It isn't too hard for Jim to keep an eye on Jake, the Ecstatic consor of a lost Denver cabal member and Jim's adopted ward-for-the-night. That's because the crease-wrinkled faux leather couch he had promised Jake, the one in his Spartan studio apartment, is less than a yard from his disheveled bed.
To even call the room a studio is a bit of a misnomer (read: broker marketing jargon). A room with a couple of locks on a red-painted wooden door, situated on the top level of the three-story multifamily home. A home with a few walls knocked down so that its myriad inhabitants can share a kitchen, a handful of bathrooms, a front door, and the smallest back yard you've ever seen (only really useful for two things, judging by the grill and carpet of cigarette butts).
A flock of newly-graduated students' lease ran out with the onset of summer, and he'd grabbed up one of the rooms for himself. There are moving boxes indicating disparate Others are moving into the house. The distinct lack of valuables in the common area says a lot as to the mindset of those who live in such communal situations. Mara, Serafine and Sid had all been invited back to further discuss the answers-that-made-for-more-questions following his own scrying and Serafine's revelation of her visions.
If one or all accept the invitation, and either way, Jim shares a few key facts with the cluster of magi. Whether it's within the ground floor's living area whilst Jake curls up into a ball on the couch in Jim's room, or perhaps in the sparse few moments leaving Beta when the forlorn consor had been otherwise distracted.
He'd seen an empty lot covered in the piles of ash and dust that Serafine had described. Somewhere to the south of Beta. And then, more concrete answers had emerged from the swirling ether. Glimpses of Shelby's own destiny in the Eternal Moment. Yes, 12. West 12th Avenue. He is inquisitive as to the rest of Serafine's vision, what she had held back for Jake's sake. And when they part ways, he shares a telephone number and his own address, hopeful he will get the same from those members of the little clutch of Awakened that have been called together to investigate this happening.
And when they are gone, he can be found beneath a dangling lightbulb watching Jake from a chair at the retro kitchen table in the far corner of his room. The only other piece of furniture in the Cultist's living space. Or, more specifically, Jim is watching the boy's back, as he's curled facing into the couch's crevices trying to get some rest. Every now and then he looks down to the fresh joint he is rolling between knob-knuckled and calloused fingers.
Jim never makes it to the disheveled bed.
The effects of the Patron are shifting, from stimulant to the leaden blanket of sedative. But instead of crawling toward his mattress, he slips down off the chair and finds himself cross-legged at the foot of the couch, leaning back into where its cushions bunch beneath Jake's frame. He can hear the boy breathing, hear him in the kind of sleep that produces no dreams but also does little to ease the anxiety of waking. There is a flick of a cheap plastic lighter and the joint comes alive. After the first few puffs Jim matches his own breathing to the consor's. Staying close to him. Trying to offer some form of comfort, if only in proximity to another. And as the night grows darker, Jim's own avatar stirs, roused by the swell of willwork to offer a bit of mystically augmented solace to the boy.
And should Jake himself stir, at some point before the spliff is consumed by fire and lungs, he will find the burning cherry of it floating in the darkness. Politely offered his way. And hear a few words from Jim's mouth, given calmly but curiously. "Jake, tell me what you know about West 12th Avenue."
And a bit later in the night – perhaps in the wee hours of the morning – a text message is sent out. "Shelby parental units own property on W 12 Ave. Warehouse. Hit me up tomorrow. Crashing." Sent before his head lulls back into the arm of the couch, still seated on the floor near where Jake is resting.
To even call the room a studio is a bit of a misnomer (read: broker marketing jargon). A room with a couple of locks on a red-painted wooden door, situated on the top level of the three-story multifamily home. A home with a few walls knocked down so that its myriad inhabitants can share a kitchen, a handful of bathrooms, a front door, and the smallest back yard you've ever seen (only really useful for two things, judging by the grill and carpet of cigarette butts).
A flock of newly-graduated students' lease ran out with the onset of summer, and he'd grabbed up one of the rooms for himself. There are moving boxes indicating disparate Others are moving into the house. The distinct lack of valuables in the common area says a lot as to the mindset of those who live in such communal situations. Mara, Serafine and Sid had all been invited back to further discuss the answers-that-made-for-more-questions following his own scrying and Serafine's revelation of her visions.
If one or all accept the invitation, and either way, Jim shares a few key facts with the cluster of magi. Whether it's within the ground floor's living area whilst Jake curls up into a ball on the couch in Jim's room, or perhaps in the sparse few moments leaving Beta when the forlorn consor had been otherwise distracted.
He'd seen an empty lot covered in the piles of ash and dust that Serafine had described. Somewhere to the south of Beta. And then, more concrete answers had emerged from the swirling ether. Glimpses of Shelby's own destiny in the Eternal Moment. Yes, 12. West 12th Avenue. He is inquisitive as to the rest of Serafine's vision, what she had held back for Jake's sake. And when they part ways, he shares a telephone number and his own address, hopeful he will get the same from those members of the little clutch of Awakened that have been called together to investigate this happening.
And when they are gone, he can be found beneath a dangling lightbulb watching Jake from a chair at the retro kitchen table in the far corner of his room. The only other piece of furniture in the Cultist's living space. Or, more specifically, Jim is watching the boy's back, as he's curled facing into the couch's crevices trying to get some rest. Every now and then he looks down to the fresh joint he is rolling between knob-knuckled and calloused fingers.
Jim never makes it to the disheveled bed.
The effects of the Patron are shifting, from stimulant to the leaden blanket of sedative. But instead of crawling toward his mattress, he slips down off the chair and finds himself cross-legged at the foot of the couch, leaning back into where its cushions bunch beneath Jake's frame. He can hear the boy breathing, hear him in the kind of sleep that produces no dreams but also does little to ease the anxiety of waking. There is a flick of a cheap plastic lighter and the joint comes alive. After the first few puffs Jim matches his own breathing to the consor's. Staying close to him. Trying to offer some form of comfort, if only in proximity to another. And as the night grows darker, Jim's own avatar stirs, roused by the swell of willwork to offer a bit of mystically augmented solace to the boy.
And should Jake himself stir, at some point before the spliff is consumed by fire and lungs, he will find the burning cherry of it floating in the darkness. Politely offered his way. And hear a few words from Jim's mouth, given calmly but curiously. "Jake, tell me what you know about West 12th Avenue."
And a bit later in the night – perhaps in the wee hours of the morning – a text message is sent out. "Shelby parental units own property on W 12 Ave. Warehouse. Hit me up tomorrow. Crashing." Sent before his head lulls back into the arm of the couch, still seated on the floor near where Jake is resting.