2020-07-13 - The Art of Knowing What You Can Do

Summer is the busiest time for Branch & Bole, even close to the shop's closing hours. People like to come and walk the gardens and allotments for a break before heading home, and often wind up taking something with them; the good weather convinces everyone they can garden, damn it, and they show up to buy things they're lacking. Some of the later are smart enough to sign up for classes, so their attempts might bear fruit (figuratively and literally) in the long run. August isn't quite cutthroat enough to fail to mention them (even though failed gardening is more money in the future for him), and as a result half of them are already filled up.

He's among the outdoor collection, pruning and checking on the current batch of Japanese maples. He's in a light, green, black, and white camp shirt over a plain black tee, denim jeans which bear smudges of dirt and greenery, and heavy hiking boots. It's been a busy day.

Dante looks more than a little out of place amongst greenery and dirt. He's wearing a crisp dark linen suit with a blue thin cotton shirt and boat shoes without socks. He makes his way through lines of greenery, peering about until he finds the man he's looking for. He clears his throat gently. "Ah, Mister Roen?"

August glances up from carefully picking at some dead leaves on a bloodgood maple, peering around the crimson and purple leaves. "Hey." There's a brief flicker of amusement over his features; Dante definitely looks a little awkward with all these plants so close to that fine, expensive outfit. "How're you doing." The amusement fades, becoming a different kind of look; he's studying Dante for obvious, lingering injuries from the funeral madness. "Restaurant holding up?"

Dante seems to be uninjured, or he's very good at hiding it. And knowing him, he wouldn't be good at hiding it if he was injured. "Ah, yes. Chugging along. Still working out some kinks." He smiles a bit tightly, a bit awkwardly. "I, em. Well, I was wondering if I might have a word with you. Cris mentioned you're quite talented and might be willing to give lessons." Cryptic, but the thing about a nursery is there might be a customer right behind that succulent.

Satisfied Dante's not walking wounded, August tilts his head at Dante and steps a out from the maples. He makes a low sound, eyes flicking up and down in an obvious once-over. "I'm guessing you don't mean the gardening sort." He tugs off his gloves, sets them and the pruning shears on a table laden with Dicentra. He nods towards the allotments. "Got a private greenhouse back here." 'Private' is the important, active word in this sentence.

He starts towards it, saying over his shoulder, "Want anything to drink? I can grab us some ciders from the office."

"I'm all right, thanks," says Dante as he fllows behind August. "Unless you think this is a conversation better had with a drink in one's hand." He smiles again, but he's clearly a bit, well, if not nervous than a bit out of his element. But he won't say more until they're out of public earshot.

August shrugs. "Not necessarily. I just like to be a polite host." To that end, he ducks into the shop door and asks Ully to grab him a couple of pear ciders from the minifridge. Once he has the nondescript, brown glass bottles in hand they're off down the crushed shell and rock path leading through the allotments. They're a mismatched, motley quilt of gardening; some are a little sparse, others are over crowded, still others are professionally tended. there's a barrel pond at the center, under a simple net canopy and with a stone bench for sitting on. People are working among their plots, and August pauses to say hi to a few, answer some questions.

They emerge from the allotments to a small, open space of gravel and grass, in which sits the private greenhouse. It's considerably smaller than the larger, gothic arch greenhouses up front, and looks somewhat newer as well. Certainly a lot of the glass and wood is new, like it befell some sort of catastrophe and needed to be repaired to the point of an almost complete replacement.

August unlocks the door, gestures for Dante to head on in. It's a tidy and neat space, with a single long, heavy work table at the middle, and numerous shelves and racks on the walls. Numerous projects fill the space, and the temperature inside is gentle warm and humid. "So. How long have you had the Art? Glimmer, I mean."

Dante must look like an investor or some rich muckymuck looking for a landscape overhaul to the people they pass. That is, if they don't already know who he is by reptuation. The town isn't big and he does go out of his way to stand out. He gives polite smiles as they go and doesn't hurry August along.

When they're alone, he stands, handsd in his pockets, shoulders a bit tight. "Ah? I'm not certain, exactly. The first incident I can recall clearly was about...six years ago in New England?"

August makes a low sound and settles himself against the table. He pops open his cider and has a sip. "That's normal. The not being sure part, I mean. When you're not at a place like," he gestures around them, "this, you can lose your memories of what happens. So if you grew up near one, could be you had it earlier but forgot. Then it finally," he snaps his fingers, "kicked on full force."

He pauses there to let that sink in, but rather than ask about the actual start, he says, "So, it's been a bit. And I remember when you came through town, a ways back." He bobs his eyebrows. "And you're still here, which happens to us a lot." Another drink of his cider, and he gestures at Dante with the bottle. "Mind if I have a look at you?"

"I saw a strange figure in my room at a Bed and Breakfast. After I had a particularly big fight with my wife," says Dante. He gets lost in that memory for a moment, then clears his throat. "My..." he hesitates, "...well, I suppose he is my ex. Elias. He was starting to teach me before he left to chase down something about his family's past." As for looking? He makes a vague gesture of permission.

August blinks when Dante mentions Elias. "Oh. Shit. Sorry. I heard he..." That he'd disappeared. Become Lost. He sighs, rubs at his forehead. "That's awful, man." He grimaces, shakes his head. "Sounds like maybe you saw a ghost. Apparently that happens to people like us a lot. We've even got a couple of ghost investigators on hand these days."

He clears his throat, gets down to business. His attention shifts past Dante, his eyes go unfocused. There's a prickling sensation along Dante's spine and the back of his neck, there and gone in a moment. August mmms, runs a hand over his mouth. "So, you're a bit like Cruz. But also a bit like me."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Dante hasn't paid attention to the drink in his hand until August makes his neck tingle. "Wherever he went, he went deliberately. So I can only hope he prepared," he says, briefly returning to the subject of Elias. "I had managed to float a pencil and move a few things. But I admit I haven't tried to use it since the restaurant opened."

August refocuses on Dante, folds his arms. "People who disappear due to the Veil, or the Art, we call them Lost. It means they're not just," he makes an off-handed gesture, "missing in a mundane way. It means they're probably Over There. It means," his expression becomes apologetic, "finding them might be futile. They usually have to find their own way back."

He falls quiet a second. Is he terrified of the prospect of that happening to Eleanor, to Itzhak, to more besides? Oh eys. Shaking that off, he says, "Hopefully he did. If he was teaching you, he wasn't clueless, so there's that."

Another pause, then, "So, that's the bit Cris has. A lot of people call it 'movement'. Itzhak calls it being a mahker." He indicates his own chest with his bottle. "You've also got some of what I have. Shaping. Lets you, make things stronger or weaker, break or fix them."

"Is that unusual? Having a little bit of different things?" Dante finds a place to lean after confirming he isn't going to lean on something that will stain his suit. He holds the bottle with both hands and then takes a breath before saying, "I'm not here simply because I'm curious, by the way. I know this town can be a dangerous place to be. I want to be able to defend myself." And others close to him, but he won't say that part out loud.

August makes a face, shakes his head. "No--not unusual in my experience, anyways. A lot of people seem to know at least two kinds of Art. Some of us, all three. Some people, just one." Another of those small shrugs to indicate he has no idea why that might be, it's just his anecdotal observations.

Though Dante might not say he wants to protect others, August is acutely aware of such desires, since that's the majority of what he even does with his own power. To that end, he says, "Understood. In that case, you've got two kinds of Art that're perfect for it. Movement lets you deflect things coming at you, or someone else, and you can make yourself harder to hurt." He glances around, spies something on a tool rack and jerks his head as if to it. A pair of pruning sheers lift off the wall and come to hover next to him, tip pointed downward. "And being able to move things means using them as weapons." Another motion of his head, and the lock on the shears unclips, opening them into a sharp, rictus grin. They snap once demonstrably, click shut, and fall into August's open palm. "Takes practice, though. Fine control won't come immediately."

Dante shifts a bit uncomfortably as he watches August manipulate the shears. He's seen a lot since coming to Gray Harbor - and his own imagination is quite vivid and dark. He is a horror writer, after all. Still, seeing someone float a pair of pointy shears with their mind is the kind of thing that takes some getting used to.

"I've heard that using the abilities can be dangerous. That they can attract unwanted attention. Elias was always a little cavalier with it, but I think that's because he grew up so close to it and it just felt...well, rather normal for him."

"It does," August confirms with a nod. He coughs a small, bitter laugh for Elias' casual attitude about it. "That happens to people who've been through shit. Not just here, but in general, in their lives." He looks down at the shears. "It's hard to be real worried about what They're going to do to you if you were born and raised in the briar patch."

He sets the shears aside. "A lot of people with that Art, they'll carry something to use with it. A knife, a baton, hell, a rock. Once you get good enough with it, you can do a lot with a small, sharp or hard object." He raises one eyebrow. "The other thing, though--and this is important for you, because you're like my Ellie, a little stronger in the movement than me--is you can cross Over, to the Other Side. And over there, it's the wild fuckin west, so you don't want to do that casually."

"I don't plan on being an explorer in the Great Unknown," says Dante with a twitched grin. "Though I know people who do want to poke that bear. But I'd rather know what I'm capable of than remain ignorant. If only so I know what's in my arsenal if I find myself backed into a corner. Which seems, well, more likely than it once did." What with his boyfriend being an active criminal and all. Not to mention his own involvement with the casino.

"Well, good news: you have to do it on purpose," August says on a wry grin. "I've heard of some people crossing on accident, but it's not common. Usually more in a panic, like to escape something. But it's not what I'd suggest, on that face of it."

He sets his bottle of cider aside, moves over to a potted minirose. It's not blooming yet, the buds furled small, hard, and green. "Shaping's a little more subtle. You can do obvious kinds of things, like heal things, or hurt them. But you can also act on," he runs a hand over the bush, "plants." As he says that, a few things happen: one vine of the bush withers, dies, and falls off. A handful of the flower buds swell up and bloom, pale lavender and white. And another vine snakes out and coils around August's hand, lightly, like a curious animal, then unwinds and draws back.

That piques Dante's interest in the way the floating shears did not. He's seen it, for one - has done it himself. But this trick with the plant is something rather new. He approaches with dark eyes wide and curious. "You've sped up and restricted its growth, haven't you? Or did you speed up its growth to the point it completed its life cycle?"

He may seem on the surface to be a rather stuffy and unimaginative type but the truth is, he's built a career out of dark curiosity. He just covers that up with flashy suits and good hair.

"A bit of both," August says, tone absent as he concentrates. Where the withered vine fell off a new one is budding out, maybe in an apology for using it as an example. "The movement's a little different. Plants can move, just not very fast. You can harnass that and drive it yourself, make it quicker and more accurate." Now he looks at Dante. "That's good for keeping things off you, blocking them out of places--if you're strong enough, you can move trees, and those make fantastic weaopns." A brief bob of his eyebrows, and the minirose slowly withdraws and settles. August steps back.

"Breaking things," he makes a face, "and people, that's a pretty obvious way to defend yourself. You're probably not strong enough to kill something, but you could slow them down or stop them." This example is a little less mild than the others. He drags his doot through the dirt and dust on the green house floor, which is really just the concrete slab it's sitting on. He seems to be drawing a series of arcs with lines connecting them. Then he stamps once with one foot.

The concrete cracks, splitting along those shapes and separating by a good two the three inches. The entire greenhouse shifts in response; leaves flutter, dust settles, glass and wood groan and complain. None of it breaks, though, steadied by the same power that split the foundation.

"Well, that's good. I don't want to kill anyone," Dante actually tries to hold back a bit of a shudder at the thought. "Just protect m'self." He looks like he's about to say something more, but then August does his dramatic stamp-and-shudder. He reches out as if to steady himself. When he realizes it's not necessary, he straightens. "Now I see why Cris said you were one of the strongest people he knew. It's a little bit scary, isn't it? Realizing what you're capable of?"

August is paying only half attention to Dante, but that's enough to catch the gist of what he's saying. He pushes one hand through the air, like he's opening a door, or maybe closing it. The concrete shudders and seals back up. The tension of the greenhouse eases. The concrete under them is entirely solid once more, with no hint it was ever damaged. Only the little pattern August drew with his foot remains as evidence of what he did.

He looks at Dante again, tenses up at the notion of killing. "Yeah," he agrees, voice thick for a moment. "That's something you can do, if hurting things or people is a problem. Just like we can break things and make plants grow? We can make people do more. Shoot better, fight faster, have more Art." He clears his throat. "I usually let...everyone else do the hitting, if I'm being honest. I make 'em stronger, keep them upright." He pauses, narrowing his eyes, shakes his head. "That's not something you can do, pull them back from the brink. But the rest, that you can do." Something seems to occur to him. "And you can set things on fire, I bet. Have you tried that?"

"How are you able to tell what I can do? I mean, I can..." Dante makes a vague gesture towards August. "...I know how to identify someone else like me. And there's this odd sense, synchronicity that I've slowly started to be able to recognize. But you seem quite confident in what I can and cannot do." He looks briefly down at his own hand, as if the digits might provide the answer.

As for pyromancy? "Ah no, can't say that I have. That seems like the sort of thing that could get out of hand rather quickly."

"That's something people like us can do, see how strong someone is in the Art. And with shaping, I can do a whole lot. I'm probably as strong as I'll ever get. Maybe not the strongest--I expect that'd Lilith. But still, at the most I'll ever be, or near it. And that means if I can guess, or remember, what I could do when I was about your strength, you can probably do that." Now August backtracks to the previous question he so very studiously avoided answering. He ducks his head. "And, yeah--being this strong, especially with shaping, it's scary. It's manipulating...molecules, I guess, or molecular energy, and that means you can really," he swallows, "really, fuck things up. So it can get out of hand, when you're strong. That's why it's a good idea to get comfortable with it early, so you don't overreact on instinct, maybe take out a load bearing wall and collapse a building, or burn the fuck out of someone." He licks his lips, takes up the cider again and has a drink.

"Fire's tricky. I don't use it much for," he points the neck of the bottle at Dante, "exactly that reason. You could practice, though, with a beach fire pit. See if you can get it going just by thinking at it."

Dante goes quiet for a moment as he takes in everything August has said and what he's shown him. He sips the cider, rolls the bottle between his hands. "So how exactly should I go about getting control of it? Other than just trying to get things to happen and hoping it doesn't go wildly out of control?" There is a note of hesitation in his voice, like he's not sure if he wants to continue down the path or not.

August gives Dante a tight, sympathetic look. "Unfortunately, that's how. But you can start small. Practice moving things--darts on a dartboard is a good one. Breaking and fixing, cheap plates are good for that. Fire, that's what firepits outside are good for. Plants," he opens his arms, "we've got those all over, just a pick a spot and try working on a bush." He tilts his head. "For making someone stronger, you'll want to work with Cris on that. You can't do that to yourself, and doing it to a thing, it's not always easy to know it worked. But a person, they can tell you if they feel it. And," a brow goes up, "I'm happy to help too. Your mind art's not so strong, so I can't show you what's going on that easy, but we could sort that out."

Dante barks a laugh at 'work on a bush.' A hand goes up to his mouth to hide a cheeky grin. "Apologies. I've definitely been spending too much time around Cris." It's as much a genuine bit of laughter as it is an exhalation of nervous energy. "I honestly only thought I could make things hover. It's a bit of a shock to know I can do more than that."

Then, "I appreciate your offer of assistance. My aim is to not be a liability the next time something like the funeral happens." And it will. Because this is Gray Harbor.

August almost chokes on his cider when Dante laughs like that. "Well I had that coming," he says when he can talk again. He shakes his head, grinning and laughing under his breath. "Yeah, I bet he has that effect."

Sobering some, he says, "It always feels that way, at first. That you can't do much. And the risk of Their attention, well," he blows out a breath, "it doesn't exactly encourage learning."

He nods, waves the notion of Dante being a liability aside. "You're not a liability if you don't know. Not any more than people without the Art are. But," his mouth twitches in a bitter almost-smile, "I can sympathize with wanting to be able to help your loved ones, and be there for them." He pushes off the racks. "So I'm happy to help in that regard. And the good news is, you've got the tools to do that."

"And also to not put other people in danger because they're busy protecting me," Dante adds, a bit distratedly. He pushes off the counter and stands straight, adjusting his suit jacket as he does. "You've given me a lot to think about. I appreciate the explanation, and the guidance." He offers his hand to August. "I'm going to let all of this sink in and then think a bit on where I'd like to go next."

"That too," August agrees, tone dry. Oh, how he knows how that feels. Being unwilling to kill things has its drawbacks.

He finishes off his cider, moves to open the door out of the greenhouse. It's a lovely summer early evening, the sky just beginning to gain a dusky orange tint along the horizon line; a cool breeze wafts in, heavy with the smell of the ocean. The tide's moving out. "That's a good plan. Feel free to drop by if you have any question. And, Eleanor Lake, who owns the coffee shop? She's a solid source of information too." He gestures at Dante. "She's like you, didn't use her power much until more recently, and a little stronger with movement."

Dante's suit might be linen but he's still more covered than people generally are in the summer. So the breeze from the open door is a welcome relief. "And thank you for the drink, as well." He sets the bottle on a nearby surface. It still has a little left, but he was idly sipping at it through their conversation. "Much appreciated." And after a nod towards August, the tall Brit turns to make his leave.