[Changeling IC] Time's Wings: Dark Omens

[Raz_Fox]

That footprint, you and I both know, doesn't look like some giant tennis shoe ground into the mud, or the track of some Bigfoot who's just dashed back into the woods, leaving behind one perfect footprint to be ogled over and adored. It looks closer to the track of some terrible crow, scratching up the earth in its flight, or else some terrible fleet-footed lizard whose days in this world have long since passed. It is three horribly suggestive gouges in the earth. It is the spoor of a beast.

Now, as well we know, our friend the Pilgrim is no fool. He may not know precisely what a Huntsman is- that raging storm of desire, incarnated into human flesh- but he knows a predator when he sees one, and he knows that there is strength in numbers when some beast more terrible than he happens to be roaming in the wilderness. Hunts go both ways.

There is someone among the Autumn Court who will be able to tell him whether these two predators are native to the area (for all that he had not seen them in the territory before, for all that he had not been warned of them, both pointing towards a new threat or one long thought cold and buried), and will be able to help him figure out what his next step may be.

It is possible that the one that Summer seeks has been caught out by these two jackals, has bled out under iron. It is also possible that, winged, they have fallen to ground and seek shelter. He keeps his ears open and his eyes flickering as he returns towards Prosperpine, thinking to himself: if I were bleeding from iron, where would I stumble? Where would I drag myself to shelter during the heat of the day? I doubt that he will stumble across the dame stolen from Summer, suspecting rather that the two huntsmen return to finish the job they started, but I shall keep mum. Who is to say? Maybe she has broken out from her bindings and stumbles, even now, across the dry earth, leaving a trail of dried shadow behind her.

[Thanqol]

"He's seen our faces. Should we change them?" said Longarms as the two Huntsmen slowed from their miles-eating jog. They had reached the town and were walking down the suburban streets towards the concrete and brutalist government building; puffs of breath and waves of heat rolling from their shoulders.

"Not yet," said Mercia. "That ability isn't half as useful if they know we can do it."

"Then what? Urgh, I wish the Goblin Market still sold information, this'd be so much easier," grumbled Longarms.

"We'll get in touch with Fetches and families," said Mercia. "Escapees frequently try to make contact -" her heart panged and she wished she had someone who could command her devotion so easily "- and once they do they remain in the orbit of those people. Depending on how the Fetches were constructed they can be our best allies and informants. We have their real names, we'll just go and look up their families and street addresses in city hall and then -"

"Abigail Richmond, 432 Springbank Bvd?" said Longarms, holding up his smartphone.

"- go over paper records for hours, painstakingly building up a..." Mercia stared at the little screen. "... photographs... marital status... recent life events... she's put everything on the internet."

"Everyone has," said Longarms, shrugging. "Pretty stupid if you ask me."

"Well," said Mercia. "Let's... um, let's go pay a visit."

Aelas doesn't think of herself as a kidnapper here. She probably can't just prod the Gargoyle off mid drive though. Still, the whole thing is giving her flashbacks. The Gargoyle is asleep, but Aelas starts talking to Butterfly in a kind of running banter.

[Clarity damage 7 - 2 - 3 - 10 - 8, 8. 3 successes.]

"Oh Butterfly, carry us to Rigel V. I want to see the rainbow falls, and the alpacacorns."
The car swerves onto the open road and zooms down the freeway.

"No, not to Jarban II, I hate Jarban II, ever since the dragon went there, it's nothing but lighting storms, and it makes my hair stand on end."
Aelas leans into the wheel and pulls into the fast lane.

"No, no, why are we going to Jarban II, I just said I hated Jarban II. Everyone is dead there, Butterfly! Why is the dragon making us go back?"
She floors the pedal, Butterfly goes as fast as she can down the fast lane, faster than any horse or car, Aelas is looking down into the wheel, heedless of the road, Butterfly will carry her wherever she'll carry her.

"I don't wanna go back there, Butterfly! I wanna see the Alpacacorns! Why are we going this way? Why? Why? Why?"
Butterfly goes wherever she will, and wherever the road carries a car going over 160 KPH.

There is a picturesque small town not far from Prosperpine; one of those little towns perfectly cultivated to divert passing highway traffic, the kind where the tourism board and city council have formed an unholy alliance. Picture postcards and a Hot Fuzz level of devotion to garden maintenance. It's notable for having a cute little pub with a pair of fuzzy alpacas milling around on the front lawn, near a historic plaque describing the town's alpaca wool ugg boots (available for sale at the gift shop)

Butterfly shivers nervously. These alpacas are distinctly lacking their magnificent and magical horns and pastel colours, but they are of a comparable level of softness and fuzziness. Good enough, or does Butterfly have to keep looking?

That footprint, you and I both know, doesn't look like some giant tennis shoe ground into the mud, or the track of some Bigfoot who's just dashed back into the woods, leaving behind one perfect footprint to be ogled over and adored. It looks closer to the track of some terrible crow, scratching up the earth in its flight, or else some terrible fleet-footed lizard whose days in this world have long since passed. It is three horribly suggestive gouges in the earth. It is the spoor of a beast.

Now, as well we know, our friend the Pilgrim is no fool. He may not know precisely what a Huntsman is- that raging storm of desire, incarnated into human flesh- but he knows a predator when he sees one, and he knows that there is strength in numbers when some beast more terrible than he happens to be roaming in the wilderness. Hunts go both ways.

There is someone among the Autumn Court who will be able to tell him whether these two predators are native to the area (for all that he had not seen them in the territory before, for all that he had not been warned of them, both pointing towards a new threat or one long thought cold and buried), and will be able to help him figure out what his next step may be.

It is possible that the one that Summer seeks has been caught out by these two jackals, has bled out under iron. It is also possible that, winged, they have fallen to ground and seek shelter. He keeps his ears open and his eyes flickering as he returns towards Prosperpine, thinking to himself: if I were bleeding from iron, where would I stumble? Where would I drag myself to shelter during the heat of the day? I doubt that he will stumble across the dame stolen from Summer, suspecting rather that the two huntsmen return to finish the job they started, but I shall keep mum. Who is to say? Maybe she has broken out from her bindings and stumbles, even now, across the dry earth, leaving a trail of dried shadow behind her.

There is no chance of stumbling across the prisoner's trail, unfortunately - she was released and allowed to drive home so that she might continue to spy on her kin, her reward for obeying the will of the Gentry. If you knew this things would go more easily for you.

You're in luck in another aspect; there is a meeting of the Courts this evening, and Autumn as the presiding monarchs will be there in splendour and power. Summer will be coming but their diversion will make them late to the party and, besides - for all their fury, if you stand at the right hand of the King of Autumn they will be powerless to strike at you. And, if you head in that direction you will meet Jack and Lily coming in at the same time, heavy with the weight of borrowed power.

[Raz_Fox]

Then it is so.

One moment, the Pilgrim is not there, and our friends Jack and Lily are making their way towards the convocation, towards our town hall meeting where madness is the order of the day. Then he is there. His presence is the smell of the campfire's ashes in the morning, the shadow that has suddenly been noticed as having always been there, the low huff of his breath. I would not fault either of them for suddenly shivering; it is disconcerting indeed to know that he is suddenly there, and who knows how long he has been?

"Hunters," he says, by way of introduction. "Outside of town. Be careful." He pauses a moment, and does not further explain that he means to ask questions about the Huntsmen among the Autumn court courtiers, and that he has told them so that they can be careful, because he cares about them and would not forgive himself if they were caught by some slavering wolves-in-human-skins out in the wilderness. Not that Jack and Lily are likely to wander too far, what with Lily looking after the affairs of the Winter folk and Jack, being Jack, wanting people to talk to and be around. Still. Life is odd indeed, and people wander sometimes, and it needed to be said. So it's been said.

He thinks about reaching out and patting Jack on the shoulder.

He does not.

Indeed, if not asked, he will not accompany them inside. He will wait, and let them enter in as Winter's shining new courtiers, and come in a few minutes later, a few minutes of leaning against the wall and watching the stars come out, and seeing who comes loping along to follow.

[Anarion]

There is a picturesque small town not far from Prosperpine; one of those little towns perfectly cultivated to divert passing highway traffic, the kind where the tourism board and city council have formed an unholy alliance. Picture postcards and a Hot Fuzz level of devotion to garden maintenance. It's notable for having a cute little pub with a pair of fuzzy alpacas milling around on the front lawn, near a historic plaque describing the town's alpaca wool ugg boots (available for sale at the gift shop)

Butterfly shivers nervously. These alpacas are distinctly lacking their magnificent and magical horns and pastel colours, but they are of a comparable level of softness and fuzziness. Good enough, or does Butterfly have to keep looking?

It's the cessation of motion that brings Aelas to her senses. The hum of the engine is almost silent, the seat no longer lifts and lowers in calm, even rocking. Slowly, she lifts her eyes, wet with tears, up from the steering wheel and slowly, she pokes her head up over the dash. It's not the windswept empty plains of Jarban II, with their craggy stones and barren hills lit by lightning. It's...a little field with alpacas!

Her first reaction is to give Butterfly's steering wheel a hug, and then she steps out with delight and gingerly steps over to one of them. It doesn't appear to be able to talk or use magic (her memory from earth is coming back to her that earth alpacas cannot do either of those things), so she carefuly reaches out a hand and pets it behind the ears, running her hand along the soft, fuzzy wool. "You're very nice, Mr. Alpaca" she says to it.

As this starts to calm her down, it comes back to her that the gargoyle is STILL attached to the car. Her sleep spell ought to have worn off by now, so, with a last pat and a glance backward to make sure that the alpacas are in fact still there (them being still there is important), she goes over to inspect the Gargoyle. "Hey! Wake up! I don't know where we are, where are we?" she shouts. Nearby people in the shop can probably hear this. She hasn't the foggiest what this might look like either. What would a normal person see instead of the gargoyle with its claws sunk into the metal door?

Glamor 4/10
Clarity: 5/6 (mild damage)
Health: 6/6
Willpower: 6/6

[Elanorin]

Lily had, almost instinctively, began to pick up in the area immediately around her. Not because she was a neat freak (honest!) but because it was habit and it felt more comfortable when her hands were moving. She hadn't gotten far, merely returned a handful of discs to their gaping cases and stacked them neatly when,

"Then there's no reason you couldn't send someone in your stead," Jack said, then glanced at the screen. "I could even patch you through via your screen, if you want to watch from here. You just have to turn it off." A black screen is reflective, like a mirror, at least somewhat, and this one had already reflected Jack's face. It could work. "And if you get tired of watching, you just turn it on." It sounded very tempting. And reasonable. Or they could just set up some kind of video stream, but Jack wasn't good enough with tech for all that, and it already sounded like a lot of work. His way would be simpler, he figured.

She paused, then continued albeit with slower movements. She was listening closely to the reaction due from under the covers on the bed. This was it, this was why they were here.

"... ok," said the King, turning off the screen. "You can speak for me. Thanks, Jack."

A weary thumbs up briefly showed from under the blankets.

Lily's shoulders relaxed. She glanced in Jacks direction, a slight smile on her lips. Well done, Sir.

Jack bows his head, then looks at Lily, in case she has anything she wants to say or do before they leave the King to his slumber.

Lily immediately picked up on the indication that it was time to leave and stood up. She brushed off and paused for a moment before following Jack out.

"I will be back later, should you need anything, your Grace." With that said, she turned and left with Jack.

You're in luck in another aspect; there is a meeting of the Courts this evening, and Autumn as the presiding monarchs will be there in splendour and power. Summer will be coming but their diversion will make them late to the party and, besides - for all their fury, if you stand at the right hand of the King of Autumn they will be powerless to strike at you. And, if you head in that direction you will meet Jack and Lily coming in at the same time, heavy with the weight of borrowed power.

One moment, the Pilgrim is not there, and our friends Jack and Lily are making their way towards the convocation, towards our town hall meeting where madness is the order of the day. Then he is there. His presence is the smell of the campfire's ashes in the morning, the shadow that has suddenly been noticed as having always been there, the low huff of his breath. I would not fault either of them for suddenly shivering; it is disconcerting indeed to know that he is suddenly there, and who knows how long he has been?

"Hunters," he says, by way of introduction. "Outside of town. Be careful." He pauses a moment, and does not further explain that he means to ask questions about the Huntsmen among the Autumn court courtiers, and that he has told them so that they can be careful, because he cares about them and would not forgive himself if they were caught by some slavering wolves-in-human-skins out in the wilderness. Not that Jack and Lily are likely to wander too far, what with Lily looking after the affairs of the Winter folk and Jack, being Jack, wanting people to talk to and be around. Still. Life is odd indeed, and people wander sometimes, and it needed to be said. So it's been said.

He thinks about reaching out and patting Jack on the shoulder.

He does not.

Indeed, if not asked, he will not accompany them inside. He will wait, and let them enter in as Winter's shining new courtiers, and come in a few minutes later, a few minutes of leaning against the wall and watching the stars come out, and seeing who comes loping along to follow.

"...thank you," Lily manages uncertainly. It seemed a genuine warning borne from genuine concern but it took her a moment to decide to take it for such. She wanted to ask him to come inside but the lesson not to ask anything of one such has him was still too ingrained and so she went inside quietly.

She was genuinely excited about this meeting and for having resolved their little "problem" with their King. She had felt a keen affinity for the Winter Court the moment she learned of their existence and it was exhilarating to get to see not only them but the other courts all gathered like this. She straightened her hair and clothes not for the first time and ensured she stayed out of the way while securing a good view, remaining next to Jack.

[Thanqol]

Mercia knocked on the big wooden door.

"Miss Richmond? I'm Mercy Wilde, my friend here is Dirk Uppercut, we're with the Federal Police," said Mercia. "You're not in trouble, but we'd like to have a few words if that's all right."

The Huntsmen hadn't really worked out a detailed plan for this. They both knew that Fetches were weird and unpredictable. Some didn't know what they were, others were ruthless survivalist killing machines programmed to bring down their true selves if they ever returned - and had spent years training for that exact purpose. So the Huntsmen were inclined to see how the conversation went before they committed themselves to any form of leverage.

It's the cessation of motion that brings Aelas to her senses. The hum of the engine is almost silent, the seat no longer lifts and lowers in calm, even rocking. Slowly, she lifts her eyes, wet with tears, up from the steering wheel and slowly, she pokes her head up over the dash. It's not the windswept empty plains of Jarban II, with their craggy stones and barren hills lit by lightning. It's...a little field with alpacas!

Her first reaction is to give Butterfly's steering wheel a hug, and then she steps out with delight and gingerly steps over to one of them. It doesn't appear to be able to talk or use magic (her memory from earth is coming back to her that earth alpacas cannot do either of those things), so she carefuly reaches out a hand and pets it behind the ears, running her hand along the soft, fuzzy wool. "You're very nice, Mr. Alpaca" she says to it.

As this starts to calm her down, it comes back to her that the gargoyle is STILL attached to the car. Her sleep spell ought to have worn off by now, so, with a last pat and a glance backward to make sure that the alpacas are in fact still there (them being still there is important), she goes over to inspect the Gargoyle. "Hey! Wake up! I don't know where we are, where are we?" she shouts. Nearby people in the shop can probably hear this. She hasn't the foggiest what this might look like either. What would a normal person see instead of the gargoyle with its claws sunk into the metal door?

The alpacas are all indeed very nice, and they angle around to lick any exposed hands on the off chance they contain carrots or apples or other alpaca-approved treats. They don't go anywhere either. They are very stable and teleportation-free, as alpacas go.

The Gargoyle's eyes were open when you approach her; her stillness was as uncanny as her swiftness. She pounces like a serpent, swift as nightmares.

[Grapple attempt: 8 dice (6 dice base +2 contract) vs defence 6: no successes]

Even though you evade her initial strike she continues to move, alternating between that uncanny, liquid motion and stillness so absolute it's almost like she ceased to exist. She speaks as she does both, the same cheerful tone as she used earlier, completely disconnected from her predatory motion. "We are in Newcastle. It's a nice place, I really love the flower garden by the lake," she said. "You should see it in spring!"

Then it is so.

One moment, the Pilgrim is not there, and our friends Jack and Lily are making their way towards the convocation, towards our town hall meeting where madness is the order of the day. Then he is there. His presence is the smell of the campfire's ashes in the morning, the shadow that has suddenly been noticed as having always been there, the low huff of his breath. I would not fault either of them for suddenly shivering; it is disconcerting indeed to know that he is suddenly there, and who knows how long he has been?

"Hunters," he says, by way of introduction. "Outside of town. Be careful." He pauses a moment, and does not further explain that he means to ask questions about the Huntsmen among the Autumn court courtiers, and that he has told them so that they can be careful, because he cares about them and would not forgive himself if they were caught by some slavering wolves-in-human-skins out in the wilderness. Not that Jack and Lily are likely to wander too far, what with Lily looking after the affairs of the Winter folk and Jack, being Jack, wanting people to talk to and be around. Still. Life is odd indeed, and people wander sometimes, and it needed to be said. So it's been said.

He thinks about reaching out and patting Jack on the shoulder.

He does not.

Indeed, if not asked, he will not accompany them inside. He will wait, and let them enter in as Winter's shining new courtiers, and come in a few minutes later, a few minutes of leaning against the wall and watching the stars come out, and seeing who comes loping along to follow.

"...thank you," Lily manages uncertainly. It seemed a genuine warning borne from genuine concern but it took her a moment to decide to take it for such. She wanted to ask him to come inside but the lesson not to ask anything of one such has him was still too ingrained and so she went inside quietly.

She was genuinely excited about this meeting and for having resolved their little "problem" with their King. She had felt a keen affinity for the Winter Court the moment she learned of their existence and it was exhilarating to get to see not only them but the other courts all gathered like this. She straightened her hair and clothes not for the first time and ensured she stayed out of the way while securing a good view, remaining next to Jack.

The meeting hall was a theatre, set up as though for a performance. The lights were dim and upon the stage stood the entire Autumn Court, shoulder to shoulder, a wall of identical cloaked and hooded figures. Supernatural darkness concealed their faces. Every one of them had used magic to change their Kith and appearance into the exact same uniformed look; a single unbreakable block, impossible to tell one mysteriously robed figure from the next. A fearful show of unity.

[Socialize 4] Lily, however, can see through it. It's a powerful spectacle, for sure, but they're all really just wearing the same outfit - they still have their subtle social hierarchies; some take the lead and some give way. Some are good at this and some are really not - that one just scratched his butt in a profoundly undignified way, for example, making it easy to place him as Ronald Tortureman, the ogrish enforcer of the court. You can tell who is who, who is important, and who is just there as a backup dancer.

Spring, by comparison, all look like totally ordinary people, all with totally ordinary smiles. They're all dressed in nice clothes and fancy hats, and they've all strengthened their Masks* so that it's impossible to see their warped and scarred Arcadian forms. They look like a bunch of wealthy churchgoers more than anything else; pillars of the community, every one.

[Socialize 4] And they expect the same in response. Lily's paid close enough attention to how Spring operates to know that they find it enormously bad form and very tiresome to talk to them directly about anything supernatural whatsoever. Even approaching them without strengthening one's own Mask is a faux pas. They're not stupid - they will address supernatural problems if they're politely phrased in euphemistic language - but as a whole they would very much like to be done with this whole magic and monsters thing.

[* Systems reminder: The Mask is the normal, non-fairy human shape of Changelings that ordinary humans see to prevent them freaking out at these monsters everywhere. Changelings and supernaturals see through it by default. It can be strengthened for a single point of Glamour, preventing Changelings from seeing through it without more specialized magic]

Summer is not here yet. Out driving around presumably. They'll arrive soon.

As far as Winter goes, it's a disaster. You know there are more of them out there (like Edmund) but, much like King Kent, many are too shy, depressed or antisocial to show up to meetings. There's only about four or five of them here, wearing whatever they happened to be wearing that day, scattered around the seats of the theatre and not talking to each other. They don't really think of themselves as an influential faction and, as a result, they're not. There's a lot of potential power there but someone will need to whip them into shape to make that happen.

Who do you approach, and with what purpose?


Isaac, as you wait outside, one of the Autumn courtiers approaches you, deep in their concealing robes. "Do you wish to wear the mask?" comes the voice, soft and female (and, it must be said, a little bit hackneyed as someone with a very rural accent tries to do a mysterious cult leader voice). Nonetheless it is easy to read them and easy to like them - Autumn smooths the lines of communication and makes your naturally perceptive eye even sharper.

This is Kaitlin the Fleshcrafter, the Kithshaper of the Autumn Court. Mortician's daughter, purple hair, very much into the goth thing and had a big hand in setting the fashion tone for the Autumn range. She personally doesn't mind if you don't wear the outfit but she knows the King thinks it's very important.

[Anarion]

Mercia knocked on the big wooden door.

"Miss Richmond? I'm Mercy Wilde, my friend here is Dirk Uppercut, we're with the Federal Police," said Mercia. "You're not in trouble, but we'd like to have a few words if that's all right."

The Huntsmen hadn't really worked out a detailed plan for this. They both knew that Fetches were weird and unpredictable. Some didn't know what they were, others were ruthless survivalist killing machines programmed to bring down their true selves if they ever returned - and had spent years training for that exact purpose. So the Huntsmen were inclined to see how the conversation went before they committed themselves to any form of leverage.

Abigail Richmond was home watching TV. The light from the screen shone out from behind the window shades. When the knocking happened, there's the sound of some rustling, feet running across the floor, and drawers opening and being slammed shut with the force of someone who has not considered that there's a need to treat furniture gently. Finally, feet pound up to the door, but it doesn't open. Instead, a blond head with hair neatly trim just above the neck peeks out from a nearby window, with the evidence of a quickly thrown on baggy gray college sweater hanging around the neck.

"Police. Woah. Um, can't I get in trouble for this? Like, on crime dramas, you're supposed to get a lawyer before you talk to the police, even if they say you're not in trouble. I mean, like, I don't mind talking or anything, I'm sure I'd be happy to help, whatever it is, but I'm not sure if my Dad would be cool with me just joining up with an investigation, y'know?"

What does a Fetch even see when it looks out the window at a pair of Huntsmen? Do they look like normal humans to it? Like Faerie things? Should Abby start panicking here?

The alpacas are all indeed very nice, and they angle around to lick any exposed hands on the off chance they contain carrots or apples or other alpaca-approved treats. They don't go anywhere either. They are very stable and teleportation-free, as alpacas go.

This is all extremely good news. These teleportation free alpacas might really be a popular trend, Aelas thinks. Not that there was anything wrong with the teleporting ones, but you could never hide any treats from them and they were very tricky.

The Gargoyle's eyes were open when you approach her; her stillness was as uncanny as her swiftness. She pounces like a serpent, swift as nightmares.

[Grapple attempt: 8 dice (6 dice base +2 contract) vs defence 6: no successes]

Even though you evade her initial strike she continues to move, alternating between that uncanny, liquid motion and stillness so absolute it's almost like she ceased to exist. She speaks as she does both, the same cheerful tone as she used earlier, completely disconnected from her predatory motion. "We are in Newcastle. It's a nice place, I really love the flower garden by the lake," she said. "You should see it in spring!"

"Cool! I'll definitely come back and visit, this place seems really nice. Flower garden by the lake...got it. I think I remember visiting here once when I was a kid, too, but it's a bit hazy." Aelas ducks to the side. She's not doing anything offensive, just focused on dodging for now. "Um, how come you're trying to grab me, though? Can't we just be friends now? We don't have that much time to play around, and I really, honest to gosh have nothing to do with the people you're looking for. Plus, Butterfly will have to go back and rest soon, and then it will take forever to get back from here. I mean, unless you want to donate some glamour to me, cuz I don't really feel like using any more now."

[Raz_Fox]

Uniforms and masks, masks and uniforms. Some other person might feel strange donning something that hides their identity, makes them just another part of a group; the Pilgrim has no such reservations. He is used to the ritual, to the masks, to the requirement to be part of the family. He has not given the Autumn people his full allegiance, but neither has he made any rejection of them. It is understood, insofar as he knows, that he is the guardian of the ones who have returned. He is the one who watches out for them in the crisp evening, who haunts their windowsills and leaves strange raptor-tracks in the earth. And yet, he acknowledges that they have all been marked, all been chosen, by a power beyond them, which in its own way is also familiar.

Besides. He likes Katilin. She helps people be what they wish they had been. She molds like clay, reworking, soothing. She is honest, as far as he can gauge. He has not let her touch him, however, demurring quietly and shying away when the invitation had been made. He is what he is, and this monstrous form is the one that survived, the one that he earned. Whatever she did in the molding, it would never take away the scars, and it would never give him eyes again. So let him remain as he is, quick and sure-footed and true in the wild. But the Kithshaper offered, and she did not do so from mere ceremony, and so our Pilgrim is loathe to refuse her.

He nods his head, once, and then waits an awkward moment too long before saying, "Yes."

He will wear the mask, and go about the theater, and stand near the Spring people without them paling and looking awkwardly away from the thing that has entered into the theater with them. Anonymity for a moment, as long as no one observes that particular stalking gait. Jack and Lily will be easy enough to keep an eye on, but the lack of Summer will prove worrisome. The lack of Aelas and Edmund, even moreso.

[stveje]

The meeting hall was a theatre, set up as though for a performance. The lights were dim and upon the stage stood the entire Autumn Court, shoulder to shoulder, a wall of identical cloaked and hooded figures. Supernatural darkness concealed their faces. Every one of them had used magic to change their Kith and appearance into the exact same uniformed look; a single unbreakable block, impossible to tell one mysteriously robed figure from the next. A fearful show of unity.

[Socialize 4] Lily, however, can see through it. It's a powerful spectacle, for sure, but they're all really just wearing the same outfit - they still have their subtle social hierarchies; some take the lead and some give way. Some are good at this and some are really not - that one just scratched his butt in a profoundly undignified way, for example, making it easy to place him as Ronald Tortureman, the ogrish enforcer of the court. You can tell who is who, who is important, and who is just there as a backup dancer.

Spring, by comparison, all look like totally ordinary people, all with totally ordinary smiles. They're all dressed in nice clothes and fancy hats, and they've all strengthened their Masks* so that it's impossible to see their warped and scarred Arcadian forms. They look like a bunch of wealthy churchgoers more than anything else; pillars of the community, every one.

[Socialize 4] And they expect the same in response. Lily's paid close enough attention to how Spring operates to know that they find it enormously bad form and very tiresome to talk to them directly about anything supernatural whatsoever. Even approaching them without strengthening one's own Mask is a faux pas. They're not stupid - they will address supernatural problems if they're politely phrased in euphemistic language - but as a whole they would very much like to be done with this whole magic and monsters thing.

[* Systems reminder: The Mask is the normal, non-fairy human shape of Changelings that ordinary humans see to prevent them freaking out at these monsters everywhere. Changelings and supernaturals see through it by default. It can be strengthened for a single point of Glamour, preventing Changelings from seeing through it without more specialized magic]

Summer is not here yet. Out driving around presumably. They'll arrive soon.

As far as Winter goes, it's a disaster. You know there are more of them out there (like Edmund) but, much like King Kent, many are too shy, depressed or antisocial to show up to meetings. There's only about four or five of them here, wearing whatever they happened to be wearing that day, scattered around the seats of the theatre and not talking to each other. They don't really think of themselves as an influential faction and, as a result, they're not. There's a lot of potential power there but someone will need to whip them into shape to make that happen.

Who do you approach, and with what purpose?

Finding a small mirror of some kind that Jack can enchant and carry in his coat pocket is quick and easy, providing King Kent with a window through which he can hear and see the proceedings on his screen, as long as he keeps it off. [1 Glamor for Glimpse of a Distant Mirror]

On one hand, Jack is used to the idea of blending into a crowd, of being just another face indistinguishable from the many, but all the mask-wearing on display at this gathering is uncomfortably close to his memories of Arcadia. The Autumn cultists unsettle him deeply, appropriately for their Court, but even Spring makes him uncomfortable, all of them so attached to their masks, not showing their true selves. Jack would love nothing more than to disappear into the back, to hide like the few of his Court who are here, or to not be here at all.

But he is not here for himself, for his own desires or needs. He's wearing his own mask in a way, a crown with all its weight. He's not here for Autumn nor Spring either. Autumn certainly doesn't seem to need him, and Spring doesn't want him. As for Summer ... they're not even here. He's here for the needs of Winter, so that is where he turns: who among Winter look like they need him most?

*

Glamor 4/10
Clarity: 0/7
Health: 0/7
Willpower: 3/4

[Thanqol]

Abigail Richmond was home watching TV. The light from the screen shone out from behind the window shades. When the knocking happened, there's the sound of some rustling, feet running across the floor, and drawers opening and being slammed shut with the force of someone who has not considered that there's a need to treat furniture gently. Finally, feet pound up to the door, but it doesn't open. Instead, a blond head with hair neatly trim just above the neck peeks out from a nearby window, with the evidence of a quickly thrown on baggy gray college sweater hanging around the neck.

"Police. Woah. Um, can't I get in trouble for this? Like, on crime dramas, you're supposed to get a lawyer before you talk to the police, even if they say you're not in trouble. I mean, like, I don't mind talking or anything, I'm sure I'd be happy to help, whatever it is, but I'm not sure if my Dad would be cool with me just joining up with an investigation, y'know?"

What does a Fetch even see when it looks out the window at a pair of Huntsmen? Do they look like normal humans to it? Like Faerie things? Should Abby start panicking here?

When the heart of a Huntsman is torn out, so is their identity. They can shift any aspect of their appearance or personality from instant to instant. Height, gender, clothing - everything is malleable to the Wyld Hunters. Right now they are appearing as themselves, in human forms, dressed as police detectives; nothing strange about them.

Where their identity truly resides, though, is in their tools. The Panoply of a Huntsman is her greatest weapon and symbol of their true self and identity; and it is these aspects of their true Faerie selves that are concealed by the Mask. Mercia wears iron chain-mail, but the Mask would make it seem to innocents a perfectly ordinary article of clothing. Longarms carries a leather sack from which he seems able to produce a variety of his stored treasures on a whim; this would be no less implausible than a backpack or large shopping bag.

If Abby can see through the Mask on these things, it would imply that she can see through the Masks of the Changelings in town. Can she?

"We're not here to investigate you," said Longarms, clearing his throat. He has a fantastic voice for this kind of thing - persuasive, confident, gruff. He's a prince amongst liars, feted by goblins for his ability to spin yarns. "We're here to protect you. Miss Richmond, I'm afraid your identity has been stolen."

"Cool! I'll definitely come back and visit, this place seems really nice. Flower garden by the lake...got it. I think I remember visiting here once when I was a kid, too, but it's a bit hazy." Aelas ducks to the side. She's not doing anything offensive, just focused on dodging for now. "Um, how come you're trying to grab me, though? Can't we just be friends now? We don't have that much time to play around, and I really, honest to gosh have nothing to do with the people you're looking for. Plus, Butterfly will have to go back and rest soon, and then it will take forever to get back from here. I mean, unless you want to donate some glamour to me, cuz I don't really feel like using any more now."

"We can be friends," said the girlgoyle, still moving and pacing unblinkingly. "I really like your hair. I've never seen hair shimmer like that. What product do you use?"

She strikes out lightning fast and gets her hand around your wrist - and then all of your muscles relax into a blissful state, like you've just had an incredibly soothing massage, and you go limp as a jellyfish. She catches your head before it hits the pavement. She's moving even faster now, almost impossible to follow from motion to motion.

[1 success on the grapple roll; activating Might of the Terrible Brute to drain your strength by 1. As that moves you to Strength 0 you gain the Immobilized tilt. You can still talk and such.]

"My name is," she thought about it. Frowned a little, straining to remember. "S. Static? Static. I do need to bring you back though. Do you mind if I drive your car? Will it let me?"

He nods his head, once, and then waits an awkward moment too long before saying, "Yes."

He will wear the mask, and go about the theater, and stand near the Spring people without them paling and looking awkwardly away from the thing that has entered into the theater with them. Anonymity for a moment, as long as no one observes that particular stalking gait. Jack and Lily will be easy enough to keep an eye on, but the lack of Summer will prove worrisome. The lack of Aelas and Edmund, even moreso.

"Good evening, Mr. Johannesen!" said Mrs. Height, the Queen of Spring. Perfect and presentable and pastel - practically the picture of a polite polity. "It is so good to see you back in town; why, I heard you moved to Sydney! Are you settling back in all right? Are you doing okay for work?"

Mrs. Height actually seems to be a fair bit younger than you, but her dress and the way in which she treats you implies she's much older. You are not clear if she is actually an ancient creature kept youthful through Faerie magic, or if she's just incredibly pretentious.

Finding a small mirror of some kind that Jack can enchant and carry in his coat pocket is quick and easy, providing King Kent with a window through which he can hear and see the proceedings on his screen, as long as he keeps it off. [1 Glamor for Glimpse of a Distant Mirror]

On one hand, Jack is used to the idea of blending into a crowd, of being just another face indistinguishable from the many, but all the mask-wearing on display at this gathering is uncomfortably close to his memories of Arcadia. The Autumn cultists unsettle him deeply, appropriately for their Court, but even Spring makes him uncomfortable, all of them so attached to their masks, not showing their true selves. Jack would love nothing more than to disappear into the back, to hide like the few of his Court who are here, or to not be here at all.

But he is not here for himself, for his own desires or needs. He's wearing his own mask in a way, a crown with all its weight. He's not here for Autumn nor Spring either. Autumn certainly doesn't seem to need him, and Spring doesn't want him. As for Summer ... they're not even here. He's here for the needs of Winter, so that is where he turns: who among Winter look like they need him most?

Bailey Scott stands out to you. She's so on edge you could use her to shave. Dark and wispy - literally, her edges fade into dark violet smoke. Knuckles clenching so white that sometimes her hand turns transparent and slips through the edge of the chair she's gripping. Something has her on the brink of freaking out, more so than almost anyone else here.

You may want to make a Wits+Empathy+Mantle roll as you introduce yourself. Gently - try to avoid sudden movements.

[Anarion]

When the heart of a Huntsman is torn out, so is their identity. They can shift any aspect of their appearance or personality from instant to instant. Height, gender, clothing - everything is malleable to the Wyld Hunters. Right now they are appearing as themselves, in human forms, dressed as police detectives; nothing strange about them.

Where their identity truly resides, though, is in their tools. The Panoply of a Huntsman is her greatest weapon and symbol of their true self and identity; and it is these aspects of their true Faerie selves that are concealed by the Mask. Mercia wears iron chain-mail, but the Mask would make it seem to innocents a perfectly ordinary article of clothing. Longarms carries a leather sack from which he seems able to produce a variety of his stored treasures on a whim; this would be no less implausible than a backpack or large shopping bag.

If Abby can see through the Mask on these things, it would imply that she can see through the Masks of the Changelings in town. Can she?

"We're not here to investigate you," said Longarms, clearing his throat. He has a fantastic voice for this kind of thing - persuasive, confident, gruff. He's a prince amongst liars, feted by goblins for his ability to spin yarns. "We're here to protect you. Miss Richmond, I'm afraid your identity has been stolen."

As Abby looks out the window and really looks at these two, with their crazy armor and weird magical bag, a quick range of emotions crosses her face. First is an "oh no" look, then briefly anger, then thinking and her forehead scrunches up, and then she settles. "Okay, I'm going to stay here. We're talking, you're out there, you stay out there, I'll stay in here. What do you want to talk about?"

"We can be friends," said the girlgoyle, still moving and pacing unblinkingly. "I really like your hair. I've never seen hair shimmer like that. What product do you use?"

She strikes out lightning fast and gets her hand around your wrist - and then all of your muscles relax into a blissful state, like you've just had an incredibly soothing massage, and you go limp as a jellyfish. She catches your head before it hits the pavement. She's moving even faster now, almost impossible to follow from motion to motion.

[1 success on the grapple roll; activating Might of the Terrible Brute to drain your strength by 1. As that moves you to Strength 0 you gain the Immobilized tilt. You can still talk and such.]

"My name is," she thought about it. Frowned a little, straining to remember. "S. Static? Static. I do need to bring you back though. Do you mind if I drive your car? Will it let me?"

[Dodge 12d10, but Static would get her full dice pool, since it's now a contested action. 4, 1, 8, 1, 8, 2, 6, 2, 8, 4, 7, 4. She needs 4 successes to manage the grapple. Also, Aelas has Strength 2, but Stamina 1.]

"Static, nice to meet you!" Aelas shakes the hand that's grappling her [roll to escape: str+brawl chance die=9. So close. Spending 1 glamour to slip the bonds.]

"Ow ow ow, that hurt!" Aelas slips away.

"Oh, and um, I mean, you could drive Butterfly, but she can only carry one person even though she looks like a car. Honestly, I don't even know how we managed this whole thing with you hanging off the side the whole time, but she definitely won't let more than one person get in, it just doesn't work. Also, she's gonna be leaving pretty soon, like I said, she needs to rest unless we feed her."

Glamor 3/10
Clarity: 5/6 (mild damage)
Health: 6/6
Willpower: 6/6

[stveje]

Bailey Scott stands out to you. She's so on edge you could use her to shave. Dark and wispy - literally, her edges fade into dark violet smoke. Knuckles clenching so white that sometimes her hand turns transparent and slips through the edge of the chair she's gripping. Something has her on the brink of freaking out, more so than almost anyone else here.

You may want to make a Wits+Empathy+Mantle roll as you introduce yourself. Gently - try to avoid sudden movements.

Wits+Empathy+Specialty+Mantle = 9 : 9,9,6,6,2,10,1,6,7, ten again 4. 3 successes

Jack approaches slowly, making sure she notices him and his intentions long before he's anywhere near her. He's calm as a floating snowflake on a windless day, as non-threatening and friendly as a puppy looking for a warm place to rest.

[Raz_Fox]

As always, Ms. Height immediately and unsubtly declares the way that the world should work in the space of a few breaths, surprising our poor friend with her sudden identification of him (it must have been that gait, he thinks for a moment) and her dropping of a name. He briefly considers that it might be a mistaken identity, but she is too confident, too certain; no, she has just used the name he used to have. Johannesen. Nothing like Isaac at all, then. The sound of the name is familiar, but the memories refuse to come marching obediently one by one at the summons, a mixed blessing given the circumstances. Some answer is expected.

What does he say? What can he say to someone like this, pristine and prim and most definitely not wanting to hear about how he sleeps outside and couldn't get a job even if he wanted to have one right now? Is he even meant to be making small talk while wearing the Mask of Autumn, or is this, as he is more accustomed to, the sort of uniform that demands a heightened level of decorum? He was never good at the liturgy. Better, better at the trials, the endurance, the struggle. She is still waiting for an answer, and the moment drags on, straining at the boundaries of conversational etiquette.

A decision has to be made. Not just about what to say, about who he is, the narrative he is making of his life.

"Mistaken," he says, his voice too rough to sound as he would like it to sound: apologetic about the mistaken identity, yet eager to help her catch up to speed. Instead, it likely sounds brusque. "Just Isaac. Last I heard, Johannesen died." And that's the truth, if you look at it the right way, tilt your head and look at our friend the Pilgrim, his skin a tapestry of burnt offerings, his body made vast and terrible, half monster and half athlete and all of it a pilgrim; what about him is left from the person who was judged unworthy so long ago? Is the ship of Theseus still his ship?

Suddenly self-conscious, head aflame, throat tight with embarrassment, Isaac bows his head once, a movement of the entire body- and if he was not masked it might look like a bull about to gore her against its horns- and attempts to make an escape. That's what he's good at, after all. But this is not a jungle, and it would be very rude indeed to jump onto the wall and clamber up to a better vantage point, and people like Height have a way of using their words as a lasso.

[Elanorin]

The meeting hall was a theatre, set up as though for a performance. The lights were dim and upon the stage stood the entire Autumn Court, shoulder to shoulder, a wall of identical cloaked and hooded figures. Supernatural darkness concealed their faces. Every one of them had used magic to change their Kith and appearance into the exact same uniformed look; a single unbreakable block, impossible to tell one mysteriously robed figure from the next. A fearful show of unity.

[Socialize 4] Lily, however, can see through it. It's a powerful spectacle, for sure, but they're all really just wearing the same outfit - they still have their subtle social hierarchies; some take the lead and some give way. Some are good at this and some are really not - that one just scratched his butt in a profoundly undignified way, for example, making it easy to place him as Ronald Tortureman, the ogrish enforcer of the court. You can tell who is who, who is important, and who is just there as a backup dancer.

Spring, by comparison, all look like totally ordinary people, all with totally ordinary smiles. They're all dressed in nice clothes and fancy hats, and they've all strengthened their Masks* so that it's impossible to see their warped and scarred Arcadian forms. They look like a bunch of wealthy churchgoers more than anything else; pillars of the community, every one.

[Socialize 4] And they expect the same in response. Lily's paid close enough attention to how Spring operates to know that they find it enormously bad form and very tiresome to talk to them directly about anything supernatural whatsoever. Even approaching them without strengthening one's own Mask is a faux pas. They're not stupid - they will address supernatural problems if they're politely phrased in euphemistic language - but as a whole they would very much like to be done with this whole magic and monsters thing.

[* Systems reminder: The Mask is the normal, non-fairy human shape of Changelings that ordinary humans see to prevent them freaking out at these monsters everywhere. Changelings and supernaturals see through it by default. It can be strengthened for a single point of Glamour, preventing Changelings from seeing through it without more specialized magic]

Summer is not here yet. Out driving around presumably. They'll arrive soon.

As far as Winter goes, it's a disaster. You know there are more of them out there (like Edmund) but, much like King Kent, many are too shy, depressed or antisocial to show up to meetings. There's only about four or five of them here, wearing whatever they happened to be wearing that day, scattered around the seats of the theatre and not talking to each other. They don't really think of themselves as an influential faction and, as a result, they're not. There's a lot of potential power there but someone will need to whip them into shape to make that happen.

Who do you approach, and with what purpose?

Lily takes it all in. It feels so grand here, in this theatre, everyone gathered, yet in a much more comfortable way than an opulent immaculate palace. There was Purpose here. So much trauma, yes, but far more Possibilities. Lily had to check herself from outright smiling. She had never been here and most of these people were strangers, even if she may have known some of them Before. It was a lifetime ago and felt irrelevant now somehow as to who she may have connection with.

She tried to keep up with Jack, she wanted to ensure he had her support in his task here, but being in this place made her feel vibrant and alive in a way she had forgotten what it felt like. It was... it was... a bit like when a funfair came to town. She could almost smell the cotton candy.

She paused to watch the ceremony of Autumn, the show of Unity that they seemed uniquely dedicated to portray. It made her wonder why, did they feel threatened? Did they try to hide something?

Her eyes went to Spring and the lengths they went to to deny the magic within and around them. It was an entirely understandable reaction, she felt. She keenly understood the temptation to close all doors on what had happened and surround yourself with the mundane and the predictable. It was not how she wished to live, but she respected it nonetheless.

Lily looked around and noticed not only the seeming absence of Summer, to make a late and grand entrance perhaps, but also the scattered, uninspired and incoherent court that was Winter. Then her smile faltered. She watched each of them, noticing Jack approaching one.

The urge to fix Winter was almost overwhelming. There had to be a way to unify them. Then she remembered that they were here largely because the King of Winter refused to get out of bed and suddenly the task of unifying Winter felt almost unachievable. Even so, Lily was wholly unable to not at least try. She looked around, to spot the one among Winter who hid the most, the one furthest back, behind the pillar, nearest an exit.

[Thanqol]

As Abby looks out the window and really looks at these two, with their crazy armor and weird magical bag, a quick range of emotions crosses her face. First is an "oh no" look, then briefly anger, then thinking and her forehead scrunches up, and then she settles. "Okay, I'm going to stay here. We're talking, you're out there, you stay out there, I'll stay in here. What do you want to talk about?"

Mercia and Longarms exchanged looks.

"Like I said, ma'am, your identity has been stolen," said Longarms, smoothly keeping the patter going. "An illegal immigrant recently made her way into Australia using your identity. We believe she may have made a copy of your passport during your recent trip to Europe. We have been informed this 'Aelas' character," he pronounced it 'Alias', "is involved with an organized crime and human trafficking ring called 'Spring Court', an organization that has murdered people for their identities in the past."

"Static, nice to meet you!" Aelas shakes the hand that's grappling her [roll to escape: str+brawl chance die=9. So close. Spending 1 glamour to slip the bonds.]

"Ow ow ow, that hurt!" Aelas slips away.

"Oh, and um, I mean, you could drive Butterfly, but she can only carry one person even though she looks like a car. Honestly, I don't even know how we managed this whole thing with you hanging off the side the whole time, but she definitely won't let more than one person get in, it just doesn't work. Also, she's gonna be leaving pretty soon, like I said, she needs to rest unless we feed her."

"O.K.," said Static. "That's fine. I'll call us an uber."

She kept moving, the same constant, predatory flow - only faster now. She moved and crackled at the edges with prismatic light - in fact, her hair's moving and shining a lot like yours right now.

"Actually, do you mind spotting me some cash?" she actually looks a bit embarrassed as she says that, even as she's striking out again to finish draining the strength from your veins. "I'll pay you back. Swear?"

[Grapple: 4,10,3,9,10,4,1,1,8 - with one success on the 10's, that's 4 successes total.]

Wits+Empathy+Specialty+Mantle = 9 : 9,9,6,6,2,10,1,6,7, ten again 4. 3 successes

Jack approaches slowly, making sure she notices him and his intentions long before he's anywhere near her. He's calm as a floating snowflake on a windless day, as non-threatening and friendly as a puppy looking for a warm place to rest.

It's the feet, tapping to an inaudible rhythm, the constant looks at the stairs leading up to the stage - she's expecting her name to be called, a spotlight to transfix her, and be called upon to dance. And that prospect both elates and horrifies her. She's verging on a flashback - you can see the scene playing out inside her head as she tries to convince herself that she's here and not there.

She's drowning in memories right now. She could use help.

"Mistaken," he says, his voice too rough to sound as he would like it to sound: apologetic about the mistaken identity, yet eager to help her catch up to speed. Instead, it likely sounds brusque. "Just Isaac. Last I heard, Johannesen died." And that's the truth, if you look at it the right way, tilt your head and look at our friend the Pilgrim, his skin a tapestry of burnt offerings, his body made vast and terrible, half monster and half athlete and all of it a pilgrim; what about him is left from the person who was judged unworthy so long ago? Is the ship of Theseus still his ship?

Suddenly self-conscious, head aflame, throat tight with embarrassment, Isaac bows his head once, a movement of the entire body- and if he was not masked it might look like a bull about to gore her against its horns- and attempts to make an escape. That's what he's good at, after all. But this is not a jungle, and it would be very rude indeed to jump onto the wall and clamber up to a better vantage point, and people like Height have a way of using their words as a lasso.

"Oh, no need for all that," said Mrs. Height, expertly outmaneuvering you with her social footwork. By taking the right step forward and a meaningful gesture, the only way you could escape from her is by physically clambering over old Mr. Rocksledge, who just so happens to be standing nearby. "I know exactly how your life has gone, Mr. Johannesen. You got straight, quit your low-down ways, and then went off to Sydney to become some sort of tax accountant. Very agreeable! Well, I happened to hear that you had left some unresolved business down that way when you came back to us. The sort of thing that could raise a lot of inconvenient questions somewhere down the line. So that's why I wanted to speak to you and welcome you personally back to Prosperpine! I have a friend who's taking a road trip down to Sydney as we speak and when she gets there she'll pick up some of your clothes and things, help you get back on your feet, isn't that just peachy of her?"

Her implication is so crystal clear you can't miss it: Mr. Johannesen is going to die. And then you are going to be Mr. Johannesen.

She paused to watch the ceremony of Autumn, the show of Unity that they seemed uniquely dedicated to portray. It made her wonder why, did they feel threatened? Did they try to hide something?

The answer to both of those questions is an incredibly strong yes.

The urge to fix Winter was almost overwhelming. There had to be a way to unify them. Then she remembered that they were here largely because the King of Winter refused to get out of bed and suddenly the task of unifying Winter felt almost unachievable. Even so, Lily was wholly unable to not at least try. She looked around, to spot the one among Winter who hid the most, the one furthest back, behind the pillar, nearest an exit.

You probably don't find the one hiding the most - there are almost certainly at least a few truly invisible people here. Of the people who are attending rather than spying, though, the most borderline present is a hugely muscled cyborg. His skin is a sickly, tough yellow and his cybernetic parts are crude and ugly - large rivets, exposed wires, rumbling petrol-fuelled engines. It looks dangerous, raw, animalistic - bestial technology. Things made to survive anything.

He doesn't give the impression of being on the sidelines because he's afraid; he gives the impression of being frustrated - he has places to be and things to do. He doesn't want to be here but it's something he has to do. He's Mr. Bigby Moon, and his nickname in the court is The Big Bad Moon.

[Anarion]

Mercia and Longarms exchanged looks.

"Like I said, ma'am, your identity has been stolen," said Longarms, smoothly keeping the patter going. "An illegal immigrant recently made her way into Australia using your identity. We believe she may have made a copy of your passport during your recent trip to Europe. We have been informed this 'Aelas' character," he pronounced it 'Alias', "is involved with an organized crime and human trafficking ring called 'Spring Court', an organization that has murdered people for their identities in the past."

"Oookay" says Abigail, drawing out the word with her skepticism. "So, getting murdered by a crime ring sounds like the kind of thing that makes Daddy's advice of 'don't get involved' sound really appealing, y'know? So, um, what is it that you think I can help you with in all this?"

"O.K.," said Static. "That's fine. I'll call us an uber."

She kept moving, the same constant, predatory flow - only faster now. She moved and crackled at the edges with prismatic light - in fact, her hair's moving and shining a lot like yours right now.

"Actually, do you mind spotting me some cash?" she actually looks a bit embarrassed as she says that, even as she's striking out again to finish draining the strength from your veins. "I'll pay you back. Swear?"

[Grapple: 4,10,3,9,10,4,1,1,8 - with one success on the 10's, that's 4 successes total.]

[dodge: 2 - 4 - 3 - 6 - 8 - 7 - 8 - 8 - 5 - 4 - 10 - 2. 10 again is irrelevant, grapple is canceled.]

"Okay, listen, I'm going in the store now, so if you tackle me and drag me out of here, it's gonna be in front of some random guy and I'll totally scream really loud when you do it. But we can keep talking in there all you want, okay? Butterfly, you go take a rest, okay?

And sure, if we get this all sorted out, I'll pay for the ride home and you can owe me later."
Aelas briefly considers binding this to make a point that she's serious, but decides it's not really worth it and doesn't want to come across as being mean here when she's trying to make a new friend.

Having dodged, she runs past the still present alpacas and into the gift shop and right up to the cash register, where she asks for a bottle of water.

[Elanorin]

You probably don't find the one hiding the most - there are almost certainly at least a few truly invisible people here. Of the people who are attending rather than spying, though, the most borderline present is a hugely muscled cyborg. His skin is a sickly, tough yellow and his cybernetic parts are crude and ugly - large rivets, exposed wires, rumbling petrol-fuelled engines. It looks dangerous, raw, animalistic - bestial technology. Things made to survive anything.

He doesn't give the impression of being on the sidelines because he's afraid; he gives the impression of being frustrated - he has places to be and things to do. He doesn't want to be here but it's something he has to do. He's Mr. Bigby Moon, and his nickname in the court is The Big Bad Moon.

Ummm... okay. Well. No time like the present.

Lily moves through the crowd over to the back where Mr Moon stands and politely announces her presence with a nod, small smile and soft clearing of her throat.

"Good evening," she said softly without meeting his gaze should he turn it her way, "would you like to join us over there?" she suggested with a small motion in Jack's direction.

[stveje]

It's the feet, tapping to an inaudible rhythm, the constant looks at the stairs leading up to the stage - she's expecting her name to be called, a spotlight to transfix her, and be called upon to dance. And that prospect both elates and horrifies her. She's verging on a flashback - you can see the scene playing out inside her head as she tries to convince herself that she's here and not there.

She's drowning in memories right now. She could use help.

Jack sat down, very carefully, next to her. "Hi," he said, then followed her gaze to the stage. "Why do you think they'll call you up there?" Maybe if he just gets her thinking about the here, the now, the present, maybe if she just has someone else to talk to, that'll be a start. What do you even do or say in a situation like this? To someone going through this? Jack is no psychologist, but one thing he's always known: how to listen.

[Thanqol]

"Oookay" says Abigail, drawing out the word with her skepticism. "So, getting murdered by a crime ring sounds like the kind of thing that makes Daddy's advice of 'don't get involved' sound really appealing, y'know? So, um, what is it that you think I can help you with in all this?"

"We don't need your help, ma'am," said Longarms, "just your co-operation," he added tautologically.

Mercia cut in smoothly. "We advise you change all your passwords, update all your documentation, and be wary of strangers. We have contacted your bank asking them to flag suspicious credit activity, and the local police department letting them know of the potential danger. If you in any way feel unsafe or notice anything out of the ordinary, please go through the normal channels. Everyone will have been briefed about your situation."

There had been times in the past when Mercia needed to run the extra mile to hand out business cards and urge people call her rather than the cops, and that had ended in a bloody ambush when that information was used against her. Far better, she reasoned nowadays, to just flip the cops as an organization and use them instead.

"Okay, listen, I'm going in the store now, so if you tackle me and drag me out of here, it's gonna be in front of some random guy and I'll totally scream really loud when you do it. But we can keep talking in there all you want, okay? Butterfly, you go take a rest, okay?

And sure, if we get this all sorted out, I'll pay for the ride home and you can owe me later."
Aelas briefly considers binding this to make a point that she's serious, but decides it's not really worth it and doesn't want to come across as being mean here when she's trying to make a new friend.

Having dodged, she runs past the still present alpacas and into the gift shop and right up to the cash register, where she asks for a bottle of water.

Static aggressively slinks into the gift shop behind you, hands firmly in her pockets, shoulders hunched, hoodie raised. She's good at this. She has slunked around convenience stores in the past.

"Oh hey there, girlys," said the guy, identified as Dylan by his friendly nametag. Young, Filipino, big smile. A bit cult-y of a smile, really, but Newcastle has that reputation. "Welcome to Newcastle, historic Newcastle. Water here is from the Artisanal basin discovered in 1948 by Richmond Riles, back from the war with an enchanted water-divining stick he'd picked up from a bazaar in Cairo, you can see it over there in the big display case. 4.95 please."

Ummm... okay. Well. No time like the present.

Lily moves through the crowd over to the back where Mr Moon stands and politely announces her presence with a nod, small smile and soft clearing of her throat.

"Good evening," she said softly without meeting his gaze should he turn it her way, "would you like to join us over there?" she suggested with a small motion in Jack's direction.

Mr. Moon leans down - he's not particularly tall but his bulk gives even that small gesture the impression of looming. "Where's the King?" he demands roughly, gears clattering. "We're getting picked apart here. He needs to be present. Show the flag. He's using you as an excuse not to be."

Jack sat down, very carefully, next to her. "Hi," he said, then followed her gaze to the stage. "Why do you think they'll call you up there?" Maybe if he just gets her thinking about the here, the now, the present, maybe if she just has someone else to talk to, that'll be a start. What do you even do or say in a situation like this? To someone going through this? Jack is no psychologist, but one thing he's always known: how to listen.

"The courts can't fight. Directly. There's a spell that stops them," she said, still focused - focusing even harder now that the words she's going over internally are coming out of her mouth. "They fight using poems and music and dances. I'm the best at dancing," she says that like it's a... a threat? A lament? A sob, even? "so when Winter wants something they'll send me."

Her knuckles twitch, and fingers clench a little tighter, leaving white indents deep into her skin.

[Raz_Fox]

The scene is very different, here, because of that enveloping cloak and mask, that deep well of darkness from which the hoarse whisper of a fire-scorched throat flares forth in guttering spurts. There is no terrible light shining forth from that black pool, no burning candle-wicks focused with a terrible and unblinking intensity on this small, pleasant woman. Isaac cannot even rear up to his full and terrible height, a shadow looming over her, a threat of power that is worse than the falling hammerblow itself. What we have here is a scene from a comedy, the cultist confronted by the society matron, and just you forget that the matron has just talked about killing someone without blinking an eye.

On the other hand, the Pilgrim's hands aren't exactly clean, either. The crack of a spine, the wet pop of something soft giving way to a groping thumb, the feeling of something yielding before his horns. It's easy to be brutal when the violence never lasts, when the horns will call a point and everyone will assemble themselves once again into their formations.

"Leave it alone," he says, softly. The fact that this accountant is an enigma, a patch of static in the memory, does not matter. Something left behind. Something that imperfectly filled that hole. Something that was a better member of society, from the sound of it. The Pilgrim runs interference. "The dead bury the dead." Burned into his left tricep in Aramaic, that.

What else could he say? That he went marching off to... to service, to war? Something like that. Something where you come back burned and mangled and changed utterly. That Johannesen might as well have been some punk child who cried himself to sleep and got torn apart, and the Pilgrim was forced to keep marching? Maybe the metaphor of convicts sharing a cell is better. Criminals serve their time. Criminals are punished in order to rejoin society. Stupid kids die with a knife in their livers. But that doesn't match the fact that the thing called Johannesen (educated? reformed? how did he speak? how did he live? not out in the gulch, because only hardness satisfies the spine after so long, because the change of the wind and the whisper of bats wakes him before he even knows something approaches, not like that, somewhere with keys and a fridge and that's how the real world works, right?) it is nothing like him, surely. Spare peg- no, square peg, that's the idiom, square peg, round hole, can't fit without shaving off the horns and putting mittens on the claws, he drank of their fruits and ate of their meats and now he is what he has become, and none of that fits in either the soldier or the criminal metaphor, and opening his mouth to say any of the above would be inane. And only half of it would come out, anyways, jumbling itself up in the exit.

He prods her shoulder with one skeletally thin finger, wrapped inside a thick glove, invading her personal space, her decorum, her dominance. "Be good." Everything is wrapped within the words. Everything in the universe. His fear for them all, the five of them who escaped as one, five fingers on the hand, and this whole ridiculous Tide-bleached-clean court that would become filthy and scorched in the fires of salvation, all of them, please, please, just listen. His acceptance of what has happened, what he has been made, what he deserves. His hungry need to run interference for them all. His plea for her to listen, to stop. To not kill a thing that has not done a thing, save that it looks like someone who was burned away at the edge of a luminous coal. His defiant declaration of the self, that this thing is what was vomited forth from the gates of dawn and judgment and that this is what you will deal with, and it is a walking reminder that you deserve to be punished but be good, be good, walk quiet and do not throw the stone that breaks the sparrow's wing.

He realizes, belatedly, that aggressively touching someone important rarely ends well, but the part of him that deals with emergencies just shrugs internally and makes the instinctive decision to grab hold of anyone who attempts to seize him and fling them over his shoulder, the way he would if he were in a match. It is good at doing things like that, which is why he usually takes the time to consider other viewpoints.

[Thanqol]

He prods her shoulder with one skeletally thin finger, wrapped inside a thick glove, invading her personal space, her decorum, her dominance. "Be good." Everything is wrapped within the words. Everything in the universe. His fear for them all, the five of them who escaped as one, five fingers on the hand, and this whole ridiculous Tide-bleached-clean court that would become filthy and scorched in the fires of salvation, all of them, please, please, just listen. His acceptance of what has happened, what he has been made, what he deserves. His hungry need to run interference for them all. His plea for her to listen, to stop. To not kill a thing that has not done a thing, save that it looks like someone who was burned away at the edge of a luminous coal. His defiant declaration of the self, that this thing is what was vomited forth from the gates of dawn and judgment and that this is what you will deal with, and it is a walking reminder that you deserve to be punished but be good, be good, walk quiet and do not throw the stone that breaks the sparrow's wing.

He realizes, belatedly, that aggressively touching someone important rarely ends well, but the part of him that deals with emergencies just shrugs internally and makes the instinctive decision to grab hold of anyone who attempts to seize him and fling them over his shoulder, the way he would if he were in a match. It is good at doing things like that, which is why he usually takes the time to consider other viewpoints.

Autumn rustles across your robes; you feel a pressure as it sits atop your head, as grand and fearsome as a cat remembering it is a tyger. The blossoms in Mrs. Height's hat wilt slightly. This is your season. It is not hers.

Two others of Autumn come to stand behind you. A wall of fabric and shadows, although you tower above them both. Fear spreads like claw marks on expensive hardwood.

She scoffs. Her pride salvages what it can from this situation. The justifications form themselves in her eyes though they never leave her lips, the words that will shield her ego from this affront: we'll try this again in Spring.

"Mr. Rocksledge!" she says, gaze falling away from you deliberately. "How lovely to see you!" Already is she pretending that this conversation never happened and that she is just here to socialize with friends. She begins to natter away as she buries the grudge. Sooner or later the spring rain will wash away the fear she concealed it under, but until then she will not cross you.

You again have free reign through the court, though the air is beginning to warm. Summer may arrive soon. Autumn is on the brink of calling the meeting to order.

[stveje]

"The courts can't fight. Directly. There's a spell that stops them," she said, still focused - focusing even harder now that the words she's going over internally are coming out of her mouth. "They fight using poems and music and dances. I'm the best at dancing," she says that like it's a... a threat? A lament? A sob, even? "so when Winter wants something they'll send me."

Her knuckles twitch, and fingers clench a little tighter, leaving white indents deep into her skin.

Jack looks around the room, at the few Winters there, at Lily, and at the mirror he carries, and he thinks of King Kent's appreciation for the artistic. Jack is no dancer, nor is he fond of stages, though he'll suffer them if he has to, but he is good at plans and trickery and misdirection. He looks at Lily again - not much stage presence there, he thinks, but she might just have a shred of artistic sense - then back at Bailey and makes a note to himself: they aren't so different in size and figure, are they?

"I see. But you like to dance, don't you? You just don't want to be up on stage."

[Elanorin]

Mr. Moon leans down - he's not particularly tall but his bulk gives even that small gesture the impression of looming. "Where's the King?" he demands roughly, gears clattering. "We're getting picked apart here. He needs to be present. Show the flag. He's using you as an excuse not to be."

Don'tbackawaydon'tbackawaydon'tbackaway-

"The King may not be standing here but he is with us, his vote will be cast," Lily said softly, taking a step back as casually as she was able to disguise it. Mr Moon was... well she shan't forget his Christmas card.

"Perhaps we would fare better if we stood together?" she tried again. She knew hoping for a display like that of Autumn was just out of the question, besides, she didn't really want to go to that extreme. It was not who they were. But it would be nice if they could stomach standing with each other for an evening once in a blue moon.

The ludicrous notion of running Winter Team Build events flittered through her mind and she bit her lip to keep from smiling.

[Anarion]

"We don't need your help, ma'am," said Longarms, "just your co-operation," he added tautologically.

Mercia cut in smoothly. "We advise you change all your passwords, update all your documentation, and be wary of strangers. We have contacted your bank asking them to flag suspicious credit activity, and the local police department letting them know of the potential danger. If you in any way feel unsafe or notice anything out of the ordinary, please go through the normal channels. Everyone will have been briefed about your situation."

There had been times in the past when Mercia needed to run the extra mile to hand out business cards and urge people call her rather than the cops, and that had ended in a bloody ambush when that information was used against her. Far better, she reasoned nowadays, to just flip the cops as an organization and use them instead.

Abbey smiles in what she hopes is a friendly way, but may be a tad forced. She hopes they just think it looks forced because they're cops and nobody likes dealing with cops, as opposed to realizing that it's because they're Huntsmen and she's internally freaking out and trying to pretend everything is normal. "Sure thing. I'll go back inside and update all my passwords right away. Um...thanks for stopping by...officers."

Are they leaving? She really hopes that they're leaving now.

Static aggressively slinks into the gift shop behind you, hands firmly in her pockets, shoulders hunched, hoodie raised. She's good at this. She has slunked around convenience stores in the past.

"Oh hey there, girlys," said the guy, identified as Dylan by his friendly nametag. Young, Filipino, big smile. A bit cult-y of a smile, really, but Newcastle has that reputation. "Welcome to Newcastle, historic Newcastle. Water here is from the Artisanal basin discovered in 1948 by Richmond Riles, back from the war with an enchanted water-divining stick he'd picked up from a bazaar in Cairo, you can see it over there in the big display case. 4.95 please."

"Wow, an enchanted divining stick." Aelas' eyes widen in wonder. She hands Dylan a few coins, and stays at the desk leaning on the counter and sips at the water bottle. "Can you tell me the story of how he ended up in Cairo and realized the rod was enchanted?"

She glances at Static to make sure she's not crowding her personal space.

[Raz_Fox]

The Pilgrim offers his reinforcements a nod. He would have done the same, but it is good to acknowledge someone who stands up for you.

So. So. Here is what the Pilgrim needs, right now. The Pilgrim needs a quiet moment and the ear of the Vizier, or the Witch, or the Archivist. The member of the Autumn Court who specializes in arcane knowledge and the study of the other side. Someone who would be able to take the information about two predators who have the knowing of iron and produce the name: Huntsman. Someone who can let the King know. Because that's what you do when you're part of a team: you keep them in the loop.

Once that's done (and whatever knowledge can be gleaned from the encounter has been traded), if that is not important enough for us to play out in full, the Pilgrim will take a moment to do a fly-by of Lily and The Big Bad Bulldozer, his intent to make sure that she's not being intimidated by Moon likely obvious to Lily with her high social acumen, and then take his place among Autumn for the meeting's start.

[Thanqol]

Jack looks around the room, at the few Winters there, at Lily, and at the mirror he carries, and he thinks of King Kent's appreciation for the artistic. Jack is no dancer, nor is he fond of stages, though he'll suffer them if he has to, but he is good at plans and trickery and misdirection. He looks at Lily again - not much stage presence there, he thinks, but she might just have a shred of artistic sense - then back at Bailey and makes a note to himself: they aren't so different in size and figure, are they?

"I see. But you like to dance, don't you? You just don't want to be up on stage."

"Well," she bit her lip, seriously torn by the question. "... yes? It's..." she gropes her way around the words, trying to describe a past experience without re-living it. "Less the dancing I don't want. More the judging."

Don'tbackawaydon'tbackawaydon'tbackaway-

"The King may not be standing here but he is with us, his vote will be cast," Lily said softly, taking a step back as casually as she was able to disguise it. Mr Moon was... well she shan't forget his Christmas card.

"Perhaps we would fare better if we stood together?" she tried again. She knew hoping for a display like that of Autumn was just out of the question, besides, she didn't really want to go to that extreme. It was not who they were. But it would be nice if they could stomach standing with each other for an evening once in a blue moon.

The ludicrous notion of running Winter Team Build events flittered through her mind and she bit her lip to keep from smiling.

"Hmm," said Bigby, bringing up a vast paw to rub his chin in a grotesque approximation of thoughtful consideration. "And why would I do that, hmm? Do you have some manner of plan? Are you making a play? Looking to stir the pot, are you?"

His voice roils like a storm and his challenges follow without time to respond to each, but he is not deliberately threatening; curiosity and an Ogre's delight in repetition are his watchwords here, a mind like a steam engine searching for something to crush - or drag behind it.

The Pilgrim offers his reinforcements a nod. He would have done the same, but it is good to acknowledge someone who stands up for you.

So. So. Here is what the Pilgrim needs, right now. The Pilgrim needs a quiet moment and the ear of the Vizier, or the Witch, or the Archivist. The member of the Autumn Court who specializes in arcane knowledge and the study of the other side. Someone who would be able to take the information about two predators who have the knowing of iron and produce the name: Huntsman. Someone who can let the King know. Because that's what you do when you're part of a team: you keep them in the loop.

Once that's done (and whatever knowledge can be gleaned from the encounter has been traded), if that is not important enough for us to play out in full,

It is done and is just so; the quiet correspondence of whispered secret is Autumn's trade and flow. Information gifted (and it must be a gift - dare not the Goblins' Law by selling information, even if it seems like you are beyond the market walls) disseminates and is repaid with similar gifts. Names: Mercia and Longarms, by their panoply. This exchange is as natural as the breath in which it flows; there is no need to linger on it.

the Pilgrim will take a moment to do a fly-by of Lily and The Big Bad Bulldozer, his intent to make sure that she's not being intimidated by Moon likely obvious to Lily with her high social acumen, and then take his place among Autumn for the meeting's start.

Mr. Moon raises his head draws a thumb across his throat as he catches your eyes - not a threat to her, but a clear threat to you, and not one with much thought behind it. Perhaps he only felt drawn to make it because you stalk like a raptor in robes and he is used to repaying fear with fear.

On the note of your size, you are unfortunately the worst kept secret in Autumn's unified ranks - you tower above all those around you. Someone with more grace than you arranges things so you are brought to stand in the dead centre of the court, lesser figures clustering around you.

The whispering exchange comes again; in these last few seconds, the Court is asking itself if there are any opinions or desires amongst its members it must know about. This is less a promise to consider those ideas and more a way for the Court to avoid coming to any decisions that would cause any of its members to publicly object and thereby undermine Autumn's unity.

Abbey smiles in what she hopes is a friendly way, but may be a tad forced. She hopes they just think it looks forced because they're cops and nobody likes dealing with cops, as opposed to realizing that it's because they're Huntsmen and she's internally freaking out and trying to pretend everything is normal. "Sure thing. I'll go back inside and update all my passwords right away. Um...thanks for stopping by...officers."

Are they leaving? She really hopes that they're leaving now.

They are indeed leaving now, walking down the road to get in someone else's car and drive away.

"She didn't like us," said Longarms with disappointment evident in his voice.

"She's well made," said Mercia, concealing her own heartache. "Aware. But that's fine. She doesn't need to like us. We don't really give a damn about her one way or another. Meetings like that cost us nothing."

"Who's next on the list?"

"Mr. Johannesen left town," said Mercia. "See if you can find Fairchild."

"Wow, an enchanted divining stick." Aelas' eyes widen in wonder. She hands Dylan a few coins, and stays at the desk leaning on the counter and sips at the water bottle. "Can you tell me the story of how he ended up in Cairo and realized the rod was enchanted?"

She glances at Static to make sure she's not crowding her personal space.

"The Australian Imperial Force recruited from blah blah blah blah," said Dylan. "Blah blah blah Iraq campaign blah blah mission creep blah blah blah historical parallels blah blah force the straits blah blah blah Churchill blah blah blah blah..."

He'll go on for as long as you need him to about minutae of the ANZAC corps' adventures and actions across the Middle East and the feats of derring-do achieved by Newcastle residents in the first world war. If you need him to he'll produce Mr. Riles' war diary and start reading entire passages out loud. Riveting stuff.

Static is indeed slightly crowding your personal space but her eyes are glazing over a bit as Dylan gets into his full swing. If a distraction is what you were after here, you've got it. If not, well, this will go on for a full hour until closing time brings an end to it.

[Elanorin]

"Hmm," said Bigby, bringing up a vast paw to rub his chin in a grotesque approximation of thoughtful consideration. "And why would I do that, hmm? Do you have some manner of plan? Are you making a play? Looking to stir the pot, are you?"

His voice roils like a storm and his challenges follow without time to respond to each, but he is not deliberately threatening; curiosity and an Ogre's delight in repetition are his watchwords here, a mind like a steam engine searching for something to crush - or drag behind it.

Lily watched the hand attempting to make a display of careful consideration and she humours it by waiting. Just because she was unconvinced by the offered display, did not mean the person behind it was any less menacing, and it was only on her second attempt to speak that words actually came out, her eyes still staring on that hand, "Well, yes. The pot is in dire need of stirring, is it not? It's just a different patch of floor, a few steps away, but it could be the beginning of finding out if Winter is greater than the sum of its parts."

Mr. Moon raises his head draws a thumb across his throat as he catches your eyes - not a threat to her, but a clear threat to you, and not one with much thought behind it. Perhaps he only felt drawn to make it because you stalk like a raptor in robes and he is used to repaying fear with fear.

Lily paused and glanced over her shoulder as she noticed Bigby's attention wandering. When she saw Isaac there she froze for a second, both intimidated by his attention and glad for it.

"It's your choice, of course, Mr Moon," she added, casting her eyes down. With that she gave a quick curtsy and moved to walk over to the next member of Winter lurking around on their own.

[stveje]

"Well," she bit her lip, seriously torn by the question. "... yes? It's..." she gropes her way around the words, trying to describe a past experience without re-living it. "Less the dancing I don't want. More the judging."

"So, if it was someone else being judged ..." he trailed off, looking again towards Lily. He leans a little closer to lower his voice, and to show her something like what he had in his mind - surely someone has a phone, everyone has a phone, even changelings fresh out of the hedge, even if it might have been someone else's phone. "I can make her into a Dancer," the word was loaded with more meaning than the everyday usage, "but I can't give her the experience or the stage presence. Do you think you could make her look stunning enough on a stage to win? Make everyone look at her and say ooh and wow? All anyone has to see of you is your shadow, dancing with her." Jack knew about shadows.

[Raz_Fox]

Ah, so not even the vaunted magics of the fairy wizards of the most arcane of all eldritch associations can make the Pilgrim seem any less than he is. There once was an ogre who could do that, I hear, until a cat tricked him into becoming a mouse. Nevertheless, he shall be the tent pole, the axis around which the wings of Autumn turn.

(The eye imagines voluminous dark robes, edged in gold, each one bearing a hood with a pointed tip. Thank goodness the tailor made them in black, not in white, or we would have quite the distressing visual up on the stage, and a burning cross to bring the meeting to order.)

[Anarion]

They are indeed leaving now, walking down the road to get in someone else's car and drive away.

"She didn't like us," said Longarms with disappointment evident in his voice.

"She's well made," said Mercia, concealing her own heartache. "Aware. But that's fine. She doesn't need to like us. We don't really give a damn about her one way or another. Meetings like that cost us nothing."

"Who's next on the list?"

"Mr. Johannesen left town," said Mercia. "See if you can find Fairchild."

As soon as the Huntsmen are out of sight, Abigail is sending blaring parallel lives warning beacons to Aelas. She can't really send a detailed voice message, but as much of Hunters, aaaaaah, know where I live!!111! as can manage to translate via parallel lives is going to Aelas (the ones are intentional, Abby absolutely thinks in text message).

"The Australian Imperial Force recruited from blah blah blah blah," said Dylan. "Blah blah blah Iraq campaign blah blah mission creep blah blah blah historical parallels blah blah force the straits blah blah blah Churchill blah blah blah blah..."

He'll go on for as long as you need him to about minutae of the ANZAC corps' adventures and actions across the Middle East and the feats of derring-do achieved by Newcastle residents in the first world war. If you need him to he'll produce Mr. Riles' war diary and start reading entire passages out loud. Riveting stuff.

Static is indeed slightly crowding your personal space but her eyes are glazing over a bit as Dylan gets into his full swing. If a distraction is what you were after here, you've got it. If not, well, this will go on for a full hour until closing time brings an end to it.

Aelas' original plan had just been to hope that Static got bored and left first and then catch a ride back to town. But, it's during this absolutely fascinating history of Newcastle that panic bells go off in her brain and she gathers that her Fetch is flipping out. She considers diving her Abby's eyes, but she doesn't want to take leave of her own sense with Static around, so instead she looks for an opportunity to slip out unseen. She'll hail a cab if she can, she'd rather spend money than glamour right now, but if there's nothing and she needs to make this escape very quickly, she'll call Butterfly back again.