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Current @Lady Amalthea, does that mean every post is a Horocrux?
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Atkin Bowman

Location: Wizard Tower 20th Floor


It'd be nice to just go one day without having to see Cuyler's face. He was around *constantly.* If it wasn't for the fact that Arya had one of the busiest jobs in the entire Castle, he was certain that he'd just hang around all day. Shouldn't he be at his job right now? It was pretty late in the morning to be out and about sticking his nose into other people's business. What even was his job anyways? Atkin had a feeling that he'd said something at some point about it, but it didn't stick if he had. Regardless, his very presence seemed to make his headache suddenly spike.

Silently, he trudged over and poured himself a cup of tea she was being so adamant about. Really, if she wanted him to feel better, she wouldn't invite him to come along constantly. Seriously. It'd been like half a year and if she could tell how much he didn't like him, there was no indication made of it. Was she just that enamored by his... foreign-ness to pick up on that. At least Azula and Chloe understood him. That they disliked his pet was indication enough that there was a kinship there that went beyond simple pets. Although he did wish that they were on hand so he could distract himself with something else.

Atkin doubted that those herbs were actually of any significant benefit. They might be good for general healing purposes, but this sicknesse that's been affecting the whole tower? Nothing he'd seen or heard about worked on that shit. If a few exotic herbs that any old schmuck could get ahold of was actually effective, he was pretty sure that it would already be known about. The Physiks likely have been trying anything they could get their mitts on. Those herbs were likely tried and thrown out months ago. But he wasn't going to say as much. She wanted him to drink his tea, so he'd drink his blasted tea.



Chief Hermetic Scribe

Location: Manuscriptorium


The Chief Scribe stopped in his tracks when he noticed the breeze. Could the same fool who tampered with the hatch have also managed to break into the vault? All logic said that whoever did it had to have been a scribe, or had help from one. Perhaps some thief had talked his way into the ear of one of the scribes, convincing them of untold riches that would be shared among them. Or they had been coerced by witch into doing her bidding. Regardless, the worm would need to be sniffed out and quashed under heel. Every scribe by now should know full well that insubordination was not to be tolerated; to go further into traitorous action was asking for punishment most severe.

Amundsen didn't notice the breeze and kept moving forward, thinking his boss was merely performing another minor inspection of some detail of the Manuscriptorium. The Hermetic Scribe contemplated whether he should investigate alone of have the senior clerk follow him. Having even a little bit of back up could potentially be useful, but his options would be limited. The man was ignorant on much of the workings of the Castle. If things went awry, he could learn too much. No, he would go alone. This all was quite a nuisance. He was quite busy, and all this was merely creating delays in his schedule.

Underneath his outer cloak, the masked man placed his hand onto the hilt of his dagger as he began to make his way through the maze. He knew that it was more likely that he'd not find anyone during his little investigation, the culprit having taken what their little brain craved and left, but he preferred to err on the side of caution. A simpler man might have gone for a gun first, but in such a confined space, any projectile weapon would be more of a liability. In the scramble to try to get a shot off, one was more likely to end up bloodied or dead.

Harry Kingsfield


Location:
Red Lake B&B



That reaction wasn't a good sign. He was expecting ignorance or ambivalence. This, this was something of a double edged sword. It showed that he was probably on the right track. That he was hitting a vein so to speak. But given what he knew, there was also a great measure of risk here. There was a part of him that wondered if perhaps he should stop. Just say that he wasn't able to figure it out, apologize and potentially refund the parents. This case wasn't worth the trouble. He could just pick up the next case that came to him and forget this all ever happened.

But that didn't sit right with him. As tempting as the prospect of quitting while he still could was, he was too far in to quit now. A few more strong clues and he could likely piece it together. So many parts, he just needed to figure out how they all fit. Not to say that he also wasn't imagining what the discussion behind those closed doors consisted of. Matter of fact, perhaps he needed to perform a cover investigation of the Bed and Breakfast at some point in the future. There might be more to the building that he was yet unaware of.

"If that's all it contains," Harry responded after reading the paper, "do you know why it might have been sealed the way it is? A simple lock would work just as well, in a less permanent manner might I add."


Giosue Zino


Location: Ville au Camp: Front Gate
Skills: N/A


"Ms. Lucas is currently out of the house so to speak. She won't be here for the next several days at least." He was technically correct. The best kind of correct. "For the time being you'll be dealing with me or the man over there. I'm Joe and my comrade over there is Gilbert." Gio didn't trust these men one bit. Even taking the tugging sensation out of the equation, this seemed a bit on the fishy side. Perhaps with further discussion he would reveal the catch to all this. Well first what he actually wanted in the first place. There had to be some reason that Samson and his crew decided to show up now rather than the countless versions of this day prior.

"You want to set up your carnival on the grounds of this estate, no? Of course, before we can continue discussing that, you wouldn't mind showing me your documentation, would you? Papers certifying the safety of your rides and that this operation is all above table. Understand that it just wouldn't do if you did set up here and then tonight someone gets hurt due to a failure of one of the attractions. The legal trouble alone would be quite devastating, not even taking into account the social and emotional ramifications of such an event." Although dirty and kind of shady, Gio had some degree of faith that they were who they claimed to be. But regardless of the veracity of their identities, he would have asked for this same kind of proof. Because that was the proper way to conduct business. Setting up camp with someone who you didn't know even had a company or not was foolishly naive at best, willfully deluded at worst.

Gio shuddered to think how Nancy would have reacted to all this had she gotten to meet these men first. She likely would have seen an interesting diversion and blanketed agreed to whatever the businessman wanted. Afterwards she'd get bored and run off while letting them do whatever they so desired. Although such actions potentially wouldn't have any backlash into future loops, that pulling feeling was a serious omen and he couldn't afford to throw caution to the wind as his best friend tended to.
Mali Anson

Location: Flight AA 296
Skills: N/A



"I've never been. I don't really know what there is to do there," Mali admitted, pulling her leg out of the aisle. If she was being completely honest, she didn't really know much about a majority of the country, especially outside of the East Coast and New England. Sure she could probably rattle off most major historical events that was taught in public school, but that knowledge didn't transfer to any sort of cultural familiarity. Then again, such familiarity would only really extend to those who traveled a lot, which was a relatively small group of people.

"If it were Boston, sure I'd be able to come up with a whole laundry list of things to do, but Chicago? No clue." The chicken salad was a salad with chicken in it alright. There were limits to how good or bad it could be. Even if this were a high class restaurant and not an airplane meal, it would be mostly the same. A bunch of lettuce with some other vegetables and chicken mixed in. The variety of mix ins and quality of ingredients would vary, but assuming a minimum of competence the experience would be more or less the same, which was fine by her.


Atkin Bowman

Location: Wizard Tower 21st Floor


"Are you sure you don't want me to do it?" It wasn't that Atkin didn't trust Arya to make the tea, but he didn't trust Arya to make the tea. The way she carried herself as she handled the kettle, the lack of confidence her body language exuded, they all indicated that she was going to make a massive cock of the whole situation. Which wouldn't tear him up too badly. He still didn't particularly care all that much for tea, much to his teacher's chagrin. It was alright, he liked it. It helped with the headaches, but he wasn't chained to it as she was. All that said, he'd still rather not have the day start off on the wrong foot.

Atkin briefly contemplated the two options presented to him. Go to the stuffy Manuscriptorium to maybe talk to an "Uncle Marcie" that he'd been blue-balled on for the past 5 months, but more likely end up waiting around in the lobby for nothing. Again. Or he could go out into the forest, meet some potentially cute Physicians and even more tempting, actually be allowed to do something other than reading, listen to lectures or go through study games. All of those things were well and fine, but he was a restless young lad on the best of days. Being stuck with an obviously neutered version of the curriculum was driving him a bit crazy, even if he knew it was for his own health. That Sicknesse was a nasty bitch, and he certainly didn't want to go further down that path. But conversely, he needed to do something.

"Unless you've got any other ideas, the forest seems like the best use for the day. If you haven't gotten anything so far about Asha and her amulet from the Manuscriptorium, I don't think that's gonna change anytime soon. For all we know it's just like an antique that gets handed down and every wearer throws in all their Magykal power, so it amplifies the Magyk of whoever wears it to a stupid degree." All conjecture on his part, but her obsession with this had started to wear thin over the last few months. There's some peculiarity about the lady, but it's not so important or interesting that you need to be digging your nose in it half a year later.



Chief Hermetic Scribe

Location: Manuscriptorium


The storage facilities were being maintained more or less to standard. Perhaps a bit further below standard than would be ideal, but the Manuscriptorium was a vast machine with moving parts constantly at interplay. Even in the best run operations there would be some decay in the proper order of things. As long as they did not continue this level of disarray or (god forbid) let it slip further, they would remain unmolested.

As Amundsen was busy inquiring on the misplacement of a tome from its proper place to a shelf on the opposite side of the room, the Chief Hermetic Scribe felt his eye drawn to a particular feature. In the corner of the room was a little hatch. It was designed to connect to the ice tunnels that ran underneath the Castle. Such infrastructural quirks had long since been abandoned, yet the vestiges of the past remained. Curious how after all these years that the framework remained intact despite the ravages of time.

But amusement over the loose ends of days past were not what had drawn his attention. It was that the hatch was off. He had seen that hatch thousands of times before. He knew what it looked like. Somebody had been tampering with it. Leaving Murphy to his business, the chief made his way over to that forgotten corner and crouched next to it. It would have been one thing had the tampering been done in any manner that could be likened to subtle, this was an affront. Whoever had messed with it was careless, as if taking a crowbar to pry it off. Perhaps they believed the out of sight nature of the room and the hatch would protect their vandalism from discovery. Such arrogance would be punished in full force. But now was not the time. He still had business to attend to. Later he could have his scribes comb through the security logs.

As he rose, his eye was drawn to yet another part of the storage. On a shelf about 20 centimeters above eye level there were two books. One was a frayed, leatherbound diary of some old tax collector, long forgotten. The one directly next to it was the biography of one of the famous noblemen of the previous century. He traveled the world, engaging in a wide variety of adventures, making him something of a celebrity, but with several fabrications among the true stories. But there should have been another book between them. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember. It was missing, and this could not be aboded by.

The Chief Scribe approached a few of the scribes who were busy transcribing the current inventory sheet from the original master copy to several expendable back-up copies that were used by the junior scribes in their daily activities.

"The Inventory Sheet." He commanded, holding out his hand for one of the workers to hand him the master copy. The closest scribe, a middle aged woman with a couple grey hairs interweaved with the natural mousy brown locks she bore, hadn't noticed his approach, so when he spoke, she jumped out of her chair, in the process, knocking over the inkwell she was using directly onto the master copy of the inventory sheet, ruining the entire thing without the intervention of some Magyk spell. The chief's cold blue eyes looked at the sheet, and then at the hapless scribe, who had already begun to profusely apologize. They narrowed.

"Begone." With that one word, the other scribes in that room looked away from their former coworker, and she was left to gather her belongings and leave the Manuscriptorium. She was likely a senior member of the lower ranks of the organization. It was a shame to have to release an experienced scribe like that, but to make such a callous mistake due to not paying attention to one's surroundings on a day like this. She should have known better.

Harry Kingsfield


Location:
Red Lake B&B



Harry began to put his suit jacket back on, but then thought better of it and put it back down.Chances were he'd just need to remove it again soon, lest it be ruined. And enough of his clothes had been ruined for the day.

"I found a particular large wooden crate, nailed shut all along the edges of the lid. It was dated back 230 years ago, but looks to be in good condition. Hasn't been touched in ages as well. Too heavy for one person to lift. You wouldn't happen to know what could be inside, would you?" Chances of this being the case were unlikely, but it didn't hurt to ask. Perhaps Mr. Walker knew of an old family story about what was in the box. Or if it were to never be opened.

Something in particular about this crate. It was too conspicuous to just be sitting around sealed in an attic for over 2 centuries without reason. Hell, he'd even take an explanation as mundane as it holding onto old furniture that belonged to a friend and originally it was being saved so it could be shipped to them at their new home when they sent word that they were ready and the letter just never came in.


Giosue Zino


Location: Ville au Camp: Main House: Room 202->Front Gate
Skills: N/A


These kids just couldn't let an old man plan out his night in peace could they? Not even just let him have a few hours to work things out before causing a ruckus. And it was Mr. Grady as well (even if the word choice weren't a dead giveaway, the decibel level would). Gio had some degree of faith in his ability to be rational when it mattered, so his evident freak out, clearly audible even through the Emendator's shut door gave him pause. Perhaps he should go confront the paradox about Ms. Gonzalez... "lo-panning out"

But then there was something else. That tugging feeling. He knew it. Now was not a good time for that feeling. Couldn't these things wait until next week or next to occur. He would have his hands full enough setting up the party as-is, having to divvy up his time even further was a loathsome prospect. Yet he could not ignore this feeling in the base of his spine. Of all the issues at hand, this had to be dealt with first. Mr. Grady could be dealt with after the fact. Putting his pen down, Gio left his room and single-mindedly made his way through the house and out to the front gates where all those noisy trucks had decided to take up residence.

"Salutations, gentlemen. What can I do you for?"
Mali Anson

Location: Flight AA 296
Skills: N/A



Mali took the aisle seat. The window had a better view, but what she lacked in a view on the way up and down, was made up for in leg room and extra space. She was fairly tall, which meant longer legs. Even in first class, having that extra bit of space off to the side was a great help from relieving fatigue. And she was also huge. Not having to worry about getting all squished against the walls of the plane was a nice thing to not have on the mind.

On the way up, she just let herself melt into the seat. Well, as much as she could as her forehead seemed to be pressed in from all sides by the differentiation in pressure. She didn't fly often, but she'd never found the experience enjoyable. Even now in the best conditions she'd had up to that point, there was so much about the ordeal that was just uncomfortable that you couldn't escape. And she was tired. Really tired. Not just from the emotional, mental and physical stress she'd been going through recently, but also because she hadn't had that much sleep and it was starting to really get to her, sitting still for long periods of time.

"Some time away from Justice would," Mali paused in her reply to stifle a killer yawn, "probably be good." Assuming nothing goes horribly wrong the paranoid voice in the back of her head chimed in. She couldn't really tell it to shut up in good conscience either. Even assuming the Juno shit didn't follow them to their destination (of which there was no guarantee), Grimm had a bloody recent history, and even if it had supposedly been cleared up now, she couldn't help but worry that its specter would return to bite them in the ass.

"Chicken salad with water, and could I get that without the dressing?" Although the dressing probably made the dish much more palatable at high altitudes by bringing in a very strong flavor, she needed to make sure that she wasn't ingesting too many garbage calories and the side of fruit were carbs enough. She needed to stay more or less on track with her diet. She didn't have the excuse of a big fancy party anymore. Furthermore on the salad, the meat was leaner and the greens were more plentiful and even the dessert sounded less decadent than the alternative.


Atkin Bowman

Location: Wizard Tower 21st Floor


Atkin had been up for a couple of hours now. He had been long adjusted to waking up early in the morning to take care of household chores, and even though those weren't usually such an issue nowadays in the Wizard Tower, his internal clock was set, and to change it he'd have to put in significant effort. Since Arya woke up later/took longer to get dressed, he liked to spend this time doing independent study. Arya often didn't go into as much detail as he'd like on certain point, so this free time at the beginning of the day was a good time to look into those things, while he didn't have any other duties to attend to.

However, the noise downstairs was enough to clue him in that Arya was now out and about. She'd need him to make the tea. He'd been doing it every morning these past couple of months, what with everyone getting sick (himself included). First time around she thought he'd not be able to make it was well as her little Charm could. Hah, well he showed her. It was his first time trying it, but it was a pretty damn good cuppa if he could say so himself. Atkin closed the book he'd been reading and left the room, taking care to step over Chloe who was sleeping in the middle of the floor.

Briskly, but gently (if he went too fast it made his head ache something awful) he made his way down the stairway to see Arya sitting in her purple armchair looking right as rain. No wonder, having no clue how to deal with the Sicknesse other than not using Magyk. It wasn't too big a deal for him, he'd spent his entire life not using the stuff, but every day seemed to be torture for her, as far as he could tell. The stress of it all was probably getting to her. Casually his eyes scanned the kitchen and saw the kettle heating up for tea.

"Oh, are you making the tea?" he asked as he finished descending the stairs. As soon as his feet left the stairway, he felt something pass between his legs. Mere seconds later, the cause of the sensation made herself known by bounding up from the floor to a chair to the table and up onto the counter top. It was his other kitten Azula. The blue eyed cat looked at him for a moment and meowed before running off to some corner and blending away into the shadows. He wasn't sure what to make of that one.



Chief Hermetic Scribe

Location: Manuscriptorium


The Manuscriptorium bustled on as it always did, clerks sat copying the work of writers of present and past, ensuring their work lived on into the future. Others studied the notes of wizards and physiks, making sure to follow the written word to the last letter as they mixed together magykal potions for later use, sale and distribution across the city, country and to other lands in trade. These were more popular as of late, especially those with medical uses. On the other hand, those clerks who tended to spend their time toiling away writing down the Charms and incantations of wizards found themselves performing other tasks. Demand for those particular services had taken a significant decline.

This morning, there was a tenseness in the air among all the staff. Even the customers who came and went could feel it. People stood up straighter, there was a rigidness in their posture, a strain to their expressions. They were all watching out for something. Like someone had said that there was a wolf loose somewhere in the building, but nobody knew where. But for those who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, it became very obvious why the staff were as on edge as they were.

The Chief Hermetic Clerk slowly walked through the halls of the Manuscriptorium performing the Quarterly Inspection. Followed only by his second in command, Murphy Amundsen, the masked man stood tall as he traversed the building. Amundsen was a willow tree of a man, his dour face pale and lined like bark. The Chief rarely spoke, preferring to allow the Senior Inspection Clerk do most of the interactions with the staff. Murphy would go from station to station, asking what each clerk was doing, how their progress was, if they'd had any issues with their work up until this point and similar such questions. Afterwards, he'd use his spidery fingers to record some notes of what he had seen.

The Chief Hermetic Scribe on the other hand would simply watch his employees, and see how they reacted to both his presence and Amundsen's. They all knew he could fire them with but a word, and they carried themselves generally with the appropriate amount of fear and reverence. Occasionally he would look over the shoulder of one of the clerks. Even more occasionally, he would offer some form of correction.

"Fire. Not Fyre. It's an archaic spelling." or "You're stirring too slowly. The potion will take too long to react at this rate." He never raised his voice above a low level, but every time he spoke, everyone stopped to see if judgment had been cast. So far, it seemed nothing had managed to arouse his ire. The coming weeks would show Amundsen's reports on how to improve, but for now they had remained clear of any dramatic restructuring of labor that poor performing sections tended to suffer. When he had his fill of one area, the Chief Hermetic Scribe would leave, not waiting for the Senior Inspection Clerk to finish. He had managed to cover about a quarter of the operation so far, the next stop was the storage where they kept all the texts that were borrowed and preserved.

Harry Kingsfield


Location:
Red Lake B&B Attic



So lifting the box went about as well as he expected, which was significantly worse than he'd hoped. The first pull he couldn't get it to budge a bit. So he stopped and stepped away to look at it as if it were a living thing defying his whims. Perhaps he was just trying to pull it wrong? That old saying about lifting with the legs, not the back. SO this time paying more attention to his form, Harry squatted down and tried to lift it again. No luck. He paced back and forth before giving one final college try, but he wasn't lifting that box. He just didn't have the muscle to move it on his own.

It was then that he noticed the tools sitting just over in that corner of the attic. Perhaps if he were a man of greater impulse, or lesser consideration he would have taken the tools and tried to pop open the box right away. But he didn't. Partially because he didn't trust the contents of the box given the family's supposed history, partially because it wasn't his box. He wasn't going to just start breaking the possessions of others open on a whim. Even in his day on the police force he'd need to get a warrant to do something like that.

"I think so," he called down to Mrs Walker. After giving the box a few moments more consideration, he turned around and left the attic. It'd be easier to carry a conversation when they didn't have to yell at each other. Not to mention it was so stuffy in here, he didn't have much of an inclination to stick around longer than necessary.
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