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Owner	Pose
Timekeeper	Down an hour south of Chicago, on a dirt road unbefitting to them, a pair of sleek black limousines of the era await their Concord guests. There's no overt Manus symbolism to be seen on them or on the drivers waiting to open the doors and usher them in, but even if their timing wasn't unmistakeable enough, a simple "Lord Forget Me Not sends his regards," is all the confirmation you'd need. The interior is comfortable enough, leather and cigarette smoke, if bumpier than you're used to with modern suspension until the car reaches more developed roads to cruise the rest of the distance to Chicago.     The Manus Vindictae still don't know about the warpgate in the Ford factory! You could probably score some points with them, if you're feeling like snitching.     The route your chauffeurs take skirts along the edges of the sprawling city, orbiting the skyline like a stalking animal. The Walden, as successful an establishment as it seems to be, isn't in the heart of Chicago: it's on its outer ring, where the buildings stagger apart and a burnt forest can uneasily coexist with civilization's development. The cars pull right up to the front of the bar as evening turns into night, while light and activity stream shamelessly from the windows. A cold drizzle begins to come down as the drivers open the doors to usher you out, and they offer their umbrellas as cover until each of the Partners is under the bar's awning.
Timekeeper	Opening the doors brings you into a different world from the chilly autumn rain outside. Jazz music fills the bar, nearly drowned out by conversation from the sea of patrons, and the clinking of shotglasses and alembics or flasks in place of bottles. To one side is a polished bar, and rather than have the typical display of bottles behind it, there's a magical equivalent of a stock tickerboard, made of sand that continuously flows downwards to update stock prices in a shifting pattern. Tables are spread all around the floor, each one with four or five people seated at them, laughing, drinking, and talking business. Between all the displays of wealth in dark wood and gold, flowers are absolutely *everywhere*, in vases at every table, large pots flanking every doorway, and laying on the ground around the perimeter of an upraised stage at the far end of the bar, which is currently empty and unlit.     Forget Me Not doesn't intend for you to stay among the crowds on the ground floor for long, though. Meeting you at the door are a pair of Manus-masked attendants, in slick black formalwear with splashes of blue like stains on their suit and dress. Silently, the knight-headed man and draconic-headed woman bow to you, and they part the crowd to bring the Concord Partners to the winding staircase up to the second floor.     There, a carpeted VIP seating area overlooks the rest of the bar by a balcony. A man sits at one of the tables, with exactly as many seats available as there are Elites arriving. He's uncannily monochrome, as if recorded in a period-appropriate black and white movie and placed into the real world, with jaw-length slate-gray hair, pale skin, and a gray waistcoat. Even the roses around his neck, organic though they seem to be, are perfectly colorless. Behind round glasses, his pupils are slightly slitted, and smiling at your arrival, he seems to have the hint of fangs.     He stands up from his table, clapping his hands together then spreading his arms wide. "Welcome, welcome! My lords and ladies, esteemed Partners of the Concord, dear friends of the Manus Vindictae, what an honor and delight it is to finally behold your visage in person. Please, please, take a seat and quench your thirst with whichever potion you might desire."     He gestures for more of the masked attendants to bring over trays with potion flasks of various fluids to pour into your glasses on your command. Up here, on the balcony, they're just labeled as the alcohol they transform into once they pass your lips. At his own place at the table are a spread of lit candles that let off a pleasant incense smell, and an hourglass on a swivel, but he doesn't sit down until all of his guests have and he's completed his introduction.     "I am Forget Me Not, an arcanist of the Manus Vindictae, humble servant of the Guiding One, and owner of this modest establishment. What you see down there, in all its moralities and immoralities, the façades and luxuries, where money flows like shouted breaths, is my sum of this rotten era. So it is only right that you, my distinguished guests, who will soon join us in deciding the 'sifting' of this world, survey its totality from on high while we speak."     Standing at the edge of the balcony, Forget Me Not snaps his fingers and holds his hand out over the side, practically purring. "And to precede our meal, I have prepared an appetizer. Enjoy, my lords and ladies."
Schneider Greco	From down below, an attendant is in the middle of calling out: "... our champion, in nine straight duels against humans and arcanists... Schneider!"      The prized gladiator emerges from behind the curtains, lighter and more delicate than they. A flapper is made for the stage, but maybe not like this.      The spotlight flatters Schneider, washing out her features just-so with its glare into a slightly anonymized ornament. It glints off her pearls and sequins, deepens the shadows of her coat and hair. For once she wears an unamused expression; not that that stops the crowd from adoring and deriding her. At least some of them have seen her before. "Wooo, Schneider!!" "That daisy? Really...?!" "Ahhh, just you see, mate." "Five thousand on the other guy! Whoever he is!" "They ain't cheatin', are they?" "Sit down, sit down, Arnold! I can't see 'er." "Ah, they give you fifty just for fightin'. I'd go to the hospital for that." "We'll see if she bleeds this time!" "Aw, *I* could take her..."      As if she doesn't hear them, she idly fluffs her hair with the barrel of her beautiful handgun. She doesn't see any of you up above her, or pretends not to; maybe the glare of the spotlight really does conceal you from her, or maybe it's only a servant's practiced anonymity.      The announcer can hardly be heard over the crowd, but keeps going: "... against 'Iron' Petrelli, in his first appearance, a fighter from the South Side..."      When her adversary emerges- a tall, broad-chested middle-aged boxer in a white shirt with suspenders, who's maybe a bit too tipsy but remains steady on his feet- he gets comparatively little fanfare, but mugs at the audience directly. Slicking back his dark hair, he grins and shrugs, palms-out: 'for the money, can you blame me?' he seems to say, before a chin-up nod at the impassive Schneider. "Awww, c'mon! What's the weight-class, here??" "Make that ten thousand!" "No, he's scrawnier than the last guy... twenty, on her!"      Schneider steps into a thin-bordered magic circle- which seems to be the 'arena'- on the stage, and offers her foot-and-a-half-taller opponent one of her guns. His eyebrows shoot up, but after a moment's hesitation, he takes it.      If you know where to look- and White and Flamel do- she's still got the gauze from the wound Lilian gave her, half-hidden under the red feathers of her flapper dress.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel's kept to his chosen wardrobe. While his actions may be strictly for the benefit of Schneider in many cases, he knows the value of fitting in! And in this case, fitting in takes the form of keeping his tie and inner jacket lining in Manus colors... and very little else! Just one small concession. He's not here to score many points, he figures it's the woman he's 'in the pocket of' who should do the point-scoring.     Lord, though. What an atmosphere. Smokey, polished, surging with rapid finance and rapid fermentation, a unique energy that can only exist in this era and at this moment. The atmosphere thrums around his mind, and you can see a telepath simultaneously thriving and overloaded in this situation -- his eyes never settle on a person, but the smile never leaves his face, an expression precisely mirroring the exact statistical mean of everyone in a thirty-foot radius. So why does it sharply reduce when Forget-Me-Not enters that radius? Well, it's fine.     Once he's sitting, he *has* to get a drink. "Do you mix a Milkman Conspiracy here?" He quickly asides to one of the serving staff. "No? Well, good, they're awful, tastes like wood. Chicago Fizz, please, or whatever's alchemically nearest." He takes a long sip once it's here, and turns to Forget-Me-Not, beaming excitedly. "It's all here, huh? The Walden, and no other investment? That's a pretty stark way of keeping yourself grounded -- I know I'd bet none of the other guests could say the same, except..." He trails off, thinking of the one other person who might be able to say that all she truly has is within her sight. "Well, anyway -- Flamel Parsons, agent of a vague yet ominous government organization. I believe we'll be working together, and I look forward to it!"     Flamel peers over the balcony, watching the show. He rubs the rim of his glass in an agitated fidget when he glances to that gauze, when he looks to Petrelli... But at this stage, he knows far, far better than to expect Iron Petrelli to be the one who's on his feet when the match is called. "Though, you don't count your help as your sum? Or are we all here for the moment?" He asks Forget-Me-Not, the thought ringing a little in his head.     An arcanist speakeasy owner with this demeanor... the plausible, awful, potential manifestations of the Storm... This man could certainly be one of the potential candidates for the Eye of the Storm. So Flamel engages with him to learn about his personality and interests. To understand the scope of his sum, and survey it like Forget-Me-Not asked.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Tonight, Madeleine is wearing a black sleeveless dress decorated with glass beads and a stylized red poinsettia. Complementing it she has a metallic silver jacket trimmed with black feathers, black stockings, and period evening shoes with lacquered heels. She steps carefully across the dirt road, wary of dirtying her attire - she's taken pains to find something stylish and roughly period. On the limousine ride over she's quiet, but visibly excited, obviously eager to either meet Forget Me Not or get a good drink. She rankles her nose at the burnt forest at the edge of the city, but it's not enough to spoil her mood. She nods in acknowledgement of the masked attendants, a little more conscious of treating servantry now that she's had to go without her own for a while.     Once upstairs Madeleine does her best to find a seat with its back to a wall, but otherwise seems to be fairly at ease. As drinks go around she settles on a tiramisu liqueur and takes a comfortable sip. "Mister Forget Me Not," she says after his introduction is complete. "Madeleine Cadrasteia. A pleasure to meet you at last." She extends her free hand, though whether she's looking for a kiss or a shake is hard to tell. She's not as practiced at this fancy-party stuff as she'd like him to think she is.     When Schneider is called to stage, Madeleine leans forward in her seat to get a glimpse. Though not a prize-fighter herself, she does still have an appreciation for a practiced takedown, and knows Schneider to be more than capable of such. "The sifting of this world," she mutters half to herself. Then, to Forget Me Not, "I already know the shape of what your organization wishes from it, and I know what I'm looking forward to about it as well. What is it that *you* seek, in this great unmaking?"
Kukuru	One of the people headed into the fancy limos tonight is Kukuru, wearily chipper as ever as she fights off her desire to take a nap with the knowledge that she's meeting Schneider's main point of contact with Manus Vindictae today.  Having heard that today's meeting is to be somewhere fancy, she's made sure to dress for the part in something that would be fancy enough without being immodest: her usual white blouse and green-brown skirt combo. Enjoying the ride as much as she can while trying not to doze off like she had with Schneider the last time, Kukuru whiles away the time looking at the sights and memorizing a few choice napping spots they pass by on the way. Coming out of the car, she doesn't even notice the rain coming down until after she hears the umbrellas opening, and then she sheepishly slides back so as to not render the cover a complete waste on her. After saying her goodbyes to the drivers (even the ones that weren't in the limo she rode in on), Kukuru turns to her Concord companions. "Let's make a good first impression, everyone. Schneider's counting on us." She affirms with a determined little fistpump, then heads on in and is immediately hit with how much of a gap in wealth there is on display and what she's used to spending. The flowers are far more comforting to see, and being called up by the attendants in those familiar masks actually takes some of the tension out of her shoulders. Mostly at ease by the time she reaches the VIP area with everyone, Kukuru's pleasantly sleepy smile is in full force when the monochrome man greets everyone. "Lords and ladies? What a flatterer... Ah, it's so nice to meet you, Forget Me Not. Thank you, thank yoooou..." Taking one of the designated seats and thanking the attendants even before they've poured her anything, Kukuru settles on an Italian champagne. She takes a bit to remember the name, but it's from a vintage that wouldn't exist until at least the early 2000s. She'll probably be satisfied with just about anything sufficiently fizzy and alcoholic, anyway. "My name is Kukuru." A pause, to sip of that potion, and marvel a little at the liquid transformation. "That's Ku-ku-ru. Oh, that's such a neat potion you've come up with... Oh? And there's even more entertainment? Let's seeee..." Loosening up a bit already, she peers down at the arena below and perks up just a bit when she spots a familiar face. She doesn't want to distract Schneider while she's working, of course, so she settles for a pleasant wave as she sees what she's up to in there with the boxer. 'Oh, she's giving him a chance... Hehe. How fun, how fun~" She comments, not looking nor sounding worried in the slightest. Her gaze does linger a little on that gauze, though, as the only thing in the arena that actually worries her at all. "I wonder who put that on..." She murmurs without clarifying what, where, or on who, then looks back up at Forget Me Not. "There's a whole lot to see just from in here, that's for sure. The kind of money they're throwing around really is impressive, but..." She looks back down at the revelers and the stock tickers below, pursing her lips as something from distant memory comes back to her. "Aren't they worried about what'll happen? When they spend all their money, or when things start getting reeeal bad at the end? Or do they not... Knooow about any of that yet?"
White	Okay, White. Game face. Not like your face really changes that much, but- well, nevermind that. It's a charm point!      Met by the limousines outside of the remote warpgate, White arrives in her usual palette with an unusual twist. Her dress is longer, the silk thinning near the bottom to a slight translucency as it drapes to her ankles instead of her shins. Faint pink and purple floral designs are worked into the extended length of the skirt, the chest is tightened and the shoulders are removed. The sleeves are individual pieces that split along the top a third of the way down, only button-fastened once another third along near her forearm with extra silk draping past her hands when she lets her arms slack. And, for once, she's even exchanged her favorite style of boots for a set of lavender heels. Her long, long braid of hair is coiled around and around her left arm like a piece of clothing itself, with extra pastel-pink hairties in several places to keep it neat. All of this extra work both compliments and takes a little bit of focus away from her eyes, helping her lean more toward 'high class mage' instead of 'eerie assassin', as long as she minds where her gaze is settling.      Despite her high effort toward dressing up for what's (for multiple reasons) a rather significant meeting, she has no particular hesitancy or impatience about getting out from under the clouded sky, either before or after the drive. During said drive, she's quiet and thoughtful, watching out the window of the limo in a way that makes the faint light of her eyes subtly glint off the glass from so close. Getting out of the car, she nearly conjures her own umbrella before the drivers naturally move to make it unnecessary, and she pinches the tiny spatial rift shut again with her fingertips before following along under their cover up to the entryway.      There's a brief hitch in her stride as she pushes the door open ahead of herself, a reflex to flinch at the sheer number of people and the level of noise inside. She pauses, adjusts her drape-sleeve, closes her eyes for a moment to brace, and then leans into her next step like she's throwing herself into a swimming pool that she knows is going to be too cold. She takes what time she can to examine the bar, peering around and through the patrons, taking note of where people seem to gather into groups or cliques, and finally settles her eyes on the masked attendants with a distant sense of acknowledgement and a small nod. She follows, as would be expected, without a word said to either of them.      And there he is, waiting for their group. 'Forget Me Not' isn't a hard name to remember, nor to recognize under the Evil Eye. Even if she'd met him briefly before during the emergency escape to the Walden recently, *today* was going to be the real deal. Other partners might recognize that White doesn't usually go eyes-loose immediately, but she'd always had them open as far as anyone from the Walden would have seen; they shouldn't have reason to suspect anything worse than 'they're magical' offhand, and if they request she put them away it's a sign of their own perceptiveness that she can remember for later. For now, she'll just see how things go, act as natural as she can despite being slightly uncomfortable in such a crowded space, and dig up anything she can about Schneider's boss while she has the chance. And to that end, there are greetings to make and conversations to be had! ... Yay..!
White	White is, at least, nominally educated along the same lines as Sophia was in noble conduct. She might present as kind of a failgirl to the judgemental eyes of more dedicated noblewomen, but she can at least gesture at the proper manners. She starts with a slow curtsy with care for her clothing and presentation, a small wrist-flick of guided silk to draw a chair out silently (it's improper for a lady to pull her own chair out in some cases, but this feels fine to her), and a smooth sit-down beside the table at Forget Me Not's invitation, slipping a faint "White. A pleasure." in like an afterthought. She doesn't hover-hand the 'potions', instead leaning in slightly to examine them with eyes alone, hoping to bolster her appearance of expertise when she does make her selection without asking further questions.      It's likely while she's only just plucked up a bottle between three thin fingers that she ends up glancing aside at Schneider on the stage. Knowing that she's still injured, White's eyes narrow slightly from the aloof-calm alertness she'd been displaying, to a slightly more focused look several steps north of a squint. Schneider... Will be fine. (White checks her 'HP' anyway, like a nervous fidget.) This is part of her job, right? So this is something she can handle. White... Just has to focus on her own job, right now. She hopes.
Angela	Angela isn't the sort of person who is go out of her way to make it seem like she can't be trusted on multi-organizational multiverse excursions that easily but she's not rushing to make a judgement call on Manus Vindictae just yet. Right now she sees Schneider as her reason for being involved but she figures it's reasonable to actually go out and see how Manus Vindictae intends to present itself to the Concord. Because she is not entirely certain that this isn't a trap, she has sent Gebura (security) and Malkuth (girlbossing) to put forward what she feels would be the strongest foot forward, both in Librarian wear though Gebura, of course, is always armed. Roland wanted to go, of course, but Angela suspected he just wanted to drink so it's Gebura and Malkuth today. Malkuth, of course, doesn't believe in drinking on the job and waves off the offer. Gebura will take a drink and downs it quickly before lighting up a cigarette and putting it between her lips. She lingers, watching Schneider as she appears. She seems content to linger behind for a bit, "Ten grand on the lady. Wouldn't be a good first time guest to go higher." She says. She doesn't actually have any money, but she follows Malkuth up to the VIP lounge after, figuring bets will figure themselves out later. She doesn't actually care about the dough, after all. She may be completely oblivious to her wounds. Or not. Gebura is a tough gal to read. Angela, who is on the pad again, gives a small nod to Kukuru. Malkuth ends up standing next to White, predicting this is where Angela would want to be standing and mostly going along with it because Malkuth DOES like White even if she's STILL UPSETTY SPAGHETTI at Angela herself. More to the point, her girlbossing skill tells her she should stay close to the one who has teleportation skills and was entrusted with the location of the Walden first of all Concord partners. "Thank you for a polite welcome." Angela says on her pad, eyes slanting towards White for a moment before focusing back on Forget Me Not. "I cannot make a personal appearance due to personal circumstances, but please do not take this as disrespect--I would be here if I was physically able to be." She usually prefers to look up. Being above others feels strange but nice. She sets that thought aside. Dangerous to get used to. "We've mostly heard your enemies speak of your organization. But I'm looking forward to learning more. This is the first time I've heard the term 'Guiding One' before." Malkuth smiles office lady style.
Metamorph One	"Oh well this is nice!"     "The cars?"     "No. This."     "The bar? I mean, it's right on the edge of town, and there's gotta be more upscale downtown."     "Impossible . . ."     "What? No there totally is. The lights and the flowers make it look really nice because--"     "I meant you're impossible, Di."     "Sorry?"     "It's cozy and romantic. Look, it's even raining."     "Oh yeah. So it is."     "Did--"     "What else do you say about 'it's raining'?"     "Okay, fair!"     Neither Dianna nor Elara know about the Ford factory Warpgate! They also don't really know how to dress up for a fancy meeting at a villainous speakeasy either, apparently, differentiated from the last time they were around mainly by being vaguely 'indoors' rather than 'outdoors' wear. Both still reflect a period of optimism about space that is as fictional as it is easy to imagine popular, somewhere else, using an abundance of astronaut white and rover grey, accented with jumpsuit orange and a splash of checklight green.     Dianna has on soft and baggy pants with numerous pockets and straps like what an imaginative child would think 'cargo' means, a comfortable looking sweater shaped by half a nylon carry harness over a compression top and climbing gloves, with polarized goggles still hung around her neck; but her hair is neat and tidy and her makeup is spot on, not to mention her shockingly gorgeous silver earrings with softly luminous orange stones. Elara has a hooded duster folded over her arm like a fine coat as soon as she enters the Walden, wearing a company-colours blazer with a reflective lining, half-open to show her pretty blouse and gay little tie, matching a surprisingly cute skirt for being fastened with a belt that should belong on a space shuttle, along with formal stockings, her usual hat, and a smattering of buttons and charms that only appear vaguely 'pretty-military'. Neither of them brought bags or suitcases for whatever reason.     'Welcome, welcome! My lords and ladies, esteemed Partners of the Concord, dear friends of the Manus Vindictae, what an honor and delight it is to finally behold your visage in person.'     Elara leans into Dianna and whispers "Oh he's good." Dianna half-smiles and says, "I think a guy has to be at least that good before he thinks that he'd look sick as hell with black roses." Elara nods enthusiastically, tittering at the word 'potions', because that's so weird and cool.     Elara drops her pseudo-duster over her preferred chair. Dianna pulls it out for her, and Elara sits. Dianna takes the seat on her right side without checking the table. Elara stops to smell the candle, and tries guessing what it is, while Dianna checks and lays out utensils for the both of them. Although Dianna reaches for the drinks when they're decided, Elara is the one who pours for both. Without counting down, the both of them take their first taste simultaneously, then cover their mouths and laugh silently. When the flurry of little rituals comes to an end, they both seem completely at ease.
Metamorph One	'What you see down there, in all its moralities and immoralities, the façades and luxuries, where money flows like shouted breaths, is my sum of this rotten era. So it is only right that you, my distinguished guests, who will soon join us in deciding the 'sifting' of this world, survey its totality from on high while we speak.'     "Oh my god. It's happening."     "Is it?"     "It's happening!"     "Oh wow. Maybe it is?"     "We're talking about 'moon crashing'! This guy is awesome!"     "It sounds like it? What does 'sifting' mean, Mister Forget Me Not?"     "I can't believe it! El, can I borrow your compact for a sec?"     "Uhuh~ Here you go!"     "Thanks~ Wow. At this nice table too."     "I know right?"     Schneider coming up on stage ostensibly catches the both of them surprise, but neither of them ask if she'll be okay. Having seen her up close, Elara is the one who asks, "Will that man really be okay? He's such a big target." but Dianna waves it off. "Don't underestimate how much your frame size effects that kinda thing. Besides, she's a professional, right? Nobody wants to fight the 'nine times champion' if she blows their brains out every time. Bad business." "Oh, right . . ."
Timekeeper	The 'alcohol' that everyone orders looks identical as it's poured from flask to glass. Clear like water, with glittering motes of gold floating around in it, and cold to the touch like a continual endothermic reaction, there's no scent of anything at all even when brought right up to your nose. The moment it passes your lips, the potion becomes whatever drink you ordered, mixers and all, scentless vapors converting into full-bodied flavor and the stinging heat of alcohol. It's a perfect coverup for the era of Prohibition, except... that it's completely insubstantial unless you're being ignorant on purpose. "It's all here, huh? The Walden, and no other investment?"     "Mr. Parsons, what a pleasure." Forget Me Not gives a handshake to all the men in attendance, and a kiss on the hand to all the women, which means... literally every single person besides Flamel. Those lips are getting a workout! "Not merely any 'government organization', but the Psychonauts, I'm told! One with such a noble goal as the mental wellness of the world ought not belittle himself as a mere government bureaucrat."     Gesturing with his fingers curled at the crowds below, their conversation is muted by the distance up to the balcony, but the music and the sounds of Schneider's gunshots cut through perfectly fine. "Monetarily? As proud as I am of my Walden, this one establishment has already risen me well above what the so-called 'civilization' of this era would consider my place. So I can assure you, in terms of financial investments, I am well and truly 'grounded' as you say. And yet, philosophically, what roots me is also what uplifts me, and She will not wash away with this era." "I already know the shape of what your organization wishes from it, and I know what I'm looking forward to about it as well. What is it that *you* seek, in this great unmaking?"     "My lady Cadreasteia," He says, low and smooth, lifting his face up from her hand in a bow. "There is not a want I hold more dear in all the world than to see our Lady Arcana's wish come to fruition, and rewrite history how it ought to be. In the face of such unsurpassed wisdom and kindness, and seeing, as I have, the ruin that humanity has wrought on their betters, what could I possibly want for above dedicating myself to her cause?"     Straightening up, he cups his hand in a theatrical point, like a herald or a Shakespearean actor. In the direction he motions, at the far end of the balcony and looking away from the group out the window , is a woman in a beautiful dress and a wooden mask evoking a similar shape to the others, but still clearly different and More, almost trophy-esque. "Behold, as well: a perfect specimen of history and magic, whose very existence belies the cruel 'rationality' that humanity holds dear! What I seek, my dear guests, is nothing more than that which those cast aside by modernity deserve by rights. My lady Druvis Weyerhauser the Third, won't you grace our friends of the Concord with your greeting?"
Schneider Greco	Bang.      Petrelli (who seems a decent sort) hesitates to fight a little girl, and stony-faced Schneider clips his ear for it. Now he claps a hand to the side of his face, yells something, and lurches for her. Good.      She is grabbed; there is a tense moment; and then the delicate red bird slips its cage, and under the spotlight their dance is undeniably beautiful.      . . .      Anyone who's seen Schneider fight in earnest can tell she's pulling punches. If she weren't, she would've shot him in the head at 'go'. She expertly works him up into taking her seriously without ever seeming, to an untrained eye, as though she's winning. It's a quick jab to his throat here, a close-shave gunshot there, a kick to the side of his kneecap a second later...      But it's hard to tell how many of those blows she really means to take.      A punch against her guard slams her back against the magic-circle's wall, and the way she staggers punch-drunk after seems sincere. When Petrelli gets her in a headlock on the floor, the announcer seems just about to call it until she grasps at a dropped pistol and forces her opponent to scrabble to disarm her.      The audience lives for it. White's vision finds Schneider at maybe two-thirds 'health'; but how much of that was lost before the ring, and how much in it?      The bets climb higher, nearly even despite Schneider's favored odds.      When they both rise from the floor, sweaty and blood-flecked, finally Petrelli's been pressed enough to draw a gun on Schneider in earnest.      BANG      BANG      Their forearms lock like en-garde rapiers, nudging both aims just barely off. Slugs hit the magic circle's edge and freeze. Schneider comfortably puts herself fifteen degrees from death.      His face is contorted, but hers is still flat. It's only entertainment, my-lords.
Ein	The figure sitting by the window, obviously set aside from the group, has more the character of a distant feature of the room in statuelike contemplation or formal attendant without the duty-ordinal motion of service. Dressed in a long flow of black dappled in subtle gold spiraling dot-patterns, with an asymmetrical pattern draped from high collar bridged with a lustrous pearl pin centerpiece that evokes a pair of berries on a single branch, and a sash of white about waist that is clasped with a golden oak leaves and acorn piece over her left hip. Her black dress' sleeves terminate at the elbow to reveal champagne-colored long gloves, clasped in lap loosely, while crossed legs reveal the vague hint of leg and black heels. The breath of vaguest insistence that someone is there and not some-thing is broken by the complex mask she wears. From high black choker, the asymmetrical mask she wears is turned facing the window, so from the visible side it has an uncertain profile - reaching twists of branch or root, and the nearly-lost shape of a maskframe or an open diamond is dark within - that spikes and juts with woodpoints, suggesting the height of an ear or perhaps a cheek, with open petals of wooden collar allowing the tangle to tuck into collar to suggest a clench of roots as teeth or merely the shelf of sprawl the faceplate rests on. It takes a whole second after Forget Me Not indicates 'her' for the masked woman to turn away from the window, revealing the other three quarters of a vaguely catlike mask in the petals and tangled fall of wood. Inspired to stand, rising in a smooth motion to approach the humble barman, the masked woman looks at Forget Me Not, and then with a private sigh just for the man's knowing of the favor she does for him at this party, turns head to regard the group of assembled Partners. Drawing left leg half step back and pinching edge of skirt as if peeling it, 'Druvis Weyerhauser III' does the minimum effort towards a formal curtsey with the faintest stiff disdain in pinch of fingers and grace of arm, and resets. "I am Druvis, as he indicated. I own the woods outside, as he owns this. . .' She underbreaths a word - 'noisy', tired but not altogether unfond - "-place." Of the many Partners who speak up, though, one of them has a question that stands out - long enough that even if Kukuru had forgotten what she had said, Druvis III had not. 'Aren't they worried about what'll happen? When they spend all their money, or when things start getting reeeal bad at the end?' While three quarters of an eyeless cat mask in a bloom of roots stares at her, Kukuru receives her answer bereft of context beyond having asked a question: "... No. They aren't." There's a pause, as if for thought, and then a short follow up: "Are you? ... Worried?" Turned as she is, facing the Concord group, forces the masked woman away from her preferential place, places her eyes upon the bloodsport beneath and not the woods without, and so for a long moment after introducing herself (not really) and answering (one) question, she falls quiet.
Timekeeper	"That's Ku-ku-ru. Oh, that's such a neat potion you've come up with..."     "My lady Kukuru, you're far too kind to me. To not only honor me with the radiance of your presence, but to turn the music of your voice to praise my arcane skill? I could not be more honored. Here, allow me." Seeing that Kukuru is attempting to order something that simply does not seem to exist, and unlike Flamel isn't quick on the draw to notice that fact, Forget Me Not plucks a potion off one of the platters and pours it into her glass himself. Drawing attention away from her mistake, "You deserve nothing less than the finest champagne we have available." "Or do they not... Knooow about any of that yet?"     Forget Me Not sighs, as theatrically melodramatic as everything else about him. "Even if I were to take to the streets and hail the apocalypse for days without rest, not a soul in this city would believe me. Their thoughts, upon hearing that the world they know will vanish into thin air, would grasp for some way to make sense of it, and latch onto the one thing they know: surely, if people were to fear the world's end, stock prices would fall from the insecurity, and that makes the apocalypse an opportunity to buy. Buy, buy, buy-- you see, Lady Kukuru: the world to them is not as you and I see it, in all its rich colors and possibilities. Their world lies in *that*-- the *ticker*."     At the end of his impassioned speech, Forget Me Not presses his hand to the base of his throat, fingers pinched around the stem nub of one of his roses. "Fret not. The Manus Vindictae do not intend to leave them blind until their demise, like those Foundation dogs. Only that timing will play out as it has been orchestrated."
Timekeeper	"White. A pleasure."     "It's a pleasure of my own, to see you yet again, Lady White. My most sincere apologies for not greeting you properly during your last visit." Which was under a minute, unannounced, when she teleported in and out during a fight. "It pains me to ask you to sully yourselves with such brute matters, but your assistance in that matter was quite crucial. Else our pidgeon may have come back more worse for wear than she did." "I cannot make a personal appearance due to personal circumstances, but please do not take this as disrespect--I would be here if I was physically able to be."     "Of course, of course! Please, I could never find disrespect in your tragic circumstances, Lady Angela. I have heard of them, and this too is proof that humanity's folly extends far beyond this era, or even this world! To contain such a beautiful and noble specimen in a cruel cage; I only hope that the Manus Vindictae can aid you in return someday." "We're talking about 'moon crashing'! This guy is awesome!"     "My ladies, my ladies." Forget Me Not's immediate fawning praise for Dianna and Elara, and the offered kisses on their hands in greeting, has a slightly different texture than what he's said to everyone else. This might be concerning, if not for the actual content of it. "May I say, your shine compliments each other as do the moon and stars, brought down to Earth to put the glamor of my own bar to shame. Even further, your enthusiasm heartens me like the sun, and if you wish to see this world set ablaze, then your presence adds to the sparks."     "To be 'sifted out', is the fate of those unworthy or unlucky to not be brought to the new world. When the Storm comes, its first drop of rain will be as a sieve that captures the arcanists of Lady Arcana's favor and brings us away into the past, leaving the dregs behind. This era, and all of its obsessions and cruelties, will be no more, and those who clung to it shall vanish along with it."
Flamel Parsons	"Good seeing you keep such good track of the people you're connecting with!" Flamel beams. "But don't worry. I say that sort of thing about myself as a compliment!" He looks over the crowd again, when they're indicated. "Well above... Would that mean you've had a chance to see this era from both sides? You're 'temporally native', so to speak?" Another slight nudge to assess the man, but there's still quite genuine interest there. "When things get 'sifted' out, I'm sure that's going to mean a lot. If I'm understanding how things work, you've had a lifetime to see what there is to lose here."     His expression tilts a little further up, to the stage. His finger rubs the lip of the glass again, placidly watching the violence. BANG BANG, and his eye's stuck on the bullet instead. "I won't lie and say I like that much!" He says, smile just slightly less beaming. "The work I do is supposed to be pretty egalitarian. Separating and killing people by any quality is... well, I'm sure you understand why my particular focus on mental health doesn't make me much of a fan. But," He claps his hands together once, in a 'let's get to work' posture. "I'm here for the Storm Syndrome more than the Storm. And it's not like any man controls the heavens like that. We'll just have to deal with the sifting as it comes."     Turning back away from the performance -- a little uneasy, seeing this combat with such a tiny girl, and he doesn't really hide it -- Flamel brings his focus on Druvis. Now that's fascinating. "I'm pretty worried! What I saw in the last one, jeez, maybe enough to worry a guy for the rest of his life. Still, good to meet you, Druvis!" He looks at that mask with some fascination, wide and eager eyes thinking back to the psychic effects he saw in similar masks during the storm (and the lack of any similar such effect in Druvis), but he holds himself back from pointing one thousand spinning screaming little scanners at the woman he just met.     He thinks, though. 'A perfect specimen of history and magic.' Isn't that what he's looking for? Another candidate for his Stormchaser. He'll have to see. "I'm curious about what he means! The humans in this era, what did they do? It sure sounds like it might have been awful." His tone is far too bright to be asking her these sorts of questions. He half expects Forget-Me-Not to be the source of the answer, but of course simply doesn't imagine that it might just be inappropriate to ask a newly-introduced stranger to give her entire backstory.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	"In the face of such unsurpassed wisdom and kindness, and seeing, as I have, the ruin that humanity has wrought on their betters, what could I possibly want for above dedicating myself to her cause?"     "Ah, the humble servant," Madeleine says with exaggerated fondness. "Would that we all had such a *dependable* factotum." She swirls her glass, clearly enjoying this a little too much. Then her expression turns serious as quickly as it had lit up. "But 'ruin' truly is the word, isn't it?" A little affected pout, of a sort that gets practiced in a mirror ahead of the function.     "You see, Lady Kukuru: the world to them is not as you and I see it, in all its rich colors and possibilities. Their world lies in *that*-- the *ticker*."     "And therein the tragedy!" Madeleine says, nodding animatedly. "Making their charts line up all pretty is getting in the way of them seeing what's really important! I for one will be *fascinated* to see what this world does with its 'second chance' - that is, the return to older, better ways under the Storm."     "I am Druvis, as he indicated. I own the woods outside, as he owns this. . . place."     "Oh, I like her *style*," Madeleine mutters as Druvis approaches, her expression lightening again. "The woods? This city doesn't seem to have been good for them, but I'm sure your stewardship is why they're still around at all. Ordinary people have such little appreciation for natural spaces, when it gets in the way of their 'progress'. Is that what you're after? A turning-back of the clock, to restore nature to its rightful glory?" Madeleine's clearly hopeful for a 'yes' here.     "This era, and all of its obsessions and cruelties, will be no more, and those who clung to it shall vanish along with it."     "Amen!" says Madeleine, holding up her glass in a little impromptu toast.
White	Schneider... Seems to have her rhythm in the fight. White simultaneously finds herself setting the match aside as a 'settled matter', while still continuing to privately cheer in her heart for the gunslinging gladiatrix. This was the kind of thing Schneider was so confident in herself for... It'd be an insult to have less than total faith.      White can't go without acknowledging Angela, of course. When Malkuth scoots into proximity White briefly turns to nod at her, lips parting for a split second as if to say something before closing again, reconsidering, and then finally speaking to both her and Gebura. "I hope... You've been well." For Angela, although the pad probably doesn't have a sense of touch or a particularly wide peripheral vision range, she reaches over the camera lens and rests her hand a moment on the top edge of the pad with a little squeeze.      Druvis makes her attempt at an introduction, and seems distinctly unenthusiastic in a way that contrasts the overall tone within the speakeasy. The mask reminds White of those dragon-headed women, but any changes it might have caused aren't as visibly dramatic as theirs. Is it different from the other masks? Entirely mundane? Or perhaps has she only put it on recently? She hopes to find out with the Evil Eye, but there are other things she can't dig up so easily that way... If she owns the woods outside, burnt as they are, then is she effectively the landlord? She seems to be in mourning, but she could just be Like That...      But she's probably been staring too long. It doesn't feel like the right time to be trying to talk around the host, so her gaze slides from Druvis back to Forget Me Not while she carefully adjusts her hair, giving the soft-speaking woman just a small wave in passing acknowledgement for now. "It's nothing." White answers him, shaking her head slowly while keeping her hair tucked until the motion stops. "... Miss Schneider... Made every correct choice. The strategy... Was also her idea. And I apologize... For dropping in... Unannounced." Maybe she can learn something else, by reassigning the praise? In the meantime, she samples the adaptive potion; she's thinking of a rustic, strong mixed-fruit wine she had years prior while on the road with Ariel. Something made by simple people with simple means, sweet and uncomplicated. The scent might be fairly strong to those beside her though, if the potion itself does more than just fool the drinker's own senses. If his arcane skill has to do with these potions, perhaps a brief indulgence would help her analysis along... And she has to continue blending in, anyway.
Metamorph One	'Monetarily? As proud as I am of my Walden, this one establishment has already risen me well above what the so-called 'civilization' of this era would consider my place.'     Elara smiles politely. Dianna leans forward and folds her arms on the table. "Your place?" she says, suddenly even more 'all ears'. "Working at the place you own makes sense to me. So does putting the money back into making it better instead of buying up shit--" "Di." "--things that aren't as good." "Mm~" "Personally, I don't think it's anyone's place to have more than that." "Di you sound like you're threatening him." "I'm not though!"     'There is not a want I hold more dear in all the world than to see our Lady Arcana's wish come to fruition'     Dianna makes an emphatic gesture at Forget Me Not while looking at Elara. "I know you would never threaten a guy who says something like that, but it's just tone, you know? I can see the colours change when you do that." "Guh. Well, I meant it from the heart!"     'Behold, as well: a perfect specimen of history and magic, whose very existence belies the cruel 'rationality' that humanity holds dear! What I seek, my dear guests, is nothing more than that which those cast aside by modernity deserve by rights. My lady Druvis Weyerhauser the Third, won't you grace our friends of the Concord with your greeting?'     Dianna makes a very strange noise. Something at the back of her throat, high-pitched and very squeezed down. Her knee rapidly bounces under the table. Both hands are curled into fists that stay conspicuously still. Elara reaches over to pick up Dianna's drink, and raises it partway to her face, saying "I know. It's--" "Right?" "Yeah . . ." "Wow." Dianna then breaks to slam back something strong.     '"Of course, of course! Please, I could never find disrespect in your tragic circumstances, Lady Angela. I have heard of them, and this too is proof that humanity's folly extends far beyond this era, or even this world! To contain such a beautiful and noble specimen in a cruel cage; I only hope that the Manus Vindictae can aid you in return someday.'     Now it's Elara's turn. She's holding her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed. She's staring at Angela, too. Like 'Oh my gosh! You've got it girl!' and 'Finally! I believe in you!'.     'May I say, your shine compliments each other as do the moon and stars, brought down to Earth to put the glamor of my own bar to shame. Even further, your enthusiasm heartens me like the sun, and if you wish to see this world set ablaze, then your presence adds to the sparks.'     The two of them begin squeezing each other's hand to channel the reciprocal excitement into a stable circuit.     "Haha, oh gosh, Manus Vindictae really brought out their star, didn't they?"     "Like, multiple stars?"     "Thank you so very much, Forget Me Not! I've been impressed since I got here, but you really are beyond my expectations!"     "Yeah. I wasn't super sure of this all, but actually being here, taking in the vibe, hearing it for myself, I totally get it."
Angela	Gebura visibly tenses for half a second upon Druvis's arrival but it relaxes after half an instant. Some instinct not entirely buried. "You own the woods outside?" Gebura asks. She catches a look from Malkuth and dips her head politely. "Good to see you, Druvis. I'm Gebura, I'm her bodyguard today." "Gebura one day you're going to understate your credentials and someone's going to actually believe you." Malkuth says, annoyed, then smiles over to Druvis and does the full curstey. "I'm Malkuth, Chief Librarian of the History Department. Do you always wear that mask, or is this a special occassion?" Angela nods her agreement. If anything, if Forget Me Not preached armageddon he'd probably be arrested. She is sort of upset that Forget Me Not is being this ... reasonable so far. She was hoping he'd be someone she could just readily dismiss and then betray the whole organization guilt free like everone did for her, but she's not sure there is a point in bringing it up. It's not like they'll be saved, right? Unless they are kinder to humanity than she's been led to believe which isn't, strictly, KIND to humanity--but there is a difference between leaving them to die after all. ''I have heard of them.'' Malkuth's head turns towards Schneider this time but only briefly. The suggestion of where Forget ME Not probably heard this from is pretty clear. She awkwardly holds out the datapad since Forget Me Not has been kissing the hand of every lady. Angela holds out her hand on the screen because, well, she cares about formalities though she probably won't be put out if Forget Me Not doesn't kiss a video pad since it is a little ridiculous. Her instincts say that flattery is, of course, what any person with half a brain would do to engage the Concord in this moment so that doesn't strictly mean any of this is sincere but, frankly, in her experience proving you have at least half a brain is still pretty good in the grand scheme of things. She turns her attention to Druvis. "It is good to meet you as well. Did you happen upon each other by happenstance, or have you been allies for some time?" ''Rests her hand a moment on the top edge of the pad with a little squeeze.'' It's doubtful Angela can feel that. But she does reach forward towards the camera lens herself and places her hand there. It's a little weird! She then brings Harriet over so she's on camera too and strokes her back the way a Bond villain might stroke a cat. If the cat was kind of goofy, Harriet's a bit of a goofy spider. "I've been alright. Feel weird doing normal Fixer work again." Gebura asides to White. "...I'm well enough." Angela admits. She didn't get the best view of the forest but she saw enough to add, "May I ask what happened to the forest you own?" to Druvis.
Metamorph One	'To be 'sifted out', is the fate of those unworthy or unlucky to not be brought to the new world. When the Storm comes, its first drop of rain will be as a sieve that captures the arcanists of Lady Arcana's favor and brings us away into the past, leaving the dregs behind.'     Neither of them have a strong grasp of what 'arcanist' even seriously means. Both of them have heard the clinical definition, and a broad strokes summary of the social dynamics of the term. Both can smell the class dynamics from a mile away. The words strike them in a way that simultaneously reflects the same emotion on both their faces, in their own ways:     Nostalgia?     "So Arcana is your--"     "He doesn't know who Angkasa is."     "I know. I'm trying to think through it out loud."     "Oh! Go on."     "So, everyone hates you guys. You live under the-- in the margins. Everyone thinks they're such hot shit while totally ruining the world. And a visionary woman appears to make a place you can go to other than here. In a more literal sense, removing 'here' from here; dissolving its built up context and remodeling it as a place fundamentally other from what it was; but in principle, she's making a place for you all to go where the people ruining everything won't ever be able to reach you. And you're just leaving them to choke in their own filth as it gets deeper and deeper over time. Right?"     "I really like the speakeasy. It's such a kinder way to pay those bills. Ah, but I guess it'd make sense that world weary adults would get on those small little cruel realities faster, so maybe it's not a surprise."     "I really hope it works out."     "I hope so too."     This is something completely insane to say while a five foot fierce girl is fighting for her life on a bloodsport stage with a brick shithouse named 'iron'. Even if the both of them believe wholeheartedly in Schneider-- Dianna even sees it as a kind of enriching activity-- the fact is that a significant amount of wishful thinking motivates their collective sympathy for this cause. Seeing the Instrumentality Foundation as it was in this underground Chicago bar isn't plausible even for them, but seeing their revolutionary idol in Forget Me Not's is easy.     'I am Druvis, as he indicated. I own the woods outside, as he owns this. . .'     Dianna looks like she's just heard something sad from a kid too little to know the full depth of how sad it is. Elara speaks instead, with an utterly baffling lack of basic assumption. "Do you still go there?" she says, at the obviously fire-ravaged area. "It's kind of cute that you're neighbours like that. It'd be a shame if you couldn't go there anymore." Dianna sighs. "Yeah, like I said." she says, without specifying. "Is that why the Walden is here? Or just happy coincidence?"
Kukuru	"You've heard of Flamel's group, too? Wow... You've really done your homework. How studious~" Kukuru compliments, glancing over towards the arena again when she hears some more of those gunshots. Even having only seen Schneider fight once before, Kukuru still doesn't flinch at any of those hits that she's taking from Petrelli. Instead, she's watching their moves and those climbing bet numbers, marveling at how much Schneider's surely going to make at the end of all this. She also reaches over to give Angelapad a gentle tap on the top, along with a little handkerchief work to get rid of a smudge. "Here, allow me." It doesn't take much to get Kukuru to start feeling right at home, even if the lavishness of everything is still beyond her day-to-day. Forget Me Not's little hand kiss gets a chuckle and a pat on the cheek from her in return, and his personal attention to her drink gets an amused little titter out of her. "Oh, you... Ah. This really does taste just like that time..." She murmurs approvingly with a light pink tinge coming to her cheeks. "It really is a wonderful skill, though. Something like this, that can make people feel so welcome, so... Happy. I love it." Forget Me Not talking about rewriting history "Oh, that's suuuper ambitious. It's wonderful that you're so dedicated to Lady Arcana, then. She's lucky to have someone like you." Kukuru comments wtih unabashed warmth directed at Forget Me Not, taking another sip of her personally poured potion to gather her thoughts. "No wonder you were able to get so far with this place..." "I am Druvis, as he indicated. I own the woods outside" "Oh? He-llo, Druvis. Ahh, all these flowers must've been yours, then! Lovely work, dear~" Kukuru replies, first sounding relieved that Druvis has opted for just that as her name rather than the entire title. As she speaks, however, that slowly turns to concern upon recalling the state of the burnt forest that the limos had passed by on the way in. "You're not hurt, are you?" She asks, studying Druvis' visible features with all the subtlety of someone staring directly at her and tilting her head back and forth while looking for visible injuries. "Are you? ... Worried?" A little, mhm. Knowing that things are gonna get real bad for them soon...er or later?" She's not particularly sure of the timeframes, but Kukuru did retain a little bit of her reading. "I can't imagine how awful it'd feel going from days like today riiight into what's going to happen. Knowing that I could've saved a bit..." She pauses to look at the tickers, and at the bet numbers. Kukuru's expression flattens out just a bit more at seeing how many zeroes there are. "... A lot more for me and my family to get through it okay instead of partying and risking so much on bets... It'd be awful to have to go through that and live with that kind of guilt, you know?" She pauses briefly, then chuckles after another moment's thought. "Weeell, I guess it's a little easier for me because I can just read about this happening instead of living through it myself. And if it did.... I've prepared pleenty of stuff, so my family'll be okay. What about you?" "Even if I were to take to the streets ..." "That's... True. Mmn, it can be reaaaally hard getting people to listen if you're not someone they're already listening to." Kukuru admits with a light sigh contrasting sharply with Forget Me Not's, her expression dropping a smidge as her mind wanders back to the world covered in ocean. "And even when you are, they still wanna do things their own way instead of listening, or making a mess for everyone else to try and get ahead of everyone else." Another sigh, and Kukuru cracks another smile. "I really hope you'll be able to show them the right way."
Ein	Standing on the balcony, drifting and the faintest-bit awkward being empty handed, not leaning on balcony or rising to assist her in expression like Forget Me Not's. Instead they rest at her side, and then shift to a polite palm-cross before waist as a brush of etiquette is remembered, and the ebb away of that position as soon as her focus lifts away from rigidity back to sociality. "So you've seen it, then..." Druvis begins, a dreamy nonanswer to Flamel's anxieties, the Weyerhauser woman contemplating it as something she has never seen personally but has heard a good deal about from Forget Me Not in painted picture and colored concoction, but also, to those first to the cycles there's a strange intangibility to the concept. A sifting. A washing-away. Something to be cheered, for it would wash away... One thousand spinning scanners fail to assault Druvis III, nor do they appear. Given her moment to turn the thought of it all being true and not just true in part, the faint lift of mask's attention to the air above Flamel comes down again to favor him with eyeless three quarters countenance. "They created 'the United States' from this land, this America." Begins her accusation. "And Britain before it. But in this era... The 'theory of Capital'." Druvis shifts her now-besides-her-arms, right hand resting against left forearm to curl fingers around own arm. "Wall Street. It's made them all into monsters, and consumed the arcanists too in their cursed, bloody coins and bills." There's a faint disgust throughout her piece, held back in full tone by her mask distorting her voice, but the hate rises in her cold and firm as she adds: "And they put arcanists to work to herald it all." Fingers tightened around arm, she slowly releases the tension with another exhale. Madeleine's appreciation gives her a reason to shift attention, so she doesn't fully explain. She's certainly not as verbose as Forget Me Not, either way. "They were burned." Druvis confirms, of the woods, "... but remain." She trails into, a kind of weary acceptance to the situation. "'Ordinary people'..." She repeats, and there's the cousin to a 'glance towards Forget Me Not' in the tilt of mask and petals towards the bar's tender, before returning to... Flamel. "I watched my mother burn our family history in the fireplace, ... and told me I was 'American now'. I could... barely hear her over the sound of the tree outside the window, and the crisping of the paper burning." A pause for breath dips mask, now between the two questioners. "If 'America' itself was washed away, you..." A general you, now. "-and I both know that the grand forests, the redwoods and the native oaks and noble firs, the grasses and the streams and all within and between -- they would be restored." And would that be enough? Without 'America', she would never have left the forest. Lifting attention, if only to nod in greeting to Gebura, Druvis resets once more to standing arms at sides, left glove mussed at the arm from the wrinkles caused by her manipulation. Gebura understating her prowess goes well over Druvis's head, but, she doesn't ask for clarification out of Malkuth. Instead, she simply says: "...When it suits me." Of her mask.
Ein	'Do you still go there?' "...I live there." Druvis III answers, again simply, though this response tinges with a chime of confusion - the vaguest outline of questionmark over her verbal periodpoint. "The Walden is an arcanist establishment... located within the woods owned by arcanists." She 'answers' about why the Walden is located precisely here, but the implication is clear: there was already sorting and sifting occurring. 'Ahh, all these flowers must've been yours, then!' Kukuru, first to be spoken to directly and clearly ignoring the question of if she's hurt or not,is also the first to earn something Forget Me Not understands as rare - a proper near-positive-toned "Yes." Followed by a faintly diffusing sigh-into aside. "I simply selected something appropriate at hand." And then Kukuru speaks of her worries, and Druvis' mask faces Kukuru for a full second. Her tone has cooled off by the time she's resumed. "It will be... easier for you, yes."
Schneider Greco	"Kill 'er, Petey!"      "You've got it! You've *got* it!!"      "Hey, he's throwing--"      "Ach, not again..."      "Schneider! Schneider!!"      "KILL 'ER!"      BANG      And then, in a moment where no-one important was looking, it's over. That gunshot uniquely draws eyes, by virtue of the sudden chill after it.      Petrelli is down on one knee. There are three points of violence- One, where Schneider's cocked gun is jammed into his mouth; Two, where a bullet-hole is drilled through his forearm; Three, where her torn hair falls from his now-slack hand.      He makes a figuratively, and literally, choked sound and drops her other gun. Only then is it called- "OUR CHAMPION, SCHNEIDER!!" to hoots and jeers- and she pulls the gun from his mouth, wipes it on her jacket, and leaves the stage without looking back.      An attendant rushes up to help Petrelli to his feet and bandage the arm. The older boxer, pale now, shakes his head.      . . .      It's a minute or two until Schneider emerges into the VIP balcony. Now there's a smile on her face again, although fresh blood is dripping through the gauze on her abdomen, and the first signs of a black eye are starting to show on her pale skin. She takes a napkin and dabs up a drop or two of red before they can dribble onto the carpet.      "My-lords," she says sweetly, while seating herself at an unobtrusive table. "You are seeing, I believe... mmmh, why I told you Lord Forget-Me-Not makes a friend of all he meets. My apologies that I could not greet you at-first."      Her smile is reserved, for him. Less so, for Druvis.      "Lady Druvis, your in-stru-ments still serve me well." Having seen Forget-Me-Not now, the snakeskin patterning of her arm-circlet and handguns takes on a different meaning; the feathers are hers, the scales perhaps someone else's. She pops out the magazines to load them by hand. "You are not often in at-ten-dance, are you? Mmm, do the partners of the Concord intrigue you so?"
Ein	'Lady Druvis, your in-stru-ments still serve me well.' For Schneider - and the snakescale laced pistols - Druvis turns on the balcony to move towards the new arrival. Sounding steps on the rich wood floors and meeting the five foot fierce woman on the balcony as she arrives, Druvis III intercepts Schneider as she reloads, staying at arm's length but looking down upon her loading of the weapons with a vague approval carried in shoulders and the ease of hands. "I heard no problem with the action, and the... structure remains sound." Druvis explains, head tilting during pause, and then tilting back down to look at Schneider. "Did you need the grip adjusted further?" She offers, opening the door with a little note of hope in the delivery. Talking shop was a glade of peace in the chaos of a party. But, of course, topics turn to partygoers and her own attendance, and the three-quarters-of-a-mask worth of attention lifts back to the table as she stands besides. Schneider, returning to present company and considerance. "... I was requested to be in attendance... Parties aren't my preference." "He," Forget Me Not. "... said that my attendance would be important for 'everyone including me'." Said nearby the man it's clear she's making no effort to hide her dry observation of the truth as it was to her. "And," Now, the tiniest bit wistful. "I had not visited in some time."
Schneider Greco	Schneider- who is four ten fierce, if anything- looks up once as Druvis approaches, slides into a smile of a slightly cozier type, and then looks back down at her work.      Guns are guns to her, but also toys. She isn't a fanatic for them, but... it's the difference between a "car nut", and someone who goes for nighttime drives to relax.      "Mmmh, well... I should not ask to make the triggers lighter still, my-lady. Even I am not so unwise." Her fingers are intimate. She plays with the exact amount of pressure needed to pop the magazine catch, to press in a new gumdrop-thick bullet. When she's done, she taps the magazine back in with the top of the other gun's barrel, sheerly by playful habit.      The grip... she spins the gun around her finger by its brass-knuckle-like trigger guard, once, and nearly says 'they're perfect' before she registers the hopeful lilt. "The finger-holes, they could be smaller... as they are, they fit a grown man. Mmm, but then, I could not fairly give them to challengers? What a bother. Would it offend your sense of tidiness, Lady Druvis, to change one sister and not the other?"      Her work's done now. She still plays with them as she talks: rack the slide, catch the ejecting bullet, pop the magazine, pop in the bullet, re-load, repeat a few times. The ending resting-point is to squish her cheek against the barrel, looking up at Druvis sweetly-lazily with legs crossed under the table.      "For not coming, I can blame you little. I don't know you to gamble; I have not seen you drink... should I not, just as well, come to see you in your woods? Ah, but you would know, what respects them and what profanes them."
Flamel Parsons	"...Barely hear her over the sound of the tree outside the window..."     Flamel listens with rapt attention to the story, nodding along, for a while, but that's where something changes. The political aspects went clear over his head -- America? Theory of capital? She went to Washington DC at some point? -- but the story is, startlingly, all too familiar when it hits that part. It's like a gear shifting in his head, going from 'I'm talking to the people of an affiliate organization' to 'I'm talking to a fellow psychic'. He doesn't interrupt it, but from the way his eyebrows shoot up, it's clear it brought something to mind.     "You're *universal herbaphony specialist*?! A real universal herbaphonist, god, and no Psychonaut support," Flamel practically smacks his forehead, aghast at the idea. "You're not even telling me a tenth of what happened, are you? Never mind that, sorry, just-- zero-aid universal herbaphony, and you had it at a young age..." He rubs the back of his head, exhaling a big breath. "That could have been, no, that *had to* have been just, a lot of pain for someone to take on solo. Maybe I *can* see how Lord Forget-Me-Not's sentiment is pretty convincing."     Somehow, it seems, Druvis' experience has cleanly made sense to Flamel. The way he speaks now is more of a conversation to a peer. "So the Weyerhauser Forest has some astral links, from the sound of it." He says, nodding along to his own thoughtful rambling. "That'd mean the Walden technically is built into your astral landscape, tied to its functions... Phew, your work must be pretty critical to Lord Forget-Me-Not's work too. And I can see why you're aiming for a heavy social upheaval, that'd be the only way to restore a lot of what you're thinking of. I'm guessing the local ecosystem is pretty much all-in on the idea? The Reversal, working against the astrally-linked herbaphonic network -- you'd be preserving the active sentience through the Storm by staying safe with the Manus, and the plant life wouldn't experience a culturally-associated Storm Syndrome...!"     Flamel's sincere concern comes coupled with an honest assumption that Druvis is about the same level of expert as the rare and treasured Universal Herbaphonists of the Psychonauts, of which there are maybe two. But his rambling is pretty quickly interrupted and he finds himself jolting back to the balcony, pressing over it with his eyes wide. That torn hair. The chilling silence hits him too.     He shivers a little, then refreshes his grin by the time Schneider gets here. "I sure can see why he makes friends! No worries, the show was something else." Something besides pleasant! "Good to see another win, I can't imagine you notch many losses around here, from how good your work's been when you aren't showing off!" He casually peppers praise in to make sure the atmosphere is favorable to Schneider, as always.
White	With Schneider returned from the arena, that's one less thing to nibble at White's attention. Still, seeing that she's come back in worse shape, even having some of her hair torn out is . . . Well, it's trivial to extend a hand with a silk cloth, something for Schneider to at least comfortably wipe her face with; she hands those away like tissues, despite certainly being worth money if someone had a mind for it. Kukuru is here too, and White wouldn't be surprised if she stepped up as well, but it just wouldn't feel right to pretend she hadn't noticed... Even if this is Schneider's 'normal'.      There's an implied familiarity in how Schneider acknowledges Druvis and vice-versa, and White doesn't miss that. Examining the mask and the woman wearing it, too, are just two more incremental shifts in where Druvis slots into her heirarchical map of the Walden's leadership, to be moved yet further as she learns more about the rest. She can't quite slot herself into their conversation, but she takes a mild attention to it like it's the sort of comfortable overhearing she'd look forward to at home. Little nothings that mean more between friends, so she assumes.
Kukuru	"I simply selected something appropriate at hand." Although Kukuru had already guessed so, Druvis confirming these flowers are all hers gets another pleasant noise out of the drowsy lady. "You made good picks, then. I don't really know much about flowers, but seeing more natural things around is always nice. It's more like home, and all those nice places to nap we saw on the way here." "I watched my mother burn our family history in the fireplace" Druvis gets the first outright frown anyone here's seen on Kukuru in the past few weeks, and the only thing stopping Kukuru from getting up to embrace her is not actually knowing how Druvis is about physical contact. "Oh no, Druvis... I'm sorry your... That your mother did that to you. That the dream of America caused..." She sighs softly, then offers a hand to Druvis. "Well, you're in good company here. The Concord makes sure eeeveryone in our family is taken care of, so that none of us would ever have to go through that kind of thing again." A moment later, and then she chuckles bashfully. "Ah, I'm sorry, dear. I might be getting a little ahead of myself already..." "My-lords," Hearing another familiar voice pouts some of that pep right back into Kukuru's tone and on her face as well, and she turns to Schneider with a welcoming smile. Naturally, she doesn't look surprised at all to see her. "Mhm, mhm. He's quite a sweet one, isn't he?" She comments with a light chuckle, then takes a long sip from her potion before setting it aside and clapping her hands together. "Now. Let's see about getting you cleaned up, hmm?" Getting up from her seat, Kukuru reaches into her pocket to fish out a whole-ass beach towel while approaching Schneider, stepping over some to give White some room to offer that cloth as well. "Would you like us to get the wounds, too, or just clean up?" She asks with a curious tilt of her head, even smiling a bit more mischievously as she seems to be considering something. "The bets did get reaaaal close when they thought those old wounds were holding you back, but... Ah, they can't be comfortable to keep around between now and then." "Lady Druvis, your in-stru-ments still serve me well." "I heard no problem with the action, and the... structure remains sound." "Oh? Druvis, are you a gun... Um. Maker, too?" Kukuru perks up again at learning something new about the curiously masked plant lady, and also has her brain short circuit briefly failing to remember what a gunsmith is called. "So that's where that cute design came from, too.. Hehe. I like it."
Angela	''They were burned ... but remain.'' "I see." Angela is not someone with druidic power, she's some sort of librarian arms dealer? But she says, "Perhaps some day I can show you my tree, if you'd like." She doesn't really know Druvis too well and she's a little worried it might be rude to show off her tree, not presently on fire, but perhaps it might give her some comfort? She has no idea, but she makes the offer all the same. ''When it suits me.'' Malkuth smiles, "Well, ahhh..." She is struggling to continue a conversation with someone who is brusque in dialogue. So Gebura takes over. "If the cig bothers you I'll put it out." Well okay she sort of takes over. She looks over to Schneider as she makes it up to the VIP area, throwing a wave her way, still that kind of casual way that isn't really so different from the gangsters that work for her, though minus the 'boss!' and such. "Thanks for winning." She tells Schneider. "Though I'm guessing I'm not getting a payout. Ah well."
Timekeeper	"You're 'temporally native', so to speak?"     "What a wonderful turn of phrase, Mister Parsons!" Forget Me Not chuckles, finally sitting down in his seat after spending so long schmoozing with everyone. "Yes, this is the time I was born and raised, and where I built up my Walden from nothing, against the current of the world. A 'temporal native' you say-- then, it is the civilization that Lady Arcana brings that has uplifted me from the fetid wastes that is society now." "Separating and killing people by any quality is... well, I'm sure you understand why my particular focus on mental health doesn't make me much of a fan."     Rather than simply moving on and not pressing on this like Flamel indicates, Forget Me Not leans across the table earnestly, hands clasped in his lap. Slitted eyes on Flamel, "But is it not themselves who have separated out? By choice, they revel in humanity's artificial power and the humiliation of the arcanists, and by choice they continue to cling to it even as their world crumbles around them. Of course, when the end comes, they will be given the choice to repent to Lady Arcana and join the Manus, and survive-- what abominable cruelty it would be, to leave them ignorant to the choices that led to their own demise! But are they not the ones whose actions have hurt the health of the world's emotions more? Is this your idea of a healthy world, Mr. Parsons?" "I for one will be *fascinated* to see what this world does with its 'second chance' - that is, the return to older, better ways under the Storm."     "Older, better ways..." Forget Me Not muses, pleased to have such a direct and unambiguous confirmation. "Once, they say, uncountable ages ago, beyond the times of global empires, or empires at all, there was a time when arcanists ruled in city-states, and the world was well. Magic ran through the Earth, rearing beasts the likes of which have long since faded into memory, and the forests and waters were pristine, and the architecture gleaming and beautiful. To look outside and see the wreckage that remains, is that not all the proof one could need?" "Personally, I don't think it's anyone's place to have more than that." "Di you sound like you're threatening him."     "What I have is already far, far more than this." Phrasing it like that, it sort of sounds like Forget Me Not is tempting Dianna to make it a threat if it wasn't already, but his intention is the opposite. He puts a finger on top of the hourglass in front of him, lightly rocking it back and forth on its swivel stand. In accordance with the angle of the falling sand inside the glass, the stock tickerboard's flowing sand shifts diagonally around, briefly alarming the guests at the bar who are paying rapt attention to it even though the numbers stay perfectly clear.     "What I have is a mission, and a chance to take revenge on the world that did my people wrong. My Walden is, you will see, one of vanishingly few arcanist-owned establishments in this city. Where I was lucky and successful, far more were not, and is it not undignified to the point of *fury* to even call this 'success'? Bah! If the world were as it should be, then each man would have his own garden to tend, and Lady Druvis would be the example of success that humanity falls short of! Not *Wall Street*! Not *arcanists*!"
Timekeeper	"It is good to meet you as well."     Forget Me Not will totally kiss a tablet. He doesn't even hesitate, when Angela holds her hand out on the screen, to bend over and press his lips to it, and then even take out a (monochrome, with gold embroidery) handkerchief to wipe away the smudge. "Lady Druvis is an ally to me from birth; from centuries before, from the alignments of the branches and blossoms of the earth, that spell out her great family name and the legacy she raises to shining peaks even in this dark era. Her very existence moves me to tears and ignites a fire in my soul, as a rising star of hope found in her noble blood that cannot possibly be quenched by the hate this world fosters." More specifically, they met, like, not that long ago. "And you're just leaving them to choke in their own filth as it gets deeper and deeper over time. Right?"     "You are as wise as you are beautiful, Lady Dianna, and how lucky I am to have met a Concord that holds such superior qualities in such high esteem." Forget Me Not's constant stream of flattery is easy enough to accept as his 'default', but the almost voyeuristic positioning of the balcony and his constant references to the Concord specifically keep drawing attention back to 'this group'. That is, this meeting of the minds is blessed in a sense, elevated from the barbaric society on the ground to the point that not a single word of the lower floor's conversations could be picked out-- the gunshots from Schneider's fight come through, but they're given no attention all the same.     "To many, it is impossible to imagine a world any different. Humans cannot envision a world where they are not presumed dominant, where they would be forced to bow and scrape as we have for so long, and so refuse to try. Even arcanists, many of them have been forced to compromise with this society, and flinch away from the allure of hope. *That* is where Lady Arcana appears-- our Guiding One, the leader of the Manus Vindictae, who promises us the future-past that has been stamped out of our collective mind." "I really hope you'll be able to show them the right way."     Forget Me Not smiles at Kukuru, offering her his glass to clink hers against. "Oh, I hope so as well, but I will not unduly weep for the humans who become lost in the margins for their own intransigence. This era will end, sooner rather than later, and when it does, the Manus will have gathered as much momentum for the next as we can. When the luxuries they have stolen turn to ash in their hands, who will cling to the ruins of their own obsessions, and who will accept the death of this world?"
Timekeeper	"... Miss Schneider... Made every correct choice. The strategy... Was also her idea."     "Is that so... she is a clever little bird indeed." Forget Me Not's praise does take a notably different tone about Schneider when White brings her up. The duel ends below, and Forget Me Not snaps his finger to beckon one of the masked attendants over. "Bring her up, would you?"     "Has she shown herself off well, then? She is a skilled champion and killer, certainly, but I'd hardly know her to be a strategist. And how wise of her to leave the task of communicating the ideology of the Manus to me, knowing that she could not do so sufficiently. But it does seem that she's done her job as a pretty face, mm?-- not that my lords and ladies would be swayed by such a thing." "It's made them all into monsters, and consumed the arcanists too in their cursed, bloody coins and bills."     "Wisely said, wisely said, Lady Druvis. The grip that the stock market has upon the hearts of the nation is feverish and absurd. Look at them down there, calling numbers and trading papers with their gleeful expressions as if watching sports. They laugh and drink while the numbers scale ever higher, but if that board were to," He tilts the hourglass a little more, flipping it over. The sand forming the numbers on the board begins flowing upwards, in accordance with the hourglass. "Turn, and the arrows that pointed up instead pointed down, they would tear each other's throats out like beasts. An illusory world is theirs, masks and smiles held together by paper and hate." "Ordinary people have such little appreciation for natural spaces,"     "*Ordinary* gives the beastial obsession of humanity far too much credit, my lady. Their ordinary is humanity's ordinary, nothing more."
Angela	Damn it. He kissed the tablet. He kind of has rizz. The future is going to be annoyingly complicated, isn't it? The way he talks up his connection to Druvis only worsens matters. She might have miscalculated. Well, Yuuki said they played all the angles. Angela might as well get some angle-playing in anyway, regardless of what comes, but she says, "You'd make an excellent poet, Forget Me Not. When you find the timeline you are seeking, I hope you have the time to indulge. I would eagerly read your work." Whether it's sincere flattery is almost irrelevent. She'd trust in the confident liar over the stuttering truth-teller any day. "Revenge is a motive I can appreciate." Angela says. "So long as the future one seeks--so to speak--comes to pass." Of course sometimes these things are one and the same which feels convenient to Angela. She wishes she had it so easy as that. She thinks about White, who seems to be hit the hardest out of all this. It doesn't surprise her that Kukuru handles this well, she's always been family first and will bring anyone into the family easily. But that isn't necessarily a good thing. It's easy today for her sponsor, but she worries about her tomorrow. She doesn't worry that she'll cry, she can dry tears, she worries she'll smile all the way into the pit if she doesn't stay observant. She doesn't trust easy. That is the asset she can provide for her. "Sir Forget Me Not. May I ask--How the Concord can assist in your goals in this time? Since you've heard of me, I assume you know what the Library can provide. Miss Schneider has done an excellent job endearing us to your cause--and, well, warning us of the Foundation--were it not for her, the Foundation's word would have been all we had until now."
Madeleine Cadrasteia	"-and I both know that the grand forests, the redwoods and the native oaks and noble firs, the grasses and the streams and all within and between -- they would be restored."     "Magic ran through the Earth, rearing beasts the likes of which have long since faded into memory, and the forests and waters were pristine..."     "Precisely!" Madeleine says with an enthusiastic nod. "And all the animals and critters alike who dwell in those wilds, too. It'll be a second chance for this world, an opportunity to do right by those places and things. That's what I'm really looking forward to about this project, the natural flourishing that will come with your success."     "If the world were as it should be, then each man would have his own garden to tend, and Lady Druvis would be the example of success that humanity falls short of!"     "Hear, hear!" Madeleine calls, as she holds out her emptied glass to be refilled by one of the masked servants. "You're doing this not only to right the wrongs you've suffered yourself, but in the name of justice for every one who has suffered under the yoke of humanity's 'vision' for the world. I *like* that." The grin on her face is downright predatory. "You'll have to introduce me to Lady Arcana sometime, she sounds like a woman who can show them what REAL vision is."     Schneider arrives up the stairs, stirring Madeleine briefly from her savage reverie. She takes another sip of her drink and waves. "An excellent performance," she says. "And you're still injured, I notice! Come here, have a seat and a drink, you've earned both." She waves the fighter over to an empty chair.
Metamorph One	'They created 'the United States' from this land, this America.'     Neither Dianna or Elara have ever spoken to where they originally came from, on Earth. Dianna would take exception to the question at all, in particular. But that it is 'somewhere, at some time' must be so, for the particular way their expressions sour in slow unison along with Druvis. They don't need to get as far as 'Wall Street' to know, much less the rest. Elara's knuckles turn subtly whiter, laced with Dianna's, at the story.     '-and I both know that the grand forests, the redwoods and the native oaks and noble firs, the grasses and the streams and all within and between -- they would be restored.'     "They were here first." Dianna says, then stops and tries again. "They'd be here forever if those people didn't choose to get rid of them. And they don't have a right to do that."     '...I live there. The Walden is an arcanist establishment... located within the woods owned by arcanists.'     Elara seems faintly confused, but apparently it isn't a question she's going to ask. Only tilting her head, she says "You really have such an air, you know."     'My-lords,'     "Oh that motherfucker--!" Dianna stands up so fast her chair scrapes. She was just watching Schneider stage fight, but the sight of her black eye-- that's where she was just looking-- launches her away far enough from the table that Elara has to pinch her sleeve and slowly drag her back. "You're working. Obviously we understand." she says, waving Schneider over with a smile. Dianna, trying not to acknowledge her own reaction, says "You're a gunsmith? I'd neved guess." as she seats herself again.     'Mmm, do the partners of the Concord intrigue you so?'     "Is it surprising if we do?"     "You've been intriguing us all night."     'Would it offend your sense of tidiness, Lady Druvis, to change one sister and not the other?'     "Don't do that." Dianna says, all of a sudden. She seems to think she can close her eyes and sagely get away with it, for a moment, then sighs, and glances away. "Then one is 'yours' and the other one is 'theirs'. And after a while, no matter how much you like them, one is the one you can trust, and the other is the one you're wary about. Don't draw lines between things that are just fine together."     'You're *universal herbaphony specialist*?!'     "That's a thng?" Elara says, starry-eyed in another direction at the same time. "Oh gosh, I thought she was being poetic about it. Oooh, now I have to hold in my curiosity about what all the plants on Io would say. I can't just go dragging her around, but . . ."     'Of course, when the end comes, they will be given the choice to repent to Lady Arcana and join the Manus, and survive-- what abominable cruelty it would be, to leave them ignorant to the choices that led to their own demise!'     "Kinder than I would be." Dianna says, with the slightly resigned tone of an argument she knows she's already wrong about. "Sorry. I've never been good at reconciliation. I think if the people I'm thinking of all got washed away in a Storm I'd be ecstatic for a year and then never think about them again. Wanting other people to know and admit exactly how they hurt you is . . ."
Metamorph One	'To look outside and see the wreckage that remains, is that not all the proof one could need?'     "Mmm . . ." For a little while, all Elara can manage is that tone of glum agreement, playing with the last fifth of her glass, wirling around in the bottom. "That's kind of the thing, isn't it? The paradox, I mean. If you want to be kind to everyone, you have to be hard on certain things. If you want a tolerant society, you can't tolerate them. Wanting to see the best in everyone sometimes means you let things slide. Small things that you don't really get, from people you don't understand all that well, that you're sure they don't mean. And then, one day, it's too big to turn back anymore."     She looks up out of the bottom of her drink, and sighs. "Almost nobody gets a second try, after that. I hope Miss Arcana has some thoughts on how to make sure nobody forgets the last time." It's almost comically absurd to refer to 'all of human history' as 'the last time'.     'Where I was lucky and successful, far more were not, and is it not undignified to the point of *fury* to even call this 'success'?'     Dianna is nodding a long with a quiet sense of overenergetic relief by now. "Yeah. Otherwise they want to use you as an example. You 'made it' so why can't all the other ones? They go to pick you up and dust you off and call you 'an exemplary example of your kind', or worse, they call you normal, and then they take you by the shoulder and point at everyone else and go 'How unlike those freaks you are, right buddy?' And the second you nod your head, they smile and walk and forget you were ever there, except when they want to tell their friends an anecdote that justifies what they really want to say next."     'Humans cannot envision a world where they are not presumed dominant, where they would be forced to bow and scrape as we have for so long, and so refuse to try.'     Like it's one continuous thought, Dianna's voice raises a little bit more, and she speaks a little bit faster, rolling into another thought. "Then they deserve it. I mean it. Being afraid of what the outgroup is gonna do to you if you ease off a little is just admitting what you think is normal to do to people who aren't like you. If that's how they think, then they should be more scared. All the time."     'You are as wise as you are beautiful, Lady Dianna, and how lucky I am to have met a Concord that holds such superior qualities in such high esteem.'     God forbid. Dianna is radiating deep spiritual kinship with a white heterosexual man. The Multiverse truly is filled with infinite possibilities.     'Her very existence moves me to tears and ignites a fire in my soul, as a rising star of hope found in her noble blood that cannot possibly be quenched by the hate this world fosters.'     Elara is blushing from the secondhand smoke.     '*That* is where Lady Arcana appears-- our Guiding One, the leader of the Manus Vindictae, who promises us the future-past that has been stamped out of our collective mind.'     Elara activates at her specific keyword. She smiles in the way that an animal's attention perks up. "That's the hardest part. People flinching away when you have a way out, because they've been told to just be a little braver every time they run up against a dead end. When that happens enough, you learn to treat hope the same way as blame. So I'm really happy that someone like your Lady Arcana can do that for . . . Haha, sorry, but that sounded, like, inspiringly personal?"
Schneider Greco	"And how wise of her to leave the task of communicating the ideology of the Manus to me, knowing that she could not do so sufficiently..."      Forget-Me-Not's comments on her wisdom and ability came only a few moments before Schneider had come up the stairs. Had she heard him? She gives absolutely no sign that she might have.      But, pleasanter things:      Schneider, presently, is being crowded-round by two much taller women holding towels and handkerchiefs and promising refreshment. She holds up a finger to Druvis, 'wait', and smiles with an undirected smugness.      "Oh, my, my-ladies. What have I done to earn such care from you? Mhm, did I make you a lot of money?" she teases, while lifting her chin like a cat expecting petting. (She doesn't realize, or chooses not to acknowledge, that White was just trying to pass her the hanky.) "Hmmmm. My-lady Ku-ku-ru, it is still only a scratch... but if you will trouble yourself to heal it, I am of no station to refuse."      What an odd pair she and Druvis make, really. One disgusted by the American Dream; the other grasping for it with bloodstained hands...      No, maybe it makes perfect sense they'd get along.      "Oh, you are welcome; Lady Gebura, Lord Parsons. There must of course always be a show. Whatever tender you have staked, you will be made whole and then some. Lord Forget-Me-Not is an honest man." She can't, of course, know that Gebura had no money on her to bet. Oh well.      When she isn't sponging up attention from assorted older women, Schneider is watching how the others take Forget-Me-Not's gospel from her little more-distant table. Her expression goes back to something blank, or maybe only distantly-thoughtful, as she studies them.      "Ah, Lady Madeleine..." She is invited closer. Away from Druvis, and towards Forget-Me-Not. "... I only do not wish to track my blood across the Walden. Might I beg someone to bring me the drink, instead?"
Schneider Greco	"Oh that motherfucker--!"      Perhaps mid-toweling, Schneider bats her eyes at Dianna, hands on her knees to lean forwards.      "Mhmhm. Lady Di-an-na," she says, before ef-fort-ful-ly straiiightening out her voice to purr: "... you should see the other guy~."      Wink, at Elara, as she leans back again. There's practically a star VFX in it.      Don't draw lines between things that are just fine together."      "Mhhh... one is already worn to my left hand; the other is worn to my right. The ejection of the casings, the releasing of the magazine-- they must be so. Even sisters, Lady Dianna, drift apart..."      She tilts her head. "Or do you speak of something diff-er-ent?"
White	White mindfully reverts from her small frown toward Schneider back to a mindful neutrality when Forget Me Not speaks, which isn't hard given it's her natural expression. The way the man shifts from pining praise to a delineating, limit-drawing, oh so polite reduction of Schneider's capability all but confirms something for White on the spot. She doesn't have to argue with him, though. She doesn't pick fights for worthless prizes; and it'll take time to arrange the 'heist' she's thinking of anyway.      So, she plays along. She doesn't need to be clever, or verbose right now. Just let the talking-man talk, speak simply about things that are hard to contradict, and listen. "Give the right job... To the right person." Something she thinks often anyway. While she feels out her next words, she notices Schneider's chin-lifted expectancy and gently pushes herself from her seat, lightly touching Kukuru's arm as she steps around the horned woman to be somewhere behind Schneider. She seems to have no hesitancy at all to start cleaning up Schneider's face, wetting an edge of the cloth with a blue-glyphed spell from her pinky-tip and wiping gingerly around her eyes, forehead, and then moving down from there to her mouth and jaw. She's done this *exact* routine before with someone else... Maybe Ariel, maybe Sophia, someone smaller than her for certain. It's not long before she's going for a second pass, to dry the moistened skin this time, and commenting softly as she goes like she doesn't know what her hands are doing, even dressed in such a high-class outfit as she is.      "The Demon Lord... Would be upset... To see you with more injuries." is her vaguely-deflective answer, given she had made no bet to make money from. It's also an offhand way of probing Forget Me Not for a reaction; the term 'Demon Lord' is a loaded one, whether you're as game-brained as she is or simply familiar with religious expectations. Then, more directly to Forget Me Not, "It takes wisdom... To look one's best." She says so like it's a significant fact of reality that he should be unable to disagree with, while she's moving on to helping Schneider untangle and neaten up her damaged hair using thin silk-strands. They probably tickle her scalp. At the same time, functionally effortless from the outside looking in, three of those strands reach across to pluck up her own glass and bring it over like she's hoping the transmuted flavor remains the same after the first sip; either way she holds it in front of Schneider. Maybe White should be more sympathetic to the idea that humans are inherently selfish, wasteful, ruinous and untrustworthy. It isn't like it's proven false by her experiences... But, after all, there are humans she does like. To her, that's always been the point; the people she likes deserve her help. Everyone else is on their own unless she's feeling especially nice.      Other topics, other topics... "What is your... Lady Arcana like? Does she visit... You often?" Just keep him talking. She can tend a friend and still do that much.
Flamel Parsons	"But are they not the ones whose actions have hurt the health of the world's emotions more? Is this your idea of a healthy world, Mr. Parsons?"     "I don't plan to withhold aid -- I'm in Schneider's pocket, after all!" Flamel's beaming smile keeps the the tone of any conversation with him on a more positive space. "But mental health... it's just not something you can see globally, or talk about who deserves what, in the end. I'll be doing my best to heal however I can while we work, just because that's who I am! Still..." He scratches his cheek, giving out a soft sigh. "Who *wouldn't* decide to do what you've decided? And if you're offering humans a way out, I can't really say you're not doing better than the Foundation." He shakes his head, thinking about it. "Don't mind me, really, don't mind me at all. I'm just always a bit uneasy when lives start being lost, when there's so much pain involved, I'm sure you get it."     "But it does seem that she's done her job as a pretty face, mm?"     A slight twinge. Something quirks in Flamel's brain and he holds back an intuitive response.     "That's a thing? Oh gosh, I thought she was being poetic about it"     Flamel bobs a finger at Elara's starry-eyed face. "It is! It's *rare* too, or at least it sure is rare in its universal form where I come from. Expert herbaphonists can work on communication with a subset of plants, you know, closely associated to another specialty of theirs, but *universal herbaphonists*, we only really know one rare bloodline and it's a heck of a struggle to deal with," He gestures all around at the activity, the artificially-constructed. "All *this*, you know, the way the world has become after the industrial revolution. If the Zanottos were here, they could explain it ten times better, probably understand it a hundred times better."
Kukuru	"the Manus will have gathered as much momentum for the next as we can" "Long term... Mhm, mhm, that makes sense. Fixing the world and saving everyone sure would be great, but if you caaan't... Then you can still save your family, and everyone that's important to you." Kukuru asserts with a clink of the glasses, nodding slowly in apparent approval of (her interpretation) of Forget Me Not's intentions. "And if the next best thing is saving the world with that momentum, theeen that's the way to go." "they would tear each other's throats out like beasts." Although it's not a frown, Kukuru's expression is still more pensive than her usual as she considers the tickers and the hourglass. "Is that all it takes to get them to do that?" A pause to think, and then a light sigh. "How awful... Even animals stop when they're full. And nobody back home would ever turn on anyone like that. Ah, but nobody else at home is human, so maaaybe that's why? But nobody's an arcanist, either..." "knowing that she could not do so sufficiently" "were it not for her, the Foundation's word would have been all we had until now." "The Foundation... They've been reeeeal busy, haven't they?" Kukuru starts to recall something as she hears Angela bring that name up, stroking her chin lightly to try and jar her memory. Several somethings, rather, although one is far more obvious to her with the way Forget Me Not speaks of Schneider's abilities. She never drops that smile, of course, although White might notice that there's a little less warmth in it as she passes by Kukuru with that arm touch. "It sounds like they've got plenty of hooks going out already, mhm... Well, I'm sure some of them will listen to reason if we talk to them about all this and sort eeeverything out. Wouldn't that be wonderful?" She suggests, still managing to remain dim-wittedly hopeful as ever while- "Mhm, did I make you a lot of money?" -she starts tending to Schneider. Giggling softly at the chin-lift, Kukuru's all too happy to oblige with a gentle touch to the chin, even scritching her gently under the chin with all the firmness and care she's used to showing. Leaving the cleanup to White, Kukuru focuses on the healing side of things, filtering the regenerative nanites through her hands and into Schneider with a pale green light between them steadily. "I'm sure you'll get me plenty of money one day. Like-Oh. Ohhhh. You meant todaaay." Finally understanding, Kukuru laughs softly and shakes her head even while continuing her careful work at wound-tending. She takes them one at a time, carefully mending flesh and even tending to what would otherwise become nasty-looking and painfully sensitive bruises to ensure that they actually heal over properly. "I'll have to bring my next paycheck for bets the next time you're in there, mhm. That's such a good idea..."
Ein	"...Lighter?" Druvis asks, indulgent and humored in wafts through tone, steamed in a rougher and more personal consideration. Her airy, detached, deliberate tone abridges for a time as she talks to Schneider about the tools and toys for midnight drives through bloodspatters and gunsmoke. "The holes... would be a change." She agrees, not reconsidering the design. She, of course, well knows the design. "But I could re-size just the one..." Her idea coincides with Schneider's in motion and in in reversal she is the intercepted one. "My. . . 'sense of tidiness'. . ." She repeats, and holds the thought and words close to collar. One champagne-tint glove traces a fingermark across the asymmetrical pattern across neckline, touching the leaves in black, and the masked woman falls silent. Deep contemplation spent searching feelings as an artist is given full reign of the standing situation. There's an immediate ease to doing so, but she tries to challenge that thought inside and listen to the sound all around her for guide. "If you went into the woods looking for me, I would be found." Druvis answers, hand still rested on her own neckline. The words, warm enough, rest on the bed of something like a promise unsaid - that perhaps not everyone who ran through the would would find its steward, but Schneider would. "Because you asked." 'You're *universal herbaphony specialist*?! A real universal herbaphonist, god, and no Psychonaut support,' Surprised - assaulted by diagnosis - there is a shift first to confused full attention shifting across table to Flamel, and then the slow smoothing out of stress response as he keeps talking. Cautious, a timid cat unsure of the provenance of tones turning from allied to near-intimate so suddenly, she has to even put together the words he said and simply doesn't process auditory information at the speed of mysterious government agents! Or, 'fellow' psychics, as any case may be. "The flowers and grasses, the trees and bushes, the reeds and fieldrows," She explains, turning head to nearest-to-her collection of flowers on display, and then back to Flamel. "I hear them all?" He starts talking about astral links and importance and there's a character to it that she's drawn to and a second that sings in a language that disgusts and revolts her, and, Behind the mask, her visage of roots and wood-eared wicker feline, she metes out a more even path as Flamel continues. "... It was." She summarizes of her journey, of difficulty, of pain borne solo, of everything. It, simply, was. "And if you could hear, ...you'd know." There's no haunting tone, nor resentment, nor regret. She hears, and knows, and that's her truth. She can hear the lament of the green things in industrial Chicago, and did not need a burned forest to know disgust. It rolls off of her, even without active scans, or the influence of a mask. Anger, cold, and a resentment for what had come to pass. How could she - how could the world - heal? "There is a war of axes and chains and pitch and lathe, a war waged every second of every day. The tools forget their original home, the handle split from branch, and the forest... speaks in eulogy." Ten thousand dishes and funny scanners are not required to pick up this signal, even if it is perhaps a different one than he knows. Flamel, maybe, used diagnosis for good? "What is a. . . Psychonaut? How do they, support?"
Ein	While Druvis III and Schneider stand besides each other, apart from the table, and Forget Me Not takes the head to finish his tour of preaching and teaching, schmoozing and cruising, the Weyerhauser woman still remains apart from the dining. Preferentially, near to Schneider as the shorter woman confirms she might track blood across the table. Madeleine and Dianna are both on the same page of the book that Druvis is on, at least in a grand ideological scale, cannot help but be washed with until it dyed through her cloth and greened her very soul, and Forget Me Not gives her an incredible smoking endorsement, worship of a sort that places her on a particular pedestal. She makes no motion to stop him. If anything, there is a great amount of Forget Me Not's obsession that puts Druvis III more at ease than Flamel's collegiate nature turned comraderie. Approaching her with diagnosis is less ideal than a kind of shamanistic reverence, and certainly, the lack of general support for her particular inclinations had shaped her socially. "They were here first." She echoes, and for a moment emits a creak of a sigh. "The 'right' of want runs rampant. Fences that hold no sheep, but pen in the enclosures of man. They count no fall of apples, and spit on 'common' good, chop at it diligently. Right is... a blow." 'You really have such an air, you know.' Druvis III, turning attending rootblank to Elara, pauses for a moment in faint noncomprehension, and then, coming to a conclusion, thumbs a leaf upon her neckline and nods slowly. "I have been told." By Forget Me Not, repeatedly. 'Then one is 'yours' and the other one is 'theirs'.' The motion of Druvis' hand stops, and then, finally drops. Her decision on the wands is made, at last, with a little guidance from outside. ". . . She's right. I'd match the grips for you, but... I'd not leave one for 'them'. I will match the wand to your hands, though, if you like." As simple as that, it's settled. Leaving one - giving one over, to the enemy, didn't sit well at all with Druvis. The sporting of it was something she didn't often watch but for Schneider herself. The wound - the money - the burning of a life's candle for bloody bills and coins is a consumption that Druvis has already spoken her thoughts upon. 'Oh gosh, I thought she was being poetic about it.' Both flattered and a bit stressed, at the stranglely-set doubt by the very charming women, Druvis shifts mask to Flamel again as he carries on, and then back to Elara. ". . . yes, there are other druids?" She finally asks-rather-than-states, the line of it all causing her to question reality a little herself. 'Oh? Druvis, are you a gun... Um. Maker, too?' The topic of weapons doubles her back to an older question, though, now that she's rendered her feelings on the fingerguards, with a little help. "I am a wand-maker. It is my hobby," You might almost hear the smile, though from her cool tone it's a pleasant change. "Something I am pleased with the results of. They are arcanist weapons, made to suit the individual. Sometimes, I am... inspired." One more mask-petal peek at the pistols Schneider plays and gestures with, and Druvis indicates the pair of 'wands' in the four ten fierce woman besides. "One such case. I rarely like working with metal, but for Schneider..." It just had to be a gun. Malkuth striking out with dealing with someone brusque and tight in dialogue might be expectable, but the answer is simply true in every single sense of things and perhaps the most complete and direct answer she had given to a question all night.
Ein	"Smoke. Dry, adulterated leaves and pulled pulp are beyond screaming." She suggests to Gebura, instead, lacking anything better to say. If she lost it at people smoking she simply could not exist in 1928 Chicago. The scent of burned things simply was Druvis' every day.
Schneider Greco	"'Be-cause I asked'... my-lady Druvis, you are too kind to me." But this she understands, even if it's rarely granted to her. "I get little time away, but what I get, I think would be well-spent with you."      Maybe it's those 'twelve older sisters' she mentioned to White, but Schneider seems used to peacefully (adorably) receiving care. Even before Kukuru's healed her black eye, she lets White towel over it without a tensing of her face, just smiling slightly with eyes shut.      She is a little pigeonlike...      "Lord Ariel is not, mmmh, the type to find it dashing, my-lady? Mhmhm. More the pity..." Her legs kick a little, and she shivers while drawing-in breath at the odd sudden absence of pains that Kukuru induces: "My, what a magic my-lady has... ahh, do-not let the gamblers hear it, but I will never lose a match. Not if it lets me, umm... return a favor, to one like you."      When White is finished fussing, and Kukuru has moved to her back, Schneider lifts up White's borrowed glass and takes a theatrical little sip from it: "Oh? This is not catarratto...? Mmh, but it does agree with my tongue as well as yours~. Thank-you, Lady White."      She tilts her head back, disengaging from the doting throng (tn: 'throng' means 'two Partners') to look over at Druvis, who's currently being Diagnosed by Flamel. Schneider shakes her head sympathetically: 'my condolences, she's saying silently.      "Mmmh... I trust your judgement to fit my hands, Lady Druvis, as ev-er. Per-haps, keep the trigger-gaps as they are, and only shrink the lower ones? Then the men, they can still pull the trigger, and I still can..." She twirls one around her finger elegantly, until the whirl subsumes it and it reappears in her holster.      "I rarely like working with metal, but for Schneider..."      Schneider's smile widens, which is equally sincere and wry.      Were it anyone but Druvis saying so, she entertains, she might say something like: "Ah, yes, that it must be both arcanist tool and human..."      But she won't dig at Druvis's poetry so, even in jest, and so her fondness smothers the joke.
White	White answers Schneider after a thoughtful pause, briefly stopping both her speech and her hands before returning to finish touching up Schneider's hair. "... Maybe a little. But... She might want... To show off, too. With some payback." Which, of course, could be a problem on its own. There's fun to be had watching her bully someone twice her size, but it almost certainly wouldn't fly here...      As for the drink-imitation, White seems softly pleased by the reception to it. "... It was the... First wine... The Demon Lord brought back to camp. When I still... Couldn't go into human towns." Whether she planned from the start to share it like this... Well, she probably didn't think that far ahead when she chose it at first sip, but she seems a little happy that she got to, anyway.