[X] Drop by Black Rider, you could do with a bead on Katrina
-[X] Ask Harry to take a glimpse at Black Rider using his Sight in hopes of learning who or what was Katrina's passenger on the way to the tattoo parlor, along with any other insights he might be able to glean from it.
For her part Lydia seems to glow in the darkness, not with a light that the eye can see, but clear in the mind just the same, more clear, more real than the forms and sounds of the passing dark.
From the way he keeps looking at her, you suspect Harry feels it too, though maybe not the same way.
Hmm.
Good chance that Lydia is likely to become a god of death with time, regardless of what happens here.
Which makes for a good secondary argument to present Mab with, actually.
When you get out of the bath an hour later it is to the sight of Harry balancing a an old mood ring of all things tied with a strand of Cindy's hair above a map of the city... pointing right at the museum.
If I had a penny for how every time a necromancer tried to pull shit in Chicago, I'd have two pennies.
Last time it was the Fields Museum and Sue. Now its the Museum of Science and a submarine.
Molly is killing her rolls. So is Harry, actually.
Time to go.
VOTE [X] You have your lead, go to the museum at once
-[X]Have Black Rider meet us near/outside the museum
REASONS
Its night enough for Lydia to glow? Its night enough for Black Rider to drive without the lack of a driver drawing attention.
If it gets there before us, we can grab hair for tracking Kattrin. If it doesnt get there before us, we go in immediately anf keep it in reserve for use as a cruise missile to run over people or any zombies that might be raised outside the Museum.
Note: If Harry gets his hands on Kattrin's hair, in addition to tracking her, he can do horrible, horrible things to her that bypass her normal shields unless she is prepared for it. See how Cassius used his blood to throw an entropy curse at him from across the city in Death Masks. Or how he nonlethally blinded, deafened and crippled the loup garou in Fool Moon.
REASONS
Its night enough for Lydia to glow? Its night enough for Black Rider to drive without the lack of a driver drawing attention.
If it gets there before us, we can grab hair for tracking Kattrin. If it doesnt get there before us, we go in immediately anf keep it in reserve for use as a cruise missile to run over people or any zombies that might be raised outside the Museum.
Note: If Harry gets his hands on Kattrin's hair, in addition to tracking her, he can do horrible, horrible things to her that bypass her normal shields unless she is prepared for it. See how Cassius used his blood to throw an entropy curse at him from across the city in Death Masks. Or how he nonlethally blinded, deafened and crippled the loup garou in Fool Moon.
It should be noted though hair and blood are not equivalents when it comes to sympathetic magic, one is dead cells that fall out relatively easily and the other is the essence of life and the mark of death at the same time.
It should be noted though hair and blood are not equivalents when it comes to sympathetic magic, one is dead cells that fall out relatively easily and the other is the essence of life and the mark of death at the same time.
In the book canon they are close enough as to make no difference.
Storm Front chapter 16:
My thoughts were on that topic and similar issues of doom and gloom when a man with a hat pulled low over his face began to walk past me, stopped halfway, then turned and drove his fist into my belly.
I had time to think, Not again, and then he struck me a second, and third time. Each blow drove into my guts, thrust me back against the unyielding wall, made me sick. My breath flew out of my mouth in a little, strangling gasp, and even if I'd had a spell already in mind, I wouldn't have had the breath to speak it.
I sort of sagged when he stopped hitting me, and he threw me to the ground. We were at a well-lit gas station, just before midnight on a Friday night, and anything he did was in full view of any cars going by. Surely, God, he didn't plan on killing me. Though at the moment, I was too tired and achy to care.
I lay there for a moment, dazed. I could smell my attacker's sweat and cologne. I could tell it was the same person who had jumped me the night before. He grabbed my hair, jerked my head up, and, with an audible snip of steel scissors, cut off a big lock of my hair. Then let me go.
My blood went cold. My hair. The man had cut off my hair. It could be used in almost any kind of magic, any kind of deadly spell, and there wouldn't be a damned thing I could do to stop it.
The man turned away, walking quickly, but not running. In a flood of panic and desperation, I leapt at his leg, got him around the knee, and yanked hard. I heard a distinctive little pop, and then the man screamed, "Son of a bitch!" and fell heavily to earth. One fist, one very large and knob-knuckled fist, was clutched around my hair. I tried to suck in a breath, and leapt for that hand.
My attacker's hat had fallen off, and I recognized him—one of Johnny Marcone's men who had followed me from the hotel on Thursday afternoon, the one who had begun limping after jogging after me for several blocks. Apparently, Gimpy had a trick knee, and I had just made it jump through its hoop.
Its an explicit plot point in the very first book that Victor Sells hired one of Marcone's goons, Gimpy Lawrence, to jump Dresden and get his hair so he could target him with the storm-powered death spell.
Its also why Dresden refused to trim his hair in Cold Days when he was in Winter:
Back in my room, I found my clothes waiting for me: a tux in dark silver and pearl. The first of two small paper envelopes proved to contain a pair of jeweled cuff links, the stones too blue and too brilliant to be sapphires.
The other one held my mother's amulet.
It was a simple silver pentacle, a battered five-pointed star bound within a circle, on a simple silver chain. The pentacle's center was filled with a small red stone, cut to size. I'd once fastened the gem into place with hot glue. Apparently Mab had sent it to a genuine jeweler to attach it with something more solid. I touched the stone gingerly, and could instantly sense the energy within it, the psychic journal of my late mother's travels.
I slipped the amulet on over my head and felt a sudden and profound sense of relief. I had thought it lost when my bullet-riddled self had fallen into the waters of Lake Michigan. I stood there with my hand over it for a moment, just feeling the cool metal press against my palm.
Then I got dressed in the tux and examined myself in a mirror the size of a pool table.
"Just a gigolo," I sang, off-key, trying to enjoy myself. "Everywhere I go, people know the part I'm playing."
The guy looking at me out of the mirror looked raw and hard. My cheekbones stood out starkly. I'd lost a lot of weight while I was in what amounted to a coma, and my rehabilitation had added only lean muscle back onto me. You could see veins tight against my skin. My brown hair hung down past my jawline, clean but shaggy. I hadn't cut it or asked for a barber. Things that know magic can do awful stuff to you if they get hold of a lock of your hair, so I'd decided to hang on to mine. I'd ditched the beard, though. Beards grow out so fast that if you shave every day, there isn't much of a window for anyone to use them against you—and shaved stubble is too diffuse to make a decent channel anyway.
There are ways to mitigate it.
Binder in Turn Coat is an experienced merc, and after Murphy took his hair in police investigations, he shaved his head to the scalp, then jumped in some running water to break the link
Murphy grunted with nigh-masculine skill.
A couple of minutes later, the phone rang, and Murphy answered it. She passed it to me.
"Your guy's a nut," Vince said.
"I know that," I told him. "What's he doing?"
"Took a cab to a motel on the highway north of town," Vince said. "Stopped at a convenience store on the way. Then he goes to his room, shaves himself bald, comes out in his skivvies, and jumps in the damn river. Goes back inside, takes a shower—"
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I broke into his room while he was doing it," Vince said. "Maybe you could save your questions until the end of the presentation."
"Hard to imagine you not fitting in with the cops," I said.
Vince ignored the comment. "He takes a shower and calls another cab."
"Tell me you followed the cab," I said.
"Tell me your check cleared."
"I'm good for it."
"Yeah, I'm following the cab right now," Vince said. "But I don't need to. He's headed for the Hotel Sax."
"Who are you, the Amazing Kreskin?"
"Listened in on the cabbie's CB," he said. "ETA, eighteen minutes."
"Eighteen?" I asked.
"Usually found between seventeen and nineteen," he said. "I can't guarantee I can stay on him at the hotel, especially if he tumbles to the tail. Too many ways out."
"I'll take it from there. Do not get close to him, man. You get an instinct he's looking in your direction, run for the hills. This guy's dangerous."
"Yeah," Vince said. "Hell, I'm lucky I haven't wet my pants already."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are. It's cute. Seventeen minutes."
"I'll be there."
"With my check. I've got a two-day minimum. You know that, right?"
"Right, right," I said. "I'll be there."
"What have we got?" Murphy asked as I put the phone down.
"Binder thinks he shook me," I said. "He's headed for a meeting at Hotel Sax."
She stood up and grabbed her car keys. "How do you know it's a meeting?"
"Because he's been made. If he was here alone, he'd be on his way out of town right now." I nodded. "He's running back to whoever hired him."
"Who is that?" Murphy asked.
"Let's find out."
And in Death Masks Dresden got behind heavy duty shields and raised them until dawn.
If you choose to house-rule it, though, your prerogative.
In the book canon they are close enough as to make no difference.
Storm Front chapter 16:
My thoughts were on that topic and similar issues of doom and gloom when a man with a hat pulled low over his face began to walk past me, stopped halfway, then turned and drove his fist into my belly.
I had time to think, Not again, and then he struck me a second, and third time. Each blow drove into my guts, thrust me back against the unyielding wall, made me sick. My breath flew out of my mouth in a little, strangling gasp, and even if I'd had a spell already in mind, I wouldn't have had the breath to speak it.
I sort of sagged when he stopped hitting me, and he threw me to the ground. We were at a well-lit gas station, just before midnight on a Friday night, and anything he did was in full view of any cars going by. Surely, God, he didn't plan on killing me. Though at the moment, I was too tired and achy to care.
I lay there for a moment, dazed. I could smell my attacker's sweat and cologne. I could tell it was the same person who had jumped me the night before. He grabbed my hair, jerked my head up, and, with an audible snip of steel scissors, cut off a big lock of my hair. Then let me go.
My blood went cold. My hair. The man had cut off my hair. It could be used in almost any kind of magic, any kind of deadly spell, and there wouldn't be a damned thing I could do to stop it.
The man turned away, walking quickly, but not running. In a flood of panic and desperation, I leapt at his leg, got him around the knee, and yanked hard. I heard a distinctive little pop, and then the man screamed, "Son of a bitch!" and fell heavily to earth. One fist, one very large and knob-knuckled fist, was clutched around my hair. I tried to suck in a breath, and leapt for that hand.
My attacker's hat had fallen off, and I recognized him—one of Johnny Marcone's men who had followed me from the hotel on Thursday afternoon, the one who had begun limping after jogging after me for several blocks. Apparently, Gimpy had a trick knee, and I had just made it jump through its hoop.
Its an explicit plot point in the very first book that Victor Sells hired one of Marcone's goons, Gimpy Lawrence, to jump Dresden and get his hair so he could target him with the storm-powered death spell.
Its also why Dresden refused to trim his hair in Cold Days when he was in Winter:
Back in my room, I found my clothes waiting for me: a tux in dark silver and pearl. The first of two small paper envelopes proved to contain a pair of jeweled cuff links, the stones too blue and too brilliant to be sapphires.
The other one held my mother's amulet.
It was a simple silver pentacle, a battered five-pointed star bound within a circle, on a simple silver chain. The pentacle's center was filled with a small red stone, cut to size. I'd once fastened the gem into place with hot glue. Apparently Mab had sent it to a genuine jeweler to attach it with something more solid. I touched the stone gingerly, and could instantly sense the energy within it, the psychic journal of my late mother's travels.
I slipped the amulet on over my head and felt a sudden and profound sense of relief. I had thought it lost when my bullet-riddled self had fallen into the waters of Lake Michigan. I stood there with my hand over it for a moment, just feeling the cool metal press against my palm.
Then I got dressed in the tux and examined myself in a mirror the size of a pool table.
"Just a gigolo," I sang, off-key, trying to enjoy myself. "Everywhere I go, people know the part I'm playing."
The guy looking at me out of the mirror looked raw and hard. My cheekbones stood out starkly. I'd lost a lot of weight while I was in what amounted to a coma, and my rehabilitation had added only lean muscle back onto me. You could see veins tight against my skin. My brown hair hung down past my jawline, clean but shaggy. I hadn't cut it or asked for a barber. Things that know magic can do awful stuff to you if they get hold of a lock of your hair, so I'd decided to hang on to mine. I'd ditched the beard, though. Beards grow out so fast that if you shave every day, there isn't much of a window for anyone to use them against you—and shaved stubble is too diffuse to make a decent channel anyway.
There are ways to mitigate it.
Binder in Turn Coat is an experienced merc, and after Murphy took his hair in police investigations, he shaved his head to the scalp, then jumped in some running water to break the link
Murphy grunted with nigh-masculine skill.
A couple of minutes later, the phone rang, and Murphy answered it. She passed it to me.
"Your guy's a nut," Vince said.
"I know that," I told him. "What's he doing?"
"Took a cab to a motel on the highway north of town," Vince said. "Stopped at a convenience store on the way. Then he goes to his room, shaves himself bald, comes out in his skivvies, and jumps in the damn river. Goes back inside, takes a shower—"
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I broke into his room while he was doing it," Vince said. "Maybe you could save your questions until the end of the presentation."
"Hard to imagine you not fitting in with the cops," I said.
Vince ignored the comment. "He takes a shower and calls another cab."
"Tell me you followed the cab," I said.
"Tell me your check cleared."
"I'm good for it."
"Yeah, I'm following the cab right now," Vince said. "But I don't need to. He's headed for the Hotel Sax."
"Who are you, the Amazing Kreskin?"
"Listened in on the cabbie's CB," he said. "ETA, eighteen minutes."
"Eighteen?" I asked.
"Usually found between seventeen and nineteen," he said. "I can't guarantee I can stay on him at the hotel, especially if he tumbles to the tail. Too many ways out."
"I'll take it from there. Do not get close to him, man. You get an instinct he's looking in your direction, run for the hills. This guy's dangerous."
"Yeah," Vince said. "Hell, I'm lucky I haven't wet my pants already."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are. It's cute. Seventeen minutes."
"I'll be there."
"With my check. I've got a two-day minimum. You know that, right?"
"Right, right," I said. "I'll be there."
"What have we got?" Murphy asked as I put the phone down.
"Binder thinks he shook me," I said. "He's headed for a meeting at Hotel Sax."
She stood up and grabbed her car keys. "How do you know it's a meeting?"
"Because he's been made. If he was here alone, he'd be on his way out of town right now." I nodded. "He's running back to whoever hired him."
"Who is that?" Murphy asked.
"Let's find out."
And in Death Masks Dresden got behind heavy duty shields and raised them until dawn.
If you choose to house-rule it, though, your prerogative.
Yeah, but you cannot really replace your blood can you? That is part of my point about blood being stronger as a link. You can do almost any number of deadly spells with hair... but it is a lot easier if you have blood because it is more fundamental to your target.
Yeah, but you cannot really replace your blood can you? That is part of my point about blood being stronger as a link. You can do almost any number of deadly spells with hair... but it is a lot easier if you have blood because it is more fundamental to your target.
You do replace your blood. Red blood cells have a lifespan of 120 days
More seriously, I cant swear to it, but I think blood expires for magical purposes, at least without extraordinary effort.
Thats why Cassius couldnt keep trying to kill Dresden with the blood he left behind in Nicodemus lair in Death Masks; he took that shot at him with the entropy curse, and when it failed, he didnt try again.
Anyway, QUESTION
How many in our party? Are we bringing Mouse with us?
You do replace your blood. Red blood cells have a lifespan of 120 days
More seriously, I cant swear to it, but I think blood expires for magical purposes, at least without extraordinary effort.
Thats why Cassius couldnt keep trying to kill Dresden with the blood he left behind in Nicodemus lair in Death Masks; he took that shot at him with the entropy curse, and when it failed, he didnt try again.
Anyway, QUESTION
How many in our party? Are we bringing Mouse with us?
I would say it does expire yes, also once blood from a source has been used against a target it cannot be used again, you need to bleed the source again
You did not bring Mouse, Michael is still wounded as thus in no condition to be going into battle right now, I'm not going to make him roll willpower for that again
Now that Mouse not only has the power of speech but also long-range communication via Burny, Harry might need to start paying his loyal dogosaurus a salary. How else is Mouse going to afford all of the takeout he's going to order?
Now that Mouse not only has the power of speech but also long-range communication via Burny, Harry might need to start paying his loyal dogosaurus a salary. How else is Mouse going to afford all of the takeout he's going to order?
I'm more interested in getting him hooked on MMOs. Getting him to build a fire mage named Ha're'ii in WoW would be entirely worth the crafting time needed to make the custom keyboard/mouse he'd need to play.
I'm more interested in getting him hooked on MMOs. Getting him to build a fire mage named Ha're'ii in WoW would be entirely worth the crafting time needed to make the custom keyboard/mouse he'd need to play.
