Outside of the Bismark, gray skies are overhead.
Aquinas stands at the entrance, with a black umbrella; water beading up on the black fabric and falling in small rivulets towards the ground. The Supernal hums quietly around his pattern, protecting and offering him sight beyond sight. A text message notification goes unanswered. The Bismark, without Jonathan Cook has become a bit quieter, calmer without the Merovingian.
For good or ill.
A silver bullet of a car comes to a stop near by. Quietly amused by her car, that she calls Tom, Telos climbs out from behind the wheel and a snap of her umbrella. Her clerk, Eryxias, sits in the passenger seat. Telos, is a woman of quiet attractiveness with a short-fall of chestnut curls crowning her head and dusky skin that references an Indian heritage. Wrapped in a tailored gray jacket and a drapey pumpkin colored blouse, the Acanthus intermingles sharpness with softness, form and function in an effortless way.
Eryxias, is known for his smile: bright and charming. The Moros' clothes are understated, in grays and blacks and while he's quite wiry, he moves with a purposeful stride. In his hands, he carries an umbrella that is shared with his mentor as well as a larger bag.
“Nice to see you, Telos,” Aquinas says with a lingering smile for the Lictor.
A bright smile from the Acanthus forms and she nudges Eryxias forward, “Nice to see you too, looks like everything worked out in the end; I don't know what you were so worried about. This is Eryxias, yet another financier. He's become my clerk.”
“Actuarial, actually,” Eryxias attempts to correct.
“Oh?” Aquinas says with a quirk of his brow towards the younger Mage, “I give it two years before you decide that hedge-fund management is probably not the way to create change. This way,” the Hierarch invites and guides the small group to a board-room he's set aside for a few of the Silver Ladder and a Herald. “You might be interested in the motley crue that this place has formed.”
The board room is large, spacious, with windows and an arrangement of sofa-chairs. The group settles and Eryxias sets down the bag before heading to shake out the umbrella in a corner of the room.
“How's Ixidor ,” Telos asks, interest in the progression of another clerk in her voice.
“Doing well,” Aquinas answers, “effective Deacon now. Needs to take your exam.”
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