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Entry tags:
Tea and cookies
It is currently 17:42 Pacific Time on Mon Jan 2 2012.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (59% full).
Edgewood House: Downstairs
The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)
Obvious exits:
Front Door Upstairs
It's a cool night outside, rain drizzling down as is so common in Washington's winter. Inside Edgewood the kitchen lights are on and a kettle of water heats on the stove, tended by a white-haired woman. There's an empty mug on the counter at her elbow and a pair of cookies waiting on a plate on the table - all in all, a nice domestic scene, proof against the weather.
The door opens, allowing in a sweep of cold air and dampness, followed by the gentle stamping of feet against the floor. "Freaking cold," comes a murmured voice, the owner of the footfalls. The statement is punctuated by the closing of the door. Feet shuffle against the floor, moving from the mudroom and into the living area, revealing the source to be a tall and lanky adolescent, damp from whatever errands had him outside.
Devon stands at an even six feet tall, his build lanky and lean. He has dirty blond, nearly brown hair, and dark blue eyes set into an an angular face. One limb has acquired scarring, the flesh along his hand and forearm mangled as though having been chewed on. At a glimpse he appears confident, carrying himself with an easy manner. Still set in adolescence, he hasn't yet lost the cuteness of boyhood within his features.
On a typical day Devon can be found wearing any combination of t-shirts and jeans and skater shoes. And in colder weather, layers consist of long sleeved thermals, a hoodie, and jacket.
By the time Devon's visible from the kitchen the woman has turned, revealing herself to be an of average height, if of unaverage coloration. "Are you a cousin of the family?" she inquires politely, her bearing regal. She might almost have a spotlight focused on her, save that the kitchen lights cast a democratic glow.
Devon's head comes up, a hand caught in the process of raking through his hair. "Woah," he breathes, more surprise than impoliteness when his gaze finds Shelby. His mouth closes, throat bobbing with a swallow as he drops his gaze, hand falling to his side. "Yeah," he offers in response, clearing his throat after the word. "I'm... Kevin Lockwood's my brother."
A corner of the Fang's mouth twitches, warming her expression to something closer to her true age. Behind her the kettle whistles; she gives the taller boy a searching look before waving him toward the table. "Have a cookie. Would you like some tea? --And a proper introduction, if you please. This place is safe."
The boy's gaze flicks toward the sound of the tea kettle, then returns to Shelby. His brows draw together slightly, more akin to discomfort than a frown. "Right," he says quietly, as though to himself. "Name's Devon," he offers, feet drawing him over the threshold and into the kitchen proper. "Red-Hands-Wields-the-Knife. Cliath Ahrouh of the Glass Walkers." A glance darts toward the cookies and then the tea pot, and he shows a second of hesitation before taking one of the former with a soft 'thanks'.
Shelby tucks a bit of white hair behind one ear, half-turning to bring the kettle off the flame without fully taking her attention from the Walker. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque," she says in exchange. "Called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush, great-great granddaughter of the Adren Philodox Silver Sword with Two Blades. I'm a Fostern Ragabash of the Silver Fangs." Another bright, probably meant to be disarming smile, and she does turn away from him, but only to place a spoonful of tea leaves into her mug. "How long have you been at the Hidden Walk, Devon?"
Devon turns his own head to own side, keeping an oddly careful downward gaze. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be studying the cookie in his hands. "Few months, got picked up shortly after the semester at SCCU started." He pauses, taking a small bite of cookie. "Just passed my Rite of Passage yesterday."
The look the Ragabash sends over her shoulder is equal parts pleasure and surprise. "Oh? Congratulations! You may have both cookies, then," with an airy wave of her un-busy hand. "You must have come in just about the time I left. Hmm... September?" She turns back to the Walker, tea left to steep. "I was going to attend SCCU myself. What was your major going to be?"
Devon shakes his head a little, managing half a grin. "Thanks, and... just one cookie is fine." He raises the cookie in his hand, sans bite. His head tips a little, a glance angling toward the Fang again. "I... my parents had me go into an engineering field. Something that would've helped me get into grad school in a couple of years."
"But you didn't want to be an engineer?" she guesses. "I was going to be pre-law. But that was a while ago." There's a wry quirk to one side of her mouth despite her words. "Which reminds me of something I need to do. Congratulations again, Devon, and I'll see you around. At next Moot, if not before." Without pausing to take her mug she moves past the Ahroun, heading for the darkened stairs.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Half (Philodox) Moon phase (59% full).
Edgewood House: Downstairs
The front door leads into a small mudroom; coats are hanging on hooks. It opens into the spacious, well lit living room, with several battered old couches arranged into a sort of conversation pit facing the fireplace, a table in the center of them. There are a few chairs, some straight-backed, some plush and comfortable, arranged to make secondary conversation areas, with little end tables placed in strategic locations. There's a notable absence of either breakable objects, or elaborate electrical equipment such as televisions. The walls, painted an increasingly dingy white, have some sweeping dark fabric prints on them, but no paintings or posters. A steep, uncarpeted staircase leads up to the second floor. There are several doors that lead out to other sections of the house, as well. (+view for details)
Obvious exits:
Front Door Upstairs
It's a cool night outside, rain drizzling down as is so common in Washington's winter. Inside Edgewood the kitchen lights are on and a kettle of water heats on the stove, tended by a white-haired woman. There's an empty mug on the counter at her elbow and a pair of cookies waiting on a plate on the table - all in all, a nice domestic scene, proof against the weather.
The door opens, allowing in a sweep of cold air and dampness, followed by the gentle stamping of feet against the floor. "Freaking cold," comes a murmured voice, the owner of the footfalls. The statement is punctuated by the closing of the door. Feet shuffle against the floor, moving from the mudroom and into the living area, revealing the source to be a tall and lanky adolescent, damp from whatever errands had him outside.
Devon stands at an even six feet tall, his build lanky and lean. He has dirty blond, nearly brown hair, and dark blue eyes set into an an angular face. One limb has acquired scarring, the flesh along his hand and forearm mangled as though having been chewed on. At a glimpse he appears confident, carrying himself with an easy manner. Still set in adolescence, he hasn't yet lost the cuteness of boyhood within his features.
On a typical day Devon can be found wearing any combination of t-shirts and jeans and skater shoes. And in colder weather, layers consist of long sleeved thermals, a hoodie, and jacket.
By the time Devon's visible from the kitchen the woman has turned, revealing herself to be an of average height, if of unaverage coloration. "Are you a cousin of the family?" she inquires politely, her bearing regal. She might almost have a spotlight focused on her, save that the kitchen lights cast a democratic glow.
Devon's head comes up, a hand caught in the process of raking through his hair. "Woah," he breathes, more surprise than impoliteness when his gaze finds Shelby. His mouth closes, throat bobbing with a swallow as he drops his gaze, hand falling to his side. "Yeah," he offers in response, clearing his throat after the word. "I'm... Kevin Lockwood's my brother."
A corner of the Fang's mouth twitches, warming her expression to something closer to her true age. Behind her the kettle whistles; she gives the taller boy a searching look before waving him toward the table. "Have a cookie. Would you like some tea? --And a proper introduction, if you please. This place is safe."
The boy's gaze flicks toward the sound of the tea kettle, then returns to Shelby. His brows draw together slightly, more akin to discomfort than a frown. "Right," he says quietly, as though to himself. "Name's Devon," he offers, feet drawing him over the threshold and into the kitchen proper. "Red-Hands-Wields-the-Knife. Cliath Ahrouh of the Glass Walkers." A glance darts toward the cookies and then the tea pot, and he shows a second of hesitation before taking one of the former with a soft 'thanks'.
Shelby tucks a bit of white hair behind one ear, half-turning to bring the kettle off the flame without fully taking her attention from the Walker. "Shelby Zaleski-Leveque," she says in exchange. "Called Bright Eye Sees to the Heart of the Ambush, great-great granddaughter of the Adren Philodox Silver Sword with Two Blades. I'm a Fostern Ragabash of the Silver Fangs." Another bright, probably meant to be disarming smile, and she does turn away from him, but only to place a spoonful of tea leaves into her mug. "How long have you been at the Hidden Walk, Devon?"
Devon turns his own head to own side, keeping an oddly careful downward gaze. For all intents and purposes, he appears to be studying the cookie in his hands. "Few months, got picked up shortly after the semester at SCCU started." He pauses, taking a small bite of cookie. "Just passed my Rite of Passage yesterday."
The look the Ragabash sends over her shoulder is equal parts pleasure and surprise. "Oh? Congratulations! You may have both cookies, then," with an airy wave of her un-busy hand. "You must have come in just about the time I left. Hmm... September?" She turns back to the Walker, tea left to steep. "I was going to attend SCCU myself. What was your major going to be?"
Devon shakes his head a little, managing half a grin. "Thanks, and... just one cookie is fine." He raises the cookie in his hand, sans bite. His head tips a little, a glance angling toward the Fang again. "I... my parents had me go into an engineering field. Something that would've helped me get into grad school in a couple of years."
"But you didn't want to be an engineer?" she guesses. "I was going to be pre-law. But that was a while ago." There's a wry quirk to one side of her mouth despite her words. "Which reminds me of something I need to do. Congratulations again, Devon, and I'll see you around. At next Moot, if not before." Without pausing to take her mug she moves past the Ahroun, heading for the darkened stairs.