts off shyly as soon as they are near the bush, and a few more bursts follow them once they have passed, but with the embarrassed quality of something which didn't quite mean to and yeah you better know spring is coming.
"Oh god," Pen says. The note in her voice is burnished with good humor. Who were you. "That question will lead us into philosophical considerations as quickly as a fox leads disaster to a henhouse -- or so it can seem with people like us. Before my Awakening, I … "
Here is a falter. What to say? How to say it? Perhaps Penelope's story of Before is an uneasy one and sad. Even in the faltering, she seems collected and assured: collected and assured enough to falter like that and not be worried or made awkward by it. Assured enough to be able to study herself, in front of a young acquaintance (no longer a stranger but not quite yet a friend).
"What I wanted to do was become a famous poet and artist and live a very interesting life different from what my family knew. Somehow being a famous poet would bring me loads of money to live off of," said with knowing swagger; a half-glance. This is sincere, "and use to help other people. I'd worked so hard to get into a good university far from home, to afford that good university far from home, so I was a student for a while. But… I dropped out."
"I had some obligations back home, you see. And when I realized my power," Pen holds her hands in front of her (rings on almost every finger, occasionally doubled-up, except for the wedding ring: that one gets to shine in solitary splendor) curling her fingers in. This (and it is beguiling, a Rusalki smile or a Circe smile, a smile with violets in it; a smile to kindle ardence) half-smile which touches her eyes and lives there and under her skin more than it does her mouth, crinkling the skin of her nose. She wiggles her fingers, as though conjuring.
But her tone of voice is serious.
"I was working three jobs." Or four. Or five. No need to be specific with numbers. Were Margot good at reading people, she might see beneath the surface some clot of old emotion and decipher it. "Mundane, pay-the-bills jobs. Thinking about going back to school one day only because I'd worked so hard for it and for so long, but even after, I didn't really want to go back. I was distracted by learning where I stood - and how I could stand. What choices I could make, and still have them be mine. That's still very important to me: Choice. I believe it is what lends us grace and will one day see us in a new golden age, one which might stay for a little while."
"Once I decided I wanted to join the Order of Hermes, that was it for my aspirations of a degree for a mundane job - at least for earning one in the usual way. My tradition has an extremely rigorous curriculum of study."
"May I ask what your Avatar is like? You seem to be confident in your relationship with her; or at least in your knowledge of her. That isn't always the case."
MargotMargot listened to Pen's tale of life as an average Sleeping Mortal quietly and thoughtfully. She drew analogies between her own story and Pen's where they existed obviously-- acadamia, pay-the-bills jobs, wanting a degree because of working hard for it but not caring about it anymore. But the Order of Hermes? And being a passionate poet? Those were some pretty big disconnects.
"It sounds like, ultimately, people end up having to dedicate themselves to their Craft all-out at some point or another. It makes me wonder if the next decade or so should be immersed in Enlightened Learning-- maybe I can just, y'know, make myself some credentials at a point if I want to go access a job in the workforce." She's thought about this. Shrugged dismissively at the idea. It wasn't important.
"I feel like I'm not Who I Was anymore, nor am I Who I'm Going To Be just yet either. Not... Not that I'm stuck, I don't feel stuck. I just need to pick a direction." Said every Disparate Ever.
When the question about her Avatar came up, Margot blinked with realization. Pen was right-- she did have a very solid concept of her Avatar, while many others didn't quite have much more than an abstract. Ned himself said his was more like a drive than an entity-- a puzzle to be solved, an Achievement Unlocked for each new thing learned and done. She hefted her knapsack to adjust the straps on her shoulders while continuing to march.
"I have the benefit, I suppose, of mine being a Goddess. All I really needed to do was figure out who she was and then go Google her name.
"She's Andraste-- a Gaelic Goddess of war and victory, amongst other things. Boudicca called upon her."
Pen"You are at a threshold," Pen says, when (every Disparate ever) Margot says she just needs to pick a direction.
She listens, Penelope. Absorbs. Their pace might slow on occasion, because this isn't an easy trail though they're still in the easier portions of it, and conversation plus alpine air plus the usual rigors of hiking mean that lulls as they pick their way over the landscape are natural.
"Andraste," Pen says, musing. And then, "Boudicca?" A pause; perhaps for the trail, but also for contemplation. Here is the warming of recognition: "Speak to me as a woman to a woman!" Glance at Margot. "I wrote a poem cycle about women oracles once. "So: Andraste - she who will not fall; who is invincible. How do you feel about having such a guide?"
MargotMargot smiled. She liked Pen's quip about women to women. But how did she feel about having a guide who's known for being invincible? Margot puffed a breath-- after a while of climbing, after finding further elevation, she was being reminded that when she ran track it was certainly never distance and it was also at close to sea level. Still, she kept up fine though. Didn't look like she needed a rest. Just looked ahead at the scenery they walked through when she answered.
"It's a lot to live up to. I think I'm supposed to be like a disciple of her or a priestess to her or maybe her firey sword? I don't know. But it's just... I've never been a violent person, you know? Not really. I just kept to myself and didn't bother anyone. It's just a pretty big gear change. My essence is bound to something that loves blood and violence and I'm compelled to follow that, and I never thought I would before."
Pen"What do you want from her? If she were to appear before you right now, instead of being in the background, a presence in your life: if she were to stand right there, a raven on her shoulder, her eyes even-keeled - would you dare demand anything from her?"
Margot"That she tell me why she chose me and what she wants from me."
Margot answered this one quickly-- she's been thinking about it for a while. It was easy to imagine her laying on top of her covers in bed, hands behind her head and staring at the ceiling as though she could will a vision or dream to take her to her Avatar in that very moment. Unfortunately, that's yet to work. It's given her plenty of time to think about what she'd have to say, though.
"I'm not going to make demands of a Goddess, beyond knowing what demand she has of me. She's a Goddess."
Pen"And you will be her people," Pen replies. "Do you believe She is more important than you are because she is a Goddess?"
MargotThat question, though, gave Margot pause. If Pen was patient enough to allow it (and certainly she was), the girl would take a good twenty seconds or so of consideration with only the huff-puff of breath and bootsteps on the trail to keep them company. Then, with a testing kind of resolve (to see how well the idea fit when spoken out loud):
"I believe that she is now, but maybe that isn't always going to be the case. I feel like I need to.... establish myself further, I suppose. The easiest comparison to make is an internship. Maybe she'll pick somebody else if I'm not up to snuff?"
She shrugged. This was the kind of stuff that would take a while to sort through.
Pen"'Up to snuff,'" Pen echoes. "Did you know that phrase originally meant sharp and in the know; canny, cunning? Not 'meets requirements.' You seem sharp enough to me; I can see why a representation of victory would choose you. She won't pick anybody else in this lifetime; she cannot - at least the manifestation of her as expressed by your shard of Avatar cannot. What I'm trying to say, just thinking aloud, is that - well. You can begin as you mean to go on, even if you are in the 'intern' stage. Question; bargain with; be unafraid to get what you want from Her, even as she gets what she wants from you. It might be less a love of blood and violence and more a love of what they represent." A brief pause; and then, "What do you think?"
MargotPen's words made sense to Margot in a logical way. She was right, she wouldn't exactly be abandoned by her Avatar, that wasn't how this worked (except, perhaps, in some very extreme circumstanes, she supposed). But there was still a fleck of doubt. An uncertainty. Something just didn't seem to quite fit.
"Ned said the same thing, more or less," she informed Pen quietly while she mulled that over with a heavy brow. "It just doesn't seem that way. When I've been before Her, it's felt so sharp and visceral and bloody. Not Apocalyptic, but forboding. Indicative of something. Which is why this talk of war has me worried, this situation with the Brandt man. The timing of it seems pretty suspicious, and I don't know how much coincidence actually exists anymore."
kai[Either of you mind if I half-lurk while at work?]
Pen[A Kai, hullo!!! I do not, thank you for asking! Kenna just went afk for half an hour, but I don't imagine she will mind either.]
Pen"They give us tests," Pen says. "Constantly. Our life here - this," Pen pats her chest, the collar bone. Her hair is getting in her face; she should put it up but she likes the wild Lizzie Siddal or Jane Burden mass of it to be free even when the wind tries to put it in thrall as now, when they reach a bluff that looks down at the river their trail has been following. This high there is still some scattered suggestion of snow - moon-gleam glittering. The trail is about to become difficult enough that they'll need to concentrate on that rather than speaking for a little.
But first...
"Wait - hm? What do you mean the timing seems pretty suspicious?"
kai[Iiiiiit's official, I want to play Hawksley with Margot.]
Margot[That would be so much fun! :D :D *Flattered flattered* Margot wouldn't know what to do with him, LOL. Also, you should nab me on AIM sometime so we can get together on what you want for your Adren challenge, then I can make a forums post to get it started!]
Margot"Maybe not suspicious," Margot said, reconsidering her wording with a bit of a scowl. "Maybe 'prophetic'. Andraste is also a Goddess of divination, wo who knows." She shrugged, and huffed, and looked at the incline of the trail ahead of them.
Less talking, for exactly this time being, for the lowlanders needed to focus on conquering this steep.
Pen[Doo-de-doo. Athleticism, do not fail.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )
Margot[Please don't make me look like a huffer puffer fish in front of this really cool Knight woman]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )
kai[No one knows what to do with him because he's terrible. :D And yes! I should be around a bit more now that I'm not sick. We will chat.]
Margot[Aw sad, sick. Glad you're better! We SHALL chat!]
PenTheir lungs must ache. How strange it is, the treachery of the high airs; how the blood will burn for it, how one must angle one-self just so carefully plucking one's way up a steep rocky path, one with twists and falls left-over from winter, where the snow was heavy enough to change the landscape and - just here - fell a tree, roots tangling downward like fingers of the dead reaching up or pulling down. That is a difficult go around or climb, the gray scaled bark and there is a portion of trail where the sky is dizzying in its tarnish and the way is narrow and it is hard. It is just very hard.
It is also stunning.
At the top, where the trail evens out again, and they can once again speak: Pen pauses to lean against the rock-face (root-tangled), rest her hip there (languorous from exertion; she feels vibrant, with her heart tested like this - vibrant and immanent and not quite winded but working [a celebrant]), and pulls her water bottle from her knapsack, takes a deep swig. The breeze picks up again; the long medieval sleeves flutter, their pretty green and white Morris pattern a dryadic flag. "Almonds? Some, I warn, may be covered in sriracha powder."
A baggie of them is taken from another pocket in her bag - mostly, Pen's bag seems to be empty, just water and some trail mix and some vessels for holding things (water, say), glint of metal gleaming, a box, some splash of color buried deep within.
"Where were we? Right. Augury and war. Do you want to be involved in the Brandt situation or war? What do you think about all that? We didn't really linger after Ned asked me his questions over dinner. I feel neglectful."
MargotThe view up here was gorgeous, and Margot was glad for the trail that Pen had selected. Could understand why it was selected. This time of year, even with the weather as nice as it was, trails were pretty sparsely utilized. They had freedom to speak.
Not always, though. Sometimes they had to climb over fallen trees and along ledges where snow failed to melt and was now clinging and piled along with ice ready to fall. It made the walk difficult, that and the thin mountain air, but ultimately she and Pen both made it to a resting place without their lungs burning or sides stitching. Still, Margot was bright-faced and her pulse was quickened, heart working hard to do its damn job and keep her going up the mountain. When they stopped she too retrieved her bottle of water and drank a quarter of it down.
Where were we? Right.
Margot held her palm out for some almonds, thankful for the offer, and answered while they were shaken into her palm.
"I can't be involved, I'm too much of a liability at this point. I'd have been involved, though, if I were less new to wielding the craft. I don't know this Brandt guy, and I don't want my friends dying for him, but I'm certain that whatever information he brings back is going to be very worth the risks in retrieving him."
PenThe almonds do have tell-tale powder on them, this hint of red which will stain Margot's life and fate lines and sharp her tongue when she bites into those almonds (or shovels them all in her mouth), a tongue-tingling kick which asks for milk or water. Spice is just a way to trick your body into thinking it is on fire. The physiological responses are one and the same. These almonds, they're not so hot. A campfire glow, not skin-sizzling discomfort.
And Penelope, listening. There are few who doubt Pen is a passionate woman, for all she tempers her actions by thought and her eyes are as a reflective and steady color, changing with the sky or whatever she is wearing. Today they are especially gray; and there is an ardent gleam in them just now, lake witchery, some forged thing.
"I hope so. I hope those who go in, if they need to go in, have their eyes open as well; reconnaissance should go hand in hand with the risk."
"What do you think so far of the different Traditions? You have thrown in with them; that seems evident, and I can guess why; what all have you run up against?"
Margot"Well..."
Ask somebody about the Traditions and you're bound to hear an earful. Margot regarded the steel-and-iron scenery as she did.
"The Doc's the only Scientist I know, and I don't know much about what he is near so much as I do about who he is. I can't say it's the best way to judge an entire Tradition.
"Order of Hermes strikes me as being very... lordly and courtly. I've met you, and a fellow named William, who said he was something of a diplomat? It's all very glamorous and fantastical.
"Chakravanti I... I don't know. I've been told that they deal with death a lot but I only know Nick and he seems sort of... shadowy, but not bad by any means."
As for the rest? She shrugged and popped a couple of almonds into her mouth to chew, feel the bite of spice, and swallow. "I feel like a Witch. I've never met a Verbena though."
PenThere is a lot to learn about how someone makes judgment of others. Margot is showing Penelope a judicious face. These are the facts as she has perceived them in the individual representations of the traditionalists she has met. There is this: a brief flare-strike of good humor crinkle of the bridge of her nose (which may be in danger of freckling, if she goes on very many hikes) and of oh self-awareness, this adrenaline leap of response which looks an awful lot like a breed of stillness a caesura in her posture perhaps a deliberation in the way Pen puts her elbow into the cliff wall and straightens. They can talk and walk for a little while yet, almonds still out and water too.
"Shadowy?" amusement, just after Margot's assessment of her husband.
"I used to be in a cabal with a Verbena. I know there are a couple practicing within Denver, but if you wanted I could see about luring him to Denver for a visit and you two could talk it over." (Wistful. Perhaps Pen misses her Verbena cabal-mate.)
She will wait for a response, and then, "Do you think death, dealing with death, should be bad - is bad?"
MargotWalking, again. Slow and comfortable pace now, though, enjoying the opalescently gray views up here on this hiking trail. Margot's water was sipped here and there, an almond munched one at a time as they went along as well.
"Inherently? No. Death's important like Life's important, if we're talking Grand Scheme of Things. Even on a small level, prey dies to feed the predator and so on." Handwave. "But I'm not especially keen on the idea of death coming to take my friends."
A pause, to dust sriacha dust from her fingers and tuck her water bottle back into her pack.
"I'd really like that," in regards to the Verbena friend she knew paying a visit. "Would he really come traveling just for a chat with a kid?"
Pen"As long as it didn't interfere with his Vernal Equinox plans, I believe he might be beguiled. I'm sure Thane misses Nick, not to mention me." Here: this faint hint of rakishness; swashbucklers are always rakehells, aren't they? Pen is too (or seems too) sincere and Present to be much of a rakehell, but maybe in another life, or a life that will be. "His work can be very bloody, very visceral. Animal guts and bones. But it isn't always so. Invocations, the elements - cups and - oh, verdancy, mythic symbols. How do you think you do what you have been able to do - magickally speaking?" There's a touch of easy good humor here. "You're all right with it being called 'magick' instead of capital-S 'Science,' right?"
Margot"I'm okay with it being called whatever it is to whoever's using it. The Doc has Science, you have magick. I call mine a 'craft', but..." She shrugged. It was all the same thing. She had images of animal guts strewn across an altar, steaming in winter air and bones jangling broken in a cup to be dashed about, their pattern read and predicted.
When asked about how her Craft worked, Margot huffed to try and catch a proper amount of breath back into her lungs. This felt a little like studying for a final test. Pen could be a good tutor, she was willing to bet, but she couldn't say for sure until after the test had passed, had it?
"I think I've been granted some power from Andraste. It's her brand of power, though, so it only really works on her terms. As much as I'd like to fly around on a broomstick and send curses flying out of a wand, that's not how it works. There's... a lot of blood. And smoke, and ash, and violence."
PenWhen you're new, everything feels like a test. Penelope walks along the edge of the path, the dramatic drop to her left. Beyond the edge of the cliff is a chasm, meandering, and the river running; the stone has veins of ice like moonlight spilling caught kept rapt for the day's delight. This is the kind of weather that people go outside in without sunscreen and regret it later; how could such a pewter tarnished sky of white and gray do anything? But that white and gray is radiance; the half-light is generous, but it is still light. "I mean, what is something specific you've put together and has worked out for you? Have you tried to do much or mostly focused on trying to figure out the whys?"
Margot"Oh."
She wanted to know specifically what Margot has been able to do and how. She flushed just a little bit further than what the hike and spice had already caused and stopped her hands from looking anxious by holding steadily to her backpack straps instead.
"Well, I've 'seen' sound and movement. I've sensed ghosts, felt traces of magick left behind. Seen illness and injury and trajectory. It's pretty much all been with blood so far, either rubbing it above my eyes or using it to touch a wall and feel what's happening on the other side.
"I suppose I'm more worried about the 'why' than the 'what'. Ned's more of the 'what' guy, I think. It's like puzzle solving for him, each time he gets to cast."
"Inherently? No. Death's important like Life's important, if we're talking Grand Scheme of Things. Even on a small level, prey dies to feed the predator and so on." Handwave. "But I'm not especially keen on the idea of death coming to take my friends."
A pause, to dust sriacha dust from her fingers and tuck her water bottle back into her pack.
"I'd really like that," in regards to the Verbena friend she knew paying a visit. "Would he really come traveling just for a chat with a kid?"
Pen"As long as it didn't interfere with his Vernal Equinox plans, I believe he might be beguiled. I'm sure Thane misses Nick, not to mention me." Here: this faint hint of rakishness; swashbucklers are always rakehells, aren't they? Pen is too (or seems too) sincere and Present to be much of a rakehell, but maybe in another life, or a life that will be. "His work can be very bloody, very visceral. Animal guts and bones. But it isn't always so. Invocations, the elements - cups and - oh, verdancy, mythic symbols. How do you think you do what you have been able to do - magickally speaking?" There's a touch of easy good humor here. "You're all right with it being called 'magick' instead of capital-S 'Science,' right?"
Margot"I'm okay with it being called whatever it is to whoever's using it. The Doc has Science, you have magick. I call mine a 'craft', but..." She shrugged. It was all the same thing. She had images of animal guts strewn across an altar, steaming in winter air and bones jangling broken in a cup to be dashed about, their pattern read and predicted.
When asked about how her Craft worked, Margot huffed to try and catch a proper amount of breath back into her lungs. This felt a little like studying for a final test. Pen could be a good tutor, she was willing to bet, but she couldn't say for sure until after the test had passed, had it?
"I think I've been granted some power from Andraste. It's her brand of power, though, so it only really works on her terms. As much as I'd like to fly around on a broomstick and send curses flying out of a wand, that's not how it works. There's... a lot of blood. And smoke, and ash, and violence."
PenWhen you're new, everything feels like a test. Penelope walks along the edge of the path, the dramatic drop to her left. Beyond the edge of the cliff is a chasm, meandering, and the river running; the stone has veins of ice like moonlight spilling caught kept rapt for the day's delight. This is the kind of weather that people go outside in without sunscreen and regret it later; how could such a pewter tarnished sky of white and gray do anything? But that white and gray is radiance; the half-light is generous, but it is still light. "I mean, what is something specific you've put together and has worked out for you? Have you tried to do much or mostly focused on trying to figure out the whys?"
Margot"Oh."
She wanted to know specifically what Margot has been able to do and how. She flushed just a little bit further than what the hike and spice had already caused and stopped her hands from looking anxious by holding steadily to her backpack straps instead.
"Well, I've 'seen' sound and movement. I've sensed ghosts, felt traces of magick left behind. Seen illness and injury and trajectory. It's pretty much all been with blood so far, either rubbing it above my eyes or using it to touch a wall and feel what's happening on the other side.
"I suppose I'm more worried about the 'why' than the 'what'. Ned's more of the 'what' guy, I think. It's like puzzle solving for him, each time he gets to cast."
PenMargot flushes. Pen is has a foolishly open heart; did she embarrass the Not-Yet-Initiated witch-girl? Somber is the side-long glance which measures damage done; brief it is, too, for the trail requires attention and so do her lungs which ache in her chest and tell her she needs to be stricter about her physical regimen.
"Usually your own blood, or do you find a preference for certain animal's, dependent on the Effect you desire? Bat blood for locational sensing, say, or owl blood for ghosts."
MargotAs for damage done, Pen's sidelong survey would tell her that there wasn't much to be concerned about. Perhaps Margot was simply easy to embarass on reflex? She seemed to recover from it and move right along without to much concern, because she considered the next question with the same thoughtful exploration that she did the others before it.
"I haven't really tried animal blood, but that's because I don't think She would much appreciate it. It seems like it needs to be human, to me. She'd probably accept an animal's sacrifice, though..."
The trailing off was thoughtful, considering. In what event could she find herself ever slicing a lamb's throat to offer blood to the earth and Goddess? It'd probably need to be extreme.
"...what's being initiated like? I mean, being officially part of a Tradition? I know that it's way different for Hermetics like yourself-- very ritualized and all. What would it be like for some of the others?"
PenPen listens as they follow the path still upward. They have yet to reach the most beautiful portion of the trail: the purpose for the Hanging Lakes where the path will dip and take them right against the river's side until they reach where water forks in veins of frozen lightning. Pen listens, indeed, glancing over at the younger woman once or twice to mark her expression and earnestness. Margot is a study in contrasts. Her air of carnage, of bloodied carrion, against her studious eyes and her deliberation; her learned mannerisms against her intuitive hunches.
There is a note of concern in Pen's gloaming (gray, the shadow on a lake as the evening settles into the bare trees like smoke) eyes. Say the shadow is cast by whatever intensity burns (ardent, archaic form: burning) in her, makes her interested in other people: shapes her poise, informs her self-possession. There's a cool stick on the ground: it's twisty like a little snake! Pen picks it up and smooths her fingertips over it then twirls it around between her fingers.
What's being initiated like? Pen stops twirling the branch: the long line of her throat is exposed when she cants her head, thoughtful. Flashes Margot a (luminous [witchery]) grin, when she says she knows it's way different for Hermetics like Pen -- very ritualized and all.
"How do you know it's way different for us?" Challenge! But then, behold, she becomes serious. "But, hmm. Before I answer... well, so I can give you a good answer, let me ask you what you feel it means to be an Initiate of Mysteries and what it is to be ritualized? I mean, is daubing blood on your eyelids a ritual; do you distinguish between the idea of Craft and Ritual?"
MargotPen's answering her question with a question first had Margot's dark brows knitting into a frown. They were often furrowed in one manner or another-- in thought, in worry, in anxiety, in disapproval. This time, as has been the case with much of the hike, it was in thought. And in disagreement, just a degree.
"Not always. I mean, what I think and what somebody else may call it, that's going to be different. So I can't say the way that it is, just how it is for me. I think of the entire ability to bend reality and do magick as the Craft, and ritual could be any number of things." Note, the word spoken with a lower case letter and not emphasized enough to warrant a capital one. "Like, a ritual could be steps gone through to use my Craft? But the way I was using it I meant ritual in the sense of how a religion would use it. Like the Rite of Baptism at church, for example." Implying that she went, how she just said "at church" instead of clarifying which religion she was speaking of.
"I just know that I can't go 'You know what? I think I'm a witch and Verbenas are the witchy tradition, therefore I am a Verbena'. I know that I'm supposed to be... accepted by them, acknowledged as a part of a whole. I'm wondering what that entails."
Pen[Here's an arduous bit of trail!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Pen"Mm." Like the Rite of Baptism.
Here is an ascent and then a sharp descent. Dangerous: requiring goatish care, clear wits, open eyes, and no little concentration. Pen concentrates, and when it is easier to speak again (she is not too too winded and her body feels good; exercise always feels good; her body is a fine young animal and deserves it), she says: "I imagine the exact nature of your initiation into the Verbenae, if that is where you fit, will be very personal, an ordeal set by whatever coven or teacher initiates you into the Verbenic Mysteries. They are a Tradition known for its work with blood, yes, but it's because blood is raw life -- you know?"
"Because life is blood and guts and all the rest -- and I think the initiation can be hard. Do you belong to a church? Because an initiation ceremony, whatever the tradition which accepts you, will be like the Rite of Confirmation. You'll need to study their tenants, laws, history, enough to be one of them -- to know how to shape your Craft. Then the ordeal! Then after the ordeal, you go your own way, or you stay with a coven: you make your life. The Verbenae observe a number of holy days too."
"For more specifics, you should ask one of them. I know that the Chakravanti go into the underworld, literally, upon their initiation. A Dreamspeaker, depending very much on their brand of shamanism, often goes on a spirit quest. I have very little idea what a technomancer's initiation might consist of; Andrés may tell you that or - mm. There is a friendly member of the Mercurial Elite who might be willing to tell you about hers, if you're just curious."
MargotThe young woman's silence settled in for more reasons than just one. She had to concentrate and mind where she stepped on this particular patch of the trail. But Margot was light and sure on her feet and, much like a mountain goat itself, handled the ascent-descent spike with apparent ease.
The other part of the quiet came from one bit in particular from what Penelope had just explained. The furrow to her brow deepend, an with a small huff of breath she paused-- just long enough to pull free her water bottle and take another swig. Now she kept the bottle out in one hand while she walked along behind the Hermetic.
Finally, after much thought, she simply said:
"Would I have to leave Ned and The Doc?"
Pen"No."
Her tone is surprised: she casts a glance (pewter, tarnished; bright) over her shoulder, her burnished lashes long and dark; some stray tendril, freed via exertion, having escaped her - oh wait: her hair was always wild; she kept it so, and it has gained a sprig of thorn at some point in their walking, embedded there just beneath a curl; there is a green grasshopper, baby, on the thorn, feeling its way across the fine fly-aways.
"Nicholas and I don't share a Tradition -- sometimes he has business that is his Tradition's business, sometimes I have business that is mine; but stay."
Beat. "Do you know what a cabal is?"
Margot"I've heard the word thrown around a few times. It means a... a team, right? A group of us sticking together for a cause?"
She licked her lips anxiously before explaining herself.
"It's just... You said that there's a lot of learning and the initiation and holy days and things like that. It sounds pretty intensive, like I'd have to go stay with someone who is Verbena and spend my time with them instead, at least until after this Ordeal." The reluctance there is clear. Margot has no desire to leave her mentor and companion, even if only for a time.
PenMargot's answer on the subject of cabals receives a faint nod. "Different cabals have different styles. Sometimes they work magick together - a coven does that; sometimes they work magick, but not together in the same way, towards a common purpose; sometimes they look out for one another, closely and consciously. There are multi-Traditional cabals."
Pen: is very compassionate; she listens, reaching up to a tuck a curl behind her ear, slipping the twisty serpentine stick she'd found earlier between some slender branches. She is compassionate, eloquent, even witching; but she is also very frank and direct.
Observe.
"Well ... certainly, Margot, if you want to be one of the Verbenae, you have to actually spend time with somebody who is part of that Tradition. Nobody gets to learn how to blow glass by hanging out in the American History class, however interesting the professor."
Intent: "But you don't have to live with them; you don't have to cease seeing Ned or Andrés; you don't even have to celebrate the holy days with anybody but yourself. I just know a lot of Verbenae like the community; there are private devotions; places where covens have been broken; places where..."
"Well, Thane used to choose celebrate some of them with us, and he was the only Verbena among us."
MargotAgain, quiet from the Apprentice. This time it was more the silence of conceding a point than it was of deep consideration. The concept of spending time with a group of people to become a part of them was an obvious one that she had to agree with. Of course, of course. Ideally there would be somebody here in Denver that she could start spending her time with, but she hadn't even spoken with anybody yet and maybe it wasn't going to be at all what she thought (what was this about holy days, now?).
Ned was showing no gained faith, truth, or love for Traditions, but Margot still wobbled on the fence. Being Disparate seemed to be too directionless and almost bitter when it came down to it really, but...
Her silence had spanned for a while now, left twisting about in her own thoughts while she marched and let her lungs work on breathing the thin mountain air instead for a time. They would speak further of Magick and Traditions and Cabals, and when they reached the place the trail was named for with all its great beauty, Margot would ask about the magic that Pen did. What could she do? She'd seen the Doc heal and block sound and replenish liquids but beyond that....
It seemed the kind of subject Penelope could get lost in. Any of them could be. And Margot was happy to chase a thought down its rabbit hole and ask questions to learn more. By the time they were back at their respective vehicles again, voices would be sore from all the talking and heavy breathing on the high mountain trails. Margot would awaken the next morning with slightly swollen lymph nodes and a raw throat from the ordeal, but it was well worth it. Plenty learned, plenty thought about, and promises of meeting on the horizon as well.
Pen[The End!]
[Though probably Pen shows Margo an example of what she can do. Will think about it later. *handwave*]
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