Welcome to Gaia! ::

Beyond the curtain of fuzzy static snow is the great hall of the Court. Months ago, it had transitioned from ivory to ebony throughout the night of sacrifice. Now it is simply a well-appointed galleria. The floors are a dark hardwood, the walls whitewashed and hung with fantastic paintings. The windows sink into neat recesses, and look out over quiet, starlit gardens.

Three long tables covered with pristine white tablecloths occupy the center of the room. There is a lectern at the head of them, an incongruous whiteboard beside it. As yet, there is nothing written on it.

Fetches, all of them evidently from the Spinel Lady's employ from their heavy black dress and moon-pale masks, greet you at the door, take your coats. Today, the clothing of the visitors does not change; today they are allowed their self-expression, their little foibles.

The table to the farthest left is for the wargs; this can be determined by the name tags. There are little cushions for their bonded familiars. There are water glasses, filled, with a single large sphere-shaped ice cube in the bottom. Alone at the table is a nervous-looking young woman and her tiny terrier of a dog.

The center table is for the nobles, with water glasses filled and stools for their tithes should they choose to bring them.

The right table is for the weres. Rather than chairs, they have stools, the better to accommodate their differences in anatomy. (The tails. I'm talking about the tails.) They, too, have filled water glasses and nothing else.

There is no sign, as yet, of the regents of the Spinel Lady. Only the fetches by the door, and waiting quietly along the walls. This is a greeting time.

QUOTE LIST:

Entering the great hall, America wrapped her arms around herself despite the the many light layers of clothes and thin shawl she wore. Mr. B was on her shoulder, playing quietly with one of the dangly earrings she wore, for once not announcing them both with his hawkish cry. She was dressed nicely, but not too dressed up, and it had take about a week for her to figure out what to wear that met that safe medium. She'd looked nice, if more modest than usual, but there was a sense of disarray that wasn't typical and would be hard to explain to anyone who only knew her in passing.

America Jones had a way of looking like she belonged wherever she was, dressed however she might be. There was a confidence in her physicality that overwrote context. Except, it wasn't there. She looked uncomfortable and figity as she reluctantly parted from Preacher, who'd firmly dragged her toward the doorway to the Other Place after seeing America's I will I won't I have to I can't I will carousel of hesitating movement a block away. She looked like she didn't belong anywhere at all, not even in her own clothes.

The tag was a tiny moment of a relief in the face of everything else, someone telling her what to do, a choice that didn't have to be made. Ignoring the cushion, Mr. Bitterberry hopped down from her shoulder to perch at the edge of her glass and take a polite sip of water. Nasir got a big, tremulous smile, but most of her attention was for Lara and beside her, Cerby. The girl flushed and looked away, but couldn't help turning her gaze right back to stare for another few moments until she dragged it away, embarrassed and ashamed but curious all the same.

Horace was, for once, dressed neatly and nothing clashed. This was solely because he was wearing his working clothes: a grey vest, red tie, white collared shirt, the works. The jewelry, though, that stayed in. He clacked his tongue barbell against his teeth and immediately regretting it as the still-healing piercing protested. It was time, he thought... maybe. He straightened his vest and stepped inside.

He had wandered for a while, but the magic must have sensed he had a meeting to attend and here he was. Handy, that. Three pocket tap: Keys, wallet, phone, bat on the shoulder check. If not for the colorful artwork, he'd think he was back in Florida. Taking a deep breath, he moved into the hall.

"Hey, Nasir," he called out before hushing himself. Was it supposed to be like a library?

"America," Nasir said in a relieved voice, "hi." Though he was giving Lara similar looks but for different reasons of course.

Horace's appearance was welcomed because he really, really felt entirely out of place. "Hi, Horace." His voice was normal tone, though he wasn't overly loud as if he too was uncertain about what kind of voice they should be using. The Mercers got a wave once he noticed them too.

He had gone into their first meeting confused and come out mortified. Their second, hopeful, then disgusted, enraged, terrified. Now, Rabbit felt nothing. This was a thing that had to be done. He was no longer excited or afraid, he was just tired. He wanted this to be over and he wanted to go home.

Rabbit entered the hall via the portal provided, resplendent in... rolled up patchy jeans and a brown t-shirt with a picture of Gizmo on the chest. In spite of himself, he smirked and shook his head. Of course, today would be the day the magic would leave his clothes alone.

He glanced behind him to make sure Temperance had made it through, then took stock of the room as his expression fell back to neutral caution. Great. If people didn't already hate him for the choices he hadn't made, they would when he took a seat at the jock table.

"You can sit with someone you know if you want." Surely she had better people to talk to than him. "I'll be over there, I guess." Rabbit raised the spiral notebook he had brought to his chest like a shield, but his feet didn't move.

Horace was stopped at the door by a silent fetch. Another, evidently allowed to speak, said, "You have a weapon?" She pulled Horace's small tonfa to her with a gesture of her hand. After a long moment's inspection of the keys, she said, "It will be allowed. Felt will stay with you." The silent fetch bowed its head. "Do not start any fights."

Lara smiled at America, the same comforting smile she'd had when first telling America she was a warg. Nasir got a smile, too, but it was a more puzzled one. She turned that same welcoming smile on each new arrival to the warg's table, though those who weren't wargs got a strange look on top of it. Apparently she kept her ability to detect wargs when she came between the worlds. "I think it's alright to talk," she said to Horace. "Thank goodness the rest of you are here now. I was getting nervous I had the wrong static-curtain-door."

Then she glanced at Cerby for a second, and said, "Oh, sorry, manners! I'm Lara. This is Cerby, my warg. Please don't pet him; he's my service dog."

Horace's eyebrow rose. "Not my intention to bash you lot with my keychain." Unless they really wanted it. Nevertheless, it seemed like he'd gained a follower.

"Hello, um, Felt," he said awkwardly. "I'm Horace." He waited for a moment, then made his way to the warg table. Nugget flapped off up towards the ceiling instead of on the pillow provided. Great, abandoned, he thought. He sighed and looked around at everyone and those still arriving.

Come over here, Horace thought at Oliver. Why was he isolating himself?