abraxaslogs | [Open] All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon

[The Sarstina. Crane visits during the morning, lurking in darkness in the corner, seated towards the back. People walk by. This man is nobody. This woman is nothing. Their lives are insignificant. Observing them is a way to pass the time.

He squints at the door and raises a hand. Fingers burrow through his hair and support his head. Nails scratch his scalp; once, twice, three times before settling their movements.

Limbs and shoulders align and he straightens as someone approaches his table. Fingers glide together and his hands slide between his knees. Eyes glance in the direction of the newcomer. An impassive, polite expression lightens his face - honest and open as he looks his associate in the eye.

Calm. Controlled. Confident. His voice is soft and polite, though he possesses the awkward manner of being a fish out of water.]

Glad you could make it.

[Such a curt phrase spoken so nicely. Not a personal inkling of annoyance at all.]

[Appointments are booked and scheduled. Meetings planned and arranged. Crane expects people to be punctual but also expects little progress. Individuals have their own desires and love to oppose his opinions; patients often refusing to change their behavior. Not that he is hypocritical enough to deny his own pleasure for prompting change. That desire is why he stands alone in a world of change. One world he can change.

The Hall is the core of his own little pocket of space and time: a distinctly gothic and ornamental manor with windows surrounded by flourishing ivy. Sunlight dazzles overhead as refreshing winds swirl around corners marked by hedges and trees. Flowers bloom and their scent carries on the breeze. Birds are chirping while leaves are budding on the branch. Crane bows his head and listens to the sounds of nature. He is reading beneath a tree until somebody intrudes.

Starlings and sparrows fly amongst the trees, making him reminisce until he closes his book before standing on his feet. The spring breeze reminds him of unpleasant times. He tucks his book beneath his arm and strolls through The Corridors. Columns and arches line the aisle and grant pockets of cavernous space. People looking indoors may find him leaning over a glass table with too little space for his journals and notes. Time crawls by until he knocks something off. He seems distracted by work.

Work. Pleasure. Both have lost their distinction over the years and in this world he craves the same line of stimulation. The story he spins for others is that of an everyday man going about his business. Nobody would be surprised to find his academic ass inside The Study on the second floor. The small room is full of books. Journals about psychology. Novels of classical literature. Psychiatric publications and periodicals. Visitors can wait outside or dare to trespass inside.]

[A meeting, promised. And now planned and arranged. Henry is punctual, always pristinely presentable when he arrives, his footsteps which softly sound down the hall the only real herald of his arrival. The sunlight dapples across the ground, across his own form, and the sound of birds twittering carries here and there.

A peaceful, novel sort of place, he thinks. Doctors of his ilk are always trying to make their patients feel so comfortable, so comforted, in the spaces they craft for themselves. For their work. Admittedly, some do better than most; his time spent in HNL was only half as aesthetically pleasing, pops of color among the sterility reserved for the children, and certainly not the "employees".

But Henry will set his biases aside (no he won't, not really) for the sake of meeting another Summoned who might claim to heal the mind, dredging up trauma just to file down its harsher edges. No such thing to (sincerely) apply to himself, of course. But he is curious.]

Dr. Crane.

[-he announces as he nears the man, who's apparently busied himself reading beneath the swaying shade of a tree. Henry strands, straight-backed and made up of nothing but polite edges, and clasps his hands behind him, as he often does. The default Friendly Orderly stance.

He smiles, amicable as anything.]

What a nice place you've already crafted for yourself. I'm impressed.

[hello sir, meet the emoji bastard]

[Late?

Crane considers himself many things; an intelligent man, a visionary, disciplined, fearless, weak in the eyes of others - but laziness is an anathema he refuses to indulge. His meeting with the monk remains a few minutes off as he had arrived early.

A long while early, in fact.

The marketplace scheduled for their meeting has an old world atmosphere, with traditional foods and bottled spirits. Exotic spices and teas catch his eye, while the smell of meat and fish from the nearby wet market curls his nose. People branch off into narrow streets that lead to immoral destinations.

Observations come to an end when a loud patter draws his ear: a swindler peddling miracle elixirs and patent medicine. He reaches the back of the crowd and feels distance from the people surrounding him. He keeps his thoughts to himself and allows them to be fooled. How can he possibly help when they allow themselves to be fooled? Not only by the charlatan but himself. How can they understand? They know him as nothing but a stranger.

His entire body stiffens when his associate comes over. Perhaps he is simply angry about the fraud?]

Sometimes this world is a blessing; at other times a curse.

[ Blake isn't quite ready to accept the Horizon. His comfort level here isn't great — the idea that it's all part of the mind bothers him — but the allure of those darkened streets and familiar smells coupled with a modern attire more like what he's used to, and some days here feel easier to go to his block-or-so of Gotham to hide.

With his own Horizon space nestled close to Crane's it's only a matter of time before Blake finds his way there, leaving his skyscrapers, but bringing the rain. He recognizes how out-of-place this feels, all artifice and some conception of classical, but the more he wanders those halls, the more eerie and liminal everything feels.

How could anyone work here? How could someone be treated here? Suffocating. Blake supposes he knows why it suits Crane with its winding architectural elements and dense hardwoods. At any moment he expects to open a door and find the build of cobwebs leading to some treacherous dungeon full of howling victims.

(He only wanders this labyrinth of insanity because he knows eventually he'll wake up.)

So, dare to trespass, he does. He's inside Crane's study, fingers drawing over the spines of those imagined books, mind racing to put pieces together as quickly as possible. The evidence for all he needs to know is here — that much he's certain about — although he makes no effort to hide his intrusion or the fact that he's snooping.

Near the fireplace, he pulls a book from the shelf and flips the pages, toasted by the flames and illuminated by the firelight. Outside the rain patters against the half dozen windows and Blake can sense the way the dampness cling to his shoulders and hair. It wouldn't be surprising if he'd left a trail of wet footprints all the way here. ]

Edited (continuity?? clarity?? forgetfulness, probably 👀) 2023-04-11 00:46 (UTC)

[Crane knows not to trust a smile. This world born from imagination holds the illusion of warmth; a welcoming place in all but name. First impressions are misleading, he knows, because he enjoys making them. There is a pause while he closes his book and leans against the tree. He adjusts his glasses and looks up at his guest

This is a young man. Not the soldier he's been speaking to about trauma. Nor the one craving the stupor of medication. He already knows the names of others and has met some in person. It's a pleasant challenge, really, shortening the list by process of elimination. He considers asking the younger man for his name but decides there's not much point.

He doesn't climb to his feet. Not yet.]

Not as much as I by your punctuality, Henry.

[It's the smile he wears for nearly everyone, nearly all of the time. When the mask slips, the circumstances are so very rarely... ideal. Such as the time he's spent kidnapped, trapped, experimented upon. (Well, the most recent example of that, anyway.)

But this? This is little more than a friendly visit bolstered by passing, quietly derisive intrigue. There's no reason not to smile -- though perhaps a pale brow arches up at how quickly Crane makes his deduction. And a correct one, at that.]

I hate to keep others waiting. [Clock's always ticking.] Though it looks like you don't have trouble keeping yourself entertained. What are you reading?

Edited 2023-04-11 01:09 (UTC)

[Murmuring voices. Whispered speech. Screams and cries of distress. Crane imagines the former is the latter and smiles to himself as he wanders the corridors towards an ornate set of stairs. He climbs with a spring in his step, fingers gliding across the iron railing, swirling across the end before sliding into his pocket. He imagines himself whistling as he strolls past an empty room that might make a fine laboratory.

Luckily, he has never been one to whistle. Nor ignore the signs of intrusion. The heavy rain is unusual, not of his own preference nor design. He listens to its patter and spots the droplets dampening the floor; a trail of moisture that leads towards his study and ends at its door.

He silently twists the handle and slips inside. Rain beats against the window. The door is closed without making a sound. His body blocks the only way out. There is something cold and devilish in his tone as he announces his presence.]

Boo.

Ulysses. A modern retelling of The Odyssey.

[There is something awkward about the manner in which he climbes to his feet; a mismatced movement of balance and limbs. One moment to bend down, another to collect his book and shelter it beneath his arm. The third to straighten and observe and eventually finish his words.]

I found it apt.

[They are all stuck far from home, after all.]

I've never read it.

[When he was a child, he read plenty. When he was in the lab, that predilection was stifled or at least redirected to a select few volumes of reading material. Ulysses was never part of that. But, perhaps nestled within secondhand knowledge that exists somewhere in his mind, tangled up with the rest, he knows the broad strokes of the tale. The elevator pitch, so to speak. Maybe Papa mentioned it once, ages ago.

He watches as Crane rises to his feet like a man with too-long limbs. It's a bit what Henry looks like when he's going from crouch-to-stand, too.]

But I'd think that a tale about a journey homebound would only make you more... homesick, being stuck as we are.

[ Perhaps if this was Blake's domain instead, or he hadn't brought the rain, Crane's approach might have been more obvious. Of course, that's assuming that Blake cares about being caught (he doesn't) or that he believes anything here to be real (he doesn't). Still, he's surprised, not startled, and as he turns to look it doesn't escape his notice that the "good" doctor is barring the exit. Purposefully? Time will tell.

Snapping the book closed with one hand, he moves to sit on the arm of one of those finely crafted chairs. He experiments with the weight of the book and looks around rather purposefully for Crane's observation. Ostentatious comes to mind, but he doesn't bother sharing because he knows its little more than ammo for the man hoping to intimidate him. Still, he wants Crane to understand that he's watching. ]

Opening a practice?

[ He knows you are, Crane. He saw the announcement like everyone else, reading it over and over on his periphery while every part of him thrummed with a racing heartbeat. When he'd dismissed the notification he had considered messaging back, but as with all things, Blake needs to do things the hard way.

It helps that it's just them; no one else is around to hear what's bound to be said. ]

[Crane lifts a brow. Homesick? His presence in Abraxas is a fact of life. One variable to be handled and figured into a wide equation. What would be the point of pining for home? He knows he will return one day. He knows he may not.

In any case, he will adapt.]

Well, we all miss our creature comforts. But curious people must venture far from home now and then.

[Case in point: Henry's visit to his domain. Oooo roll that into an emote and smoke it.]

[Between the strange schedule he's been keeping and the difficulty of tracking time in the Horizon, it's a wonder even to Jayden himself that he manages to arrive on time to the meeting. But he does, leaving his room with a few minutes to spare, but thankfully all he has to do is go down into the main part of the Inn and look for the new arrival.

The bruising on his face has mostly faded in the time since being rescued, just hints of shadows here and there, and he looks pale and tired. But other than that, and his left hand and arm still being wrapped in bandages, there isn't much evidence of the month he spent trapped in that cave. Physically, anyway.

He slides into the seat opposite Crane, nodding in his own polite greeting, though he's already a little mentally distracted and has to force himself to refocus.]

Yeah, of course. Glad you found the place okay; how're you doing with getting used to... All of this?

[You know, the whole lack of technology and presence of magic and all the other weirdness.]

[Oh, that brow of his remains arched.]

Of course. Don't get me wrong; my "creature comforts" were always so disappointing back home. Abraxas presents a nice opportunity to get away from all of that, to explore things I couldn't hope to imagine even existed.

[And that's certainly not a lie. No, Henry far, far from misses his own home. But the idea of being brought to this one without his consent still settles unwell in him, like bramble in his chest.]

And to explore others' idea of "home". Usually that's what a domain is fashioned after. Is yours the same, Doctor?

[Furtive movements that reveal motive and intent. Crane hardly looks surprised; how often had he had been clubbed with his own books in his youth? Too often to tell. It means his gaze remains on the only threat in the room. What Blake notices about his study is irrelevent at this moment. He already knows the man has been snooping around.

On the network too, apparently.]

What can I say? It's less illegal than breaking and entering.

[Cool. Calm. Collected. The mask hasn't slipped yet but that's sure a loose stitch or two.]

[The pursuit of knowledge and exploration of the unknown. The thought brightens his eyes, cold and impasive as they are behind their piercing shade of blue.]

Not particularily. Home for me has always been the people in my life.

[In his hospital. Stapped to chairs. Drugged out of their minds. Oh, be still his beating heart.]

[Pale and tired. Crane can understand burning the midnight oil, though his reasons for doing so are different to most. It is an image he keeps to himself as he looks towards the bar; a range of liquors and spirits bottled at the rear. He returns his attention after a moment.]

Better than some by all accounts.

[One hand rests upon the table, fingers tapping in thought before both hands slide into his lap.]

What kind of people would perform such barbarity?

[You're a profiler. You can tell him, right?]

[Yikes, buddy.]

Then you’ll make this place your home soon enough. Surely, with all these new faces that hope to take advantage of your generosity.

[He tilts his head, ever so slightly.]

If not new patients, then new friends. Ones that get the grand tour of the place, at the very least…?

[Jayden's gaze follows Crane's just briefly, only enough to figure out what he's looking at, and he wonders for a moment if Crane's considering drinking at this time in the morning. Maybe that's just because Jayden had himself, for just a moment before coming downstairs, contemplated the possibility of getting a drink at this time of the morning before deciding that no, that was probably pushing it.

He draws his own thoughts back to the present again, and gives a small shrug, though he then mirrors Crane in pulling both his hands under the table as well.]

You said you'd heard somethin' about what happened recently? How much were you filled in on?

[Jayden's allowing the diversion in topic for now, but he'll circle back to his original question later.]

[Genuflection. Suggestion. Like for like and game for game.

Indulging the man shouldn't hurt. It's not like he'll be the only person to cross the threshold, after all.]

As you wish. This way, please.

[He gestures towards the stone vestibule that leads indoors; towards an ethereal and bright corridor that winds around the hall. The vaulted ceiling is visible behind the entrance. The door a modern construct of metal and glass that spreads from ceiling to floor. He holds it open and waits.]

[ Shifting back to stand, Blake returns the book to the shelf, pressing it carefully until all the spines perfectly align once more. He's not concerned about being overwhelmed physically, and hubris says that he's got the upper hand otherwise, because what can really be learned from these little exchanges that he's not getting equal amounts in return?

He walks the perimeter of the room, drifting towards the line of windows and away from the fireplace. Outside the winds shift and pelt the glass with more insistent and staccato taps. The comfortable light level of the room argues its shadows with those of the fireplace, creating long, jittering shadows from the flickering of the flames dancing with shorter shadows from the mood lighting. If he lets his eyes glaze over a bit, it's almost cacophonous in its presentation. ]

Were you not offerin' your services to the public then?

[ He stops at what he assumes is Crane's chair, hand atop the backrest. It's not hard to imagine someone Blake cares about finding their way into this man's little slice of the Horizon and becoming some experiment. Staring across as if he were Crane, he eyes the chairs placed in careful opposition. Is there anything here not perfectly formed for the other man's intentions? He doubts it.

Blake's fingers tap in rolling succession, gaze returning to his opposition. Can Crane resist the urge? He doubts that, too. ]

Bits and pieces. People tell me one story while others spin another. Something about missing person cases, if I'm not mistaken?

[He clenches his hands together and closes his eyes. Missing persons. That's certainly a nicer way of saying kidnapping.]

It makes getting used to this place all the more difficult.

[And Henry passes through. What an ornate place. Again, so very, very different than what he’s used to.

He unclasps his hands as he walks, taking in the sight.]

All this must be based on someplace from your world, though?

Yeah. Getting an idea of what this place is about was difficult enough when I got here, and everything was pretty calm at the time.

[So he can empathize, and that's the only reason he decides to give an explanation.]

So, what happened. Basically people started disappearin' from all the factions, over a span of a few days. A cult was abducting them for some sort of weird, convoluted plan about communicating with their gods or something.

[He knows it's probably obvious by the casual and detached way he's explaining this that he's purposefully distancing himself from the story, but decides to let himself believe it sounds more natural than it does.]

Part of the group escaped after awhile, and the rest were rescued, and everyone who lived is back in their factions now.

[And, you know, totally fine and all that.]

Edited 2023-04-11 03:16 (UTC)

The public were offering their services to me.

[Winds shift and change, growing tempestous and wild as his mood ebbs and flows. Rain continues pelting the window and he focuses on its rhythm, droplets falling from guttering and drainage to splash against stone. The candance begins to pulse alongside his heart. Beats throb and power a mental impulse; an unstable force of irritation, anger and action.

It is easy to miss the grubby hands roaming across his chair, claiming it for themselves, denying him his position over everyone who enters this room. But he has learned how to be observant. To know when he is being guided away from the path. He continues blocking the door.

Maybe he is frustrated with being unable to be himself. Or maybe he is finally showing himself for the first time since arriving here. That might be why his tone is more bold.]

I suppose that is why you are here?

[Of course it is. Why else would he risk being caught?]

[Open] All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon

Sarstina (Norman)

Horizon (Open)

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Cadens (Cadfael)

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heh HEH

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