Fantasy Gentlemen of the Hawthorn Society (Ranix Aurus & Owl Knight)

[Ranix Aurus]

Charles hated London.

He hated the foul-smelling air. He hated the stream of sludge and dregs that its people called a river. He hated its pompous highborns, its equally haughty middle-class, and most of all, he hated the ignorant working class the most. Those people so entrenched in avoiding death that they had forgotten how to live.

Charles Wilson hated everything that the city could offer. And yet, he had once again returned to that personal hellhole.

The young man glanced at the signage hung above the establishment. An inconspicuous place right at the heart of London. The door creaked slightly when he entered, announcing his arrival to the pitiful amount of guest hanging out at this lazy time of the day. Their gazes fell upon this newcomer for a split second before retracting back, unimpressed by what they had seen. The bartender kept a stoic face, professional in his conduct, as he watched him making his way to the counter.

"May I help you," The bartender prompted. He had concluded that this lad, no matter how clean his clothes looked, was not of the nobility. His gait was too lousy, his arrangement unkempt, and there was an air of rowdiness around him. "Sir?" Nevertheless, a certain level of decorum needed to be kept.

"I would like to speak with someone in charge," Charles cut straight to the point. Vulgar, as the bartender would put it. However, his eyes grew wide when Charles produced a sovereign out of his pocket. The coin shimmered in gold under the ceiling light.

It was a custom-made golden coin unlike the Queen's sovereign. On its edge was an incomprehensible string of symbols, and on the center was drawn a simplistic figure of an eye.

"It's on the house," the bartender poured him a glass of wine before taking the coin and then hurriedly disappeared to the back. Charles tapped the glass with his finger, a slight smile on his lips. It seemed that he had come to the right place.

 

[Owl Knight]

Percival Crane watched the young man stride into the bar, wafting with him a bilious air of superiority. He seemed both haughty and disheveled, a walking contradiction in terms. He caught the distain in his voice as he called for the bartender and caught the glint of familiar gold in his hand as he flashed a peculiar sovereign to the bartender, who vanished hurriedly into the back, leaving the young man fingering his wine glass with a smugly satisfied grin.

Percival drained his tankard and concluded ruefully that he didn't care much for the lad, but then he supposed that he didn't care much for most people, so it shouldn't make a difference. He rose with a sigh and steadied himself. The barkeeper's ale tasted like warm piss, but it was strong. The tail of his great coat swished as he ambled slowly across the bar, nodding to a few old regulars, good decent men who kept to their drinks almost as well as they kept to their own business. He fished in his pocket for a few pence and tossed them on the bar beside his empty tankard.

"You're a bit free with your coin, friend," he said, leaning back against the bar beside the young man and casting a wary look around the dark tavern. Most of the men there had their eyes on their drinks, and those who didn't knew better than to eavesdrop to obviously. Percival opened his coat for a moment and flashed the young man a glimpse of the silver Hawthorne blossom pinned to the lining.

"I'm Crane," he said. "Percival Crane. I think we're both here for the same reason."

 

[Ranix Aurus]

The Tower tend to attract similar kind of people. Just like his master, his master's master, and his other associates, Charles Wilson was sensitive to other people's presence and their attempt to invade his personal space. It was not a habit born out of empathy. Just like at this moment, he was quick to notice the stranger approaching his seat, and quick to determine what this gentleman wanted to do.

He gave his wine glass another tap.

"What I did with my coins is not your business," he replied. His master would have commented that he was still wet behind the ear, that his tone betrayed his attempt to feign apathy. His voice still carried with it the arrogance of youth.

He was about to turn away when his eyes caught sight of the silvery glint hidden under the man's coat. The tapping stopped. Charles's wary gaze softened in an instant, replaced with boundless curiosity.

"You are one of them. Us, potentially," he corrected himself, adjusting his manner of speech just like how his master had taught him. "My name, good sir, is Charles Wilson. It is a pleasure to meet fellow members of the club, which I hope I would be privy to as soon as they approved my identity."

 

[Owl Knight]

Percival balked at the young man's overly eager rejoinder. He had seen so many like this upstart come and go in his time, high minded lads fresh from the tower ready to purge the streets of filth. All of them stricken with the myopia of the righteous crusade, with no idea how deep in the filth they too would need to sink to do the real work.

"Keep your voice down," Percival grumbled. "These old blokes keep to their business, but we don't need to go about advertising our presence."

The bartender returned from the back.

"Mr. Wilson, Mr. Werner will see you now," he said, formally. He lifted a hinged section of the bar to allow the young man passage. "Mr. Crane, he asked if you would join as well."

"I thought as much," Percival sighed, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, which pushed back the tails of his greatcoat like the hind feathers of a vulture. "Thanks, Chester," he nodded to the barkeep as he passed. Before entering the back he leaned into the barkeep in a conspiratorial tone. "If a young lady with red hair comes in and asks for me, tell her I'll meet her at the usual place." Chester nodded and closed the hinged section of the bar, resuming his glass polishing as the pair made their way to the back.

The rear entrance of the bar led to a long narrow corridor, dimly lit with a single gaslight sconce, at the far end a door opened into a well furnished chamber where a man stood waiting for the pair of gentlemen over a mahogany conference table.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them as they came in. His accent was a mishmash of German and South London cockney. He was stocky and broad, with a boxer's build. His brown hair, flecked with gray was shorn tight on the sides and swept back with Prussian severity. His dark eyes glowered over a pugilists nose and a long walrus moustache.

"Evrard," Percival greeted the man with a nod. "I suppose we should get this over with."

 

[Ranix Aurus]

The young man complied, with a pout. His teacher had taught him to pay attention to decorum, and when a gentleman asked for quiet, quiet it shall be. Unfortunately his youth dictated that the request was not to be taken in kind. He had never understood the need for secrecy; they were fighting for the Greater Good, for humanity. Obscurity seemed superfluous. A hindrance, even.

Thankfully it didn't take long for the bartender to return with a clearance for him and, as expected, the gentleman beside him.

"What was that about?" Charles inquired about that young lady along their way through the dim corridor. A remark beyond rude, but unbridled curiosity was indeed chronic throughout the denizens of the Tower.

He didn't seem to care about the answer as his attention was brought to a better concern.

"Greetings, Sir," Charles gave the man, whom Percival had called Evrard, a polite smile. Upon his inquisitive gaze, he started. "My name is Charles Wilson, and I hailed from, as you've already known, the Tower of Magic. No, Sir, I'm not here for errands. My Master had nothing to do with this. I'm here by my own will, in order to join your Society."

He sneaked a glance at Percival before continuing.

"We've been aware of the blooddrinkers for years, but, to tell you the truth, the Wisemen had no intent to get actively involved in it. The few that had lent their hands did of their own accords, without official support from the Tower. I find this deplorable; as a fellow human, I have a duty to offer whatever I could to safeguard our kind. I'm sure that my expertise that I've honed during my stay in the Tower would be of great help to your cause."

He finished his monologue with a smug tone at the tail end. Confidence for his skills. Arrogance for his privileges.

 

[Owl Knight]

Percival shot Evrard a curious glance. The old Prussian often was still able to surprise him after the better part of two decades. He wondered how much he had know about the over-eager youth before Charles had even stepped inside of the tavern.

Evrard waved a hand to a pair of cushioned chairs at the table, indicating the two men should take a seat.

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Wilson," he said, pacing towards the room's small fireplace, thick hands clasped behind his back. "The Wisemen of the tower may be more aware of your proclivities than you give them credit for." He turned to set his steely Grey eyes on the young man. "Your master sent word for me to expect you. Tell me..." he continued, stalking towards the young man. "What makes you think we need your help with our fight?"

 

[Ranix Aurus]

Charles made himself comfortable on his designated seat. His gaze returned Evrard's own, fearless, bolstered by the ignorance of youth. "I am an asset," he said. Cocky words delivered with equally smug accent. "It might have come to your attention that I am considered a genius among my peers. I have contributed groundbreaking researches for the Tower, and the Wisemen had approved of my nomination into our inner circle. I can assure you that with my knowledge, I will be able to show you results. I do not wish to keep to myself, wasting away my talent just for my selfish desire for knowledge. This is a gift for humanity, and I will contribute to my kind, as much as I can."

"Surely," he added. "My master had told you as much? He's like a father to me, and I reckon he would be most supportive of my endeavor."

That was not the case. The letter from his master, a Wiseman of the Tower, delivered just a couple of days before he had set food into the city, could be summed as such:

I implore you to let that nincompoop face hardship over his stay and, in the event of his eventual distress, or worse, demise, to send him back. We shall provide reparations for your accrued losses, but the fool shall pay for his own meals.

Charles glanced at Percival, then back to Evrard, thinking that his first impression was wonderfully flawless.

 

[Owl Knight]

Evrard sighed and stood over the table. He leaned wearily forward, his fingertips coming to rest on the mahogany surface as if the stout digits were balancing the whole of his powerful frame.

"I'll be frank with you, Herr Wilson," Evrard grumbled. "The Hawthorne order is bleeding." He jabbed a thick finger at spots all around a map of London and the surrounding countryside. Red markers scattered the spiderwork of streets and lanes. "Our strongholds in the city are dwindling by the month and die blutsauger are getting more and more bold."

He stared up at Wilson from beneath his dark brows. "I can't afford to turn away willing arms, even if it means tossing one more fool out as fodder. Normally there would be an initiation ceremony and such like, but I don't have the time. Our order thrives on secrecy, and if we don't push back soon, our secrets will be out. We were barely able to contain the attacks in Whitechapel with that whole 'Jack the Ripper' story." He sat in a nearby empty chair with a heavy sigh.

"Crane, you're going to get Wilson here up to speed," he said. Percival's jaw flexed.

"I'm not a babysitter, Evrard," he huffed.

"And I'm not in the habit of giving orders twice, Crane," Evrard rejoined harshly. "Get the boy outfitted and get him to St. Bartholomew's to investigate what that vicar reported last night."

Percival groaned and rose to his feet.

"Come on, Wilson," he said. "Let's get this over with." He turned on his heel and strode towards the door and down the hallway towards the tavern.

 

[Ranix Aurus]

Charles gave him a light clap and a big grin on his face.

"You won't regret this," he said with glee. "A mage like me is worth a hundred of people. I guarantee you that with me protecting the streets, your problems will be blown away. I swear upon the honor of my Master," A boastful claim, and a meaningless oath. Whether he spoke the truth was still up for debate.

The young lad practically galloped out of the room, his steps light with boundless anticipation as he tailed behind Percival. He was ready to make changes, and he was among the people who had the same goal in mind.

"Worry not, you are in good hands," he said to his newfound partner, not even considering whether he asked for it or not. "With my knowledge over the magical and the arcane, combined with your experiences, we will sweep the city clean of those filthy blooddrinkers in record time. Pray tell, what's going on at St. Bartholomew's? The more understanding that I have about the situation, the better."

 

[Owl Knight]

Percival didn't stop, making his way through the bar in a huff, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. One could almost see the cloud gathering above his head as he doffed a weather worn bowler hat and stepped out into the midmorning smog with Charles close o his heels like an over-eager puppy.

A handsome cab was waiting outside, the driver waiting dutifully by a pair of restless horses.

"West End," Percival barked. "St. Bart's church. There's a sovereign in it for you if you give them the whip."

The cabbie nodded and opened the cab door, climbing up into the seat.

"Well," Percival called down to Charles. "Get in. I'll brief you on the way."

 

[Ranix Aurus]

The young lad hopped in with a spur. His enthusiasm quickly dampened down as he settled into the seat. Growing in the streets of London among the poor and the abandoned, Charles didn't have good recollections of carriages. It was the combination of the skittish overworked horses, the reckless coachmen, and the blatant disregards of human lives that had pushed him away from the mere presence of said machines of death. Thankfully he had found no need for their existence within the small confines of the Tower and its equally small isle.

His rationality understood them as a necessary evil in the fast-paced society of the bustling city, but his emotion, young at heart, said otherwise.

"We could've just walked," Charles grumbled, even though he knew that was a fool's talk. It would take them until sundown before they could reach West End on foot. "Now, kind Sir, you can start talking about the threats at hand."

It was quite ironic to have a vampiric problem at a church. Not even the Holy could stop evil from encroaching close, it seemed.