How could anything else.
Sunday, 8 January 2012 19:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouSometimes change is good. Sometimes change is bad. It's all hindsight, though.
8 January, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (98% full).
The kitchen faucet is running, and has been for about ten straight minutes now. Mouse is bent over the sink, elbows braced against the counter, head down. At first it might appear that she's washing her hair or some crazy thing, but no, she's mostly just letting the water—COLD water—run down the front part of her hair and down her face.
Flint pauses at the doorway from hallway to breakroom, at first trying to identify the sound, before he makes his way in, announcing himself first as to not surprise the elder. A brief furrow of brow is visible on the cub's face, if anyone's to look, but he shrugs it off, moving about his business of returning the book in his hands to the bookshelf.
And some moments later, also walks in Ishmael. He's got on a pair of carpentry work gloves, a white tanktop with smears of various kinds on it (mostly grease, dust, etc.) and an equally amussed pair of jeans. Clearly, he's been working. "Hey," he says, looking worn, but beaming nonetheless. It's fun work. The gloves are slowly pulled off.
Mouse, despite two of her tribemates walking in (and announcing their presence), doesn't lift her head from the running water yet. As they come around the counter, the two might note something else out of place. Err, literally. There's a long, pinkish tail with a scattering of soft grey downy fur sticking out from under Mouse's long (and untucked) shirt. It's swaying slowly from side to side, but it looks for all the world rather LIKE an overgrown mouse's tail.
It's only after Flint's finished putting the book on the shelf that he makes his way to the kitchen, pausing at the kitchen table to nod to Ishmael. "Mouse-rhya?" The cub's query is tentative, though the same as always and regardless of the presence of the tail.
Ishmael eyes the tail with a thoughtful expression, but seems not surprised by its presence. "Stressful week?" He asks, with a bit of mirth. When is a Mouse week not stressful? "I'm Ishmael, by the way," he says to Flint, extending a degloved hand. "Fostern, Theurge, maker-of-many-an'-sundry-things."
Mouse makes a low noise in the back of her throat as she's addressed again, but she still doesn't seem keen to take her face away from the running water.
Flint nods to Ishmael. "I'm Flint," he says, returning the handshake. "Galliard cub." A pause, and there's another furrowed brow, and some concern for the elder showing in the boy's expression as he falls silent.
Ishmael nods. "Good t'see new blood," he states quite cheerily, then turns back to Mouse, idly waving a glove back and forth. "I think y'can only get but so clean," he teases. "Got some stuff in my room if you're lookin' t'feel refreshed. Good face wash. Has mint. Nice after bein' chatted at too much by chattycathy tribemates." He grins.
Mouse reaches out, fumbles for the knob, and finally switches the water off. She still doesn't straighten up yet, instead rubbing at her face with both hands. That strange, grotesque tail of hers gives an abrupt twitch.
Flint suppresses a bit of a laugh into his hands, at the last of Ishmael's comment, before leaning halfway against the table, slightly fidgety.
Ishmael simply folds his arms and tries not to look too bemused. Oh, right, he came in here for a drink. Which he proceeds to go and get.
Mouse drags one arm roughly across her eyes, and finally straightens. With a groan, because apparently she was in that position for a while. "Nng, God. Where am…oh, breakroom."
"The breakroom, Mouse-rhya," the cub answers, trailing off when he realises that she'd already answered her own question. A moment later, and Flint decides to follow Ishmael's example, heading towards the kitchen proper.
Ishmael glances up from getting a Coke. He pops the top and states before taking a swig, "Feeling better?" Swig.
"No." Mouse's answer is kind've flat. She turns and moves over toward the couch, her tail twitching behind her. One hand, briefly, touches an area a little below her collar bone.
"Is there anything…?" Flint directs the question at Mouse, brow still furrowed with worry, though it trails off nearly as quickly as he asks it.
Ishmael seems to know better than to push the issue further, and enjoys his coke for a moment longer. "Things are coming along well on my end," he says. "Nothing much to report aside from some sawdust." With that he rummages about more, refreshing himself on what-s-where.
Mouse says, "Good," but it's clear her focus and attention are a million miles away. "Have you had any more dreams?"
Ishmael shakes his head amongst ye grande search, busying himself as they chat. "Not since the ark one. Have you?"
"Yeah," Mouse says. And that's all she says for the moment, but that one word seems to carry with it a great deal of exhaustion.
Ishmael closes a cabinet softly, and then turns towards Mouse with more seriousness. Also, Coke. "Tell me about it," he says, and then, as an afterthought, "Want anythin'?"
Mouse opens her mouth, hesitates, and then a look of consternation crosses her features. "I…" She stops, and flops onto the couch. Her visible tail ends up squashed out to one side, but she doesn't seem to care about that. "It was…"
Ishmael ends up leaning against counter, not too far from Mouse, Coke still in hand, waiting patiently for her to elaborate further. It's clear he's listening, so further words aren't necessary yet.
Mouse tries, it's clear, but after a moment she shakes her head and presses her arms to her temples, grimacing.
"Take your time," says Ishmael, shrugging lightly. "Maybe I'll get lucky and have one too, and then you won't have to bother, eh?" For a given value of lucky, perhaps. Sip. "Anything else on your mind?"
Flint eventually moves out of the kitchen and towards the area of the couch, his glass of juice in hand, before setting himself quietly down into a sitting position on the floor. A glance goes from Mouse, to Ishmael, and back to the elder.
Mouse asks, irritably, "How could anything else be on my mind? I haven't had a night without portentous dreams in a week at least."
A door opens not far down the hall, roughly in the area of the cubs' bunkroom. From there follows, shoes scuffing against the floor in unhurried approach toward the breakroom.
Ishmael rubs his head for a moment, exasperated. "I dunno, Mouse. You could have the bubblegut or somethin' for all I know. Appreciate the gesture, huh? I'm just tryin' t'help." And with that, the Coke is drained. Cancrush. "Spirits say anythin'?"
Mouse eyes Ishmael. "The…what?"
Ishmael glances towards the door as he lifts a hand in explanation, rubbing his belly. "Y'know, the bubblegut!" Clearly, she doesn't. "When you're stomach's all upset and rumbly and you have to run t'the bathroom. Or something." He waves a hand. "It makes me cranky, anyways."
A head pokes around the doorway of the breakroom, eyes taking a glance inside. The owner of the head follows a second or two after, Devon, with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets and a slight slouch to his posture, stepping over the threshold and into the room properly. His gaze ticks over Flint to Mouse and finally Ishmael, guardedly curious.
Mouse continues to eye Ishmael after this explanation, until Devon distracts her. "Hey, Devon. You uh, you didn't have a strange dream and wake up with a scar, did you?" Back to Ishmael. "Because I did."
Ishmael lifts up his hands, defeated. Evading the Pointed Comment, he instead waves at Devon and then salutes him. "Hey, sent out an email, but personal introductions are best, yeah? Ishmael Chavez, theurge, Fostern, maker of stuff." He then thumbs towards Mouse in a 'best answer her,' sort of manner.
Devon hesitates slightly at Mouse's question, gaze still resting on Ishmael. "No," he says slowly, turning briefly toward Mouse. "Only scar I've got is the one from Owen." Then, back to the Fostern. "Yeah, um… I'm Devon. Cliath Ahroun. Sort've newly passed into Cliath-dom."
Mouse slumps further into her seat on the couch, looking antsy and pensive.
"All I had was the ark-dream," Flint says, looking up from his lap to acknowledge Devon's presence with a nod. "Though, while I was at Edgewood yesterday, I saw Tim-rhya and, and Mourns-the-Living said someone had had a dream of being … like an insect trying to find a home for her children. Tim-rhya was going to try and find out more." A shrug is offered before the cub falls silent again.
Ishmael fistpumps. "Awesome, man!" The theurge grins. "Always great to hear. Like I said in the email, you want some kind of comemoration, jus' let me know, yeah?" With that, he scoots over to Mouse's couch, though he doesn't sit beside her. Just leans against the arm rest. "We can try a vision quest, yeah? Or somethin' like it. Seems like somethin's tryin' to make a point; could send out a message."
"Yeah," Devon says with a slow and slight drawl. "Definitely." Instead of grinning, a look slants toward Mouse with a furrow gracing the Ahroun's brow. "Anything strange happens to me, you'll be the first to know, Mouse-rhya. Or if I find out anything we haven't already speculated."
Mouse shakes her head roughly. "I don't need a vision quest, the visions won't leave me alone to begin with. And I think maybe I see the shape of it now, and I hope I'm really fucking wrong." She nods slightly at Devon and Flint's words.
Flint's lips press into a tight line, and he leans on his hands, leaning back a bit. The boy's eyes squint towards shut, before he finally settles on watching Devon for the moment.
"Well, I'm listenin'," says Ishmael, flexing a hand, perhaps strained a bit from all the construction, moving, and so on he's been doing. "Whenever you're ready t'talk about it. Wish I could help more, but I'm still gettin' caught up on all the details."
Devon's gaze flicks toward Ishmael at Mouse's words, brows pinching further together. "What…" he begins, hesitantly, gaze returning to the elder. "What shape do you think this is taking?"
"It's not that I'm not ready," Mouse says, though the words seem sluggish, "It's that I can't…I remember it, perfectly, but I'm trying to find the words for it." She glances at Devon, and then away. "I think something's going to happen to Chimera." She's quiet now.
Ishmael rubs his chin thoughtfully, nodding. "Okay, I can understand that. We could… try to do some kind of dream recollection, but I suspect that you probably have more experience with that than I do, anyways." He pushes himself up a bit and walks about, hands resting on the back of his head. "If this is all about Some Big Change, then maybe Chimera herself is even aware of it, and this is her way of sayin', 'It's happening, don't be afraid.'" He pauses, glances over his shoulder back at Mouse. "Has anyone tried talkin' to her about it yet?"
Another glance moves from Mouse to Ishmael and back again, and Devon nods slowly. "Ishmael-rhya's right. Could just be something to try and comfort us. Could be… Chimera's evolving into something." Hopeful words that don't hide the slight worry in his own tone. "Could be a bad thing, too. Something coming to try and destroy the Caern. Or worse."
Mouse doesn't say anything, but from her expression—which today, seems far more expressive than usual, she's not being very guarded in her agitation—she doesn't seem to find any of this a comfort.
"Given the dream I have had, I didn't feel anythin' about something malicious coming," says Ishmael, turning back around and nodding to Devon, agreeable. "Change, yeah, and change is rarely comfortable, or pleasant t'experience, but it's necessary, an' y'have t'just persevere through it. But," he shrugs. "Information's limited. We can speculate all we want, but until we get some grounded meaningful detail, there's little t'be done." Turning to Mouse, he adds, "Do we have any grounded, objective details?"
Mouse closes her fingers around that pink, grotesque tail of hers, and her jaw tightens. "The Bawn is overrun. Small prey animals, the ones that eat insects, might be vanishing or moving, and we're all having crazy dreams."
"Probably doesn't mean much," Devon says with a small raise of his hand. "I haven't had any crazy dreams. I'll do whatever you need, though, to find some solid information." His head tips slightly toward Ishmael, indicative of his question.
Ishmael shrugs a little. "Not that I'm sayin' we shouldn't worry, but without more information, we can debate that it's a natural process of change or evolution, or an unhealthy explosion of Wyld energies, or whatever. I'm gonna try and see if I can't drum up some information on similar circumstances happenin' elsewhere, but," he scratches the back of his head again. "Well, if I had an idea of exactly how to go about investigatin' this, I'd have mentioned it already. I think tryin' t'get in touch with Chimera and other Septs that may have experienced similar things might be the best bet for now."
Mouse starts to say something, and then abruptly shakes her head and pushes out of her seat. "I need to go see Jacinta." She doesn't say it, but the word 'now' is very, very clear.
Flint picks himself up and off of the floor where he'd been seated, clearing the path so that exit of the breakroom from the couch is unobstructed, before making his way over to the bookshelf once more, and a continuation of his original reasoning for coming to the breakroom.
Devon sidesteps, taking an angle that'll have him in the kitchen, when Mouse stands. His hand returns to his pocket as he glances toward the elder, then Ishmael. Further creasing takes his brow after a beat, and he looks off to Flint, remaining silent.
"Okay," says Ishmael with a brisk nod, taking that moment to begin the process of putting back on his work gloves. "Call me on the headset if you need anything."
Mouse slips out of the breakroom without another word, head down, tail trailing behind her. Presumably, she will tuck that away again before she goes. The elevator's grumpy 'ding!' can be heard a moment later.
Flint looks, for a moment, at several books from the shelf, before abandoning that and moving back towards the kitchen, empty glass in hand, gaze swinging between Ishmael and Devon.
"She's really worried," Devon says to both Ishmael and Flint, and yet to neither directly. His head shakes slightly, eyes lifting enough to look at the Theurge. "Think all this is a bad omen?"
Ishmael flexes his hand in one of those work gloves, getting his fingers comfortable and well-fitted therein. "What is 'bad' or not will be up to hindsight," he says, with a brief shake of his head. "Whatever it is, though, I doubt it's gonna be comfortable. Or painless. But, change ain't always bad."
Flint pauses when he reaches the table, thoughtful. "Change isn't always good, either," he adds, with a quiet shrug. "But," and the boy inclines his head towards the Theurge, "hindsight, I s'pose, yeah."
"Change is just change," Devon offers with a shrug. "No one likes it, but it's necessary. Maybe we did something that pissed Chimera off and instead of telling us, she's leaving. Or… She's all about riddles and such, maybe she's trying to make herself more powerful and she's posed this problem to us." He pauses, head lowering as he looks to the floor for answers that aren't there. "Maybe she lost a challenge to some other totem spirit, and so she's packing up and leaving so this new totem spirit can take her place."
"Regardless of whatever it may be," says Ishmael with a broad, dismissive wave of a hand, "This is all conjecture. Like I said t'Mouse. We need more information. Yeah, visions have a place, but they're a path-starter, not a path-ender. But, eh, we'll get through this. Until then, I got a shop t'finish buildin'. Either of you need anythin' before I get back t'work?"
Flint shakes his head, offering a grin to Ishmael. "No, thanks though," the cub responds, looking down at the table, over to Devon. "I should probably go do some stuff." A moment's pause, and Flint tilts his head to the side, up again. "'d like to see the workshop at some point, if … if that's okay with you, Ishmael-rhya," he finishes, before moving to put the empty cup in the sink to later be loaded into the dishwasher.
Devon shakes his head. "Naw, thanks though. Going to poke around on the computers before I head back out to Edgewood for news, maybe I'll luck out and find something that'll hint at …something." He shrugs, looking doubtful. "Been looking, but nothing so far's come up."
Ishmael offers Flint a casual, two-fingered salute. "Absolutely, man. It'll be open t'everyone once it's done. Provided, yanno, y'don't blow it up." Then, to Devon. "S'good initiative, man. Keep your eyes open an' let me know if you see anythin', hey? And on that note, I'm off." Gloves on, he heads back to work!
8 January, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Full (Ahroun) Moon phase (98% full).
The kitchen faucet is running, and has been for about ten straight minutes now. Mouse is bent over the sink, elbows braced against the counter, head down. At first it might appear that she's washing her hair or some crazy thing, but no, she's mostly just letting the water—COLD water—run down the front part of her hair and down her face.
Flint pauses at the doorway from hallway to breakroom, at first trying to identify the sound, before he makes his way in, announcing himself first as to not surprise the elder. A brief furrow of brow is visible on the cub's face, if anyone's to look, but he shrugs it off, moving about his business of returning the book in his hands to the bookshelf.
And some moments later, also walks in Ishmael. He's got on a pair of carpentry work gloves, a white tanktop with smears of various kinds on it (mostly grease, dust, etc.) and an equally amussed pair of jeans. Clearly, he's been working. "Hey," he says, looking worn, but beaming nonetheless. It's fun work. The gloves are slowly pulled off.
Mouse, despite two of her tribemates walking in (and announcing their presence), doesn't lift her head from the running water yet. As they come around the counter, the two might note something else out of place. Err, literally. There's a long, pinkish tail with a scattering of soft grey downy fur sticking out from under Mouse's long (and untucked) shirt. It's swaying slowly from side to side, but it looks for all the world rather LIKE an overgrown mouse's tail.
It's only after Flint's finished putting the book on the shelf that he makes his way to the kitchen, pausing at the kitchen table to nod to Ishmael. "Mouse-rhya?" The cub's query is tentative, though the same as always and regardless of the presence of the tail.
Ishmael eyes the tail with a thoughtful expression, but seems not surprised by its presence. "Stressful week?" He asks, with a bit of mirth. When is a Mouse week not stressful? "I'm Ishmael, by the way," he says to Flint, extending a degloved hand. "Fostern, Theurge, maker-of-many-an'-sundry-things."
Mouse makes a low noise in the back of her throat as she's addressed again, but she still doesn't seem keen to take her face away from the running water.
Flint nods to Ishmael. "I'm Flint," he says, returning the handshake. "Galliard cub." A pause, and there's another furrowed brow, and some concern for the elder showing in the boy's expression as he falls silent.
Ishmael nods. "Good t'see new blood," he states quite cheerily, then turns back to Mouse, idly waving a glove back and forth. "I think y'can only get but so clean," he teases. "Got some stuff in my room if you're lookin' t'feel refreshed. Good face wash. Has mint. Nice after bein' chatted at too much by chattycathy tribemates." He grins.
Mouse reaches out, fumbles for the knob, and finally switches the water off. She still doesn't straighten up yet, instead rubbing at her face with both hands. That strange, grotesque tail of hers gives an abrupt twitch.
Flint suppresses a bit of a laugh into his hands, at the last of Ishmael's comment, before leaning halfway against the table, slightly fidgety.
Ishmael simply folds his arms and tries not to look too bemused. Oh, right, he came in here for a drink. Which he proceeds to go and get.
Mouse drags one arm roughly across her eyes, and finally straightens. With a groan, because apparently she was in that position for a while. "Nng, God. Where am…oh, breakroom."
"The breakroom, Mouse-rhya," the cub answers, trailing off when he realises that she'd already answered her own question. A moment later, and Flint decides to follow Ishmael's example, heading towards the kitchen proper.
Ishmael glances up from getting a Coke. He pops the top and states before taking a swig, "Feeling better?" Swig.
"No." Mouse's answer is kind've flat. She turns and moves over toward the couch, her tail twitching behind her. One hand, briefly, touches an area a little below her collar bone.
"Is there anything…?" Flint directs the question at Mouse, brow still furrowed with worry, though it trails off nearly as quickly as he asks it.
Ishmael seems to know better than to push the issue further, and enjoys his coke for a moment longer. "Things are coming along well on my end," he says. "Nothing much to report aside from some sawdust." With that he rummages about more, refreshing himself on what-s-where.
Mouse says, "Good," but it's clear her focus and attention are a million miles away. "Have you had any more dreams?"
Ishmael shakes his head amongst ye grande search, busying himself as they chat. "Not since the ark one. Have you?"
"Yeah," Mouse says. And that's all she says for the moment, but that one word seems to carry with it a great deal of exhaustion.
Ishmael closes a cabinet softly, and then turns towards Mouse with more seriousness. Also, Coke. "Tell me about it," he says, and then, as an afterthought, "Want anythin'?"
Mouse opens her mouth, hesitates, and then a look of consternation crosses her features. "I…" She stops, and flops onto the couch. Her visible tail ends up squashed out to one side, but she doesn't seem to care about that. "It was…"
Ishmael ends up leaning against counter, not too far from Mouse, Coke still in hand, waiting patiently for her to elaborate further. It's clear he's listening, so further words aren't necessary yet.
Mouse tries, it's clear, but after a moment she shakes her head and presses her arms to her temples, grimacing.
"Take your time," says Ishmael, shrugging lightly. "Maybe I'll get lucky and have one too, and then you won't have to bother, eh?" For a given value of lucky, perhaps. Sip. "Anything else on your mind?"
Flint eventually moves out of the kitchen and towards the area of the couch, his glass of juice in hand, before setting himself quietly down into a sitting position on the floor. A glance goes from Mouse, to Ishmael, and back to the elder.
Mouse asks, irritably, "How could anything else be on my mind? I haven't had a night without portentous dreams in a week at least."
A door opens not far down the hall, roughly in the area of the cubs' bunkroom. From there follows, shoes scuffing against the floor in unhurried approach toward the breakroom.
Ishmael rubs his head for a moment, exasperated. "I dunno, Mouse. You could have the bubblegut or somethin' for all I know. Appreciate the gesture, huh? I'm just tryin' t'help." And with that, the Coke is drained. Cancrush. "Spirits say anythin'?"
Mouse eyes Ishmael. "The…what?"
Ishmael glances towards the door as he lifts a hand in explanation, rubbing his belly. "Y'know, the bubblegut!" Clearly, she doesn't. "When you're stomach's all upset and rumbly and you have to run t'the bathroom. Or something." He waves a hand. "It makes me cranky, anyways."
A head pokes around the doorway of the breakroom, eyes taking a glance inside. The owner of the head follows a second or two after, Devon, with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets and a slight slouch to his posture, stepping over the threshold and into the room properly. His gaze ticks over Flint to Mouse and finally Ishmael, guardedly curious.
Mouse continues to eye Ishmael after this explanation, until Devon distracts her. "Hey, Devon. You uh, you didn't have a strange dream and wake up with a scar, did you?" Back to Ishmael. "Because I did."
Ishmael lifts up his hands, defeated. Evading the Pointed Comment, he instead waves at Devon and then salutes him. "Hey, sent out an email, but personal introductions are best, yeah? Ishmael Chavez, theurge, Fostern, maker of stuff." He then thumbs towards Mouse in a 'best answer her,' sort of manner.
Devon hesitates slightly at Mouse's question, gaze still resting on Ishmael. "No," he says slowly, turning briefly toward Mouse. "Only scar I've got is the one from Owen." Then, back to the Fostern. "Yeah, um… I'm Devon. Cliath Ahroun. Sort've newly passed into Cliath-dom."
Mouse slumps further into her seat on the couch, looking antsy and pensive.
"All I had was the ark-dream," Flint says, looking up from his lap to acknowledge Devon's presence with a nod. "Though, while I was at Edgewood yesterday, I saw Tim-rhya and, and Mourns-the-Living said someone had had a dream of being … like an insect trying to find a home for her children. Tim-rhya was going to try and find out more." A shrug is offered before the cub falls silent again.
Ishmael fistpumps. "Awesome, man!" The theurge grins. "Always great to hear. Like I said in the email, you want some kind of comemoration, jus' let me know, yeah?" With that, he scoots over to Mouse's couch, though he doesn't sit beside her. Just leans against the arm rest. "We can try a vision quest, yeah? Or somethin' like it. Seems like somethin's tryin' to make a point; could send out a message."
"Yeah," Devon says with a slow and slight drawl. "Definitely." Instead of grinning, a look slants toward Mouse with a furrow gracing the Ahroun's brow. "Anything strange happens to me, you'll be the first to know, Mouse-rhya. Or if I find out anything we haven't already speculated."
Mouse shakes her head roughly. "I don't need a vision quest, the visions won't leave me alone to begin with. And I think maybe I see the shape of it now, and I hope I'm really fucking wrong." She nods slightly at Devon and Flint's words.
Flint's lips press into a tight line, and he leans on his hands, leaning back a bit. The boy's eyes squint towards shut, before he finally settles on watching Devon for the moment.
"Well, I'm listenin'," says Ishmael, flexing a hand, perhaps strained a bit from all the construction, moving, and so on he's been doing. "Whenever you're ready t'talk about it. Wish I could help more, but I'm still gettin' caught up on all the details."
Devon's gaze flicks toward Ishmael at Mouse's words, brows pinching further together. "What…" he begins, hesitantly, gaze returning to the elder. "What shape do you think this is taking?"
"It's not that I'm not ready," Mouse says, though the words seem sluggish, "It's that I can't…I remember it, perfectly, but I'm trying to find the words for it." She glances at Devon, and then away. "I think something's going to happen to Chimera." She's quiet now.
Ishmael rubs his chin thoughtfully, nodding. "Okay, I can understand that. We could… try to do some kind of dream recollection, but I suspect that you probably have more experience with that than I do, anyways." He pushes himself up a bit and walks about, hands resting on the back of his head. "If this is all about Some Big Change, then maybe Chimera herself is even aware of it, and this is her way of sayin', 'It's happening, don't be afraid.'" He pauses, glances over his shoulder back at Mouse. "Has anyone tried talkin' to her about it yet?"
Another glance moves from Mouse to Ishmael and back again, and Devon nods slowly. "Ishmael-rhya's right. Could just be something to try and comfort us. Could be… Chimera's evolving into something." Hopeful words that don't hide the slight worry in his own tone. "Could be a bad thing, too. Something coming to try and destroy the Caern. Or worse."
Mouse doesn't say anything, but from her expression—which today, seems far more expressive than usual, she's not being very guarded in her agitation—she doesn't seem to find any of this a comfort.
"Given the dream I have had, I didn't feel anythin' about something malicious coming," says Ishmael, turning back around and nodding to Devon, agreeable. "Change, yeah, and change is rarely comfortable, or pleasant t'experience, but it's necessary, an' y'have t'just persevere through it. But," he shrugs. "Information's limited. We can speculate all we want, but until we get some grounded meaningful detail, there's little t'be done." Turning to Mouse, he adds, "Do we have any grounded, objective details?"
Mouse closes her fingers around that pink, grotesque tail of hers, and her jaw tightens. "The Bawn is overrun. Small prey animals, the ones that eat insects, might be vanishing or moving, and we're all having crazy dreams."
"Probably doesn't mean much," Devon says with a small raise of his hand. "I haven't had any crazy dreams. I'll do whatever you need, though, to find some solid information." His head tips slightly toward Ishmael, indicative of his question.
Ishmael shrugs a little. "Not that I'm sayin' we shouldn't worry, but without more information, we can debate that it's a natural process of change or evolution, or an unhealthy explosion of Wyld energies, or whatever. I'm gonna try and see if I can't drum up some information on similar circumstances happenin' elsewhere, but," he scratches the back of his head again. "Well, if I had an idea of exactly how to go about investigatin' this, I'd have mentioned it already. I think tryin' t'get in touch with Chimera and other Septs that may have experienced similar things might be the best bet for now."
Mouse starts to say something, and then abruptly shakes her head and pushes out of her seat. "I need to go see Jacinta." She doesn't say it, but the word 'now' is very, very clear.
Flint picks himself up and off of the floor where he'd been seated, clearing the path so that exit of the breakroom from the couch is unobstructed, before making his way over to the bookshelf once more, and a continuation of his original reasoning for coming to the breakroom.
Devon sidesteps, taking an angle that'll have him in the kitchen, when Mouse stands. His hand returns to his pocket as he glances toward the elder, then Ishmael. Further creasing takes his brow after a beat, and he looks off to Flint, remaining silent.
"Okay," says Ishmael with a brisk nod, taking that moment to begin the process of putting back on his work gloves. "Call me on the headset if you need anything."
Mouse slips out of the breakroom without another word, head down, tail trailing behind her. Presumably, she will tuck that away again before she goes. The elevator's grumpy 'ding!' can be heard a moment later.
Flint looks, for a moment, at several books from the shelf, before abandoning that and moving back towards the kitchen, empty glass in hand, gaze swinging between Ishmael and Devon.
"She's really worried," Devon says to both Ishmael and Flint, and yet to neither directly. His head shakes slightly, eyes lifting enough to look at the Theurge. "Think all this is a bad omen?"
Ishmael flexes his hand in one of those work gloves, getting his fingers comfortable and well-fitted therein. "What is 'bad' or not will be up to hindsight," he says, with a brief shake of his head. "Whatever it is, though, I doubt it's gonna be comfortable. Or painless. But, change ain't always bad."
Flint pauses when he reaches the table, thoughtful. "Change isn't always good, either," he adds, with a quiet shrug. "But," and the boy inclines his head towards the Theurge, "hindsight, I s'pose, yeah."
"Change is just change," Devon offers with a shrug. "No one likes it, but it's necessary. Maybe we did something that pissed Chimera off and instead of telling us, she's leaving. Or… She's all about riddles and such, maybe she's trying to make herself more powerful and she's posed this problem to us." He pauses, head lowering as he looks to the floor for answers that aren't there. "Maybe she lost a challenge to some other totem spirit, and so she's packing up and leaving so this new totem spirit can take her place."
"Regardless of whatever it may be," says Ishmael with a broad, dismissive wave of a hand, "This is all conjecture. Like I said t'Mouse. We need more information. Yeah, visions have a place, but they're a path-starter, not a path-ender. But, eh, we'll get through this. Until then, I got a shop t'finish buildin'. Either of you need anythin' before I get back t'work?"
Flint shakes his head, offering a grin to Ishmael. "No, thanks though," the cub responds, looking down at the table, over to Devon. "I should probably go do some stuff." A moment's pause, and Flint tilts his head to the side, up again. "'d like to see the workshop at some point, if … if that's okay with you, Ishmael-rhya," he finishes, before moving to put the empty cup in the sink to later be loaded into the dishwasher.
Devon shakes his head. "Naw, thanks though. Going to poke around on the computers before I head back out to Edgewood for news, maybe I'll luck out and find something that'll hint at …something." He shrugs, looking doubtful. "Been looking, but nothing so far's come up."
Ishmael offers Flint a casual, two-fingered salute. "Absolutely, man. It'll be open t'everyone once it's done. Provided, yanno, y'don't blow it up." Then, to Devon. "S'good initiative, man. Keep your eyes open an' let me know if you see anythin', hey? And on that note, I'm off." Gloves on, he heads back to work!