The Itch
Summary: Micah and Greje discuss the Condition Two alert and the state of the crew.
Date: 1 ACH (11/14/2008)
Related Logs: None

Observation Deck Genesis - Deck 9
2 ACH 2235 Souls

The observation deck is at the fore of the ship. The viewport allows those who come here to relax and enjoy a little quiet time with opposite sex. When the ship is under Alert levels, the viewport has a steel shutter that automatically comes down over the viewport for protection of the glass. The seats here are single and double and set up like a theater. They are cushioned and some recline back for those quick naps.
-----< Condition Two - Duty Area >----——
Contents: Greje Reception Desc Wireless 1494

Exits: [O] Corridor

Greje sits hunched forward on a chair in the front row of the 'theatre,' legs spread in a horribly unladylike fashion, elbows on her knees as she looks out the windows, a thin wisp of smoke coiling upwards from the thin hand-wrapped ciggie she's got perched between her fingers.

There are a few people milling about the observation deck this evening, perhaps owing to the condition two aboard the Genesis. There's a slight aire of tension, though nothing that's turned to panic in the fleet's trained soldiers. Micah drifts through from stem to stern, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers — on duty, if the closed lapel of his uniform is any indication. He draws to a halt nearby, five or ten feet from the hunched-forward blonde, gaze focused on the windows.

Despite her forward slouch, Greje seems oddly immune to the tension in the room. Concerned, yes, but at peace, something languid in her long, lanky limbs. Maybe it's to do with the ciggie, which, at a closer range, doesn't give off the typical odor of tobacco. She stares through the window, her gaze very far away, but in no way vacant. As if a sixth sense touched her cheek, she turns her head in a slow, fluid movement, focus shifting inward from millions of miles to five or ten feet in the time it takes her to angle her head to regard Micah with a calm but friendly smile.

It's the cigarette that Micah's watching, after a few moments of contemplating the glass and his reflection in it. There are stars beyond that window, and a black vaccuum of space, but he doesn't gaze that way long enough to let his thoughts turn out so far. "Bit of an itch," he murmurs, accent thick this evening. He scratches the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, mismatched eyes skewing a little higher to meet Greje's. "Feels like the ship's got a bit of an itch." It's not really a question, and it's spoken about as much to himself as it is to her, like he's not aware of the /inner/ part of inner monologue.

Greje draws a short breath, pinching the end of her rollie to her lips and holding the shallow breath for a moment before she lets the smoke puff out her nostrils, moving her head a few degrees up and down in otherwise unmoving agreement. "It's quiet," she murmurs, keeping her own voice low to blend in with the other background murmurs in the lounge. Her head's swimming in them, and they seem to take on an almost arhythmically musical quality, from which she doesn't want to detract. "It seems to me I've heard this sound before," she muses.

"The sound of everyone collectively holding their breath?" prompts the dark-haired Ensign, with a slight turning up of the right corner of his mouth. It's not quite a smile. "Hey," he adds after a moment, lifting his chin to indicate the ciggie. "You got another one of those?" His tongue darts across his lips quickly, and the almost-smile's long gone, he does a poker face well. "Got a bit of an itch.."

"On Cithaeron, where the stream welled up from the sacred spring and lapped the fortune stones," Greje murmurs to herself. "They say Apollo's voice is in the stream, bright and clear, resounding in the rocks. That." She looks to the rollie, "They once lapped a young nymph's feet and bound her into the service of the god. He trapped her there, drew down her limbs into the earth and made her bristle with unaccustomed foliage. She howled in the breeze, and, if you let her, will guide you to hear the words the god says in the water." After this brief discursus on the nature of the plant she's smoking, she becomes a little bit more lucid. "Aren't you going to need to be able to fly?" she asks him, rather practically.

The Officer's eyes crinkle slightly at the edges, head lifted again so that he's gazing at the window. Out the window, now, listening as Greje speaks. The hum of conversation continues around them, a pleasant sound in the background like cicadas at night in some place green and leafy, with still pools and trees that can be climbed. "Maybe I don't want to hear what the gods have to say," he murmurs, followed by a few seconds' silence and a lick of his lips. "Can't fly if I've got an itch," is added much more quietly, accent devolving into barely recognisable speech.

"Apollo sings both fair and foul in turn for men," Greje points out, "Listen or don't. It won't change the song." She gestures with a bob of her head toward the seat next to her. She's a lot less awkward than she normally is, probably due to the relaxing properties of the sacred herb.

Crow hesitates a moment, then turns and steps past the androgynous young woman, claiming the offered chair. He sinks into it with a breath, a slouching of broad shoulders and a stretching of his legs out in front of him; while not a burly kid, he nevertheless fills his chair well. "Listen, you got another one or not? I'm due in briefing in an hour, and.." And, it's condition two, he could be called out to get his ass down to the hangar bay and hop on a viper at any minute.

Greje twists, shifting to her side on the chair and drawing her legs up after her, curling up on the chair and still not taking up the whole of it, narrow, lanky creature as she is. She shakes her head subtly at the question, but reaches out to touch his lips with two of her fingers in what might seem a gesture of blessing, except that she's still got the rollie tucked tight between her fingers, letting him take a hit. But just one. It's not as strong as something like pot, and one hit won't do much more than soothe his nerves, anyhow. "Ho-wan-ax-ho-Dei-li-os," she sings gently, the wavering first words of the First Paean, "De-i-Ko-bol-ef-se-bef-tai…"

He's facing forward, and she's twisted sideways to meet him; all he wants is the answer to his question, whether she has another one on her. When she shakes her head, he seems almost ready to push back to his feet and be off, but her hand's lifting to his face and his first thought is to turn away — and then to turn toward, because she's offering him a toke of her rollie. His eyes briefly meet hers through the smoke, lips parting to take a pull of the burning, sacred plant. And then an exhale through his nose ever so slowly, "Come now, muses, and go to the sacred place upon the far-seen twin-peaked Parnassus, celebrated and dear to us pierian maidens. Repose on the snow-clad mountain top; celebrate the Pythian lord with the goldensword, phoebus.." He trails off there, and exhales the rest of the smoke. "Where'd you get that?"

Greje lets Crow take over the singing, closing her eyes and mouthing along with the hymn, though she doesn't make any noise. When the singing stops, she opens her eyes again, "I brought some cuttings with me from Delphi. I tend them in the Ecclesiastical offices, and dry the leaves myself. I also tend Aphrodite's-Girdle, Thynera, Holly Barley, Twinseed, Hellewrath, Chamalla and Lightning Thistle."

Crow doesn't speak immediately. Another breath is taken: in and then out, dark lashes held low over eyes that are, if she is to look closely, mismatched in colour. "They let you keep those aboard the Genesis?" he wonders. And then, after a beat, "You're Gemenon?" It isn't voiced as an accusation, though it could certainly be taken as one; he has a way of speaking, that makes even the most innocuous of remarks sound like a confrontation.

Greje shakes her head, "Caprican," she replies in that same low murmur. "I'm your Chaplain," she introduces herself. "Greje Karthasi."

That, gives him pause. There's a few moments spent watching her, knuckles resting just beneath his chin. Others pass by, on their way in or on their way out, casting odd and jagged shadows about the pair of them as the smoke sifts away. "I follow you," he replies eventually, dark brows knitting heavily above his eyes. Two fingers uncurl in order to gesture at the cigarette. "I'm Micah. And ta for that. Is it your job to keep me.. spiritually in line, then?"

Greje smiles at the description, seeming faintly charmed by it. "Keep you square with your Lords, as far as I'm able. I can't tell you what to do and not to do. I'm fully trained in the rites of all the Lords except for the High Rites of Artemis. I've served in seven sanctuaries and temples. If you wish to practice, I'm here to facilitate that practice. If not, I'm here to lend an ear, a shoulder… maybe some… secular advice, if I have any of use. I'm not here to strong-arm you into services," she chuckles, the noise echoing off of her seatback and splitting and dividing into a flutter of moths around her head.

There's an answering huff from the Ensign a brusque sound that -could- in some way be considered laughter, and a few seconds spent thinking about her words. "I'll think about it," he supplies, voice soft and husky as if afraid of letting anyone overhear them. "Let you know, if I have anything that needs practicing. Haven't done the services since me dad used to…" He shakes his head at that, raps once upon the arm of his chair with his knuckles. "I'll let you know. Ta." And that word seems to encompass more than just the toke from the rollie. He pushes to his feet, straightens out his uniform with a little tug.

"Sure," Greje replies, not sarcastic, but sincere, an utterance of both appreciation and farewell as she curls up a little more on the seat, intent on some sort of half-doze as she finishes up her laurel-minor. "I'll see you soon, Micah. Stay well."

There's a nod from the pilot, a click of heels that's barely heard, and he departs soon after; leaving Greje to the remains of her sacred herb, and empty windows looking out onto a limitless black.

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