The Raven and the Writing Desk

Marjory and Amity journey across the city on a quest to uncover Amity's godly fate; the apparent font of this divine information might not be quite what she was expecting.

Psychic Place, Toronto, ON

May 2nd, 2013

"How do you get an answer with no question?"

The journey toward destiny became less epic when it involved trekking across the city like every other person without immediate wheels: less than glamorously, via public transit, for half an hour. From Parkdale to East York, and during the time it takes Marjory to interpret a few twists and turns on the street near their would-be destination to get herself oriented before marching onward, girl on a new mission (a side mission, truly, at best: far be it for Marjory to forget her true goals), her Marjory's praise of their goail is vague but exalted. Cryptically held back from full explanation, the teenager at once evasive and insistent.

Words like future and fate stand out.

So when she stops Amity squarely in front of a small, heavily curtained shop decorated in average gaudy neon signage advertising psychic readings (at a discount), appearing no different from any other questionable "psychic" joint in the city, Marjory fidgets slightly as if expecting a judgmental gaze.

Despite the cryptic words, and odd non-explanations denoting fate, Amity had followed Marjory through the city easily with that same easiness in attitude and form. Everything about her exuded that ease— a nature apart from her more emboldened self.

The easiness, however, fades into moderate skepticism at the shop. A thin, dark eyebrow arches at Marjory and the fidgeting. It's not as much judgmental as it is skeptical— like Marjory has crafted some elaborate prank on the older of the two as punishment for joining in the strangest quest of her lifetime. Perhaps ever.

Yet Amity finds a very bright red-lipped smile. Toothy, and energetic as she reaches over to link arms with her younger, albeit dodgy companion. A simple tug on the door, followed by a firmer one on the arm, bids them entrance.

Quiet paces bring the dark haired twenty-something in the store, while blue eyes curiously, and perhaps with good humour all their own, seek out whatever it is they've come for. Even if it is nothing more than a hoax.

PSYCHIC PLACE the red-backgrounded sign had blared outside, and the decorations are as stereotypically expected inside as the name implies. Behind the gaudy, heavy, curtains of the window a flicker of a few candles show ornamental baubles, generally unorganized: Buddhist statues next to Christian prayer cards, next to a particularly depressed looking voodoo doll winking at them from its one good eye. Floating paper balls surround the hanging lamps, casting clashing colors across the already brightly painted walls and the collection of things on every available, unmatched surface. Purples and pink are predominant but not singular, and the air — faintly dusky and smelling of lavender and too much mint — is that they've stumbled into a hoarder's nest with a predilection for things that sparkle.

As a welcoming lobby, the room only half serves its purpose: there's plenty to distract oneself, but there's also a kind of maze quality to any attempts to move further into the store and, perhaps, get anywhere at all. Closest to Amity as she enters, a nude brown-skinned woman with a glowing stomach and bull-horn throne is displayed on a bead mat on the wall. Next to it, a shelf with two half-translucent vases full of— something— and a dying bonsai tree.

Somewhere invisible, a clock, or a metronome, ticks by.

Despite being more familiar with the establishment, though perhaps less familiar than she may have led Amity to believe, Marjory enters with a kind of caution, the kind of sharp-eyed wariness she crept into the dark back door of the pub with. The ticking sets her on edge; the reputation of the questionable bauble-filled nest she's led her new acquaintance to is what really seals it, however.

It's more sparkly than she remembered, if such a thing is possible.

The girl's natural grace is put to the test as she attempts to avoid knocking into anything in her effort to come up alongside Amity. Craning her neck to peer into the little maze, she looks she both hopes to find the owner and doesn't at the same time.

Much like Marjory, Amity slides this way and that through the maze, with grace befitting a dance rather than a grifter. In fact, each step almost seems rehearsed, mimicked from something seen as a child and replicated with ease time and time again. But then motion has always come easy to the lithe woman. Her blue eyes wander from one object to the next with rapt curiosity— each, in turn, seems to suggest something about who they are visiting. A gypsy perhaps? A fortune teller? "I once met a fortune teller in Essex who kept a tree like that," her eyes turn to the dying bonsai tree. "She told me my life was about to change." It had been vague enough to be correct.

Amity's hands retreat into her jacket pockets as her teeth play at her bottom lip. "Hello?" she offers into the space.

Quiet and stealthy as Amity might be, managing to pick across the floor, she's most suddenly set upon by a figure standing directly in front of her, batting huge eyes dominated by glaring whites and a mesh of blonde hair half-pulled into pigtails that have long come loose. "Hello!" The greeting flares out of the lanky woman's mouth with a smack of her lips; a hand twists with a clank of disjointed metals hanging off of the wrist. "Intruders."

Managing, for her part, not to completely jump out of her skin and remain still in all but her eyes, Marjory tries to greet the woman. Politely. "N— no, uhm, hello. Moira?" The redheaded girl tips her head, searching the woman with a hopefulness that winds up looking a great deal more like skepticism, raising her eyebrows. "Do you— do you remember me?"

The spectre in front of her warrants, the slightest pinch of Amity's eyebrows. While the words Moira uses hardly seem threatening, the woman's posture and very sudden appearance have their effect. Amity narrows her eyes at the other woman, but says nothing in turn, allowing Marjory the opportunity to make introductions. She does, however, take note of the bangles around the other woman's wrist, which are, surprisingly, met with the faintest nod of approval.

"Noo." A purr out of overly sparkly lips — a gaudy exotic pink glaringly at odds with her mash of ill-applied blue eyeshadow and the deliberate circles of red at the tops of her cheekbones. "No," with more command, Moira shoots an arm out to her side, fingers curling into the purple, brass-hooked, curtain she must've swept out from behind to pull it, now, open. "Intruders."

She's opened to the scenery of a delicate little pink table, far too short for any adult-sized human, with a couple of mismatched throw-pillows for chairs and an entire — shockingly these match — set of tea party instruments displayed in the perfectly accurate fashion of a child's elegance for things out of their realm.

Neither are they alone: no expected fluffy toy animals on the pillows, but a man, so short as to possibly be a toy, himself, but blinking in liveliness at them, his bushy eyebrows amused and his mouth seemingly capable of no other expression. A cup of tea sits on the tiny round plate he holds up near his chin, one finger looped through its handle.

"I-I…" Struck temporarily mute, Marjory stares naively into the arrangement. Accidentally meeting the fellow's eyes, she hops her gaze away, blinking. "M— Marjory, miss… Moira. I'm sorry to intrude, I've— " She gets a handle on herself and the perceived seriousness of her reason for coming here, standing taller. "I've brought someone who needs guidance."

In a strange way, the dischord of the scene and the accusation light a fire under Amity. Her blue eyes reflect a particular kind of mischief, coy in its own way, as she paces forward towards this supposed Moira. Her hand is offered, as a means for the peculiar woman to shake as her head cants to the side in apt curiosity, not the apprehension she'd felt walking into the space. In the accusations she finds her courage— a strange oddity on the surface. "Amity Rey," she introduces herself with the faintest tilt of her head and a tweak of a smile. She makes no apology for their presence, but she does offer, "And I definitely need guidance." Wandering forever has its effects.

Puckered lips do not make an agreeable note on Moira's face as she watches through bushels of her purposefully ratted hair. Eyelids flutter down to shade her eyes as she observes the hand offered, shrinking backwards from it after a note.

At the little tea-table, the man raises his cup against his lip, humming amusement. "Guidance, Moira. Interesting, it rings to me." A sip while Moira's lips quirk in a soft displeased tic; the picture of a child interrupted at play, now asked to take out the trash. "Mind, here they are, guests. Bad form, would it not be said, to turn a guest aside without a hand in less than a slap."

A little sniff flares one of Moira's nostrils, then, shrugging with an abrupt uncaring, she melts backwards, bobbing with her head that they journey through the curtain to the extra tea pillows.

Marjory's hands, ungloved by now what with less stealthy past-times, wind up folding neatly in front of her, giving her the odd look of a school-child following an utterly unlikely teacher. It pauses in front of the … tea pillows. "Hello," she says softly to the man, polite, then unsure of what's next. She looks to Moira. "Amity is," another glance to the man and back, "like me."

The man receives a curious cant of Amity's head, but only until the pair are semi-invited into the room, which has her straightening, and trying to remember her grandmother's encouragement around her posture. Tea requires proper behaviour, something each of her relatives felt the need to remind time and time again. "Hi," she says a little more cautiously before correcting herself with a clear of her throat, "Hello."

Her hands are clasped behind her back as she rocks gently on the balls of her feet. "Well— " she corrects Marjory, "— Marjory and someone else we met tonight think I am." She's still not wholly convinced. Not when she has no discernible reason to believe it. Besides never knowing her mother. Or anything about her mother.

Eyes sparking preternaturally, the man grins effusively at them, seeming to glean additional joy the more the girls settle in, uncomfortable and all. "Greetings, my pretties."

"Shush, you," from Moira, "Shush, you pan-piper. I see your thoughts and they're mine now. Mine." Eyes shoot possessively to mark both Amity and Marjory before she clears her throat, slipping a dainty pinky through a tea-cup like a little girl in imitation of adults she's seen in book pictures. After a pause where she raises the tea, forgets to sip, then lowers it, her free hand flutters painted nails at Amity insistently. "Speak up, speak up. How do you get an answer with no question? You must choose a direction before you can go it. A projection, perhaps? Of future inspection."

Blue eyes, veiled only slightly by a curtain of dark eyelashes, flit to Marjory and then back towards the blonde. A question. But Amity has so many questions where can she even start? Perhaps with the beginning. "Riiiight," the word is slow, drawn-out, biding time to string words together into something comprehensible. "Well, I suppose," she begins somewhat pensively, "my first question is am I what Marjory thinks I am? Am I one of these supposed god-children?"

"To take the words as they behave," murmurs the small man, drifting to the side to eyeball Moira with fluttering eyelashes — longer, even, than both teenage girls'. "You own it all, and nothing, if you'll forgive this knave for saying."

Moira's hands begin to flap and fingers to wiggle before the first, "Shh— shh— shh— " that goes on much longer than needed to quiet her guest. A sigh flutters the ends of her falling boisterous hair. "Okay… Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay." Half a dozen or so calming assurances then, in a perfectly practical manner, she unrolls her hand towards Amity. When it's not immediately filled with glittering moneys, it shifts questioningly towards Marjory all the while Moira's lower lip juts out further in wondering.

The man prompts Amity's eyebrows to draw together cynically. Is this really happening, or did they accidentally ingest mushrooms? It's not like it hasn't happened before. Her gaze turns from the man, to Moira, and then back to Marjory. One slender dark eyebrow perks as if to ask whether the woman is for real, but she reaches into her pocket, returns her gaze to Moira and the open hand is honored with a few very crumpled five dollar bills.

Marjory keeps back — this is Amity's time, not hers, which she encourages with a tiny nod of her head and a — barely existent — smile, her eyes altogether more uncertain than even those scarce gestures, but hopeful all the same. Hopeful that Amity will learn something other than the fact that Marjory takes her new acquaintances on strange, fruitless journeys to cheap psychics.

Closing fingers around the bills, Moira crumples them further as she retracts then opens, picking apart the bills with her other hand and a lazy sniff; yeah, okay. Plop, she overturns the bills in what is a luckily empty tea-cup — it remains to question whether she knew at the time it was void of liquid or not. "'Suppose I could pull out ye old cards or some— " She stops on an exaggerated crack of the gum she's been chewing. Pop. A second her mouth drifts open then a low blink sends her eyes to the table before flickering up to Amity. "Oh, Amity, darling," she speaks, a fresh and low inflection contrary to her appearance except in the new-found wisdom in her eyes; it sparks, leaving the girls to wonder how they didn't see it before. "Our little wanderer— come closer." The seat next to her is patted in a welcoming, albeit slightly stiff, manner.

Amity glances towards Marjory only to look back towards Moira. While Amity has seen many curious things over the years, this is quite possibly one of the most curious in some time. Slowly, carefully, she slides towards the psychic, taking the offered perch with just a pinch of hesitation. She sits down, straight backed as her head to turns to face Moira. Her hands are folded gently in her lap and she manages a small, yet present tight-lipped smile. "Cards or… something else?"

"Ignore that," instructs Moira's gentile new arrangement of tones, "Cards are cheap."

"Chloe, dear, do be respectful," murmurs an amused man.

A dark look shot to her previously lauded company, Moira's turn on Amity's less than pleasant — sharp, calculating and wary before she reaches out to stroke three fingers across the girl's knuckles.

"Chloe?" Amity asks idly. "I thought your name was Moira— " Her blue eyes squint with the name change, but even more so at the contact. To the touch, Amity's knuckles are chilly, a temperature matching her pale hue. Thoughtfully, her eyes turn downwards, following the contact rather than Moira herself. Skepticism still lingers in Amity's gaze, but it's not uttered.

Double pairs of eyes watch Amity: one impatient, one just ridiculously amused: "Her name's Moira," forms Moira's mouth with a touch of a sigh.

"Her," the man elaborately gestures to the blonde woman next to him, "name is Clotho."

Confusion has set in, but not in an irritated way. While some may become angrily perplexed by such situations, Amity appears to draw amusement from the oddness of this assumed puzzle. "Right," she says with a cluck of her tongue and a satisfied smile, even if she doesn't wholly follow. "Oh-kay," Marjory is cast another sideglance, still confused, but okay with it in a way. Her eyes narrow at the man before asking, "And who are you?" Pause. "I'm Amity Rey— "

"The Pan knows who you are," is from Moira's mouth as she sways deliberately backwards; all of her movements now poised and ponderous. "Shall we continue then? To the reason that spawn of Yahweh's ignorance excited you in ways you've always felt had to be different than everyone else?" A little disdainful sniff and Moira reaches for the tea-cup to daintily circle a finger around the rim.

Uh-huh. Another glance is cast towards Marjory. This experiencing is quickly turning strager by the minute. "Yes, let's continue," Amity has already paid the woman afterall. Her eyes narrow some at the question, but after a moment, she manages, "And why do I feel so different— have always felt so different?" Her lips purse as she stares at the blonde. "Is it what Marjory thinks?" Her eyebrows tick upwards.

Wise and wary eyes sit on Marjory a long moment, "Marjory thinks many things." The Clotho voice of Moira speculates coolly. "Each person is different. Each. Yet all intertwined while not. Your question lacks specificity, yet I will not hesitate to call you Eris-childe, for you are a scion of discord, even if she has failed to disclose it." War springs to Moira's face, pulling lines of indecision and disorientation into the wiser presence, "Lazy motherfu— " only to wash away with a soft sigh. "As they are," she murmurs, before her voice drops an octave to relate, "So they shall be."

A surge of youthful energy nearly compels Marjory to bounce on her feet, but she only lets a tremor of restlessness wash over her, a rapid stir of her hands and liveliness of her eyes. She doesn’t quell the broad, close-lipped smile that spreads across her lips, however, but stays respectfully quiet and attentive to the odd delivery of wisdom; her I was right! announcement is kept in check.

Amity's blue eyes squint at the name. Eris. "Who is Eris?" her nose wrinkles as she considers every piece of mythology she's read over the course of her life. Evidently she needs some catching up on pieces of it. Her head turns to catch Marjory's bounce, and it earns a small smile, but the smile turns to mild apprehension. "But if that's true— " Her eyes tick back towards Moira. "Marjory said I should be able to do something different. Special, or profound or something. If I have such a thing… what the heck is it?"

"It sounds," murmurs the low dulcet tones, "Like a question." Is it a joke? Moira's animated face is not so, poised only in somberness and skepticism, aimed towards both young women in turn. "Or many, as they multiply too fast in the questing. To ask means there is more to do. To do means to quest. When the triangle fixes itself, you'll no longer question but be."

Holding his tea with an outstretched pinkie, the man nods with overdone solemnity. When he's raised the cup towards his face, shadowing it, he offers a companionable wink to the girls. Over here.

What!? That's not even an answer. Amity's eyes narrow at the answer as her mind works around the puzzle of the problem. The riddle does little to alleviate her curiosity, but she can accept the riddle as it is, and only asks, "So is there a quest I should be on? I know Marjory has a quest— "

Her eyes turn towards the little man, with a small dose of skepticism, but it's short-lived, Amity has always had a deep sense of adventure. She slides away from her perch and walks towards the little man. "Hi," she flashes him a tight-lipped smile.

"My, the child does not listen." Moira's head lolls gently to the side but seems to startle lightly when Amity moves, sending that deeply attentive gaze burrowing into the man instead.

The tea lowers as the man shoots a sheepishly uninvolved look over at Moira, "Do not look at this good fellow. She came over to him of her own." A slight head-shake, but it's hard to interpret if it's a scold or a sign to Amity after which he rises, "Perhaps the Pan has outstayed his welcome."

"I listen," Amity disagrees quietly, only to feel a pang of delight from her own insistence, earning a grin. "I always listen. I think what you're saying is that the questions are the quest and that they'll just keep snowballing." Or whatever. She doesn't tack on the whatever part though. Another tick of a smile meets Pan. "I really did come over on my own," she turns back to face Moira. Curious.

Marjory's curious gaze, meanwhile, does land on the man — the Pan — but flits back and forth. She stays where she is, but speaks up — polite as she can. "Can you give her a direction…?" she asks; whom, with her open, back-and-forth attention, is unclear. 

An elegantly arched eyebrow meets Marjory as Moira considers — highly unlikely, but as she licks her lips to reply, she's interrupted by a long exhale. As she breathes in, her head arches down and the eyes reach up to Marjory through a layer of shadowing hair as she, lower than before, intones in a crone's crackle: "You." Straight to the red-haired child. "Who seek him. You walk the wrong path."

Pop. Moira's gum snaps out in a short-lived bubble then back. Her head pops up and she blinks with wide, childish features inside painted pink cheeks at Amity. "— thing. But I'd go cards."

Amity's eyes narrow at the exchange between Marjory and Moira. What? "Go cards? So, like use the cards?" It's not the first fortune she's ever been read, but it's certainly the most cryptic. Her own puzzling prompts her to straighten in her seat. But then maybe that's the wrong question? "What is the triangle? And how can it be fixed?"

Her—Marjory—she’s being spoken to—it comes as a surprise and the girl battles the instinct to recoil against the instinct to stand up for herself. For her self-proclaimed quest. Her hands briefly run up her arms and she squares her shoulders, her jaw clamped down over an intense protest. “I’m—“ Unsure that the voice that Moira was using is even present any longer… “I’m not here for me,” she presses, pointedly polite, not wanting to interrupt Amity. She is not, however, without a bit of rebellion.

"What?" Moira bounces from sitting on one foot to the other, eyeing them all suspiciously, "What triangle? Who cares about you— " this to Marjory before she rounds on the Pan, "Why are you standing? Everybody shhh shhh shuuushie shhhh a second while I think." Flattened hands smack the air several times to demonstrate: down, noise, down. She breathes out, but not the cleansing exhale of before; now she sputters and her bangs flap in the self-created breeze. "Okay. Okay, okay. Are we doing cards or what?"

"What~" murmurs the man, coming up to lean over Moira — he barely has to — to touch his mouth carefully to the top of her head. She leans idly into the affection before realizing and hitting him several times while he meanders by, nodding to the girls and slipping out amongst the beads.

"Now see what you've done," Moira notes of them narrowly, "Or I've done. Now you have to have tea."

Only now does Amity's head snap over to Marjory. This is becoming increasingly strange. But then maybe it's starting to make sense. "Riiiight. Yes. Cards. We're doing cards. Absolutely. All the cards." Smiiiiile. She wrinkles her nose. "The triangle that's— you know, never mind. Let's get the cards done."

After watching the man walk past, Marjory inches slightly closer. "I'll have tea," she says to appease Moira, though a glance at the teacups has her wondering if it really is tea; she finally does down, but it's as far from Amity's session as she can. 

Gnawing on her bubble-gum the entire time, Moira slings an arm behind her to find that her pocket's empty; this begins a fifteen minute turn-over of the entire shop until she can fling herself back into the seat, dropping the deck between them. Teacups rattle as she knocks her elbows on the tiny table to shuffle the deck nine times then splay it in front of Amity for choosing. When the six cards are selected, she flips the first over in the initial position: a horned man playing the pipes with one hand and puppeteering two tiny humans with the other greets them.

Pop. "The Devil." Moira's long painted fingernail scrapes over the card's face. "Currently, you're feeling the temptation of a relationship, past-time, or pleasure — an addiction. Stay strong and positive, and don't doubt your abilities."

The dark haired twenty something just sits still as Moira pulls apart the shop to find her cards. Her hand fold together, and her irritation surmounts just a stitch. The reading however, warrants things,"Addiction, really?" Amity's eyebrows lift in surprise, only to relax moments later. "Oh. Like traveling. Oh-kay. That one— maybe." Her eyes flit back towards Moira as she releases a breath. "Strong and positive," she repeats. Optimism: the cure for what ails you.

Another flipped. A dark-haired man in a red robe points to the sky. It reads: The Magician. "What you're seeking is a new love… not necessarily a person," Moira's heavy-lidded eyes spy on her a second before dropping to tap the card, "But all things can be new. It depends on how much you want it, babygirl."

Amity's lips purse at the notion, almost like she's sucked on a lemon, but her hands clasp each other a little tighter. A new love. A new passion, maybe? Or possibly a new way of living. "So… something apart from the addiction then?" She hmmms quietly. Maybe it's a matter of changing one's patterns in life.

The High Priestess follows; a beautiful woman in a dress holding an apple. "Your fears are that you're uncertain very recently. Your gut is telling you that something isn't quite right. Delay major decisions until you've had your concerns answered… This could also mean that a woman in your life is a poor influence." A pause; she flicks an eye up to Marjory, "This better not mean you, chica."

Amity's lips quirk into a smile. A lot isn't quite right. The cards seem scarily accurate today, prompting her to unclasp her hands, and lean forward just a little. A side-glance is given to Marjory, "I'm always at least a little uncertain. I do wonder about this whole business though." Parentage. God-child. Demons. Pans. Strange. All strange.

"Uh huh." Gum pop. Moira's distant uncaring as she flips the next one over into position. "Death." It looks as suits its name. "Death represents what you've got going for you." A tic of her mouth, "Not like that." A finger slides, caressing, up and down the masked face in print, "It represents new beginnings, your life going through a period of great transformation that could be painful but will ultimately become a new phase in your being."

"Death as grace, then," Amity suggests with the same level of attention. A single eyebrow raises: it seems apt. The transformation into what she is rather than what she thought she was. Strange though it may be, these things are actually reassuring. "I suppose that stands to reason."

"Now what works against you." Flip. No blinded figure, no scales; this Justice holds a sword high and caresses an owl as she sits on her throne. "Justice. Something not going your way, or won't soon, even if you are in the right. Beware of taking someone's advice," Marjory, "or of thinking solely for one's self's needs."

Lips purse together as Amity's head tilts to the side inquisitively. She nods sagely at the wisdom though. Right, something might not go her way. She needs to stay on her guard. That's all there is to it. And be open to help others regardless. "I suppose sometimes even justice is unjust," she muses.

"Justice merely is," snaps the gum in Moira's mouth, "Look to the executioners. Now," and she flips the last card using The Justice. "Now is the time of The Sun." As the card glowingly represents, "You feel confident and full of vitality. This is a time of good news, of children, or the conception of a wanted child." She sniffs, leaning back against the tiny chair, "There's your five bucks, or whatever."

"We'll go with the confidence and good news bit," no wanted children here. Not for Amity, anyways. She smirks. "Thanks. That was excellent— I really appreciate it!" there's a renewed enthusiasm that presents itself in Amity's mannerisms. "I think I know a bit about what's next— " although there's still confusion over what exactly happened here. "— which is what I was looking for. So, thanks."

Moira's gum crackles as she sideways eyes Amity throughout her report, "Uh huh," she murmurs around the thanks, "So, now." Her hand tics towards them in the universal shoo. "I have a headache." And she looks it: suddenly strained, paler, as her shoulders slump with less of the manic energy of earlier.

"Well," Amity begins to rise from her spot on the cushion, and issues Moira a small smile, "Thank you for all of your help." She turns to face Marjory and comes to a full stand. "I guess we should be off." Pause. "I hope you feel better." It's the strangest of circumstances— but Amity doesn't try to analyze them too much, choosing instead to meander through the beads and back through the maze of things to the door. So much to think on. So much to decide.

Marjory, too, lends her thank-you to Moira, as sincere as it is apologetic. She hurries out after Amity. The night air is welcoming after the jumbled, cramped space behind the neon sign. She’s quick to step onto the sidewalk. “I know it’s—it’s odd. And confusing. She is—I mean. And she might not be right about everything—“ …you walk the wrong path… “But she’s right on others. She said Eris.”

"I think most of what she said was downtright nonsensical," Amity ventures with a half-smile as her hands tuck away into her pockets. She takes a long, deep breath of the cooler night air. "And yeah, she said Eris. But I don't… I don't know who that is." Her lips twitch into a larger grin, "I guess I should check the library." Her eyes squint into slits, "Unless you know. You seem to be a fountain of information…"

“Eris is from the Greek pantheon,” Marjory replies, soft-spoken yet matter-of-fact. “That I know. She’s perhaps less studied than some; I can’t seem to recall much else— it’s familiar though. She’s real. A real goddess.” Who just may be Amity’s mother. She holds tight to the strap of her bag, protective, clinging with quiet defense to her wisdom and this trail she’s led Amity on tonight. She smiles, tiny at the corners of her mouth. “I— I hope you find her.” In the library or otherwise.

There's a twitch of a smile. "Again, the fountain of information~" Amity sings as she falls into step with Marjory. Her eyes narrow some at Marjory's words, giving little more than a vague nod in response to the idea of finding her mother. A glance is given to the still-dark really early morning sky. "So…" she casts Marjory a sidelong stare, "…tell me, do questers get to sleep?" The question is punctuated with a grin. "I'm in a hostel. There's an extra bunk if you're interested— " She pauses. "'Sides, I figure that maybe you can help me figure out this whole god-child thing." Assuming this isn't some dream.

“I’ve got somewhere,” Marjory says with a duck of her head; an apology or polite avoidance; the teenager’s defenses are still strong. “I’ll—“ she considers, a foot flexing to bounce her once while she presses her lips together. “Here,” she reaches into her bag and, after rummaging through the arrangement of what is now certainly weapons, at least in part, produces a small notebook. She pulls the pencil from its metal coils and jots something quickly down on the thin, pale green paper. “My number. It’s not on all the time but … if you … “ This is unfamiliar territory for the girl; she winds up simply thrusting her hand out to offer Amity the torn paper: she’ll have to use it however she decides.

"Good," comes Amity's answer as she takes the number and gives a simple nod. "I'll be in touch." She takes a step away, intending to return to her hostel room and shed the cat burgular meets glam look she's taken on. She takes another step away, only to turn back, "Marjory… thanks." It's unexpected in every way, and there are plenty of questions left.

No clear sentiment is returned; Marjory’s expression is conflicted at best. No you’re welcome, no anytime! — she looks straight-faced, bright, wary-eyed back at Amity. A small smile touches her lips and she walks away.

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