[Lobelia found it flattering, truly, that Cantarella cared enough to apologize.
Kindness is not lost on him, nor is her candor, though Lobelia never was upset. He thought to tell her as much in advance — that he appreciated the sentiment and bore no hurt feelings — but to do that would be to deny her the opportunity to meet. There is more on her mind, no doubt, and Lobelia is curious enough to hear her out.
He's arranged to meet with her in the sitting room, and there he... well, sits. He has half a mind to wait outside just in case she lost her way in the snow, but he'll be patient and sit his happy ass down with a book until she strolls through the door.]
[The weather certainly isn't pleasant, but it will take more than a snowstorm to make her lose her way. Even in the middle of the biting cold, she has to wonder if she's feeling and seeing what she's really feeling and seeing.
And to keep her hands from getting themselves into trouble or inviting any unexpected and invisible tugs, she slips them into her pockets once she's divested herself of her outer layers.]
Thank you for the invitation. [She curtseys.] It's quite cozy in here.
[She curtsies. How lovely. The gesture makes him smile— too elegant for the biting cold outside, but perfectly suited to her. He closes his book and sets it aside, giving her his full attention.]
Enchanté, mademoiselle. And thank you for braving the tempest for my sake. I'm relieved the weather didn't waylay you. Snowstorms have a cruel habit of swallowing people whole.
[He gestures toward the cushions across from him.]
S'il te plaît, make yourself comfortable. The room is yours as much as mine.
[A gentle smile, earnest.]
I'm glad you came, Cantarella. Now... tell me what weighed so heavily on your mind.
I have some experience finding my way with no light to guide me...Even if I doubt it will work every time.
[As Cantarella suspects this is more than just a sudden snowstorm. What occasioned the gusts and the grasping hands, why they should happen now; those are all things she's really only able to guess. She sits, prim and businesslike, and crosses her legs at the knee.]
On Saturday? The deaths of two individuals who suffered greatly and who might have been kept safe if we only knew more or had a little foresight.
[Things, in other words, that she had not been able to change.]
You walk without a light, et pourtant, you arrive exactly where you intend. That alone tells me you are far more capable than you think.
[His gaze drifts upward, as though listening to the murmuring voices carried along by the storm churning just beyond the window.]
As for Saturday... ah. The dead do cry loudest in the days that follow. Regret has a way of clinging to the air, n'est-ce pas? Like a storm that refuses to pass.
Sometimes, mademoiselle, suffering is not a consequence of what we failed to see, but of what was always going to happen, with or without our light. Some fates spiral toward their end long before we ever touch them. You do yourself harm by taking the burden of responsibility onto your shoulders.
[oh they actually really might be philosophically opposed
Anyway, Cantarella fixes him with a polite smile. The reverberations of the dead do linger, especially when shattered so abrupty. She has to wonder if he can hear them, given his unique talents.]
A boulder that began rolling long ago has more momentum, but it can still be stopped. I don't put much stock in unbreakable fate...but it's a rare person who can change everything.
[How right she is. Hers is a sharp mind, one Lobelia makes note to watch carefully. They may stand at odds in philosophy, but that hardly means this woman is anything less than a credible threat. There is poison in her gaze, a silent death that steels itself against Lobelia's heart. Don't slip. Not around her.]
Mm... a shame I do not specialize in physics or kinesthetics, oui? Were I more versed, I might measure such a thing— given enough information. But I imagine you would care very little for baseless speculation. Better, then, to assume I know nothing at all.
No, your field of interest is sound and all that it encompasses, and I can't ask for any more than that from you.
[Despite his initial delight at violence, Lobelia seems more in tune with the lingering loss of the dead than it might once have seemed. The obvious question—what cries they leave behind—is there, but Cantarella chooses a different way, as she is often wont to do.]
The bitter weather brought a bitter wind. What is it saying to you?
[How gracious Cantarella is. Lobelia can't help but be charmed, though it doesn't distract him from her question. Lobelia tips his head back, closes his eyes as if to better recall the sounds he'd heard.]
...A mix of things. Some of it, naturellement, was nonsensical. As for the rest... a warning, perhaps? If not for me, then for the rest of you.
A warning? [How very curious. Cantarella hums, the tenor of her voice pensive. Just what could the wind know that such a warning would be in its whisper?]
That's much gentler than being grabbed and pushed all over the place I've found remnants rarely make sense, given that what's left over is never fully whole. It's difficult to interpret a warning if you don't know what you're hearing.
It's much more than unease. [She tilts her head to the side.] And I imagine it would be much more so, were not haunted by the constant specter of familiarity. Strip the trappings, and the very air itself feels somewhat hsotile.
That it does. And it's hard to imagine that hostility will abate as time goes on. These last few weeks have proven that the stakes have only continued to rise.
Accelerating, just like a boulder rolling down a hill.
[It all comes back to the escalation.]
We might be coming close to something tender, all the rot bubbling up to the surface. Why do I have the feeling you'll be the first one to notice if we do? [Which is a little concerning, if one of their knowledgeable researchers might be tacitly vulnerable to shifts in the environment, but why does she also have the feeling that he'd just make light of it?]
[He wants to laugh. Why bother with the pleasantries? He knows what she's here for.]
Because you suspect me, oui? Make no mistake: I'm not offended. You're looking for a cause that explains an effect, and you've narrowed down the options. Why not speak more plainly of your doubts, Mademoiselle? I won't bite.
I do not believe you're the cause; however, I do believe you are suffering from unique symptoms.
[She's more than happy to be direct and even genial about it; this isn't a meeting between two warring noble families who trade their blows in slights and insults.]
It's because of that magic of yours. No one else here is so in tune with frequencies...perhaps if my Resonance abilities were available to me, I could feel and see them myself, but I can't. If you see inevitability in our situation...I think you might have some insight into what's happened before and why there are repeating records.
Perhaps so, Mademoiselle... but pull back far enough, and you will see patterns emerge anywhere. Records suggest this has happened before, oui, so should your focus not be on the root cause?
[Undoubtedly, Cantarella is considering that too. For now, however, he'll focus on her question.]
My audiomancy has its limits— more so here than back in my homeland. If we humor your line of thinking and study these patterns as reoccurring echoes... then until the cause of the 'sound' has been rendered mute, its echoes will continue to ring out at set intervals.
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week 2, tuesday
Kindness is not lost on him, nor is her candor, though Lobelia never was upset. He thought to tell her as much in advance — that he appreciated the sentiment and bore no hurt feelings — but to do that would be to deny her the opportunity to meet. There is more on her mind, no doubt, and Lobelia is curious enough to hear her out.
He's arranged to meet with her in the sitting room, and there he... well, sits. He has half a mind to wait outside just in case she lost her way in the snow, but he'll be patient and sit his happy ass down with a book until she strolls through the door.]
no subject
And to keep her hands from getting themselves into trouble or inviting any unexpected and invisible tugs, she slips them into her pockets once she's divested herself of her outer layers.]
Thank you for the invitation. [She curtseys.] It's quite cozy in here.
no subject
Enchanté, mademoiselle. And thank you for braving the tempest for my sake. I'm relieved the weather didn't waylay you. Snowstorms have a cruel habit of swallowing people whole.
[He gestures toward the cushions across from him.]
S'il te plaît, make yourself comfortable. The room is yours as much as mine.
[A gentle smile, earnest.]
I'm glad you came, Cantarella. Now... tell me what weighed so heavily on your mind.
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[As Cantarella suspects this is more than just a sudden snowstorm. What occasioned the gusts and the grasping hands, why they should happen now; those are all things she's really only able to guess. She sits, prim and businesslike, and crosses her legs at the knee.]
On Saturday? The deaths of two individuals who suffered greatly and who might have been kept safe if we only knew more or had a little foresight.
[Things, in other words, that she had not been able to change.]
no subject
[His gaze drifts upward, as though listening to the murmuring voices carried along by the storm churning just beyond the window.]
As for Saturday... ah. The dead do cry loudest in the days that follow. Regret has a way of clinging to the air, n'est-ce pas? Like a storm that refuses to pass.
Sometimes, mademoiselle, suffering is not a consequence of what we failed to see, but of what was always going to happen, with or without our light. Some fates spiral toward their end long before we ever touch them. You do yourself harm by taking the burden of responsibility onto your shoulders.
no subject
Anyway, Cantarella fixes him with a polite smile. The reverberations of the dead do linger, especially when shattered so abrupty. She has to wonder if he can hear them, given his unique talents.]
A boulder that began rolling long ago has more momentum, but it can still be stopped. I don't put much stock in unbreakable fate...but it's a rare person who can change everything.
[And she doesn't expect to.]
How long ago do suppose this stone began to roll?
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Mm... a shame I do not specialize in physics or kinesthetics, oui? Were I more versed, I might measure such a thing— given enough information. But I imagine you would care very little for baseless speculation. Better, then, to assume I know nothing at all.
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[Despite his initial delight at violence, Lobelia seems more in tune with the lingering loss of the dead than it might once have seemed. The obvious question—what cries they leave behind—is there, but Cantarella chooses a different way, as she is often wont to do.]
The bitter weather brought a bitter wind. What is it saying to you?
no subject
...A mix of things. Some of it, naturellement, was nonsensical. As for the rest... a warning, perhaps? If not for me, then for the rest of you.
no subject
That's much gentler than being grabbed and pushed all over the place I've found remnants rarely make sense, given that what's left over is never fully whole. It's difficult to interpret a warning if you don't know what you're hearing.
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[It all comes back to the escalation.]
We might be coming close to something tender, all the rot bubbling up to the surface. Why do I have the feeling you'll be the first one to notice if we do? [Which is a little concerning, if one of their knowledgeable researchers might be tacitly vulnerable to shifts in the environment, but why does she also have the feeling that he'd just make light of it?]
no subject
[He wants to laugh. Why bother with the pleasantries? He knows what she's here for.]
Because you suspect me, oui? Make no mistake: I'm not offended. You're looking for a cause that explains an effect, and you've narrowed down the options. Why not speak more plainly of your doubts, Mademoiselle? I won't bite.
no subject
[She's more than happy to be direct and even genial about it; this isn't a meeting between two warring noble families who trade their blows in slights and insults.]
It's because of that magic of yours. No one else here is so in tune with frequencies...perhaps if my Resonance abilities were available to me, I could feel and see them myself, but I can't. If you see inevitability in our situation...I think you might have some insight into what's happened before and why there are repeating records.
no subject
[Undoubtedly, Cantarella is considering that too. For now, however, he'll focus on her question.]
My audiomancy has its limits— more so here than back in my homeland. If we humor your line of thinking and study these patterns as reoccurring echoes... then until the cause of the 'sound' has been rendered mute, its echoes will continue to ring out at set intervals.