FullNothingness
Mostly DHMO.
Kidnapping people is a hassle even if you don't have morals and can cover your tracks. Grabbing cows or sheep is just easier and gets you less attention.
An American Mage in Wizarding Britan (HP AU)
Kidnapping people is a hassle even if you don't have morals and can cover your tracks. Grabbing cows or sheep is just easier and gets you less attention.
Dark Abstraction
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Not necessarily. If you live in a city far from rural areas, livestock would be more visibly unusual than a just yet another missing person report amongst dozens.
FullNothingness
Mostly DHMO.
Not really a concern for any of the groups tbh since the cultists are rural and the death eaters can teleport. And even then you could grab pets like cats easier than people generally speaking. I bet you even get bonus evil points for sacrificing kittens.
Dark Abstraction
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Well, regardless, what I was saying is that we will be categorically abstaining from sacrificing sapients, and we should be able to sacrifice non-sapients instead without issue, since we should have options available to us for it. So no slippery slope.
FullNothingness
Mostly DHMO.
I never said there was a slippery slope. If you are talking about the insanity then you seem to be assuming that is tied to sacrificing sapient beings... While as far as I know it was inherent in blood magic. If you have reason to assume it isn't I must have missed it.
And the point I'm making with my comments about how the bad guys would still sacrifice animals wasn't about morals. It was about the assumption we can simply easily replace human sacrifice. Because if the replacement was simple then everyone would do it, so it isn't simple. Probably because you need to sacrifice an inordinate amount of animals to get the same effect.
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Pretty sure it's just what happens when you try to figure out any type of magic- trying to wrap your head around it is problematic, to say the least. I think the OP said that it's not any worse than any other type of magic, so if we keep researching any magic, than the insanity will still creep up.
FullNothingness
Mostly DHMO.
AFAIK the OP has said all magic has side effects... Not that they all cause insanity.
Dark Abstraction
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I didn't say you said anything about it, I was pointing just it out. Insanity being tied to blood magic isn't really as big an issue as it's being made out to be, that I've seen, though.
Well since human sacrifice is not the be-all end-all of blood sacrifice, as you seem intent on making it out to be, that doesn't really mean much to me. Historically "everyone" did different things to perform blood sacrifice. Mezoamericans did human sacrifice because of cultural beliefs. Other blood sacrificing nations (greeks, romans, gallic tribes, etc) typically did not, because their cultural beliefs were generally different. They are not considered inferior, they just performed different rituals to get different results. Mezoamerican magic opened up blood magic as an option, but it's not solely defined by it.
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As is anything within James' natural knowledge base, I will happily explain. Sacrifice of non-sophonent creatures is in no way, shape, or form regulated by any set of Accords. However, sacrifice of sophonent creatures is, and the regulations are thus outlined (with the bare exception of the Eaters-of-raw-meat and Seelkie clause) as the person in question having either lost all natural rights as ordained for their species in the Accords via some heinous act that has been subject to overview of a neutral judge (ex: grand treason, infanticide, violation of the Accords...) and they have thus been found guilty; after which their sacrifice is considered non-sophonent. Alternatively, the sacrificee has through legal and clear means that signify they are willing and accepting of this fate, and as such may so be called upon for the duty as per the conditions they agreed on, normally related to civic duty and sieges.
The rub would, I think, would be involved in proving the Incubators as non-sophonent. Considering that for quite a long time humans were non-sophonent, though...
Hit the nail right on the head, there.
And unless you're willing to either play a stirring R&D game of Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, or dig around what I consider the dangerous area of the tree, you're not going to find it. If you do go for the second option, I recommend talking Black Magic Study first. There's a bonus it unlocks you will find helpful.
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I go away for a few days, and I find...
This. What exactly is this, anyway?
This. What exactly is this, anyway?
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Announcement
Unfortunately, due to the rather large amount of backstory, worldbuilding issues, and the fact that once again my notes on this quest have been destroyed, I am sadly calling a de jure hiatus for the foreseeable future. Got in over my head again, folks. Sorry. Either way, this is going to be the last post from me for a long while, so if anyone has any questions or concerns please feel free to ask. If there's any interest, I can post information about what have would have been the midgame and endgame portions, as well as some bonus material for the universe that you guys may like. I can safely say that I'm still getting better at quest writing, though, and that one of these days I will find a happy medium between narrative and mechanics.
Until then, I'll be just plugging away, getting better at this an update at a time.
Unfortunately, due to the rather large amount of backstory, worldbuilding issues, and the fact that once again my notes on this quest have been destroyed, I am sadly calling a de jure hiatus for the foreseeable future. Got in over my head again, folks. Sorry. Either way, this is going to be the last post from me for a long while, so if anyone has any questions or concerns please feel free to ask. If there's any interest, I can post information about what have would have been the midgame and endgame portions, as well as some bonus material for the universe that you guys may like. I can safely say that I'm still getting better at quest writing, though, and that one of these days I will find a happy medium between narrative and mechanics.
Until then, I'll be just plugging away, getting better at this an update at a time.
Dark Abstraction
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That is unfortunate to hear, but I respect that you're telling us instead of just leaving the quest silently abandoned.
Would blood magic have been as terrible as some people were worried it'd be, horrifically warping minds and such? Who was the pretty witch that served Voldemort?
Would blood magic have been as terrible as some people were worried it'd be, horrifically warping minds and such? Who was the pretty witch that served Voldemort?
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The witch was about a step over a throwaway lieutenant. She had a name (Something Downing, I think) and that was about it.
As for Blood Magic, well, it's complicated. If you guys said "Lets make a spell that uses one Death Eater to find other Death Eaters!" it would have been slightly icky, but ok. "Lets make a spell that finds the Death Eaters and wipe them all out by association!" would have been a lot worse. It's a pretty much a continuation of the question "When does a tool become a weapon?" with the added bonus of having a built-in "you done fucked up" warning feature.
Also, because I was dying to have an excuse to post it, the Balkans Trip would have entailed the Science Team getting into an Enduring Clusterfuck and coming home lesse most of their corruption, two or three members, and a literal boatload of ex-sex slaves who they purchased for the purposes of getting willing volunteers for blood donation, and would also have given you guys a nice story hook for meeting your Russian counterpart.
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Dark Abstraction
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Wow, nice, that sounds like it'd have been a pretty interesting adventure.
What was the story with Susan and all the canon people she went to school with, how was that going to develop?
Was a nice quest. Thanks for letting us know about the end instead of going dark.
A few questions.How would have Blackstone acted in Hogwarts and how bad would the war have gotten near the end game?
Edit: Also how would have Blackstone and his connection to the magical girls have developed?
A few questions.How would have Blackstone acted in Hogwarts and how bad would the war have gotten near the end game?
Edit: Also how would have Blackstone and his connection to the magical girls have developed?
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Susan was... well, to be honest, Susan wasn't well-planned on my part. The basic idea was "Redeem Snape, prove a rock to test the Order of the Pheonix against to sharpen them, and maybe give Remus hope"
Thank you.
Blackstone would have started going apeshit very quickly. One of the things I did have planned for the kids were their specialties, and Blackrock's was Master of The Land. If he was on his home turf, he could be fucking untouchable. The shrine, and the girls were both contributing factors, but without them he would still be the most powerful mage on base. At Hogwarts, without that strength, he'd be below the curve across the board- and without his social support, he'd start to blow gaskets way more often. In short, he was nobless obligee taken to it's noblebright conclusion.
On the connections end, he'd be very, very tight-knit. I can't place enough emphasis on the shrine- that was a shrine to him. I think I said it before, but James was effectively a god to them, and Blackstone was his son and prophet. I read up on refugees and Shintoism/Buddhism/Japanese Culture for a bit before I leapt into the affair, and whoo boy. Lots of shit going on there that shouldn't be for the refugees, and the Traditional Japanese Coping Method would meet it's match in teenage girls. Conversly, they were collectively Blackstone's rock. There would always be someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, a friend to see. A best friend, a magical battery, and a safety blanket all rolled into one. They'd follow him to hell and back, and he'd do the same to save one of them.
One of the themes that this quest picked up fairly rapidly was the theme of family and home. James always had a family, no matter what he did because he could always feel the earth and know, without a doubt, he was loved. He adopted the children, and they felt that extension. They knew they found home with him. This trickled onto the girls too- and it's part of why they were willing and able to fight in the base defense. The rocket that had blown up the Cultist Artillery Team? That rocket had been aimed at a barracks with the girls in it, and if it hit it would have been 1d10 dead and 4d20 wounded. After that, the vengeance would be on, and it would be open war. A feud caused by the death of family is terrifying, and if it had started, you would have seen the reverse side of love- the ability of so many to damn the consequences, and take their pound of flesh to relieve the pain they feel knowing someone dear to them is never coming back.
On the connections end, he'd be very, very tight-knit. I can't place enough emphasis on the shrine- that was a shrine to him. I think I said it before, but James was effectively a god to them, and Blackstone was his son and prophet. I read up on refugees and Shintoism/Buddhism/Japanese Culture for a bit before I leapt into the affair, and whoo boy. Lots of shit going on there that shouldn't be for the refugees, and the Traditional Japanese Coping Method would meet it's match in teenage girls. Conversly, they were collectively Blackstone's rock. There would always be someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, a friend to see. A best friend, a magical battery, and a safety blanket all rolled into one. They'd follow him to hell and back, and he'd do the same to save one of them.
One of the themes that this quest picked up fairly rapidly was the theme of family and home. James always had a family, no matter what he did because he could always feel the earth and know, without a doubt, he was loved. He adopted the children, and they felt that extension. They knew they found home with him. This trickled onto the girls too- and it's part of why they were willing and able to fight in the base defense. The rocket that had blown up the Cultist Artillery Team? That rocket had been aimed at a barracks with the girls in it, and if it hit it would have been 1d10 dead and 4d20 wounded. After that, the vengeance would be on, and it would be open war. A feud caused by the death of family is terrifying, and if it had started, you would have seen the reverse side of love- the ability of so many to damn the consequences, and take their pound of flesh to relieve the pain they feel knowing someone dear to them is never coming back.
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7734
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- Philmont
Seeing as there's aparently a goodly number of people interested in my work, I'll just be leaving a link to my new, shiny, oh god I hope this one actually finishes quest right here!
An Incarnating Radius Against an Enemy Within (SAO/XCOM)
An Incarnating Radius Against an Enemy Within (SAO/XCOM)
7734
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- Philmont
So, in the interests of anyone and everyone who liked this, I'm running a very narritive-based quest elsewhere on the board right now. Because of shifting life patterns, my quests come and go in stages. For each season, there is a time, etc. etc. etc.
Anyway, to anyone reading this after the fact or old fans who still get notifications off this thread, another one of my stories has come into bloom here.
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/gun-swords-and-sorcery-iii.34483/
Best wishes and happy questing, everyone!
Anyway, to anyone reading this after the fact or old fans who still get notifications off this thread, another one of my stories has come into bloom here.
https://forums.sufficientvelocity.com/threads/gun-swords-and-sorcery-iii.34483/
Best wishes and happy questing, everyone!
Fantastic Paperwork and Where to Avoid It
7734
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(So, guess who saw the new Potter movie? Yeah, me. It wasn't bad, even, aside from my pre-existing issues with the Potterverse. So, time to make it better.)
New York, 1921, Ellis Island
"Next."
Not many Wizards came through Ellis Island. To be fair, not many Wizards came to America any more, though. The heyday of Ars Nordes had come and gone, Dominus College had closed its gates. The upswing in the prestige of the Old World after destroying the Spanish Colonies had nosedived after the "barbarian tactics" used by American War Mages on the Western Front and their refusal to commit regular forces en masse until the final hour. Never mind the complex realities of the situation- the ICW had discovered a new land of politics to play in, and damn the subtleties of a brave new world.
Newt Scomander was not your average wizard. A master of magical beasts and decorated veteran of the portion of the Great War the wizards deigned to acknowledge, he also had the singular disadvantage of being both English and slightly shell-shocked from his time in Serbia and Gallica.
The inspection officer was not amused at the bumbling man fiddling with the locks on his suitcase. He smelled faintly of livestock, almost like a zookeeper. His suitcase checked out for the most part, but that dung scent was pungent. Filthy English slept side-by-side with their livestock, or so he'd read, and loose dung meant disease. The visa papers he carried meant he couldn't get deported, but that didn't mean he couldn't get sent over to the doctor-inspectors.
"Second door on the right, talk to the doctor inside. He'll stamp your papers."
Nodding and making some appropriately gracious sounds, Newt headed for the doctor's office. Inside sat a large black man wearing a set of spectacles and admiring a rather large handsaw. Making a rather loud eep, Newt tried to flee, only to be grabbed by the scruff of his collar and bodily dragged into the room.
"Morning son! Now, what's you in here for!" the doctor exclaimed, shoving a rather long thermometer in his mouth and throwing his suitcase on the bench. Newt tried to mumble an answer around the thermometer, but the glass rod got in the way of his already tripsy tounge.
"Oh, you do that too? Damn, son, never took you for the type! I know how bad those can get, so I'll just be needing to check your case, ok? Anyway, England. Done any good fly-fishing there?"
As the doctor went for the case, Newt bravely intercepted him and spat out the thermometer. "Ahahaha, as you can see I'm perfectly fine…"
"Yeah, son, I know. Might want to try cleaning up, though- hygiene saves lives! Now, just gimme a second to pop this bad boy open while you fill these up for me, ok?"
Catching the pair of two-liter beakers, Newt's eye twitched. "With what!?"
Behind him, a soft voice chuckled. "Paperwork, probably. For starters, let's talk about that unlicensed wand you've got there, and a fourth-dimensional carrying case."
Turning around, Newt looked at a young man lounging against the door in a well-worn suit and with a large canvas duster. "Name's Ben Cork, Mister Scomander. We're fairly used to this sort of thing happening, so if you come with me then his whole mess can be sorted out without too much fuss."
Taking poor Newt by the arm, Ben started leading him to the New York office for the Bureau of Magic. One short boat ride later, and they ended up near Battery Park. From there, it was a bit tricky to get to Trinity Church, where Ben started grinning.
"Now, Mister Scomander, if you don't mind doing me a favor, I'm gonna need to see your wand for a minute. What we're gonna do here might be a little out of the norm for you, so keep your mouth firmly shut, or we're gonna need a taxi to-" and here Ben shuddered, "Bayonne. So whatever you do, stay quiet!"
Moments later, a truck pulled up. Gazing at it in almost-awe, Newt barely noted the brass piping and roaring horn. Paying the driver in some odd, almost-glowing coinage, Ben practically dragged Newt into the back. Inside the thick leather-and-velvet interior, a small radiator chugged along with a coffeepot chirping away. Next to it was a rather pale man, pinez glasses highlighting his beady black eyes.
"Afternoon, Morty." Ben said, smiling. "This here's Mister Scomander, and he's new here. Don't open the windows, please- he's got a weak stomach according to the Doc."
The pale man nodded, and rang forward. As the truck began to take off, Ben sighed and poured two cups of the hot, black coffee.
"You take cream or sugar, Mr. Scomander?"
Newt shrugged. "Never tried good coffee before. I'll try it black to start, I think."
"Black it is, then. Out of curiosity, why you over here? Haven't seen a wizard in New York City from the Continent since Romanov's mages settled down here after the White Princes got married."
"I'm here for a specimen- this is where the best breeder of grafflesnarks lives according to the last ICW publishing."
Ben rolled his eyes, and took a long slug of coffee. "Are you on the level? Last ICW on magical creature breeders was from before the Great War, and even then they just copied the data they used for North America from the 1885 edition. It's no matter- we can sell you a copy of the 1923 edition while we dig up a copy of the 'exportation of magical creature' paperwork. God, I hope we still have copies of it from '23: the print shop would murder us if they found out we wanted them to run off more of that mess!"
Newt nodded along, quietly drinking his coffee and frowning. Ben was being awful friendly, and he certainly never expected this warm a welcome.
That feeling of arm welcome died a horrible death when Newt was almost thrown out of the truck at the next stop and told to follow Ben. It was cold, wet, almost marshy now. Since when had one of the biggest cities in the world been marshy? It was almost as absurd as the thought of London having an open sewer! The cold abruptly ended though, as the pair got into a horse-drawn carriage driven by a gaunt-looking fellow in a tricorne. Who even wore tricorns anymore?
"Morty, I'm afraid we're going to need to pick it up a little!" Ben called, grinning. "Never expected a Brit to have trouble with the cold!"
"Why in God's green earth are we even doing this?" Newt asked, frowning. "Couldn't you just, oh, wallop an extradimensional space in one of your skyscrapers or something?"
"Sure we could." Ben replied, laughing. "Thing is, that makes it vulnerable. First American Bureau of Magic was in Washington DC from 1789 to 1814. Any idea why I say first and was?"
"No."
"Pretty simple, really. When the White House got torched, the extradimensional anchors and anti-interference warding systems cooked off, and three hundred wizards plus five hundred refugees got turned into a magical smear on the inside of the Never-never. Nowadays, all Regional Commands and major depots need to be either fully mundane or fully magical; and the fully magical ones are wrapped in cotton wool and so deeply that if shit happens they can re-materialize out in Area 49 through 60 out west."
Newt just shuddered at the figures presented. Three hundred wizards, gone? That was an entire class at Hogwarts, if not two or three!
"How… How did things recover from that?" he asked, a morbid curiosity filling him.
"Couple of things, really. Edict of Restoration, First Accords escalator clause, couple of magical knock-ons from the Monroe Doctrine nobody ever saw coming, those sorts of things. Best think happy thoughts, now- we keep this up, Morty might make a pit stop somewhere."
Wisely letting the discussion die off, Newt waited for them to change taxis again, this new one being a long, sleek coup- once again driven by a man in black with fingers too thin and skin too clear. Things stayed silent until they arrived at a tower, and Ben started to grin.
"Welcome to New York Headquarters!"
As the duo walked through the hall, Newt gasped. Dancing fairy-lights lit the massive atrium, a giant ash standing proud in the center of the room. On each of the room's walls, giant clocks hung to tell the time across the spanning continent. Stairs crisscrossed the room, curling wrought iron brought to a sheen with brass inlays catching the fey-light and throwing it about with abandon. Birds and squirrels rested in the tree, only to jump from the tallest limbs into the grounds holding the roots and disappear into the world below them where the roots sat. Pine wood lined the room's walls, and frosted glass let the sun show his face to the room.
Passing under one of the arches, Ben lead Newt into one of the office areas, a cozy collection of brick and masonry that oozed a homely air. A few minutes at a clerk's desk, and Ben left Newt at a desk with a pair of ink pens and a literal ream of paperwork. As a parting gift, Ben had even left a card with a destination for a hotel- the White Rose Hotel, down in a better part of town with "reasonable rates" and a nine-by-five card with instructions not to leave until everything was done and if he had to come back for any reason at all to just ask at a Post Office for the Bureau of Cartography and Mapmaking. They'd give him a ride next time they'd deliver the post, apparently.
----
Looking out over the Second Salemers meeting, Tina felt her lip pull into a snarl. Anti-magic propaganda? Distasteful, but acceptable. Using poor orphans to distribute it? Unethical as all hell, but acceptable. Refusing to feed said orphans and beating them when they failed to meet quota? Yeah, that flew over the line at five feet and five hundred knots.
"Remind me again, why can't we just nail these guys on child abuse and criminal negligence?"
Her partner, Alexander Proschuto, just grunted. "Because we're not Strike Wizards, and the boys in the Calamity Department only have three-ish guys who are willing to say that these asshats might have something to do with it."
"Still want to sick some no-maj police on them."
Shaking his head, Alex dope-slapped Tina a good one. "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times; don't say that shit when we're working! First Accords, seventh clause- no distinction shall be made by any member of any race on another regarding the disposition of magical talent and ability! Remember the Changling epidemic the ICW tried to hang on us after we sent Heal Witches out to handle the Spanish Flu?"
Tina winced. That had been a bad business, and she'd been an ambulance medic for the AEF. Most Changlings targeted poor mundane families these days, who didn't have a response. After the Great War, though, they tried their luck on the English and French mages- who had forgotten their house wardings for years as they handled the war and politics.
"Alright, so why aren't we calling in the mundane police?"
"Can't, unfortunately. Right now, there's been a bad rash of Fagin runners on East Side and in Harlem, so there's a back-room order that anything keeping the street kids from looking at stealing is bulletproof."
"Damn."
---
Looking at the mess of a destroyed building, Leonard Graves shivered and ran a hand through his hair. A six-story tenement house, destroyed in a fit of magical rage overnight, the perpetrator gone without a trace.
"We got a fix on that magic yet, Moor?"
Down in the back, a green-skinned fey growled and smacked his dowsing rod on the stones.
"Ain't got shit, Lion. Whyinthehell they wanted us here is a mystery- I mean, we're still supposed to be playing find-the-relic in Belgium while some idiot accuses us of being a war crime brigade or somesuch. Just because we occasionally need to gas a few idiot wood-fairies with phosgene 'cause they won't behave…"
Rolling his eyes, Leonard poked the remains of a stair while his partner kept rambling about the bad old days.
"… Not like we didn't tell them when we got hired on that sometimes we would need to kill a few things to get this shit back! I am so glad Dad decided to take the clan here back in the sixteens- can't imagine living in the hellhole that's Paris now. Just because a fellow can sleep for a few years in a go doesn't mean he's part one of the nobs and you can cut off his head!"
"Thought you didn't like your grand-uncle's side of the family, Moor?"
"I didn't, but they didn't deserve to get dragged out of bed just to get shot in the back and beheaded! They even buried 'em in consecrated ground! Do you have any idea how much the survivors bitch about it?"
Moors Vallenheimer-Ossicate may have been going on two hundred with a proud lineage that had offshoots with Charlemange, Genghis Khan, Mary the Queen of Scots, Rollo, Frederick Barbarossa, and Emperor Meji, but he'd be damned if he'd act like it. Ever since he'd chosen to leave the family business ("not enough good-looking princesses these days. Why'd the Hapsburg's go to shit, anyway?") of seducing mundane leaders and stealing as many odd items as they could to turn into magical doohickies. As far as family buisnesses went for the fey, it was harmless, turned a profit, and very taxable.
"C'mon, man, we're on the clock here. Quit whining about the good old days, and start cranking out the Tinkerbell sparkles before someone whines."
Frowning, Moor rubbed his dowsing stick. "I'm dead serious, here. All I'm picking up is that whatever did this is native, half-starved, and this is the result of untrained potential violently abused. I can say, though, this isn't a construct, trained spell, or instinct magic. It's just… a wall, blanketing rage. Lion, whatever this is, we can't afford to try and fight it alone."
Leonard had to smile at that. "So, what if we had some help then? I've still got some friends, and you can sweet-talk us some gear."
"I am not turning into a chick again."
Leonard sighed, and rubbed his face. "One, I promise not to try and pick you up in a bar again. Two, I'll cut you in for a hundred dollars extra in bonds. Three, I'll let you see Grandmere's old musket."
Moor's eyes widened. "You're serious? Grandmere Hasnakevo's musket that shot the Frost Angel and Satkuneuva?"
"Yes, Moor, I'm serious. We're gonna want enough kit for about, oh, one light machine gun company. BARs, Thompsons, Springfields, rifle grenades- the works. We're not fighting some pixie pack or stray hoop dragon now. Time to ready ourselves for the big game."
---
As a new day dawned, Newt rubbed the back of his head gently. Last night hadn't been much of a night- after begging a cup of coffee from a stewardess, he'd gotten to work on the paperwork for his magical creatures. He would have run out on the majority of it, if the stewardess hadn't offhandedly mentioned the fact that 'innocent until proven guilty' didn't mean his creatures couldn't get impounded. Considering that the man three meters down the bench was plugging away at the quintuplet paperwork for release of a wand for the third day running, Newt decided to play it safe and do all the paperwork.
Even considering how banged up his wrist was the next day, he considered it worth the work. Now, all he had to do was go out and get breakfast from somewhere that wasn't this… dive… of a hotel.
Passing through the dingy shops and cramped tenement apartments, Newt winced visibly when he saw a tall banner proclaiming the Second Salem group as their speaker stumped against the 'known magical elements' out there. The fact that someone was speaking out against wizards, of all people, was morbidly fascinating to Newt- back home, this would be quietly squashed by one of the larger family's brute squads of 'household servants' with a resume including jail time and suspended sentences. As fascinating as it was, though, breakfast was calling his name rather loudly. After that, it would be a train ride to Vermont to speak to a man about purchasing that grafflesnark breeding pair and looking into a trip to Arizona. Would it be worth it to take a sleeper car, or would a regular seat work well enough?
----
It was late at night when the good Senator Shaw's re-election dinner started. The Shaws, a family of newsies and industrialists, came to the governmental table with cash and connections. The eldest son of that family had used all of it in a push to grab his Congressional position, and his edge up in re-election was as narrow as it got.
"I still can't believe we're here watching this asshat stump speech." Tina grumped at Alex.
"Shutup, newblood." He replied, almost in a good humor. "This ain't so bad- if the city wants this guy wrapped up in cotton wool, then we smile and make with the fluffies. You want to go back to the office and file permits or something?"
"No, and you know what I mean. Why would the city ask us, wizards, to cover him when he's been talked to by the Second Salemers of all people?"
Alex just held his head in his hands. "Now I know why the tried to bust you out of cop school. Listen, just remember they said no to the Salem, and if they can magic their way out of a wet paper back I'll write out the hit papers myself and you can drive the party van, ok?"
"Alright, Alex. Hey, are the lights going funny to you?"
As Tina spoke, the lights flickered and started to die. The microphone on the stage went too, as the air temperature started to drop. This was all fairly normal for a New York winter- right until the black wind started blowing.
"Tina, get in there and link up with the bodyguards! I'll slow it- God Damns!"
As Alex's decleration of intent was stopped by the wall exploding, his and Tina's wands went out. Both of them were certified mage-fighters, trained extensively to handle civil disturbances of magic.
The Obscura ex Nihilo Tempestas was not civil. It was a storm, lightning flashing and debris whirling inside it. Tables were grabbed and flipped, curtains torn and slashed, people thrown like ninepins. Forbidden alcohol went through the air, flasks and glasses tumbling and striking the remains of the room. The creature had only one target- Senator Shaw.
The mess of spells slung at the Obscura ex Nihilo Tempesta didn't even wind the beast. It was like smoke in the air, a whirling dervish intent on destruction. Shaw's Wizarding bodyguard tried to stand it down, but he was knocked away with a fist of debris. Shaw himself was treated like a child's doll that displeased the owner- he was brought up, and slammed down into the stage. The broken remains were deposited there, that not stained by blood or broken by bone tainted with black spiderwebs- a sign of magic of the dark.
---
Leonard was a not a morning person. He got up at eight, made his coffee and eggs, and propped open a newspaper while he ate. Normally, he'd be in his work truck by nine after making sure Moor hadn't accidently put on a dress or forgot to sleep or somesuch and technically working till six or seven or eight or so.
So, when Moor called at half-past-five in the morning about the ludicrous bounty on the head of an Obscura, Leonard was pissed. Ten thousand dollars in wizarding bonds or Reichsgeld was not exactly worth a wake-up in the middle of his sleep time. The fact that Moore had gotten the gear and a sound fix on the damn Obscura, though- that was worth it.
Last night at the bars, Leonard had been hard at work. New York was a city full of people, and that meant it was a city full of raw talent. The catch was, raw talent for hunting monsters of magic was a little hard to find. His first search criteria was "veteran". Spanish War, American Expeditionary Force, he'd even signed on an old coot who claimed to have been a chuck wagoner during the Sioux and Apache wars. Short after that was "desperate" and not street poverty desperation either. Leonard wanted people who still had something left to loose- family men out of work, down on their luck bachelors, men of reasonable education and skill. Last was "willing" and good lord were there plenty of willing boys ready to leave their tenements and fight.
Either way, it was time to start calling up those boys and seeing how many he could get down to the warehouse. Give it a solid day for training and equipping, then they could go hit the Obscura and hopefully bring it down. Sure, the rookies would die like frogs in a blender, but that was just business. When all you had was a fey partner and some dubious connections, you worked with what you had. Better than the War Mages and Huntsmen down in the Southwest and Rockies, though- Leonard might not care for his hires, but he'd be damned three times over if he whipped up a "nigger battalion" to distract a Steam Dragon or plague of Swarm Weasels with.
---
Looking at the fresh-cut set of orders on her desk, Tina looked up at her sister.
"You have to be kidding. They're sending me out to Montpelier, just to find a foreign magical creature specialist?"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Hon, I saw the guy. If I stood next to a slepnir in lace pajamas, he'd go straight for the spider-horse and throw me his coat so I wouldn't freeze."
"I still don't want to deal with this. I hate Vermont, Alex is down in Medical because he ate a face full of shrapnel, and when I get back from Vermont I need to team up with a private monster hunter and his company of barely-licensed mundane hunters to kill or capture this thing! This job sucks!"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Well, we still have a notice out for apprentice heal-witches to sign on with the Fogjumper crews. Pay's good, lots of hot Strike Wizards, see the country, and the best part is we don't have life insurance to void!"
Tina just grumbled quietly as a response, and grabbed her coat. If she hurried, she could get down to the airport and catch a Caster Jenny instead of waiting for a train.
---
The air down at the warehouse on the East Side was jovial, the men eating and joking as they pulled on the familiar and heavy canvas uniforms they'd worn so long ago. In the corner, a handful of dedicated soldiers sat with engraving picks, escribing spellwork into the barrels of their guns and blades of bayonets to better hurt the creature. Grenades had already been gifted with holly and oak, and the trucks had their Army symbols scrubbed off and the voided cross flitchy of a Free Company inscribed in their place. Flags had been replaced with the same symbol, the American origin of the equipment only now signaled with encircled stars on the recievers and the words U.S. ARMY still enshrined on the equipment where a slapdash coat of paint couldn't hide it.
Looking over the near two hundred men he had acquired by hook and crook, Leonard smiled deviously. Scratching up some suitable officers had been tricky, but he still had friends put out of work by the Army downsizing that had happened after the Great War. Old mustangs, collegiate students with a taste for blood and tears, he'd grabbed up everything he could.
"Lion, I've gotten the last of the equipment." Moor said quietly, approaching Leonard's high perch. "We've got fifteen trucks, enough guns for each platoon to have an autorifle and two submachine gun fireteams, and I'm pretty sure there's a flamethrower in there somewhere."
"Well, ditch the flamethrower," Leonard snorted, trying not to laugh. "I don't want to turn New York into Chicago Fire Two. If everyone's up to snuff, we can get rolling soon. How long do we have track on that Obscura?"
"I've got about three days left on the track, and the host keeps moving into a warehouse and tenement district where the Second Salem crowd likes to perch. We're not going to be quiet, and I'd hate for those kids to be friendly fire."
The resultant shrug was not a happy one. "Not like we haven't killed kids before, Moor. Shit happens. If we're lucky, they'll hear the guns and run. If not, we're not going to sink any lower than Cote d'Ivory, now is it?"
Moor's frown was palpable. "Don't compare that to this, Lion. A fuck-up over our pay grade isn't the same as willingly letting kids die."
"You say that like it was a real mistake and not a chance to have the hired help kill off a fly and catch eggs with their face."
"Murray wouldn't do that to us."
"L'Roscoe would."
At that, both went silent. Finally, Leonard offered an olive branch. "Listen, if shit happens, we'll take 'em in. My family's got a soft spot a mile wide for kids, and my brother could always use a few more hands for the farm in Marquette. Even if they take some lead, I can keep them held together long enough to drop them off at St. Aaron's for the real Heal Witches to do their thing."
"Fine. We rolling out tonight?"
"We've got an 'expert' who's supposed to tag along- if he's not here by tomorrow, we bail and hunt the damn thing without him."
(AN: This sucker's been sitting in the wings, and I've been seriously considered restarting this Quest. Let's see how many people catch the alert!)
(AN2: There may be a part two one day)
New York, 1921, Ellis Island
"Next."
Not many Wizards came through Ellis Island. To be fair, not many Wizards came to America any more, though. The heyday of Ars Nordes had come and gone, Dominus College had closed its gates. The upswing in the prestige of the Old World after destroying the Spanish Colonies had nosedived after the "barbarian tactics" used by American War Mages on the Western Front and their refusal to commit regular forces en masse until the final hour. Never mind the complex realities of the situation- the ICW had discovered a new land of politics to play in, and damn the subtleties of a brave new world.
Newt Scomander was not your average wizard. A master of magical beasts and decorated veteran of the portion of the Great War the wizards deigned to acknowledge, he also had the singular disadvantage of being both English and slightly shell-shocked from his time in Serbia and Gallica.
The inspection officer was not amused at the bumbling man fiddling with the locks on his suitcase. He smelled faintly of livestock, almost like a zookeeper. His suitcase checked out for the most part, but that dung scent was pungent. Filthy English slept side-by-side with their livestock, or so he'd read, and loose dung meant disease. The visa papers he carried meant he couldn't get deported, but that didn't mean he couldn't get sent over to the doctor-inspectors.
"Second door on the right, talk to the doctor inside. He'll stamp your papers."
Nodding and making some appropriately gracious sounds, Newt headed for the doctor's office. Inside sat a large black man wearing a set of spectacles and admiring a rather large handsaw. Making a rather loud eep, Newt tried to flee, only to be grabbed by the scruff of his collar and bodily dragged into the room.
"Morning son! Now, what's you in here for!" the doctor exclaimed, shoving a rather long thermometer in his mouth and throwing his suitcase on the bench. Newt tried to mumble an answer around the thermometer, but the glass rod got in the way of his already tripsy tounge.
"Oh, you do that too? Damn, son, never took you for the type! I know how bad those can get, so I'll just be needing to check your case, ok? Anyway, England. Done any good fly-fishing there?"
As the doctor went for the case, Newt bravely intercepted him and spat out the thermometer. "Ahahaha, as you can see I'm perfectly fine…"
"Yeah, son, I know. Might want to try cleaning up, though- hygiene saves lives! Now, just gimme a second to pop this bad boy open while you fill these up for me, ok?"
Catching the pair of two-liter beakers, Newt's eye twitched. "With what!?"
Behind him, a soft voice chuckled. "Paperwork, probably. For starters, let's talk about that unlicensed wand you've got there, and a fourth-dimensional carrying case."
Turning around, Newt looked at a young man lounging against the door in a well-worn suit and with a large canvas duster. "Name's Ben Cork, Mister Scomander. We're fairly used to this sort of thing happening, so if you come with me then his whole mess can be sorted out without too much fuss."
Taking poor Newt by the arm, Ben started leading him to the New York office for the Bureau of Magic. One short boat ride later, and they ended up near Battery Park. From there, it was a bit tricky to get to Trinity Church, where Ben started grinning.
"Now, Mister Scomander, if you don't mind doing me a favor, I'm gonna need to see your wand for a minute. What we're gonna do here might be a little out of the norm for you, so keep your mouth firmly shut, or we're gonna need a taxi to-" and here Ben shuddered, "Bayonne. So whatever you do, stay quiet!"
Moments later, a truck pulled up. Gazing at it in almost-awe, Newt barely noted the brass piping and roaring horn. Paying the driver in some odd, almost-glowing coinage, Ben practically dragged Newt into the back. Inside the thick leather-and-velvet interior, a small radiator chugged along with a coffeepot chirping away. Next to it was a rather pale man, pinez glasses highlighting his beady black eyes.
"Afternoon, Morty." Ben said, smiling. "This here's Mister Scomander, and he's new here. Don't open the windows, please- he's got a weak stomach according to the Doc."
The pale man nodded, and rang forward. As the truck began to take off, Ben sighed and poured two cups of the hot, black coffee.
"You take cream or sugar, Mr. Scomander?"
Newt shrugged. "Never tried good coffee before. I'll try it black to start, I think."
"Black it is, then. Out of curiosity, why you over here? Haven't seen a wizard in New York City from the Continent since Romanov's mages settled down here after the White Princes got married."
"I'm here for a specimen- this is where the best breeder of grafflesnarks lives according to the last ICW publishing."
Ben rolled his eyes, and took a long slug of coffee. "Are you on the level? Last ICW on magical creature breeders was from before the Great War, and even then they just copied the data they used for North America from the 1885 edition. It's no matter- we can sell you a copy of the 1923 edition while we dig up a copy of the 'exportation of magical creature' paperwork. God, I hope we still have copies of it from '23: the print shop would murder us if they found out we wanted them to run off more of that mess!"
Newt nodded along, quietly drinking his coffee and frowning. Ben was being awful friendly, and he certainly never expected this warm a welcome.
That feeling of arm welcome died a horrible death when Newt was almost thrown out of the truck at the next stop and told to follow Ben. It was cold, wet, almost marshy now. Since when had one of the biggest cities in the world been marshy? It was almost as absurd as the thought of London having an open sewer! The cold abruptly ended though, as the pair got into a horse-drawn carriage driven by a gaunt-looking fellow in a tricorne. Who even wore tricorns anymore?
"Morty, I'm afraid we're going to need to pick it up a little!" Ben called, grinning. "Never expected a Brit to have trouble with the cold!"
"Why in God's green earth are we even doing this?" Newt asked, frowning. "Couldn't you just, oh, wallop an extradimensional space in one of your skyscrapers or something?"
"Sure we could." Ben replied, laughing. "Thing is, that makes it vulnerable. First American Bureau of Magic was in Washington DC from 1789 to 1814. Any idea why I say first and was?"
"No."
"Pretty simple, really. When the White House got torched, the extradimensional anchors and anti-interference warding systems cooked off, and three hundred wizards plus five hundred refugees got turned into a magical smear on the inside of the Never-never. Nowadays, all Regional Commands and major depots need to be either fully mundane or fully magical; and the fully magical ones are wrapped in cotton wool and so deeply that if shit happens they can re-materialize out in Area 49 through 60 out west."
Newt just shuddered at the figures presented. Three hundred wizards, gone? That was an entire class at Hogwarts, if not two or three!
"How… How did things recover from that?" he asked, a morbid curiosity filling him.
"Couple of things, really. Edict of Restoration, First Accords escalator clause, couple of magical knock-ons from the Monroe Doctrine nobody ever saw coming, those sorts of things. Best think happy thoughts, now- we keep this up, Morty might make a pit stop somewhere."
Wisely letting the discussion die off, Newt waited for them to change taxis again, this new one being a long, sleek coup- once again driven by a man in black with fingers too thin and skin too clear. Things stayed silent until they arrived at a tower, and Ben started to grin.
"Welcome to New York Headquarters!"
As the duo walked through the hall, Newt gasped. Dancing fairy-lights lit the massive atrium, a giant ash standing proud in the center of the room. On each of the room's walls, giant clocks hung to tell the time across the spanning continent. Stairs crisscrossed the room, curling wrought iron brought to a sheen with brass inlays catching the fey-light and throwing it about with abandon. Birds and squirrels rested in the tree, only to jump from the tallest limbs into the grounds holding the roots and disappear into the world below them where the roots sat. Pine wood lined the room's walls, and frosted glass let the sun show his face to the room.
Passing under one of the arches, Ben lead Newt into one of the office areas, a cozy collection of brick and masonry that oozed a homely air. A few minutes at a clerk's desk, and Ben left Newt at a desk with a pair of ink pens and a literal ream of paperwork. As a parting gift, Ben had even left a card with a destination for a hotel- the White Rose Hotel, down in a better part of town with "reasonable rates" and a nine-by-five card with instructions not to leave until everything was done and if he had to come back for any reason at all to just ask at a Post Office for the Bureau of Cartography and Mapmaking. They'd give him a ride next time they'd deliver the post, apparently.
----
Looking out over the Second Salemers meeting, Tina felt her lip pull into a snarl. Anti-magic propaganda? Distasteful, but acceptable. Using poor orphans to distribute it? Unethical as all hell, but acceptable. Refusing to feed said orphans and beating them when they failed to meet quota? Yeah, that flew over the line at five feet and five hundred knots.
"Remind me again, why can't we just nail these guys on child abuse and criminal negligence?"
Her partner, Alexander Proschuto, just grunted. "Because we're not Strike Wizards, and the boys in the Calamity Department only have three-ish guys who are willing to say that these asshats might have something to do with it."
"Still want to sick some no-maj police on them."
Shaking his head, Alex dope-slapped Tina a good one. "If I told you once, I told you a thousand times; don't say that shit when we're working! First Accords, seventh clause- no distinction shall be made by any member of any race on another regarding the disposition of magical talent and ability! Remember the Changling epidemic the ICW tried to hang on us after we sent Heal Witches out to handle the Spanish Flu?"
Tina winced. That had been a bad business, and she'd been an ambulance medic for the AEF. Most Changlings targeted poor mundane families these days, who didn't have a response. After the Great War, though, they tried their luck on the English and French mages- who had forgotten their house wardings for years as they handled the war and politics.
"Alright, so why aren't we calling in the mundane police?"
"Can't, unfortunately. Right now, there's been a bad rash of Fagin runners on East Side and in Harlem, so there's a back-room order that anything keeping the street kids from looking at stealing is bulletproof."
"Damn."
---
Looking at the mess of a destroyed building, Leonard Graves shivered and ran a hand through his hair. A six-story tenement house, destroyed in a fit of magical rage overnight, the perpetrator gone without a trace.
"We got a fix on that magic yet, Moor?"
Down in the back, a green-skinned fey growled and smacked his dowsing rod on the stones.
"Ain't got shit, Lion. Whyinthehell they wanted us here is a mystery- I mean, we're still supposed to be playing find-the-relic in Belgium while some idiot accuses us of being a war crime brigade or somesuch. Just because we occasionally need to gas a few idiot wood-fairies with phosgene 'cause they won't behave…"
Rolling his eyes, Leonard poked the remains of a stair while his partner kept rambling about the bad old days.
"… Not like we didn't tell them when we got hired on that sometimes we would need to kill a few things to get this shit back! I am so glad Dad decided to take the clan here back in the sixteens- can't imagine living in the hellhole that's Paris now. Just because a fellow can sleep for a few years in a go doesn't mean he's part one of the nobs and you can cut off his head!"
"Thought you didn't like your grand-uncle's side of the family, Moor?"
"I didn't, but they didn't deserve to get dragged out of bed just to get shot in the back and beheaded! They even buried 'em in consecrated ground! Do you have any idea how much the survivors bitch about it?"
Moors Vallenheimer-Ossicate may have been going on two hundred with a proud lineage that had offshoots with Charlemange, Genghis Khan, Mary the Queen of Scots, Rollo, Frederick Barbarossa, and Emperor Meji, but he'd be damned if he'd act like it. Ever since he'd chosen to leave the family business ("not enough good-looking princesses these days. Why'd the Hapsburg's go to shit, anyway?") of seducing mundane leaders and stealing as many odd items as they could to turn into magical doohickies. As far as family buisnesses went for the fey, it was harmless, turned a profit, and very taxable.
"C'mon, man, we're on the clock here. Quit whining about the good old days, and start cranking out the Tinkerbell sparkles before someone whines."
Frowning, Moor rubbed his dowsing stick. "I'm dead serious, here. All I'm picking up is that whatever did this is native, half-starved, and this is the result of untrained potential violently abused. I can say, though, this isn't a construct, trained spell, or instinct magic. It's just… a wall, blanketing rage. Lion, whatever this is, we can't afford to try and fight it alone."
Leonard had to smile at that. "So, what if we had some help then? I've still got some friends, and you can sweet-talk us some gear."
"I am not turning into a chick again."
Leonard sighed, and rubbed his face. "One, I promise not to try and pick you up in a bar again. Two, I'll cut you in for a hundred dollars extra in bonds. Three, I'll let you see Grandmere's old musket."
Moor's eyes widened. "You're serious? Grandmere Hasnakevo's musket that shot the Frost Angel and Satkuneuva?"
"Yes, Moor, I'm serious. We're gonna want enough kit for about, oh, one light machine gun company. BARs, Thompsons, Springfields, rifle grenades- the works. We're not fighting some pixie pack or stray hoop dragon now. Time to ready ourselves for the big game."
---
As a new day dawned, Newt rubbed the back of his head gently. Last night hadn't been much of a night- after begging a cup of coffee from a stewardess, he'd gotten to work on the paperwork for his magical creatures. He would have run out on the majority of it, if the stewardess hadn't offhandedly mentioned the fact that 'innocent until proven guilty' didn't mean his creatures couldn't get impounded. Considering that the man three meters down the bench was plugging away at the quintuplet paperwork for release of a wand for the third day running, Newt decided to play it safe and do all the paperwork.
Even considering how banged up his wrist was the next day, he considered it worth the work. Now, all he had to do was go out and get breakfast from somewhere that wasn't this… dive… of a hotel.
Passing through the dingy shops and cramped tenement apartments, Newt winced visibly when he saw a tall banner proclaiming the Second Salem group as their speaker stumped against the 'known magical elements' out there. The fact that someone was speaking out against wizards, of all people, was morbidly fascinating to Newt- back home, this would be quietly squashed by one of the larger family's brute squads of 'household servants' with a resume including jail time and suspended sentences. As fascinating as it was, though, breakfast was calling his name rather loudly. After that, it would be a train ride to Vermont to speak to a man about purchasing that grafflesnark breeding pair and looking into a trip to Arizona. Would it be worth it to take a sleeper car, or would a regular seat work well enough?
----
It was late at night when the good Senator Shaw's re-election dinner started. The Shaws, a family of newsies and industrialists, came to the governmental table with cash and connections. The eldest son of that family had used all of it in a push to grab his Congressional position, and his edge up in re-election was as narrow as it got.
"I still can't believe we're here watching this asshat stump speech." Tina grumped at Alex.
"Shutup, newblood." He replied, almost in a good humor. "This ain't so bad- if the city wants this guy wrapped up in cotton wool, then we smile and make with the fluffies. You want to go back to the office and file permits or something?"
"No, and you know what I mean. Why would the city ask us, wizards, to cover him when he's been talked to by the Second Salemers of all people?"
Alex just held his head in his hands. "Now I know why the tried to bust you out of cop school. Listen, just remember they said no to the Salem, and if they can magic their way out of a wet paper back I'll write out the hit papers myself and you can drive the party van, ok?"
"Alright, Alex. Hey, are the lights going funny to you?"
As Tina spoke, the lights flickered and started to die. The microphone on the stage went too, as the air temperature started to drop. This was all fairly normal for a New York winter- right until the black wind started blowing.
"Tina, get in there and link up with the bodyguards! I'll slow it- God Damns!"
As Alex's decleration of intent was stopped by the wall exploding, his and Tina's wands went out. Both of them were certified mage-fighters, trained extensively to handle civil disturbances of magic.
The Obscura ex Nihilo Tempestas was not civil. It was a storm, lightning flashing and debris whirling inside it. Tables were grabbed and flipped, curtains torn and slashed, people thrown like ninepins. Forbidden alcohol went through the air, flasks and glasses tumbling and striking the remains of the room. The creature had only one target- Senator Shaw.
The mess of spells slung at the Obscura ex Nihilo Tempesta didn't even wind the beast. It was like smoke in the air, a whirling dervish intent on destruction. Shaw's Wizarding bodyguard tried to stand it down, but he was knocked away with a fist of debris. Shaw himself was treated like a child's doll that displeased the owner- he was brought up, and slammed down into the stage. The broken remains were deposited there, that not stained by blood or broken by bone tainted with black spiderwebs- a sign of magic of the dark.
---
Leonard was a not a morning person. He got up at eight, made his coffee and eggs, and propped open a newspaper while he ate. Normally, he'd be in his work truck by nine after making sure Moor hadn't accidently put on a dress or forgot to sleep or somesuch and technically working till six or seven or eight or so.
So, when Moor called at half-past-five in the morning about the ludicrous bounty on the head of an Obscura, Leonard was pissed. Ten thousand dollars in wizarding bonds or Reichsgeld was not exactly worth a wake-up in the middle of his sleep time. The fact that Moore had gotten the gear and a sound fix on the damn Obscura, though- that was worth it.
Last night at the bars, Leonard had been hard at work. New York was a city full of people, and that meant it was a city full of raw talent. The catch was, raw talent for hunting monsters of magic was a little hard to find. His first search criteria was "veteran". Spanish War, American Expeditionary Force, he'd even signed on an old coot who claimed to have been a chuck wagoner during the Sioux and Apache wars. Short after that was "desperate" and not street poverty desperation either. Leonard wanted people who still had something left to loose- family men out of work, down on their luck bachelors, men of reasonable education and skill. Last was "willing" and good lord were there plenty of willing boys ready to leave their tenements and fight.
Either way, it was time to start calling up those boys and seeing how many he could get down to the warehouse. Give it a solid day for training and equipping, then they could go hit the Obscura and hopefully bring it down. Sure, the rookies would die like frogs in a blender, but that was just business. When all you had was a fey partner and some dubious connections, you worked with what you had. Better than the War Mages and Huntsmen down in the Southwest and Rockies, though- Leonard might not care for his hires, but he'd be damned three times over if he whipped up a "nigger battalion" to distract a Steam Dragon or plague of Swarm Weasels with.
---
Looking at the fresh-cut set of orders on her desk, Tina looked up at her sister.
"You have to be kidding. They're sending me out to Montpelier, just to find a foreign magical creature specialist?"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Hon, I saw the guy. If I stood next to a slepnir in lace pajamas, he'd go straight for the spider-horse and throw me his coat so I wouldn't freeze."
"I still don't want to deal with this. I hate Vermont, Alex is down in Medical because he ate a face full of shrapnel, and when I get back from Vermont I need to team up with a private monster hunter and his company of barely-licensed mundane hunters to kill or capture this thing! This job sucks!"
Lou-Ann just shrugged. "Well, we still have a notice out for apprentice heal-witches to sign on with the Fogjumper crews. Pay's good, lots of hot Strike Wizards, see the country, and the best part is we don't have life insurance to void!"
Tina just grumbled quietly as a response, and grabbed her coat. If she hurried, she could get down to the airport and catch a Caster Jenny instead of waiting for a train.
---
The air down at the warehouse on the East Side was jovial, the men eating and joking as they pulled on the familiar and heavy canvas uniforms they'd worn so long ago. In the corner, a handful of dedicated soldiers sat with engraving picks, escribing spellwork into the barrels of their guns and blades of bayonets to better hurt the creature. Grenades had already been gifted with holly and oak, and the trucks had their Army symbols scrubbed off and the voided cross flitchy of a Free Company inscribed in their place. Flags had been replaced with the same symbol, the American origin of the equipment only now signaled with encircled stars on the recievers and the words U.S. ARMY still enshrined on the equipment where a slapdash coat of paint couldn't hide it.
Looking over the near two hundred men he had acquired by hook and crook, Leonard smiled deviously. Scratching up some suitable officers had been tricky, but he still had friends put out of work by the Army downsizing that had happened after the Great War. Old mustangs, collegiate students with a taste for blood and tears, he'd grabbed up everything he could.
"Lion, I've gotten the last of the equipment." Moor said quietly, approaching Leonard's high perch. "We've got fifteen trucks, enough guns for each platoon to have an autorifle and two submachine gun fireteams, and I'm pretty sure there's a flamethrower in there somewhere."
"Well, ditch the flamethrower," Leonard snorted, trying not to laugh. "I don't want to turn New York into Chicago Fire Two. If everyone's up to snuff, we can get rolling soon. How long do we have track on that Obscura?"
"I've got about three days left on the track, and the host keeps moving into a warehouse and tenement district where the Second Salem crowd likes to perch. We're not going to be quiet, and I'd hate for those kids to be friendly fire."
The resultant shrug was not a happy one. "Not like we haven't killed kids before, Moor. Shit happens. If we're lucky, they'll hear the guns and run. If not, we're not going to sink any lower than Cote d'Ivory, now is it?"
Moor's frown was palpable. "Don't compare that to this, Lion. A fuck-up over our pay grade isn't the same as willingly letting kids die."
"You say that like it was a real mistake and not a chance to have the hired help kill off a fly and catch eggs with their face."
"Murray wouldn't do that to us."
"L'Roscoe would."
At that, both went silent. Finally, Leonard offered an olive branch. "Listen, if shit happens, we'll take 'em in. My family's got a soft spot a mile wide for kids, and my brother could always use a few more hands for the farm in Marquette. Even if they take some lead, I can keep them held together long enough to drop them off at St. Aaron's for the real Heal Witches to do their thing."
"Fine. We rolling out tonight?"
"We've got an 'expert' who's supposed to tag along- if he's not here by tomorrow, we bail and hunt the damn thing without him."
(AN: This sucker's been sitting in the wings, and I've been seriously considered restarting this Quest. Let's see how many people catch the alert!)
(AN2: There may be a part two one day)
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
I'm glad to be writing it. My job for the longest time didn't have Internet, and shortly after they got internet I got a silver bullet of on the job injuries- not enough to get me off work, enough to take all my free time treating it.
Allies Of Convenience (August 11, 1980)
7734
Trust and verify.
- Location
- Philmont
(WE ARE BACK IN ACTION! To get back into the feel of the story and the reboot timeskip, have a few updates of the first meeting between James and the Fire Chicken Complaint Society Order of the Phoenix.)
James Greaves
Outside your office, chaos reigned. Secretaries and gophers ran hither and yon, paper and typewriters clicked and clacked, and the AC units were at full blast all day.
Inside your office, you really didn't care. You had your coffee, you had your very nice typewriter, and you hadn't had a catastrophe in weeks. It was relaxing, just being able to know Everything Was Handled. Too relaxing, to be blunt. You'd been sitting in this chair for just over eight years, and you knew that when things were calm, Shit would hit The Fan at some appreciable fraction of the speed of light. First it had been the Werewolves. Then it had been the Refugee Crisis. Then it had been the Cult of the Yellow Sign. Then it was the Refugee Crisis Round Two. After that, Blackstone had accidentally gotten made into a Kami, whatever that was. More misadventures and events happened, you got married, the kids all got into Hogwarts and Sorted, you'd taught them each new, better spells, you ended up getting poor Catherine knocked up (you were happy it was post-marriage) Copperfield had taken up an interest in flying and you didn't say no…
Well, you lived in interesting times.
Speaking of which, you had that Order of the Phoenix meeting you had to go to because Susan had finally outed you as Somebody with Influence. As much as you liked sitting back in the shadows, your assorted Strike Elements had been getting really tired of not being flashy. Especially the Strike Witches Blackstone had been training. Lord have mercy, those girls were bloodthirsty. You couldn't really blame them- after the whole Incubator Infestation thing, they had been really pokey.
Either way, it was time to get ready and gather your honor guard.
---
Blackstone Greaves
"Alright girls, listen up!" you yelled, the Japanese flipping off your tongue without thinking. "One platoon per truck, we're taking four trucks! Artillery platoons, full war loads; everyone else grab Marching Order only! I need one Artillery, one Mage, and two Rifle units to mount up; and two more Mage on standby with the choppers!"
Mutters of 'hai' and 'desu' went around the staging area, the girls pulling on the heavy armored coats they wore in battle. Girls was a little bit of a misnomer, now- the Mahou Shoujo were sixteen at the absolute youngest, with more than a few pushing or past twenty. You'd made inqueries through Dad once upon a time, and to the Home Islands this entire operation was filled with personas non grata- the leftovers and tailings of those who they really didn't want or need. It was implied heavily and presumed often they weren't wanted back, and nothing you'd done implied you were willing to let them go.
Eighty foreign nationals armed to the teethe might not exactly be the most diplomatic thing to bring to a delicate negotiation, but this was England. Hell, if someone asked too many questions, you could just claim they were relatives of Gurkhas or something. They did the "little girl with a faaaar too big knife" thing well enough, and not many people could tell different Asian languages apart.
"Blackstone-dono, the trucks are loaded." Akatsuki said, smiling at you. She was your right-hand woman for these things, and her fast eyes had done you a load of good over the years.
"Alright!" you called, going over to your motorcycle. "Bike platoon, you're on escort! Let's get this show on the road!"
---
Susan Greaves
Looking over the forty-odd students gathered together in the old Potter family cottage, you raised an eye at James archly.
"You know, when I said 'bring the Pheonix Leaders, I didn't expect you to bring the whole freaking Order's junior branch."
James snorted. "You said, 'bring the leaders' and I brought the leaders. Then they brought their friends, backup, etcetera. Not my fault."
Sighing, you just leaned back on the wall of the cottage, feeling the stone shift under your mass. Not many girls liked hearing their weight, but for you to pack three hundred and twenty five pounds of heavily enchanted musclecultrure and equipment into a frame that topped out at five-four was damn impressive. You'd forgone the traditional robes, going for your own gift from Blackstone for this mission- a set of Mahou armor, modified to fit your massive arsenal. A full third of your weight was tied up in armor and equipment, and you could use every bit from the mage-sabre to the cut down AKM in your backplate where the Wizards couldn't see it.
"Remind me again, why you're dressed to kill?" Sirius flirted, looking over your very visible sword hilt and double wands. He had been a bit of a brawler for years, and your Dueling Club experience meant you were one of the few people to be able to keep up with him at all. Needless to say, he hit on you constantly, and in return you'd just hit him when you got tired of it.
"Because I really don't want to see a smiling man in swastikas come breaking down the door?" you replied, groaning. "Seriously, the Werewolves would be all over us like white on rice if they could smell the magic you guys are leaving around."
As Lupus winced, you shot him a Look. "You know and I know exactly what I'm not talking about."
"I know, I know." He replied, sighing. "Still hard to make the connection."
Before you could answer, your radio crackled. "Phoenix Base, this is Prometheus Flight, come in Phoenix Base."
"This is Phoenix Base, come in Prometheus." You replied, grinning. "ETA on diplo team arrival? Over."
"Prometheus to Phoenix, two minutes. Advanced warning, Dad got talked into a fairly hefty guard detail by Blackstone. Any of your guys running wards? Over."
James shook his head 'no'. "Phoenix to Prometheus, no known wards. Good to know you're up there, Copperfield. Over."
"Prometheus to Phoenix, they couldn't keep me away. Good luck with Dad and Molly, tell 'em I'm on orbit. Prometheus out."
Smiling, you looked at James. "You ready?"
"When are the Marauders not?" he chuckled.
---
Molly Greaves
Stepping out of the car, you stretched and smiled as you felt your limbs uncurl. There was always something satisfying about it, no matter how many times you did it. In front of you, the cottage was a hazy outline, some old, passive magic trying to keep it hidden.
"Razgriz," you murmured, feeling the raw magic pool in your hands before you scooped out a path, tugging and twisting a tunnel into the very nice old ward. It was soft, comfy like your blanket. Good working, it was.
Moving forward, you pulsed magic at each step, letting yourself feel the world. The area was clear, the skies held your kin, and the forests were clear. Pulling back the magic to inside your skin, you smiled as Dad stepped out and made his way to the home. Following him, you felt the Mahou Shoujo spread out, encamping themselves with rapid efficiency as magical cover was emplaced, then physical barriers like the 'portable foxhole' and their Czech hedgehogs. You didn't quite know or care how either worked, but it was enough for you to know your brother's friends were safe.
Inside, you felt the latent hostility of the crowd, and sighed. This was going to be a difficult negotiation.
VOTES
Approach to Negotiations
[]- Stereotypical American (Gun on the left, sandwich on the right)
[]- Middle Road (I've heard we have similar interests...)
[]- Continental Style (Set speech style to "Baguette")
Defense Posture
[]- Thunderdome (Nobody enters or leaves till our guy comes out)
[]- Reasonable (Keep watch, confirm fire orders)
[]- Hair Trigger (Thar be Cultists in dem hills)
(As usual, pick one from both options. Please ask questions if you need to.)
(EDIT: I have five likes and no votes. I'd rather have no likes and five votes. Participation keeps the material coming, so please participate.)
James Greaves
Outside your office, chaos reigned. Secretaries and gophers ran hither and yon, paper and typewriters clicked and clacked, and the AC units were at full blast all day.
Inside your office, you really didn't care. You had your coffee, you had your very nice typewriter, and you hadn't had a catastrophe in weeks. It was relaxing, just being able to know Everything Was Handled. Too relaxing, to be blunt. You'd been sitting in this chair for just over eight years, and you knew that when things were calm, Shit would hit The Fan at some appreciable fraction of the speed of light. First it had been the Werewolves. Then it had been the Refugee Crisis. Then it had been the Cult of the Yellow Sign. Then it was the Refugee Crisis Round Two. After that, Blackstone had accidentally gotten made into a Kami, whatever that was. More misadventures and events happened, you got married, the kids all got into Hogwarts and Sorted, you'd taught them each new, better spells, you ended up getting poor Catherine knocked up (you were happy it was post-marriage) Copperfield had taken up an interest in flying and you didn't say no…
Well, you lived in interesting times.
Speaking of which, you had that Order of the Phoenix meeting you had to go to because Susan had finally outed you as Somebody with Influence. As much as you liked sitting back in the shadows, your assorted Strike Elements had been getting really tired of not being flashy. Especially the Strike Witches Blackstone had been training. Lord have mercy, those girls were bloodthirsty. You couldn't really blame them- after the whole Incubator Infestation thing, they had been really pokey.
Either way, it was time to get ready and gather your honor guard.
---
Blackstone Greaves
"Alright girls, listen up!" you yelled, the Japanese flipping off your tongue without thinking. "One platoon per truck, we're taking four trucks! Artillery platoons, full war loads; everyone else grab Marching Order only! I need one Artillery, one Mage, and two Rifle units to mount up; and two more Mage on standby with the choppers!"
Mutters of 'hai' and 'desu' went around the staging area, the girls pulling on the heavy armored coats they wore in battle. Girls was a little bit of a misnomer, now- the Mahou Shoujo were sixteen at the absolute youngest, with more than a few pushing or past twenty. You'd made inqueries through Dad once upon a time, and to the Home Islands this entire operation was filled with personas non grata- the leftovers and tailings of those who they really didn't want or need. It was implied heavily and presumed often they weren't wanted back, and nothing you'd done implied you were willing to let them go.
Eighty foreign nationals armed to the teethe might not exactly be the most diplomatic thing to bring to a delicate negotiation, but this was England. Hell, if someone asked too many questions, you could just claim they were relatives of Gurkhas or something. They did the "little girl with a faaaar too big knife" thing well enough, and not many people could tell different Asian languages apart.
"Blackstone-dono, the trucks are loaded." Akatsuki said, smiling at you. She was your right-hand woman for these things, and her fast eyes had done you a load of good over the years.
"Alright!" you called, going over to your motorcycle. "Bike platoon, you're on escort! Let's get this show on the road!"
---
Susan Greaves
Looking over the forty-odd students gathered together in the old Potter family cottage, you raised an eye at James archly.
"You know, when I said 'bring the Pheonix Leaders, I didn't expect you to bring the whole freaking Order's junior branch."
James snorted. "You said, 'bring the leaders' and I brought the leaders. Then they brought their friends, backup, etcetera. Not my fault."
Sighing, you just leaned back on the wall of the cottage, feeling the stone shift under your mass. Not many girls liked hearing their weight, but for you to pack three hundred and twenty five pounds of heavily enchanted musclecultrure and equipment into a frame that topped out at five-four was damn impressive. You'd forgone the traditional robes, going for your own gift from Blackstone for this mission- a set of Mahou armor, modified to fit your massive arsenal. A full third of your weight was tied up in armor and equipment, and you could use every bit from the mage-sabre to the cut down AKM in your backplate where the Wizards couldn't see it.
"Remind me again, why you're dressed to kill?" Sirius flirted, looking over your very visible sword hilt and double wands. He had been a bit of a brawler for years, and your Dueling Club experience meant you were one of the few people to be able to keep up with him at all. Needless to say, he hit on you constantly, and in return you'd just hit him when you got tired of it.
"Because I really don't want to see a smiling man in swastikas come breaking down the door?" you replied, groaning. "Seriously, the Werewolves would be all over us like white on rice if they could smell the magic you guys are leaving around."
As Lupus winced, you shot him a Look. "You know and I know exactly what I'm not talking about."
"I know, I know." He replied, sighing. "Still hard to make the connection."
Before you could answer, your radio crackled. "Phoenix Base, this is Prometheus Flight, come in Phoenix Base."
"This is Phoenix Base, come in Prometheus." You replied, grinning. "ETA on diplo team arrival? Over."
"Prometheus to Phoenix, two minutes. Advanced warning, Dad got talked into a fairly hefty guard detail by Blackstone. Any of your guys running wards? Over."
James shook his head 'no'. "Phoenix to Prometheus, no known wards. Good to know you're up there, Copperfield. Over."
"Prometheus to Phoenix, they couldn't keep me away. Good luck with Dad and Molly, tell 'em I'm on orbit. Prometheus out."
Smiling, you looked at James. "You ready?"
"When are the Marauders not?" he chuckled.
---
Molly Greaves
Stepping out of the car, you stretched and smiled as you felt your limbs uncurl. There was always something satisfying about it, no matter how many times you did it. In front of you, the cottage was a hazy outline, some old, passive magic trying to keep it hidden.
"Razgriz," you murmured, feeling the raw magic pool in your hands before you scooped out a path, tugging and twisting a tunnel into the very nice old ward. It was soft, comfy like your blanket. Good working, it was.
Moving forward, you pulsed magic at each step, letting yourself feel the world. The area was clear, the skies held your kin, and the forests were clear. Pulling back the magic to inside your skin, you smiled as Dad stepped out and made his way to the home. Following him, you felt the Mahou Shoujo spread out, encamping themselves with rapid efficiency as magical cover was emplaced, then physical barriers like the 'portable foxhole' and their Czech hedgehogs. You didn't quite know or care how either worked, but it was enough for you to know your brother's friends were safe.
Inside, you felt the latent hostility of the crowd, and sighed. This was going to be a difficult negotiation.
VOTES
Approach to Negotiations
[]- Stereotypical American (Gun on the left, sandwich on the right)
[]- Middle Road (I've heard we have similar interests...)
[]- Continental Style (Set speech style to "Baguette")
Defense Posture
[]- Thunderdome (Nobody enters or leaves till our guy comes out)
[]- Reasonable (Keep watch, confirm fire orders)
[]- Hair Trigger (Thar be Cultists in dem hills)
(As usual, pick one from both options. Please ask questions if you need to.)
(EDIT: I have five likes and no votes. I'd rather have no likes and five votes. Participation keeps the material coming, so please participate.)
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