| still I must obey, still I must invite. |
[Feb. 13th, 2012|04:44 am] |
[ Early Friday dawns and she is alone. That steely Gryffiths strength, that deadpan humour -- it's all gone. When the magic catches up to her in that breaking wave across London, it sunders her powers. It snips the comforting golden-yellow thread that connects her to anyone, everyone, everyone. And when she wakes, she stares up at the white ceiling and feels, for the first time in her life, disconnected from the vision and sixth sense that has accompanied her for fully thirty-four years and never, ever left her side. She fumbles for her journal but her hands are shaking too badly to hold it. When she steps out and sees the sky burning, she feels alone.
There was always community. There was always fraternity and sorority: a rollicking, too-big family (the problem was always too much, not too little) and then the looming Library with its stables of agents, its dormitories, its cafeteria-style meals. If there was one thing she never had to fear, it was loneliness. There was always that sight of the expanding web around her, the gentle nudges connecting her to everyone. The rest. All of humanity. Subtly reminding Catherine of her unique (though infinitesimal) position and location in the gigantic tapestry that was human existence.
Now there's nothing. She strains for the right words -- considering the journal and something to say to the community-at-large, something about finding a safe location, something about staying put, about seeking Librarian aid -- but she can't find the way to phrase it and doesn't dare try. She's only a trainee. Only a trainee. Forever youngest, forever littlest, forever learning, forever not good enough.
Catherine Gryffiths' subconscious beats itself to death against the hard rocks, waves crashing on craggy shores. When she reaches for the dogtags, the network flickers into awareness --
But it's strangely empty, devoid, scrubbed free of detail and nuance and emotion. She cannot feel them. When Catherine speaks to them, rippling across the connection to the others, her voice sounds blank and raw and robotic. When they -- the Librarians, her brothers, her coworkers -- respond, she hears their words in nothing but blank text. Monotone. Lifeless. There is a network, but there is no network. She is not one of them. ]
[Telepathic communication to Librarians.]
what's happening
[Journals: Elizabeth Gryffiths.]
Are you okay? I'm |
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| my darlin', she's a drifter. |
[Jan. 18th, 2012|11:27 pm] |
Happy new year. Do we have any resolutions before the supposed apocalypse? Mine is to gradua
If anyone is available for training, I'm looking for a sparring partner this afternoon.
[LIBRARIANS.]
Objects on the agenda? Any upcoming office parties I should know about?
[She goes for the journal before the dog-tags; this communication isn't urgent, after all, but simply Catherine shooting the shit. Insofar as Catherine Gryffiths shoots the shit. But the woman is itching and prickling with the awareness that 2012 marks yet another year locked in the Library's training regime, and the self-consciousness that she has spent far more time under the 'rookie' banner than most of her partners. She has watched former novices phase in and out, during the time she's spent in training. She wants out.] |
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| up above. |
[Nov. 17th, 2011|12:59 am] |
[Gideon Foster.]
[Wandering the outer perimeter of Market, Cath is flexing her observational skills and taking a stroll to see what she can see. The woman's still a trainee, but one who's learning to stand on her own legs, like a colt taking its first stumbling steps. In her walk today, she'd already come up against a solid wall preventing further access. There are more dead-eyed Merchant peons around the area than usual; she practically expects to see men with black suits, black sunglasses, earpieces, and walkie-talkies. To her eyes, they're all loosely bound in pale filigree-thread: coworkers and little more. They've been hired for some purpose, evidently. Slipping through this jostling mess of people pressed tight around her, the dog tags come in handy -- no doubt mobile phones might go on the fritz here, might tangle with the canopy of magic above and throughout Market. But the tags are what allows her to detach from Gideon's side, reporting in with nothing more complicated than a touch to the metal and a reaching-out, a questing for the presence that she knows means G. Foster, Market-monitor.]
Things are different this month. What do you know about the increased security? |
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| a friendly neighbourhood reminder. |
[Jul. 6th, 2011|11:07 am] |
Remember to be careful when going home after Market. Just like normal shopping, you're at risk when you've got lots of purchases on you. And remember to report any suspicious or threatening behaviour to the Library. It's our job to investigate these things.
[LIBRARIANS.]
I had one of our healers patch up a burned man last night. He was being mugged. By children. |
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| ring ring. bananaphone. |
[May. 18th, 2011|12:30 am] |
[Librarians.]
It isn't a phonecall; it isn't handwriting on the journals; it isn't a shout, or a yell, or a whisper, but something encompassing all and nothing of the above. The trainee's hand clutches the dog tags around her neck, fingers curling around the cool metal (somehow colder to the touch than it should be, thrumming with magic rippling out from her heart, anchored somewhere below the skin). Catherine is curled up in a corner of her dormitory at the Library, back wedged against the narrow space between bed and wall. She is focused on nothing, struggling to clear her mind in order to make this telepathic connection work. Five years, and she still can't do it effortlessly. That fact rankles.
But she hasn't cleared her mind enough -- and so the broadcast begins with an embarrassing, rocky start, her emotions flickering and slipping out into the aether and betraying themselves to her coworkers. The Librarians' minds are linked like a delicate neural web. Irritation-impatience-insecurity-shame: all of it is transmitted to the rest.
Most people would have cursed. Cath simply bites her lip, and tries again.
The woman's mind is clear. Now it's just her, with the equivalent of a finger lightly tapping the shoulder of all attuned Librarians, a polite inquiry piping up from her corner of the world. General broadcast. Good morning, London.
So did anyone else get any leads on Vauxhall? |
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