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René Troxler
Ephemera
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Mathis
DOING: Babysitting
CREDIT: nikoboiko
PLAYLIST:


He wiped his eyes clear of his exhaustion. He hadn’t slept since his return. The smell of gunfire and the rust of dried blood smoking was still in his lungs. Water and tea did nothing to clear away the taste of acid in the back of his mouth. René couldn’t fight the bile anymore, so he let it burn. So, he did what he could to distract himself. He stood hunched over the workbench, fighting to finish another project, adamant about not looking towards the now starkly empty space beside his.

“Mea maxima culpa.”

He pinched at the bridge of his nose irritably. His eyes were bothering him and his teeth ground against one another in rejection of the headache he bore. An old familiar feeling was grinding in the pit of his stomach; needing to pace like an animal locked in a cage, waiting-- no-- demanding to be released.

A voice from the door startled him with a flinch, and he turned to face the young teenager he’d met on the caravan weeks before. “Oh,” René remarked with a stunned stare, “It’s you again. Hello. What do you have?” He took the paper into his hand from the desk and read over it. Of course, they would need him to work in the chemistry lab at some point, but it seemed his duty was over once it was confirmed The Key had eluded them. He was one of the few who knew that particular recipe for medication. A sedative that counteracted the effects of ADHD in children. Ephemera himself had been on it at that age, too. “Follow me,” he commanded gently, leading the boy from the Engineering Lab.

The walk was quiet, but he looked over the boy from time to time. “Mathis, right? I see your wounds healed up quite nicely. Did it take long?”

Mathis followed him through the hall, in step with the Templar engineer. "Not long at all, but they kept me out of training longer than they needed to, which was annoying."

“I knew they would, but it’s for the best... you are young after all. How long were you out for?” He smiled, chuckling as he considered the boy’s lineage. “You’re a Werebeast child… probably just starting to physically mature. Perhaps you missed three or four days of training? If you did have a mild concussion after all, they’d want to monitor your vitals and record what they could.”

“A week and a half. It was over kill, my head was fine the next day. They made it longer because I ‘wasn’t listening,’” Mathis responded, though his words were marked with a theatrical roll of his eyes.

“Yes.... the instructors and medical staff at the academy were just as stringent. I suppose it’s good some things are universal with the Order, regardless of which Conclave we’re at,” Ephemera noted, though he ignored the attitude emanating from Mathis. His exhaustion bore his shoulders down and he wiped at his eyes again. A dull ringing had started in his ears and he sighed against it. If he didn’t finish this soon, a migraine would surely form.

The blond looked at his youthful companion and shrugged with an exhausted smirk. “Not that I am bragging, but I’ve read most of the files on record about werebeasts, vampires, and the Mephisto, including some reports and materials that are,” he considered his next words carefully, “restricted to the majority of our Order. What we know about Beastial children is significantly limited, admittedly. Only a handful of studies have been conducted, even fewer have been published for the wider Order to examine; what information there is, most files are sealed or redacted.” He considered the reports he’d read during his time within the academy and after his graduation on each of the immortal races. Information on vampires and Mephisto were the most common, Beasts the rarity. He’d absorbed as much as he could. Anything Holly could give him was a delight to the knowledge-hungry engineer, and how he would devour what he read about their targets. So much of what was known about Beasts came from a single source, but more would be added soon. He just needed more time with the journal…. With his mission done, surely he would be able to.

He found the gaze of the child beside him and smiled warmly. “Don’t worry. I doubt they’ll concern themselves much with you besides a few tests here and there as you age. Dissections only happen on corpses and you seem too obstinate to die,” he mused partly to himself. The steps beside him died away into still silence.

“You are just taking me to get my pills, right?” the brunet asked, a quiver in his voice.

He looked back at the brunet who had stopped dead in his tracks before cocking his head to the side. A curious response from a boy who had been only too eager to show a brave and stubborn face before. Just what exactly were they subjecting this child to? “Yes, Mathis. I was only teasing before,” he said, his voice soft and earnest. Though he wasn’t much taller, he turned and went down on one knee to better level with the werebeast child. “If the program here is anything like the academy I was a part of in England, the only tests they should run as you age and mature is of a physical nature; studies that aren’t invasive. Perhaps even a few studies to determine how your brain functions through menial tasks or comprehensive paper examinations after physical stress on your body through heavy exercise.”

"No offense, but you are kinda old. Things change. Let's go," he said, sidestepping past Ephemera.

His expression shifted, falling into indifference to mask the irritation that gnawed at the back of his neck. “I’m barely your senior, Mathis. I only graduated two years ago... from a different facility.” He stood and in three steps moved ahead of the bratty child he was meant to make a new dosage for. They carried on in silence for a while longer until they reached the medbay. Ephemera spoke briefly with Olivia to explain his requirement for a few of their materials before they continued on to a lab nearby.

He took a pause at the door and eyed the brunet beside him. “Because I am at an officer rank, consider this an order: you are not to touch anything in this room. You are only to sit where I direct you to, keep your hands to yourself, and you are to wear a mask at all times, understood?” The response he received was a curt agreement tinged with attitude. He looked away before trailing his eyes upward in mild annoyance.

Opening the door, his hand lingered by the fingertips with just enough pressure to keep it open for the boy behind him to join him in the chemistry lab. Brief greetings were shared with a few of the lab technicians as they entered, pausing momentarily to show the letter given to him with the recipe needed to complete the task he'd been given. The chemist pointed to a secluded table in the back of the room, clean of materials. Thanking them quickly, he led them both to a corner and set down the request form Mathis had handed him before. Every step was a practice in precision and oddly mechanical, even for the engineer. The blond felt stiff and irritable, even in the simple tasks of putting on lab equipment and handing the boy his own set before directing him to a seat near the lab table Ephemera had occupied.

He moved to a large encased cabinet nearby. He picked up a bin from the lowest shelf and filled it with a few jars of powdered materials carefully labeled with the names specified in the form. One, in particular, caught his attention as it seemed an odd addition: silver nitrate. The substance was common in wound care for disinfecting and other medical and non-medical applications, but in medication for hyperactivity? He shook his head. It was not his to question, only to develop the capsules for the boy.

He returned and began to carefully measure the dosages indicated on the scale in the workspace. Every now and then as he picked up containers he’d look to Mathis. The brunet was spinning in his chair. “Not that I think you’d care, but I apologize if I’m too forward. What kind of animal will you shift to?”

Mathis spun listlessly in the chair he occupied while he wondered aloud. “A bird?” he questioned quietly to himself, “An owl? An owl!” For a moment he could see his eyes light up with the excitement his those of his age often exuded confidently.

“An aerial beast? Fascinating,” he said pouring the powders carefully into a large bowl with a grin. He looked to the sheet to determine how much of the binder was necessary to add to the mix before selecting it out of the tray.

His small features seemed younger suddenly, but they drooped again and the juvenescence seemed to melt away. “Ew,” Mathis muttered, "I’m not going to shift though.”

It was as he began to scoop some of the material out of the jar that he processed the boy’s reaction to his previous excitement. Setting the binder onto the scale he looked at him from across the table carefully. “Why not?” René gave him a curious look. “If your commanders demand it of you to serve the greater good and protect humanity from those of your kind who would do the world harm, wouldn’t it be better to do it?” The engineer shrugged and went back to the task at hand. “I’m sure they’ve already thought of several ways to use your unique ability to benefit the Order, whether or not you're keen on it.”

“They can’t make me," the boy responded, moving away from the table, "I’m not going to be a stupid monster like them, and I don’t have any abilities."

“The way you said that isn’t convincing anyone.” Ephemera looked around the lab at the others working within. His voice lowered, and he continued, his voice growing tense. “You and I both know that’s a bald-faced lie. I imagine they told you and your mates to fight, and when you refused they became more persuasive.”

Gold orbs stared at the brunet with softness his face did not reflect. It appeared stony and frozen in indifference, but the compassion in his gaze spoke volumes of a past he feared the child across from him was experiencing in his present. Memories, uninvited to the forefront of his mind, pushed into his peripheral vision. He took a breath and steadied himself. He didn't have to remember it. None of it was worth remembering. It was better left to the past where it belonged.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

What Mathis didn’t say, the engineer could interpret from his body language. It was just as he feared. The cruelty behind the program he had endured at the Academy was well and alive in the Americas, too. Of course it was. There were no other explanations for the presence of child-soldiers on the battlefield. The blond was certain there were key differences. After all, where was the Academy of the Holy Order North American chapter for learning? Were they not getting the adequate education intended for future officers? The same ones that would act as child prodigies in recruitment posters and brochures? René turned away and finished the measurements for the tablet. It was clear from the boy’s disposition he was as ready to leave as Ephemera. Gathering the contents he’d measured out, he left the child to his thoughts. As he neared the dry powder mixer, a staff member stepped in his way.

“I’m sorry, but lab staff only.” They offered their hands to take the container from him.

“Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. When will the tablets be done?” The response came quickly: another four hours. He grimaced before looking back at Mathis. “It appears your medicine won’t be prepared for a while longer. Have you had breakfast?”







 
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Kenna Mac Amery
Incendiu
health bar
WHERE: Outside Kenner Base
WITH: Seiko
DOING: Getting a better look
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


Numb. Everything lately had just left her numb. Kenna knew she should be used to it by now. She felt stuck between being proven right in everything she had been worried about and yet still unable to do anything about it. She was cursed; she knew she was. She had even told him that. It seemed that in that same instant that she had expressed it to him, she had doomed him.

Kenna had been trying to rationalise since, to figure out how to stop it from happening. The problem was attachments. She had not known him for long, but it had been enough for trust to be built, for there to be just a little bit of hope that things would get better. Attachment and the belief that there could be a future where things were better. The universe just enjoyed pulling the rug out from under her. Making her land on her ass every time. Making her feel like an ass.

Whatever. Kenna would not let it happen again. She couldn’t. Kenna would stick around, but only for the sake of her brother. Being around Maeve and everyone else following her was still her best chance at getting him back as safely as possible. Everyone was working towards it. Getting all the children to safety. It was her main goal. She stuck around for nothing and no one else.

It was not all that hard keeping to herself. Everyone was focused on what they were going to do next, process what had happened and try and move past it. She supposed she was doing the same in some regards, but she was pulling away in others. Staying out of the way, she trained alone with the limited knowledge he had given her, which in the end had not been a whole lot. Still, she was trying her best with what she had. They were so close to getting Beau back.

Plans had been put in place, and everyone had been given tasks to do. She was heading back out to Kenner, back to the base she had shared with everyone. Kenna doubted Beau would still be there, but she was sure they would find something useful there, something that would help.

Seiko was coming with her, and it was their task to infiltrate the base. He did not talk much. He did not nag or pester her to fill the silent void that had sprung up. Apart from small talk about which direction to go and their basic plans, they stayed in silence. His company was welcomed.

The means of transport were horses, and that was a challenge in itself. It didn’t take her long, getting the hang of it eventually. Enough, at least, that she didn’t have to ask for help. Doing things on her own suited her just fine.

They managed to get there a lot sooner than the last time she had made the trek, though being on horseback had made a lot of difference. They were too early for her liking, which made Kenna feel antsy. They had planned to wait for nightfall, but she was getting impatient. Kenna tried not to let that show. She wanted to head out now rather than waiting, but she knew Seiko would not likely go for it.

“Thank you,” she said as she took the clothes that Seiko handed her. Flipping the clothes over in her hands, she glanced at them over. These would be a good disguise, an easy way to infiltrate the base. If she had been more prepared last time, maybe she would have thought of it herself. They were much better prepared this time. It would turn out differently.

So distracted in her inspection of the clothes in hand, she had not expected the noise so close to her ear. She jumped slightly but quickly composed herself. “It's fine,” she muttered before sitting down close to one of the trees. She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I appreciate the quiet just as much as you do, it seems.” They were both in similar company.

Leaning back against the tree, the teen stayed quiet. She wasn’t sure if she could class what happened as her ‘joining’ in an army. It's true that she was not born into it; in fact, her parents had tried to avoid it. As life would have it, she was more thrown into it. Carelessly tossed into the thick of it, and no matter how much she tried to run away from it, it chased her down, all too willing to consume her. She did not share that, though. He didn’t need to know.

An hour or two away sounded like far too long to be sitting and waiting. He suggested getting some rest to pe prepared for the night ahead. Rest seemed like the furthest thing from her mind. Still, Kenna tried. She must have sat by the tree for 10 min, 15 at max before the overthinking and nervousness settled in. She really did not like just waiting around.

Instead, she got up and excused herself to go and get changed but getting changed did not last as long as she had hoped it would, even by taking her time. The sun was taking too long to set. The sky was teasing her, just on the cusp of getting ready to set, though it did not change in colour.

Kenna could not wait any longer. She would not go all-in by herself, but at least scouting out where they needed to go would be fine, right? Trying to keep as hidden as possible, she made her way forward towards the base, just to get a better look.



 
Beau Desmarais
Mathis
health bar
WHERE: Training Grounds
WITH: Ephemera
DOING: Getting Meds
CREDIT: legalrehab
PLAYLIST:


Mathis turned the paper in his hand, reading the instructions on where he was supposed to go. His supply of medication was apparently running low, and he was supposed to get a refill. Since he had moved to Paradise, everything was in the process of moving over too. His belongings were all unpacked in his room, not that he had a lot to begin with. The medication was the last thing that needed to be sorted. He was supposed to report to Ephemera, a name that seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where from.

Walking down the hall, he kind of knew where he was going. He was still getting his bearings, so a few missed turns happened along the way. Finally finding the lab he was looking for, he walked through the doors. Once he saw the familiar face, the name clicked back into place. “Oh hey,” he said, walking over and leaning against the edge of the desk the engineer was working on. “I need to give you this,” Mathis said, sliding the paper across the desk, knocking a few things out of the way in the process.

Mathis glanced around the lab as Ephemera gave the paper a look over. Now, this looked like a fun room. There were mechanical components everywhere. He reached out a hand to poke at a few of the components on the desk, but before he had a chance to investigate what exactly he was working on fully, Ephemera stood, telling him to follow. Mathis did as he was told but took another quick look around as he was leaving. He would have to come back here and poke around.

“Mathias, right? I see your wounds healed up quite nicely. Did it take long?”

Falling into step beside Ephemera, Mathis followed along down the hall. "Not long at all, but they kept me out of training longer than they needed to, which was annoying." He was back in training now, but the days he had to rest were so boring. He hated every minute of it.

“I knew they would, but it’s for the best... you are young after all. How long were you out for?” He smiled, chuckling. “You’re a Werebeast child… probably just starting to physically mature. Perhaps you missed three or four days of training? If you did have a mild concussion after all, they’d want to monitor your vitals and record what they could.”

“A week and a half. It was overkill; my head was fine the next day.” It was irritating enough to be restricted, and after trying to sneak into the training grounds, they became even stricter. He hadn’t even been doing anything extreme, but he was punished for not following orders. “They made it longer because I ‘wasn’t listening’,” Mathis said, his voice exaggerated with a roll of his eyes.

“Not that I am bragging, but I’ve read most of the files on record about werebeasts, vampires, and the Mephisto, including some reports and materials that are,” he seemed to hesitate slightly, restricted to the majority of our Order. What we know about Beastial children is significantly limited, admittedly. Only a handful of studies have been conducted, even fewer have been published for the wider Order to examine; what information there is, most files are sealed or redacted.”

“Don’t worry. I doubt they’ll concern themselves much with you besides a few tests here and there as you age. Dissections only happen on corpses, and you seem too obstinate to die,”
he mused.

Mathis' pace slowed a little as his companion started talking about all the ‘research’ he had done. He did not really care for the knowledge that he seemed all too willing to spout at him. He did not care about where he came from or what that meant to them. He was in their training program just like everyone else. He wanted to be just like everyone else.

The young boy stopped in the middle of the corridor, a knot forming in his stomach as the words test and dissection passed through the conversation. Not even wanting to look in Ephemera’s direction, Mathis kept his eyes locked forward. “You are just taking me to get my pills, right?” he said, his body trembling slightly.

“Yes, Mathis. I was only teasing before,” he said, “If the program here is anything like the academy I was a part of in England, the only tests they should run as you age and mature is of a physical nature; studies that aren’t invasive. Perhaps even a few studies to determine how your brain functions through menial tasks or comprehensive paper examinations after physical stress on your body through heavy exercise.”

Mathis flinched back slightly as Ephemera knelt before him. He shouldn't have. If that was the decision they had made, he would have to do it. Fighting it would only make it worse, and he knew that. Sure he hadn't been listening to the instructions on resting, but it was for training, to be the best he could be. It's what they wanted from him, right?

Ephemera said that he was only teasing, but it didn't ease his tensing muscles. Mathis took a steadying breath; it was getting ridiculous.

"No offence, but you are kinda old," he said as he shrugged his shoulders, "things change." His body was still tense as one hand held the opposing elbow, defences up and cautious. Even if Ephemera was telling the truth and had no knowledge of other tests they liked to do, Mathis had no way of knowing. People lie. Either way, he would have to follow. "Let's go," he said, sidestepping past Ephemera.

“I’m barely your senior, Mathis. I only graduated two years ago.” He stood and, in three steps, moved ahead of him.

The young beast rolled his eyes. As he had said, he was old. That was a long time since graduating and even longer since they were even the same age. Still, he didn't push it, just continued to walk through the halls.

Mathis calmed down on the walk over to the medical bay, his arms slowly falling from his side as familiarity of the halls showed little danger. He had been to the medbay before and been fine; it's not where they usually . . . anyway.

They moved on, and as much as the nerves about the new location stirred in the back of his mind, curiosity seemed to outweigh that. He almost ran into Ephemera as he stopped, turning to give his orders before they entered.

“Because I am at an officer rank, consider this an order: you are not to touch anything in this room. You are only to sit where I direct you to, keep your hands to yourself, and you are to wear a mask at all times, understood?”

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say," he said nonchalantly.

He followed Ephemera into the room, but he became distracted as his eyes gazed around the room. His feet took him away from where the older boy led him, veering off to the side, his curiosity taking over him.

His attention was recapture when he was indicated to put on the lab equipment, getting irritated with the mask slightly as it didn’t fit properly. Mathis was directed to the chair, and although it seemed silly, he complied, albeit with a roll of his eyes.

Ephemera collected what he needed before getting to work making the medication. Mathis had started off watching what he was doing, but it was not as interesting as he thought it would be. Giving a slight sigh, he started spinning in his chair. It turned out to be a lot more entertaining.

“Not that I think you’d care, but I apologize if I’m too forward. What kind of animal will you shift to?”

“Oh, a …” his feet stopped pushing his body around in the chair as his brain blanked. Confusion furrowed on his brows as he thought about it. “A bird?” he questioned quietly to himself as he tried to work it out. “An owl? An owl!” he exclaimed, sure that it was indeed that. “Ew,” Mathis muttered after the realisation hit him. His feet went back to twirling the chair. “I’m not going to shift, though.”

“An aerial beast? Fascinating,” he commented. He seemed almost confused as to why he did not want to shift. “Why not?” Ephemera gave him a curious look. “If your commanders demand it of you to serve the greater good and protect humanity from those of your kind who would do the world harm, wouldn’t it be better to do it?” The engineer shrugged and went back to the task at hand. “I’m sure they’ve already thought of several ways to use your unique ability to benefit the Order, whether or not you're keen on it.”

It was not fascinating. It was annoying, and even just the thought of it made him shudder. He slumped in the chair, his arms crossing over his chest defiantly as he continued to spin in his chair. “They can’t make me,” he said, though he knew it was a lie. If they really wanted him to, they would find ways to force him to shift.

Mathis gave a huffed sigh as he started moving his chair away from Ephemera’s desk. “I’m not going to be a stupid monster like them, and I don’t have any abilities,” none that he liked anyway.

“You and I both know that’s a bald-faced lie. I imagine they told you and your mates to fight, and when you refused, they became more persuasive.”

Small hands held tightly to the edges of the seat. Mathis did not know how much he knew or how much he had been told, but in the end, it didn't really matter. Tiny rivets of pain pulsed down his arms as the memories stirred at the back of his mind. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he said with a calmness that did not reflect his tense body.

His feet gave a hurried scoot further from the table. "Just let me know when you are done," Mathis said, spinning once again and pushing himself around in the chair, not caring about the other people in the room.

Ephemera was taking forever that Mathis had become distracted poking equipment on empty desks. When he finally did appear next to him, it was to say that his medication would not be ready for a while. The child gave a small groan in frustration. However, he perked up at the mention of breakfast. “I haven’t yet; let’s go,” he said, enthusiastically getting out of the chair and running from the lab.




 
Camhlaidh MacKenzie
Seir
health bar
WHERE: The Velvet Lair
WITH: 'The Queen'
DOING: Trying to enjoy the show
CREDIT: nikafargos2iris
PLAYLIST:


New Orleans was an interesting town, to say the least, and Camhlaidh had surprisingly been enjoying his time staying in the city. After coming down from the mountains, seeking out the place had been a good choice, and everything people had told him about it had rung true. However, there were some dangerous signs that they were beginning to rear their ugly heads.

It hadn’t been hard to spot, and to be fair, he had started seeing the signs the moment he had made it into town. Everything just seemed to be ramping up in intensity recently, and that was what was so unsettling.

Enough time had passed that he was certain they were not looking for him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get mixed up with the Templars again. He knew he would inevitably end up back in the mountains again; it was safe, and it was an environment he could control. That did not mean that it had to be immediate. Sure, the Templars were a plague within the city, but he could squeeze a little more enjoyment out of it before moving on.

The Velvet Lair was one of those enjoyable places to visit, and after several years in isolation, a welcome place for Cam to frequent often. Although some parts of the establishment held a certain draw and charm that he had not been shy in partaking in, for this evening he opted simply for the first floor.

Leaning on the bar, he casually watched the show while waiting for his drink.

Music filtering through the lair, a low hum putting him at ease. Cam took the glass that was placed before him, bringing the drink to his lips. It was meant to be an easy night, a night where he wouldn’t be bothered by anyone. Usually, he would be able to just do his own thing, and most people would leave him be, but on the rare occasion, some people just needed a little extra hint. Tonight was likely going to fall into the category.

Eyes were on him; Cam could feel them boring into the side of his face. He was old and had little patience for people. His eyes glanced to see who exactly was irritating his senses. Blonde, curvy, and something regal that seemed a little bit too much of a show. She was gorgeous and she knew it.

Cam caught the movements of her lips to help hear exactly what she was saying. Crowded places made things tedious to hear. Apparently, he fit a description of something that he had not tweaked his ears enough to catch, but by the look of her eyes, it had not been hard to figure out. The Irish draw of her voice held some familiarity of a home he had spent a long time away from. She was far from home just the same, though that did little to make him want to get any closer to her. People this far away were generally on the run from something.

“Here seeking a job, or on a job?”

“Neither,” he said as he pushed away from the bar, opting to find a comfortable seat away from the bar, alone.

“A strapping Avian such as yourself would be welcome, any time, within my company.”

Seemed like she didn’t take a hint. Cam ignored her invitation, both the literal and unstated, as he made himself comfortable to continue watching the show. She would eventually find amusement elsewhere and hopefully leave him be.

The familiar prickling of the words of someone else filtered into his head. What brings you into the city, darlin’?”

She was older than most beasts he had come across in recent years. Beasts of the old world were often hard to come by. Still, he didn’t appreciate the slipping into his mind.

“A dram an a shower,” he replied, because although it was an irritation, it did take off the strain of listening with his ears. The hum of the music created a numbness in his listening that he didn’t have to try and filter with other sounds.

“Beasts come out of the woodwork these days to catch a glimpse of the new Queen, or to see the devastation of the battle on the docks. Your story?”

Ah, so this was the queen he'd heard whispers of. Was useful to put a face to the name. Made her easier to avoid in future. "Ah don t care aboot a sae-caad Queen an seen eneuch battles tae be bored bi tham”

“A shame then”,

"If ye say,”
he gave a slight shake of his head before taking a sip. It seemed like she was not used to not getting her way. Her disappointment was evident no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.

“She’s lost a good man and a good friend these days. Having someone as old as her nearby in a city full of fledglings who haven’t got their feet about them would have been mutually beneficial. Who else understands the ghosts that follow you in old age but those who have seen over four hundred years themselves?”

"Beneficial fur ye mebbe. Ma ghosts are laid tae lave, yours nae sae.”
He wasn’t about to take the burden of whatever ghosts were following her. He had come to terms with the ghosts of his past. Long years in seclusion gave him the time to process and lay to rest the ghosts that tried to burden him. Time had been his friend in that regard.

“I assume too much, but I won’t ask forgiveness. It’s not in my blood to do it anymore. By the sound of it, nor in yours.”

His eyes on the dancers, Cam gave a half-hearted scoffed smirk, raising his glass in agreement. He was too old to give a damn. He didn’t want her asking for forgiveness just as much as she was not going to give it. Two old souls passing in light conversation would be all they would ever amount to. He wasn’t willing to be dragged into anything she was surrounded with. Regardless, she had no reason to apologise for trying.

Cam was keen to continue with his relaxing evening, ignoring her as she talked with Benny. Listening to her conversation was not worth the effort of his concentration. Though that didn’t last for long. Whispers of her were back in his head as his eyes met hers. She was trying to delve further into his mind, though she was not getting very far. It may work on the fledglings she surrounded herself with, but she was going to find him a little more difficult to navigate. It would take a lot more for her to find out what was inside his head. He knew how to protect his thoughts from others. The ‘Queen’ would likely never get that far.

She did apologise for bothering him, but Cam gave a shrug. “Ye are nae important eneuch tae be a adee, he stated. There were others that would cause him more bother than her. She subtly dug for a name, and he gave a slight smirk, "ye ah'll nivver ken Queenie,” he replied as he finished the last of his drink, his focus returning to the show in front of him.

Thane didn’t see Donovan leave, but the whisper of her that had disappeared in his mind told him that she was no longer lingering close by. Still, he had been riled up and found himself unable to settle back into the relaxing evening he had planned. After all the years of avoiding authority, it always seemed to circle back around to find him eventually. He knew the war she was fighting, it was the same one he had far too many years ago been part of. It never seemed to change. Still, his mind wandered to the information he had tucked away, the Templars hadn’t changed that much, they were a stickler for tradition. What he knew would be helpful, he knew that. To share that with the so-called ‘queen of beasts’ was another thing entirely. From the disaster that was the altercation on the docks, her leadership left a lot to be desired.

“Fuck,” he muttered at his empty glass.



 
Maeve Donovan
Phoenix
health bar
WHERE: The Velvet Lair
WITH: A bunch of old fools
DOING: Amusing herself poorly
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


Going to the Canine had become monotonous. First, there was the soiree for sending away everyone once that had been agreed upon, after the doors that had been ripped off of their hinges had been repaired-- in no short measure from her very own pocketbook. Then there was the warrior’s funeral for the Wolf she’d shared two years of her life bickering with. After that was orchestrating their plans for reconnaissance....

Anyone who had seen the Queen’s face could see the lines of exhaustion cutting into her brow. It was evident the recent events had managed the impossible of causing her youthful appearance to begin to age. Nearly seven hundred and it took sovereignty and leading the war to finally cause enough stress that even whiskey couldn’t save her complexion anymore. Oddly enough, it didn’t bother her. She’d enjoyed the pleasures of youth long enough. Her soul was old and beaten, and it was about time she matured in appearance. It matched the weight of her gait all the better when she walked into the city council room for the hearing.

The hearing pressed the accusations against Templar, Vampire, and Werebeast alike. The politicians seated high on their bench speculated and condemned. Were it not for the opportunities for each side to come to their own defense, she was certain it would not have ended well… if an official court case being opened against them all could be considered well.

A few of the same politicians that had remained silent were in her company at the Lair.. They fed her drinks and spouted some nonsensical humor, some of which she was certain they aimed toward her in an attempt to provoke her. Maeve feigned amusement through it all; the Raven’s laughter was rich as an oncoming thunderstorm and just as threatening. After banter and a performance or two at the private table, she dismissed herself, claiming to seek a correction for the drink she’d ordered. But truly she wanted to escape the superficiality of their high society gossip.

She approached the bar, taking to her own council in regards to playing into the politics but wishing to escape the banality of it. What would mortal men who’d never fought a war know of the delicate nature of the forced ceasefire they demanded between each side? The blonde scoffed as she placed the rocks glass on the counter, eyeing the bartender casually. “Benny, I’m going to need something stronger and taller.”

From the corner of her eye, she spied a long scar over the brow of her neighbor. Turning slightly as his glass was placed in front of him-- Scotch malt, straight from the smell-- and her glass was taken, she took in his appearance more before his scents hit her. Avian and old, like her, but the scent was deeper than that. About him was the smell of dirt beneath his nails, rain on mossy rocks and cedarwood trees, and rich fallen leaves. It was of heavy, blackened thunderstorm clouds on a horizon and free-falling in the sunset before taking wing again.

With a grin at the corner of her mouth, she couldn’t help herself. “You fit that description quite well, just the same. Here seeking a job, or on a job?”

“Neither,” he said as he pushed away from the bar.

A shame,” she responded, her lips curling more to the sound of his familiar Scottish accent. Another one far from home. She wondered silently what had brought him overseas. “A strapping Avian such as yourself would be welcome, any time, within my company.” Her eyes said what her lips did not: professionally or otherwise.

The blonde tousled her hair over one shoulder and leaned her head over trying to get a better view. He was handsome, a fighter from the look of wear and tear on his face. He was certainly older than he appeared, older than most beasts that she’d met thus far in the Americas. Still, she wondered, how old.

“What brings you into the city, darlin’?,” she pressed into his mind, ignoring the background haze of music and cigar smoke. Her glass arrived, and she pressed it against stained lips. “Beasts come out of the woodwork these days to catch a glimpse of the new Queen, or to see the devastation of the battle on the docks. Your story?”

The Ravenswoman nearly pouted from his response. He caught on quickly, far faster than she has expected. It truly was becoming alarming how easy it was to forget how oblivious many of the younger beasts were. Here he was, this lovely Scotsman drinking a favorite of hers looking like the best mistake she’d ever make, old and grizzled by only heaven knows what, and he was entirely uninterested. Maeve took a hearty drought from her glass, finishing it in three large gulps before pushing it back to the bartender for a refill.

“A bigger shame then”, she answered. A new glass slipped into her hand replacing the empty one nearly immediately. She looked at the stranger from the corner of her eye, the facade slipping. “She’s lost a good man and a good friend these days. Having someone as old as her nearby in a city full of fledglings who haven’t got their feet about them would have been mutually beneficial. Who else understands the ghosts that follow you in old age but those who have seen over four hundred years themselves?” This time she sipped on the alcohol, letting it fill her with a flush of heat. “I assume too much, but I won’t ask forgiveness. It’s not in my blood to do it anymore. By the sound of it, nor in yours.”

Sardonic and cold to the bitter end. Grumpy, callous old thing he was, it hardly surprised to that he was sitting alone. She scoffed lightly and finished her drink.

Pulling out her wallet from her pocket, the Ravenwoman pulled a few bills from the fold and pushed it towards the bartender. “As always, a pleasure, Benny. Thank you for your patience this evening; see to that the old men are looked after.” She pulled out an extra bill and placed it on the counter. “That should cover his drink and the next, too. And if he asks for entertainment this evening,” she said pointing towards the Beast she’d shared the conversation with, “Well, you know who is the most satisfying dessert. Make proper recommendations. I suspect this man lacks the sweetness life ought to provide, so he may as well find them warming his bed.”

Her eyes turned and met the stranger’s for a moment, the emerald reflecting the gold from the lamplight nearby. “Not sorry to have bothered you,” she searched for a moment, pressing in again softly, wondering how deep his inner dialogue went and if he would let her find it. No, he wouldn’t. This stranger was too old and too well-practiced. Whispers didn’t reach her like it did with Dutch or Kenna. Nor would she force compulsion on him to gain his name. Whomever you are, a cara.”

Leaving the brunet at the bar, she returned to the table her former companions resided. “You’ll have to forgive me gentlemen, but I have responsibilities awaiting me at home. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Judge Torres. You and I both know you came along this evening for the free drinks and the lovely examples of bared flesh on that stage.” The old man in question stumbled over his words while his peers laughed and chided him in turn. It appeared even being coarse with them held little concern. “I’m easily nine times older than any of you, gentlemen. I cannot be made a fool of so easily. But please, enjoy your evening.”

Turning on her heel, she left despite the protests behind her. Their disappointment disappeared as it filtered into mockery then applause for the next performance on the stage. Before exiting, she looked over her shoulder to the beast at the bar. A rarity, to be sure, to meet another as old as her. Oh well. Those storm clouds in his eyes would’ve been nice to witness up close, maybe hear the roar of his thunder in her ear. With forced indifference, she shrugged and walked out onto the busy night streets.



 
Marcus Sideris
Erebos
health bar
WHERE: Brass Canine > Tree
WITH: Esther
DOING: Working
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:
💥
And the evening had started off so well. He could almost pretend the blood pack was fresh, heated skin when he bit into it. Some lovely morsel to be certain, heart quickened to be had by a handsome stranger with a silver tongue and exotic accent they couldn't place.... But no. It had to be ruined by familiarity and his temper being toyed with by the Fates.

The face he’d seen in the crowd could be no mistake. His nose, the pinch between his eyebrows, the hard slant of his lips. Seven hells, even the heavy gait of a man bearing the weight of an intense sense of responsibility and ego matched what he could remember of his father. Marcus was certain the man on the other side of the street that night had been his older brother. It could only mean that he had joined whichever company of Templar nutjobs had come into the city seeking the runaway Mephisto creature. Not that it mattered; he alluded them.

Erebos observed him from a distance as he sauntered in the light cast down from lamp posts into the humid streets, through exquisitely ornate cast-iron railings bolted to the wooden floors of the galleries above his head. Occasionally, the glow of the bioluminescent paint would catch the sharp curve of his brother’s jaw, set in stern disapproval. It would shock the young man into the memory of the last time they’d seen one another. It would also be the last time he’d been with his siblings and one of his last days as a mortal man able to stand in the glow of the sun. It did not seem the last two years had changed his brother’s silent yet authoritative demeanor from those days. Were the fledgling vampire to approach, would the changes in his own persona be more apparent to the older of the brothers? Would he sense the bile turning over in his stomach, the heat of betrayal as it pushed into the thick ichor within his veins or the vitriol with which he stared him down from half a block away? His hand reached to his pocket, finding the weight of his bag there, and was comforted by the familiarity. However, the temptation by which to act as judge, jury, and executioner for the crimes his own kin had committed against him gave him pause. He spat at the ground and turned at the next intersection. He was going to be late for his shift.

-----

It was quiet, save for the rowdy circle of poker players in the corner. The familiar face of Dutch was leading the rabble in their guffaws and banter. Threats were called and made a mockery of. It was all so boring to the young man behind the counter. He cleaned the glasses left behind on the counter by patrons that slunk away into the night. While Marcus shifted on his feet moving from one side of the sink to the other his mind moved through elemental equations, doing the best it could to recall the scent of a powder keg. The bag in his rear pocket felt heavy with despondency; when was the last time he let loose like those imbeciles? A drink now and again was little comfort, he missed salted air and the boom of a cannon. Thus, it was such an issue that his mentor saw fit to leave the port city after the two had managed to catch up for a brief expanse of time. It did not surprise him; the pirate was hardly one to stay still for long. Then there was the matter of the reemergence of the elder Sideris.

He leaned back against the support beam of the liquor wall, his lips closing around a bottle of his own. The alcohol stung, but the crimson infusion within settled heavy on his tongue. The brunet watched over the small flock, but slowly it started to slip away from explosive escapades to recent the recent discovery during his commute. Rounded lips pouted into a shallow pucker as he scowled at the mahogany countertop of the bar. It didn’t do well for him to dwell without being able to focus on the plot developing within his mind.

A new patron walked in, a woman he recognized and he lowered the drink to the side and moved towards the counter. However, she dismissed his services before he could open his mouth, requesting after the Beast Queen. He smiled at her, the titanium in his mouth reflecting back at her in turn. “Alright, I understand. Unfortunately, I’ll have to disappoint you in regards to that open tab. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the Phoenix. From what I heard, she is seeking refuge in her… other stomping grounds tonight.”

He looked the woman in front of him, recognizing her from the night the man called “Jack” had gotten sloshed before falling off the counter. She’d also been to the Canine every time meetings occurred. He’d particularly enjoyed the stories about her recalled by others that had been there at the docks the night the fighting broke out; he couldn’t get enough of how she’d broken into the scene by bombing a Legionnaire with a package of seasoning. Even standing across from her, he smirked in amusement.

“You’re the one who turned a Templar into a baked good, right?” he asked knowingly. “Are you certain I could not offer you anything? It’s on my dime, I assure you.”

He gave a charming grin, listening to the roll of her tongue as she spoke about her experience in the fight with humor he’d come to expect from the company of Immortals who’d come from overseas. The accent in her voice gave something of her background, but nothing of how she’d come to fight alongside the Immortals. A beast, perhaps?

“If there are no messages waiting for me here, I’d best be off. But I thank you, truly, for your hospitality; I mean no insult. We’ll leave that drink to another time.”

“Then I will be sure to keep the offer open,” he reassured her, shrugging as he lifted his hands, palms up in an open gesture of goodwill between them. He nodded at the mention of the work, there was an assignment he’d have to fill later himself. There seemed to be more under the surface concerning the woman in front of him, but Marcus made no move towards asking after her.
Her assignment was of the highest priority. “No messages, but I’ll be certain that the Raven knows you’re seeking her out. Good luck.”

-------

Slinking through back alleys was easy, but a neighborhood as posh as this one was difficult to blend into shadows when the best you had was sidewalks. The youngblood wasn’t about to hop fence to fence in this city-- most were topped with iron spikes or glass cemented in place from bygone days of slavery a few hundred years before. However, he looking into the trees, he found it easier to find a means of traveling unnoticed. He slipped from bough to bough, careful to not disturb the thinner branches. He knew these trees were ancient and the weight could barely be taken if they had suffered from rot. He was across the street from the mark, and he moved higher into the climbs of the ancient southern oak when his hand grabbed hold of leather rather than wood. Looking up his brows perked. A charming grin pulled at the corners of his mouth again before he let himself up on the opposite branch.

“Evening, Sherwood. I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced as such, but I am Erebus.”

“A handshake is a very American custom, I’ve heard,” she said, lifting the hand-clad boot but a little. “This one isn’t so orthodox, but I admire your thinking outside the box.”

“Wouldn’t know anything about the Americans,” he chuckled deep in his throat, “but if you like that, I could consider other ways to think outside the box if that sparks your fancy.”

His eyes scanned the massive building in front of them. From what he understood of their assignment, the building was once a mansion for the New Orleans elite until about ten years prior when the regime gained power in the area. It was renovated as a government building to act as their headquarters within the city, in spite of a population that wanted nothing to do with the zealot party. The brunet turned his gaze back to his shadowy companion as she instructed him on what would need to be silenced to maintain their discretion within the boughs of the elderly tree.

“No pocket watch,” he replied tapping his clothes, just over the center of his chest, “just a clockwork heart like other vampires. They won’t know the difference around here.” He pointed down the street and up the street. “The city is filled with them. Some are the Parisians that came over once Londontown got bombed. They were smart; they knew they’d be next. Though it seems the trouble follows the cross wherever it goes. It's.... κάνει τη πάπια. They cannot avoid the trouble they caused the Old World in spite of their failed attempt at silence here.”

He looked back to his compatriot for the evening, looking her over. Such a puzzle to sort out what she was. Perhaps there was a hint to her nickname or even her accent-- it was familiar enough he felt comfortable in guessing a half dozen places she could have heralded from beside where the rest of the Old World Immortals had come from. Uninterested in making his presence unbearable for the rest of their shift, he looked away and turned the ideas over in his head.

“Racoon? No… a fox perhaps?” he whispered questioningly to her, uncertain if she would answer him. “I see no metal in your mouth, so I’ve no reason to believe you’re a fanger like the rest of us nighttime revelers.”


**κάνει τη πάπια- "to do the duck"; to avoid blame by not mentioning something







 
Esther Asturias
SHERWOOD
health 🙢 70/100
WHERE: the Brass Canine ⮚ outside a Templar base
WITH: Canine patrons ⮚ a barman
DOING: Addressing the barman ⮚ Reconnaissancing
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

On the air that evening, mingling with the balmy and close damp so unique as to be found nowhere else, a thing intrinsic to this city of New Orleans, was another thing she’d felt before. She knew it well, not scent nor sound, and became best acquainted with it in New Londontown in the hours that preceded a night of navigating its canopy. Once, earlier on, she was sighted within the borders of Uptown—where she’d been born the better part of a century before—and had a bullet embedded in her shoulder to show for it, courtesy of a startled young Templar soldier on patrol.

In the days following a small article appeared in a bottom corner of the London Clarion's second page, its title—The Return of Spring-heeled Jack?—complete with a sketched rendition of the peculiar sighting. Perchance the eyewitness account was erring, or the artist hired by the newspaper had taken a few liberties with his pen. As an authority on herself, she could say with surety that she was not a man, firstly; she had never donned a top hat and winged cape, nor did she have a mustache to twirl nefariously at passers-by. The discrepancies were understandable—and gratified, on her part. She’d been far more careful after that, drawing a lesson from a clumsy mistake, and gleaned something more.

Possibility, anticipation; they were what she sensed now as she crested the front steps of the Canine. At the door she released her skirt, allowing the hem to fall back over her boots, and reflexively smoothed the fabric with her hands. Beneath her sweeping palms she felt not her own person but instead the cool, reassuring presence of steel. It was while she was searching for that young soldier’s bullet that she remembered having once read of the humble corset’s reputed ability to deflect a pistol’s discharge. After making a trip to Kewstoke, where she unearthed notes on lamellar from Tom’s study, she commissioned several pieces based on designs of his that had been gathering dust and yellowed edges, only halfway come to fruition until finding their way into her hands.

She slipped into the light and warmth that awaited inside, and found its usual clamor to be lacking. The hour for her was early yet, but late for others. Her eyes swept searchingly round the interior. A corner that housed a circle of card players stirred more than any other, but on the whole, the festivities within were subdued, and to her eyes, sobered. One might think the establishment had never known a truly raucous, unencumbered night, and the merrymaking she had known before seemed to her then a fading dream sent shuddering through her by the faint tremors of clinking glasses.

The broad form of the old wolf was missing from his favored place, and his absence was felt; he had been called elsewhere to another seat. Ancestors and loved ones long gone had at last set a pint of mead for him at the table of their gathering house, and he could not deny them any longer. Flames over the water had sent him far and away, as they had for many a northman of yore.

After kith and kin had performed the rites and mourned him, she paid her condolences in the meetings with beastkind since, and out of respect had maintained as much distance as circumstances would allow.

Her visits here were frequent of late, and she had taken to the habit of never keeping the path she took for too many nights running—on her last call she’d come in through a back door, winding her way through the kitchen. Whichever way she went, it was never for the drink.

The fellow tasked with minding the bar on the night of the skirmish at the waterfront was here again on another shift, though now he had a bottle in hand. He seemed lost to his own thoughts, his stare fixed upon the gloss of the polished bartop. She knew him, but their familiarity did not venture far beyond that of bartender and patron. The youthfulness in his face belied the years he'd aged before the change, but not how many had passed since. He now wore a scowl.

Not only had he borne witness to her descent—or, rather, fall—into drunkenness, he'd very literally had a hand in bringing it about. To his credit she had bid a surprise from him, and the deceptively unassuming drink he'd set upon the bar was precisely as ordered. Tucked innocently amidst the many bottles of all manner of shapes and sizes that lined the shelves behind him was the absinthe that had done her in; a glimpse was all that was needed to evoke that night.

Many on the docks, herself included, had believed they would meet their end, and when they did not, some degree of celebrations were in order—and only then did they truly roll up their sleeves to brace for whatever laid ahead. And so, feeling assured by the presence of the healer at her side, she had consented to partake of the alcohol that flowed so freely that night. She couldn’t rightly say how long she had wandered the streets before finally finding her way home, but she prided herself on it and counted having managed that feat amongst the triumphs of her life.

Out of politeness she did not study him overlong, and turned her head to avert her eyes, but drifted nearer to his post all the while. Then, “Nothing for me.” Esther rested an arm idly upon the bar, hesitating, her head tipped conspiratorially toward him. “Is there an open tab for Irish whiskey this evening?” Asking was an arbitrary formality; she was there to see Maeve Donovan, if only briefly, to speak on matters of strategy before pressing on. This was an errand before the task at hand, the reason she stood here armored and armed beneath a veneer of civilian attire. This was to be a night of reconnaissance. She knew as the hours wore on she would in all likelihood have to draw strength from sheer force of will rather than her own body, so time was of the essence.

“You’re the one who turned a Templar into a baked good, right?” asked the fellow, after informing her that the raven was taking refuge in other stomping grounds. “Are you certain I could not offer you anything? It’s on my dime, I assure you.”

“I’ve never before met so ornery a baked good,” she remarked, half-smiling and tucking in her chin, though the memory that rose forth behind her eyes was not one that stirred mirth. “Had he sat by demurely on a serving plate I might have had an easier go of things. It was by happenstance, or perhaps by the ordinance of a force with a curious sense of humor, that I was running errands when the troubles began.” She’d had little choice but to scrape together makeshift armaments to defend herself with—but, all things considered, she’d done fairly well for herself in the end, having come out the other end alive. Esther thought briefly of her opponent, so full of wrath; she could not say what stayed the weapon in his hand, and wondered at his whereabouts.

Esther’s gaze flickered briefly to the barman, a considering flash of hazel-green, then back to the bartop as she remembered herself and her business, and she loosed a trickle of a sigh. “I cannot tarry long; were you to have a kettle at your post, I would still refuse. Work to be done tonight—and, young as it is, the night will not last forever.” She needn’t elaborate on the nature of the work; he would know, surely.

“I can catch her another night,” she told him reassuringly, pushing away from the bar and readying to depart. “It was no urgent matter, really; only a routine one.” She had only half-expected to find Donovan there, and with her missing that left only one establishment, which incidentally was Esther’s cause for seeking her out. In her experience, barkeeps and brothel workers, folk who went unseen yet saw a great many things, unheard yet always listening, were among the best informants to be had. If there was anything new to know, Maeve could pass it along tomorrow.

Looking to him again, she said, “If there are no messages waiting for me here, I’d best be off. But I thank you, truly, for your hospitality; I mean no insult. We’ll leave that drink to another time.”

He wished her good luck in her endeavors, and after responding in kind, she took her leave.


❧​


Then the nightwork began. What followed was a careful dance between the light and shadows in the streets, between being unseen and, in the fleeting moments when visible, giving off a manufactured air of a citizen hurrying quickly home. She found her way to a perch she’d scouted days before, where she might hide herself away with ease, but she was not alone for long.

He’d been lucky it wasn’t the tail of a neighborhood cat he’d grabbed, elsewise he might have earned himself a faceful of claws. But, by luck’s ordinance, his seeking fingers had sought purchase around the ankle of her boot instead. From her perch Esther had noted his presence long before he began his ascent, and she’d been a silent observer of his progress, peering down at him in bemusement.

Her mouth began to quirk into a smile. In the half-shade of the boughs, she sat in swaying dapples of moonlight. “A handshake is a very American custom, I’ve heard,” she said, lifting the hand-clad boot but a little. “This one isn’t so orthodox, but I admire your thinking outside the box.”

She then turned her gaze to the mark that sat looming across the street, and the mirth began to ebb from her face. “Yours are to be the second set of eyes here, I gather.” For a beat she went quiet, carefully mulling something over, and then she said, “Are you carrying a pocketwatch? If so I suggest you put it from your person, or muffle it as best you can for discretion’s sake. If intel is to be believed, they have keen ears among them. That is what brings us here this night.”

“Wouldn’t know anything about the Americans,” he chuckled deep in his throat, “but if you like that, I could consider other ways to think outside the box if that sparks your fancy.”

“Nor I,” she countered, speaking nothing to his flirtation, “You might call me a stranger in a strange land.”

Esther’s gaze followed the path of his, to settle on the building that was to be the focus of their attention. Her eyes passed over its edifice in search of lit windows, any sign of stirrings inside. Time would tell if they could glean any information from their watch tonight. She had wondered now and again what one would hear with an ear to her chest to listen to the wavering song of the automaton carried within. Some days she reckoned its workings would be stronger, steadier, and on others very faint; an ebb and flow, never constant. Now and again, in moments of great quiet, she thought she could hear it herself. Cloistered as it was in the confines of her breast, she doubted it was discernible from a distance, and so their presence less likely to be compromised tonight.

Tom’s pocketwatch had been left ticking away on the nightstand, so she would rely on the skies to appraise herself of the time instead. Precise minutes were lost to her, but she would have some sense of the hour.

Her companion had made a sound point, that they might tuck away themselves in the resident immortal population; hiding a tree in a forest, so to speak. Circumstances here were not as they were across the sea, where the Order was moving in a steady sweep across Europe to replicate their victory in London. She did not want to dwell on what would transpire in Paris, a long-held stronghold of vampirism where the beast and human citizenry had been driven underground. Of one thing she was certain, that it would make what transpired in Britain look like child’s play.

“And yet,” the tone of her voice so low that it was scarcely more than a breath, only audible to their keen ears, “Discretion takes precedence. The less they know of our movements, the better. Let them believe we’re keeping our distance.” The shawl draped over her hair and tucked over her throat trembled in the wind. She gave no indication of feeling the weight of his eyes on her person, and maintained perfect stillness from her place on the bough for a moment, only shifting when nudged by his curiosity.

“Racoon? No… a fox perhaps?” he whispered questioningly to her, uncertain if she would answer him. “I see no metal in your mouth, so I’ve no reason to believe you’re a fanger like the rest of us nighttime revelers.”

Masking a swell of self-consciousness at his new line of questioning, she drew the whittling knife and a figurine of dark, fragrant wood from her boot and set to work, reclined against the trunk. Though half formed, some features were very telling, from the long canine snout to the silken tail curled about its feet. If they were to keep this position for a while longer, she would keep her hands busy. “A silly woman of little consequence,” she answered humorously. “If one were to give me a shake, they might hear a rattling sound from within. I thought it best to make myself less of an appealing target for a lightning strike, especially in this city.”


 
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Cassandra Caldecott
Little Sparrow
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Herself (because she was stood up)
DOING: What she does best
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:



Well, this was not part of the plan. Meet at this point, she said. You can work together, she said. It won't be that bad, she said. Cecile was a damn liar, or if not a liar, then a fool.

Pulling the pocket watch out, Cassandra tsked as she inspected the time. He was late, and not just by a little bit. Either the shadow man was lurking in the darkness to be bothersome, or he wasn't showing up at all. Cassandra dared to assume it was the latter by how important this task was supposed to be, according to Cecile. If it were indeed the case that he wasn't showing up, he either did it because he got caught up somehow, or something happened to him before he could make it. That or he was a complete asshole. Regardless of what situation the shadow man had inevitably got himself into, if she were to wait any longer, then it was likely she would miss her opportunity to get in and out with little risk to the most important person in this daring mission; herself.

So be it; she was going to do this on her own. If she were to see him at a later date, Cassandra would make it known how little she enjoyed being stood up.

The vampire did consider just flagging the assignment altogether, to take her to leave and not bother with it. Self-preservation was key, and she very much detested getting involved in situations that did not involve her. However, she made a promise to Cecile for old times' sake, and as much risk as the task presented, the petite blonde couldn't deny the challenge that came along with it.

The foreboding airship loomed not far in the distance. As the vampire drew closer, she considered how best to handle the situation. She wondered if it would be better to be brazenly obvious in getting into the building, not try to hide, just waltz in like she was used to doing, or perhaps this needed a little more tact, to sneak a little more slyly.

As good as she is about just taking over a place or situation, sneaking seemed like a better strategy in this instance. In the long run, Cass would rather not want her face to be known yet, not by the higher-ups at least. As much as the vampire hoped that this would be the only situation Cecile asked of her, not wanting to be dragged into it any further than she needed to, she also had the feeling Cecile might try to.

Regardless of future endeavours with Cecile, sneaking was also better for her own protection. Cassandra was hoping to stay in New Orleans for a while, and being on the watch list of a group such as this didn't bode well for her in long term standings. She enjoyed her freedoms; she did not want this to disrupt it. She'd only just had a taste of the city, and being run out of town so soon after arriving was never a fun experience.

Carefully spying at the entrance, she watched for a while, seeing the comings and goings and making a plan. There were two guards at the door. A couple of lowly men could be compelled to downplay her appearance as unimportant. Cassandra didn't usually like relying on compulsion, her natural charm was more than adequate more often than not, but it was a pretty handy skill to have in instances like this. It would allow her to sneak around inside a little better, but getting in first was always the trouble.

Standing tall and firm at the entrance to paradise, the two men seemed to think they were important, their poses staunch and unwavering as the checked people coming and going. She had seen them checking identifications as people passed through.

Cassandra wouldn't need that.

Strolling up to the door, hands gently picking up the edge of her skirt, Cassandra walked as though she would go right through the entranceway without even acknowledging the guard's presence.

"Can I help you?" he asked in an accusatory tone as he stopped her from continuing to meander on through.

"Oh, I need to get in, please," she said with a soft smile.

"Identification,"

"Identification?" she questioned coyly.

"Yes, Ma'am, we need to see your identification before we allow you to enter."

Her soft gaze locked with his, her eyes almost glistening as a light smile danced across her lips. "Oh, but you have already seen my identification," she said, her songlike voice calming. It did throw him for a loop, if only for a moment before he nodded his head. "I've already seen it."

The other man seemed perplexed by the sudden change in his partners demeanour. "We need to see it each time; a lot of people pass through," he reiterated, thinking that he had forgotten protocol.

Cocking her head gently towards the other guard, he lowered his defences. "Yes, but you see me as I am, and remember me. The tall brunette medic that is always running late," she stated, his eyes locked with hers as he hung on every word.

"Running late again?" he said with a slight laugh in his tone, as if having a conversation with an old friend. "Always. You know me, cannot help myself," she said, shrugging her shoulder light-heartedly. The first guard stepped aside, his eyes still locked on her, an almost haze like gloss over his eyes, a softness. "We can't have that now, can we. Best you hurry," he said with a slight nod of his head.

"Thank you so much."

With almost a slight skip in her step, the petite blonde vampire strolled into paradise.

Walking through the corridors of the airship, Cassandra kept to herself as much as she could, out of sight of as many people as she was able. She had turned around a few people here and there, sending them in the opposite direction if they seemed to draw too close, but it did seem like a relatively quiet time currently, which was lucky timing for her.

Maps around the ship gave her a general layout but being unlabelled meant it was only helpful to those that already knew where they were going. That was not a lot of help in telling her which way to go.

Asking for directions to Holly's room was the easiest route, and she had drawn a helpful elbow to lead her in the right direction. There was only so much of this she could drag out though, too much and it would get too exhausting. Cassandra would not be able to keep up with compelling people for an extended period of time. She hadn't done it for a while, and she was worried that the strain to her own mind would work against her. Reserving some energy on the way out just in case seemed like a smart option.

Leaving her at the door of Holly Wilshire's room, she gave a gentle knock, though she knew that the woman wasn't inside. Quickly ducking into the woman's room, Cassandra started looking around for anything that would be useful like Cecile asked. From what she knew about Gabriel, the woman was meticulous, but surely even she would have more stuff in her room than this? It was relatively empty, and a few things had been left strewn about.

Had she left? It seemed likely, but why? Whatever the reason might be, she had done so in haste. This didn't bode well for her own investigation though. Cass was unsure if she would find anything useful if she had cleared out. Regardless, she began sorting through some papers.

Lifting some parchment, she inspected it closely. Now, this was a much better map. Labels! Labels made everything so much easier to find. Keeping it aside, she kept looking. There had to be more here, though, surely? Sifting through the folders, Cass was being as careful but as quick as possible. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to catch her in here. Sure she had excuses prepped and ready, but that was also extra effort she could not be bothered with.

She was about ready to leave with what she had, when another folder caught her eye.

"The Persephone Project"

She flicked through a few of the pages, her eyes widening at the content. A quick glance over was enough for her to know that she needed to take it with her.

Flicking open the pocket watch, she tutted at herself. She was running out of time. Gathering up the files she had found, the vampire poked her head out the door. More people were wandering through the halls than before. She closed the door again as she contemplated how best to proceed.

Taking another glance around the room, her eyes spotted the ugly Templar uniform hung up in the cupboard. Looking down at her gorgeous outfit, she gave a heavy sigh. She was hoping to avoid this at all costs.

Changing swiftly into the drab, boring uniform, she tried to fit it around herself as best she could. It didn't fit well, but that was going to be a given. She made do with what she had, tucking it in strategic places to provide the illusion it fit better than it did.

Her fingers gently stroked the delicate fabric of the dress as she hung it in place of the uniform, a pout on her lips. "I'm so sorry, I have to leave you in this awful place," she muttered sadly at the outfit.

With a last disappointed sigh, she gathered up all the documents she would need and made her exit.



 
S E I K O 島崎清子
alias: Kirin
health bar
WHERE: Kenner Base
WITH: Kenna
DOING: Lying in wait to attack
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST: Winter's Nocturne


It was a feeling of unease that broke Seiko’s inner peace. A familiar tinge that he had felt twice before, once before when he shifted to shield Nascha from Jonah’s onslaught and the other when his emperor had arrived to his demise. He was still recovering from the former, but did not let a day pass without regret from not taking action on the latter. Dull pain pulsed in his temporal lobe, as if a headache of which the only cure was to sprint into whatever he had let carelessly play out behind him. 'Kenna, where is she?!' A panicked breath escaped him as he turned on his heel to check on Kenna, his body moving quicker than the words forming his thoughts.

She was gone, a clear track left behind her but not one of complacency. The girl had taken action, eager and unwilling to stand by and await orders in contrast to Seiko’s patience. Had her youth and small-size not been such a weak point he may have praised her bold action as a sign of good leadership skills. While it should have been expected, it didn’t cancel out the clear worry within his manic mind that a child was running fist-first into danger. ‘Find her’ his mind declared, little direction needed to his body which had already retrieved the bag containing his weaponry and followed her tracks.

His eye kept a keen watch on his surroundings as he sprinted along Kenna’s tracks. His heart raced in several staccato beats and he could feel his nostril veins tucked behind his ears. There had been no gunfire heard yet which gave him hope - but only enough to keep him in his pursuit. Seiko was at his destination in no time seeing her steps lead to the encampment and took a few seconds to collect himself so as to not arrive in a panic. He wore the uniform of Templar Security in disguise but to see one of their comrades covered in dirt and in heaving breath would raise brows and facilitate questions he had not the tongue to answer. A few deep breathing techniques was all it took to cut his heartrate in half and become the collected soldier he needed to be.

A review of tasks was in order.
Seiko’s first current priority - “Locate Kenna and shelter from danger if found.”

He could not control his last comrade’s fall into the hands of the enemy, but this time he could.

Secondly, his original missions.

“Confirm the abduction and enlistment of child soldiers.”
“Locate the route of which the abductions are secured.”


The hefty lugging of machinery came his way, which would secure a way to bar entry into the base, Seiko waited for the vehicle to pass him before tailing it to the destination.

Where the Templars lacked supernatural ability they more than made up for it in the ways of technology. Time had given humans the ability to adapt yet by and large he and the other moon-called relied on antiquated technology as was present by their choice of weaponry. This was made clear by the compact bow he had retrieved from the last scuffle in the French Quarter, which boasted not only the ability to fold for discreet storage but packed enough bite in it’s release to shuttle an arrow clean through the skull of a man and into the brain of the one behind him. He assumed something as antiquated as his preferred blade would never be found in their sanitary walls, though it did not stop his curiosity from running rampant at what would be possible in their hands.

Her tracks did not stray too far from their post, taking less than a minute for him to see where exactly she had gone. Surely she didn’t do anything as brash as trying to climb a fence in plain view, yet it was clear her feet stopped moving here. Seiko took a moment to collect himself and stalk up the vehicle entrance himself just in time to see an oncoming caravan make it’s way to be let in. Covertly he flanked the vehicle and fastened onto the handles adorning it’s sides. He held his ears to the cold metal of the vehicle, listening in to the passengers on board to no avail as he was met with silence. He kept his body slim to the exterior and as soon as the vehicle had fully entered the premises and out of sight of the gatekeeper he let loose his latch upon the caravan and began to patrol the area as inconspicuous as he could under the guise of his templar uniform.

Avoiding social contact was much needed to play into the role of low suspicion, an easy task for the quiet Elk. He began his prompt search for Kenna, retrieving the compact weapon from his hip to play the character well. It was such an eerie environment compared to the warmth he had always known from his fellow beasts. Simple canvas tents, dirt paths, and brutalist brick buildings made up his surroundings. This wasn't a place to live, it was a place to survive. Despite the other templars he saw in his view, the grounds looked as little lived in as possible. Nothing was out of place and everything set up with almost symmetrical precision. To his eyes as an outsider it truly demonstrated the human-will to overcome objection, and a group such as this did not thrive stronger and stronger after each defeat clearly without such strict order. Close enough to God themselves, this place seemed almost too pristine and liminal for even a human to breathe in. The quiet of the wind in his ears was louder than any noise indicating the humans within, almost enough to make him think they had arrived at an abandoned outpost has it not been for the Templars quietly marching the grounds.

The caravan he followed came to a halt, letting out a heavy sigh as it was shut off and he noticed the other guards lining up at the vehicle’s backside. Following suit was not an issue, but it was his surprise at seeing Kenna standing at attention from his peripheral view. How did she sneak in so easily? He had little time to think to himself, but what mattered was that she remained unharmed and precisely where she needed to be.

He gave a kurt gaze to meet her stern reflection, ‘Remain calm- and do not transform under any circumstances,’ he spoke into her mind, followed by a relaxed release of his tight-knit brow to illustrate his statement as he was unsure the message of another beast could be received by someone her age. Again he admired her proactive attitude and would likely leave the detail out of his report to Maeve later, albeit he would need to ensure her recklessness is not encouraged or applauded.

The initial calm was still tainted by the unease of knowing one false move from either of them could put them in such a danger. He focused his eyes on the back of the caravan, now opening to reveal several rows of children, all adorned with Templar standard weaponry and rucksacks thrown over their shoulders. What were they carrying? He was under no orders to investigate this, but as if the abduction was not suspicious on it's own then the contents they would possibly be bringing back to an environment like this caused him to hone in on the possibilities - so much so he didn't see Kenna breaking formation to investigate herself. He bit his tongue to collect himself, needing to act quickly to mitigate her rash behaviour.

“HALT!” Seiko commanded.

Seiko muttered in his most authoritative voice, causing the child in front of Kenna and the ones behind them in their tracks to cease movement with almost automatic precision. ‘Unsettling’ would have been too kind of a word to describe what he saw before him, they were hardly human at all and his eyes were met with dead gazes. Despite the cherub-like appearance there was no soul left behind those faces. He couldn’t bring himself to keep looking at them, any longer and he’d realize the lack of humanity within.

“Take this one’s bag,” he commanded Kenna, no detail given and at their level of authority none was needed either. It was important that they see what these children were transporting. The rucksack was obtained effortlessly with no resistance. His curiosity wanted to know the contents immediately, yet there were not many excuses that could be used to explore right now. “Follow them in, continue march.” He ordered. He stood with perfect posture and placed one boot in the way of Kenna’s pursuit so as to not nurture her ideas to advance.

‘Being reckless will get you nowhere,’ he thought to himself. He did not meet Kenna's gaze but instead spoke with his body - a firm and resilient wall to stop what she was doing. Kenna had motives beyond her given orders, that much was clear. The kind of brash ambition was nothing without proper skill, and despite the clear hardships the young one had been through, it was not enough to carry her effortlessly out of an unfamiliar base surrounded by the enemy. In this moment, Seiko himself questioned whether he could leave this place alive should something go awry, praying only that he would never have to find out.

They were within the enemy walls and surrounded, but answers needed to be found. He thought to himself on how to get his questions answered without raising suspicion as they continued to march. He turned to the nearest soldier, asking the bare minimum off-handedly to hopefully beget a response,

Where were these new recruits taken from again?” If perhaps his tone gave him away, his investigative question coming off with more concern and warmth as opposed to confusion and dismay.

That isn’t for us to know.” He was given in brusk reply

A disappointed answer, nonetheless, yet there was still a bit of information in what was not said. The soldier did not deny the children were abducted, nor that they were new recruits, only that they were not permitted to know the location of their retrieval.

At this point Kenna had walked away with the rucksack, easily enough to where no one else had noticed. She was her own person, and Seiko of all things was not her keeper. Albeit there was a part of him that couldn’t bring himself not to worry about her recklessness. There was no time for scolding, less of all communication of plans. To do either right now would bring unneeded attention that Seiko’s honesty could not diminish. Kenna had escaped his fixed gaze, but she could not be far away and knowing this much gave him enough comfort to continue the mission. The teen had broken into the facility all on her own without suspicion, in fact she’d likely be able to speak to the faculty here with ease compared to his own bare bones approach to conversation in gruff commands.

The first mission was complete, the children were being abducted by Templars, that much was certain. He questioned the moral compass of the group, as on paper it was a treacherous deed. Though, even he himself was born into the field of battle, as was his own offspring on that fateful day. He served countless emperor’s who promised to raise the children of rivaling factions into greater lives - and here was doing the same. At best should these children be rescued from the Templars they were still being subjected to a life of endless battle only disillusioned by temporary peace.

Seiko's compassion flared to the front, as even he was given a sword as soon as he could hold his balance. While common children learned how to make new friends, he was taught how to shoot an arrow. A child raised by the hands of war is hardly given a chance to question their actions, have the free-will to pursue peace or learn to challenge authority. These values would be ingrained into the psyche, emblazoned within the mind like a brand. The mentality to fight for a cause would ever be stronger than that of questioning if fighting is worth the bloodshed at all.

Even after watching centuries pass and he watched lives end and begin anew, war remained constant. For in his years never had he seen peace prevail, and it never would.

That could not be changed, but the lives of these children still could. He confirmed their abduction, but the vital information of knowing where they were being procured from still remained elusive. He needed to ask them directly, surely the children themselves had recollection of the event leading up to their retrieval. Though a cursory glance at his surroundings had him at a clear disadvantage. They were in deep to the encampment, no exit routes nearby and guards quietly policed the area everywhere he looked. However in this squadron he was one of only four guards. Seiko was not foolish enough to believe himself capable of an assured victory in an unfamiliar environment, let alone as human. Shifting into the Elk would be an even greater mistake, as to the Templar he could be anybody - a revolutionary, a heretic, hell even a very determined parent were all disguises. Though if information such as a werebeast infiltration were to get to the wrong people, it would only bring another round of death that he had just recently overcome in the French Quarter... and likely even more children abducted.

Though dispatching four guards in comparison to the entirety of the base's faculty was a much easier mark, so long as they were all isolated. A quick and easy kill, with enough haste as to not raise suspicions and leave someone else to clean up a bloodbath - and hopefully take a message. Stoic and tight-lipped, he followed the march into the Templar headquarters, awaiting an opportunity to strike. He wanted to believe he was doing the right thing here, but without knowing the grand plan of the Templar Order - he couldn’t know that.

And just as he had been told earlier, it wasn’t for him to know.



 
Kenna Mac Amery
Incendiu
health bar
WHERE: Kenner Base
WITH: Seiko
DOING: Trying to Find Beau
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


She had only meant to look, that had been the plan. A quick glance just to get her bearing’s better, to see how best to approach the base. Kenna’s plan had been to gather some information to take back to Seiko, so that could figure out where to go next. That was what she was supposed to do. They were a team, meant to be working together, however, as soon as the base was in her sight, the teen couldn’t help herself and go just a little bit closer. A little bit closer, turned into a lot closer. She had been careful, as careful as a teen with a mission could possibly be, but she couldn’t turn back.

Fencing blocked her way from progressing further, and for a moment she did consider scaling it. It would be easy, she had scaled buildings three times the size of this fence. Kenna hesitated, enough to get a little clarity that hopping the fence may not be the best way to go. Backtracking her steps a little she wandered further along the fence line, looking for another point of entry. As she searched, Kenna wondered again if she should find Seiko first, but as a caravan came down the road, it made her mind up for her. It wasn’t going to be an opportunity she missed.

The templar uniform would be a good enough guise, right? Grabbing on as tightly as she could, she hoisted herself up on the side of the caravan, a slight slip almost causing a disaster, the girl managed to right herself.

The vehicle rolled further in, and Kenna took a studied glance around. Was this where they had taken Beau? It was barely a month ago since she had followed the other young boy here, a similar situation to her brother. She hadn’t been able to get in the last time, spotted too easily and driven all the way back to the city. Kenna wondered if the other boy was still here too; if he had seen her brother. The cold sterile and military-esque surroundings made her uncomfortable, but also explained a lot of how her brother had been acting the last time she had seen him. What had they done to him here?

As the caravan started to slow, Kenna realised maybe a little too late that she should have probably jumped off earlier. Still, she had blended enough into the background that they didn’t seem to notice her out of place. As she scanned around, she caught the eyes of Seiko. Had he followed her in, or had he planned to leave her behind?

A slight buzzing amid her thoughts threw her; something about not transforming? It sounded like Seiko. She tilted her head at him, puzzled. Holding firm to her fathers silver ring, much too big for her, but grasped well enough around her middle finger that it wasn’t going anywhere. She had no plans to transform anytime soon, so he didn’t need to worry about it.

Kenna’s concentration wavered as children started filing out from the back of the caravan. She was trying and somewhat failing to keep herself calm as her gaze wandered over the faces of the children. Could one of them be Beau? She couldn’t tell. Without even thinking about it, she started drawing near to them.

“HALT!”

As quickly as she had started to move forward, with a booming word from Seiko she halted in her tracks, just as the children had done. Her eyes warily took a glance at the man she was with, but he was scanning over the children. Almost hesitant, the teen's eyes wandered back to the children. She made very quick work scanning over them, searching the hallow faces for one she recognised, but he wasn’t there.

Commanding, Seiko instructed that she take one of the bags, and she did. No one questioned it. He had a very authoritative voice, and he seemed to fit into this a little too well. He had made mention that he had been part of an army, she just hadn’t put as much thought into what that would mean as she probably should have.

Slinging the rucksack over her shoulder, Kenna followed as they continued with their march, but her footsteps slowed as she continued to glance around the compound. Beau was surely here somewhere, with this many children around, that had to mean that this was the place they were keeping him. Being this close, after so long, it would be so wasteful not to try and find him.

With wandering eyes, Kenna thought she saw some other children in the distance. Kenna knew it was likely a foolish endeavour, after how Beau had acted the last time, he would not go quietly and would also likely attempt to kill her... again. Still, she wanted to see him, needed to, just to make sure he was okay because although he had walked away from the fight, she couldn’t get the image of blood pouring from where his head had made impact with the wall out of her mind.

Before she had even realised it herself, the teen had drifted from the group again. She had not meant to wander, had intended to stay with the group to see where that would lead, but in her absentminded searching, she had fallen behind. Finally registering that she was out in the open, alone, she quickly ducked off the main path weaving her way around the back of one of the buildings. She dropped the rucksack to the ground and leant her back against the brick. Would Seiko be mad at her for running off again?

Spinning her fathers ring around her finger she contemplated what she should do next. Knowing that she should find her way back to where Seiko was, Kenna picked up the rucksack again. She had no idea what was inside it, but whatever it was she needed to keep a hold of it, least she want to make the other beast mad at her for more than just wandering off.

Scuffling behind the building the teen realised that she had stumbled around to where they dumped their trash. Gross. She kicked some of it out of the way, not expecting it to jingle as it skittered across the ground.



 
Esther Asturias
SHERWOOD
health 🙢 55/100
WHERE: Outside a Templar base
WITH: A barman
DOING: Reconnaissancing
CREDIT: August Splitgerber

A sound of amusement rose up from her companion’s perch. “Fair enough,” he quipped back. “To each their own, but it isn’t a common sight.”

“I suppose not,” she conceded, a little crease forming between her brows as she considered this. “I’m not acquainted with many like us, so I’m far from an authority.” Thomas hadn’t bothered with the practice, either, but she couldn’t imagine him ever putting them to use even if he had, because when she met the man he still trembled when removing spiders from the cottage and the steam rifle he’d kept by the door was for show. It was fired only once, directly skyward, when he’d been trying to shoo away a raven swaggering about his garden. His reasons for acquiescing to the procedure were scholarly, really. At the time he’d believed mankind’s betterment was at hand; when a method of easing mortal ailments had presented itself he’d wished to contribute, to further something extraordinary.

She looked out from their hiding place, ears tuned to the unceasing stirrings of metropolitan night. A stray cat streaked across the street carrying a wayward kitten by the scruff of the neck, vanishing into an alley. “Circumstances as they are may hold out; all things in cautious balance, with the Order’s presence just barely tolerated, but it could go many ways. A tangled briar of complication, this.” She gestured vaguely, not so much at their surroundings than at the state of affairs. Quien siembra vientos, cosecha tempestades—to every movement a consequence.”

The glance thrown her way was that of one taken off guard, but when her companion collected himself, a grin quirked crooked across his face, his teeth flashing in the dark—from the understanding that lit his eyes she gathered he knew Spanish, too, and may well have heard the phrase, which felt a good fit considering the weather of late. “What grandmother taught you that?”

“Perchance mine.” A river’s worth of things unsaid ran beneath her light-worded answer, but the smile she met him with was genial, further warmed by the discovery of another common thread between them. She mentally danced around posing the questions that sprung naturally forth, but that didn’t stop her from beginning the guesswork. A province bordered by the Mediterranean, maybe; Valencia, or Catalonia. She’d chosen to revisit his heritage another time, when they weren’t on an errand where anyone could be dropping eaves.

Adages were heirlooms wrought of voice and breath, words were stories in and of themselves, and she had learned to be careful of them. One with the right ear for it could learn more than she was willing to give. She had not spoken Asturian aloud in years, but in truth her reasons for that were varied—she was still learning that tongue at the time of her grandmother’s passing, and her father did not have the heart to speak it again thereafter, not even for the purpose of instruction. Such was his grief, a thing that took shapes of all kinds. Perhaps she, in some way, had felt inclined to follow his example out of solidarity.

The conversation enshrouded in the blue-black gloom of the oak’s embrace lulled gently back into silence. Their attention turned back to the stomping grounds of the Order, and the minutes drifted by undisturbed. She could almost discern the roil of rising boredom of her partner in reconnaissance as the night drew slowly on without incident, his fingers drumming a quickening tune against his leg. The persistence of the quiet seemed to agitate him; once or twice she’d glanced in his direction and thought he might be on the verge of sleep, his blinks slowed and expression blank, and finally, in search of something to keep himself occupied, he watched the little canine figurine in her hands take shape. He gave a jerk of the chin in her direction. “That passes the time?”

There was a quality to his demeanor that gave her cause to ponder on his age. In some, such things were difficult to discern: Elijah had carried the visage of illusion childhood for centuries untold, but the mind he housed was anything but youthful. He could hide it with great skill, yet one frank conversation with him would swiftly enlighten anyone fooled by what met the eye. So was the one beside her newly Made, and if so, how new? She couldn’t recall having encountered his face in the circles of London.

“And the hands busy,” she offered, and then, after a moment, “My first true friend was found in a dog. He possessed the calling-card features of a sighthound–yet not, all at once. I long suspected he had a streak of wolf running strong in him.” There came a few more passes of the little whittling knife, finishing touches, before she turned the carving over in her fingers. She gave it a measured look before tucking it away on her person; even now he proved an elusive subject. Settling against the trunk, she sat with her laced fingers draped over a raised knee.

“A curious and uncanny decision, doubtless, but you might say there was a method to the madness; I was told we were kindred spirits, and that proved prophetic. I never knew a nursemaid, nor a governess, but I had little need for either with Argo flanking my steps. Never was I truly alone, and I fared better for it.” The mark held her gaze, but not her full attention, as she looked from window to window for any sign of movement within. Then she ventured, hesitant, “And you? Have you someone to keep watch?”

There was a short pause. “Off and on,” he allowed, and she heard him loose a heavy sigh through his nose. “He’s an ass, but he’s a good man.”

“He seems a man of nuance,” she remarked, and then her gaze flickered down and away, pensive. “I have known a few, in my time. We should all be so lucky as to have someone to speak well of, arses aside.” She wondered what this complicated man would make of his ward placing himself in potentially precarious situations, at risk of drawing the Order’s gaze. “I’ve had dealings with La Lune’s mistress, and with her predecessor; while I am not one of theirs, I can tell you she harbors compassion for kin. You’ll find safe haven in the Marigny, should you need it.”

All the while she fended off the discomfiting doubts that prickled at her nape. It wasn’t truly her place to inquire about his situation; she had no desire to pry into his affairs, but the concern rising from the thought of a newborn without guidance was too much to ignore, and conscience had compelled her to speak. The youth were more vulnerable now than ever before; finding secure housing in the day made the difference between life and death. His position at the Canine potentially afforded him further security, or so she hoped, and by his knowledge of the city, he seemed streetwise enough to do well for himself. Even so, she too would keep an eye–as someone else had done for her when she was new and finding her footing.

She rubbed at the bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes, thinking it would have been prudent of her to bring a canteen of tea; she would have been able to run on something other than force of will.

A stirring. She stilled in turn, a hand raised to implore her companion to do the same. Her gaze snapped up to scour the street, sharpened by focus, and her ears strained, all attentiveness bent toward the base. Movement within, there was no mistaking it. Footfalls sounded softly across the courtyard, followed by the closing of a door and an engine shuddering awake; a lone vehicle left the premises. Then the figure at her side, biting at the bit for action, was loosed by the too-tempting first glimmer of opportunity. He jumped from his perch, and she followed suit, rousing herself from hers. Esther dropped soundlessly down.

She stood in place, but the world round her still seemed to move, spinning dizzyingly in her vision. Wavering on her feet, she leaned bodily against the oak for support, waiting out the spell. Erebos, distracted, took no notice, and the truck was still within view when in her periphery he started forward. Her breath hitched audibly in alarm, eyes darting to his form. There was only one thing she could think to do at a moment’s notice—following a cat's example. Her hand flew out and she pinched his coat between forefinger and thumb, tugging him backward. They waited as silence began to descend again, and when there were no more stirrings within the base or without, Esther drew the edge of her shawl over her nose. “Now.”

Away they went, swiftly leaving the safety of cover. Nearly recovered and pushing through fatigue, Esther loped no more than three paces behind, and all the while ready to intervene if he had any inclinations—like playing at being a hero—that would get him killed. The building now loomed above them, and they two were cloaked in darkness thrown by its facade across the grounds. A hand rested idle upon the hilt of a sheathed blade at her side. A pointed, luminous stare was thrown her companion’s way, and then turned to pick over everything in their midst, one foot already turned away and ready to flee this place; the longer they tarried, the greater the risk. If they uncovered nothing of note, then so be it.

Near to hand, something was slumped against the wall. She believed it to be a piece of rubbish at first glance, but found her eye drawn to it again. Edging gingerly closer, she bent down to take the item into her hands.

A doll. Its rosy-cheeked face of painted porcelain was broken, the smile split in twain by a crack. A frock in keeping with the latest fashions trembled in the breeze, and there was a dull gleam from within the pleats of the high-waisted skirt, where a switchblade had been tucked for safekeeping.
 
Last edited:
Olivia Baynes
Raphael
health bar
Where: Paradise - Medical Bay
With: Ségolène
Doing: Relaxing
Credit: AdamaSto
Playlist:
The wind sang against the leaves, their traces dancing in sync as they trickled away. The horizon littered white and cold, the distance showed little change in its domain as it stretched as far as the eye could see. Withered arms outstretched to the sky, blanketed by the same white. Pristine. Silent. Distant voices dull over the plains, a piercing wail of an inhumane tone boomed. Movements remained slow, almost distorted, as if there was no desire to flee nor chase. Voices followed the explosions, gradually softer with each descending step. Noise and clatter left as quickly as they came.

Long fingers kept their hold over a worn papyrus, the smaller appendage lightly tapping against its edge in a slow, continuous movement. Short, fleeting wisps of breath escaped from shivering pink lips. Everything was a blinding white, as if time had stopped. Her focus was only on the item that softened under her grip with each passing moment. No words or sightings registered; only the biting cold and rumble of the earth against her back, pebbles piercing the thin layer of cloth as they leached into her skin. The word 'baba' playing repeating on her tongue.


The cloudy canvas melted into perpendicular lines to form squares and rectangles, the ticking of a nearby clock dulled over the silent room as whispers and mumbles cascaded into snores. The usual bustle of morning training finally dimmed to allow some peace and quiet in the med bay, though it brought forth some restlessness as fingers danced across the paper, eager for some excitement. Bandage routine was not exactly exhilarating.

She allowed her mind to drift.

The meeting days prior was, by no means, a new or spectacular event. However, the sudden drawback of Gabriel was certainly news to the Sisters; more so the fact the Sisters themselves were not called back with her. A wave of nausea flooded Raphael, but she understood the agenda that followed and no further words were exchanged with their leader before her departure. Since then, the ashen-haired woman savoured the peace that came, hidden away in her usual wing of the ship. Only the injuries and stories of her patients brought her some form of comfort, some kind of liveliness that still survived since the battle on the docks. She could only pray the 84th Legion were cautious in their movements. While she normally avoided the Overseer, no one could really fathom his thoughts during these placid days of training. At least they came with stories.

Olivia leaned forward in her seat, eyes gazing over various scribbles, doodles, and notes. She kept herself busy, per her own usual schedule. She was grateful not many people disturbed her work, though she welcomed all kinds of distraction when she found herself too immersed in her work that she often forgot to take a break, much less anything to drink. The only reason she found herself in a work-lock since Gabriel's departure was because of the upcoming assignment. She needed to be certain her tasks were caught up, delegate the routines to the assistants she had and would be working in her stead while she was away. Olivia rarely partook in outside missions. Her best ability shone where she remained at the base; a few she was on the outskirts of town or following behind her Sisters in cases of high failure to a mission. Aside from that, she volunteered to stay back and allowed her Sisters to flourish and do what they did best, and she did hers.

Her reason this time? Holly Wilshire would not be present.

She needed to be there for her Sisters, especially under the command of the Overseer. She shuddered vehemently at the thought. There was no resentment or anger towards him. No. It was some kind of fear, some respect for the man in all that he did and will do for his company. Stories designed him as a ruthless leader, a blood frenzy fanatic to end all immortals. There was no denial in his faith and loyalty to the mission, but Raphael pondered if there were ever moments of relapse. Comfort, or even some twisted coping mechanism he installed for himself. No human body, altered or not, could withstand the amount of stress he potentially encountered on a daily basis. The results were impressive, she admitted. His men even more so, under the tutelage of such an intimidating man. But at what cost of his men?

The patter of steps interrupted her thoughts, strands of her ashen crown shifted as she gazed towards the door at her next visitor. The door was pulled open and the petite frame of her Sister fell inwards. Locks of red trailed to a serene set of blue hues, specks of amber like gold hidden underneath the sea. Olivia allowed a gentle smile to take her features as she pushed off from her desk. The chair clattered at her feet, her arms brought up to welcome in her guest. No bruise or wound marred her current flesh, nothing aside from the moderations done to her body. Her visit meant only one thing.

"Ah, Sister." She shifted her weight into one hip. "You saved me a bit of time. Come, sit."

Raphael reviewed the briefing in her head, logging the important details repeatedly to ensure she had not overlooked something. She digested information better with repetition and practice, especially with her hands. A thumb rubbed against a hardened pad in her palm, an indication of her recent training. A surge of relief and anxiety rode her body when she picked up a sword. Not that she was frightened of losing the ability to use one, but the sensation it brought her was one of familiar comfort.

One she will be much more intimate with in the coming days.

 
Sister Aglaé
JEANNE D'ARC
health 100/100
WHERE: Just outside the airship's medbay
WITH: Olivia Banes and a foundling chick
DOING: Returning to base (And grappling with newfound motherhood)
CREDIT: Henry J. Ford

Taking in a breath to better steel herself, she passed through the threshold and came face to face with Raphael. Olivia Banes was the statuesque woman of meticulous, professional composure who was mistress of the medbay, her haunting grounds and her dominion. Ephemera spoke the language of metal and schematics, and she of flesh and blood, and together they tended the ailments of the Blood Sisters and beyond. Crowned by a head of strikingly snow-white hair, Ségolène could recall having overheard whispered speculation that the lack of color was the result of an event in the past, or perhaps the stresses incurred by the ceaseless demands of her position.

The Blood Sisters were still reeling from the withdrawal of their commander, spirited away back to headquarters in the wake of failures and losses in America. They were left behind to contend with it, and their stay here had no end in sight. The distance from home had never felt so great.

Holly Wilshire, in a way, was more than a mere woman, a paragon and a beacon to look to for guidance. Ségolène, since her admittance to the Main Chapter of the Templar Order, had taken a sense of security from under Gabriel’s wing. The woman had understood why she’d been so keen to take up a sword, why she was so earnest to earn her worth, ever a font of assurance and understanding. But she had gone. Without her she felt unmoored, but not adrift. Olivia yet remained, and she drew solace from her steady presence. So often she had served as Holly’s right hand, two of one mind.

“Ah, Sister. You saved me a bit of time. Come, sit." She did as invited and seated herself near her desk, where she waited for her superior to ready herself for the night ahead.

Soon they departed, striking a course down the empty hall. The door of the lab came into view, and Ségolène’s heels slowed to a stop. She crept nearer to peek inside. Rising to stand on her tip-toes, it brought her eyes level with the window.

Everything she knew about steam propulsion could barely fill a thimble, but Ephemera was an engineer–he surely knew far more, didn’t he? Was she silly to think that because he could repair automatons he knew everything there was to know about mechanics? She remembered the expression that had crossed his face when he’d looked over her repair manual, the eager look of someone marveling at a new venture, unruffled by a challenge. Somehow he didn’t seem the sort to feel as daunted as she did in unfamiliar territory, so what hurt was there in asking him? The worst he could say was no, she reasoned, but then… she didn’t know him well, either, and his schedule as it is was already busy.

Raphael was calling. Tugged from her train of thought, she hurried to return to her superior’s side. “Did you need something from the lab, Sister Aglae?” she asked, and Ségolène felt the woman’s gaze upon her flushed face. “We can afford a detour.”

She shook her head, and the answering smile flashed in the woman’s direction was equal parts flustered and apologetic.

They left the base, and from there entered an awaiting automobile. She gazed out the window at the passing streets, and it wasn’t long before it came to a halt. She followed Raphael out, and they walked together wordlessly, focused on the task at hand, until finding an available carriage waiting streetside. The hoofbeats of the horse echoed, and as she waited, she marveled at the sights that swept by, the clouds of greenery that hung from every balcony. It was the humidity, she thought, that made them thrive so well.

A spired structure of a pale countenance came into view. The driver was soon drawing on the reins, and they were exiting. Ségolène was Olivia’s shadow as they slipped through the front doors, and at the threshold were met by the emptied interior of a house of God. A floor of black and white tile unfurled from beneath their feet, running between long rows of pews flanked on either side by windows of stained glass. She stood peering up at the painted ceiling that soared above their heads, inwardly translating its lines of Latin script.

Raphael was in conversation with the priest, progressing through introductions and formalities. Then she looked to look back at her, a hand extended, and Ségolène hurried to her side. The Pere blinked at her, and she peered back, before making a furtive attempt at checking to assure herself she’d remembered to tuck in her shirt hem.

“You have… taken vows?” he ventured, brows raising, his expression warm. He’d taken stock of the kerchief and coif that concealed hair and throat from view, then her civilian attire–well-used, because they were second-hand, and she thought perhaps intended for an adolescent boy. It wasn’t a far cry from what she was accustomed to; she used to pilfer Bay’s castoff clothes to go gallivanting on fine-weathered days in Dinan. Her cousin Ines, who prided herself on having once almost been arrested in Bordeaux for wearing trousers, was thrilled to tailor hand-me-downs for her.

She nodded, tentative, and unbraided the fingers of her nervously-clasped hands to reach for the little journal stowed in her back pocket, a thing done so many times over that it seemed to leap into her hand of its own accord, whipped out in a flash.

I am Sister Aglaé, first belonging to the Order of Saint Aubert d’Avranches, and Mont-Saint-Michel Abbey. I am near to making the final profession.

“You’ve come a long way from home,” he remarked, and fondly touched her hand; he could have been wondering if the silence, too, was a vow taken, but did not ask out of politeness. He looked to Olivia, beaming. “I am pleased, most pleased, to bear witness to your walk on the righteous path. My mind wasn’t made when I began correspondence with your Order, but now… yes, I will provide what assistance I can. I believe I have information that may be of use to your cause.”

The conversation had drifted back to the task at hand, and she stood back shifting her weight from foot to foot. She admittedly felt poorly used for this mission. There wasn’t any danger here to fend off, unless an enemy combatant was stowed away someplace waiting for an opportune moment, but she really had her doubts on that score. As she stepped aside, the glances she cast between the two brimmed with questions.

She milled about, wallflowering and in turns walking slowly up and down the pews, and gradually began to open herself to her surroundings, straining to discern what was passed, and slowly the cathedral began to unfurl itself, and things wishing to be felt again pressed against her.

Incense billowing from swinging thuribles, candles snuffed out. Then a heaved sob and fractured, hushed words: bless–stole–me–anger–father–hate–hurt–sinned; she realized these were the voices of priest and penitent, and she had drifted too near to the confessional. She swiftly removed herself from its vicinity.

She hadn’t meant to hear, but she recognized one voice. Her hazel-blue gaze returned to the priest, and saw him passing a sheaf of papers into Raphael’s hands.

It couldn’t be… the seal of confession? The sacrament?

A knot was twisting ever tighter in her stomach. Was she mistaken? And… what if she wasn’t?

Her hand pushed into her pocket, seeking, and her fingers wrapped round the touch-darkened wood beads of the rosary. She lit a votive, and devoted a moment to prayer. Ségolène thought of the Révérende Mère Euphrosyne, her surety and wisdom, and wished now that she was near enough to turn to, so that she could tell her that she was right in asking if this was wrong. The day she had taken the train from the Mont to the mainland flickered in her mind’s eye, how the little woman had clasped her close and, with hands softened by age, wiped the salt of the sea and her tears from her face, and then pressed something into her palm.

‘I’ve been thinking, cher enfant, that we might make a trade of rosaries. You will carry a little piece of me, and I will carry a little piece of you; we will write often, and the distance will not feel so vast.’ Then she fastened a button on Ségolène’s coat, commanded her to live well, and instead of goodbye left her with something else:

‘For folk such as you, and I, and your brother too, the world is not always understanding. Mankind was given eyes when the first were molded from the dust of the earth, but do we truly discern? Not the saint from the sinner, the devin-guérisseur from the witch, the innocent from the wicked, nor the many shades between. Who sees?’

Thenceforth, in moments of disquiet and uncertainty, and there were a great many, Ségolène would find herself dwelling on the Révérende Mère’s guidance, and the warning within. She dwelled now. She wondered if she hadn’t been poorly used on this assignment at all, or if she’d served the very purpose for which she was intended.

She crossed herself and went out to take the air, but knew sorting out her feelings over this was going to take a lot of prayer and midnight snacking. The door sighed closed behind her; a strange feeling passed over, and she was struck with the thought that this was not the first church to have stood on these foundations. She trailed a hand down the frame, puzzled, and thought she had heard a whisper of flame.

A lone figure meandered silently by the front steps, hands idling behind his back. He went barefooted, and was clad in the white-girdled, darkly earth toned habit of a friar; she made way for him, and as he passed her by he seemed to first peer through her, then at her. The smile of welcome that graced his face was cut from the same cloth of kindly grandfathers, deepening the crinkles that fringed his eyes. He nodded once, and she responded in kind before progressing past the wrought-iron fencing and into the square that lay beyond.

A small sound broke through her swarm of thoughts. She halted, and looked round, but saw nothing. The sound came again, the same as before, and near to hand.

The friar had gone as though he’d never been, and she saw only one figure, that of a fellow in the middle of tending a flowerbed. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled so keenly he visibly jumped, and whirled on his heel to face her, brandishing a trowel. She waved him over, insistent, and he obeyed, though wore a mask of confusion all the while.

“What can I do for you, missy?” he asked. She stood waiting, ears strained, and he coughed in turn, awkwardly tucking his hands into the pockets of his dirt-smudged trousers. Then she heard it again, stronger now–a peep, it was. She cupped a hand to her ear, throwing the gardener an imploring glance, and she saw the understanding flash in his face. They began the search, peering into fountains and under rose bushes, and as the quiet went on uninterrupted, her hope began to peter out.

“Look here, missy! I found something!”

She hurried over to him, where he stood pointing at the hedgerows wreathing the statue of a man on the back of a horse. “It’d be a tight squeeze for me, but d’you think you can wiggle under?” he asked, and without any fuss she ducked under the greenery quick as a wink, her stomach flat against the ground. The smell of earth dominated her senses, and her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

She was soon working her way out from under the hedge, and returned dirtied but no worse for wear with something cupped in her hands, clutched to her chest, and she held it out for the gardener’s appraisal. A tiny chick sat trembling fiercely in the palm of her glove, looking at them both with eyes like inkwells and the regard of someone who looked like they dearly wanted a nap. Its dandelion-yellow baby fluff was mussed and a little muddied.

“Well, I’ll be! Look at that,” exclaimed the gardener, giving a whoop of laughter. Then he tucked both thumbs in his belt and canted his head, concern beginning to knit his brow. “Been in the cold, though. Best get it warm, and fast; it’s been away from mama too long.” Then a new gleam entered his eyes as the chick huddled against her thumb. “But it’s lookin’ real likely you’re mama now, no say-so in the matter. So I expect everything will be alright, since it’s got you.” He went away whistling to return to his duties, and she was left sitting alone with the chick cradled in her hands.

She looked at it truly for the first time, and felt a stab of fear enter her heart, put there by the hand of new responsibility. It was a wee little thing–she’d never taken in anything so young before, but who else did it have? The fear was tempered by something else, a warmer feeling that began to suffuse her breast, and she resolved to hold fast to that instead. She brushed the chick gently with her thumb.

But where to put it? A pocket? That might do, and at first blush she nearly followed through with her gut, but then thought better of it. Her fingers found the hem of her coif underneath her chin and she drew it away from her throat, gingerly placing the chick inside. She could think of no better spot. It soon settled in the hollow above her collarbone, and fell quiet after nestling into the comfortable warmth of her throat.

Then she remembered Olivia, and the Order, and regulations against keeping live animals in bunks; the Overseer’s wrath would put the imagination of Dante Alighieri to shame, and she would be court martialed for harboring poultry and everything would be horrid, and–oh, what was she to do?

Her face fell into her hands, and she rubbed at it despairingly. Oh, fuck.

If Olivia noticed the new lump in her coif, she said nothing of it, and Segolene made a point of hiding it as best she could–but the truth of it was that she was terrible at keeping secrets, and so spent a good amount of the ride back to the base angling away and sweating profusely to the point that her companion asked if she was feeling unwell, and she played it off as a stomachache. She also had a rising suspicion that the nameless chick had also relieved itself (as babies tended to do) somewhere between the cathedral and the base, but that was the least of her concerns tonight. She heaved a sigh. C’est la pee.

Leaning her head against the window that sported speckles that hinted of rain to come, she closed her eyes to think, and tried to find a moment's peace; it might be the only sleep she would enjoy tonight.




The soles of shoes shuffling quietly across the tiled floors of a large room. A smell–more memory than smell, a sense she did not truly feel–of mingling things; a sterile, clinical tang that barely masks the scent of iron and beginning stages of decay. The surface at her back is cold, unyielding.

“I had hopes, such hopes–but even she…” In English, the voice is somewhere above her, away to the side. A woman’s; aged, but not, and weighted heavily with defeat. “Too late. The hoofbeats of Death’s steed were too near, and his blade was already raised. We were too late.”

Muted steps resound, growing nearer. Eyelids flutter, giving the scarcest glimpse of a light above, blindingly bright to the point of pain. She realizes, then, that her body is bare, and her wrists are bound to the table. Her head swims, as though filled to brimming by mists, what is wrong? This isn’t right; no, this isn’t right, something has been done. The fear she feels is dimmed, distant. A door opens.

“What news?” comes the young-old voice again, and the answering one is panicked.

“He’s come–the Hellhound is come with his retinue. He’s in league with beasts–they’re in the streets now–”

A crash, the sound of tools clattering to the floor. “Chastel,” she spat, a curse and a slur. “The baseborn scion of grasping peasantry has tracked our flight from Néris-les-Bains.” There are several moments of silence. She is slipping back again, away, away, away, her limbs and tongue will not obey her and she is afraid; she wants only to go home. “The hunt is begun. Quickly now, make haste! They mustn’t find our work. Take everything out and put it to the torch–”
 
Last edited:
René Troxler
Ephemera
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Alone
DOING: Avoiding the inevitable
CREDIT: nikoboiko
PLAYLIST:


Hell below could not be much different than the inferno raging around the town he loved so well. He could feel the singes on the frayed hems of his sleeves and the smoke perforating his young lungs. It wasn’t even the hardest part, the inhalation of the ash and smog from the blaze, it was the tactile pressure exuding from the figure looming ahead. Looking like the harbinger itself, the smooth decadence of their stride was palpable to the young boy. A soft hiss sounded from the cabalistic stranger’s tongue, ticking in steady time like his mother’s metronome. His hyperactive mind wandered briefly despite his panic. It was probably a piece of charcoal now, the musician’s tool.

Petalled lips parted, wanting to relinquish the cry that would not come. It was caged in his chest. A timid few steps back sent the child falling back, tripping over some unknown foil in his futile attempt to escape. Still, the harbinger came forward. The pounding in his ears grew. Though he could not see beneath the mask, he could almost sense the satisfied, feline smile in the shadows. The stranger hunched back, poised, ready to pounce. Finally, a hoarse, sharp squeak creaked out of the boy’s mouth.

He did not know death. He couldn’t comprehend it beyond fishing with his father and watching his mother preparing fowl for dinner. He was still too new and virtuous to the world to understand that what would come for him would destroy that innocence, would take his tomorrows away in the same breath he could use to scream.

But scream, he did.

As soon as the creature lurched forward there was a spark of light and liquid, heavy sound that followed. The body slumped in a heap to the cobblestones marred red by the firelight and blood. Soot-covered and trembling violently, the blond looked up to the armored, pepper-haired knight in front of him.

His savior turned to him and knelt before the child. A cold metal hand tipped his chin up and turned it this way and that, keen walnut eyes observed the waif while the corners turned upwards in relief. Orange tones danced on the chiseled cheeks of the knight’s umber skin, and there was perceived warmth in the cold stare.

It couldn’t be helped; he began to wail. The horror had passed, and there was some mysterious man smiling at him after killing the scary stranger. His Papa had been missing since the fire started. He could not find his Mama. Where were they? Why didn’t they come to find him?

The knight took the dirty, sobbing boy into his arms and mechanically patted his back. “Easy, boy,” he gruffed,

“BUT! But my Mama! And Papa!!” he distraughtly shrieked, at last finding his voice in the shaking tremor of his confused misery and relief. “Papa is a knight!! He went to fight!”

There was a steady rise and fall in the chest that rose against the armor the knight wore. A drawn-out, strained sigh huffed from the stranger’s nostrils. A heavy hand patted the boy’s back. “The town must be cleansed first and its people saved. Then we will see your Mama and Papa again.”

In silence amongst the flames and rubble, the blond was carried, his sobs softening into whimpers and hiccups. He watched the cobblestones pass beneath the taller stranger’s feet, a white cape at his back billowing as he moved. “Let us get you to the outpost,” the knight said, the cape fluttering in a great gust that pushed smoke and ash into the boy’s eyes. The cape lifted and flattened for him to make out a massive red cross amongst the folds of the fabric. “You'll be a strong one yet, cubling.”


— — —

Keeping up with the workload became progressively easier, even with the local chapter coming to Paradise. All were seeking to connect with the engineering geniuses hidden within the 84th and those who had been assigned to the capture of the Key. The number of requests was steady but easy. Americans, Rene decided, were simple and unimaginative. That was fine. The blond engineer had taken to losing himself in his work. Hours spent in the lab had been built to become mountainous and vast. Even in calling on blacksmiths he did not shirk off to others to do but took it upon himself to ensure the orders he made for his projects came directly from the source.

His eyes were sunken and deep. The glimmer of gold had faded to ashy bronze in his irises. What sleep he had permitted himself came only when he had exhausted all other options. Sometimes it would overcome him in the lab, and he’d rest his head within the solace of his hands. However, the weight of the titanium and the bite of the stinging cold of his left hand would shock him back to consciousness. Such a shock would spring him back, cussing in German, but it was a warranted offense in René’s eyes. So much to do, so little need to return to his empty room, to his bed and rest.

Between the orders and the fighting off of sleep was the company of the preteen werebeast. He found the child amusing, but overwhelming. There were moments he found himself on the edge of berating the boy for acting beyond the necessary hormonal imbalance most pubescent children were guilty of. As he was on the precipice of sleep-deprived anger, he’d hear the voice of his old instructors in his ear, pissed and enraged at his inadequacy. A sneer would mar his pretty countenance, and he’d turn away from the boy, defeated.

It was after one such occasion he found himself wandering the halls of Paradise, seeking reprieve but not slumber. So often he’d pass near his former commander’s room, wishing he could knock on it to hear the comfort of her lilting voice. The sharpness of her wit and her kindness was sorely missed by her protegé. His knuckles grazed the door for the briefest of seconds, but he thought better of it. Who would answer, after all? An echo? The owner of the room was an ocean away.

Stepping away, he composed himself with a weighty, exhausted sigh. The high collar of his robe felt tight against his throat. The desire for sleep was bearing down heavily on his shoulders, but so were so many other burdens– emotional or otherwise. However, it was during these ponderings Ephemera heard the turn of the door and his heart leaped into the thick of his throat. Holly wasn’t expected to return soon, if at all. Had she managed to avoid the harsh realities of their failure in the Americas?

He turned quickly to see if it wasn’t just his hopeful imagination. No, the door was indeed opening, and a young woman was exiting with bright blonde hair… but the height was wrong. There were no modifications that broadened her frame. Simply, it wasn’t Holly Wilshire. Instantly Ephemera deflated and a weak, quiet chuckle of defeat bubbled in his throat. However, it would not last. Who in the seven rings was this woman and why was she coming out of the General’s abandoned room?

“Excuse me,” he asked, walking towards her and eyeing the papers held in her hand, “who are you, and what business did you have in Wilshire’s office?”






 
Marcus Sideris
Erebos
health bar
WHERE: Garden District
WITH: Esther
DOING: Working
CREDIT: peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:
💥

She was a pleasant compatriot for the evening, this older immortal. Her phrasing turned over her tongue in rhythmic succession and still, he played with the undertones of her accent to try better to place her origins. However, it wouldn’t be long before she would give it to him freely.

Spanish spoken so fluently he’d have thought her a cousin come to visit from overseas. It was a welcome shift from the other languages he heard so often. Spaniards had ruled over the Louisiana colonies hundreds of years before, it was true, but their roots never settled quite as deeply nor as strong as its French counterpart. His eyebrows perked up in surprise as he turned to the woman beside him, but it settled into a Cheshire grin. “Which grandmother taught you that?” he quizzed curiously.

He was greeted with a smile in turn. “Perchance mine.”

The brunet huffed a chuckle from his nose and turned his eyes back towards the mansion, piecing together the bits he’d learned about the woman beside him. Friend to vampire, beast, and freak alike. Spaniard. Secretive. Sly. What an interesting creature she was, this modern woman. His mentor would’ve liked her, he suspected, had he stuck around long enough to gain her acquaintance and not hauled off for the next adventure away from the madness of the city. To be certain, it was a wise choice for the pirate to see his escape before the powers that be came raining down on him while he docked at their ports. For all Erebos knew, the cause of the madness could have ties to the old man after all or he’d found himself tied to the situation regardless of his penchant for neutrality.

The silence grew between them once more and he found he did not mind it. For it allowed him the space to play peer this way and that at the occasional passerby on the street. His senses were not so great that he could smell them as he would’ve liked. Here and there was the muffled sound of a ticking or the deep pounding of a pumping heart. Then there was the crisp scratch of a knife off to his side as she knicked and pulled at the figurine in hand. His fingers drummed in tune to the labor in such a way only he could hear, but the stillness of the evening was beginning to wane on him. He’d thought perhaps there would be some intrigue to standing watch over the headquarters of the mightiest military seen the world over. But instead… it was… dull. His lips formed a curse as he settled deeper against the branch he’d made a backrest of and sneered at the majestic facade. So this is what his brother had sold him out for? This was what was worth his life and a few extra shillings in that bastard’s back pocket?

Irritation won out in the end before he sought to distract himself, turning to watch as Sherwood formed a wolf within her hand. “That passes the time?” he asked, jerking his chin toward the statuette.

Her gaze pierced his questioningly before responding kindly about a mutt that had been her pet. He nodded cordially to the story while she put away the trifle. His own sights turned back to the blasted building he was growing weary of watching. “And you? Have you someone to keep watch?

“On and off,” he ventured as he thought of his mentor again, sighing through his nose. For all of the trouble he’d gone through in his early life as a vampire, Virgil had remained steadfast even if he was unwelcoming in taking Marcus in. It wasn’t a choice the teen had given him but rather had forced himself upon the pirate’s better nature. The Greek teen paid for it over time, learning what he could of the Fantome’s self-control and how better to instill it within himself, but then being the subject of his ridiculous machinations for entertainment. “He’s an ass, but he’s a good man.”

He looked back at Sherwood as she mentioned the new ‘Queen of the Leeches’ and her predecessor. He’d missed that illustrious reign but it appeared he may have been better for it. His own creator was likely a subject of such a torrid time between the immortal races, driven mad or perhaps just another starved being. Wrong place, wrong time for him. But why make him? He’d never know, but at least according to this neutral acquaintance he’d be welcome in the new royal’s home.

“Perhaps–” he started after a moment turning it over it over in his head, but there was movement along the eves of the building across from them and a hand silenced him. Shadows stirred and moved in the dark, ruffling of footfalls. A truck’s engine turned over. Blast it all!

Shifting around the wide trunk of the tree he slipped from branch to branch down its side again, only to drop to the moist, humid ground along with the mossy roots of the Southern oak. The sound was muffled at best and he started to slink among the tall American holly shrubs. Before he could gain ground towards the mansion his collar was caught in a locked hold. Erebos choked on the topmost button of his shirt as it lodged against his adam's apple. As he plucked the button open and saved himself the pain of another lost breath before she loosed him again moments later, whispering they were free to move.

There was no movement outside, and any noise within sounded across creaking floorboards. He scanned over the tracks the vehicle had left behind and wondered where it was headed off to. Erebos was ready to move deeper into the enemy lair when he turned around towards his companion. Silently, he motioned to gain her attention. When she graced his visage he gestured with the tilt of his head towards the awning protecting two additional vehicles. Sherwood shook her head and pulled something in tight to her chest while her eyes shifted between the awning and him. Slowly, the mysterious immortal backed away from him, prepared to leave with or without him.

His upper lip lifted over the titanium canines in a frustrated grimace. Following her lead, Marcus turned away, too. They had found what they had come for.

Through the shadows, they made haste back across the street and through the yards of several homes. However, it seemed that would be the way of it for the duration of their walk through the Garden District. Neither spoke while she led on, determination clear with each step but she did not make any gesture for him not to follow. Several minutes passed in silence until they came through one such yard that was odd. Targets were lined against a high, brick fence. Knives were stuck in one, axes in another. Several were rusted over in abandonment. On the back patio was a fine seating arrangement that contrasted the odd lineup. Four high-back peacock wicker chairs encircled a glass table, a swing hung with thick, plush cushions with a low wicker table in front along the opposite of the wide setting. Lights were off, but they moved towards the door. If they were approaching this place, and from the rear, it could only mean they were entering the abode of a comrade. He had a damned good idea who.

They stopped at the top of the stairs before whatever she had concealed from the building before was taken out from her jacket. A broken doll. “Ella tiene vista de lince,” he muttered to himself while he eyed Sherwood cautiously.


***Ella tiene vista de lince- she has the eyes of a lynx-- sharp-sighted







 
Esther Asturias
SHERWOOD
health 🙢 50/100
WHERE: Outside a Templar Base ⮚ A raven's roost in the Garden District
WITH: A barman
DOING: Resting
CREDIT: W.J. Neatby

He followed, as Esther believed he would, and she walked on, hastening. She slipped through the city without so much as a whisper of a footfall left in her wake. All the while as they navigated the shadow-draped gardens of homes whose tones a meadow of flowers, wild and evocative in their brightness, she remained sharply conscious of the doll on her person; every step seemed to leaden the porcelain limbs and further imbue them with weight, and though her mind did wander, it never wandered far from it.

They’d seen to the task and retrieved evidence from under the Order’s noses—or somewhere close to that, leastways. But was it enough? All there was left to do was reconvene, and she hoped that the others had been more fortunate than they were in their finds. If there was anything to be taken from her time in London, they needed more than evidence.

Her gaze, peering out from the cloth obscuring her face, remained trained ahead, and only now and again would break focus at the slightest sign of movement. The lift of a magnolia limb on the breeze, the stirring of a curtain in the glow of a window. Fleetingly she halted at the mouth of a byway, rigid and still. Nearby, two sets of feet mingling with murmurs of conversation were receding into the distance, and when the quiet descended again, she pressed on.

At last they stood in the familiar brick-walled yard of their destination, a raven's roost in the Garden District. “Her ward’s handiwork,” she said of the targets pierced by all manner of weaponry, and made a note to pass on her compliments later. “Her aim grows sharper. By the day, I would wager. Now that I think on it, I imagine you would enjoy her company, and she yours. We may see her tonight.” But if the rust were any indication, she might have been shying away from practicing. She wondered how the girl was faring, and not for the first time. The loss of the northman had come as a heavy blow, but she had full faith that Maeve would keep an eye.

She stood in silence, taking stock of the house with hands on hips, and gave a nod—more to herself than anyone else. “Right, then. It seems we’re the first to return,” she remarked amiably to her companion, wrapping the doll in her shawl and tucking it into her belt. Beneath a show of warmth she shaded a flicker of worry; absence wasn’t necessarily an indication that something had gone awry. “Our work tonight is done; all that’s left to do is wait. But first, something else. One small task.”

Esther thought nothing of the state of the place, at first. She assumed the housekeeper hadn’t come by this evening, because she would leave the lights on for the lady of the house, but before she ventured nearer, she caught herself. A possibility had drifted across her mind, and she stilled in its wake. When her eyes flicked back to the windows to pick over the panes, they were sharpened by a renewed focus.

Speaking in hushed tones, she bid Erebos to wait a moment where he stood, and left his side, purpose in her stride, and went round the side of the house to stand beneath the second story balcony. Her mouth twisted in thought as she appraised her quarry and what stamina yet remained at her command. She could have asked her compatriot in reconnaissance for assistance, but decided instead to chance it. After some brief silent consideration, she leapt. The heel of her boot touched upon the porch and she jumped, taking hold of the balcony edge with both hands, and then swung herself up to hook a leg over the wrought-iron railing. Every movement demanded more of her tonight, and she felt it fully now. A sheen of sweat was rising at her temples from the strain; every maneuver, even drawing breath, was being rendered ungainly, but she could still remain discreet.

A new opponent was lying in wait. Esther turned a wary, considering eye to the palm sitting innocuously in its pot container that she could have lifted over her head—and one-handed, at that—with ease but a week ago. She tipped it to one side. A little key sat gleaming underneath.

At the door of the back porch she said nothing to Erebos, but a hand lifted at her side, palm bared, in a silent entreaty for him to remain where he was, at a distance but near enough to help if there was sudden need. Then her fingers had sought to unsheathe one of the twin blades at her hips. Flipping it deftly in her grasp, the blade with its pattern-welded striations and whorls reminiscent of wind and water came to rest between between forefinger and thumb, ready and waiting to be cast from one hand, and with the other, she opened the door.

Pitch darkness permeated the interior. Her eyes adjusted, faintly luminous, when she pressed inside, straining all senses and drawing in a slow, deep breath as she scented the air within, weighing it on her tongue.

But there was nothing. A brief search assured her there was no cause for caution; there was no trace of forced entry that she could see, and all things seemed to be in their proper place. Allowing herself to fall back into ease, the gleam of the long knife was snuffed out in its sheath. At the turning of a switch the house lights flickered to life in their glass casements, swift as a fingersnap. She still wasn’t quite accustomed to it, for the electricals in her own residence were still faulty and she relied on firelight, and she stood blinking the spots away from her vision. Then she set to the coffee pot to brew enough for ten, and called out to Erebos that there was all manner of refreshment inside should he wish to partake. Maeve Donovan’s residence was more a meeting house of late, and she in truth did not know how often the woman herself slept there. But if the raven spent more nights than not in Storyville (not that it was anyone’s business) who could blame her? Comfort came in all forms.

Making her way back outside, she settled and sank back into one of the high-backed wicker chairs. Absently she began to draw the pins from her hair, and her braid fell over her shoulder. She did not mean to stir again for a spell; the fatigue in her limbs told her she had played things riskily enough for one evening, and ought to rest awhile. She decided, for the time being, to be obliging and pay heed.

Her eyes slipped closed, and she took a moment’s reprieve until the scent of chicory coffee began to fragrance the night air, and the smell alone was invigorating enough. She brought herself with some reluctance back to the waking world. The skies above remained unyielding, threatening storms to come. She watched with contemplative regard.

“There is an old tale told in the east,” Esther began, voice hushed. “At the beginning of all things, there was only water. A dragon of the seas, terrible and great, waged war upon usurping gods. When she was slain, the earth and the heavens were wrought from her body and breath. The sighs from her final throes were said to trail still through the firmament as an arch of spindrift and brume in the black vastness, only to be perceived on the clearest of nights. When first I heard it, I might have seen it if not for the twilit veil. But even now, I think the lights of this city are too obscuring.” Loosing a trickling sigh, she sank further into the seat, into herself, her hands lying limply folded across her stomach.

“The coffee will need a minute more,” she said, glancing at the young fellow, hazel-green eyes agleam, “We’ve a wait ahead of us ‘til the others return; you’re welcome to sit, if you like. What did you make of your first stake-out, as they call them in adventure novels? How did it compare to a shift at the bar?”




Beyond the window England's west country swept unsteadily by, silent and mantled in white beneath the blue dusk. The barren trees and hedgerows were not dead, I thought, only dead-seeming; one need only scrape away at their dun hides to find the green lying in wait beneath. In weeks to come the pale-cold raiment would pull back, withdrawing to give way for the season soon to sweep over the landscape. Yuletide was well behind and the snow spoken of as a guest staying overlong; some households, for want of spring, had put aside the evergreen trimmings and clove-punctured oranges for swags of dried floralia.

Opposite me you sat in the wan glow of the coach’s lantern, slumbering only just past the bounds of the waking world; true rest had evaded you since our departure. Every fiber of your being was rimed by apprehension.

I’d sensed the first day of your season’s stay at Kewstoke that this would not be as the others—just how many had it been? In the days previous, preparations had commandeered my schedule; I’d already turned out your room, if memory serves, and all that was left was tending the new layer of thatch on the roof before the first frosts glimmered in the grass.

Visitors have rarely graced the dell I call home, as well you know, poised on a shallow incline and peeking a stony countenance from the embowering overgrowth in the hills that swelled outside the village outskirts, only a short walk from the shore. The seclusion was by design, too, so as to keep folk from appearing on my doorstep trying to siren-song me out of retirement. After that earnest huntsman of France set up camp in my garden—right beside the geraniums!—and would not vacate (admittedly as politely as one could have done) until I agreed to take on a commission, that tore it; I put my foot down and relocated.

I was at the rear of the house, balanced on a ladder’s top rung and trimming the newly-laid layer of thatch on the roof, when I heard the hummed notes carrying faintly on the air. I remained at my post, waiting. I expected this would carry out as it always had. Like a foundling you would appear with the first chill to rap at my door, which was never latched, and wait for my answer. I’ve sussed out why, I think—it wasn’t done out of English courtesy, nor because you did not see the cottage as a home. In a life of ceaseless movement, it was a rare and precious occasion to know an ear was strained for your arrival.

The longer I waited, the farther the snip-snip of the shears in my hand drew me back to my task, away to distraction. Without warning a call of ‘Coo—ee!’ rose up from down below. There you stood, proudly barefooted and with hands on hips; a woman city-born turned wilding, daughter of many motherlands. Already you had shucked off your traveling cloak and what few things you carried on the road, the dust in your wayworn attire itself a testament to wanderlust. As I clapped a hand over my heart, collecting myself, you were saying something or other about how you’d heard that was how folk called to one another over distances in a land down under, and I suppose they must because it was still echoing in the space between my ears.

Your winter-eve arrival was almost as it ever had been, as though you’d never been gone, just returning from an errand—almost, because that winter-eve proved differing from its past fellows.

You stirred not long before we reached our destination; I passed you the canister of warm brandy from our basket for a touch of liquid courage, and after gazing out the window for a spell, you asked unprompted if I thought she could forgive you; you had forgiven your father, and he his, so could she? Would she?

Country road was soon overtaken by city street. We secured both respite and lodging first before seeking out the services of a carriage driver, settling upon one Mr. Bennet, who did not look a day over twenty but knew the lay of the streets like the lines of his hands. We explained our wishes to see the whole of the city. I don’t believe it’s a request one receives every day, yet he accepted all the same after receiving assurances that he would be accordingly compensated; he knew his worth, astute businessman that he was.

Our phaeton rolled down thoroughfare and bystreet alike without fanfare, its passage marked only by the sound of hoof meeting cobble. On the frigid air Bennet’s breath plumed in clouds, and ours in wisps. Silvered knolls and greenwards passed us by, and it seemed the countenance of every structure, from tearoom to manse, was wrought of the selfsame honey-hued stone.

Seated beside me you would in turns lie in a well of quiet as you treaded memory, and in others, you were a candid wellspring of details, each preceded by recognition flashing brightly and a breathless exclamation of ‘Oh, look.’ The willow-swept green waters of the River Avon, and the canal where you laid napping and adrift in boats on fair-weathered days; the thermae spa, in use even before the Romans were sovereign over Britannia; the park where you had practiced your archery when your body permitted sport, the brush of fletching an uncannily familiar comfort; residences of beloved acquaintances and friends come and gone.

And so, when you first bid the driver to stop the carriage, it did not register in either of us, and when you endeavored in earnest to speak again, you struggled to recover your voice. One glimpse, and I knew; I asked if you were certain, and you were. Yes, that was the place.

That accursed night is embalmed in my memory, too; smoke was a suffusing pall upon the air, and the rain in the gutter at my feet ran with the color of an abattoir’s runoff. I sought out their meeting place—and found you. I was astonished, and aggrieved, to discover the ravaged form sprawled across the cobbles still drew breath. I pulled your hands from your sundered breast, and wrapped you in my coat; you bid me ensure you harmed no one else, and so, I spirited you away. For many years I did not realize I’d misunderstood what you were asking of me.

Side by side at the alley mouth you remained at the threshold and went no further, gazing steadily into the gloom that lay beyond. It was vacant save a hoop and stick that had been left leaning against a wall, waiting to be taken up for the next game. I looked to you then, and thought of how far you’ve come.

I once asked how it felt to be new, and changed; I had long since forgotten, and I could not recall exactly how long it had been since I ceased bothering with year-numbering.

Wakened, you said, wakened; as though all the years of your life before had been spent in a waking dream. And as you lay looking, mired in agony, the veil of cloud drew away from the halfmoon that hung suspended in the ribbon of sky above the alley. You wondered if it was an eye closing, or an eye opening. You had known from the first and from the deeps of yourself that you were changed, but could not place so selcouth a feeling. You only knew there was a newfound heaviness unlike any you had ever felt, a weight within your breast that you were conscious of with every movement. Beneath, there was a brimming need—hunger, thirst, and all things in between. Only with the passage of time did you come to abide it all, after you, too, had forgotten how it was to be without.

I never felt so inadequate as I did in the moment I realized I had no panacea, nothing that would undo the violation visited upon your person. I tended you as best I could, and poured in desperation over every book in my library, but my efforts were nothing, for I was unversed in that clandestine art of Making. There are few who are.

So, with burgeoning resolve, I pulled myself from the depths of my research and coaxed you into going out of doors. This was the first time you’d left the cottage since arriving, and I carried you to the time-smoothed stairs that led to the ruin they call Monk’s Hill. There we sat, and after we had breakfasted, I presented you with my findings, and spoke as softly as one can to convey a hard truth. You were not recovering as you ought, and I had ascertained that the automaton, were the damage untended, would soon give out. By all appearances nothing could be done, and yet… there was a chance.

I could not make you as you were, but I could give you a choice. There was a chance, and perhaps a small one, that I could apply all my learning to help you—should you choose.

At length, you were quiet. Your hands, and the features of your face, were almost hidden away in their entirety beneath the layer of fresh bandaging I’d wound that morning. What little remained of your hair peeped through in ragged tufts that wavered in the breeze. Then your trembling fingers sought mine, and I knew your answer.

The better part of a century later, the light of a lamppost slanted across your cheek at an angle, hitting it just so, and the faint scarring remaining was thrown into relief.

In truth, I’d already had the ore in mind; when I changed your dressings I’d taken to telling stories to fill the silence. I told you of a Welsh boy born to herders and weavers, a second son apprenticed under a smith, who would look beyond field and forge to think lofty thoughts and steal whatever time he could to listen in on talks of philosophy and progress in the city’s coffeehouses. Something in that struck a chord in you, and in turn, you traded with me a story of another boy.

The father came with the llevantades, an itinerant from across the sea. A man with no family name, Alshain Al-Sialan lived adrift until he crossed paths with a woman who peddled newsprint-cradled roast chestnuts in the streets of Gijón. In the way of his forebears, their son Ebrahim would bear the name of the land to which he was born, the place to which his father was tethered… for a spell. A day came when he told his son he’d held out for as long as he could, but no longer. He was one of few, too few, who remembered the touch of the sun; across an age he’d been drawn to such a thinness that all sense of shape was slipping from him, and he knew then that he was well-nigh to losing himself. He entreated his son to maintain the memory in his stead, and soon, he was gone. The boy, who took on any odd job at the docks, became known for his talent at knowing the temperament of the winds, and his sense for the cardinal directions; it was not long before a childless merchant glimpsed his potential and showed him kindness, and in turn, his trade.

In their precious years together the father had shaken a thousand and one fairy-stories of faraway from his clothing’s creases; of the never-alighting humā, the wide-reaching rukh, the deep-knowledged simurgh, and of his people. In time’s true course, they would reach the sickbed of a little girl who yearned behind glass.

Your father understood you in a way your mother could not, could put into words things the children around you did not feel. Feelings of in-betweenness and unbelonging, the pulls you felt from the horizon that drew you every which way, the wish to go. If he could have done, he would have let his heart's own blood for your well-being's nourishment.

We know only now with the gift of hindsight why that woman was so keen from the moment she found you; she would have spun a thousandfold untruths and false promises to your father if it meant having you laid out on her table, her clay to mold.

When I came by the ore I would one day use in the repair of the heart, the moorland I recovered it from as far as I could perceive was a millefleur tapestry of delicate flowers, save the scar in the earth, but I knew the heath would someday close over the soil again. It was my sincerest hope that you, my daughter found, so too would flourish. I would render that iron into steel only once more, when you found yourself in need of a staff. Unversed as I am in the art of Making, the mend was not a true one, and time has proved its hold is not everlasting.

The skies promised snow when we quit the alley mouth, your arm tucked in mine. Your face was so free of color I feared you would faint. I guided you to the carriage door and went to go round to the other side, and then, without so much as a how-do-you-do, my coat was struck by a ball of packed snow. As I turned you went darting for cover, and the grin I glimpsed stretching across your face befitted the Lord of Misrule. After collecting myself, I responded as one only can to such a challenge to defend dignity and stooped down to gather snow into my hands. A gaggle of adolescents down the street, who were entirely far too grown-up and dignified for snowball fights, stood watching in bewildered bemusement.

The three of us—you, and I, and even Mr. Bennet after encouragement—went to the best place for remedying chills and afternoon appetites. We were soon seated at a table in Sally Lunn’s, and as we talked over tea and a plate piled high with oven-warm buns flanked by generous helpings of clotted cream and jewel-toned jams, I saw warmth’s tentative return to your countenance.

The horse was turned away from the bustling thoroughfares, up a road that followed a quiet, lush rise a little ways from the city proper. The carriage rounded a bend, and there it waited, just as you said: a house at the edge of a wood called Smallcombe, and the outermost garden wall whose colors at first glance evoked light upon the shimmering open sea.

The swath of inlaid ceramic tile was emblazoned with all manner of geometrics lined in lapis-blue. A lifetime ago the new masters of the place had drawn back their sleeves and assisted with their placement, to the surprise of the workmen; by day’s end the project was finished ahead of schedule, and they were all of them sharing a tumbler of lemonade in celebration of a job well done. When immersed in games of play-pretend you would take to running your palms along the cool tiles, thinking of the Ishtar Gate of ancient-old. Your father had commissioned them from Mintons in Staffordshire, the only pottery this far north to produce azulejos. He could have had them imported from any number of reputable manufacturers in Seville, but turned to embrace England instead. By your account, his countrymen would not always respond in kind.

Outside the gate, I read the fear in your eyes. Within your mind she remained as you knew her, no higher than your knee, and without, the fire in her hair had long since gone to silver. At that moment, did you dwell on your Abuela Thereza?

You summered in Gijón only once, when you were young. Many a street was strung with lines of colorful bunting to mark the many midyear festivities. Across the sea, Castilian was relegated for home and for your father’s company, but there it danced with Asturian on every corner. Your Abuela’s house wedged cozily within Cimadevilla, where she resided in solitude despite her son's entreaties. It was the eldest quarter populated mainly by fishermen, where the facades of diminutive houses were painted in charming, winsome shades. Close-walled streets ran between frescoed plazas, where the air one breathed effervesced with murmuring of fountains and merriment drifting from the city’s best siderias.

One evening, as you walked home from the residence of a cousin, you paused. A storm had broken upon the coast, and a calm was left in its wake. You found yourself discomfited, inexplicably. Over a neighbor’s eaves you spied two points of light, level and near to one another, and so steady you believed their glow to be cast from faraway planets. You gazed with fascination when they winked out—fleetingly. But you realized, then, that it was not the flickering of stars but a blink snuffing out the shine of two great eyes, aglow like faded gledes.

That was when you noticed the outline of a shape perched atop the tiled roofs, towering and dark against the vestiges of tempest behind. At length you stood looking, knowing beyond knowing how that the stare was upon you. The flash of lightning was one that filled the sky, illuminating the shadow that sat looming over the street, and the ensuing roll of thunder that sounded in the far distance startled your feet into moving of their own accord. You ran inside to grasp for your Abuela’s skirts and tell her, breathless, of the thing you had seen. You did not understand then why she ran out into the night, calling out frantically.

You sat paralyzed, and said to me, hushed, that it was better that she did not see you, and if she did she would not know you, or worse might very well turn you away, and perhaps well within her rights to. When I offered to go in your stead, I’d done so with hardly a thought—I don’t know what came over me nor what I was getting myself into, but within moments I found myself having walked up the drive, standing at the door, and was staring a confused housemaid in the face. On the spot I’d managed to spin a grand fib about having plans to relocate to the area, and on a lark had decided to bring my questions to a local resident. I truly doubted she bought the story. The door was slowly edging closed when a voice sounded from behind her in the foyer, inquiring about the stranger on the step. There you stood—or, rather, something very close to how I imagined you would have looked, had your life run its course. The likeness, I tell you, is so striking I was taken aback.

We took our coffee in the conservatory, where greenery had not felt the frost. I can’t rightly say if the lady of the house bought my lie, either, but I was never called out. If anything, she was steadfastly curious about me, and that surpassed any misgivings. When her interest is caught, her eyes seem to light the way yours so often do. In accordance with your wishes, I never mentioned my traveling companion, but tried to subtly attain as much as I could about the woman opposite me, all the more to convey back to you.

Conversation had wound down and I had begun fidgeting with my hat, sensing the time to go was nearing, when her voice dwindled away in the midst of a sentence.

I saw her gaze was fixed upon something beyond me; then, the cup slipped from her hands and went tumbling to the floor. Past the glass panes, you were walking the grounds you knew so well. The lady of the house went striding to the door, and flakes of snow came swirling inside. You sighted her, and stilled.

‘Mother?’ asked the daughter.

‘Daughter,’ answered the mother.

From beneath you your legs gave way, but you did not fall; your Sarah caught you in her embrace and you held fast, weeping not for what was lost and never could be had again, but for what was found and all that could be—winter’s yielding.

I have glimpsed wonder in a flower that thrives in splendor for but a day’s span before the petals turn to dust, felt in my soul stirred higher by the bird that sings a season than by the music box that turns a thousand. I chose to search for the arcanum in this age of strife, industry and unchecked seeking, the jealously guarded secret of Making—not to the end of siring newborns, but because I had dared to entertain a hypothesis that if immortality can be made, so too can it be unmade, and I could not strike the notion from me. What put it there?

I look up from pen and paper to see you now, a hand to the blue-tiled wall. I sit in the garden of your childhood home, where we have been for some weeks. You will stay, but I will press on. I will tell you I am going away on business.

Your gaze rests someplace in the distance. The wind itself, I think, murmurs to you of things not yet seen, of the thrilling and untold possibility beyond the horizon, should you crest it.

In you, for but a moment, I glimpse the girlchild who dreamt; I know that I had a hand in granting her heart's dearest wish, too, and that my life’s pursuits truly built to that, not for the work that came after.

I hope you will never look upon this letter; but should this page pass before your eyes, then it is all too likely that I cannot continue. Whatever befell me, the mantle of blame is not yours to wear; I accepted the risk. I leave everything to you, to do with as you will, and perchance someday my efforts may be a verse in a ballad finished by another hand. Walk tall, laugh, and live true to all that you are; wherever you may go, Esther, know that I go with you.


Tomos Wefan


 
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Olivia Baynes
Raphael
health bar
Where: Paradise - Jonah's Office
With: Ségolène ⇀ Jonah ⇀ No One
Doing: Reporting ⇀ Returning to MedBay
Credit: AdamaSto
Playlist:
The journey felt short, the rush of the cold wind and relentless thoughts were of no assistance either. Despite her inward battle, Olivia glued her focus to the task at hand as they approached a familiar church. Her body moved of its own accord, her mind nonchalantly tossing intrusive thoughts aside no matter how much they whined for her attention. The pastor's voice was enough of a hold to the earthly plane, a flock of papers tumbling into her palms sent down a chill. She forced herself to repeat his words in her head, ensuring she did not miss a word nor lose any piece of information he had to offer. It was faith that allowed this cooperation, and she intended to take advantage of it while she could. Despite the loss of their leader's influence, their name continued to reach further places. It was not guaranteed how long it would last, given the failure and losses up until this point, and she would waste no time in gathering all the help they could get. If there was any chance of seeing this mission to the end, there would be no hesitation in claiming it.

Upon entering the threshold, conversation flowed; though she mainly listened. Raphael was not one for many words outside of her field. There had always been others who took over, inhaling all the information they sought after. She was more of the observant type; picking up cues and telltales that proved useful, and in most cases ease the mission well into success. As memories danced at the back of her mind, strong herb-infused scent casted a heated cloud as two young lads passed by them, golden ornament in hand. The cathedral was well-lit, candles lined in crowds at the altars in each corner. They flickered in waves, shadows caressing the statues above them. It was mesmerizing, enchanting. Each of those candles represented someone's faith, and no matter how small they were, together they warmed the cold walls of the world. In some ways, it comforted Olivia as her fingers clenched the parchment given to her.

Patterned steps brought her back to reality, the receding figure of her companion fled through ornamented doors. Before her initial reaction, the priest cleared his throat and withdrew her attention back to him. She made a mental note of checking in on her Sister later, but right now she had to focus on the mission. The imagine of standing before the Overseer later when the report was due scaled a harsh chill down her spine. A man of little words, but his presence was enough to make one feel like a cornered rat. With the removal of Gabriel, they could not afford any more losses to their mission. Information, recruits, training, everything was heavily reinforced; preparing for the next encounter with immortals. She felt the weight of her thought in her hands as a finger rubbed along the worn papyrus.

"Father, might I inquire…"


Raphael gave a curt nod, thanking the priest and sending well wishes on her way out. After a hasty reunion with her partner, they made quick steps and began their journey back to base. With new information (and questions) in tow, thoughts raced and minute details were difficult to find; at least not without proper answers. She doubted the Overseer would answer anything that would settle her curiosity. He would likely say something that it was a need-to-know basis, or when they set off into another mission would he reveal any more. As a scholar, she disliked being left in the dark. As an observer, she needed to extract all the information she could to ensure not just her own safety but her comrades.

Though that was hardly an argument with someone like him.

A sigh left her defeatedly, almost annoyingly. There were rarely times of unknown and questionable motives. Now with a SIster gone, they were left to the vices of the Patriarch. She retracted her thoughts, hoping the emotions had not slipped to her expression as she glanced over her partner. An eyebrow twitched, watching the maiden scramble in her seat. Olivia voiced her concern, but was promptly brushed off with quick reassurance hiding behind the excuse of exhaustion. Golden eyes lingered over her posture for a moment longer. Her neckline uncoiled in a fluff, redness and perspiration seeping through tiny pores, the awkward shift of her hands. Seeing how she remained unyielding, the medic gave a quirky lift of her lips before adjusting her attention elsewhere. She would not pester for a proper answer. Sooner or later, it would unravel.

The rest of the journey submerged in silence.


The log crackled, spitting out a piece of ember as if in disgust by its collection of dust. More crackles and snaps took over, repeating the cycle whenever the flames came across a fleeting chip escaping its grasp. It was all she could hear. Not even a sound came from a glass meeting the desk. Manners etched into his every being, whether he paid heed to his movements or not. Silvern locks kept in place, no matter how he swiveled his head about his head, parchments elevated from one spot to another. Matching eyes scrutinizing every word with such ease it was difficult to believe he was reading at all. Every now and then, one gloved hand would reach out for the lone glass. It flickered in amber gold waves for a brief second before being forced to settle back down into a still motion in its transparent cage. The mere seconds of these were the only time Olivia took to swallow her discomfortness, questioning herself how long she must bide here for a response.

What felt like an eternity, the Patriarch cleared his throat. Her chin slightly perked up, eyes rested over just the tip of his crown as he pulled out yet another paper, the sound of ink scratching into it.

"This shall suffice. Excellent work, Raphael." He held up the paper, not once looking up. "Dismissed."

She plucked it from his gloved hand and gave him a curt nod of her head as he transferred over for another drink. Before any emotions or words could escape her, she promptly left his office. The door clicked against her palm, heeled steps steered her down the corridor, ignoring the voices and hisses of steam that paraded her walk. When she finally exited the section, she finally let go of her breath. The cold iron wall hugged her back as she regained her breathing, mentally shaking off the discomfort that clung on her shoulders during her visit. The Overseer was a man of little words, and she could not deny the authority and looming presence he carried. Despite the warmth and comfort his office may have provided, the air was heavy and dry around him. Since the attack, there was gossip he lost a few of his men, including a protégé he had under his wings. There was also speculation that the Overseer frequented the training grounds in the long hours of the night, gone before the first training before dawn.

The sound of muffled voices echoed behind her, enough to regain her composure and continue her walk back to post.

 
Cassandra Caldecott
Little Sparrow
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: Ephemera
DOING: What she does best
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:



As she gently closed the door behind her, Cassandra went over the papers briefly one more time, making sure she had everything she needed. Surely Cecile would be happy with the information she found, and if she wasn’t, too bad, she wasn't doing this again.

Someone was on her before she could even lift her head from the papers. Great, this was just what she needed. Thank goodness she had changed.

“My my my, aren’t you bold,” she said nonchalantly with a smile as she lifted her head from the papers, tucking them beside herself to keep them out of sight of the string bean that had approached her.

“What business do you have, asking me what I am doing?”

Looking up and down at the tall boy that stood before her, Cassandra noted how young he was. He seemed to be in some position of importance here, how long had he been part of the templars for?

She really didn't have the energy to keep compelling people, and from the interaction so far, she found him rather amusing. How far could she take it without pushing her charm too much?

“As the official engineer of the Blood Sisters, my business regarding the Gabriel’s office is their business. On whose authority do you enter a general’s room without supervision of a Sister?”

"The official engineer? Impressive," she said, genuinely. "Look, Gabriel left quickly, so much so that in her haste she left a few important papers behind," the blonde said, "I'm just here to retrieve them."

“Which documents? She’d never leave anything regarding the mission behind. I’m going to ask you again: On whose authority?”

Her eyebrow rose ever so slightly. Oh how untrusting he was, how adorable! “You ask a lot of questions,” she said with a smile. “One can never be too careful, I respect your concern,” she said, with a small nod before pulling the pocket watch to check the time.

Cassandra frowned a little at the time. She had really wanted to be done by now. Curse the shadow man making her late. “I am in a little bit of a rush, I’m afraid,” Cassandra said, tucking the watch back away. “Unfortunately, I'm running a little behind schedule. Walk with me, I will fill you in along the way,” she said waving him along as she started walking back down the corridor.

Cassandra was hoping that he would have just walked beside her, to just appreciate a nice stroll and conversation. Unfortunately that was not the case. He rushed in front of her to block her path. One thing she detested was people lording their height over her.

Immediately her posture changed. From being light hearted and soft, to stiff and authoritative. "Listen here string bean," she said softly in manner but stern in tone, locking her eyes to his as she squared up to him, "this is not my usual assignment, and I do not know what clearance you have to be privy to the information held within Gabriel’s files. I don't know what authority you hold, but since you seem to be asking stubborn questions rather than taking action, I am led to believe that you don't hold as much power as you are trying to persuade me to believe." She had been right in her previous judgement, he was young, but not as naive as she had initially assumed.

"I am here on authority way above your pay grade. I had to borrow a uniform because like I said, this is not my usual assignment. My clothes usually fit a lot nicer than this. They usually look nicer than this. Outfits take time to tailor for my size, time I do not currently have." None of it was a lie, but her half truths would only take her so far. She was going to have a nightmare of a headache with the rise of the sun, but she also no longer had the time to waste.

Bright blue eyes stared deeply into his amber ones, "These documents were requested by someone of great importance, that's all you need to know," she said with a sweet smile.

"Now, walk with me won't you," she said, returning to her soft lightheartedness, linking arms with his as she continued her walk down the corridor.

“I take matters concerning my former direct superior seriously especially since we are on unfriendly ground.”

“I cannot blame you for your concern,” she said, “you just don’t need to worry about me. I would not have made it this far within Paradise without clearance. Security is tight because of recent happenings.” Her clearance was manipulated, but he did not need to know that. Security was tight though, she was at the end of her tether charming her way around.

The petite vampire felt sort of sorry for the young man though. He was only doing what he thought was best, and if she weren’t in such a rush, perhaps she would have played it out differently. There was always next time.

Cassandra did not like picking sides in a war that would have no winners. She could not ignore the children that the Templars had taken. Though she doubted that everyone within the order held the same ideals about it.

“If it were important for you to know, she would have told you,” Cassandra said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. The vampire was sure that many people would like to know where Holly had disappeared to, but she was not one of them. “And of course you have a choice, I would just appreciate the company.” She would let him carry on his way if he did want that, but having a Templar on her arm made traveling the corridors a lot easier.

He was curious about her name, and she wondered momentarily if she should give him her real name or not. Cassandra usually didn't shy away from giving people her real name, but perhaps now was not the best time. However, before she could even give him any form of a name his grasp tightened and he stumbled, pulling her to the ground.

“I apologize. I must have lost myself in thought for a moment there,” he chuckled as scarred lips pulled into a bashful smile. “We’re so busy these days, as you can imagine…”

The papers scattered over the floor, but the vampire couldn't care less about that, she was more offended that he had dragged her down with him. "Yes, I'm sure," she said somewhat sourly as she dusted herself off.

Reaching for the papers though, she noticed his transfixed gaze upon the page. "What is it?" She questioned.

“This is me,”

Quickly gathering up the last of the papers, she kept a keen eye on her new friend as he pondered the page he had managed to get his hands on. Tracing his hand over the paper he admitted that it was his name held within the file

"Let me see," she said innocently curious as she quickly but carefully snatched it from his grasp. Cassandra's eyes scanned the page, taking in the information it contained before peering over the paper at him.

Rising to her feet, she extended a hand to help him up. "Ephemera," she said with an approving nod. "Tell you what, why don't you keep this," the vampire said, handing the singular page back to him. "Though it may not give you everything that is in the file, it might serve you some use."

Cassandra knew she probably shouldn't be giving him anything, but in her opinion a person deserved to know why they were in a secret file, even if it were only a small piece.

A quick glance at the pocket watch told her she really needed to go. "Bother. This truly has been fun, but I really must be going. I'll see you around, for sure," she said with a smile. Her eyes locked with his, "go rest," she said softly but with a hint of firmness, "you deserve some sleep."

He took the paper with no hesitation before bidding her farewell in an oh so formal way. She gave a slight frown of contemplation as she turned to take her leave. She could not dawdle longer than she needed to, she had places to be, and people to hand these documents off to.



 
René Troxler
Ephemera
health bar
WHERE: Paradise
WITH: ...what's her name again?
DOING: Conversing
CREDIT: nikoboiko
PLAYLIST:


A stranger in the corridor to the room of someone he cared for. His instinct for wariness put the engineer on alert; his instincts were usually astute in such situations. The blond continued until he was a few feet in front of her, a safe enough space for both of them. For a brief second, he hesitated. Something was off about this woman; she was wearing a uniform, of course, but the way she carried herself was too relaxed to be military. Her clothes did not fit properly either. She was far too small for them to fit her petite frame.

“As the official engineer of the Blood Sisters, my business regarding the Gabriel’s office is their business. On whose authority do you enter a general’s room without supervision of a Sister?” His eyes shifted from hers to the file she attempted to tuck neatly away.

"Look, Gabriel left quickly, so much so that in her haste she left a few important papers behind," the blonde said, "I'm just here to retrieve them."

His brow quivered. She was an odd one, this girl. He shifted on his feet looking her over once more as she did the same. It was clear she was dodging the question, the problem was he couldn’t determine why. It was a simple question. “Which documents? She’d never leave anything regarding the mission behind. I’m going to ask you again: On whose authority?”

René was growing more concerned by the dodging this woman kept doing. She was small and petite so catching up to her took no time at all and less so to move in front of her and stop in front of her. “I’m afraid not. Stop avoiding the question. Give me a name with the authority to grant you clearance and then I’ll join you on your walk, or I’ll turn you over to the nearest dragoon and you can answer to their supervisor.”

He watched her carefully. Most in the 84th would hate to be detained by the other regiment that had joined in the days since the battle at the dock. It was an annoyance to be certain, but it was more than just that. He just needed to know how she’d react to see if his suspicions were well-founded.

Finally, they were getting somewhere once she looked him in the eye. However, it wasn’t the direction he’d hoped. Her words… the more she lilted on with her light aristocratic accent, the more she made sense. While she wasn’t inherently wrong- his promotion was a temporary assignment- he felt sort of ashamed for being chastised for his caution. “I take matters concerning my former direct superior seriously especially since we are on unfriendly ground.” He wanted to look away abashed, but instead he kept his gaze on hers as heat rushed to his cheeks, brightening his growing unease. “Forgive my insolence, ma’am, but if I knew who you were working for perhaps I’d also know where she is stationed now…. A lot has happened in her absence.”

Before he could yap on any further as he felt sorry for himself, the petite Templar linked arms with him and began to drag him down the corridor, away from Wilshire’s former office. Blinking heavily, he followed, his eyes wondering curiously to the documents in her hand. “I suppose you leave me little choice.”

“I cannot blame you for your concern,” she said, “you just don’t need to worry about me. I would not have made it this far within Paradise without clearance. Security is tight because of recent happenings.” She waved him off nonchalantly, taking him by the arm as if they were old friends. Rosiness warmed his soft, delicate cheeks as he looked away from her sheepishly while she continued to speak. “If it were important for you to know, she would have told you,” the blonde rightfully justified. “And of course you have a choice, I would just appreciate the company.”

“I suppose you are right… er… Miss…?” He didn’t know her name. Her lapel was missing a nametag. There was a buzzing in his head, like a fly moving around further and farther away but then coming in close to pester him only to dash away when he’d nearly caught it. Something was wrong. What was it again…?

He could hear laughing. He could taste alcohol. The flash of a debonair smile and dark, mysterious eyes.

The blond startled. Ephemera’s stomach rolled uneasily, his hair stood on end, and his eyes narrowed against the electric light of the corridor. His arm squeezed at the hand holding on to it before he tripped, pulling both of them down. The papers in the folder held in his companion’s arm were sent scattering across the floor. “I apologize. I must have lost myself in thought for a moment there,” he chuckled as scarred lips pulled into a bashful smile. “We’re so busy these days, as you can imagine…” His eyes scanned the pages. Maps and diagrams, a document titled ‘Persephone Project’. “I’m afraid I should go and take my rest,” he lamented as his voice trailed off. Golden suns transfixed on a name who knew only too well on the document labeled after a goddess.

Ephemera.

His lips tightened into a thin, straight line as he pulled the document towards him. It had his code name, his birth name, his place of birth, his birthdate, and notes on his tenure at the Academy. Most of it blurred in his vision as he scanned over it quickly. It listed medications he took over the course of his stay until he aged out of them… at least, that was what he remembered being told. There were details and comments he couldn’t quite understand. Why did they care about how he behaved on the medication? It was a simple case of attention deficit disorder.

"What is it?" she questioned.

His finger traced over the code name and his name. “This is me,” he said mechanically, as if his lungs and voice box had turned into clockwork within the cage of his chest.

As it was snatched gracefully from his hand, his gaze could not be torn from the page– white as a dove and just as fleeting of an encounter with the information it bore. He saw how her lips formed over his code name but he couldn’t escape the clutch of the notes written in scrawling letters beneath the medication he’d been given in his childhood. Her voice was a murmur in the cacophonous roar of the questions running like a marquee around his brain.

In spite of his efforts to pay attention, his inner dialogue was deafening while she pulled him up to his feet and then handed the sheet back to him. "Tell you what, why don't you keep this," she told him, handing back the page. "Though it may not give you everything that is in the file, it might serve you some use."

Swallowing softly, he felt his Adam’s apple press against the sudden choking hazard that was his high collar. The glint of the hallway light on her pocket watch distracted him from his thoughts long enough for him to catch up with reality. “Oh, yes, quite right,” he answered, taking the sheet from her hands though his expression was guarded. He caught her gaze and a blush formed over his cheeks while she recommended sleep, though his reticent expression did nothing to change. “Yes, ma’am. May you have safe travels back to headquarters.” His head bowed softly towards her before a brief salute. Turning away from her felt wrong on an instinctual level, but it couldn’t be helped. Notes on that page had stolen every conscious effort to rationalize. Lifting the sheet up, he scanned over the notes again for a medication he knew well. He was given the recipe for it to prepare for Mathis.

Age bracket: 7-10: Subject does not exhibit high-level of aggression others of his strain typically express in middle childhood. Rather, his nature is demure and meek compared to other children in his age bracket. Some evidence of external communication influences. Recommendation: reduce prescription dosage for adequate physiological and psychological response necessary to complete future tasks on frontlines, moderate silver nitrate levels in dosage.

Age bracket: 11-13: Subject’s psychological growth far exceeds expectations for his strain and age; children contemporary to his entry date do not exhibit the same computational or critical thinking skills. Subject is repeatedly exposed to pressure by peers and instructors, fights are instigated in matches to assess physiological progress, results are inconclusive. Addendum: Subject’s physiology is ineffectual at present, and complains of headaches. Further psychological evaluation shows evidence of significant memory loss. Recommendation: Reduce silver nitrate levels in dosage. Terminate use of benzodiazepines in subject over next year.

Age bracket: 14-15: Subject continues to show psychological prowess beyond peers in this age bracket, no evidence of external communication influences. Temperament leveled with elimination of benzodiazepine dosage; memory improved. Physiological development significantly improved. Subject shows enhanced speed and dexterity in his physical training and matches. Results are ideal for program. Recommendation: Terminate medicinal therapy over next year for further observation.

Age bracket: 16-17: Subject’s ABMT has been terminated for one year and shows no signs of negative results. Psychological and physiological growth continued to improve as expected for his strain, and temperament remains even, yet malleable.
Cumulative Program Results: Positive. Subject is a successful case for Persephone Project’s effectivity in subjects ranging from early childhood to late adolescence. Subject provides evidence for regulating ABMT drugs as a successful approach in program.


He knew he and the others were under observation from the first moment he stepped into the Academy because they did nothing to hide it. It was a military school after all, but why did they care so much for his development? What was the Persephone Project and why was he a “subject”? And what the hell did they mean by “strain”? His head pounded in conflict. She was right, that stranger he’d met in the corridor; he needed to sleep.

The door to his bunk slammed open with a screech. He wouldn’t be bothered by the silence tonight. He wouldn’t be sitting hand-in-hand with guilt or disappointment either. Nor would the plague of questions drag him deeper into the pit. He could hear the whispers in the shadow of the room, slinking in the corners beyond the light beside the bunkbeds. He propped open his trunk and removed a bottle of dark liquor and a black package. One had been brought along for the ride, a hopeful remark when it would all be complete. The other was a favor from a friend in the medical wing. The liquor because it was smooth despite its bite, then the package because it had been given to him without a voice on the matter.

“Are you going to Scarborough Fair?”

He sang in a mutter while his hand unfastened the bottle. He abandoned it on the ground as he sat on the bed. A little yellow tablet slipped into his palm after he coaxed the package gently with a tap of his finger.

“Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...”

It sparked bitter on his tongue. René tilted his head back, then drowned it and his doubt with a hit of the bourbon.

“Remember me to one who lives there…”

Kicking off his boots, he slipped the robe off of his shoulders, dropping it unceremoniously from his body before he hung it from the corner of the top bunk. It took hardly any effort to slip out of the clothes he’d worn and into black pajama bottoms and a white sleeveless tank. A shower would be there for him in the morning.

“She once was a true love of mine.”

He slipped into the dim comfort of cold bedsheets and a thin, lumpy mattress. Ephemera stared at the wall in silent reflection, incapable of not producing a thought while he was still conscious. He would figure it out later, put the pieces together from what he knew and research what he didn’t. To fill the eerie silence of the room, and to mask the feeling of some shadow creeping over him he continued to mumble the words of the song. Eventually, uneasy sleep stole the song, and his boundless thoughts, away.






 
banner_skip-png.685924

It's been a month since the reconnaissance missions were completed by Templar and Immortal alike. September has made way for a balmy October and thunderstorms have not eased the tension of the city.

Growing in ever larger numbers are the papers headlining over the dock fiasco a month and a half prior, all seeking to make their dimes about the impending trial. Each side has collected evidence to defame the other. Politicians and citizens alike squirm beneath the surface to see what the results will be of the trial. Anxiety looms in the heart of each Immortal and the threat made to their safe haven. Anger or even fear rise within the bosom of the Templars hoping for redemption on the mar of their honorable Order. At the heart of it all remain the children trained as soldiers housed within the confines of Templars. Whether or not they welcome their benefactors remains a mystery save a few who are dedicated to the cause they've been taught to serve. And yet, the Immortals still steel themselves to become their rescuers.

What twists will the court case take? What evidence has each side brought alongside them? What will be the fate of the children taken under the wings of the Templar Holy Order?
 
Sister Aglaé
JEANNE D'ARC
health 100/100
WHERE: The airship Paradise
WITH: Ephemera
DOING: Co-parenting 🐣
CREDIT: Henry J. Ford
SPECIAL THANKS: To ashwynne ashwynne for showing me this an age ago

Within the embrace of sea-weathered walls many had stirred in the early morning, and through every fitted stone rose up a dawn chorus of prayer at the turn of the canonical hour, ringing faintly out through the quiet to mingle with the sough-song of wind and water without.

One of their number was readied and wandering the halls to take the air and quiet before any had left their chambers to begin the day, as was her preference. The Révérende Mère Euphrosyne walked beneath the stained glass windows of the darkened chapel where the candles were not yet lit, passing hands now soft and trembling with age over rows of pews, a diminutive figure garbed in white and pale blue from the crown of her veiled head down to feet that shuffled softly across floors smoothed by centuries. Her eyes were not what they once were, but she had no need for them; here, memory was her sure-sighted guide.

As it had for ten thousand times over and more, the abbey began to rouse all around her. In present times, this mountain rising up from the tides was managed, for the most part, by a flock of nuns–a village of women and few vastly outnumbered monks.

She found her way out from the cool shadow of the cloister and into the garden at its center, where she drew back her sleeves to assist Sœur Bernadette, who toiled there with a set of pruning shears. To her side was basket was brimming with herbs destined for the kitchens.

Here she lived unencumbered, and the Mère never had cause to worry for her. She had come to the Order of Saint Aubert d’Avranches from an eastern province at sixteen, and her face was still sporting fading bruises when she arrived at a convent on the mainland with nothing but the clothes on her back to begin her postulancy. No more than a week later a man appeared outside the gate, pacing and spitting fire. He demanded that Margot be turned over to him, that the arrangement had been made and her father had promised her hand. The prioress there did not speak an untruth when she told him that no woman of that name drew breath within the walls of the convent, and at last he went away.

Whatever they were before, be they daughters, widows, wives, sisters, or mothers, at the taking of the veil they were all of them born anew. She could bring to mind another woman—hardly more than a girl, Marie-Aurele was—who was delivered here flanked by soldiers.

“Forgive me, Sœur, come again?” she said, drawn from a well of thought.

“The pears,” Sœur Bernadette echoed, reaching up to wipe her brow with the back of her hand. The wideness of her smile still betrayed nothing of the past, to the Mère’s relief. “Will you join us?”

The first harvest was today; she’d forgotten. Sheets tied to poles would be arrayed around each tree to catch the fruit, and then they would ascend to relieve the heavily laden boughs. It was always a favorite task of a certain young lady who was absent from these halls.

“I’m afraid not,” she answered, and reached out to gingerly pat the woman’s hand. “Today, I am tending another garden.”

She hoisted herself to her feet, wavering but a little and keeping Sœur Bernadette at bay with a raised hand when the other woman rushed forward to steady her. The Mère ventured out to the adjoining hall to stand at the windows that overlooked calm seas far below. A handful of stars still shone through the mist until they, too, began to wink out one by one. The circle of the moon dimmed. A storm had come the night before to rattle shutters with insistent fingers and lash the slate-tiled rooftops in the town with driving rain, but eventually passed, as they always had.

A flock of birds stretching white wings on the breeze were embarking for the solitude of Tombelaine, little sister to the Mont and said to house the remains of an ancient princess. Sometime in the recent centuries a small relief dedicated to Stella Maris had been carved there in a grotto looking out to sea. Many, from travelers to fishermen, would go to pray for merciful seas. Spent candles were arrayed about the hems of her robes, and she hoped one votive had survived the night; she had taken out a flat-bottomed boat and braved the high tides the day to place it.

She felt a presence at her elbow, and turned; there stood a visitor from the Templar base in town. He was one of few stationed to guard the scholars and their work on the isle. She imagined it was an assignment with little excitement. His greeting was all politeness, but she had no stomach for pleasantries, and so stood waiting for him to cut right to the heart of the matter. Under the weight of her gaze he began to fidget, and then he cleared his throat, a soldier rendered sheepish as a schoolboy. He opened his mouth, perhaps to give her his name, and she began to tap her foot.

“T-The cable came from England. There are no impediments,” he said, “I’ve been assigned as escort tomorrow.”

The past month was noteworthy; not for the feast day of the Mont’s founder, nor Michaelmas. A fortnight ago the head of their Order had given his consent permitting one of their own to perform her works of charity under the auspices of the Templars—she who could perceive the enemy’s movements as she lay dreaming. The blood of Luc-Reule ran strong; under the moon’s eye, her second sight had shuddered to full wakefulness and was brought from nadir to zenith.

She could save lives, they said, and in that moment, she had not thought as the woman, but as the girlchild wearing the blood of a father slain. She followed her heart, and who could fault her?

“I’ve penned the introductory letter to the bigwig commander I’m told she’ll be serving under,” the Mère answered, turning to leave. She waved him off, her eyes falling to her wristwatch. “She will be ready. Run back to your starch-collared masters with the good news, boy.”

She made her way down the steps that led from the main courtyard, and glanced out across the isle. In the distance the train was departing the platform, cutting through high tide to return to the mainland and collect the first of that day’s visitors and penitents on pilgrimage. Pathways fell as streets and many stairs that spilled in rivulets down the Mont, wending narrow between structures of half-timber and lichen-flecked granite. The morning cool mingled with the cookfire smoke from inns and eateries that trailed on the brine-laden breeze.

Then, in the town’s main thoroughfare, the Mère sighted a nun on a run. Right on schedule, she was making her way up from the train platform. Every call of bonjour that hailed her was met with a shy dip of the head or a little wave of the hand before her eyes were turned back to the path, her breath clouding in the air. A stray dog fell in step with her, and for a spell jaunted merrily alongside before branching away to wait for scraps beneath the omelette counter.

Ségolène began her postulancy at seventeen, the Mère first laid eyes on her standing fearful and pale at the fringes of her peers. Even at a distance, she had discerned a moist sheen to eyes behind the spectacles with lenses round and wide as full moons. She had never before traveled on her own, nor lived apart from her brother. Had the Mère waited a moment more, she might have spun on her heel to run back to the station and all the way home—but she pressed forward. At her approach Ségolène went fumbling for a little notebook peeping out of the pocket of her coat, and the Mère stayed her arm with a touch. The touch of a kinswoman. Their eyes met, and like recognized like.

‘Dear child,’ she said, her fingers moving, her hands dancing, forming letters and words upon the air. ‘I thought you might come, and I have waited.’ Confusion first dawned in Ségolène’s face, but then understanding, and the beginnings of her smile were blurred, for the Mère’s vision too was pricked by fresh tears.

When Ségolène at last reached the landing where the Mère was waiting she allowed herself only a moment’s reprieve. Then she crouched down, hoisted the Révérende Mère upon her back without further ado, and soldiered on. The denizens of Mont-Saint-Michel's abbey had become invested in assisting one of its own on a quest to achieve peak physicality before her transfer. The daintiest of the nuns had been all too happy to attend Ségolène’s runs, and could rarely contain their mirth when she carried them through the last leg. The Mère, forty-four kilograms soaking wet after a robust meal, was tasked with assisting today.

A small crowd had assembled in the abbey’s courtyard to observe with bated breath, and Père Isidore stood waiting like an expectant father for her return. A watch that matched the silver of his hair was cradled in the palm of his hand, and his composure showed a small crack in the form of a furrow between his brows. All eyes were trained upon him when Ségolène crested the last stair, and no sooner than the Mère set foot upon the ground did she wilt into a heap upon the flagstones, utterly spent.

There was a weighted, tense pause as he confirmed the numbers in his head, squinting down at the watch face. Then he declared for all present in a voice rounded out by pride, “A new record! Well done, Sœur Aglaé, well done!”

Following morning mass he would soon announce the same over breakfast, and the many eyes that turned her way found her sinking into her seat, drawing the corners of her veil over her reddening face. The Mère caught her on the way out of the refectory hall.

“Humor an old woman,” she said, “I’m in need of a digestif. Be my escort.”

‘You need protection?’ Was Ségolène’s repost, and the Mère let loose a cackle. ‘’

“Clever little wench you are, she catches on quick. Who do they call the empress of the isle? Me, that’s who.” For seven decades now she had worn the veil, and served as prioress for three; owing to that, she could see through horseshit of masterful make and knew just about everything that went on. It would be of no surprise to anyone if it came out that the abbey’s walls and sparrows were in her council, conveying murmured secrets to her awaiting ears. She tucked the young nun’s arm in hers. “We have matters to discuss.”

Together they began to pick their way down into the town, where passers-by made way for them. As they strolled by the parish church the Révérende Mère’s gaze lingered on the entryway, where the Maid of Orléans stood guard in effigy, armor-clad with eyes cast heavenward. The destination was a nondescript door found down an alley so thin one could touch the enclosing walls at once, marked by weathered signage bearing only the image of a winking mermaid.

The tinkle from a string of bells heralded their entry, and inside, Mlle Demers greeted them with the brightness of familiarity. She left the Order of Saint Aubert five years previous, give or take, and secured a position at La Sirène Salée, which had functioned as an inn for centuries. The structure itself, of course, was far older; the floorboards had darkened near to black through petrification.

“Two glasses of the house chouchen, s’il vous plaît!” she declared, putting down several francs. They settled at a corner table, where the Mère promptly put up her feet and brought out her smoke pipe.

The drinks soon came, and after touching glasses, they silently sampled the richly amber-colored mead. “This tastes best shared,” she remarked, setting it down the glass. The Mère took a measured drag from her pipe, and cast a glance at her companion. “I received word today. All is unchanged; you’re to go tomorrow.”

Ségolène, gazing down at the table, merely nodded.

“This is a great change for you,” she continued, gently. No one in her charge was in low spirits for long without her scenting it out. The conflict within her companion had not dimmed since the discovery of her secret. She had immersed herself in prayer and fasted to the point of taking water and only a little bread, stealing down into the bowels of the abbey for the quiet solitude of the Notre-Dame Sous Terre and the tomb of Saint Aubert.

“Did you know, that in the days of the Ancien Régime, the abbey was a forlorn ruin used only for the confinement of high-statused prisoners? Its halls laid in wait for many years before being restored to their true purpose.” Her eyes were trained upon her face, and her tone gentled further. “For some those consecrated walls hold a sanctuary, and I hope—that for you—they should never hold a prison; that is not what they were meant to be.”

At last Ségolène met her eye, startled. A breath passed wordlessly between them, and then the Mère nodded. “You are to go and see. You will meet all manner of people, and behold a great many things, good and ill, and yes, you may face danger.” She sighed. “I have prepared you—”—and protected you, she thought—“—as well as I could.”

She blew a smoke ring at the ceiling and took stock of the common room. At present, the only other occupant was a fellow who had taken up residence on the isle some months ago; she had yet to catch his name, but knew his livelihood was in peddling postcards and photographs. He was seated at the far end, toying with his camera equipment. She trusted he was not within earshot, and distracted besides.

“You and I, we live in an age of industry. Steel over flesh, steam over blood, and old ways are half forgot. Be open and discerning; remember, you mistook the bright moon’s identity. What is seen is not always as it appears. The way is rarely clear in life, even for us. Perhaps especially for us.” Her tone grew firm, then. “Tell me, truly, do you think your gifts divinely given?”

‘Aren’t all gifts divinely given?’ Ségolène replied, peering back through her lashes; mischief shone through her composure, her mouth threatening to break into a wide smile.

The Mère laughed delightedly, clapping her knee. “A politician’s dodge!”

‘I truly think,’ she said, suddenly serious, ‘It is merely another way of seeing.’

She nodded, mulling over her answer. The front legs of her chair fell back to the floor. The sea air and steps had kept her spry, but she tried to be mindful of her back. She said, “Don’t worry, I won’t include any mention of the bicycle in your introductory letter.” That succeeded in unclouding the gloom from the girl’s brow, and in its stead her face flushed a fierce pink.

“Pardon me—madames?” The young photographer had risen from his seat to cross the room. He bid them both a good morning, nodding in deference, and smiled, hesitant and hopeful. “May I take your portraits?”

A pointed look was exchanged, and then their assent was given. At her side Ségolène’s hands raised, reaching for her spectacles, but then she thought better of it, choosing at the last to leave them be.

When the Mère dwelled further on her going, fear held her in a tightening grasp–the very same that Jean-Bayard would feel, she expected, when his sister came bearing the news. What was a candle’s fragility to that of innocence? Ségolène had cleverness gleaned from books, but she was not worldly-wise… and yet, there was a strength in her, an abiding endurance, that gave the Mère ample cause to hope. When they looked upon her they still beheld the skittish girlchild, the coltish adolescent with a scapegrace’s makings; but what about the woman that she was?

The Templar Order aimed to acquire a breathing weapon kept in secret to tip the scales in their favor with powers unseen, though she would not go to be their maiden in the tower; no, Ségolène meant to enter the fray on her own terms. She had never been one who wished to be cloistered. That way was never hers. When she went among them, she would take up the sword.




Despite her attempts at discretion, it was not out of the realm of possibility that a young nun within the ranks of the Order, notable in that she was being primed to truly ascend as a Blood Sister true, had been sighted outside a particular door once or twice a week.

Ségolène held the journal fast to her breast. She pressed farther down the hall, treading quietly, and with every step as the door to the Overseer’s office neared, the pace of her heart quickened. With her luck the Overseer would round the next corner on his way back from the water closet at any moment. She was a rotten liar, and he would only need to take one look at her and know she’d been up to something of late. The thought of facing him now was less appealing than that of standing opposite a beast in combat, but in truth, she’d never felt at ease around the man the way she had in Gabriel’s company. In his presence she always seemed to find herself curling instinctively inward, feeling every bit the country girl entirely out of her element.

Looking this way and that to assure herself that she was alone–if only for a moment–she then paused. She never tarried here, but now she held the cover of the journal to her mouth in thought, mulling over the last entry of note, dated yesterday morning, concerning not one dream but two.

It was not the first occasion she’d sighted that melancholy man gazing out across a gray sea, as she recognized the ship railing, but she’d made a record of it all the same, trying to ignore the weight in her stomach as she remembered the the anger and fear that mingled in his expression at the docks weeks ago. She wondered what had become of him.

Yet the other had come in flickers, and she’d been touched by uncertainty over it, deliberating and piecing it together for the bulk of her morning before the dream was worn to nothingness in her memory by the passage of day. For all her practice, sorting out figment from truth still proved tricky in turns.

She’d found herself within a palatial tent—beams of gilt light and dancing motes of dust filtered in through the rooftop opening and a pinned-open doorway, falling upon a floor strewn with rugs. A woman, dark of hair and skin, was seated before a great upright loom; her hands, marked by ink, had moved with deft speed.

The air that filtered inside, she thought, more a breath than a breeze, had smelt sweet… and maybe—maybe not unlike Dinan’s summer, when the grasses were high and all the hills were in flower. She’d been struck by the wish to go out and see what lay outside.

Then everything frayed beyond this point; what remained was piecemeal. She could recall the woman smiling, inviting her to sit; she did as she was bidden, and she—he?—watched her toil at the loom. Winged figures wheeled across the warp and weft of a half-formed tapestry. They had talked to pass time, hadn’t they? Yes, they surely had. But of what, she was not sure, and in a tongue she did not know. The words were mist now in her mind, but she still carried the impression of them. Warm, fond words. Would her mother have spoken to her this way? She liked to think so.

She peered down then at the journal, laying a hand upon the cover. In her reflection her eyes gazed back, blue mingled with brown, a marker of Luc-Reule's blood. Le Chien de L'enfer, they'd called him.

However important the cause, she’d found herself reluctant to put pen to paper yesterday morning. If she had left that day blank, could anyone have known she had omitted a thing? Those dreams did not come so often now, or with as much vivid clarity. But she couldn’t possibly have done, she couldn’t possibly have, because it would have been a lie by omission, but she’d wanted to keep that last one to herself, close and safe, rather than turning it over for unfeeling dissection.

Quickly she stooped, slid the journal under the closed door, and departed without further delay.

She was making her way next to the library onboard ship. It was on a morning like this some weeks ago when she had drawn the coverlet over her head and coughed to conceal the muffled peeps coming from within the coif she’d worn to bed. She’d pleaded illness to her bunkmate, who encouraged her to pay a visit to the medbay when she felt able. When she had gone, and Ségolène came out of hiding, she was rendered guilt-ridden by the glass of seltzer water waiting for her on the nightstand. She downed it all the same, because she well and truly did have a stomach ache by that point. She knew she couldn’t get away with hiding an animal in her quarters for always.

After setting the chick upon her pillow, she sat at the edge of her bed contemplating her predicament. Never had she felt so far from home. She broke apart a piece of a biscuit she’d taken from a tin she kept in a drawer with her old spectacles and nibbled absently at one half, watching the chick peck daintily at crumbs she’d laid out, and then an idea sprung forth from the void. She knew what she wanted, and it was impossible without secrecy. She knew what she needed—and she needed help, so she went in search of the one person she could think to turn to.

Her nape still prickled when she thought of how close she came to being found out; after rounding a corner, she sighted a pale-haired and tall figure at the other end of the next corridor and promptly spun on her heel in mounting panic to flee with all speed in the opposite direction. She soon found herself at Ephemera’s quarters, but after several frantic rounds of knocking later she gave it up and tried the lab, one of his other haunts, to no avail. She hadn’t really expected to happen upon him in the library; she’d drifted crestfallen through its doors looking for a quiet place to think, and there he was! Without a thought Ségolène jumped headlong into pleading her case, touching her forearm and then drawing the forefinger of that open hand down her cheek; remembering herself, she’d reached into her coif and set the little chick down in the middle of his workbook before hastily producing her journal. She began with, His name is Roger.

She'd named him for the fellow who helped her that evening. Before returning to Raphael's side she'd caught up to him to convey her thanks. When they traded names, she pointed accordingly to the page in her journal, as she always did–yet the name that came to mind first, as always, was not Sister Aglaé. She supposed she would trade Jeanne for Michael, in time, and she supposed that would be the name for which she was waiting, the one that would take and her heart would answer to. She hoped it would be.

It was here she found him again by chance, her accomplice in crime, catching sight of him through an opening between books on a shelf. She ventured forward, sheepish, and seated herself across from him. Ségolène had stopped by her room on the way there, and was now wearing her civilian’s coat, with good reason. Reaching into the side pockets, she drew out a jar and a small bottle, and set them with purpose before him upon the table, casting a meaningful look. They were from the last care package she’d received from the abbey, and worth their weight in gold: a whole pint of pear butter rendered from the best of that year’s harvest and a bottle of a chouchen of some renown brewed from a guarded blend of honey, cider and seawater.

 
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Camhlaidh MacKenzie
Seir
health bar
WHERE: The Brass Canine
WITH: His own thoughts
DOING: Questioning his sanity
CREDIT: nikafargos2iris
PLAYLIST:


The sky lay dark, midnight hours slowly seeped into early morning. The was one thing that he enjoyed about this city, and that was how much it came alive at night. The people he could not care less about, but the facilities that ran well into the night for his kind, he would forever be grateful, especially with a drink in hand.

Cam had ventured into the Canine, its quant and rustic atmosphere a draw for the younglings to be sure, but it had good brew, and that’s all the old man cared about.

The hours dwindled as he had a feed and a drink, his mind to preoccupied with the paper and his ears switched off so he didn’t have to listen to the mind numbing prattle of bar noises around him. Cam seemed to do his best thinking between the dying hours of a day as it merged into a new one. And thinking was all he had seemed to be doing lately.

Much of his life revolved around being alone. He liked it that way. Life was too easily muddled by the affairs of others; the dramatics and fights that he was getting far too old to be included in. He enjoyed the peace and quite of his life, all too happy to let his past lay where it was – in the past.

Although he revelled in being alone, reflection and introspection could creep in the most annoying ways.

Maeve Donovan was one said annoyance, prickling his mind. Their chance meeting had sent off splinters in his head, and not in a good way.

All the papers were going on about the trial. It seemed this city had latched onto the story of it, and until something of more interest came up, it would likely be all that any of the papers talked about for awhile.

Folding the paper over, Cam tossed it down on the bar beside him.

He didn’t need to involve himself in this. It was no concern of his. Beast, templars, vampires, the battle may change hands every few decades but it was always the same. It wasn no longer his cross to bear any more.

He had left the templars long enough ago that they should not come looking for him. By the sounds of it, they had enough on their plate that even if he were still on their radar, they wouldn’t likely care about his whereabouts right now. He was free to move about the city, enjoy his time and the move on before it got too far.

But those darn splinters in his head wouldn’t let him rest.

Aeson’s Journal.

His meticulous, obsessive and almost riddle like pages burned into his memory. Most wouldn’t know what it was if they found it. Not that they would.

Never too far away from him, but never on his person, the journal was buried, it the middle of nowhere. He had considered burning it, grappled with it for years, but it was not in his nature to let information that could potentially be used to gain an upper hand go to waste.

Maeve lacked direction, she lacked the confidence to take charge as the Queen she currently was being called, but did that mean she couldn’t use the information he had. If he did give it to her, would it even do anything? This was a never ending battle. He couldn’t deny though, the weight of the information that journal carried, and what he knew of the Templar order, what they were capable of.

He downed his drink in one fell swoop. Camhlaidh was going to have to dig up that goddamn journal for Donovan wasn’t he.

Fuck.



 
Kenna Mac Amery
Incendiu
health bar
WHERE: Maeve‘s Kitchen
WITH: Alone
DOING: Failing and Wallowing
CREDIT: Peritwinkle
PLAYLIST:


Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She had no idea what she was doing.

Cross legged on the floor of the kitchen, Kenna sat with a bucket in front of her, her hands swishing under the bubbly water, tears welling up in her eyes in frustration. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. It was dirty, so soapy water should be able to clean it right? Why was it so hard to clean.

Pulling the broken stuffed owl from the water, it dripped and sagged looking worse than when she had found it. It’s one eye stared at her, glistening blankly like it was taunting her with its death. Kenna threw it across the kitchen, the dripping mess splattering against the cabinet, scattering droplets of dirty water everywhere before it plopped in a sudsy mess on the floor.

Kenna curled her legs up, her forehead resting on her knees. It was hopeless and stupid to think that she could clean it and fix it back to how it used to look. One connection to Beau, that was all that she was looking for, and she couldn’t even have it the way that she wanted it.

She wanted to clean all the dirt from it. She wanted to fill it with more stuffing and sew it back together. Make a new wing for it. Hell if she could find an eye she would have replaced that too, but she couldn’t.

She couldn’t do anything right.

She’d risked the mission, she had risked Seiko’s life just to get the stupid thing, and it had been dumb and reckless and that was all she seemed to be able to do. She couldn’t even begin to explain her thought process in the moment other than it was important to Beau, but even that was a lame excuse. He probably wouldn’t even want it anymore. Probably didn’t even need it. He’d grown so much, been changed so much, she wondered if he would even remember it.

Pulling her chin up, she stared at the brown goop that was supposed to be Beau’s cuddly.

Kenna wiped the tears that had been silently slipping from her eyes with the back of her sleeve. She needed to do better. She needed to be better. It was unhelpful to be so dismissive and reckless of peoples advice and help. She just couldn’t understand why it so hard to listen to instructions, to just do as she was told. They were trying to help her. Maeve had allowed her to stay even though she didn’t want to. They all had saved her life and probably thought she was ungrateful about it. She wasn’t, or rather she didn’t mean for it to come across like that. It was just hard to trust people’s true intentions. People had filtered in and out of her life, each one leaving a scar. Walls felt safer. But hiding behind walls wasn’t going to help get her brother back, or the looming trial that was worrying everyone.

But what could she do? Listen better and do what she was told? That seemed like an impossible task. Taking Seiko’s offer of training sessions seemed like the best way to go, but she doubted the offer still stood after the disaster that was setting the base of fire.

She had to try though right? What else was she going to do? Stay moping on the kitchen floor? Dejected and pathetic? Not forever that’s for sure, but maybe for just a few more minutes.

Burying her head back into her knees, she had to tear her eyes away from the goop. It was still mocking her.



 
Beau Desmarais
Mathis
health bar
WHERE: Training Grounds
WITH: No one
DOING:
Trying to train
CREDIT: legalrehab
PLAYLIST:


Small hands gripped tightly to the bar, the boys body swinging to gain momentum, his hand reaching out for the next one. He missed. His hands scrambling for a grasp onto anything, he slipped, falling.

Mathis was usually quicker to catch himself, but he didn’t. His feet scrambled just as his hands had and he lost his footing, the side of his body slamming to the ground with a resounding thud.

The young boy grunted in annoyance as he sat up, rolling his shoulder as he looked up at the bars above him. He was usually better than this. His hands had a strong grip, he never fell, but it seemed that it was all he was doing lately.

Falling from the bars, people getting the better of him during sparring sessions, he was losing his touch. It was the most embarrassing thing to happen to him. He had been at the top of his game.

They had finally cleared for training again. His injuries were healed, and he had been signed off, though he would have argued that he had healed much quicker than the med team would have liked to admit. They were keeping him off just to be petty because he hadn’t listened to them in the first place, he was sure of it. There was also finally no one monitoring the door stopping him from coming and going from the training grounds as he pleased. He could go as often as he liked, and often was what he liked.

He was out of shape. That’s all it had to be right? Out of shape and out of practice. He hadn’t been allowed to train for so long that he was losing his skills. That meant only one thing then, he had to spend more time training to make up for it. Climbing frames, sparring, reading up on tactics, you name it, Mathis was doing it. Any chance he got since he had been signed off was spent on the training grounds. Improvement was the only way up.

The injury, although not completely his fault, had set him back in this training. They had got the best of him during the battle at the docks, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. He had to be better. He had to be stronger, faster, smarter. He had to be the best that he could possibly be, and then some.

He couldn’t afford to make those kinds of mistakes, not again. He was here for a reason, he had a purpose to fulfil. He had to prove that he wasn’t like those other beasts. Monsters, all of them. The horrors of his kind, and the terrible this they had done, weighed heavily inside him. It was hard to escape the thoughts that he was just like them.

No.

He had been saved by the templars. He had been shown a better path, a better way to live. He wasn’t going to give them any reasons to regret their choice, to regret their faith in him. It was not misplaced or misguided. He would do anything they asked of him. Anything.

He wouldn’t give them any reason to give him - -

The young boy shook his head, discarding where that line of thoughts was leading him. He couldn’t go there, not now, not ever again. It wont ever come to that. He would be the best.

Taking a deep breath he cracked his neck from side to side, getting up off the floor. Stretching his shoulder muscles and cracking his knuckles he geared up to go again. No mistakes this time.



 

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