[[[[[[MONROE NOTES: A sea change in Monroe's life, and excellent RP from
everyone involved.]]]]]]


Main Room -- Telegraph Hill Custom Clockworks(#2274R)

	This is a small shop, converted out of the front parlor and front
room of the skinny, small brick house that this building used to be. Two
large display cases have been installed, filled with white light and small
pedestals lined with crushed velvet holding watches and clocks of all
description. Pocket watches nestle next to wristwatches and alarm clocks
and desk clocks, ticking and chiming inexorably away. The lighting here is
indirect and soft, a pale yellow that lends the wooden furnishings a
sepia, antique tone, though they all seem to be of modern manufacture. 
	<<+views installed>>

Contents:
Muirinn
Willow
Dale
Obvious exits:
Back Room <BR>  Out <O>


<OOC> Monroe says "Okay. We'll say Monroe stepped into the back to pour
all the ladies some tea. Argus kept one eye open to make sure you didn't
paint anything in blood on the walls while Monroe was gone."

<OOC> Dale says "We're semi-waiting for Willow :) Muir and I sorta met the
other day but neither of us realized that the other was awakened :)"

Monroe says easily, "Ah, hello, Muirinn." He brought a teacup for her,
too, even though she wasn't here when he left. Huh. "Have you met Dale?"
he says politely.

Dale lets Muirinn field that one.

Muirinn smiles. "Well.. sort of.." She blinks. You note she has quite a
large "cat-that-just-got-the-canary" grin on her face that she can't for
the life of her wipe off.

Monroe just sort of peers at Muirinn's expression for a moment. "Well, may
I introduce you then? This is Dale Carter of the Speakers of Dreams, and
this is Muirinn O'(*whateverhernameis*) of the Verbenic Tradition." he
says. He's still not /quite/ where he can introduce Tradition mages
without stumbling.

Muirinn smiles at Monroe, then turns to Dale. "Ah, /doubly/ pleased to
meet you, then."

Willow has disconnected.

Dale lets out a much easier breath. So much easier when someone else does
the talking, isn't it? "I /was/ wondering," she remarks easily. "And,
likewise. I thought maybe my sight was deceiving me or something, but I'm
glad it wasn't."

Muirinn laughs. "It does get stale, always wondering.. Its nice to just
/know/."

Monroe smiles at the two ladies, straightening his waistcoat
unconsciously. "I'm afraid I do not often take note of the temporal
resonances people emit - Willow is much more reliable in examining them."
he admits.

Niles enters from the street.
Niles has arrived.

Muirinn glances up and smiles at Niles. Big smile.
Cat-having-eaten-the-canary type smile. But she's been like that for about
20 minutes now.

Monroe says curiously to Muirinn, giving the question a little more than a
casual inflection: "How are you tonight, Muirinn?"

Muirinn waves. "Hey Niles.." she glances to Monroe. "I'm good.." she
nearly purrs it.

Monroe greets Niles with a polite nod of his head and a "Hello." as he
passes through the door.

Willow has connected.

Dale smiles easily, actually looking somewhat at home.


Niles nods to Muirinn politely, and says a brief "Hello."
Willow comes back from wherever she comes from...umm...she was in the back
room! Yeah! Getting drinks...yeah, that's it! She comes out of the back
room with a tray and drinks. Right.

Monroe glances back to Muirinn. "I'm pleased." he says easily, then looks
back to Dale. "If you would like to have the model, you may keep it."
(OOC: Hey! No fair stealing my 'I logged off suddenly' excuse!)

Muirinn smiles as Willow re-enters. "So.." she gestures to the goblet
she'd given Willow for inspection before she abruptly left to get drinks.

Willow nods. "I thought you meant that one was for my sabah... but of
course, it naturally doesn't have the right inscription. May I buy it
anyway? It would make a lovely ritual cup."

Dale picks up the metal-and-wood model from the workbench, examining it
from a couple of different angles. "Actually, now that I think about it
... if it wouldn't be any inconvenience, what if I let you hold on to it
and used it as the basis for a more complete model? I mean, not that
there'll ever be a *wholly* complete model, but I'd like to add to it."

Muirinn nods, looking pleased and flattered. "Of course... would you
happen to have an idea of what you want the other to look like?" She whips
out her sketchbook and pencil.

Willow nods, walking over and beginning to make her specifications in soft
tones so as not to interrupt the conversations around her. Monroe's
shoulder is briefly brushed with her fingertips as she walks by.

Monroe nods slightly. "Of course!" he says with a sudden grin. The timing
is Alec, but the mild, broad, easy smile is all Monroe. "I would be
pleased and honored to continue to work with you. Just bring along the
diagrams when you...produce them, and we will analyze where the new data
should fit."

Muirinn nods and begins to quickly sketch. She hmms and points out that
/this/ should be just a tad thicker to prevent breakage, but this could be
shaped as such to offer a more streamline and aesthetically pleasing
effect.. and on..and on.. ;)

Niles glances around, and seems to be watch-shopping. Imagine that.


Willow seems particularly trustworthy of Muirinn's aesthetic sense - when
it comes to the calligraphy though, she's adamant, even at one point
asking for the pencil to draw out the Hebraic letters in the classical
style for Muirinn's pervue.

Dale grins, pleased and a little surprised. "Wonderful! I'll tell you,
I've been making these sketches based partly on my own travels and partly
on my uncle's journals ... if you'd like to read through one or two of
them, I'd be more than happy to let you see. There are just volumes on top
of volumes."

Muirinn nods and tries her hand at the inscription, practicing until she
gets it right so it'll look good on the goblet. She raises an eyebrow and
glances to Willow, pointing at one of her attempts.

Monroe nods slightly. "I'd be pleased to compare them to the journeys
described by a book Willow gave me, regarding the design and voyage of an
Ethership." he says genially.

Willow nods. "Make the yod a little thicker at the top, but there you have
it. Very lovely, you've got a good eye."


Willow considers. "He's fond of cool hues. That blue glaze is lovely, do
you think ou could deepen it, make it more purply?"

Monroe mentions the book Willow gave him like it was something incredibly
precious, in low tones and with a warm look at nothing for a little while.

Muirinn ponders, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a green velvet
bag. She opens the bag and pulls out a hunk of clay, fired and glazed with
nearly every shade under the rainbow. She points to a particular shade.
"Like this?" she slides it down a few, to a very similar but slightly
redder-purple shade. "Or maybe this?"

<OOC> Muirinn says "yeah, Muirinn's a complete art dork. :)"
<OOC> Monroe says "We're all dorks in here. You're among friends."

Willow mms at the redder purple. "That might be nice. Be an interesting
contrast the more blue-ish wine held in the cup." she gets a little
distracted, smiling over at the distracted Etherite.

<OOC> Willow nods. Oh, yeah. We're Geekdom. ;>
<OOC> Muirinn says "heehee."

Muirinn nods. "Or I might be able to work it so its this shade towards the
cup.." she points to the redder hue. "Then it melts into this hue.." she
points to a hue halfway between the redder hue and the other. "And then
this at the base.." she points to the other. "That would look very nice,
especially with the inscription done in gold.."


Niles glances at the watches for a few more moments, then heads for the
door.
Niles steps through the outer door towards the street.
Niles has left.

Muirinn yawns suddenly, then looks surprised.

Willow considers. "Yes, that would look lovely. How long do you think it
would take you to do?" she asks Muirinn, while looking over to see how
wrapped up in research Dale is.

Muirinn ponders. "Probably about a day to craft the actual goblet.. then
I'd have to let it set overnight so I could do the tooling and
inscription.. then kiln it.. glaze.. kiln..glaze..kiln.." she babbles
almost incoherently about underglazing and slip and kiln temperatures for
a minute. "Probably about a week, tops.. four or five days if I do nothing
but.."

Dale's set the model back down on the workbench by now, and is listening
to Muirinn at this point, since Monroe seems to have nipped off to his own
little world. ;)

Willow mmhmms. "So how much? If it's your sole project for a few days?"

Muirinn does a little addition on her fingers and winces, shakes her head,
and does more addition. "Probably about seventy-five.." she says a little
sheepishly. "Or your best offer."

Willow considers. "Could we have the staying price at $75, and after I
look at the final product, see how it goes from there?"

Muirinn smiles. "Sure. I'll probably get to work on it.." she glances at
her watch and winces. "When I wake up."

Willow chuckles. "Maybe you should crash?" she suggests.

Muirinn nods. "Good idea.. I've had a long day." she smiles, and collects
her things, packing them carefully into her backpack. "I'll keep you
updated on how its coming."

Dale catches herself in a yawn, and steadies herself against the
workbench. "I think I'm probably going to do the same," she remarks, and
shakes her head. "Didn't quite realize how long I'd been awake. Atypical."

Muirinn yawns and stretches, standing up. She proffers a wave. "I'll see
you folks later..."

Muirinn carefully positions her backpack on her back and heads out.
Muirinn steps through the outer door towards the street.
Muirinn has left.

Willow looks at the two. "You two have a good night, aye?" she says.
"Dale, where are you staying?"

Dale pushes the model a little farther back on the workbench in case
Monroe needs the room for something else. "Me? I've got a little place not
too far from here ... in the Rose Crest or something like that. I'm still
kind of unpacking, actually."

Monroe moves the model right back to where it was. A place for everything
and everything in its place. "If you need any help settling in...repairs
of any kind...just let me know, I would be happy to help."

Willow nods companionably. "What Monroe can't work with, Alec can. Though
there's little he can't do." She smiles fondly at the clockmaker.

Monroe grins a little at Willow, "And it's also humorous to watch me try
to do it," he taunts her, like it's an inside joke.

Willow laughs a little. "You haven't fixed anything of mine...yet." she
grins impishly.


Monroe replies just as quickly, "I see! You only desire my companionship
so that you have a mechanic on demand!"

Dale looks down slightly, as if she really wasn't expecting the offer, and
smiles. "Well, I'm getting close to settled in ... though what I could
really use at the moment is bookshelves. I was thinking about just picking
up a kit from the hardware store, but if you'd have any interest in that
sort of commission ..."

"No," Willow replies blithely, "I keep you around in case my watch breaks
down." there's a small grin on her face, as if she's said something
remarkably clever. She smiles at Dale. "I'll be glad to help you sort and
organize, once they're built."

Monroe nods slightly. "I put together the ones in the back...they are
nothing special, of course, but they hold the books up, which is, after
all, their purpose. I could be easily convinced, perhaps with a repast of
some kind for Willow and I at your housewarming?"

Monroe is about to say something to Willow, but blushes a bit at the base
of his neck and says "Just so." instead.

Dale practically blurts out, "Oh, absolutely! Actually I've already got an
invitation out to Dr. Zapolya and Niles ... I've got Mother's creme brulee
recipe and I've been dying to try it out."

Willow smiles. "That's good to hear. By the way, have you spoke to Bardon?
He wanted to invite you into our cabal....if you hadn't been asked, I was
going to tell you so you could think it over."

Monroe mmms. "Creme brulee. I have not had that since I was a youth in
Philadelphia." he says with a grin.


Dale's eyebrows go up yet again. "Really? Oh, my ... well, I can say
already, I don't expect to have to do much in the way of thinking about
it," she says with a grin. "He hadn't mentioned it, but I'm very
flattered. Who else would I be working with?"

Willow considers. "Me...Muirinn, perhaps. Iestyn, as well. Six of us
total, but eventually we expect a fourth cabal to sort of 'bud' off."
Dale hrms. "Six? I count five ... am I missing someone?"

Willow counts on her fingers. "You, me, Bardon. Iestyn. Muirinn. Ok,
five." she chuckles. "Sorry 'bout that."

Monroe returns his attention to the clock he was fixing before the deluge
of women. He adjusts it with a few expert motions of his hands and the
cuckoo perks right back up and sucks itself right back into the clock,
"cuckoo"-ing right as Willow says "Iestyn". A final twist of...well, it's
not really a screwdriver and it's not really a wrench, but it's certainly
/some/ kind of tool and he replaces it int the large box it obviously came
to him in.

Dale smiles easily. "Quite all right. It's late, after all."

Willow looks back at Monroe, expression faintly puzzled.


Monroe looks up to Willow. "Hm? Oh, excuse me. I was just finishing this
up when everyone started arriving." he murmurs.


Dale's forehead crinkles. "Oh dear. I did interrupt you, didn't I." It's
more a statement than a question.


Monroe shakes his head. "Not at all." he says easily, "I hope our work on
your model proves to be fruitful. This..." he gestures to the cuckoo
clock, "...is only to pay the creditors."



Dale rubs her forehead, steeling herself for the hike back home. "I'm
glad, then. Though do please let me know if I ever do get in the way." She
stifles another yawn, and adds, "Like I will be of your customers in the
morning if I fall asleep on your floor here. I'd probably best be off to
bed."

Monroe says easily, "It's lousy." he says with distaste. "Wretched thing
has poorly-hung pendular elements, a vapid mainspring design, and will
lose fifty-three seconds an hour if wound too tightly, which it always
will be, because the keyspring latch is of inexact manufacture." He shakes
his head. "But I cannot yet afford to turn away work. One day, perhaps."

Monroe says easily, "However, the face is well-made and the cuckoo is a
cunning little thing, isn't it?"

Monroe looks up from Willow to Dale. Oh, is she still here? "Yes...but
please feel free to stop in anytime you see my light on." he says easily.
"Thank you for your visit."

"And you for your hospitality," replies Dale, stepping toward the door.
"Good night, and I'll probably see you tomorrow or somewhen ..."

Monroe gives Dale a little wave and turns back to Willow.

Willow oh's. "By the way Dale, do you think you could stop by sometime,
and maybe study a bit of Umbral geography with me?" she smiles almost
shyly.

Drace has arrived.

<OOC> Drace pauses a moment to pose entrance. ;) Anybody with Time wanna
gimmie a beep. :)

Dale turns back, hand on the doorknob. "By your shop, I mean? Sure thing
... what's your schedule there like?" And as the door swings open, she has
to hop out of the way to avoid getting smacked by it.

You paged Drace with 'Well DUH. I'm only a Sphere Natural at it.'.

<OOC> Drace psaws and doesn't use the door. Doors are for sissies. ;)

Drace pages: Well then. You notice when it stops. :) Rather, it doesn't
seem to stop in here, but it stops all the same.

You paged Drace with 'Okay. Then let me make a brief @emit before you do,
all right?'.

Drace pages: This room is, rather suddenly, pulled outside the normal
stream of Time, as it were.

Monroe suddenly looks up from Willow at nothing. Argus also lifts his
head. Beneath the workbench there's a 'ting' of a bell, then a
CLATTERRATTLE, then a clickety CLANK, chucka chucka chucka. Monroe, when
he hears this little cacaphony, jumps slightly, out of his reverie,
looking absolutely panicked. The cuckoo clock goes "cuckoo" again. He
whirls around and looks at the clockworks behind the bench, eyes alight
with shock.

Dale lets go of the doorknob. "What the --?"

Willow straightens, her hands coming up in front of her, as if she expects
to ward something off with just a wave of her hands. She looks around,
expression alert, if somewhat puzzled.

Monroe picks up a piece of machinery from behind the workbench. It looks
like a slide rule crossed with a pendulum crossed with what you imagine
this place would look like if someone threw a grenade into it. Monroe
peers at it. Then he hits the side of it and peers at it again. (He must
have picked that habit up from Alec.) "Oh, oh, dear. It's a bad one this
time. Argus?" The dog rises to his feet and looks up at Monroe blankly.
Monroe doesn't say anything more to the dog, but instead starts bringing
more and more clockworks out from under and behind the bench, one after
the other, looking at each in a sort of half-panic. Some of them aren't
running at all - these he gives the most attention to.

One moment, the space is empty, over near one wall. Your eyes pass over
it, and onwards.. and the next moment, the space is filled. No sudden
appearance, in terms of displaced air, but the next instant you glance
back a man stands near one wall. No sense of Correspondence or Spirit
magick, either, something probably more disturbing than the sudden
appearance itself.The noise of the clocks goes on for a moment.. and then
comes to a rather abrupt stop. In the stillness of the room, a quiet
chuckle drifts through the air and the new arrival speaks, "I always
forget about that." The voice is like one of those movies about vampires,
the sort of voice that seems as much a physical caress as simple sound. In
the mans hand, a staff of somewhat misshapen wood can be seen. Some may
find it familiar.

To (Monroe, Willow), Drace pages: It's the stick Cristoph had, previously.
You paged Drace with 'Got it.'.

Drace
	A man of dusky complexion and calm manner, he seems nonetheless to
hold something faintly disturbing about him, as if some unseen darkness
lingered just around the corner of his gaze. Midnight hair falls in
ringlets around his shoulders, silky smooth and full, framing an exoticaly
attractive face. His voice, when he speaks, holds his Romany accent, a
sort of natural purr that holds everything from amusement to contempt, to
supreme self-confidance.
	At each wrist he wears a bracelet, the links of finely crafted
white gold, a matching necklace at his throat. The air about him is odd,
one of silent shadow and incredible vitality.

	Currently he wears only a pair of baggy black pants that fall
loosely over well muscled legs. His form is trim and athletic, although
more towards lithe strength than sheer mass. As well he bears several
tattoos, the one on his chest that of a single knife, etched with odd
symbols and running with rivulets of dark blood. Another, covering his
back, is a sun eclipsed by a full moon and surrounded by a corona of
silver flames.. And yet another on his right arm is that of a coiling
black serpent, its fangs closing about his wrist.

			*>+views set<*

Willow turns eyeing the man. "Who are..." she begins, stops, and then eyes
the stick, her hands still up in a warding gesture. "Oh." she says. "That
thing."
Dale gets a nearly cross-eyed look, and steadies herself against the wall,
seeming to zone out as her eyes focus on nothing at all -- and then she
snaps back as the voice kicks in. She blinks rapidly, staring at the
half-dressed man across the room.

Monroe looks around, his eyes wild with a sort of trapped fear. "Do you
/realize/..." he says, trying to keep his voice low, but failing, he can't
keep his mild demeanor at a bedeviling shock like this, "...how
/dangerous/ this is? Cease this madness /at once/!" He shudders like he's
cold.

For those with Awareness of any decent level, the dusky skinned gypsy man
resonates with an aura of the unreal. As if the space he inhabited were
uncertain weither or not it should be sharing itself with him, or if there
were a nagging suspicion that he really should be in some /other/ space.
However, he seems to enjoy being where he is. Dark eyes sweep first over
Monroe, then Willow.. then finaly Dale. A brow as dark as his eyes tips
momentarily, and a smile touches his lips. Handsome as the very devil, the
phrase might come to mind, and the devil himself would be hard pressed to
provide charm to match. "Traveler." The nod he offers is one of what can
only be termed respect as well as greeting.

Willow looks up at the person holding 'that thing' and for absolutely no
reason at all, flushes, from the tip of her hairline down. She starts to
stammer something out, and then stops - peering at his chest. At the
tattoos in particular, she takes a step forwarding, tilting herself closer
to peer at them with blatent curiousity.

Argus just stares at the newcomer, whatever mechanical, clockwork thoughts
clicking and ticking through his large furry head not reaching those blank
inhuman eyes.

Dale studies the newcomer in silence for a long moment, as if evaluating
just what to say in response. At last, she replies, in an oddly resonant
tone, "We do not seem to recall you." It doesn't seem to be the royal we,
either. "But it would seem you know us, or know of us. Do you care to
reciprocate, fellow-traveller?"

Bardon enters from the street.
Bardon has arrived.
Bardon shakes his head as he enters Monroe's shop...then stops dead still
as he notes who's come over for dinner, so to speak. "Drace? Wow....I
haven't seen you in a long time."

You paged Willow with 'Monroe (if you notice at all), is just this side of
being completely terrified out of his mind. He must have had enough of
places where time doesn't exist in his lifetime.'.

Dale stands steady against the wall, facing Drace with an oddly formal
bearing.

Drace's gaze shifts back to Monroe, taking in the mechanical madness about
the man. In a conversational tone, or at least as close as the decidedly
predatory, feline air of the man will allow, he offers in return "In 1179,
for precisely five hours, one of the first peoples on this continent
petitioned their spirits for time to prepare for battle. Amongst their
number, though they called themselves no different than their somewhat
Drowsy counterparts, were the Awakened. Some with great strength in the
arts of the temporal." his eyes flicker sharply, "The result was that this
area was set.." a brief pause, and he glances towards the door a fraction
of a second before it opens "Ah." He waits as Bardon enters, then looks
back to Monroe "..slightly askew. No more than a blink of an eye, in the
grand scheme of things. It has shifted back and forth, every few
centuries. It was decided now would be the time to set it back as it
should be."

Willow steps a bit closer, leaning down in that way (if you've seen it -
The Mummy) Evelyn does when she's peering at particularly fascinating
hieroglyph. In short, her nose is about six inches away, her finger as she
looks over the tattoos, less then an inch. "Breaker of.......Breaker of
/Things/?"

Bardon chuckles dryly at the expression on Willow's face. "Hey, it could
be worse...and breaking at least one thing taught me a valuable lesson,
right Drace?" he adds with a smile.

Drace's attention drifts back towards Dale, that smile returning. "Call me
Drace, if you will." He glances briefly down to look momentarily at
Willow, but seems to find no particular impulse to withdraw, or push her
away. He looks back to Dale, "Word spreads of any Speaker of Dreams so
well traveled, despite the consequences. The spirit realms are
a...particular subject of interest to my more chaotic counterpart." Dark
eyes flash towards Bardon, and he smiles with something akin to relish
"Your Mentor encountered a small problem that required a mindset she is
uncomfortable with. She Sleeps at the moment." he twirls the stick in his
hand, dancing it through his fingers as he looks back to Dale, studying
her intently. "The Akashic who held the Hammer has died." he finaly says,
though he looks to Monroe as he says it.
Drace adds almost as an after thought, to Willow..

Willow picks up her head, waggling said finger at Drace like a school
teacher, "Breaker of Things?!" she declares again.

Monroe shudders like he's terribly cold. He croaks out, "F..five hours,
sir? The distortion will be enormous, the feedback monstrous." The fear in
his voice and his eyes is evident. "Attention will be attracted, systems
will be activated. Oh, lord." he chokes. Whatever it is about Time that
he's latched into, it's not working right now, and it's scared him to
death.

Monroe repeats softly, then, "The hammer?"

Drace says something in what seems like Enochian.

Bardon purses his lips, evidently missing out on the main jist of the
conversation here. "So what exactly are we talking about?"

Dale's gaze hardens, as if she's trying to hold this suddenly tenuous
assemblage together by force of will alone. "Your counterpart?" she
inquires, taking a step forward.

Alrighty, then. Willow is officially intimidated. She gives Drace a weak
smile. "I'll uh...go stand...over here." she scoots away from him, sort of
in front of Monroe, her hands staying in that sort of plaintive warding
gesture.

=->Auto Judge<-= The greyness of the day gives way to the bright sun, the
night truly fleeing before it.

To each in turn a response is given. To Monroe: "The anomoly was already
present, but masked. Attention is already attracted. Do you think the
Union is not aware that this place is denied them? They are quite aware
that this place is not theirs. And that things transpire here. They will
notice, only that the whole area shifts in the temporal axis it rested in.
They will take no note of why, or how." The staff he holds is lifted.
Rather ordinary looking. "The Hammer of Souls. I believe you studied it
once." It twirls in his fingers again, and again he looks to Dale.

Willow recovers enough to ask, "What is it? It's been scanned six ways til
Saturday, and still no one can precisely determine its purpose."

Either Dale's got some massive cojones on her, or she's just plain
stubborn, or just plain stupid, or some combination of the three. Slowly,
deliberately, she paces forward, on a course that will in just a few steps
interpose her between Drace, facing her, and Willow and Monroe at her
back.


It would seem that Bardon is the only one here not either in awe, upset or
afraid of Drace to judge by his mild expression. "Let me see if I'm
following all this. There's some sort of Time-Slip happening, or about to
happen here. It's not something ... Drace's counterpart ... can handle, so
you're here. And this Hammer of Souls has reappeared...isn't that the
staff Christoph was always carrying around?"


Dale doesn't in fact seem given to any extreme of emotion, whether fear or
wonder -- rather, it's more like a total lockdown. Willow and Monroe have
seen this degree of focus before, when they first encountered her scribing
out Umbral cartography on the blackboard, but this blows that away.


Monroe takes deep breaths. It might be Bardon's words, or the ease with
which everyone is conversing with the man, or the revelation that the
person who held the staff before is dead, or maybe just that patented
Indominatble Manifest Destiny Will that Monroe displays from time to time,
but he slowly, very slowly, starts to get himself a little under control.
He mutters to himself a little bit and touches Willow's shoulder as she
gets near him...this seems to help.


Drace continues to watch Dale, though he answers Bardon and Willow both,
"It is the Hammer of Souls. What it does, is what it does. Rend what might
be, heal what was broken." That smile again, flashing in his eyes with the
dark charisma of the man, otherwordly in a way that even a Sleeper could
feel. "Cristoph is dead. He was struck down by the dark one who walks the
city. He wanted the Hammer. Likely to use on one of you." Again that
flash, nearly physical. His voice, when he speaks again, is sharp "Time
runs short. Politics, argument, backpedaling, mistrust... You have no time
for this. Not yet. You must build your House, and build it unyielding.
Three months, at most. No more time can be bought."


Ok, wait a minute here. A Dreamspeaker...protecting a Hermetic? Willow's
pride takes a sharp kick in the ass. She's no weakling. And she's
definitely a formidable Spirit Mage. She starts to take a step or two, to
end up at Dale's right, but pauses before doing so to listen to Monroe,
keeping half an ear and both eyes on Drace. The fright is gone from her
expression, replaced with a sort of nervous determination one sees in a
she-wolf about to defend her cubs.

Monroe mutters to himself, "Yes,... That's... The... temporal...
fluidic..."
You mutter to yourself, "Yes, a time-slip. That's all it is. The external
boundary temporal agitation fluidic mechanical declension scale angular
momentum..."

Monroe stops. He got that much. "Three months? Lunar months or calendar
months?" he asks. Oh, jeez. Trust the technomancer to ruin the prophecy
with obvious questions that no prophet ever thinks to answer.

Dale half-steps to the left to accommodate Willow, welcoming the woman's
presence at her side.


Drace says "And then Grandmother Spider's adopted children will come to
this city. The Dark Ones have already snuck a fragment of their power
within, corrupting the nature of the Barrier for a brief instant. Enemies
will be found on all sides. And if you do not have walls to protect you,
if you have not found a way to cement things between those who are here,
before that time, you will be picked apart from without and from within.
Larson will fall to the Union, or the Fallen. The Mad Ones, at least, you
need not worry about."

For some reason, Bardon seems to find the defensive-looking actions of his
fellow magi a bit amusing, although his expression grows more serious as
Drace finishes his latest oratory. "Let's all calm down here, shall we
people?" he queries, adjusting his didge against his back slightly.
"Believe it or not, Drace isn't the enemy."

Willow says to Drace quietly, "There's little some of us can do about
those who want to delay, or proceed with caution that we can't blame them
for. What are we supposed to do, Certamen them into submission?"

Willow says the last with some bitterness.

You paged Willow with 'What you probably got was: "Yes, a time-slip.
That's all it is. The external (something something) boundary (something
something) temporal agitation (something something) fluidic mechanical
(somethign something) declension scale (something something) angular
momentum (something)."'.

Drace's eyes darken further as he speaks, potential for anger there a
terrible thing, though not yet present. To Dale, he finaly speaks again,
though much of the time his gaze has been fixed on her, "Tell me,
Traveler... the one in the flesh.. you are new here. Do you intend to
stay, or to move on as he wishes you?"

Willow just looks like something's going to come bursting out of her mouth
at any moment. Words. Nothing nasty.

Monroe looks brokenly from silent clockwork to silent clockwork. Drace's
terrible words apparently do not reach him, or mean anything to him if
they do reach him. Just a bunch of jargon which he can't understand. This
silence - this he can understand. Maybe that's the language he speaks
anyway.

Monroe touches Willow's shoulder as reassuringly as he can manage, though
whether he's trying to keep her quiet, or encouraging her to speak
freely...well, maybe only she knows that for sure.

That weird echo is mostly gone out of Dale's voice as she speaks, but
there's a hint of resonance yet. "I mean to stay, so long as I'm able,"
she replies, her tone solid but indicative of some sort of mutual respect.
"I will range afield, as is my nature, but this is my home now."

Drace looks towards Willow for a brief moment, anger vanishing without a
trace as he offers her that smile again. The man is either very unstable,
or in perfect control of himself to an unsettling degree, "Caution is to
protect you from harm. From death. Overcaution will cause far worse to
befall you here. That must be made absolutely clear. The pieces are within
the city. You have looked upon the Crafted Truth with your own eyes." This
he says to Dale, "Then this is your home. That is enough. Many would die
for their homes." An odd expression clouds his eyes for a moment, before
he holds the stick out to her.

Drace says "This is yours to hold, Traveler. It is a Hammer. A tool, like
anything else. A hammer can be used to build, or to break. Sometimes one
thing is both. You will know when to use it.. But you will not know when
/not/ to. Be sure not to stub your thumb."

That does it. "I have tried." Willow says quietly, bitterly, almost near
tears. "I have tried to tell them, I /know/ we're on borrowed time. I
/know/ that every Tradition mage who enters the city needs to be welcomed,
succored, and drawn in to give us all more power to hold them off. I know
it needs to be built." her hands clench into fists. "But they don't trust
me. They don't listen to me! They think I'm foolish, and rash, and that
I'm moving too fast, but they just don't -see- it!" There's a faint glow
about her hands as she says the last, purple crackles of energy. They fade
when she stops talking, but she's trembling like a leaf. This isn't fear,
it's anger, and frustration that she's held in check for a very long time.

Bardon whistles, low and long as Drace hands the Hammer over to Dale. "I'd
suggest not swinging it in my direction too, thanks." he adds sotto voce
as Willow vents her frustration. "Who said you're moving too fast, Willow?
First I've heard of it..."

Monroe could not, at this moment, be less interested in Drace. Now isn't
that just a little maddening? He murmurs something quietly to Willow and
doesn't /quite/ touch her shoulder, like there's a little bit of respect
for those sparks. Or for her anger.
Dale reaches for the staff both-handed, her entire body steady and sure.
Confidently, her fingers close around the wood of the staff, as she says,
"Our thanks, fellow-traveller." As she finishes the statement, she takes
hold of it from him, and the air seems to waver about the spot where she
makes contact. *That* seems to break her concentration a little bit. But
the only word out of her mouth is a puzzled, "Kuranes?!?" before the waver
in reality bursts outward to envelop her and is gone, taking her -- and
the staff -- with it.

<OOC> Dale says "And I'm gone. Could someone email me a log?
maradydd@houst.sgi.com."
Dale has partially disconnected.

Willow looks at Bardon. "Of course you haven't." she says. "Do you know
how many times I've been curbed by Niles and Xerxes?" she whirls, checking
the space where Dale disappeared.

Monroe mutters to Willow, "... dearest... to... heart.... grieves me...
I... been... struggle... your dutiful... you,... my..."

You whisper "Oh, my d...you are the dearest thing to my heart. I cannot
tell you how it grieves me that I have been so blind as to have not seen
this struggle in you more clearly. I am your dutiful servant and will do
anything to assist you, o my lover." to Willow.

You paged Willow with 'So much for that jealous fit, eh?'.

Bardon blinks slowly as Dale does the quick fade-out, Willow's question
dropping rather low on the priority-scale. "Umm, Drace? Where'd she go, if
you don't mind my asking?"

Monroe looks up sharply too, though he has apparently been wrung dry of
shock for the evening.

Dale has disconnected.

The dark man watches the disappearance thoughtfully, nodding to himself.
"All of the parts back in the box." He dismisses that after a moment,
glancing to Willow before looking past her to Monroe. When he speaks
again, the voice is quiet, but carries in a way that demands attention.
Not with tone, or any deliberate trick of voice, but with that particular
feeling that a practitioner of the arts of Time might get. The sensation
that a moment, an instant, an act or an answer, is terribly important.
"You too are displaced. Just as this place was out of Time, so are you. It
is being fixed. There is an ... absence, where you once stood despite the
spirits of Paradox being responsible. Would you return? A hole in the
tapestry must be fixed, one way or another. Here, or there. Given the
choice, which you have for this moment, which do you choose?"

Willow is already a step ahead. Murmuring words of power - Monroe's
whispered words will resurface later, her eyes suddenly go wide. "Baruch
hashem..." she whispers, using an oath she hadn't uttered since childhood.

Drace says absently to Bardon, "She was placed back into the flow of
time."

From afar, Drace notes, for the record, that so far as Monroe would be
aware, what Drace is proposing is impossible. Forward movement is do-able,
but dangerous, but backward movement.. Uhuh.
Long distance to Drace: Monroe nods. Understood.

For once, Bardon doesn't have a comment to make, his only movement a faint
nod in reply to Drace's words. No, all of his attention is focused upon
Monroe and what answer he may give.

Willow is staring around her in awe, but Drace's proposal to Monroe gains
her immediate intention. She goes absolutely bleach white, but doesn't say
a word. Her back straightens a little, and looks anywhere but at Monroe.
Her eyes snap to the door, at the new arrival.

Drace's hands spread and gesture lightly, "You have many responsibilities.
Your heart is here. So. Will you choose to remain, or for the hole in the
Tapestry to be fixed?"


Monroe says instantly, "Here, here, a thousand times, here. I swore an
/oath/, sir. I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal vigilance against
every form of tyranny over the mind of man and to abandon this time would
be doubling the tragedy of having been taken from my own. For that tragedy
could not be erased even if my absence could." And he pauses, then, like
there's something else. "And there are other reasons."


Monroe lowers his voice down from the firm, even, cadenced tones, and
makes it quieter. "Personal reasons. For I am yet a person, though I know
now that forces were afoot to make it not so, even in my time."

Willow keeps her expression turned away a bit from the conversation. She
tries not influence him, though her mere presence influences him.

Drace watches Monroe, eyes unreadable now. No smile, no nothing. He takes
a calm step forward, then pauses. He looks to Bardon, gesturing absently,
and the man vanishes. "This is not for him either." he murmers, before
looking back to Monroe. "And yet, if you returned to your time, you could
try to take steps to halt it. A fraction of movement at the beginning can
equal miles, given enough distance."

Drace says "You also have a responsibility to Time." Dark eyes flicker
momentarily, but reveal nothing. "Will you choose that it be mended?"

Willow says very softly, "Maybe I shouldn't be here, either."

Drace's gaze skips to Willow, "Present, or not, you would influence his
choice. You have every right to be here."


Monroe shakes his head. "Blood cannot be effaced with artifice. And..." He
shrugs slightly. "I wouldn't know where to start." he admits, very, very
softly. "I no longer believe that my wisdom is unbounded and my foresight
unequalled." He looks up. "I /will/ mend the distortion, sir...when I am
sure how. I thought I knew how once. And the result you see before you. I
am no longer as brazen as I once was."

Monroe looks to Willow. And he is about to tell her something, but then he
stops, like he just realized it himself, and what it meant, and he just
stops and nods in agreement. "Please stay." he says, as a substitute.

Willow looks at the two, wiping absently at her cheeks.

Drace shakes his head, asking again, a hint of irritation sparking "I did
not ask for your wisdom, or what you think. What I am asking, is for a
choice. Will you choose that the difficulty be mended? The Tapestry is
wounded, and threads must be replaced. I am not asking for you to act,
only to choose. Yes or no, Scientist." This isn't a request, that is
easily felt. The air fairly crackles with the need for an answer. Not just
the mans.. he only gives it voice.

<OOC> Drace hms. Onesec.
<OOC> Drace says "Please give me an Intelligence+Enigmas roll vs 8."
=->Auto Judge<-= Monroe types '+roll intelligence+enigmas=8',
	rolling 5 dice at difficulty 8 with 1 success:
	   5   5   7   7  <8>
<OOC> Drace says "Both of ya."
=->Auto Judge<-= Willow types '+roll int+enig=8',
	rolling 7 dice at difficulty 8 with 1 success:
	  -1-  2   3   4   5  <8> <10>

Drace pages: There's something odd in his phrasing. It's as if it's not
quite right. While it's evident that what he's asking you is important, it
seems as if the question is something different from what you think it is.

Long distance to Drace: Monroe nods. "I was actually halfway through the
pose responding on that ground anyway. ;)"

Willow looks between the two, eyes flickering back and forth. Her lips
part, then close again. She waits, straightening a bit more.

Monroe responds somewhat testily, "I'm sure you will have to pardon me for
the depths of my ignorance, but would you mind stating in precise terms
what my choice is? I have already told you that I choose to stay, but now
it seems the question has taken on new clauses and sloughed off others,
like an actor backstage having exited as Hamlet's father's ghost and
entering as Rosencrantz. Would I mend the plenum? Can I? Will it be done?
What, exactly, are you /asking/?" Fact, fact, and more fact.

His voice sharpening to a razor's edge, Drace asks again. The sense of
static in the air isn't physical, but nonetheless something seems to build
around the words, like a balloon stretched towards breaking point "The
question is simple: Will you choose that the Tapestry be mended? There is
no room for other questions. No Time for them. Yes, or no. Each answer
will have it's consequences. Not answering will have far worse than
either. You argue, you pick at semantics, you look at each and every
detail, analyzing down to the smallest part. This is not a time where
those things will aid. Answer. Yes, or no. Silence will be taken as not
answering. Anything but those two will be taken as not answering. You
cannot analyze, or look for loopeholes. You will not know what will
happen. Time has been wounded. Do you choose that it be healed?"


Willow can't help it. She looks at Drace. "This isn't fair! He doesn't
know the consequences!"

Drace says cooly, "Life is not fair. Necessity is not fair. And no matter
how much we think we understand what we are doing, we rarely understand
the true scope of our actions." He looks at her for a moment after he says
the words. "I ask the question that must be asked. Fairness is not an
issue."

Monroe glances at the slide-rule-looking device on his workbench. If he
said no, he might reap boo-coo Quint. The thing is rattling and jumping
there, without even being running. But he looks up at Drace after only a
moment's worth of hesitation and says firmly "Yes. Of course."

Monroe glances to Willow. "I'm not sure anyone knows." he says softly. "If
I refused, you might be trapped here with me."

Willow isn't answering, a look of sheer horror crossing her face as she
suddenly lifts her hands, bringing them around in a throwing motion
torward Drace, as if trying to thrust something at him, her feet already
pitching forward to get between him and Monroe.

Monroe blinks and reaches out for Willow instinctively, completely unsure
of what's happening.

A slight nod, "So it is chosen." And with that, his hand lifts. The
balloon, filled to bursting, seems to rush suddenly inwards towards a
crackling ball of purple force that coalesces just before Drace's hand.
This takes only a split second, and another in which worlds seem to
collide. Magick strikes magick as the ball of magick lashes against a wall
that suddenly seems to appear. Transparent like glass, it shatters like
the same an instant later as it skirts her form and strikes the figure of
Monroe in mid reach. Like a thousand suns, his form is enveloped in light
too painful to look at, as the air around him ripples and a tearing sound
is heard.

Drace pages: You can feel something oddly akin to your original
displacement of time taking place, though it resonates through several
other magicks as well. Life, Spirit, Prime, Forces, Mind, Entropy and
Time, all in all. Does he try to resist? Not magickaly.. Mentaly.
WIllpowerlike. Does he fight it?

You paged Drace with 'Hell yeah! He's totally scared to death that he's
back in the paradox realm.'.

Drace pages: It does, on that note, not feel quite right. Sort of how
Drace's question felt as if the truth was underneath what it appeared to
be. Whatever's being done, seems not to be what it seems to be. If that
makes any sense.

You paged Drace with 'Not to Monroe, of course. ;) What do you mean by 'on
that note'? Willpower-wise? Like maybe it's all a big mental effect that's
tricking him into thinking magick is being used?'.

Drace pages: Nono. 'On that note' meaning it's similiarity to his
previously getting sucked into the Paradox Realm. It bears as much
similiarity to that, as Drace's question did to what it /seemed/ to be
asking. I.e. It may not be quite what it seems. But no, it's definately
not just mental. It hurts. It hurts a /lot/. Like your body was being
pulled apart cell by cell, or you were alive in the middle of a furnace.

Drace pages: It'll go on for about three seconds.. go ahead and pose, and
I'll pose what happens at the end of it.

Monroe stumbles backwards, grasping at something under his workbench, but
his hand spasms and the pistol drops to the ground, a bit of powder
drifting easily through the air, sparking in the energy like dust motes in
a lightning storm. He falls in slow motion for a half a second, his long
arm pinwheeling out to knock over some incomprehensible and inert
structure of gears and springs. It shatters, but then he falls impossibly
swiftly, spasming down onto the clean floor as bent wheels and clattering,
tiny gears and levers sprinkle down on him, silhouetted crazily in the
light. He'd scream but he's scared to open his mouth.

Willow's brain works fast enough to give her credit. In one instant she
knows that touching Monroe is dangerous; throwing magick at Drace is
moreso - and her strongest magicks, while the Umbra is halted, are
useless. In instand two, she has made a decision, and is reaching for one
of the tools on Monroe's workbench - a wrench. And instant three she hurls
it straight at Drace's far too pretty head.

<OOC> Monroe says "Oh, and don't forget Argus. Don't know what a familiar
might do in a situation like this. Maybe nothing. Depends on what's really
happening. I'll let you decide."

Argus, for his part, is just sitting there watching. For whatever reason,
the clockwork creature seems to have decided to simply wait this out.

The wrench, hurled by a woman against whom even hell hath no fury in
comparison, smacks rather solidly into Drace's jaw. His head rocks to the
side, the wrench falling to the floor as the man mutters a word sharply
under his breath.

And Monroe's form seems to stretch. Like a funhouse mirror the lightning
crackles brighter, and seems to very suddenly snap him backwards where he
strikes some unseen barrier and tears through it. A moment later, and a
sound like an angry roar, the space where he was an instant before is
slashed by a taloned hand. A grasping motion, save that the clawed and
scaled hand is the size of a man, with joints and parts missing as if
attuned to a reality other than this one, in part. Monroe, however, is no
longer there.

Willow's head snaps torwards Drace. "Bring him back!" her hands start that
fierce, purple cracking around balled up fists. "Bring him back, now!"

Drace pages: It feels, quite literaly, as if body, mind, and soul were
stretched to the breaking point. And then for a brief instant, you were
looking down on yourself. Or rather, at your lab, back in the day. Smoke
is pouring from your devices and a fire rages around your body, which is
laying on the ground, burned and charred, but oddly peaceful looking.. And
an instant later, you find yourself in your bed. Here, in your clockshop.
And you hear Willow yell what she just did, from the main room.

You paged Drace with 'Time running again? That will only make a small
difference in how I enter. Give me a cue when it's time to come in. He
rushes right down, of course.'.

An instant after the hand vanishes, the clocks in the shop all chime,
ding, or make an associated noise all at once.. and each one begins
ticking again. Each in perfect harmony with how they were before the
arrival of the man who, at the moment, absently rubs his cheek. Argus,
meanwhile, has risen and trotted over to the door to the back, sitting in
front of it and looking up with a patient expression.

Drace says calmly, "What is done, is done. He chose correctly." He speaks
to Willow. "As did you. I think perhaps you played baseball in a future
incarnation." he absently rubs his jaw again, the bruise fading even as he
speaks.

Drace pages: Btw, you did feel something very large try to grab you, in a
metaphysical sense. It sort of slid between moments. Had you been solidly
in one place, or another, only, it would have grabbed you. It felt
immensly unpleasent. Not in a strictly pain way. More like a 'eeewwww!'
way.

Monroe slams the back door open, emerging from the back room, his face
covered (for some reason) with a kind of smoky ash, and he's carrying a
rifle with a muzzle about half an inch across, but perhaps, to a mage, the
more intimidating part is the complicated sight and counterbalancing
clockworks on the butt of the rifle, whirring and clicking and ticking
into place as he rushes in, mere moments after Willow's shout, his eyes
quickly taking the scene in.


Monroe stands there breeathing, almost as if he expects Drace to try to do
it again, but as nothing continues to happen and time continues to march
on, he relaxes...slowly...very slowly, his long fingers bone-white with
tension around the gun.

Drace's cheek, fully healed, quirks slightly with a half smile as he
regards first Willow, then Monroe. His arms fold in front of him, and he
simply watches, saying nothing. He looks, however, like the cat who just
ate the canary.

Willow looks between the two, complete confusion coming across her face,
the power surrouning her balled fists starting to drain away. For a minute
it seems like she might faint, and then she abruptly straightens. "Oh my
god," she says softly. "The Zigg'raugglur...they /used/ him...." she
starts to cry, and then bolts for Monroe, and to hell with the big, awful
gun.

From afar, Al-Aswad raises your Arcane to 3.

Al-Aswad pages: Also, when you get around to checking your
Talisman-machine thingy, there's 10 points of Quintessence fairly bursting
at the seams waiting to be transferred into you, or batteries, or
whatever.

"More precisely.." the accented voice corrects, "..they /wanted/ to use
him." And that is all Drace says, for the moment.

Monroe has just started to lay down the gun when she reaches him, and when
she does, he wraps his arms around her gently but he's still staring
balefully and silently at Drace. Pages and pages of paragraphs tromp
through Monroe's mind, acres of sentences, ideas, strings of logic,
appeals to justice, analysis, and deduction. But he is worn out. He is
utterly wrung out, like there is less of him for Willow to hold onto. He
just looks at Drace and shakes his head, not understanding what he /says/,
again, his mind elsewhere.

Willow just holds him, and near to a point, actually holds him up. She
says, "They exist outside of Time..." she tries to explain to him.
"They've been attacking San Francisco alot, they seem to be moving back
and forth in time...they tried to make you some kind of link." Her hands
are in Monroe's hair, over his brow, cheeks, chin - Willow frantically
assuring herself that he's there.

Drace regards Monroe, "You will recover. Give yourself a day of rest. Or
two." he meets the baleful stare evenly, his own dark eyes unwavering
"Monroe P. Dennison is dead. Long live Monroe P. Dennison." His arms
unfold, and he looks around the shop thoughtfully. "By Art or Accident,
you were out of time. The Paradox that in part caused your displacement,
was the result of a Paradox even earlier. Your presence in the here and
now, left an absence in the there and then. When it was decided that Time
must be fixed here, the Others decided to use you as an ancorhead." He
picks up a smallish clock, studying it "Had you been one when, or another,
you would still have acted as an anchor. The only recourse was to severe
your connection to that time."
<OOC> Drace says "sever, even."

Monroe focuses slowly on what Willow is saying. "The outsiders. Of
course." he says softly. He understands, perhaps miraculously, or, given
his background, perhaps it was just Chapter 3 in the Timekeeper's First
Book Of Stuff To Watch Out For. He doesn't know what to make of all this,
though. Drace's explanation, believe it or not, actually seems to help,
though. Finally, after all the jibberjabber, he is talking on Monroe's
level. "I see. I ought to have seen it before, though what I could have
done about it would likely have been ineffective." he says. "Though I am
not sure..." he looks to Willow. "I saw my corpse. A terrible thing." he
whispers, half-to-himself.

Drace looks up from the clock, studying the man now. "Monroe Dennison was
found in the ruins of his lab. Very dead. He did not get sucked into a
Paradox Realm, nor did they leave any markers deep within the system to
alert to his return as one of many unidentified temporal anomolies." A
brow quirks slightly, "If it makes you feel any better, when you died, the
you that was to die understood, and accepted his part in it all."

Monroe smiles a little modestly. "I am not sure I understand it completely
now." he says. But it does seem to help, just a little.

<OOC> Monroe says "Oh, hell. Now I can buy myself as a Wraith Companion.
:)"

Willow is mutely between the two, still holding onto Monroe for dear life.
She's done her part as Nancy Drew/Daphne from the Scooby Gang. She doesn't
care about temporal anomalies, she doesn't care about what happened some
place and somewhen before she was born. He's here, he's in her arms, and
that's what counts.

<OOC> Willow groans. "And me, the Medium. This is so 'Austin Now' and
'Austin Ten Minutes Before'.

Monroe is helped by that a lot more. He stands up a little straighter,
then leans more naturally down to embrace her more comfortably. It's
probably making Drace's back teeth ache, but he doesn't care. Monroe has a
lot on his mind, but none of it is apparently something he wants to share
with Drace. Willow's face is now charmingly smeared with one-hundred-fifty
year old smoke.

Drace says "This is truly your time, now. You are not a refugee from the
past in any sense but your own mind. That you chose to heal the wounds to
time speaks well of you.. as does the strength of your resistance to
leaving certain things in the here and now." A flicker of his eyes towards
Willow, then back to Monroe, "Sometimes, Monroe, attention to details, and
fully understanding, must be set aside. Sometimes, there is only time to
choose, regardless of not knowing the consequences. Call it mysticism, if
you wish.." he grins, slyly "But sometimes, it is what necessity demands.
You chose very well, and you died with as strong of conviction in your
ideals as you have lived.. and have continued to live. Enjoy your new
home, Monroe, because for now, and until the end of your days, your time
will always be this one." A slight bow, and then a gesture with one hand,
"If you will excuse me. I have fourth dimensional monstrosities to spank.
Oh.. And Willow?" he looks towards her and flashes a roguish grin "You
made a statement and asked me a question. Your answer, my dear: Page
1057." And with that, he rather suddenly vanishes."

Willow turns and looks at Monroe, her face covered in soot. "I don't like
him." she tells her lover conversationally. "He's a very bad man."

Monroe groans slightly at the space where Drace goes. "It was a guess." he
confesses to Willow. "I don't care how he describes it, it was a guess."
But he tugs Willow closer. "I don't give a continental dam for him. Come
back with me." He looks down to Argus as they go, slowly towards the back
room. "Thanks, Argus." he says affectionately, as if Argus had done
something, which Argus didn't appear to have. Argus primps slightly but
knows enough not to follow.


You step through the door into the back room.
Split-Level Apartment -- Telegraph Hill Custom Clockworks(#2367R)

 
 	 This area of the house has been renovated recently, tearing out
the walls that made it into small rooms and replacing them with more space
and better windows, though the actual furnishings are on the sparse side.
A gigantic steamer trunk stands in one corner - a pair of bookshelves are
half-filled, the rest of the books lying in piles nearby. An iron,
zigzagging staircase leads up to the second floor, which has been
converted to a loft bedroom. A large wardrobe stands open there, with
clothes peering out. The kitchen, which occupies one tiled corner of the
apartment, is especially sparse, with hardly an appliance in evidence. A
large wooden work table has been assembled recently and placed to one
side, out of the way of the comfortable-looking chairs and couch near the
west-facing window. 
 	 << +views set >>
Obvious exits:
Out <O>

Drace enters from the front part of the converted house.
Drace has arrived.
Willow enters from the front part of the converted house.
Willow has arrived.

Monroe doesn't stumble, of course, but he doesn't sail along like his
usual stately self. He plods. His big feet touch the floor. His long legs
don't slide across space like gracefully efficient scythes, they just
walk. He is, in short, very wrung out. Bits of machinery drop from his
clothes as he sheds his coat and waistcoat and unbuttons his shirt-collar
and cuffs.

Willow sort of lugs him, with one of his arm draped over her slender
shoulders, to the couch, where she lets him collapse. She darts away,
working fast because right now she doesn't want any physical distance
between them, but returns shortly with a bowl of water and a rag. She sits
in front of him, her knees touching his, and with a very calm expression
but terribly trembling fingers, dips the rag into the water and starts to
wipe the soot off his face.

Monroe returns the gesture with his fingers rubbing the smaller amount of
soot from Willow's, though his hand doesn't tremble, and is, thankfully,
as sure and strong and reassuring as it ever was. "Lord," he murmurs, "I
don't know if I can count the revelations of the evening without taking
off my shoes." And he does take them off - not in his usual
how-did-those-shoes-get-off-his-feet fashion, but by painfully pulling
them off, one by one. "I was so scared." he says softly. "I thought I had
been trapped again."

Willow sounds far too calm to be quite normal at the moment. "I thought he
sent you back." she says. Then she adds lamely, "I hit him with a wrench."

Monroe says easily, "I wondered why my wrench was on the floor." Okay,
yes, he /is/ that anal, to notice /one/ tool out of place after having his
life turned upside down and nearly ended. He doesn't seem to think that's
lame. "I was going to shoot him, but...I think I am glad that I did not."
He sits up a little more. "Willow," he says softly, "I wanted to tell you
something...when you said you should leave. My heart formed the words and
I would have said them, but...they held such import for me. I couldn't.
Not then. The time wasn't right. Do you understand why I was
so...delirious? The time wasn't right."

Willow dips the rag in the bowl, and applies it to his face gently,
lifting his chin and wiping. "Not really." she admits. "I'd like to say
yes, and that I do, but the truth is, I don't. I don't understand it the
way you do, but there was something far, far more important going on, and
it required your attention. I didn't want you to make a rash decision
because of me."

Monroe blushes. "Willow, I wanted to tell you." he says, taking her hand
and stopping her from rubbing for only a moment. "I wanted to tell you
not....not just that I wanted you to stay. I did want you to stay, but
that is not the sum of my feeling. It was not only desire. It still is
not. There is more. You /belong/ at my side. Our lives have grown together
as the delicate ivy winds around the trellis, or as closely as two gears
turning in any of my finest clocks. You /deserved/ to be there...even had
I been driven to dementia by the unutterable horror of the stasis we found
ourselves in, and had I cursed you and bade you to leave...you deserved to
stay as close to me as you are now. My life is part of yours now." he
murmurs.

Willow sits there, rather like a stunned deer. The eyes that lift to look
at him are even startlingy doe-like, big and brown, but backlit with gold.
She should be blushing but she doesn't, she only smiles and curls her
fingers around his, letting her eyes drop to their twined fingers saying
very softly,"I thought he sent you back." The hand lifts, and is brought
to her cheek, to be pressed there, and then kiss. Then she frowns
slightly, "Page 1,057?" she murmurs to herself.

Monroe says quietly, "The encyclopedic volume you showed me had 1,863
pages." Gotta love that head for numbers.

Willow looks up at him in startlement, "Yes it does..." she murmurs, and
somewhere i that all too brilliant brain, it's stored away. But after that
she just veritably climbs into his lap and just hangs onto him. It isn't
even vaguely sexual. It's like she's worried he's going to disappear in a
puff of smoke or a ball of lightening. Of course, sitting on him isn't
going to prevent that, but still...

Monroe holds onto her as well. Then a little tighter. The early feeling of
insubstantiality is now gone. She's found him. And now, finally, he's
kissing her again, or, considering the evening, maybe they're lucky, and
they get a first time again.