Atticus leaned against one of the ancient monoliths within the stone circle, his eyes looking down with tepid curiosity at the small village of Ardgroom. The air coming off the North Atlantic, some distance to the northwest, was cool and crisp in the evening air, its breath heavy with fresh moisture. Atticus brought his wrist up to look at the Breitling Navimeter wristwatch; it was nearing the appointed time.

He stood from the stone that had been propping him up, and straightened his dark grey wool sweater. It, along with his midnight blue Levi’s, fit his athletic frame nicely, and accentuated the darkness of his hair, beard, and eyes. Even so, he yearned for the familiar touch of one of his Savile Row tailored suits, though he was forced to admit that the hills of Ireland were an odd place for such finery. Placing his hands into his pockets he roamed around the stone circle, his eyes searching through the green foliage for a sign of his first attendee. 

When Atticus had penned the letters, he had done so with an eye to fulfilling the specific needs of the mission, no [i]missions[/i], at hand. Reginald Hoyle had described a very personal and grave situation, and the demands were going to require not only a group with finesse, but one that was also geared to delivering an ample beating when required. The short list of Bain & Hoyle agents he knew that could fit that bill had each received one of his letters. Several of those he requested he had only known by reputation, while others he had had the pleasure of working with personally in years past. The thread that linked them all was that they were undeniably among the best B&H had to offer, and the best was all that Reginald Hoyle deserved in Atticus’ estimation. 

The rustle of grass caught Atticus’ attention, and he turned to see a slim figure approaching him with a bag hanging over one shoulder. The creature's smooth scalp, pallor, and dour expression were as dead a giveaway as any, and Atticus smiled to the Greater Wight as he made his way into the circle. Atticus stepped to him as the creature spoke in greeting, and he extended his hand to take the Wight’s gloved one into a shake.

“I have been doing quite well, Semyon Makarov. I trust your journey was pleasant enough?” 

Atticus relinquished Semyon’s hand and moved to stroke at his own beard. “I heard tell that you were off with some business in Irkutsk. Something to do with an ancient stash of smuggled Chinese gold, if I’m not mistaken?” 

The pair chatted for some time, until Atticus was met with the familiar voice of his long-time friend and assistant, Henry. He excused himself from Semyon and took the strikingly handsome Siren into a bear hug, tousling his hair as he did. He released Henry, and set his feet once more upon the ground.

Atticus let his expression fade to one of appreciation. “I know, my friend, I know. It means a lot that you are here.” He looked down to his feet for a moment, then back up to Henry. “You have more at stake in this than you yet know. I will explain later. For now, have you met Semyon Makarov?”

Atticus raised an arm to indicate the Wight, and he was about to formally introduce the two when his eyes caught sight of Nestor Grimsley meandering into the stone circle wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

“What the fu…?” Atticus whispered to himself before transitioning to a low chuckle as the Demonspawn took a seat against one of the stones. 

“Nestor, I see you have been taking your downtime in your usual manner.”

Atticus walked over to where he had originally been leaning, and from behind the stone he pulled an ample North Face backpack. Fishing inside he withdrew a pair of dark corduroy pants, a wool knit shirt of deep blue, and a set of brown leather boots. He set the clothing down beside Nestor.

“It looks like you could use this more than me. Take whatever you’d like.”

Atticus stood, and looked up to see the imposing silhouette of a large figure crested with the clear lines of a fedora. The Golem stood on the fringe of the stones and brought a lighter to a cigarette. The low light of the lighter flame illuminated a face that was hard and etched with pronounced features. The dark eyes did not look up to Atticus, and as the massive creature extinguished the lighter, once again plunging his face into darkness, Atticus thought that demon or not, he would hate to end up on the wrong side of such a man. Atticus nodded in greeting, accompanied with a note of respect for Adam’s commanding presence.

Atticus turned back towards the bulk of the group as those gathered began to talk amongst themselves. He watched them for a time with his hand scratching idly at his beard. The group gathered before him was already an impressive array of individuals. Their unique skills and inherent traits were formidable, and while that realization was inspiring, it also lent a twinge of stark perspective onto the dangers they would surely face. Their adversaries would not be a meager group in themselves, and the thought made Atticus’ jaw tighten.

The call of his name from off to his left stole his focus, and Atticus swung his eyes to see the almost glowing white skin of Aethelreda, the Cave Dragon. In her human form she was a beautiful creature with a unique array of alluring features that made the tattooed demons upon his flesh howl and jostle silently beneath his sweater. Atticus kept his own expression professional and pleasant, bowing his head and casting his eyes downward in deference towards the ancient dragon. When she spoke of Decima, Atticus tensed, having not heard the name said aloud in almost a year. The incubus recovered quickly and shook his head to the alabaster woman.

“No apologies, Aethelreda. Many circumstances were beyond our changing during that time, but I am most pleased to have you with us now.” He smiled, “Having a dragon watching your back is as comforting a thought as any.”

Atticus’ conversation was stalled by the stumbling of another fair girl into the closure of the stones, this one seemingly frazzled and ill at ease. He watched the elven necromancer wave his summons above her head, the action prompting a slight smile from him, though Atticus chose to watch the spectacle in silence.

Again his name was called, this time boisterously, and it was soon accompanied by a handsome man that pressed his way to Atticus’ side. The man, gilded in more gold than a Brooklyn rapper, took his hand and shook it warmly. 

“Sethan,” Atticus replied, a smile splitting his face. “You old bastard, it has been a long time. I am well enough, though I need the hair to hide the worry lines I get from this job.”

Atticus took the mummy by the shoulder and pointed him towards where Semyon Makarov stood. “Now, my friend, I know you to be a lover of all things gold. So, if you have not met Mr. Makarov, I highly recommend you do so. Make him tell you about the gold deal he was a part of in Irkutsk, and don’t take no for an answer.”