(Untitled)

[brother2dragons]

WHO: Dan and whoever else!
WHERE: The Club!
DATE: ... the 19. God so late ;_;
WARNINGS: None so far?
SUMMARY: The meeting!
STATUS: Completely open to whoever wants to come!

Comments

[alwayslogical]

Spock had arrived at exactly the correct time, on the dot. He was, if nothing else, punctual and precise. Upon arrival, he glanced inside the bar and seeing only Dean, sat down at a table next to his and pulled out his book. In it was a seperate page, covered with complex equations, all that looked like they'd been scratched out and rewritten repeatedly. Instead of saying hello to Dean, he turned this page over (more writing, in both Arabic and English) and continued the apparent essay he was working on, with occasion glances to the door.

[alwayslogical]

At the voice, Spock glanced up. The woman stood strong, looked in her mid-thirties, and possessed what he might term a social curiosity for his work. He folded it carefully away as he spoke to her, the gesture subtle and quiet, not wanting to draw attention to himself or his work. "Yes," he said, after a moment, "I am waiting for some sort of call to attention. Are you, as well?"

[patternprophet]

Following his conversation with Dan, Leoben's curiousity about how the book worked was piqued, and he was interested in hearing other's theories. The suggestion for the meeting had come at just the right time.

Upon arriving at the club, Leoben figured that he must have been early. He hadn't planned to, but it would be interesting to watch who arrived after him.

[ink_blotter]

The small man that walked in the door a few minutes after the appointed meeting time had a solemn air about him, something quiet and oddly blank, like he wasn't quite all there. His rough face had a yellowing bruise along the right side of his jaw, and he held his hands shoved into the pockets of his over-sized coat even once he'd walked in and started to look around. Ignoring the drinks Constantine had put out, then redhead moved over to the slowly growing group, glancing at Leoben and looking him up and down.

"One of the reporters?" Kovacs guessed, his voice much lower and rougher than would likely be expected from the man's slight stature.

[patternprophet]

Upon hearing the question, Leoben glanced at who had asked it.

"Yes," he replied, after a moment. "I'm one of them." He had an idea of who he was talking to, based on some conversations in the journals, but wasn't ready to take a guess.

[ink_blotter]

"Which one?" Kovacs never bothered much with manners - he didn't see the point. Obviously this wasn't the one that wrote like a country boy, and from the quiet, he'd guess the German. He seemed a man of few words, and the redhead approved of that.

[trenchcoatmagic]

John wasn't the sort to dwell on conspiracies. There was too much to do, too many real twists and turns to deal with. Rumors, rumors John liked. He could deal in that currency without question. The trouble with the journals, though, is that they weren't the sort of objects that inspired rumors; they inspired half-cocked conspiracies and mystical rumblings. Maybe John's curiosity was fading with age-- something that he highly doubted--, but conspiracies without proof didn't light a fire in his chest nowadays

I'LL JOHN THIS THREAD!

[trenchcoatmagic]

John smiled at the lady that had sat across from him. He slid back down into his seat, crossing his legs. He poured himself a glass and lifted it in greeting. "Last name's Constantine, but last names just end up with a lot of Misters and Mrs. Rather not hear people calling my father's name all day and night, know what I mean?"

He motioned with his hand towards the drinks. "Want something, Mrs...?"

[patternprophet]

Leoben had watched her come in, the lone woman at this get-together for the moment. At first glance, she reminded him of someone he thought he knew, but after a while that wasn't the case. Still, there was a desire to speak with her. She hada professional air about her, and Leoben considered that she might have a differing opinion on the books, perhaps on how they worked.

"Good evening," he said, softly, after approaching her.

[patternprophet]

"I am. I assume you are as well," Leoben replied. The small exchange confirmed his thought about her professionalism, and he concluded that she must be one of the doctors who possesed the journal, or a similar career.

"I'm Leoben," he said, by way of introduction, holding out his hand.

[unkingly]

Like he hadn't already made plenty of trips to this particular place before - but even then, Al was aware he was running about five, ten minutes late. Fashionably late, something assured him, but he didn't exactly need assurances; even waltzing in after the meeting'd apparently started, he didn't exactly think before heading over where most of the people were milling, wave a hand and grin in greeting, swing up a chair but not take a seat.

Something was telling him about how everyone in this room had a (not!) magical book, half of them people he'd written with but never saw face-to-face. It wasn't weird. It was...

Interesting. Curbed his growing feeling of having to get up and go somewhere, kept his attention as long as anything had. And he still managed to show up late. Not actually looking at anyone in particular, his voice managed to carry even when he wasn't yelling-- "Did I happen to miss anything?"

[unkingly]

"Just as well. People have to be still arriving." He might've been somewhat relieved over not being the last to show, but, hey, it was the truth, wasn't it? Al met the gal's confident stride with an optimistic grin of his own, any shred of abashment over arriving off time gone.

That hand was shaken with the same sort of attitude, though some part of his mind wondered what she was doing huffing about like that-- oh. "Doctor Magnus, right? Al. Jones. Alfred F. Jones, if you want to get long with it."