Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => St. Mungo's => London => First Floor: Creature-Induced Injuries => Topic started by: Wolfgang Storm on November 30, 2014, 04:02:58 PM
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"I'll come back later." His wife squeezed his hand before she left his bedside. Wolfgang closed his eyes once again and let the combination of potions take him back to sleep.
His leg was bound in bandages, numbed. It would take at least a week of rest the healers said, then they would assess if was better to keep it or lop it off beneath the knee. He hadn't seen the state of it yet, in a way he didn't want to. He wanted to stay in blissful ignorance of the fact the skin and muscle had been torn by teeth. The claw marks across his shoulders were covered too, though the healers said they were healing well. They would leave permanent scars - larger than the cut Bombay had left on his face with her human hands. He would be forever disfigured.
A healer had come to him quietly about the transformation yesterday evening. Wolfgang had been cursed, that was almost certain, so an emergency dose of wolfsbane potion had been administered shortly after his arrival, not that it had yet proven successful in averting infection, the young man admitted. Wolfgang hadn't wanted to hear what he had to say, in stubborn denial. Despite a craving for bloody meat since the night of the full moon, he had barely eaten, barely spoken. He was waiting for the aurors to come, clap him in a bind and read his fate for Azkaban. He had no idea who had spoken, only that his son had not graced his St Mungo's bedside.
Not knowing how long he had slept, or what time of day it now was, Wolfgang stirred at the feeling of a presence close by. His eyes cracked open, expecting a healer, or a relative. He attempted to move a little on waking, and cried out in pain involuntarily as he moved his leg, the muscles in his calf and ankle still very much raw.
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It didn’t take long for Primrose to come across the very important information that a high profile individual had been involved in a run in with a werewolf. Every full moon there were at least a couple of individuals that were afflicted with the terrible curse, and usually a social worker or someone from the floor would come out and do the rounds with the hospital. It was rare for Primrose to break from the marbled halls for anything, but this had peaked her interest and she was out like a bolt once confirmation of the identity of the victim had been made.
The Storms were an internationally important family with connections to Hogwarts, the Ministry, and Gringotts. It was obvious there would be no issue with registering with the ministry (at least in Prim’s mind) and perhaps an interview on the subject… well; it couldn’t hurt to get that perspective, could it?
She exited the ministry, leaving Gillian in charge of taking calls if they were needed and in her bag, she toted along her parchment and a quill before she floo’d out of the atrium and announced her departure to St. Mungo’s gliding through the fireplace on the other side, her grey shoe (http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/fb/e0/84/fbe08415b4fb6d1b3c67d5eaf5bf1f0e.jpg) clicking against the floor of the hospital. The welcome witch smiled, and Prim turned a strong glance toward her – the corners of the girl’s mouth twitching before falling into a straight line. “I’ve already got the room number I’m visiting,” she announced breezily and walked past, the girl called something behind her, but Primrose couldn’t be bothered. Something about visiting hours?
She hurried to her destination, peeking in through the door first - the patient looked as though he might have been sleeping. Pursing her lips, she pushed the door open a little wider and took a step in. The blinds were pulled shut and the room was unfortunately dark, probably to ensure rest was possible at all times, but still... Lifting her chin, she was pleased when he moved - frowned a little when he called out. "Should I ring for a mediwitch?" Primrose lilted as if it were a foregone conclusion - not so much with warm concern - and stepped closer. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Storm, but I'm with the Werewolf Wing..."
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"No, no, it'll pass…" He replied semi-automatically, wincing and reaching for his leg over the sheets. As the sharp pain lessened, he sank back against the pillows again and squinted at her, trying to focus on what she was saying.
"… with the Werewolf Wing…"
"Are you now." He retorted, looking none too pleased. "Do you have a name, or do you go by your collective body?" She looked like efficiency and paperwork. These were good things in business and money, but not something he necessarily wanted to contend with at that moment. He would much rather drift back to sleep, where he didn't get bothered by anyone, and he wasn't in pain.
"You were just interrupting sleep." He told Primrose with a curl of his lip. "It's a place I'd rather be." He winced again, his lips forming sounds of pain, though he held them in his throat. He dragged his thin frame up the bed a little to sit more upright, anticipating she might be there more than a minute.
"What do you and the bloody Werewolf Wing want with me?" He asked, settling back gingerly. His hands lifted the sheets and arranged them around his waist. His upper body was bare, apart from the dressings on the cuts where the wolf had stood on him and clawed.
"Are you here to poke and prod at me too? They reckon they might have to cut my leg off. Bit bloody late now." His face, which was craggy at the best of times, had aged a few years in the space of days since arriving, and his cheeks were hollow. His eyebrows almost met above his nose a he scowled.
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It wasn’t as though Primrose wanted to be a bother, but she did have a job to do and the recovery of an individual was secondary to the larger purpose she had as a member of the Lycan Legislature. She imagined anyone would understand that once they put themselves in her shoes. “Primrose Cerys Woolfok,” she introduced herself, “and the collective body I work for is Lycan Legislature.”
She did not flinch at his discomfort, and certainly wasn’t perturbed by the fact that he seemed to be in pain. He told her the mediwitch would not be necessary, and she wasn’t going to overstep her bounds. The patient was clearly an adult and could make the choice for himself whether he wanted pain relief or not. He was trying to tell her he’d rather sleep, but that wasn’t going to work for Primrose.
There was a small pang of sympathy for him, but perhaps only as an extension of her pity of most werewolves. She knew he was infected, she’d gotten that much out of the report, and that made life exceedingly more difficult. “I’m sure you’re going to get a number of visitors that will give you other information – and poke and prod,” she smirked a little bit, “but I’m here because we are having a review panel in the next week about current regulations and procedures.” As she spoke he seemed to be getting up and she tried not to even blink at a bare upper body, bandages everywhere.
It was a little too close to home for her, in some ways, but she had thankfully not been in quite the same place as he was. She had certainly looked just as sick, she imagined, and Primrose pulled the chair in the room up to the edge of the bed and took a seat, resting her bag on her lap to pull out her materials. “I’d like you to describe what happened that evening – where were you, what were the circumstances?” she explained quietly, “that’s to start. I’ll ask more questions after your statement.” The quill perched itself on the parchment, waiting for dictation and Prim sat on the edge of the chair, crossing her ankles in wait.
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She had a pretty name, and held herself rather prim too, but for Wolfgang she was government and interference. The throbbing of his leg from moving was making his eyes water ever so slightly.
"… we are having a review panel in the next week about current regulations and procedures." He narrowed his eyes at her and frowned, surprised that a review panel about procedures would warrant a visit to his bedside days after his attack. British Ministry was a little unhinged. One of his bandaged hands went to his shoulder, pressing dressings in place, worried they were slipping.
Primrose took a seat, and Wolfgang watched her pull out a quill and parchment with trepidation. He knew he'd have to recount moments from the full moon to people, but he had to be very careful about which details he went for. The situation he'd been bitten in was incriminating, and he wanted to stay out of Azkaban if he could possibly help it. Unfortunately, by extension this did protect him from naming Hannah - who if found would also know where she had been, or be able to describe it. There were plenty of traps.
"I don't remember." He put it plainly. They said if you told the truth you didn't have to remember what you'd said your lie, but there was the third option of not providing information at all and playing dumb. "Last thing I remember is going to meet my son for a drink." He looked to the ceiling, screwed up his scarred face as if thinking hard.
"I just remember the pain, and the blood, and being brought here. It's all rather a blur." He told Primrose, though didn't look at her throughout, whereas he'd been quite intrigued to stare at her up until then.
"I don't… I don't like to dwell on it." He whispered, and closed his eyes, fingers clutching at the bed sheets. He had to resist the temptation to crack open an eye to see if Primrose appeared to be sympathising.
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Primrose had been around her share of werewolf victims, nearly having been one. She understood the pain of such a circumstance, at least in theory, but he’d declined her offer for assistance, and thus he’d suffer of his own accord. Potions to dull pain existed in order to be administered. It was a fool who didn’t take advantage.
Truth be told, Primrose did not really have concerns over how she presented herself to others. She had business to attend to, she’d attempted pleasantries, and now it was time to get down to why she was here: an interview. Her quill was perched and ready to go, unfortunately, the man on the bed leaned his head back and said he didn’t remember anything.
The quill scratched at the paper as he spoke, copying down the words with precision, each stroke accented by the swift sound of the nib against paper. It stalled as he did, picking straight up when he said drinks with his son. It was all very peculiar to listen to; she highly doubted it was truthful, regardless of what the quill was picking up. The mangled man on the bed had to remember more than that – it wasn’t as though he’d been traumatized the hours before it had happened. He didn’t even give a specific location.
But, she did have to show some decorum as an extension of the ministry: official business could be discarded or investigated if she was not a courteous investigator. “I understand this is all quite difficult, Mr. Storm,” she said in a soft voice, though, again, lacked the warmth of real sympathy. She found it exceedingly difficult to show it. “But I’m afraid I must ask you to try a little bit harder to recall anything further.” She wanted to tell him that wouldn’t be sufficient enough to even begin a conversation on standards and regulations, but the quill was taking down her words too. She needed to be mindful (at least right now) – interrogating an ailing victim was not going to win Primrose any points at all.
But, perhaps he didn’t know where to start: “If,” she started, “at the very least, you remember where about you were when it happened, and perhaps anything you heard,” she ventured to offer suggestions, leaning forward in her chair as the paper floated a little closer, the quill following along and poised to continue on. “I do hope,” her voice was a false sticky sweet, to an extent, and she smiled with tight, closed lips, “you can try a bit harder to recall, so we needn't come back and bother you again."
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"I do hope," Wolfgang echoed, a little more quietly, though with a cold edge as his eyes suddenly snapped to her, "that you won't bother me again." He blinked slowly. "Don't want to hold up that important policy amendment."
He closed his eyes and frowned a little, rifling back through his thoughts. His mind's eye took him back in sharp detail to the swimming baths in Birmingham. He hadn't heard if they'd found the place, or what happened after they left. The original plan had been for certain associates to cleanse the building of any lost limbs so the Muggles didn't start a murder investigation. He had to assume that plan had still been carried out. Even if he'd been mauled, discovery could incriminate so many more.
"We met at the pub but… we didn't stay for a drink." He spoke at last, eyes still closed. "I wanted to show him a place." His eyes flew open as if he'd recalled something new. "You see, Miss Woolfolk, my wife and I only arrived in Britain a month or so to live. We've found a place but it's only a stop gap - quick to get to Gringotts for me." He made small gestures with his hands upon the sheets as he explained.
"I had seen a place outside of London. Wanted my son's opinion on the place." He sighed and closed his eyes, wincing as his leg triggered a nerve up his groin to his discomfort. "We - I must have miscalculated the apparition point."
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Primrose could hardly be intimidated. She knew this was probably an intrusion, but it was important and if they wanted to stop things like this from happening again, they needed to know so they could recommend changes and assess the current procedures and protocols. Badgering one man would have to be acceptable in the face of the consequences if she did not.
So, she paid his short comment no mind and tilted her head a little, poised to wait for him to recollect. The quill hovered above the parchment, at the ready, but made no movement until he started speaking. Primrose listened with interest, however, and leaned forward in her seat.
The pub bit didn’t interest her, and she cared even less about his personal life, but she focused on his face as he spoke as if it was the only thing in the world she cared to listen about at all. He was not long winded, mind, but Primrose felt the extra details were unnecessary and she couldn’t care about him and his wife, or the background of what he was doing – merely where he was.
It sounded as though he didn’t quite know, however, and that put Primrose in a rather odd spot. Nodding slowly, she cleared her throat and sat up straighter in the chair, no longer leaning as though she hung on every word. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she managed to say and took a breath before she pressed him further.
When satisfied that enough time had passed, Prim tilted her head. “You don’t happen to remember anything significant about the place you apparated to by chance?” she offered, “Any distinguishing features or the name of the town perhaps? I’d like to be able to check the registry and any potential safe houses that might have been overlooked in the area.” Sometimes it helped to explain just a bit of where your question was coming from and why it was being asked. She hoped it would perhaps open him up a bit more... on the important details.
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“You don’t happen to remember anything significant about the place you apparated to by chance? Any distinguishing features or the name of the town perhaps? I’d like to be able to check the registry and any potential safe houses that might have been overlooked in the area.” Wolfgang looked to her with mild interest. She was, after all, just trying to do her job and lock up rogue werewolves. He wondered if Hannah's disappearance had been noticed yet, or if she had even been found.
"I've been trying to remember, Ms Woolfolk." He told her, a frown on his face, "Mind plays funny tricks. I don't know whether it's real or what I've dreamed of since. All I know is that the wolf was upon me almost instantly the moment we got there. No warning, no hesitation. All I can think of is that I apparated straight into the cage of one of those animals." He winced and shook his head. "I was aiming for Birmingham, I can get the address of where I was heading, might help?" He looked to Primrose, making out this was the best he could do, "It's the British geography, that's why I stick to money... I wish I could give you an exact depiction. Were there any missing werewolves that night? Did you find anything?"
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Again, the rambling was not quite what Primrose was looking for. The quill was busily scrawling all of the words on the parchment, and for a moment, she wished she could still it whenever he hit a topic she did not care for so she wouldn’t have to review it later. Goodness knew Gillian would certainly here about it from her desk just outside Prim’s door.
She had to focus to listen, however, and appear as though she looked interested. It was all amounting very quickly to uncertainty. Ignorance of location seemed strange. Not even a sign or a village? He said it happened quickly, and it did, but Prim found it hard to believe he wouldn’t. But her ears perked up, “animals?” she raised her eyebrows, “Was there more than one present, Mr. Storm?” she asked with a little bit more concern – and interest – in this case.
“The address would be very helpful,” she added with a curt nod, glancing over to make sure the quill was still moving. Her lips were pursed with thought though. His curiosity seemed odd – it was not concern for justice – did you find my attacker yet? It was asking about evidence… Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, in suspicion. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard from the investigators yet. They’re notoriously slow on paper,” she attempted a lighthearted comment, but it was delivered (like she felt) flat.
Smacking her tongue on the top of her mouth, Primrose’s eyebrows remained furrowed. “Right now, I’m merely here to record your experience. You mentioned you had wanted to show your son your cottage – where can I find the succeeding Mr. Storm, should I have more questions?”
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Despite her niceties, Wolfgang could sense a growing impatience. He wasn't able to deliver straightforward, easy answers of exactly where he was. If he had been able to speak freely, he could have given her chapter and verse, but to do so would incriminate himself as well as the others, and he couldn't bargain on whether Hannah would remember and confess either. Musgrave was bottom of the food chain, which left his absent son as the only unpredictable party left with part of a conscience.
"Cottage?" Wolfgang echoed, Woolfolk's query. "Reach me that copy of the paper." He pointed halfheartedly at a folded copy of the Daily Prophet, just out of reach at the table at the foot of the bed.
Unfolding the paper, he leafed through it to the property section, doubled it back and folded it over before extending it to Primrose.
"Two bedrooms, walking distance of the city centre. A flat, my dear. A cottage we can only dream of with our wages, and it wouldn't be in Birmingham." Woolfolk probably lived a comfortable life with her quills and fancy handbags. He doubted she'd ever fallen on hard times. Wolfgang could imagine her in a cottage, with rambling roses up the side of the door.
"I thought you might have caught up with my son already?" Wolfgang asked, frowning. "He's not been to see me. Waste of bloody space, he wasn't any use. Look at the state of me." He grumbled and gestured to the state of himself.
"Besides, he works at the Ministry. Languages. Bit of a smart arse."
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Prim handed him the paper without a thought to her words. She didn’t consider a cottage to be anything spectacular. To her, it even seemed like a humble dwelling, so there was a small amount of embarrassment when he handed her the paper and indicated that he was on his way to a flat – much humbler by far than her ideas of what appropriate living space for a human being would be.
Her eyes searched the paper and she nodded before grabbing the quill to note the address that was the intention. “Well, this could be helpful, regardless,” she said without commitment to it actually being helpful. An intended destination would only get them so far, but at the same time if the locations sounded similar or there was some kind of correlation… Prim had to take whatever she could get.
She laid the paper down on the table next to the hospital bed and let a breath out. “Unfortunately not,” Primrose informed him at the query about his son. She looked at the quill to make sure it had picked up with him talking – sure enough the dictation function hadn’t gone out and it was sliding across the page. “I can, perhaps, track him down and direct him to you?” she smirked, “if that would even be beneficial to the healing process. I’m fairly certain I’ve heard healers discourage agitating guests to those in recovery.”
Smoothing her hands over the skirted portion of her robe, Primrose sniffed. “If there’s nothing else, I should probably be on my way,” she stood from the chair, still letting the parchment and quill hang in the air as she dug through her bag. “If you need anything – or a memory comes back,” she extracted a slip of paper with shimmering letters engraved on it – her name and office in the ministry on the card she held out to him, “please don’t hesitate to contact me. I’d like to check in again, if at all possible.”
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Wolfgang made an incomprehensible grunt in response to Woolfolk's offer to find his son.
"Just tell him his mother wants a word if you do find him." He glanced about. "If I had my wand I'd hex him into next week on sight." The thin wizard glanced about himself for the wand, but it was being kept safe, or hadn't been recovered. He hadn't found out about it yet.
With great luck, it appeared she was leaving, though it wasn't with what she wanted. Wolfgang licked his lips as she spoke about his memory coming back. It wouldn't be unless it was to his advantage to ensure Hannah Bombay was locked up and he wasn't.
"I'll be sure to let you know Miss Woolfolk. With time, memories might clear. All these potions they give me…" He attempted to give a shrug and regretted it, his expression reflecting the pain. He reached a hand out and took her card a little swiftly as a result, grimacing at her.
"Come by, if you find the wolf, we'll have balloons and cake." He told her sarcastically.
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“Noted,” Primrose smirked. For however useless this man was in giving information, he was certainly entertaining. She was half disappointed she didn’t get that on the parchment and that it was already packed away in her little bag. “I will, perhaps forgo the warning on your behalf, so you’ll have the jump should you get your wand back.”
Of course, it was an interesting point – if his wand was missing, there was bound to be a report of a missing wand in magical law enforcement… or someone would do something terrible with it – what else would you do with a stolen wand? Perhaps it would come up. Primrose would need to put in words with the aurors. That was always a “treat.”
But, because this was an attack there would clearly be many departments involved and once the Capture Unit began their investigation she’d have a little more luck dealing with them, she supposed. She did not flinch when he shrugged with pain. She had half a mind to send a healer in after she left to administer some more of those memory-addling potions.
“I’ll bring my own, should that occur,” she smiled (in a sort of biting way) and backed toward the door. “I look forward to seeing you after your recovery, Mr. Storm. And please, remember to contact me.” She turned, adjusting her bag on her shoulder and walked out of the hospital room. She considered what she had: a missing wand, a son who had disappeared, and an address. More queries would be written almost immediately upon return to the office, that was for certain.
End