[center][H3][color=#840810]♤ ATTICUS MAC CLEIRICH[/color] [color=gray]//[/color] [color=black]♤[/color][/H3][/center]

[color=9e0b0f][b]Boston, Massachusetts 
3:30 AM Present Day[/b][/color]

The incubus known as Atticus Mac Cléirich wretched over the balcony. From his place on the fourth story of the apartment building, the sound of his vomit splashing upon the concrete below echoed up from the alleyway, along with the exclaimed curses of an unfortunate passerby. Though mostly unseen across his covered flesh, the living tattoo depicted there writhed with angels and demons reacting in revulsion, mirth, and drunken pride as their benefactor swam in the storm of his drunkenness. 

Wiping bile from his beard, Atticus stood, and brought his face to the overcast night sky. He breathed in the cold air, sucking through his teeth, and forcing the healing properties of his infernal nature to rid him of the worst of the alcohol’s poison. Atticus was sure to not banish it all from his system, however. He still desired to be drunk, and deeply so. 

Behind Atticus, through the pane glass of a pair of closed French doors, the sounds of the orgy happening within the flat assaulted his keen ears. Humans and other supernatural beings met in a confluence of lust and mind-altered euphoria, and the din of their efforts was an organic maelstrom. It was a strange thing for a demon spawned of lust itself to feel disgust at what he had just partaken in, but Atticus felt it well within his throat nonetheless. [i]Or was that the Jagermeister coming up again?[/i]

His crimson eyes were shot with black blood, and the lines of his handsome face were etched with deepened self-loathing. Running his fingers through the matted tangle of his greasy hair, and down the breasts of his rumpled suit jacket, his mind pulled towards the gravity of the past, and the associated guilt that swirled with it. 

The years following the events of the thwarted Ragnorök had started off with a note of hope for Atticus. Love--that of the heart, and not of the flesh--had been the driving force within his life. He had given up his career as an active agent of the B&H company to fulfill this new dream, and he had taken to it with all the conviction of a devotee. Yet, the truth of his nature had called to him. It lapped at the banks of his soul, slowly and continuously like the coming of the tide, until the worth he placed in love eroded away. And as it washed from him, he had lost everything that had given him a higher meaning besides that of his basal existence. 

He was nothing but an incubus now--seducer with a demonic soul, an illustrious past, and a future lacking in defining prospects. The thought of returning to his job was a constant presence within his mind, but so was his pride. Atticus had began his sabbatical form the B&H company in the wake of having taken part in saving the world. What more could one hope to accomplish?

Atticus scowled as his mind wandered. The demons on his skin silently mocked him, while the angels offered quiet looks of pity. Resolved to his fate and the reality of his present state, Atticus made to smooth his appearance before returning inside. Turning on the heels of his wingtip shoes, he took a step towards the doors when a silver orb, the size of a half-dollar, floated before his nose. 

Focusing upon the orb, Atticus immediately made out the flourishing script initials ‘B&H’ engraved upon its metallic surface. A rush of excitement overpowered the self-loathing and the Jagermeister, and Atticus’ hand shot out to grip the orb. As he clasped it, the metal seemed to dissolve and evaporate in his grip, leaving in its place a handwritten letter. 

Breaking the red wax seal, Atticus unfolded the pressed-paper, wetted his lips, and scanned his hellish eyes over the ebony script. His heart quickened as he recognized the handwriting.  

[COLOR=GRAY][i]Atticus,

It has been a long time since we have spoken, and I am truly sorry that our first exchange in so many years is one of business. Yet, it cannot be helped. The world turns in spite of our lives, and I need your help. 

26 days ago, our regional seer detected an abnormally strong spike of demonic magic in Salem. As you know, such spikes are often associated with the summoning of a powerful demon. Pursuant to our agreement with the Vatican, we contacted the local archdiocese, and informed them of the event. Ten days ago, local police in Salem discovered a deceased woman whose whole body had been attrofied to the point of death. The woman was identified as Ms. Alice Trune, 32. From our records, she is a known witch of the demonic orders, and the site of death was the same as that of the detected spike in demonic magic. 6 days ago we entered into an investigative contract with the Vatican to look into Ms. Trune’s death, and determine what, if anything, she has to do with the possible summoning of strong demons into the mortal realm. 

I have limited resources to spare on this. Most of the Boston field office is caught up in the werewolf turmoil, and other pre-existing contracts. Atticus, I kept track of you during your sabbatical, and I know you could do with some direction. Take this job--if nothing else, it will get you away from the booze for a few days. 

Your team has already been notified by me personally, and will meet you at the site of the murder in Salem. 

Warmest regards,

Sir Archibald Bain[/i][/COLOR]

Atticus reread the letter four times. He felt the once familiar tingle of intrigue spreading from his fingers, and up into his chest. For the first time in a long time, the first pulls of a true smile tugged at the corners the incubus’ mouth.

“Fuck pride.”

[hr]

[b][color=9e0b0f]Salem, Massachusetts 
2:00 PM The Same Day[/color][/b]

Atticus, clean and fresh in dark jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket, leaned his back against the side of 4758 N. Elenore Ave. The house was small, quaint, and well off the main road. Hidden from view by numerous old-growth trees, and with its property butting to the forest, Atticus could instantly see what had drawn the deceased witch to such a locale. Summoning was not an event for spectators, especially the nosy mortal kind.

Police tape still wrapped around the porch posts, and CSI door seals still covered every entrance to the house. Atticus could’ve entered without a bit of fuss, but there was no point. He would wait for his team. 

With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, Atticus absently rubbed at the smooth, cool surface of the stone dodecahedron within. The object, known as an obscuracon, was a magical fetish, and would hide his presence from all except those who knew to look for him. Archibald Bain had made contact with the rest of his team via the same silver-orb letters that Atticus had received, and he knew they would be explicitly seeking him out at this location, and at this time. The magic of the obscuracon would reveal him to each of the team as they approached.