01-05-2018, 07:57 PM
Francisco Echeverría asks questions when necessary but for the most part his is a role of acceptance. Hearing confessions and fielding requests for help. If Will had asked him to, he would have come back to Denver on the next available flight. If Will had asked him in a certain tone of voice he would have teleported. That's the sort of man he is.
They decided to meet nearby and he did not ask for many details over the phone. Denver is not on the list of Technocratic crackdown locales anymore but Los Angeles is a teeming cesspool of vampiric machinations and street-level Orphan recruitment.
The former rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd is now the -- well, it doesn't really matter. Margot has never met him before and Will went by "Elijah" the last time he and the reverend were in the same room together. When deciding where to meet up, the priest gives a neighborhood and a few suggestions.
And the time of the agreed-upon arrival is upon them.
It would be hard to miss this Pan fellow even if they were in a larger establishment. He would stand 6'2" barefoot, and now that he's in his late forties, early fifties, wherever the hell he is age-wise, he's had more than enough time to recover from that Paradox backlash that nearly killed him several years ago. Built like a boxer, the aura he exudes is part personal magnetism and part his resonance.
If Margot feels as if the holy illumination he projects is an indication that she is being judged, no one would blame her. But there's a warmth in the light, closer to that of Sol than of God, and when he removes his sunglasses it is to be polite.
He smiles the instant he sees Will, and if the Hermetic is amenable he will offer him a handshake-hug combination.
"You're looking well, Elijah," he says. Whoops. He speaks in a soft yet confident voice that belies his size. It's the voice of someone who could get real loud real fast if he needed to. He does not need to right now. When they separate, he clips the sunglasses onto the V of his black button-down shirt and plants his hands on his hips. "This must be Margot."
They decided to meet nearby and he did not ask for many details over the phone. Denver is not on the list of Technocratic crackdown locales anymore but Los Angeles is a teeming cesspool of vampiric machinations and street-level Orphan recruitment.
The former rector of the Church of the Good Shepherd is now the -- well, it doesn't really matter. Margot has never met him before and Will went by "Elijah" the last time he and the reverend were in the same room together. When deciding where to meet up, the priest gives a neighborhood and a few suggestions.
And the time of the agreed-upon arrival is upon them.
It would be hard to miss this Pan fellow even if they were in a larger establishment. He would stand 6'2" barefoot, and now that he's in his late forties, early fifties, wherever the hell he is age-wise, he's had more than enough time to recover from that Paradox backlash that nearly killed him several years ago. Built like a boxer, the aura he exudes is part personal magnetism and part his resonance.
If Margot feels as if the holy illumination he projects is an indication that she is being judged, no one would blame her. But there's a warmth in the light, closer to that of Sol than of God, and when he removes his sunglasses it is to be polite.
He smiles the instant he sees Will, and if the Hermetic is amenable he will offer him a handshake-hug combination.
"You're looking well, Elijah," he says. Whoops. He speaks in a soft yet confident voice that belies his size. It's the voice of someone who could get real loud real fast if he needed to. He does not need to right now. When they separate, he clips the sunglasses onto the V of his black button-down shirt and plants his hands on his hips. "This must be Margot."
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
-- ixphaelaeon