[M]Valkyries: Occult Warfare - Ch.1

[StormWolf]

Valkyries: Occult Warfare
Chapter I: Hearts of Stone

The air was cold and smothering humid that evening in London. The kind of weather that leaves you unsure if you should wear a jacket or not; no matter what you do, you’ll be uncomfortable. Westminster Abbey sat with her doors yawning wide, her devotees milling and dispersing into the street at the adjourning of evening mass. As always, the jolly and pleasantly plump Father Bhodes stood in the unsure air, smiling and shaking hands with his flock. Most were familiar faces, people he had seen grow up and grow old, guiding them to the best of his ability. As always, there were some new faces, most Father Bhodes wouldn’t see at his next congregation.

When the Abbey stood empty, Father Bhodes made his rounds, snuffing the candles and muttering his prayers, locking the doors as needed. With every verse uttered, Father Bhodes smiled as he watched – as he felt – the Abby’s wards burst to life in a scintillating weave of Anima and Faith. Drawing the Cross upon himself, Father Bhodes left the Abbey, waving a hand and uttering a word in Latin, compelling the doors to shut and lock themselves. Swiveling his head up and down the darkened street, Father Bhodes gazed with wide eyes into the deepening shadows. Bhodes clutched his tattered satchel and newspaper close to his chest. In those shadows haunted a constant, lurking fear. Wetting his throat with a shaky gulp, Father Bhodes straightened his back and turned towards home, keeping to the lit sidewalk closely as he walked.

Deeper and darker the shadows became until the street lights winked madly in and out, finally bursting in a shower of sparks and glass. Flinching, Father Bhodes’ breath quickened, flashes of sterling light bursting from his signet ring, scintillating vibrantly against the soot-smeared victorian stonework. Bhodes’ breath became shaky, turning to fog as it left his lips.

“Stiff upper lip, Charles…” Father Bhodes muttered to himself, his flesh turning pallor in the sickly moonlight. Garbage clattered down the street, light after light going dark. Clearing his throat in a rough cough, Father Bhodes turned down an alleyway still swaddled in the faint and flickering iridescent light of civilization.

Westminster Abbey rang her bells thrice in the blackness. Thrice and done.
3AM
The witching hour.


* * * *

Bad news is like a bullet. When it happens, it moves fast and hits hard. It doesn’t matter to who you are or what you’ve been through, when hardship hits, it’ll have no qualms in exploiting your weaknesses, shaking your foundations. Sullivan Singer, the present grandmaster of the “Valkyries” paranormal organization, would be unfortunate enough to be struck by such a cruel and uncaring hand.

Late was the hour, or early, as it were. Sullivan “Sage” Singer was reclining in his study, clad in flannel pajamas and velvet smoking jacket as he nursed a tumbler of 1951 Mortlach and puffing on a bowl of rich tobacco. Wreathed in coblat-grey smoke hinted with apple, Sullivan read over a tattered, well-loved paperback copy of The Hobbit. Across from him, his long-time friend and associate Nathaniel Hayder sipped a hot cup of coffee, probably irish, and like Sullivan, poured over a dog-eared and yellowed copy of The Gunslinger. Unlike his mentor, Nathan cared little for propriety in wee hours of the morning and made due with his boxers and a stained tank top. Wallspace in the study was occupied entirely by shelving, each shelf burdened to the point of bowing with books from every century. Both men had been long-time insomniacs, one or both of them occupying the study, especially during the fall-time, warming themselves by the fire with good literature and libation. What set this night apart from the norm was the proximity alarm.

From the very stones, an alarm like a thousand screaching cats broke the otherwise serene and uneventful evening. Neither Nathan nor Sullivan flinched, never spilling a drop of their respective drinks as they snapped up from their seats. From the inside pocket of his smoking jacket, Sullivan drew out a .38 special snubnose revolver, while Nathan procured a black TT-30 from… somewhere. Stalking down the carpeted hallway from the study to the gallery, Sullivan spun the ring on his index finger in a particular pattern, silencing the alarms that clawed at the mind of every combatant and clerk that called the Rampart home. Clearing his throat as he approached the door, Sullivan peered through the peephole.

On the other side was a young woman, cold and shaken with worry in her eyes. Against Nathan’s insistence, Sullivan granted the young woman entrance, if only to the gallery. Still a strict believer of Scottish hospitality, Sullivan bid the woman be given food and drink, commands which Nathan obeyed with no shortage of uncouth gruffness. Shooing the man away, Sullivan sat with the courier in the gallery, pouring out two cups of black brigadoon tea while the courier watched Nathan and the other strange passers-by with furtive glances

“You must forgive my associate, my dear,” said Sullivan as he poured milk and honey into his cup, stirring absently, “He’s never been rich in trust... and always has held a boorish temperament befitting an Unseelie!” Sullivan shouted down the hall, knowing Nathan was lurking within one of the rooms.

“Bite me, old-timer…” sounded Nathan’s retort from the pantry. Both Sullivan and his guest smiled. Enjoying their tea for a short moment, the woman finally worked the complex lock on her bag and withdrew an envelope.

“Mister Singer, my name is Alice. I appreciate your hospitality, sir, as well as your decision to not sick your guard dog on me, but I was instructed to deliver this to you immediately,” she said, sliding the papyrus parcel across the table. Sullivan’s bushy white eyebrows quirked over the rim of his teacup as he glanced down at the package, sighing. Following olde time tradition, the envelope was bound in taut string, sealed with a wax stamp. No crest or coat of arms was pressed into the lilac blue seal, but a complex rune that shone with silver light. Sullivan’s levity melted away in that moment, as if drained into his tea.

“Who bid you deliver this, Miss Alice?” Sullivan inquired, his eyes transfixed on the envelope.

“Forgive me, sir, but you know that I cannot say,” Alice replied, her own bearing changed. Gone was the shy young woman. There was a hardness in her eyes, now, as they bored into the Master Valkyrie, who sighed again, then nodded.

Click.

Alice took on a near-inhuman stillness as she felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her neck. Sullivan grumbled lowly, procuring a pair of half-moon spectacles from the pocket of his smoking jacket, balancing them on the pronounced beak he called a nose. Spinning the envelope, inspecting every angle, Sullivan let Alice stew for a moment.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said at last, only to be interrupted by the courier,

“I told you that I can’t!” Alice hissed through clenched teeth, but was reined back by the barrel grinding against her scalp.

“Nathan, if she doesn’t give a proper answer the third time, I only ask that you try and keep the rug unsullied. ‘Tis a treasure from the Crusades” Sullivan said as coolly as if he was ordering dinner. Alice paled visibly, her eyes wide and glassy, glaring pleadingly at Sullivan as he took another sip of his tea. “You see, I know perhaps a busload of individuals who know proper luna-rune inscription. Half of them want me dead, a quarter of them are found in some ungodly corner of the Nevermore, and the last few are allies of convenience, at best. Depending on who sent you, you might not end up with a rabbit hole in your head, Alice.” Sullivan retained the cold composure, speaking as an austere and dispassionate businessman.

“You can’t do this…” growled Alice, her hands in a white-knuckle grip on the carven gallery chair. “The Armistice dictates-”

“My dear girl, look over your shoulder. Just don’t look him in the eyes”

She did as she was told.

“You know who he is?”

Alice nodded.

“Then you know there are only a handful who would dare push Armistice issues with him, and half of them break bread with Nathan every morning. Don’t play tough, don’t play political. We’ll win, every time.”

“Waywalkers are protected by both Courts,” Alice spoke shakily, pulling a golden trinket the size of her thumb from her pocket. “Harm me, and both Seelie and Unseelie will come knocking, and your pissy wards won’t be enough to stop them!” Alice was shouting at the end, which then cut to silence.

“You ever hear of the Catskill Mountain incident, Alice?” Sullivan spoke softly, leaning forward slowly.

“I don-”

“Of course you have. Twenty redcaps come after a man and a Dreamer, Dreamer gets away.” Sullivan loomed over Alice now, the young woman backing against the uncaring barrel of the gun at her neck.

“Legend…”

“Complete. Fucking. Truth. Nathan was that man, armed with but a knife, and he turned your precious Court’s shagnasty posse into chunky salsa. Now I’ll ask you one last time… who sent the package?” It was Sullivan’s turn to snarl and hiss, spittle frothing at his lips as his nose nearly pecked Alice in the eye. She broke.

“Fuck… Chief Inspector Northam, MI13 of Her Majesty’s Occult Secret Service, on behalf on your mutual associate, the late Charles Bhodes, as detailed in a sealed writ to be carried out in the instance of his death…”



* * * *

More or less thrown out of the Rampart, Alice the Courier passed through one of her Ways, leaving Sullivan and Nathan at the threshold of the Rampart – Sully with his tea, Nathan with his coffee. They waiting fro the Waygate to close behind the woman before speaking again,

“You and Padre were close, old-timer. You going to be okay?” Nathan looked down at his mentor, who clung to the papyrus parcel as if it was precious.

“Aye, Nathan. I think so.” Sullivan sighed as he swirled his tea. Nathan on the other hand, gulped down the remainder of his coffee and smacked his lips. Typical yank.

“You’re full of shit,” grunted Nathan, drawing a jagged leer from his senior.

“Excuse me, son?”

“Your last, true, living friend is dead. June’s tutor and babysitter, for fuck’s sake. You are a lot of things, but you aren’t okay… also that whole redcap thing? Horseshit.” Nathan chuckled, scowling at the bottom of his now empty mug, the endearing scrawl of “fuck face” written on in sharpie. Probably Knoobish’s work. Or Salazar… or Marsters. Sullivan saw Nathan’s expression and smirked, though he hid it behind the rim of his teacup,

“She doesn’t know that.” Sully and Nathan both shared a chuckle at the courier’s expense, then they shared a moment of silence for Father Bhodes. “Best muster the troops, Nathan. I’ll look over this parcel and have a mission report ready in an hour.”

“You got it, old-timer,” said Nathan, patting Sully on the shoulder as he head inside to get dressed.


* * * *

Sullivan’s study may have been one thing, but it paled compared to his private office. Only a handful of people ever saw it, fewer still left the office willing or able to talk about what they experienced behind those armored doors. Latticed shelving lined the walls, crammed with writings since before humanity knew how to bind books. Whatever remained of Alexandria’s library was stacked and sealed in vacuum tubes. Mounted on the wall behind Sullivan’s desk was a double-barreled elephant gun and a pair of silver-plated kukuri, a matching set with their ideographic engravings and inlays of mother-of-pearl. Equal parts library and armory. In a nutshell, it represented the old man quite well.

For several long moments, Sullivan just sat there, staring at the parcel, at the twinkling luna-rune inscribed into the midnight blue wax. Once the seal was broken, it would mean acknowledging Charles’ death and coming to terms with it. Finishing the glass of Mortlach he had poured earlier in one gulp, Sullivan drew a silver dagger from one of his drawers. The blade was yellowed with age and lack of upkeep, little more than a dull stiletto with an elk handle. Holding the flat of the dagger parallel to the wax seal, Sullivan began moving the knife in methodical clockwork motions.

“Cad iad na seithí ghealach, beidh nochtann freisin.” Sullivan chanted lowly in Irish gaelic the words he and Father Bhodes had learned together, had shared over a lifetime of research. Twirling the dagger into a reverse grip, Sullivan carved the sign of the Waning Crescent into the wax. Static pressure pulsed through the air – a powerful ward lifting – and the wax seal broke. Unwrapping the papyrus delicately, Sullivan’s breath caught in his throat.

“Charles, you mad fool…”


* * * *

The Rampart – Chamber of the Round Table

Being roused at unforgivable hours is simply part of the job for a Valkyrie, but that never made it pleasant. Some members of the organization may be more creatures of the night than others – sometimes literally – but Nathan had learned long ago that it was best to have a few fresh pots at the ready. Sure enough, the Round Chamber smelled of coffee and whatever breakfast could be scrounged. Nathan himself was on his third cup since the muster was called, black and bitter like always.

Nathan sat against the solid curved wall of the Chamber, dressed up in a pair of faded jeans, his stained tank-top traded for a charcoal hoodie with “MU” printed across the chest in faded white. It only took one firm scolding from Sullivan to never show up to the Round Table in your underwear. Sweeping those cold eyes across the room, Nathan took measure of his associates… comrades. All came from vastly different walks of life, some walking and living scores longer than others. Still, regardless of origin, nothing brought people together like tar-black java and glazed breakfast pastries.

Heavy wooden doors creaked open, making way for Sullivan as he found his seat at the Round Table. Nathan studied the old man with as much scrutiny as he did the others; Sully had paled further, showing more of his age now than he had half an hour ago. While he may pride himself a tough old croc, Sullivan was a caring person at his core. One didn’t take on the populations of the world as their ward without being able to feel. Bhodes and Sully went way back, since before Nathan was in the picture. Both played a crucial role in June’s upbringing as tutor and guardian. Losing Bhodes meant losing a wealth of connections in London if something wasn’t done quickly.

“Take a seat, everyone,” Sullivan croaked. It wasn’t a request. When Sage commanded, even Nathan hopped to. Pulling out a chair for June, Nathan took a seat between her and Sully. As everyone took their place at the Round Table, Sullivan dropped a roughly bound journal on tabletop with a dull thud. Yellowed and dog-eared pages were marked with post-its and loose leaflets of paper.

“Forgive me, my friends, but I am in no mood for gentleness. Father Charles Bhodes is dead,” Sullivan spoke, voice trembling ever so slightly as his fingers drummed on the bulging journal. Charles Bhodes was a name everyone in the Valkyries knew, in some form or another. For the past twenty-five years, Bhodes had been a consultant, benefactor, liaison to the British government, and even babysitter in the last decade and a half.

“The circumstances of his death are still… obscure, but I intend for us to bring some much-needed clarity to the issue,” Sullivan kept his eyes down, opening the journal to a random page. Nathan thought he heard a sniff, “As part of his last will and testament, Bhodes had this sent to me; his research. One of what should have been three books. For those of you who knew Charles Bhodes before his priestly days, you understand the threat this poses.” While Nathan had no first-hand knowledge, the three of them had exchanged war stories over drinks. If one were to believe what Bhodes and Sullivan said as only half-hyperbole, Bhodes was a terrifyingly powerful arcane practitioner. He was a scholar of Old Magic, the magic of the Raven King and Merlin during Britain’s dark ages.

“Charles’ connections and allies notwithstanding, we need to have a presence in London yesterday. This isn’t up for discussion, but we have a moment if you have questions…” Sullivan turned his eyes up to the rest of the Valkyries in that moment, bloodshot and wet with tears that refused to fall. There was a grief and rage Sullivan’s face that cut dark lines and cast deep shadows in his expression.

[Pheasant]

Staff Sergeant James Marsters career had been defined by early morning briefs and while the dark circles underneath his eyes seemed to be a permanent fixture of his face, as soon as that first sip of red hot coffee was down his throat he was alert and in the game.

His multicam uniform was crisp and looked new, one set of dozens since he wore almost nothing else. Only one tab rested on his left shoulder, his bloodtype O-. The only other markings on his uniform was the nametape slapped to his chest that read 'Marsters'
Tucked between the laces of his boots was a sheath that hid a silver bladed knife

A little black book was cracked open in one hand, the other jotting down places, players.
'Father Charles Bodes, deceased', a man he'd met only once briefly back in his days with Deathwatch.
Father Bhodes had given the Deathwatch some mission critical information, a group of Cryptids with enough power to bring down their compound and everyone under it.
That in of itself made the Father good in Marsters book, but he'd been doing the same thing for other organizations since before Marsters was born.

And he knew how to throw down, hard. His personal file and capabilities were enough to make the mans skin crawl.
Whatever had knocked off the Father, it was something nasty.
Which, could be anything really. No point in asking for details when there obviously weren't any.

Marsters added 'London' on the next line. Dense urban sprawl, a nightmare for a quiet operation.
He'd have to grab a tan beret on the way out and work on his Estuary accent.

Nothing freaks out the rest of the world more than an armed man, let alone an American. He could at least try to look and sound like he belonged.

He glanced up at Sullivan. The man looked like he was about to be on the warpath, and Marsters didn't want to be in his way.

[Griff]

June bolted awake, the shrill tone of the alarm causing her to fall off the bed. She'd heard it several times before, but the initial shock would never fade away. Sitting up, she changed out of her pajamas and into a large blue hoodie and shorts. She decided to wait until the alarm stopped blaring to head out.

June looked around her room and picked up some of the clothes she had left on her wooden floor, throwing them in the corner. Seeing her messy dresser she straightened up some of the items thrown on there, finding and putting on her earrings in the process. Bored by her attempts at cleaning, she leaned against her neutral-blue walls, resting until she knew if it was safe to leave. She sat and put her knees in her sweatshirt, resting her head against her legs.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she heard Nathan telling the others to report to the roundtable. Standing up, still exhausted from the early wake-up call, she opened her door and headed to the meeting. She shivered as her bare feet met the cold stone floor. June looked in one of the mirrors she passed and saw her curly hair sticking out in every direction, it looking more like a bird's nest than hair. Smoothening it down with her hands, she tamed most of it, some of it still falling down to her face and sticking up at odd angles. Ignoring it and just pulling on her hood, she pushed her way into the meeting room through the heavy wooden doors, conscious of the loud creak it made.

She saw Nathan dressed in a hoodie and jeans, his face set into a cold mask. June worried about the news, what could have happened that needed everyone up at who-knows-how early? Shrugging her fear aside, she grabbed a pastry from the side of the room and stood next to Nathan, quietly eating. The rest gradually trickled into the room, with Sage being last. She went to go sit between Nathan and Sage. Her world stopped when she heard that Father Bhodes was dead.

She looked down, her hood and hair covering her face as she tried to control the trembles in her form. She made a small noise from the back of her throat, it closing up to try to contain her grief. Blinking rapidly, she took deep breaths to calm herself down. Sniffing, she continued to look at the table as Sage told the team about the danger and what they needed to do. She only looked up when he asked if anyone had questions. "D-Do you know how he died?" June asked, her voice quiet and muffled by her hair.

[Koti~]

Scrolls and parchment lined the spacious desk, a lantern flickering in the vaults study. The sound of pen on paper echoed through the room, undercutting the soft jazz that played from an old radio. Lilith was quietly work, a sigh and sip of her iced coffee to accompany her. The goblin words danced annoyingly her eyes, messy, scrawled, and splotchy to read. But it was her job to translate the works into legible writing for others who might want to see it later. Taking another swig and starting on the third line, she let out a grunt of annoyance. Glancing to the grandfather clock, she could just barely make out the arms on the clock. Rubbing her eyes again, she peered at the face, giving up with a groan and grabbing her mug, the dregs sloshing against the side. Looking down at the nearly empty mug, back to her papers, then a third at the clock, she heaved a much larger sigh then before.

“Chertovy domovyye*. Time for a snack break.” Lilith bemoaned the accursed goblin language and cleaned up her work desk. She had no problem making a mess, even less so when she was working, but decades of work and order has ingrained that her place must be neat and clean when she left it, her room notwithstanding. Pulling up the bear skin bathrobe tight around the simple black tank top and satin panties, Lilith made her way to the kitchen, giving a nod of the head to those she passed. She was only 2 days back from her mission in Russia, spending nearly half a day sleeping before starting her work scribing.

So when the alarm sounded around her, she made no rush to get to it, taking her time making a fresh mug and gathering a snack while heading to her room to dress, looking haggard and bored. She came back the round room after catching Nathan in the hall, now sporting a burgundy cardigan and tight blue jeans. She took her seat and leaned against it, snagging 3 of the pastries before Sully entered. The food hung limp in her hand as he gave the news.

The sound of shattering ceramic broke her silence as Lilith stood, nearly thrusting the chair back a good foot across the floor. The news of Charlies death hung heavy on her, having a fondness with the man. While not as close like Sully and him, she rested him like family, and knowing he was killed filled her with rage. Ripples of draconic snarls hung deep in her throat, her right hand covered in frozed coffee and jagged shards of the desimated mug.

“It doesn't matter how, but who. That man wouldn't go down to a simple mugging, so what rat bastard killed him. We have a dead fool to find.” Lilith spoke harshly, rage seething just below the surface as she gripped the table, doing her best from breaking it.

*fucking goblins in Russian

[SikstaSlathalin]

One would think that he who suffers from horrific night terrors would be able and sometimes even happy to be awake for a good reason. Like warning alarms going off in one of the most secure buildings in this plane of existence... and most others both known and unknown. But when that poor man suffering from night terrors had just gotten to sleep after being on a week-long mission in China hunting down the key to the first Emperor's tomb the alarms going off in the middle of that much needed sleep was like taking the drunk Viking's hammer to the groin.

Too awake to jump up in fear and unload another mag into his wall, but too tired to find his mission clothes Salazar simply flopped out of bed, grabbed his ubiquitous yellow ducky bathrobe, and slung the white fire cross and his double katana holsters around his neck before slowly crawling out of his room eyes still half shut. He had lost his pistol in the black hole of his sock drawer so the swords would do.

The coldness of the hallway and the air of urgency around his more awake comrades helped get Ghost Rider to his feet and tighten the belt of the black jeans he fell asleep in. Didn't do much else though walking like a zombie(which by some standards he could actually be at this point) the former second son of God made his way to the round table early enough to make a little pillow out of some napkins and thunk his head down onto them and utter one phrase. "Ghost Rider in the sky" Before instantly falling asleep again. It was how he called in for radio checks so it would work for reporting in.

It wasn't until Sully arrived and dropped the heavy book on the table that Salazar shot up awake napkins sticking to his cheek with some drool.
"Padre Charlie is dead?" The Schizo was quickly made more awake at the words pulling the napkins off his face and wiping the drool away. Religious leaders in general were well protected if their faith was strong enough, but Father Bhodes was a Merlin level wizard with a paramilitary order of immortal Priests a shout away, not to mention favors owed him by more groups just like them. "How the fuck they get Padre Charlie? I once saw him roast a Lich Prince and not even char his fancy coat. And what do our Fire and Brimstone friends at the Broken Cross have to say? Aren't Priests like the Padre directly under their protection?" Salazar has interacted with the Order of the Broken Cross a few times in his run with the Valkyries and as strict an Order as they are things like this don't blindside them, this must be some Outer Worlds shit.

[The Lifted Lorax]

Nora was halfway down the hallway before she was aware she was even awake. Baseball bat (http://pm1.narvii.com/5829/db2de705dddbabc6cf6ba55e46725dd4e1beebdc_hq.jpg) in one hand, claw hammer in the other, her steps were light as she sprinted to the stairs. There in the foyer below already Sullivan was turning off the alarm and answering the door. Cursing under her breath in several languages to maximize creativity, she turned on her heel and shuffled back to her room. No use in getting sleep now; everyone who hadn't been woken by the alarm would be woken soon enough to come downstairs to discuss whatever had just happened. Stowing the bat and hammer in their usual places under the bed and on the nightstand, respectively, she picked up a pair of flannel pajama pants from the floor and shimmied into them before taking the wrap off of her head, freeing a mass of messy curls with a sproing. Hair could happen later. Bra could happen later. In a wifebeater, comfy pants, and fuzzy house slippers she shuffled down to the Round Table.

Several people were already there and someone had set coffee brewing, creating an almost pleasant atmosphere. Almost. Nora stopped at the pastries for a very long moment. With as low as her eyelids were it almost seemed as though she'd fallen asleep standing there. Finally, however, she made a low noise of displeasure before selecting a cheese danish and shuffling over to her usual seat. She did a double take at June, narrowing her eyes and leaning in. The lemon custard Krapfen she'd been looking for. Wordlessly she took the doughnut from June's hand, took a bite, then returned it. As she chewed she tore off a corner of her Danish and set it in front of June by way of repayment. Nora didn't like to talk before 9 am, and the sun hadn't even risen yet. Damn her dislike of coffee!

She chewed her danish, slothlike, with droopy Saint Bernard eyes as everyone else came to the table. She still wasn't convinced that Salazar hadn't stolen that ducky robe from her, but she'd long ago run out of energy to push the point. She envied his ability to get back to sleep so quickly, but he had been running a mission halfway across the world yesterday. Nora had had the fortune of staying relatively local recently, popping down to Newgrange every now and then to study the henge. She was only halfway through her pastry when everyone finally arrived and Sullivan--she could never get a feel for whether he liked being called Sully or merely tolerated it--dropped a heavy leather journal onto the table.

Her grazing-like chewing slowed to a stop when he announced that Father Bhodes was dead. Nora blinked slowly a few times as the others reacted, Lilith jumping to her feet and breaking her mug, others asking as though they had misheard Sullivan for confirmation that Bhodes was dead. She herself was in shock a little. She'd known Father Bhodes for most of her time with the Valkyries, though obviously not as well as some, and he had through reputation and action proven himself a man not easily destroyed. Whoever--whatever--did this was some sort of monster of the caliber they didn't often come up against. What disturbed her almost more than that thought was that Sullivan The Unflappable looked shaken. He'd lost a good friend. They'd lost a good contact, a good man, and of course she was sad and angry too. But sorrow and anger weren't of much help when there were two missing research journals that could do untold amounts of damage in the wrong hands.

"I'm assuming we're looking for the other two volumes," Nora finally said once the initial shock had died down. Her voice was still rusty in the early morning and she spoke quietly. Clearing her throat, she grudgingly forced her volume a little louder. "Do they look the same as this? Do we have any leads? What about the courier who brought this one, would they have made off with the other two?"

[.Karma.]

Kyra rarely slept anymore and definitely not at night. She had spent far too much time fighting the things that go bump in the night to ever want to sleep during that time. The dreams that came to her in sleep didn't help matters, though it wasn't well known that she even had them. It was a weakness, one that she would have to overcome.

For now she usually settled on small naps to combat the dreams that accompanied deep sleep. When the alarms went off, her body instinctively went more on alert at her desk. Her hair was still combed tightly back into a ponytail as her eyes moved from her book. You could never know too much about your enemy and as often as she could she obtained new books which could be educational in her fight for the balance.

In steady motions, she folded down the corner of her page and shut the book on her desk. Reaching to the bed, she strapped on her daggers in a quick and swift movement and grabbed her gun from the corner of the room by the door, swinging it onto her back, Kane was always ready and prepared to go in a moments notice.

Dark blue eyes surveyed the area outside her room, factoring in her surrounding and any potential danger as the alarm was shut off. Slowly and silently she made her way toward the front door, her socked feet barely making any noise as she peered from the distance as the scene unfolded. Nathan seemed to have this handled, but just in case she pulled Kane from her back and held him in both hands with a firm grip.

It was to her relief that her services had not been needed, and she was already on her way to the chamber when the other were being gathered to their meeting place.

Coffee in hand, she sat in a chair furthest away from where Sullivan would sit and likely (hopefully) everyone else that came in. Her tattooed wings poked out from her white tank top, and she had on grey sweatpants that looked almost comical with her daggers strapped around her waist still and her gun beside her that she hadn't bothered returning to her room. She said nothing as she sat, just watched as they all trudged in, Salazar even making the table his new bed, a robe around him and a napkin for a pillow. If one paid attention they might even see her eyebrow raise a look of irritation crossing her face before it went back to its emotionless state.

When Sullivan broke the news to them a mixture of reactions crossed the table. Anger, sadness, questions that seemed silly to her. Nora seemed the only one so far to be asking pertinent questions. It was obvious that it was something very powerful to have taken out Father Bhodes, but what was it? It was obvious that was unknown at the moment, but the why seemed a bit more evident. They all had questions, but it was obvious most of those questions did not have answers as of yet, so why even ask them?

"Time of death?" Her voice was strong and firm, not holding the sadness or anger of others, but more a want for knowledge to help them better to deal with the situation. The time could rule out or add certain things that may have killed the powerful man, and the closer they were to knowing what, the sooner they would know how to kill it.

[Dnafein]

Khoonbish narrowed his eyes and cracked his neck. He was determined to finish this tonight, nothing would stop him. His eyes narrowed as he focused on his target. His fingers moved quickly, and with confidence. And the werewolf finished rebuilding the gearbox on his 1968 Royal Enfield Interceptor.

As he started to reinstall the part the night was split by the shrill alarm. With a mutter he grabbed a pneumatic impact wrench and dropped the handle of a thin flat head screwdriver into it. Odds were that anything that crashed into the garage would either be inhuman or not alone. And so a screwdriver through the forehead wouldn't stop the threat but would buy him the time to become a threat of his own.

He turned his attention back to his prized bike, subconsciously taking note of the alarm being silenced.The werewolf continued working on his vehicle until Nathan summoned him. Taking a felt tip marker Ken noted the order of each part on it. Then, while pocketing the pen he headed for the round table.

Upon entering he nodding in greetings to those who were conscious. When his eyes fell on the sleeping Salazar a grin crossed the mongolian’s face. Taking the marker from the his pocket Ken carefully left a note stating the sleeping man’s fondness for amphibians on his face. Twirling the marker Ken took his customary seat.

The marker ceased its twirling as Sully filled them in on the loss of Father Bhodes. Ken didn’t have much personal experience with the man, however what little there was made him a man worthy of respect. As the others asked question that to the werewolf made sense he uncapped the marker and jotted a note down on a napkin and slid it to Nathan.

Have we heard anything from the Vigils?

As the questions came to a close and Sully struggled to give what answers he had Khoonbish sighed. “We’re all thinking it,so I might as well say it.”

After a deep breath Ken said. “This doesn’t Bhode well at all.”

[Bionicllama]

"Ah, God fucking dammit!" Jakob woke with a start and smacked his head against the desk. Papers scattered everywhere, some blank and some with half finished drawings. "They need to adjust the volume of that alarm. Seriously, people are trying to sleep here." Stretching and yawning the artist got up and grabbed the flask at the corner of the desk. He didn't care what time it was, he was awake and a good morning always started with a drink. "Ok, brain, what was I doing the night before?"

Pacing around the room Jakob attempted to remember his task. "What was I drawing? New weapons? No, the hell would I make those off mission?" Picking up the remnants of the paper on the floor even he couldn't make them out. Even to a trained eye they were merely scribbles of graphite. "Oh well, if I can't remember it must not be important." Gathering up the papers he tossed them into the nearby fireplace and lit them up. He was taught long ago to never leave his scraps behind otherwise some deadly consequences might occur, or something like that.

"Alrighty, what's on the agenda today?" Pulling up his phone he projected the screen onto the TV while he got dressed. Some people might find it odd that he slept and worked naked, but he lived hot. "Let's see, gotta go to the store, running low on ramen. Got a girl I need to see later as well, wonder if she still remembers me? Ah, right, got to get a gift for the little tyke too, I'd never let myself forget June's birthday. Wonder what girls her age like nowadays?"

Jakob put on his last sock when the announcement came for all the members to meet in the meeting room. He raised his eyebrow at that. "Wow, wonder who shit the bed this time?" Pulling on his jacket he made his way through the hall behind a half sleeping Salazar (creepy son of a bitch if you asked him). When he took his seat he smiled to everyone in the room and gratefully took a pastry and poured himself a cup of coffee with a not-so-healthy amount of sugar. "Welcome one and all to our annual board meeting. Glad you could all make it." Nobody seemed to appreciate the horrible joke. The news that followed didn't help the situation.

"Well...I'm gonna need this a little more than I thought this morning," he whispered to himself as he poured a little bit of the liquid inside his flask into the coffee. Jakob hadn't met Bhode formally but he never liked hearing about the death of a man of God, it never sat well with the Frenchman. "I assume we're not letting his death go unanswered, right? Let's find the fucker and ice him." He gave a little flit of his eyes towards June, "Pardon my French."

[Lleona]

The night was cold. The tree leaves danced every-time the breeze passes by. Eve woke up earlier, around 2:00 am, she went outside wearing a red sweat pant's, tight fitted black tank top and a red jacket wrapped around her waist, her gun's hidden beneath it, her long black hair was tied into a ponytail. She was now currently running to forget the nightmare that plagues her earlier. Sleep was a pleasure she can never fully experience.

Due to her being a modified human, her body only requires an hour of sleep every week. But it has been already a month since she last slept, so she forced herself earlier to try and rest, but it was a futile attempt. Her mind won't let her. Every-time her mind become idle and peaceful, memories of her parent's and brother resurfaced.

Eve stopped running. She stared at the night sky and the sea that was stretching beyond the horizon. Watching the peaceful scenery brought her more gloomish thoughts. She brought her two hands up and slap both of her cheeks at the same time with the palm of her hands.

It was a childish gesture, but the little pain brought her back to reality. She was always wavering, whenever she started to fill weak hearted, she will pinch or slap herself. It's a reminder, a reminder that she didn't experience all those torture just to give up immediately. She promised to give her dedication and life to the Valkyrie, it's a promise that she is not willing to break after all they have done for her.

She started to run once more. The doubt clouding her will faded once more. As she let the cold wind caressed and bite her bare skin, she was starting to feel alive once more. Unnecessary thought's were set aside. She decided to head back to her quarter's when the alarm blared loudly, making her body tensed and guarded.

"That is one heck of an alarm...."

She mumbled to herself. She was deep in the forest, still the alarm reached her. The alarm meant that somebody important have been put to grave. She has no idea who that person might be right now, but she was sure as hell that they will be called for a gathering. She ran faster, deciding to abandon her human like pace, which is snail like compared to her original speed. As she ran, twigs and leaves stuck in her hair.

She didn't bother dodging them since she was in a rush. She cursed herself for trying to be adventurous and strayed away from the main forest path. After battling with the tree and the leaves, she arrived at the front door and went inside. Luckily the hall was dim, Sir Nathan passed her by and told her to report to the meeting room. Her face was set in a work mode, frantically hoping and praying inside that he didn't notice her disheveled appearance. It's unbecoming of a Valkyrie to be done in by the trees and leaves and she also didn't want to get scolded for fooling around.

When Sir Nathan left, she released a relieved sigh and started fixing her appearance. She was a little bit sweaty, not from the jog, but because of Sir Nathan. Every employee would find their superior a little bit wee intimidating. When she was presentable, she went inside and sat towards the nearest chair, but not before taking a plate of cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee. She quietly ate and sipped her coffee, her face expressionless as always, just observing the people around her. She was already done with her food and was sipping another cup of coffee when Sage Sulllivan went came and ordered everybody to sit down.

He dropped an old dusty book on the table. All of the member's attention were zeroed on him. The news he gave wrapped the room in a heavy air. She was not familiar with Father Bhodes, since her time was spent at the Valkyrie training facility, she was just recently appointed as a full time Valkyrie, compared to the other's, she still felt like a newbie. But she knew that he was a powerful person, and can control anima at a monstrous level.

Her eyes glanced at the members, different reaction's were painted on their faces, she was especially at loss with khoonbish and jakob's reaction, she didn't know if she should react or not, so she didn't change her expression. She was not a cold person, but she can't bring herself to be angry like June or Sage Sullivan, but she did feel a little bit of emotion, it was regret, regret that they lost an asset and somebody strong to an unknown factor.

[Cfavano]

Life was...difficult for Tharangeir. For centuries he had spent hsis days fighting, and his nights in revelry. Now...not so much. Even when he was sent out on a mission, there were 'rules of engagement' he had to follow. Even now he didn't really grasp it. Who cares if you burn down a house to get at someone? War is war. And even in the revelry department he was limited. Not only could all of these milksops not hold their liquor, if you can even call the goat's piss that they call 'mead' and 'beer' nowadays, everyone had to sleep. Tharangeir, not so much, and after the fifth noise complaint, he was basically told to keep it in his room. and for now, he paced. He paced most of the night, punching a straw mannequin every now and then, to vent his anger.

His room was pretty bare, having a glass-less arrow slit for a window, a fur rug, a straw bed which he never used, and brackets for candles and torches, with a simple dresser, and several hogshead barrels of various beers and meads, as well as a cask of Blackstrap Rum. the final objects in his room were several mannequins which he vented....frustration out on, mostly by punching or stabbing them. His dresser was fairly empty, as he wore almost nothing but his armor, which he was currently wearing.

When the alarm sounded, he grinned, grabbed his gear, and burst through his door shouting 'For Odin!" thinking the castle was under attack, and frightening a poor steward. he ran and ran through the castle...not realizing until too late that he had gotten lost. The alarm has finally stopped, and he was getting more and more frustrated. Finally, he recognized where he was in the castle, and renewed his sprint...not realizing he hit a staircase, which he began tumbling down.

He hit several old suits of armor as he went down, causing quite a bit of clatter which rang out even to the round table chamber. This was, however, drowned out by the constant stream of obscenities that streamed forth from his mouth so foul that even salty, hardened sailor would blush, and an entire convent of nuns would catch on fire from their collective anger. But then, someone ruffled, and wielding his spear in one hand and with his shield up, he bursts into the round table chamber, having missed the briefing and shouted "Who is attacking us? Who do I get to kill?"

[Denraven]

“Gatekeeper” Dr. Heinrich von Richterstein, was, at this hour of the night, where one would typically find him at any other hour of the day; down in the depths of the Vault.

Dr. Richterstein was the Valkyries current acting curator of the Vault. He was responsible for the acquisition, requisition, identification, study, classification and categorization of all relics, artifacts, scrolls, tomes, tablets, and grimoires of Arcane, Eldritch, Occult, and Demonic nature.

Even down here, in the lowest chambers of the Vault, the sharp, screeching cacophony of the alarms jaggedly cut their way through the air and into ears of Dr. Richterstein, cutting through the tranquility of the classical music coming from an antique Phonograph that was the doctors wont to play.

“Vat now?” Dr. Richterstein muttered to himself, his thick German accent taking on a tone of utter annoyance. He pushed himself up from his chair, and gather himself together. As a veteran of the Valkyries, he knew that the alarm often brought with it news, and news meant a briefing.

Heinrich stood to his pull height, rolled his shoulders and pushed up his glasses, and made for the exit, snatching from the disenchanting table a particular tome that stood out from the rest Grimoire des Gehirns, then reach over a took the needle off the Phonograph, and then walk toward a seemingly solid section of wall.

Heinrich continued on this course, not slowing for an instance, and upon reaching the solid section of wall, was able to pass right through, as if walking through a thick fog. An illusionary wall, put there long ago by castle inhabitants long since passed. On the other side, Heinrich was presented with a spiral staircase winding both up above and down below. Heinrich began his climb upwards, taking his time to carefully place each step, as the stairs were narrow and smooth, worn by years of use and the occasional water runoff from a strong storm.

Up and up he climbed until finally, he reached a landing, where another solid section of wall presented itself. This time, Heinrich did not simply step through, but instead extended his arm and gave a great push, leaning into it with his full weight. The wall began to turn reluctantly and Heinrich was able to step out into the corridor. Making sure to spin the wall back to its starting point, leaving a seamless wall, with no hint of any hidden door.

The passage had deposited Heinrich on the far end of the corridor that led to the briefing room, the alarms had been quieted sometime during his ascent. Heinrich looked both ways, making sure no one was in the hallway, and then proceeded to walk, at a leisurely pace, towards the entrance of the briefing room.

He was determined to be early, it was better for him that way, he would be able to reserve his place at the table, and ensure that he was not sat too close to any of the other Valkyries, who, undoubtedly in Heinrich’s mind, would make any attempt to seat themselves furthest from the doctor.

Heinrich would watch as the other active members of the Valkyries not currently on duty, funneled in, first Sullivan and Nathan, the latter of which shot him a look filled with daggers and suspicion. He oversaw the making of thecoffee, and the presentation of the various pastries. At some point, whether due to boredom, or habit, he flipped open Grimoire des Gehirns and read a few recently added pages, but upon looking up, he saw Nathan giving him a look that said, it was wiser to close the book than to continue reading it.

Heinrich gave a sigh, when at last the Valkyries finished filtering in.

“Sit.” Sullivan commanded, and Heinrich, hearing the infliction of pain in his voice, obeyed, though it was his wont to remain standing most times.
“Forgive me, my friends, but I am in no mood for gentleness. Father CharlesBhodes is dead,” Sullivan spoke.

Heinrich and FatherBhodes had a terse and sordid history.Bhodes had balked upon learning of Heinrich’s particular practice of magic and had threatened to expose and report him to the Warden’s. It was only Sullivan’s intervention that stopped him from doing so. Still, Heinrich held respect for the man, he was, perhaps, one of but a few people whom Heinrich considered an academic rival, his knowledge on the Old Magics was certainly praised by the Doctor.

“So, we have ourselves a hunt,” Heinrich said, his eyes lighting up, and a smirk crossing his lips.

[StormWolf]

Once Sullivan had passed down the news of Bhodes’ demise, the range of reaction was more-or-less what the old man expected. Some comrades were closer to the Father than others, and some members of the Valkyries wore their hearts on their sleeves more readily than most. What Sullivan wanted most was to hold a wake for his friend like any other community of family and friends, but that fell to the mundane. Sullivan pinched his pock-marked beak of a nose between knobby, root-like fingers and sighed.

First, his eyes darted to his protege, though Sullivan immediately questioned why. Nathan was as statuesque as they came once the game face was on. To most, Nathan would come across as disassociated or uncaring to such grave news, but Sullivan had trained Nathan for the better part of two decades. Nathan’s arms were crossed, a guarded gesture, the trigger finger of his right hand tapping on the swell of his bicep in a steady rhythm. Nathan was upset, bordering on furious by the vein that bulged in his temple. Sullivan shared Nathan’s sentiment, as well as a few others present. Retribution would need to be decisive and swift before the perpetrators of such a heinous crime dissipated into the mists of Mother Brittain.

"D-Do you know how he died?" June’s voice floated apart from the rest, the voice of a child within the maelstrom of horrors no adult should ever be subjected to. Sullivan closed his eyes, fighting the urge to wince at the young girl’s shaken tone,

“A good question, June,” Sullivan muttered, clearing his throat, “Sadly, one we don’t presently have an answer to. The… organization that delivered this portion of Bhodes’ last will and testament follow a strict and particular set of laws. Fey Laws, to be carried out the moment conditions are met. I would wager Father Bhodes hasn’t been dead for more than six hours, but that also means information is murky, at best.” Sullivan managed a tight smile for June’s benefit, Nathan’s protective arm around the girl’s shoulders. Mumbling white noise buzzed about the Round Table, eventually breaking way to shouts of rage and grief. Nathan and Sullivan met their glances for a moment, waiting to see when the other would speak. Such exclamations were healthy, such was the process of grief, but there was still business to be tended to.

“We are in the dark on this one, at least until we get boots on the ground in London,” said Nathan. “We can only assume other organizations that Father Bhodes shared affiliation with got some kind of message, as well. That can mean competition, even conflict. Yes, that means we might need to slug it out with friends.”

“Everyone who knew Bhodes closely was aware of his studies, at least somewhat. The sooner we recover the other two volumes, the better.” Sullivan cut in, answering Nora’s inquiry while leaving the quelling of the enraged to Nathan.

“So far as we can surmise, Bhodes has been dead only a few hours. The fae are sticklers for rules and punctuality, while leaving the rest to whim and fancy. We all know this, yes?” Sullivan managed a meager and mirthless smile, which wavered into a warning leer at Ken’s mongoloid attempt at humor. Yet as their resident viking burst through the doors, Sullivan’s expression soured even further, a hand instinctively held to keep Nathan at bay, whom had already drawn his pistol and aimed it at the invasive interruption.

“One of these days, Viking, you’re going to give the wrong man a start. Don’t bother sitting, we are almost done here. You all have an hour to ready your kits. Urban battleground, low profile, anticipate arcane combatants. Am I understood? Sullivan’s voice rose to a shout, his hawkish eyes darting to every face in the room, and he didn’t wait for an answer.

“Good. The clock starts now!”

[.Karma.]

Kyra's face only hardened at the small bit of knowledge they had. Her mind running over the many possibilities, but there was not nearly enough information to settle on anything specific. Other than that one sentence she still had said nothing.

Several of their group wore their hearts on their sleeve, needing to shout or show anger or to show their sadness and hurt. Kyra kept hers behind a nicely sealed wall that she had built over the years. A sheer lack of emotion was the only showing that she was feeling anything at all. It was her way of coping, to shut down all emotion whatsoever, it was still there, just well hidden and rarely shown. There were a few exceptions of course where her wall had got a crack in it and she was unable to contain herself, but there were only a few here that may have seen it.

Dark blue eyes moved to Nathan, his hand protectively over a sobbing June. Taking a deep breath she swallowed hard. On the inside, her heart broke for June, it was always hard to lose someone that was so close, even for those who hid their emotions well. Stiffening her body once again, she glanced back up to Nathan before finding a place to settle her gaze as to not betray her inner thoughts. If anyone would be able to tell, it would be him.

Suddenly, her eyes darted toward the door as sounds of thumping could be heard. Kyra's hands immediately on her dagger, and half standing as whatever it was burst through the - Thrangeir - She was almost tempted to throw the dagger at him anyways. Now was not the time for petty irritation, though.

They had been given a rather loud order by Nathan and there was no room for anything but obedience in her mind at this moment. Nodding her head she stood, repositioning Kane onto her back and making her way back up to her room to get her stuff ready. It would not take her nearly an hour, but the sooner it was done, the better.

[Pheasant]

Marsters took off at the go, leaving the room without a word or nod to anyone else. Unlike some of the rest of the Valkyries, he couldn't switch up his battle plan on a whim by sprinkling some fairy dust or calling upon Hecate.

He'd have to take what he needed, and regret what he didn't take later.

His room was on the first floor, in a neat heavily fortified room that had once been a castle guard armory in the carefree days of yore. Near the center of the castle, easy access to all the exits and the stairs.
Marsters hadn't ever actively considered that this place could come under attack despite claiming one of the most centralized rooms, chocking it up to his old habit of paranoia.
It wasn't a bad habit, certainly not his worst, though some people thought otherwise.
Paranoia kept you alert, kept you alive.

The nice thing about the room was the space. Plenty of room for a bed, bookcase, a few gun-racks with mesh organizers loaded with unopened ammo boxes.

First, the man moved towards the closet, grabbing an innocuous looking duffel bag from the shelf and stuffing it with one of dozens upon dozens of uniforms, all meticulously organized.
Multi Terrain Pattern, standard for the UK's military forces got shoved in first, followed by a tan beret and boots.
Ideally he wouldn't have to play damage control for the first few minutes if the Valkyires were discovered, enough time for the real S.A.S. to show up.
They'd be less than pleased with Marsters if they did, no doubt.

Next, he dressed down. Common clothes, jeans and a long sleeve dark shirt with a baseball cap.
He'd fit in well enough, as long as he didn't have to bring out his atrocious accent.

Finally, he threw an armful of weapons onto the table in the center of the room.

Marsters scratched his head, looking over what he had.
An L85, standard British issue? It gave some authenticity to the uniform stuffed in his bag and it wouldn't over-penetrate in the tight urban environment...probably. But would its 5.56 even leave a scratch on their quarry?
Next was the mans baby, a Scar-H Mk. 17. It was big, beautiful, and packed the powerful 7.62 NATO round. Even the bad beasties couldn't argue with the kinetic energy that was slamming into them, even if they brushed off the injuries like mosquito bites.
But over-penetration was a serious problem. It could pass through a thin wall and kill a civvy easily, that'd be seriously fucked up.
He joined up to kill monsters, not zip up an innocent man or woman's body bag.

Next up was something completely different. A Remington M870, shotgun. Loud, proud, and the king of close quarter combat. Loaded with some double-O buck, a tight shot from close range would blow through two men, and you could shove practically anything into a shell. Silver, sacred oak, holy water injected into a thin plastic membrane.
But it sacrificed range, even with the choke that was slid onto it, and there was no way to be quiet with it.

Marsters checked his watch and swore, tossing the shotgun into the bag and a chest rig that had seven or eight of the shells he'd just mentioned in labeled pouches, as well as a hefty supply of 00 buckshot and Glock magazines, enough to keep if things got drawn out.
It felt right, besides, there were sure to be enough people who had no business carrying loaded for bear beside him.

The man zipped up the duffel and slung it over his shoulder, checking the Glock 17 he'd had tucked away in his waistband holster.

Satisfied, he hit the lights and headed out, ready to fuck with whatever monster-freak was waiting for them on touchdown.

[Black]

Howard Phillips Deville, otherwise known to all who reside in the Rampart as Master Deville flicked the coffee machine off and set several full pots on a tray as well as creamer, sugar, and other sundries before transferring the whole tray onto his palm, held stiffly at shoulder length with the ease of practice and skill. He slid his other hand under a large tray of breakfast pastries. He frowned for a moment before lightly tilting the tray enough so that the lemon custard dough-nuts slid off of the tray and back onto the counter, leaving only one on the plate. With a smirk to himself he set off for the meeting hall with his burden.

Deville arrived in the hall long before even Sullivan showed up, and mere moments before Kyra stepped in and placed the tray's down on the reviving counter, available so those who shuffled in would be able to get to them. First he arranged the pastries so that the lemon custard looked neat and ordinary and not off to the side as if someone had tipped the tray. He cast them a distasteful look and then grabbed a sheaf of napkins from his tray as well as pulling a heavy book his master had requested he carry here. He set it by the door for Master Sullivan to grab on his way in. Judging by his masters mood, he would probably just drop the heavily bound tome on the table, startling a particularly curious individual from his peaceful slumber. Next stalked to the end of the table and looked at the door, judging roughly the distance a sleepy rubber-ducky would walk before just accepting a seat.

Satisfied with his math Master Deville placed the napkins approximately where he figured the rubber-ducky would place his head. Small pranks like this were all that Deville really looked forward to, and despite the gravitas of the situation, he enjoyed playing them regardless.

Surveying his handiwork Master Deville stepped around the table and arrange himself to stand directly behind Master Sullivan's chair. Deville twisted his Anima and slowly his body slid from focus, as if the shadows wrapped themselves around him.

Just as he finished shadow-melding, Kyra stepped in. She seated herself, and nothing interesting happened. Deville didn't expect anything to happen. On the outside Kyra was probably the only person who appeared as stern and cold as Deville was, excluding his love of pranking specific members of the Rampart.

Not long after Heinrich stepped in, followed by Nathan and June. Eventually his target shuffled in and did exactly as Deville expected. The schizo made a b-line for the napkins arranged to look oh-so-comfy. As Salazar drifted off another member walked in and seemed distressed by the lack of a specific lemon pastry that for some reason always seemed limited. Eventually she snatched the pastry out of someone elses dire clutches and had herself a bite. Deville had to stifle a small chuckle at seeing that and he focused his eyes on the wolf Khoonbish as he came through the door and then proceeded to mark Salazar's face.

Ah. Duckies. Salazar's one true weakness, which is why ages ago Deville had taken the robe from a specific someone and had left it where the Salazar could see it. This was the true face of evil, a cunning plan to deprive one person of precious duckies and give them to a slightly crazy person. Salazar made Deville miss home.

Eventually everyone shuffled in and finally Master Sullivan stepped through. No one had seen Deville but Deville knew by the way that Sullivan's eyes barely paused when they passed over him that his Master could see through his shadow-meld easily. Sullivan grabbed the book on his way in and took his seat, slamming the book down and waking the sleeping schizo. Mirth filled Deville in spite of his Master's obvious distress at seeing the napkins stuck to the Shcizo's face. Deville could have just placed the book on the table for his master, but this was much more humorous.

In moments all mirth was gone from the room, despite several lame jokes trying to lighten an otherwise dreary mood. Sullivan spoke, Sullivan barked, and his Valkyries jumped.

Master Deville watched as the Valkyries jumped from their chairs and did as their commander bid. When at last all of them had filed out and only Nathan and Sullivan remained Deville stepped away from the wall, becoming fully visible for the first time. None of them had noticed him or even sensed the Eldritch energies he was using to hide his presence. It was nothing new, no one had caught him yet and none would for years to come. The only person who would be able to detect Deville at that time would be June, but she was one of the seven most powerful individuals from this plane of existence.

The other person who could see Deville at all times was Master Sullivan. That however, was not just because Sullivan could detect Deville's shadow melding. No matter how the Striga might hide himself, his master would be able to see through shadow or facade to who Deville truly was. As the shadowmeld dropped off completely Deville stepped up behind Sullivan's chair and bent low, close but still a respectful distance from Sullivan's ear. He spoke a hair above a breath and only loud enough for Sullivan to hear, even with Nathan's proximity. His voice seemed to emulate the soft whisper of death as he posed a question to Sullivan.

"What is thy bidding, Master?"

[The Lifted Lorax]

"Ya Allah, a good man is dead, Knoobish!" Nora snapped, scowling. "A little respect and professionalism."

She didn't often call Ken by his given name--she liked him, after all--but when she did it was with good reason. She squeezed June's arm gently in what she hoped was a comforting way and eyed the Doctor warily. The fact that he was smiling didn't set well with her. He didn't set well with her if she were honest; she'd heard rumors he'd been involved with Nazis and/or the Ahnenerbe. Either one made her nervous. He was far too into the Occult for her liking and his general manner gave her ein Magenflattern. But he'd done nothing to her personally so she kept these thoughts to herself. No sense in creating tension where there was none.

When Tharangeir burst in Nora was on her feet before she'd realized she'd stood. Seeing that it was only the Viking and that he already had several weapons trained on him she sighed, rolled her eyes, and relaxed her muscles. She turned her gaze back to Sullivan when he gave them the parameters of their mission, nodded once, then turned on her heel and slid past Tharangeir to go to her room. It was far too early for any of this.

Her 72-hour bag was already packed but Nora was perfectly aware that they would more than likely be gone for more than three days. In addition to the changes of clothes, hygiene products, and standard weapons she pondered what else she might need. Extra clothes, obviously. Whatever nasties these were, she would want to try and keep from getting up in their faces. To prepare for this she slipped a three-foot cattle prod and a baseball bat into her yoga mat bag (http://bpc.h-cdn.co/assets/15/53/480x480/gaiam-tree-of-wisdom-yoga-mat-bag.jpg). After a second thought she tossed a tire iron in there as well, tested the weight to make sure it wasn't too heavy, then zipped it up. From her bag she took her collapsible quarterstaff and stun gun; her knives were already in her coat (http://www.vintagetrends.com/images/lot/240/240-9413.jpg). Once she was dressed she slipped these into the deep pockets and slid it on over her t-shirt and yoga pants. After tossing in Herr Higgins and her current knitting project for entertainment on the trip down she zipped up the duffel, slung the yoga mat bag across her back, and headed downstairs. If one didn't know any better it would have looked like she was simply on her way to the gym, and that's the way she liked it.

[Dnafein]

Ken had started a reply to Nora as the fool burst through the door; unlike a few of the other Ken reacted with nothing more then a chuckle. His sharp ears heard the viking tumbling down the stairs. As Thrangeir burst through the door demanding combat Ken thought of a few answers. Yet before one savage warrior could insult the other the sage barked orders.

Following shortly behind Nora Ken finally had a chance to reply to her comment. "Yeah it was a bad joke, but it served it's purpose. After all, no one whose depressed wants to do anything; Except maybe drink."

With a laugh he made a beeline for his quarters. Upon entering he dropped onto his poorly made bed and grabbed a bottle of Vodka he had left unfinished. Taking a long pull from it he swallowed and wiped at his nose. The mongolian didn't understand why someone like Sullivan would keep the thing that masqueraded as a manservant around; Nor why the others couldn't pick up the things scent. As long as the creature left the werewolf lone, the wolf was content to leave the creature be.

The scent washed away by alcoholic fumes brought the mongolians focus back to his orders. Khoonbish eyed the weapons kept in his room and frowned. The XM109 would be handy for whatever was strong enough to take out Old Chuckles, but it was also a pain to conceal and would take longest to deploy. "Fuck it." He muttered.

The next 30 minutes were spent breaking downthe XM109, packing his clothes, and stowing his weapons. The XM109 was to be transported in the usual movie manner. As pieces in a briefcase, ready to be assembled. The assault rifle was slipped into a covert rifle bag designed to look like a hiking backpack. The bow was slipped into a fishing rod case.

Ken chose to wear his pistol and sword. The M9 went into a concealed carry holster inside his waistband. The Sabre however had required thought on the mongolians part. His answer came from the Highlander tv show though. His sabre was to be kept in a hidden pocket inside his duster. Slipping the coat on Ken gathered his luggage, including the much hated garment bag that contained the only suit he owned (Which Sullivan had Nathan force him to buy.) He stowed his luggage and headed to the garage.

Ken carefully stowed the parts and left instructions in the usual place should he not return with the others. Then heading to the stables he said good by to the horses and left the stable hands instructions that they already knew. His errands finished Ken returned to his luggage and got comfortable waiting to get underway.

[Bionicllama]

Jakob nodded and got up when the group was dismissed. Before leaving he snuck a few more pastries into his hands for later. Even though he was skinny the guy ate like a truck and a few pastries were definitely not going to sate his hunger, though they would help for a little while. "Alrighty boys and girls, who's ready for another field trip into the great unknown?" Stuffing a donut into his mouth he ducked into his room and turned on the stereo. If he didn't immediately close the door the hallway outside would have shook from the volume he constantly had the speakers at.

"Ok, what do we need to kill an unknown entity that killed possibly one of the most powerful men on Earth? Easy, Jakob, you bring fucking everything!" Looking over a bookshelf Jakob grabbed several highly tabbed drawing journals. "Weapons, check. Tools, check. Miscellaneous items that we may or may not need, check. Now that we got the gear out of the way, time to make sure I have possibly the most important part of any mission."

Jakob walked over to his closet the extended into two sets of poles; one for street clothes and one for armor. "Gotta make sure a guy looks good while killing monsters. After all, you're the last person they'll see." Looking over all of his options he settled on a long-sleeve gray shirt and dark jeans. On top of that he also put on a black duster that held his small pistol, two clips of ammo, a frag grenade, and what he called his "emergency supplies"; a spare journal with a ballpoint pen. Grabbing his backpack which contained the rest of his books he headed out of his room, the stereo automatically turning off when he shut off the lights.

It seemed he wasn't the first to return to the foyer, but he definitely wasn't the last. For those who got there before him saw the smiling face of Jakob as he was sketching something in his journal. As he finished up he brought out a small baggie of the pastries from earlier in the morning and started to snack on them bringing the journal to a hard shut. "You know, I hope this doesn't take too long. I never really liked London too much. Sure, the sights are pretty but the people aren't exactly the best. Rude, horrible teeth, and you can't understand anyone who happens to be from Wales. Don't get me started on the word 'rubbish'..."

Jakob plopped himself on a nearby couch and assessed the group in his own mind. In truth they didn't seem like a very intimidating bunch besides Ken who seemed like a Mongolian body builder. He chuckled to himself and wondered what people on the street would think about a girl going to the gym, an ex-US Army vet, a skinny French guy, and a guy who looked like he belonged on the cover of Men's Health.

"So...James, you got a nuke in there too? You know, to cover all your bases?"

[Pheasant]

Marsters didn't skip a beat in reply, as he pulled out the shotgun in his bag along with a spray bottle.

"I wanted to bring in a modified Davy Crockett", the man began as he sprayed over the mechanical parts of the weapon, until the pump was racking smooth as butter, "Better guidance system, minimum nuclear yield.
Sage, and a small handful of other Valkyrie didn't feel comfortable having a low yield nuclear device in the Rampart though.
I didn't pursue the matter after that", Marsters murmured, checking through the rest of his things to make sure nothing had been forgotten.

Yes, the man knew it was a joke. Being the only member of the Valkyrie who didn't draw upon an Anima in any capacity came with a certain stigma.
He supposed it was a little like calling someone a 'civvy' back home, a normal person without any military background, training.
In Marsters case though, the word was 'mundy'. He supposed it was a bit better than a certain other 'M' word, but it wasn't misplaced.

Seeing it from the perspective of the rest, some who were as old as his Grandfather with a few dozen Greats thrown in front of it, Marsters could see the doubt.

The man zipped up his bag and stepped up, palming a pack of Benson Hedges as he stepped out into the cold Highland air, shutting the door behind him with a foot.
Bag over his left shoulder, Marsters lifted the carton to his face, half of it bolded with the words "Smoking Kills".
In a moment a roll was between his lips and lit, gazing out into the dark.

What was Marsters 'power'? He certainly couldn't throw balls of flame or turn into a dragon. The man could shoot well, could bench press a few hundred pounds, but so could anyone with enough time and motivation.
What could he do when he ran out of bullets, out of frag grenades and nine bangers and knives?

The man took a long drag, letting out a blast of smoke before tossing the cigarette onto the ground and stomping it out.

"Fuck if I know", he breathed.
Then he turned to head back inside.
Nothing profound, or enlightened.
He was just a man, trying to justify his place as he tumbled down the rabbit hole.

[SikstaSlathalin]

With the jokes thrown out and a big clunky Viking breaking the steps Salazar's mind had shifted beyond the jokes and jibes of Slenderman's little brother and fuzzylumpkins the Mongolian. Grim news always had a knack for bringing out the Agent. He quickly nodded at their orders, glared annoyingly at Tharangeir before brushing past the lump of a dead man marching right for his room. Casting off the robe and moving into his bathroom to clean the marker off his face and get a quick shower in Salazar the Agent was already making plan to commune with his Guardian for power.

The shower, cold and quick shook the last webs of sleep from his mind and solidified who was in charge of the man's body. The Agent wore a perpetual grim frown, his eyes were focused to a razor's edge, but the light of a soul was gone from them. Only death and darkness could be seen in their dark depths, moving with a trained precision where no motion was wasted. With a methodical pace Salazar grabbed his duffel from China, and dumped the old clothes into a laundry hamper before going to his dresser and pulling out five days worth of clothing. Nothing fancy, just enough to cover up and be invisible, black shirts, jeans, and comfortable underbritches. He'd only need one pair of boots so they would just be what he wore into this mission. With the extra clothing ready he moved to his closet and grabbed his mission gear, they still smelt like bamboo forests and fireworks. But they were all he had at the moment grabbing the garbs and shaking the dirt off of them he belting the coa closed and looping the cross around his neck. After years of being tortured by psychotic Doomsday Christians many ask why he still wears the symbol of their madness on every mission.

He oftentimes doesn't have a clear answer, it was just habit from his days in the Army and his days as a Merc. At times like this though...where he and his comrades might be running headfirst into a quick and fiery death that symbol gave a strange sense of certainty, plus it allowed Sal a quick connection to his Guardian. Once he dressed he moved to his wall and began to arm himself, first his two Colt .45s with extra normal and silver rounds all fitted comfortably in the twin holsters under his arms and his long rifle in a sheath across his back also with extra ammo. Next came the twin katanas that fitted into unorthodox sheaths at the back of his belt and the tomahawk which was strapped to his right leg. And lastly he grabbed a few magical charms namely an Unholy tracker, a Sidhe repellent, something called a Holy Dome, and of course Anti-Lycan. Each he slipped into a separate pouch on his utility belt. With one final check the Agent grabbed his duffel and exited his room the whole suit up only taking three minutes, a new records for the man.

He moved to the rallying point and noticed how many of his comrades were there already. Well in the Agent's mind he only grunted gently to them surging some Anima into his mask lighting up the skull pattern with pale white fire.

[Cfavano]

"Bah, I fear no man." Thrangeir said confidently. "I'm quicker on the draw than any man I've encountered. I've nothing to worry about, Old Man." He said, scooping up handfuls of breakfast pastries and quickly consuming them. He listened as best he could, drinking coffee out of the pot, not even bothering to pour it into a cup. Belching, he put it back down and stole some more of the sweetbreads, using his spear as a skewer, before heading back to his room.

Back in his quarters, he tucked in to his breakfast of pastries, and a country ham he swiped, which he washed down with copious amounts of rum and mead. A day doesn't start for him until he drinks a quart of alcohol. is breakfast finished, he digs through the ratty pile of filthy clothes in the corner of his room. Picking up an old, stained, moth-eaten cloak, and shaking off the lice, he wraps it around himself, pulling up the hood. He covers the head of his spear, making it look like a walking stick, and straps his shield to the back of his waist.

Concealing the rest of his weapons on his body, and filling an old pack with bottles of alcohol and other pilfered food, he places it on his back and begins heading toward the main hall, practicing limping like an old homeless man. with the beard and the splotchy complexion, he'd certainly be able to pull it off.

[Koti~]

The responses of others was measured and per the norm. What she hated the most was the damn Viking breaking into the room. She nearly had claws at his throat before the door was open, but managed to keep mostly in her seat. After the orders were given, she made quick work getting to her room, shoulder checking the brute. She could feel her blood boiling hot, but had to keep calm. It didn't take her long to get ready, pulling on her suit and a simple pair of jeans and blouse. She attached her rapier to the belt and a simple bag full of clothes and water. Lilith didn't want to wait until they got to the spot. It would drive her mad just letting someone else figure out what happened to Bhode’s.

Heinrich pushed his glasses up his nose, and then rose smoothly from the table, making sure to return his chair to its proper position, and then stalked out of the room without a word, casting a look out of the corner of his eye towards the lamenting June, and then a downwards and scathing glance at the Viking buffoon.

How Heinrich wish he had the time to subject him to the meticulous torture of Dr. Richterstein brand psychomancy. He doubted anyone would much mind him doing so, save for the horrific screams inflicted. As it stood however, Heinrich had more pressing matters to attend to, an hour was sufficient enough time for him to prepare.

Heinrich carefully skirted around the large frame of the heaving Viking and made a sharp turn to his right and walked along the hallway leading away from the briefing room. Heinrich had some distance to cover, his quarters were in the furthest region of the Rampart, as far from the personal rooms of the other Valkyries as one could get within the confines of the castle. Heinrich prefered it that way, though he seldom if ever used his room for anything more than the occasional storage of research papers.

With the fey and British occult group, the killer could easily hide themselves in the throng of crazies to get away. She was going to move now. Before just rushing out the window, she stopped. Knowing Bhode's history and strength, just rushing into this headstrong and blind would get her killed. She would need someone with her, one who would know what they were doing. That ruled out the majority of the cast. Only one person in this whole place could work well. Just the thought made her sick. It would mean passing through the hall. A ten foot passage filled with wards and defensive barriers. The walls weren't hard, the nightmare was worse.

Making quick work of getting to the chamber, she entered the hallway and nearly froze. Again the blades rested at her throat, the man's fiery gaze at her. Everything in her mind screamed run, or grab her blade and fight. Several more appeared as she walked the hall, feeling a hairs breadth from getting skewered. The only saving grace was the smell. No matter how hard the illusion was, they could never get the smell right. It was the one thing that helped Lilith get through that.

As he walked down the final corridor he felt the cold tingle of a self-inflicted assault on his mind, and brushed it aside. One of many precautions the doctor had put in place long ago to deter and discourage unsolicited visits to his quarters. Those getting too close without prior invitation or given notice would have to relive their darkest moments, and face their greatest fears. Heinrich had gotten a lot of flak and blowback for this, for awhile it was chief reason why the others despised him, and he suspected it still was.

How easy it was to blame a bout of bad dreams and insomnia on Herr Doktor. The man after all peddled nightmares and illusions as his trade. The thought almost made Heinrich smirk, because, in most cases, they were right. Heinrich couldn’t help but indulged himself in unwitting test subjects, and besides Heinrich had justified to himself, facing one's fears could only make for stronger soldiers. . .or asylum patients.


He approached the bed and with little hesitation, drew back his foot and gave the frame a swift kick, watching the bed slowly spring against the wall like a murphy bed, revealing a hidden wardrobe.
“Ya stell’bsna phlegeth, ya stell’bsna phlegeth, ya, stell’bsna phlegeth, zhro” Heinrich incited in front of the closed doors of the wardrobe and watched as Eldritch runes, written in blood lit up and dripped down to the keyholes, and then with a clicking not dissimilar to that of the winding of a mechanism sounded and the doors creaked open.

On the back of the doors hung various garments, including several Nazi uniforms, neatly pressed and hung with care. Several labcoats hung there was well, many stained beyond repair, with blood and other, more sinister fluids to be sure.

“Frankenstein! Shut the damn illusion down!” Lilith shouted before busting his door open wide, causing it to bang against the wall.

Heinrich pivoted to his left an instance, raising his gun bakchanded to nose level with the sudden and unexpected intrusion of Lilith.
“Lilith?” Heinrich spoke after a brief hesitation, “Vat are you doing here?” Heinrich continued his questioning, as he drew back his gun so that the barrel was parallel to his face. With his right hand he slipped the human leather bound notebook back onto a shelf in the wardrobe hoping that Lilith had not seen it, for any knowledge of its existence outside of his own would only bring trouble.

With his right hand now free, he dispelled the nightmares that were plaguing Lilith. He almost felt sorry for her, she was one of possibly two people outside of Sullivan that Heinrich both liked and appreciate, and who seemed to treat him better than the others.

“Thanks.” Lilith said with a sigh and shaking her head. She gripped her arm carefully and backed up a bit, eyeballing the gun letting a frown cross her face. She did like the doctor quite a bit, yet the illusions were always the worse to go through. Leaning against the wall she studied him carefully.

“I need you. I don't want to leave Bhode's death up to chance, and you know best what were going up against.” Lilith stated calmly to him, looking off to the side. To admit his knowledge being more than hers. As one of the strongest fighters here, requiring the needs of another was odd for her.

“Will you help me?” She asked him.

“What do you have in mind?” Heinrich spoke, switching from English to Draconic, in an attempt to help ease Lilith.

“I want to head out now and take the lead. Sully will hate us but I'll take the heat. With the powers at play here, we need to get a foothold before the rest, and they have a y hour lead on us.” Lilith stated, smoothly slipping into the draconic tongue. It felt more relaxing to talk as is, and helped to visibly relax her.

“A good idea in theory,” Heinrich began, “but tactically unsound, if we encounter the enemy, or they encounter us, we could find ourselves in peril.” Heinrich’s draconic was rough, and rasping, he struggled with the grammatical structuring of his words, but he continued no less, showing the only hint of softness he perhaps had left, as he watched Lilith relax.
“However, I will agree to go with you, after all you can’t go alone.”

“Thank you. A two man cell works the best, even for what we are going into. I'll keep you alive, just make sure I know what I'm fighting if we do get into a fight. I'll let you finish getting ready and meet you out front.” Lilith spoke, slipping back into english at the end. She resisted the urge to hug him before giving him a polite nod and heading to the yard, double checking her gear before sitting on the porch steps.

Heinrich sighed,
“Vell, a suicide mission it is then,” Heinrich spoke to himself, turning back to the wardrobe. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, untied, his bowtie and stripped both from his body. He smoothly undid the clasp on his belt and slipped off his pants.

He stood nude in front of the wardrobe, a bright light glowing from where his cock should be. Heinrich glanced down, and gulped.
“The transvermation is verse then I thought,” Heinrich remarked, looking at the flesh of his thighs, which had taken on a dense protoplasmatic state. Heinrich snapped his eyes forward towards the wardrobe, and began to dress quickly. He chose a simple uniform, reminiscent of a WWII German Officer, and threw on a heavy, black leather trench coat, that hung down to his knees.
Next, he grabbed up his Colt M1911, field stripped it down to it’s raw components, grabbed both his runic barrels, and 12 fully loaded magazines. Finally, he picked up his Grimoire Der Gehrins(sp) and closed the wardrobe back down into a bed, and made to join Lilith.

As the doctor came to join her, Lilith gave a role of her shoulders. She began to shift, taking on her half dragon form and allowing her wings to unfurl. She adjusted her clothing real quick and shifted her backpack to her front and grabbed a blanket out of it.

“It's going to be cold, so wrap yourself up quick, then get on.”Lilith told her companion as she led her way onto the grounds and held her arms cupped behind her, ready to carry him.
Heinrich held onto the blanket awkwardly before attempting to tuck it into his heavy leather jacket.

“Vhanks” Heinrich said, as he climbed onto Lilith.


“You can thank me after Nate tears us a new one.” Lilith chided the man, shifting here companion into an easier resting spot onto her back. She checked her watch, only having spent 30 minutes to get them ready. Giving a few strong flaps of her wings, she took off into the air, disturbing the snow beneath her. Once leveled, she took off, wind pulling her hair taunt with the force of her flying. It wouldn't take them long, and she could already hear Nate yelling at them. She didn't care right now, she just wanted to find this bastard who took down Bhode.