Scene #9688: Queen's Gambit

Owner	Pose
Foundation Scions	Paperwork travels in flocks. Invitations, queries, forms, all flutter down to the suitcase, delivered from the hands of masked attendants, guards, and desk-clerks, to whoever has humored them and taken them inside- at first, surely Vertin, but now, only whoever's left. Requests for meetings, formal debriefs, offers of prepared residences, meals, and thinly-veiled demands that the unregistered arcanists of the suitcase finally deign to join the working gears of the Foundation, all chip away at that 'whoever'. Vertin, Regulus, APPLe, Sotheby, each, after a point, fail to return. It's to that lack of company that a door-knocked missive arrives, held in the hands of a suit and a grey-white mask, informing that the last of them, 'Ms. Weyerhaeuser', has been asked to an interview with the Vice-President of the Foundation, regarding the general topic of 'the future'. The faceless clerk waits as long as he is instructed to, which, if tested, proves to be indefinitely. A relieved nod meets any answer, rather than 'none', and assurance that she'll be escorted where she's to go, follows after. . . . In the myriad chambers of the St. Pavlov Foundation, white-grey checkered floors form the echoing paths through which she is lead, building to building, with dubiously-coincidental care taken to spend as little time outdoors as possible. Labyrinthine concrete walls huddle close to one another, the differences between one building and the next is nearly nonexistent, save for warmer air, and slivers of evening sun. The staffer is rushed, slightly, and offers no conversation at all. Empty, save for the escorting clerk, and one woman at a long table, the last room Druvis is led to and left in appears to be a library, with wall after wall of shelving. Orderly, cold, and after-hours, it's as though care was taken to scrub out the idea that hands have touched these books, students have scrawled notes and essays on these tables, and that the sunlight has ever made studious children doze off and dream, here. The loudest noise this room seems to have ever felt is the door closing behind her, and the secondmost, the seated woman's words. ""Ms. Weyerhaeuser." Sharp-slow, befitting the woman's rail-straight posture. She waves with a hand, and barely any torso motion, to the empty chair directly across the table from herself. In front of both of them are stacks of paper, different, forms for Druvis, notes and memorandums for the other. Grey eyes match the woman's grey hair, pinned up into a tight bun, above an ostentatious high collar, nearly an antique ruff. No tea, coffee, or water sit by for either of them. She doesn't rise to greet the newcomer. "On behalf of the St. Pavlov Foundation, welcome. My name is Constantine, Vice-President of the Joint Committee of the Foundation." Her tone is at ease, a barely-present scratchiness to slow-stressed words. "It's a rarity that I have cause to meet face to face with those who wash up on the shores of this safe-harbor. The Storm has passed, and here, within this castle, you're safe. Now that you've had your time to rest," The same hand-wave gesture, now at the papers in front of Druvis, similar forms to what have been sent, penned-in, with empty signature lines, and paragraphs of bureaucratic bindings. A heavy fountain pen is provided, as is a second. "I'd like to ask you to make a decision, for your sake, as to how you'll be joining the future."
Ein	One of the first to go, Ms. Moissan had departed to see to her reports and the desk she had at Headquarters to do them at. There had been some expectation, of course, that the efficient Field Agent would have been done, already... ... but Moissan had been busy with field aid and craft, ensuring that Lady Sotheby was delivered safely (being the only Sotheby in Chicago for the duration of her deployment), and had a mess of reporting before the sectional command of Sabre Squadron and Laplace for their own purposes. Behind, she had submitted a prospectus only for review: Lady Gwendolyn Vera Sotheby is strong-minded but guideable and helpful when prompted. She has learned the 'First Secret of Alchemy', particularly the transmutation of gold, and has little idea of the value of currency but a strong mind for aesthetics. Must be allowed access to educational supplies and alchemy laboratory access or she will begin to locate such materials on her own for less predictable results. A brief dossier on vital statistics was attached, with some clippings from UTTU about the Sothebys in general as well as a work journal for Sotheby's education. Druvis Weyerhauser III had less on her. There was the Chicago Tribunal's rendition of the woman, which was clearly a hitpiece, there was the UTTU articles on her which painted the usual almost horoscopic picture of her, and notes about her movement through the forest about the Walden. There's little to add beyond the presence of the woman as an ally of the Manus Vindictae while in the Labyrinth, and then later on aligning with the Timekeeper against the apostle Forget Me Not in the aid camp. The missing holes instead have 'see operational details' notes on attacks on Manus operations and other efforts, parts where there was no oversight on her... and parts where Moissan is clearly tasked with some other part of the operation. The only conclusion Moissan draws in her report is that Druvis only currently has animosity towards Forget Me Not. --- One of the next to go, Sotheby who had become critically bored while unsupervised and was beginning to go into experimental ingredient combination to see if she could produce new effects by filling her 'rub everything on everything' notebook with the more exciting reactants and reagents, before a masked adjutant summoned her with papers and the suggestion that Ms. Moissan was waiting. But there wasn't any Ms. Moissan. Just papers! Papers to sign and nobody to talk with. . . and so Ms. Sotheby, incredible lady as she was, threatened to become bored again before someone saved her. . . Perhaps a shapeshifting potion? --- Druvis had rested in the Wilderness, the ebb-away of the Storm's gnostic force letting her shed her tears and fall to sleep and drain the day away like a toxin. On the next day, she had wandered back to the cafe-like walk down and sunroom atmosphere with a sore neck from rocks and roots being her pillow, hoping anyone had a change of clothes in her size and finding some of their number missing -- including Vertin. Deeply distressed, it had taken some brief convincing to wear her back down to calm that the Storm had not disappeared Arcanists, before she remembered it was the Foundation doing the taking and not some force of mythology. Foraging up a meal from Chicago's aid supplies, Druvis eats and considers the thinning population. By the time she had gone from getting cleaned up and changing to scattering some little brown seeds around the suitcase's central area and staircase, and finds a chair by the entrance to wait. There's a few more left to go before her, every other soul departing from the little slice of what sounded paradisially primeval to her ear, and so... Druvis is woken up from a lonely and restful nap by the presence of the masked individual, self-trimmed hair and uneven bangs framing guarded eyes and faint frown before yawning.
Ein	"Now is acceptable." She answers, only after long enough to stretch and rise, looking to the cane-wand leaned against her seat. A question almost comes to her, and then instead of asking it she presumes and allows the pressed escort the opportunity to raise concern again. If there's no 'leave that here' presented, she'll walk it up the stairs, hands clasped behind back with the wand's center gripped by the thumbs of both hands. --- Each time the sound she'd be interested in hearing closes and a whisper of green shades grey and checkerboard white and black, they take a turn. It becomes obvious with its regularity, but the walk is a decent stretch. The path complexity into the maze of the Foundation separates her from the Suitcase, from direction, and she is awash in the masked-but-different Foundation for a while. Eventually, a library. Eventually, a stop, that Druvis moves to sit before addressing the woman across, not as equally poised as the rail-straightness that her opposite maintained. "I am welcomed." She agrees neutrally of Constantine's introduction, and nods. Being introduced, and with such a title, which was grand yet not quite ultimate at anything and so comfortably dedicated to this particular task, gives Druvis a context that nationality or era might not. "Then, for me, you find a cause." She states, not to question but simply repeating back and confirming reality. She moves to place a hand up on the table besides the papers, opposite sided to the pens she had been offered, and looks at Constantine. "'As to how'. There is a nuance to the choice you are offering?"
Foundation Scions	The wand is noticed, and eyed from behind a mask, but uncommented-on. If 'disarm her' was an order, the staffer would have come with guards, even if he'd started with a request. Whether it is confidence, foolishness, or generosity, remains to be seen. . . . "Yes, I have." Hands at rest, steeple in front of her, on the tabletop. That they obscure dossier pages is incidental, she's not using them, or has already. "Without the exchange of words, and sharing of presence, trust cannot be built." Empty, declarative more-so of the present lack afforded to Druvis and any others also un-met-with. "Our Foundation is a guiding light, the only one to be found. Through our stability, the resources and manpower gathered here, those such as the Timekeeper manage to bring the desperate and the lucky to safety. Congratulations, by the way, in your efforts to survive the Storm of 1929." Her eyes hardly move towards anywhere but Druvis' face, the untouched paperwork hardly unexpected. "It won't surprise you to hear that the shelter you now enjoy has been paid for, again and again. Here, in this library, students of our School for the Primary Defense of Mankind, are raised to shoulder those burdens, alongside our investigators, and each other piece moving as-intended." "To play your own part is the choice you have, with the entrusted freedoms and assistances the Foundation affords to those working for the common good, and the future. That, or to stand by in stalemate as you have been, as the future is fought for and time moves on." Constantine presses her hands to the table, apart, like she's to make her posture even straighter; an impossibility. "Forgive me, Ms. Weyerhaeuser, there's precious little nuance to be found. It serves everyone, this Foundation, you, and even Vertin, for this to be a simple matter, expedited. It's my hope to make the decision simpler, by whatever means."
Ein	Wand set besides her, leaned against chairside and thigh, Druvis III is worlds apart from Vice-President Constantine. From posture, slightly down, to dress, freshly stitched back to wearability and only accessorized with the silver crescent moon in simple necklace high, to hair, asymmetrical and damaged, to eyes... Like any damp cat uncertain about the stoop welcoming it, alert and suspicious, guarded, searching yet open, she analyzes Constantine slowly. 'Without the exchange of words, and sharing of presence, trust cannot be built.' 'Ms. Weyerhauser' takes her time. She says nothing, green eyes locked back, and Constantine continues. 'Congratulations, by the way, in your efforts to survive the Storm of 1929.' "Yes. I succeeded in surviving." She agrees, though it doesn't quite rise to 'thanks', and certainly not 'thank you'. There's almost a sarcastic boredom in her recitation, a faint smoke to the tone of her voice that hangs like mist as she breathes in. 'To play your own part is the choice you have,' Druvis exhales slowly, audible in the smoky raggedness. 'That, or to stand by in stalemate as you have been, as the future is fought for and time moves on.' "Madam Vice President," Druvis begins, to her elder and to the State behind her and rising as the walls of the very building. "In the interest of trust," Now it's an ask. "For what reasons would you say that the Foundation isn't at a standstill?" Hands on table, as Constantine's are, Druvis' brow lifts by degrees. Constantine's posture straightens. Druvis leans back. The new arrangement now has Druvis slightly upturned in the regality of a question posed, and to the hands on the table-pressed, she looks faintly down, trying to read the intent and failing. 'Forgive me, Ms. Weyerhaeuser, there's precious little nuance to be found.' "Then I forgive you for implying nuance." Druvis answers, her eyes closing with an almost conciliatory nod, as a practiced gesture to other apostles being crossed back into this situation, and then rising eyes to look at the administrator. 'It's my hope to make the decision simpler, by whatever means.' "I understand." Druvis doesn't nod this time. "Where is Vertin?"
Foundation Scions	"The Foundation simply does not stand still. As we speak, a thousand duties prop up two thousand more, to rebuild and reassess, and return to what was only briefly halted. The House of Integratus will meet, discuss the paths ahead, and assemble policy. Gaps will be filled, new roles will be assigned, and once more will the peace of mankind be sailed towards." "The St. Pavlov Foundation may be delicately balanced, but it is far from delicate." What she isn't saying, is why the Foundation is sparing such efforts on squaring away a number of new, notable, and unaligned arcanists brought here unauthorized. Indelicate may not be a lie, if this stressor is more-than minor, behind closed doors. At that, Constantine stands, the motion smooth, heelsteps echo in this ghostly-still room as she steps to the side of the long table, palm-down hand hovering just above its surface without looking. Instead, now next to Druvis, on the same side as the untouched pens, the Vice President glances at the paper. "Do you mind?" precedes picking up the second pen, to hold close to the table-top, loose between index and middle finger. The question's answer isn't waited for, or heeded. "Regardless of your decision, a room is being prepared for you, as has been done for the others. You'll be provided for, and should you request the likes of a tour of the grounds, it will be arranged." The pen is held up, now, and offered out in insistence, its end hovering above the page as Constantine leans slightly over. "I understand that your inclination is to hesitate, Ms. Weyerhaeuser. As I said, I hope to make the matter simpler." "Vertin is presently receiving treatment, and is under expert care." There's a little glint in Constantine's eyes as she stands and stares down, be it some micromotion of lens muscles, or an artifact of window-glass high above. "Her treatment course will, unfortunately, be long, and I'm told she'll be in no state to converse. Expect that it will last until well after you've decided to participate with our Foundation." "Perhaps it would put you at ease, to see her? That can be arranged as well."
Ein	"Forgive the analogy," Druvis begins, a promising preface to any argument, and then sighs out lightly. "But an anthill also has a thousand duties propping up two thousand more." She turns her hands up on the table. "And it can be quite stationary." She knows any full beat lets Constantine take the momentum back, so she straightens her own shoulders, finally. Honesty? Fine - she could speak some words. "The Foundation, in Chicago, didn't help me. The special soldiers this organization sent into the woods near mine, didn't help me. The operatives the Foundation sent and the ones from outside enlisted to aid you, did not assist me. Vertin did." "So," Buying time in half-beats, she closes her fingers on the table slowly. Honesty falls out of her because she runs out of wind in her to bluff or press. "I care about Vertin." Druvis thinks of Chicago, and America, and the Manus Vindictae, who so easily drew on the insufficiencies of the world for Arcanists and had plentiful footsoldiers as each age ended. She thought about how she had silently armed them, and wondered if the Foundation knew about her abilities' full extent. Surely, UTTU wasn't... tell-all? 'The St. Pavlov Foundation may be delicately balanced, but it is far from delicate.' "Do you believe rebuilding what was there, will address your new problems? The Manus Vindictae want to return, but they may do so by destruction. Can the Foundation's balance sustain itself, if it is 'Delicate'?" She talks while Constantine fluidly stands up and walks around to her, suddenly small as she sits in the chair and Constantine stands over her, finishing with hands closed and wrists up as the pen is offered. Her fingers don't open, and for a moment, she doesn't talk. Constantine resumes, and Druvis emits relief as a nasal breath. 'You'll be provided for, and should you request the likes of a tour of the grounds, it will be arranged.' Constantine slides up near to Druvis, and whether or not Moissan or UTTU reported on some her Druvis' particular aversions, the way that Constantine approaches and sidles up makes her seem intimate, but the invasion of closeness on her wand side gives Druvis a green-eyed saccade away and slow blink to gather composure. She must look at anything but pen, hand holding it, papers. Vegetables a child won't eat, a lemon a cat rejects. 'As I said, I hope to make the matter simpler.' "I'll need some time to read it." She answers, more quietly than before, unprojecting. Eyes back on the papers, and the pen, she finds the strength to zoom on that and draw in a breath without immediately cycling it out over the rough rocks of her feelings. "If Vertin cannot be spoke to, then I'll accept your offer." Druvis gives that a moment, and then without lifting hands, instead gives the light 'vvnt' of high white chair sliding away from table. "I would like a tour of your grounds. Perhaps I will understand your Foundation's meaning better speaking to its plants and hearing their memories here. They will remember your glories." They will remember everything. "A walk will help clear my head, as well." She ends looking at Constantine, looming over her, but somehow she's not so small any more, sitting to standing. Since Constantine had offered, finally set out choices, Druvis found one that suited her.
Foundation Scions	"Is an anthill so still? They build, they grow, and send out their scouts and their warriors, and progress towards the future from their domain. Why, I quite like the analogy." Given not a moment to interject, that's saved for once she can, her move locked into mind to save for when the match timer's turned over. Patient pressure, cool tone, slightly scratchy tail-off. "Of course. I only caution that you mind that Vertin is the Timekeeper of the Foundation. Her presence in Chicago was anything but coincidental, and you'll note that it is us she relies upon." No apologies or condolences for the other asset's lack of action, it's, of course, understood by both here that they were 'doing their jobs', and what those jobs were, and also that this is a meeting aimed at something slightly different than friendly persuasion. "The Foundation's balance has stood thus far, as it has for far longer than the Storm has battered at our doors. I'm certain our principles will ensure a return to a lasting peace. As for the minutiae, matters of specific worth and change, will be decided as they always are, by the deliberations of the Foundation's legislators." Druvis' posture, upon the pen-offer, is met with slight amusement, or a feigned appearance of such. Tight-pressed lips, default set into a small curl, loosen as if about to speak, and then tense again in a breath's-length stare. Only after, "You've been given time, but if time is what you need, it's yours at stake." Constantine's eyebrow raises, for the first time in the meeting, at Druvis' agreement, before flattening at the clarification. 'Agreement' under duress and threat, possibly expected, agreement flat-out to the circumstances, not anticipated. Constantine's disappointment doesn't have a tell, no lip-twitch, or anything else, save for mercifully returning the pen to where it was, this time tip-towards her guest. Perhaps punitively, the offered-tour isn't to be 'soon'- "Madam Z will show you around come the morning, and rest assured, it won't be rushed. I can't imagine the grounds compare to your family's woods, but you'll have your chance." Constantine takes a matched step back, as Druvis pushes-back and stands, to maintain an angle of nearly stared-down-at, or, more generously, provide her the space for her motions. Her hands steeple in front of her, and she gestures, with a nod, once more at the uncompleted form. "Your escort will show you to the prepared room, and should your mind be cleared by the walk back, you'll have only to return your meals are brought by. I hope you enjoy your time, with how you choose to spend it."