Conversation Space IV.

[powersthatbe]

The small room is painted a dark beige, with stained wood paneling on the lower half, and lush burgundy carpeting. The ceiling, however, is cracked and bowed, sagging alarmingly, occasionally shedding chips of plaster. Wrought-iron lamp-posts in the corners suspend pale, wan globes of light, and between them along the walls run rows of painted sunflowers, all turned towards the center of the room as if listening attentively. A jutting spire of granite rises from the floor on a diagonal, its flattened top sporting a cracked wineglass from which the wine (a white) slowly spatters teardrops across the plinth. And there is no chair, but a therapist’s couch, blue with gold trim, and ornate scrollwork on the legs, beside which the fluted horn of a phonograph player pipes music into the room, quiet enough to just be background ambience.

Comments

[hazardlight]

Almost before she's had a chance to take in the appearance of the room - less upsetting than the one shared over the network last week, at least, that's something - Amanda is aware of the smooth curve of the Tailight Eyelights being pressed into her palm, unasked for. She looks down, surprised, as her fingers instinctively curl around her keystone memento; Roadrash folds an incorporeal hand around her very corporeal one, his fingers disappearing into the back of her hand as he misjudges how close to hold them. "Mine," he hisses at her, eyes even wider than usual. She nods, and settles the goggles over her hair, pulling the strap snug around the back of her skull.

Weeks ago, Amanda might have been more inclined to investigate: the furnishings, the drink, the music. But she's been waiting, and though she's more or less been told what's going on - at least, as far as her fellow travelers can explain it - she's still been getting increasingly antsy as the unmarked side gets more and more sparsely populated. So now that she's here, she steps into the middle of the room, crosses her arms and plants her feet. "Aight, our nerves are about shot," she says, to the room at large. "And he ain't even got any nerves. Come at us, bro."

[powersthatare]

"As you like."

The room brightens as a figure appears, dressed in gold-tinted biker leathers and a Carnivale mask, the flesh behind the clothing clearly made of porcelain, but flexible as any person would be as he trusts forward.

[hazardlight]

Roadrash steps forward through his bound to interpose himself between her and the Arcanum, blank eyes flashing with reflected light as he watches the new figure warily. For her part, Amanda's posture doesn't soften, but her tone does, a little.

"Ho-ly shit," she says, because clearly the correct response to the arrival of one's presumptive patron is vaguely reverent swearing.

[powersthatare]

"You are... half right," the figure says, porcelain lips curling in a smile. "I am Radiance, and Energy. I am Boundless. I am Growth. And I am come to claim the two of you among my Champions."

[hazardlight]

"You're Sun, then. If I'm remembering last week's crash course on who's left right," Amanda says, and it's not quite a question. She's pretty confident of her analysis, and what's more, she wants to be right. Sun had been easily the most appealing of the remaining Arcana; from what little she'd been able to pick up last minute, she hadn't particularly expected Moon or Judgement to have much interest in her. And, well, if she's got to have a patron among her hosts, it might as well be the one whose attention does not imply she's a roaring dumpster fire of a person.

Her geist is not on quite such solid ground; he'd been ready to object - you can't have her, I found her first - and the porcelain figure's words had caught him off guard. "The two of us," he repeats.

[powersthatare]

"Did you think I would only see one of you?" the figure asks, a trifle puzzled. "I am the light of revelation, in which all truths are made clear."

[hazardlight]

"Truth is Pilgrim talk," the geist grumbles, still disconcerted, and already starting to lose track of the conversation; Roadrash is good with split-second reactions and impulses, but not so much with debating. "Or Prey. We ain't either."

Amanda bats a hand through his head - the gesture mostly for show, though she knows her geist will get the accompanying annoyance loud and clear even if he can't feel her hand. "We're up for some excitement, though," she says.

[powersthatare]

"We understand that our excursions are considered exciting," the figure says with a degree of modest dignity.

[hazardlight]

"We've heard," Amanda confirms. What they've heard has been delivered with varying levels of enthusiasm, but hey, some people are spoilsports. By Celebrant standards, most people are spoilsports. "So what's the plan? I mean presumably there's something you want out of us other than just being really rad."

[powersthatare]

"We are engaged in a war of ideas. If my ideas are... really rad," the figure emphasizes with jazz hands, "then that is all we require to win. For those like us to be victorious, as often and as emphatically as possible, by being the way you are."

[hazardlight]

That's both appealingly straightforward and infuriatingly vague at the same time, and Amanda squints thoughtfully at the Sun. "Yeah, I kinda was hoping for some sort of tactics a little more specific than that," she admits. "Do you not have a lot of forewarning on what kind of shit we're gonna be thrown into? Or are you just that much of a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kinda guy."

[powersthatare]

"The conditions of each round are determined collectively," he admits, with a sigh. "We reach consensus... but not very far in advance."