Barrett

Justice League: Shadow of the Gods

@MrDidact

Could I get that CS code too please?

Justice League: Shadow of the Gods

Anyone who uses Kingdom Come art in their interest check at the very least has my attention and the roleplay intro sealed the deal, colour me intrigued.

The November 9

Grayson Reed

Character Summary

Name: Grayson Reed
Age: Twenty-seven
Nationality: British
Sexuality: Homosexual
Status: Single

Appearance

Height: 6'
Build: Well-built
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black

Personality

Most people don't worry all that much about right and wrong in their everyday life. It doesn't come up while running errands, doing chores or working your 9-5, so almost everyone can just cruise along in a state of lackadaisical moral neutrality, not doing anything particularly wrong but not much that's really right either. Grayson Reed, however, can't allow himself to be or feel neutral for even a second. He's got a burning, white hot core of a heart that bleeds for every wrong he sees and won't let him rest till he's done something to put it right. This goes for the big things, the global injustices and worldwide problems, but also for the little things that are easy to allow yourself to ignore.

Like most people who believe something so strongly, Grayson is something of a polarising taste. You either love him or hate him, it being hard to be ambivalent on a man who rejects neutrality. People in positions of authority over him (teachers, landlords, police officers) have most often gone with the latter, whereas he counts most of his contemporaries as friends. And to his friends, Grayson is loyal, dependable and generous, always looking for an opportunity to lend a hand to his brothers or sisters in arms. As with his dedication to doing the right thing, Grayson will help a friend to move hosue with as much willingness and enthusiasm as he'll try to dig them out from debt or from a shitty landlord. For him, doing the right thing is more important than anything else, including his degree or any petty laws he might have to break.

Skills

♦ Artistic Talent
♦ Knowledge of History
♦ Highly Empathic

Strengths

♦ Fearless
♦ Moral
♦ Loyal

History

Grayson is one of those people that unfolds like a perfect little riddle if you know their history. Having bounced around orphanages and foster homes since a very young age, Grayson knows better than most how impermanent relationships can be. Here one day, gone the next and forgotten the day after that, that's how it goes when you've not got a place to really call home. But rather than let this sour him to making friends at all, the long list of people he no longer knew made the young man double down on each new person he met. He tried twice as hard to make friends and four times as hard to keep them, quickly wracking up a collection of pen-pals and contacts.

In his academic life, things went similarly. Switching schools as frequently as he did, it's amazing that Grayson got as complete an education as he did, just barely scraping by with passes in Maths and Science while he coasted on high scores in the humanities. His dedication to helping others made him well loved by his classmates but disliked by the teachers, as the young Mr. Reed had no problem sharing his work with anyone worried about their own prospects, whether they'd put in the work or not. When asked about this by a particularly irate educator, Grayson simply replied that he didn't think someone had to meet a quota of effort to deserve help, it was something everyone needed sometimes.

Now in higher education, Grayson gets along somewhat better with his lecturers, who have less cause to care if he shows his essays to a fellow student. However, several have taken issue with his habit of hijacking discussions to talk about whatever issue has his attention. More often than not, a perfectly peaceful discussion of the significance of an Italian sculptor or French impressionist has been co-opted by the rambunctious student in order to discuss unthinking Euro-centrism or the pervasive attitude of dismissal towards 'lower' art forms like graffiti.

Extras

Motto: "If you've got strength left, use it to lift your brother up."

The November 9

Woops, thought I'd caught that in my edit, will change.

The November 9

Hey, I meant to post in this thread that I was making a character but just sort of forgot... Anyhow, here he is!

Grayson Reed

Character Summary

Name: Grayson Reed
Age: Twenty-four
Nationality: British
Sexuality: Homosexual
Status: Single

Appearance

Height: 6'
Build: Well-built
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Black

Personality

Most people don't worry all that much about right and wrong in their everyday life. It doesn't come up while running errands, doing chores or working your 9-5, so almost everyone can just cruise along in a state of lackadaisical moral neutrality, not doing anything particularly wrong but not much that's really right either. Grayson Reed, however, can't allow himself to be or feel neutral for even a second. He's got a burning, white hot core of a heart that bleeds for every wrong he sees and won't let him rest till he's done something to put it right. This goes for the big things, the global injustices and worldwide problems, but also for the little things that are easy to allow yourself to ignore.

Like most people who believe something so strongly, Grayson is something of a polarising taste. You either love him or hate him, it being hard to be ambivalent on a man who rejects neutrality. People in positions of authority over him (teachers, landlords, police officers) have most often gone with the latter, whereas he counts most of his contemporaries as friends. And to his friends, Grayson is loyal, dependable and generous, always looking for an opportunity to lend a hand to his brothers or sisters in arms. As with his dedication to doing the right thing, Grayson will help a friend to move hosue with as much willingness and enthusiasm as he'll try to dig them out from debt or from a shitty landlord. For him, doing the right thing is more important than anything else, including his degree or any petty laws he might have to break.

Skills

♦ Artistic Talent
♦ Knowledge of History
♦ Highly Empathic

Strengths

♦ Fearless
♦ Moral
♦ Loyal

History

Grayson is one of those people that unfolds like a perfect little riddle if you know their history. Having bounced around orphanages and foster homes since a very young age, Grayson knows better than most how impermanent relationships can be. Here one day, gone the next and forgotten the day after that, that's how it goes when you've not got a place to really call home. But rather than let this sour him to making friends at all, the long list of people he no longer knew made the young man double down on each new person he met. He tried twice as hard to make friends and four times as hard to keep them, quickly wracking up a collection of pen-pals and contacts.

In his academic life, things went similarly. Switching schools as frequently as he did, it's amazing that Grayson got as complete an education as he did, just barely scraping by with passes in Maths and Science while he coasted on high scores in the humanities. His dedication to helping others made him well loved by his classmates but disliked by the teachers, as the young Mr. Reed had no problem sharing his work with anyone worried about their own prospects, whether they'd put in the work or not. When asked about this by a particularly irate educator, Grayson simply replied that he didn't think someone had to meet a quota of effort to deserve help, it was something everyone needed sometimes.

Now in higher education, Grayson gets along somewhat better with his lecturers, who have less cause to care if he shows his essays to a fellow student. However, several have taken issue with his habit of hijacking discussions to talk about whatever issue has his attention. More often than not, a perfectly peaceful discussion of the significance of an Italian sculptor or French impressionist has been co-opted by the rambunctious student in order to discuss unthinking Euro-centrism or the pervasive attitude of dismissal towards 'lower' art forms like graffiti.

Extras

Motto: "If you've got strength left, use it to lift your brother up."

For Queen and Country

_{@McHaggis@Undine@Barrett@Lovely Complex@Silent Observer@Write@MiddleEarthRoze@Fabricant451@Nallore@Kirah}

^{Friday 7th of February, 2020 ● Night ● #2}

London after dark thrums with energy––mystical or otherwise. Not everything can be attributed to the witches' arcane pursuits, or the Fae's meddling: sometimes, the hustle and bustle of the city is just down to cheap drinks at the local nightclub on a Friday night. Institutionalised drinking culture is no different in Edgetoun than anywhere else in the city, but it is clear where the hot-spots are tonight.

I. The Slye Fox
^{_{████████████████████████████████████████}}
Favoured by those who prefer a quiet night above all else (and, of course, loyal regulars, generally vampires), there is no better establishment than Nicodem Kaminski's pub. There may be no hashtag or gimmicky event to draw patrons, but it is hardly necessary. The best part is not having to shout over the music to have any kind of one-to-one conversation.

II. Yelena
^{_{████████████████████████████████████████}}
Speaking of gimmicks, it's 'Vampire Appreciation Night' at Yelena, a haphazardly-planned event advertised by flyers, posters, and word-of-mouth to capitalise on the current Other situation. The club is twice as busy as it usually is, and plastic fangs of dubious quality have been distributed to the patrons who might not have their own: there's a hefty discount for anyone who flashes their fangs at the bartenders, real or otherwise.

Not all is well with this event, however, and there are dangerous forces at play. While all fun and games for the clueless customer-base, there are real vampires mixed in with the crowd –– the unethical kind, hunting at whatever venue is the busiest –– and more than that, word has reached those with loud opinions of supernatural culture. It is only a matter of time until they turn up to cause trouble.

For Queen and Country

𝗡𝗜𝗖𝗢𝗗𝗘𝗠 𝗞𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗞𝗜

^{Opening the Fox up for business, ready for any of its employees to arrive; @MiddleEarthRoze@Write}

Vampires don't sleep, not even in coffins, despite what folklore and cinema have to say on the subject. Particularly fashion or image conscious Vampires might keep a coffin or two around the place just for the look of the thing but they have no need to shut down for eight-to-ten hours of maintenance and stress relief like humans do. The undead get their rest, revitalisation and relaxation far more efficiently by drinking deeply of human blood. Or, in a pinch, animal blood.

Some Vampires, often the more eccentric or older ones, do enjoy putting their heads down though. True sleep is impossible but most immortals see the value in closing their eyes to be alone with their thoughts, if they've got the patience to lie still for long enough. Younger Vampires often eschewed the practise, preferring to burn the candle not just from both ends but from both sides as well, and generally didn't pick up the habit until the sheer wait of constant consciousness bore them down, often to an early grave. Or a late grave, if you want to get technical.

Nicodem had been in the habit of getting three hours of 'unconsciousness' a night for more than two hundred years and found it as refreshing now as he had back then, in an uncomfortable bunk in a Napoleonic stockade. There had been so many hours in each day of captivity that he'd needed to find something to start whittling them down while he waited for the firing squad. That hadn't worked out particularly well for them or anyone in the surrounding area but the habit had stuck with him, one of the many small things that had slowly built towards his current rigid and meticulously maintained schedule.

Three hours was enough though, he mused, as your own thoughts could become deafening if you listened to them for too long. He was currently going through his morning routine and carefully considering the day ahead, the pale light of dawn just barely peaking over the rooftops outside. Nicodem's flat was directly above his pub, The Slye Fox, and had a similarly dark, old and well maintained look to it. Well aged bookcases with heavy loads of mature tomes shared the space with polished mahogany tables and venerable arm chairs. The decor was antiquated, to be sure, but comfortable and homely.

At least, it was if you could see well in the dark, Vampires generally don't see much need for lamps.

Currently, Nicodem's attention was on his shoe. It was a hard working thing and appropriate for many occasions, black and formal enough for a funeral but with thick enough soles for a back alley brawl. It's only flaw was a large scuff down one side that Nicodem didn't remember getting there. Might've happened when he was taking the Fox's bins out the night before, though it equally could've gotten there during a scuffle he'd had with a pair of the Methuselah Court's pawns the night before that. The latter was much worse because not only would it mean the jumped-up half fangs had marked him, it'd mean he'd been walking around for a full day and night with marred footwear.

He only hope Loki hadn't noticed, the old bastard never missed a chance to poke fun.

With a muttered curse in Estonian, a language Nicodem took particular pleasure from swearing in, he set to work with the polish and brush to restore the shoe's former glory. The rest of his outfit was, of course, immaculate. A grey silk shirt with Swiss tabs to facilitate rolling up one's sleeves, a thick woollen waistcoat with deep pockets over that and a pair of slate trousers to round out the colour scheme. He was occasionally accused, normally by Eve, of dressing far too nicely for running a pub. She said he should open a fancy uptown restaurant so that his wardrobe finally matched his occupation but he paid her no mind.

It was, after all, a modern pleasure to dress well. In times past, you'd make do with whatever you got and hope it kept you warm. Fashion was a far off concern, far down the hierarchy of needs for anyone not of the upper crust and Nicodem's only interaction with crusts had been eating them. But over the last few hundred years, clothes that fit well, looked good and kept the weather out had become not only available and affordable but ubiquitous. If anything, it baffled Nicodem whenever he saw someone not taking advantage of it.

When he was fully prepared for the day, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives and a charcoal coloured tie Windsor knotted around his neck, Nicodem went downstairs, put on his coat and took off at a brisk walk towards the off-license, the only place open at this point in the morning. The man behind the counter looked up from his phone and nodded to Nicodem, silently receiving payment for a newspaper and pack of Silk Cuts, a cheap and foul brand of cigarettes. He knew the bar owner of old, as had his father before him, and both had carefully never asked him how it was that he never seemed to age.

Paper in hand, Nicodem returned to his abode, his eyes travelling over a particularly forlorn young things slowly stumbling along the pavement. His sense of smell, an experienced and well honed sense, told him she smelled off nothing but the component smells of her outfit, all perfume and no sweat, all alcohol and no breath. This allowed him to file her under the heading 'GHOST' in his lexicon of faces in Edgetoun, a category that seemed to have doubled in size over the last year or so. People were surely not dying more, so perhaps there was some sort of backed up pipe over on the other side?

The thought put the subtlest of smiles on his face.

Nicodem spent the next several hours quietly smoking his way through half the packet of cigarettes, enjoyed alongside a cup of black Keemun tea, and reading the paper. Never having really bothered to catch up to the digital age, Nicodem got his news from word of mouth or from the printed word. Both were taken with a hefty pinch of salt, few having had as much experience of being misled and lied than an old Vampire, but it paid to keep even a vague idea of what was happening in the world because you never knew when it might suddenly start happening to you.

Most of it seemed about what he had expected, further fear mongering about the Other on the front page while the pages within experimented with more curious and often salacious thoughts about the unknown. Mortals did, in his experience, react to new information with base emotions such as fear, lust and anger so things were simply proceeding as he'd expected. The trial for that werewolf with the garish name was coming up and every other page seemed to feel the need to bring it up and rail about the police's failures to stop him or discuss the pressure on the state to get a successful conviction.

Still, Nicodem wasn't the one behind bars and the day was wasting while he read so, eventually, he cleared away his tea cup, ash tray and paper and made his way downstairs. After a few moment's fiddling with the radio to find the Russian Classical Station, he began taking the chairs down, replacing the coasters and generally preparing the Fox for another day of servicing Edgetoun's needs in the areas of company, camaraderie and, of course, alcohol. On particularly busy days, he would grumble about how many people flowed through the Fox's door to Eve or Loki, but even for a millennia old monster of the shadows with scars older than most royal families, it was secretly nice to feel wanted.

Like everything else in his life, Nicodem had the opening of the fox down to a well oiled routine and was done within a handful of minutes. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was now five minutes to ten, not a time that most bars opened at. But then, most bars didn't serve alcohol to dhampires, ghosts and other members of the undead. At least, not to their knowledge.

Nicodem slid back the bolts, flipped the sign on the door and settled down on a seat behind the bar. Anatoli Lyadov was playing on the radio behind him, the sun was now properly shining through the heavily obscured windows and he had the crossword in front of him. A good start to the day, he thought, as he bent down to look at the first clue.

1 Across: Sign of good or evil for the future (4)...

An easy one. Nicodem's pen scribbled in the letters; O, M, E, N.

For Queen and Country

𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗦𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

^{Wiating at the Crypt Cafe for Hook and Sinker; @McHaggis, @Undine}

The sun streaming onto the windows of Old Oakes Court found Simone already awake, sitting up her perpetually messy bed with her phone in one hand and the other idly twisting in her hair, light just filtering through the half drawn curtains onto the snowdrift of clothes, books, witchcraft supplies and assorted miscellany on the floor. Some of her thoughts were on unimportant matters; the feed scrolling behind her cracked screen, whether she could be bothered to get up and make tea for herself, where she was going to find blackbriar root at short notice for the introduction to druidism class on Monday. They were the little things that you let distract you from whatever's lurking at the edge of your mind, the big thing that's going make you think about it in a minute but that you can ignore for just a little longer...

The big thing for Simone this morning was honestly a whole bunch of things, wrapped around and about each other until they might as well be one thought. The name of the tangled ball of worries and anxieties, at least, was simple; Hook and Sinker. Half a year ago, there'd have been nothing to think about. Simone would've been looking forward to seeing them at the Crypt Cafe later that day and would probably have still been laughing about whatever they'd gotten up to the previous night. Laurel would've arrived in his immaculate uniform, arm in arm with Emma in her scruffy one, and they'd all have cracked jokes, teased each other and loudly made disparaging remarks about the weirdo in the suit that was always sitting in the corner.

But now? Simone didn't know what to expect, even less what she wanted to happen. Things had changed so dramatically in six months that it was almost unthinkable. Laurel had been unreachable, both emotionally and as a presence, for ages now and Simone had no idea why. Worse still, she couldn't ask Emma because the girl had been withdrawn, cagey and sometimes even waspish whenever they'd met up. Sometimes it had been clearly directed malice (most often at Alice, Simone's then girlfriend) but just as often it had been general hostility and random moments of aggression that made Emma's hackles rise and everyone else take a step back.

So the prospect of seeing them both today was daunting, to be sure. On the one hand, she wanted to go and see them and be a good friend and make it all go back to how it had been before. She was older than the other two, had a real job and was legally an adult, and the nagging, responsible voice at the back of her head (that always sounded like her mother) told her that she should be the one to Sort Things Out. But on the other hand, a large part of her wanted to send a quick message to them both excusing herself from the meetup and spend the whole day in and around her bed, avoiding people and social responsibilities alike.

The tug of war between the two sides had gone back and forth in her head for the past several days now, neither side definitively pulling ahead. More than once she'd taken out her phone to send that fateful message but had pulled back from the brink each time. And now, mere hours before the arranged time, there was a new, fresh desperation on both sides. There was one factor that was slowly but surely winning Simone over towards going though; it was now too late to politely cancel and there's nothing more familiar to the British than sitting through a social event you'd rather have missed because it would've been too awkward to excuse yourself.

With a groan and a grunt, she rolled out of bed. Whether she was going to the cafe or not, Simone was starting to feel hungry enough that staying in bed was no longer a real option. The house was quiet, Ada having left an hour or so ago to give a lecture, so Simone decided to make sure the neighbours were awake by blasting music from her phone. The off-kilter notes of Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees rang through the kitchen as Simone busied herself with making tea, toast and clearing up. It was another way of delaying making a decision, setting a self imposed deadline like "I'll make up my mind when I've had breakfast," but knowing that there's nothing so easy as breaking a promise to yourself.

Armed with cream cheese on toast, strong tea and another 70s tune, Simone returned to her room and booted up her laptop, clearing some folded clothes from the desk chair so she could sit down. She'd come upon another quick delay while making the food, she really aught to check on the Circle's facebook group and see if there was anyone who needed a hand with anything. After all, if there was a desperate need for someone to lift chairs and arrange a council building for a class, she could hardly swan off to hang out with her friends, could she?

But there was nothing. A few people were chattering about Monday's introduction to Druidism, some were looking to get together a group for a pub outing on Saturday night and there was, as always, the background discussion of the Other situation but no one who needed help to save Simone from making a decision. There was a group poll on when the most people would be available for a Circle-wide meetup to discuss 'matter of great importance' that distracted her for a moment (Monday would be best for her, it was he next day off) but when she shut her laptop, there was no longer room for doubt.

She was going to have to go.

A twinge of guilt twisted in her gut a that thought and another went off when she realised just how hard she'd been trying to avoid this little meeting. It wasn't that she didn't want to see Hook and Sinker, she just didn't want to have to face questions as to why she'd missed so many other meetings, mostly because she had no good answers and no new excuses. Still, you had to face the music some time and you might as well look your best while doing it.

The next little while was spent sorting through her clothes, carefully filed across the floor, and selecting an appropriate outfit. Something cool and eye catching definitely but not too bold, she didn't want to look she was having too much fun. Obviously there'd be an array of enamel pins attached but which ones? She had an old biscuit tin filled with the damn things and still more pinned to various dungarees and jackets spread across the flat. Eventually she settled on a maroon bomber jacket, some muted orange flared trousers, her 'Dead Lame' t-shirt (a local band that were rumoured to be entirely made up of ghosts, vampires and dhampires) and a huge pair of sunglasses. Her hair got rather less attention, she just combed into a heap and sprayed it to (hopefully) keep it in place.

As she stepped outside and locked the door, she knew she was setting off a little too early and would be at the cafe at least a quarter of an hour before when they'd arranged but that was all well and good. She had her laptop with her, stuffed into the tote bag hanging off her shoulder, and she could work on one of the lesson plans she'd be neglecting for her upcoming course on the fundamentals of Elementalism. The Crypt Cafe was a nice place to work, she found, because you never had to wait that long before someone you knew would come and disturb you, giving you a perfect excuse to look away from your work.

It wasn't long before she was curled up in a corner seat at the back of the cafe, a large cup of coffee (lots of cream, lots of sugar) in front of her and her laptop on her knees. She'd made it here. Now all that she had to do was wait for the other two to arrive...

For Queen and Country

𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢

^{Arriving at the office and sending a message to Doctor Alston; @MiddleEarthRoze}

Like many people, Renato Carvallo's first reaction to waking up was to groan and wish he hadn't. Unlike most people, he didn't then move to snooze his alarm and snatch an extra five minutes of slumber but instead leapt from the bed and proceeded immediately with the day. It was his policy that an unpleasant ordeal was to face head on and powered through, not delayed until it became all that much more unpleasant with the anticipation.

His morning routine was nothing unusual, though he spent more time grooming his moustache and selecting his suit than could possibly be necessary. When he was certain that the jacket's shade of teal complimented his eyes properly and had broken his fast on cream cheese and salmon, Renato stepped out of his front door to face the day. He could feel the tension itching under his skin, the desire to tell that pillock in accounts how stupid he was and the need to scream at the 'expert witnesses' he was corralling into a semblance of coherency yearning to be free, and it was almost too much to contain.

But he knew that today was Friday. Only one short day at the office to hold in his temper and then he could let loose. As he started his car and began the drive to the Prosecutor's Office, he was already thinking ahead to the night's revels. Where to go, what to drink, who to kiss, when to stagger home. A few weeks ago, he'd ended the night with a trip to a nightclub named 'The Ace of Spades' and remembered liking the atmosphere. Of course, he'd been at least three sheets into the wind at that point and had no idea if he'd like it tonight... but he was willing to give it a go. At the very least, it would surely be a break in this interminable discussion of the Other.

Traffic was, as always, a nightmare but eventually he pulled up outside the Prosecutor's office, his temper ratcheted up a notch or two by exposure to London's more creative drivers. It was an old building but well maintained and well staffed. Renato was only one of a dozen or so lawyers that worked within and then there were a host of interns, secretaries, janitorial staff and general functionaries. On a good day, the office's occupants felt like a group of allies that would keep him going should he falter and have his back in a close moment. On bad days, they surrounded him on all sides, got under his skin and made him want to scream.

Still, Renato felt confident that he could keep any irritation he felt today under wraps. After all, the preparation for the Bloodfang case was going well, there was a new little Italian restaurant a few streets away to get lunch from and soon he'd be free of the office for the entire weekend. All he had to do was make it through the day without snapping at anyone or making a snide remark.

Renato's first test came after he had installed himself in his office and called up his PA and understudy, a nervous young man named Bartholomew, to arrange and double check his schedule for the day. Bart was impressionable, eager and often more naive than Renato's practised cynicism could bare but he meant well. Unfortunately, he often didn't do very well and today he'd forgotten a folder of notes on past cases that he was supposed to spend the morning marking for his superior to review. To compound that error, he couldn't remember whether he'd actually left a message at the Coroner's Court asking for someone to come down and talk Renato through the results of the autopsy and had to leave the room in order to double check.

Pinching his nose, Renato counted to ten under his breath as the young man hovered nervously with the address book held in front of himself like a shield.

"Uhm... I made sure, I did send them a message, they said that one of their people could come down after lunch. Is... is that okay?"

7...8...9...10. And go.

"That's fine Bart, don't worry about it. Sometimes we all need to make extra sure but drop them a line to confirm the time will you? Last time we had one of them down she arrived forty-five minutes late and claimed our office had the time wrong." Renato delivered the last line with a conspiratorial grin and roll of the eyes, which Bart picked up on with great relief.

"Oh, yes, of course! I'll make sure they know it's at one o'clock and no later!"

The young man went to dash from the office but Renato called him back.

"Before you do that, do you know which of the examiners is coming down? From memory, there's the blonde one that can't keep a straight face to save her life and the other one, the one who never looks like she's paying attention."

"Uh..." Bart's finger ran down the page. "I think that it's... yes, it's Doctor Alston. She'd be the, uh, the second one."

Renato sighed. "Well, any port in a storm. Thanks Bart."

The younger man practically bowed as he left the room and left Renato to stare at the file on his desk. It was Renato's hope that with a little researching and preparation, he could suggest that Bloodfang had attacked people while transformed before and that this was not his only attack, just the only one that had ended in multiple deaths. And so the file contained a list of cold cases from Edgetoun and the local boroughs that had been marked for reevaluation due to new information. Most of them were thought to be animal attacks or pranks, a couple having been chalked up to the actions of a very specific serial criminal.

Or rather, it should have contained those records. Instead, it was full of... bills? expense reports? a montly invoice for digestive biscuits? Just as Renato made to shout for him, Bart leapt back into the room, face a picture nervousness and brandishing a nearly identical file.

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry! I left the wrong file!"

It was a small thing, a tiny thing, just a very minor irritation in a world that presented many major ones. It wouldn't do to shout at Bart over such an inconsequential thing, not when the boy was trying so hard. That would be mean, cruel even, and not reflect accurately on the person Renato was or on the atmosphere of professional courtesy and cooperation that the Prosecutor's office maintained.

At least, that was what he told himself as he pinched the bridge of his nose and began, again, to count to ten.

1...2...3...

For Queen and Country

𝗔𝗘𝗗𝗡𝗬𝗫

^{Appraising and accosting the young barista, Cael; @Silent Observer}

Two figures walked along Pratchett Road with a slow and measured pace. They didn't look at one another, never so much as exchanged a glance, and so their remarks seemed almost to be addressed to the well kept hedgerows or the twittering birds.

"Winter hangs onto this land. Icy fingers locked into the earth. Their agents mass and more arrive daily."

"I assume spring is coming though? When have not the rays of sun wiped clean the earth of hoary frosts?"

"It is unlikely to come soon. Things are unsettled over there. Your absence is still felt strongly."

There was a hook in that sentence, baited by the taller figure to force the other to apologise or offer an explanation. But the first was not half the angler that the other was a wriggler, as he simply ignored the hook to press on to what interested him.

"And who is left most inconsolable by my leaving? Ettoryn? Veldear? The Triplets?"

The taller one sighed.

"Ettoryn thinks you will return and waits. Veldear thinks you will not and sullies your name. And the Triplets seek to undermine me."

The Other laughed.

"By looking to prove that you have taken many trips to the mortal plane where your predecessor has retired, I imagine. You can't fault their strategy, they'd make you look weak, themselves informed and myself dishonest. Are you ever followed on these trips?"

The taller figure shook his head sharply.

"Hmmm... I see two solutions, one more permanent but equally more difficult to arrange. The first is simply that you allow one of their agents to tail you, catch him and arrest him for crossing into this plane without permission from the Queen. You'll look a tad boorish but they will be unlikely to press the matter further and will be weakened by the loss."

Another shake of the head.

"No, it wouldn't do to increase your reputation as a killjoy even further, would it?"

The taller figure frowned and wrinkled his lip. He was unused to be insulted to his face with such unsubtle language, both because of his illustrious position and because the Summer Court's denizens preferred to wrap their barbed words in the guise of compliments. Had the shorter figure been anyone other than who he was, there would have be a reckoning. As it was, he would simply ignore the comment.

Seemingly oblivious to his partner's irritation, the other figure kept talking.

"The second is solution more involved. You allow the agent to track you to a meeting, find some excuse to meet with a solitary fae here on the mortal plane. Let the tail follow you to at least three of these meetings before apprehending them and dragging them back to court. Announce that this catspaw interrupted you during a debriefing of a double-agent you long ago planted in the Winter Court and that whoever sent them has jeopardised the Summer Court's ability to move against the Unseelie."

The two had reached the end of the lane and finally turned to face each other, Pratchett road on one side and Prospect Park sweeping down the hill below them on the other. The taller figure stroked his chin and looked down at his companion.

"The triplets will be humiliated. The Unseelie will be worried. And I will look more powerful than ever."

For a handful of seconds, he stared into his comrades eyes and nodded slowly.

"It is a fine plane, Aednyx. I will enact it immediately. This means I will not see you for some time."

The former Archduke, for of course it was he, gave a tinkling little laugh. "Worry not, my own company is more pleasant to me than yours ever could be. Make sure only that some minor Baron comes in a week or two to inform me of your success, which is of course inevitable for as long as you stick to my plan."

Pherakna, Archduke of Dewsdrop and right hand to Queen Titania, resisted the twin urges to strike and bow to the other fae and instead turned sharply on his heel and strode downhill. There was a spider's web that hung between two bars of the park's iron fence that could be used to travel to Avalon and he now had a great desire to leave this plane. He could not deny that he was second in word and deed to Aednyx but there was only so much poking he could take before he needed to leave or snap back.

And he had no idea what would happen if he retaliated. Better for them both that he accept the jibes as the cost of doing business and take out his anger on his opponents at court.

Aednyx, meanwhile, looked to already have forgotten his erstwhile colleague and was looking down upon Edgetoun with a critical eye. He leaned his weight on an umbrella, chosen more to match the maroon of his shirt than because he feared the rain, like a walking stick and carefully unfolded a pair of sunglasses. As he set them on his nose, he set his sights on a building some five minutes brisk walk away; The Daily Grind. After all, what was a better chaser to Faerie politics than a shot of human angst?

It was a pleasant enough stroll, the February air still having the chill of Winter in it but the optimistic sun seeming to have decided that it was going to act as if summer was here and shine on. Harsh and bright, with the noise of amorous birds in the air and the bustle of the city going about its morning business in the air, Aednyx's favourite kind of day.

He was hardly paying attention to the world as he opened the door to the coffee shop and was almost knocked over by a scruffy looking man who came barrelling out. For a moment, Aednyx considered some form of hex or curse upon the fool but curbed his anger as he caught a look at the man's wyrd, trailing behind him. If he was any judge, pain and heartache were already bearing down on the fool, all Aednyx needed to do to get satisfaction was wait.

'Eddie' placed his normal order (ginger tea with a dash of honey) and took a seat by the window. The sounds of keyboard tapping, phones beeping and mortals talking washed over him, each one more inane than the last. He heard whispers about that lycan in jail, rumours of some sort of youthful arcane gathering and an awful lot of buzz about some newcomers to the neighbourhood. Aednyx sifted through it all like a prospector looking for the shine of intriguing gold but nothing caught his attention. Just general worrying about current events, as though these mayflies would live long enough to see the effects, and gossip about their tawdry little lives. Not even a good old fashioned unrequited love or tragic misunderstanding that he could involve himself in...

And then, as he was about to give up and leave the place, he felt the ripple in the air, the crackle in his blood that spoke of magic. And not just any magic, this was no mortal's clumsy wishing the world to be other than it is but the assured sense of a fae reaching out in order to make events more pleasing to their own narrative. Without drawing attention to himself, Aednyx stood and watched as a blonde woman who talking into a phone with one hand took a sip of her drink with the other.

The drink in the cardboard cup, that was the target of the hex he had sensed so Aednyx was not surprised when the woman squealed and almost dropped her phone in shock, spitting out some of the drink. One hand over her mouth, she fled in combined embarrassment and pain, much to the confusion of all in the Daily Grind. All, that is, except two.

Aednyx looked over at the counter and saw the source of the magic behind it, a smug smirk twisted across his young face. He was one of the baristas, pale of skin and white of hair, who now turned back to his work, unaware that his deed had been observed. Aednyx had already known the boy was Fae, both from the youth's looks and from the intelligence he'd had gathered on Edgetoun, but hadn't had any reason to pay him any attention till now, him being but one more changeling frittered about the British isles by careless or mischievous Fae.

That hex was well crafted though, doing not enough damage the woman to cause an awful fuss but still enough to ensure she regretted whatever she had done to draw the boy's ire. Aednyx himself would probably have done something more subtle and long lasting, causing mortals to fall in love with the most inconvenient person was always a favourite, but the lad showed promise. Now, what was his name... Hail? Maille? Dale? The old fae's eyes found the younger's name badge as he stepped to the counter to order a refill.

"So, Cael, does a hex come free with every hot drink? Or only for those customers that look at you the wrong way?"

Aednyx spoke so softly that no one should be able to hear him over the general hubbub of the cafe but his words sounded loud and terribly final in the ears of the only other Faerie in the room.