Absit Omen RPG
Role-Play Boards => London => Muggle London => Topic started by: Knox Greyfriar on July 27, 2019, 07:16:39 PM
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7 January 2012
Saturday at 4pm
The British Museum, London
Two days before the full moon.
A tall man in his 50 with a black beard and a long coat stood at the edge of the crowd that always seemed to surround the Rosetta Stone. He was inconspicuous insomuch that he was one of many gazing inward at the priceless artifact, but if anyone looked away and up at the man, they'd note that he looked quite ill. There were dark circles around his eyes and his bulk seemed faded.
Unknown to any of them, this man was Knox Greyfrair and he was a werewolf. Like all others of his affliction the nearer the full moon came, the more difficulty the body and mind had keeping the beast contained. The only thing that could alleviate the pain and come close to chaining the violence that would come was a steady application of Wolfsbane Potion. It had to be consumed consistently and lapses in that sacred routine could mean death, dismemberment, and other disasters.
Greyfrair was a man of significant privilage despite the curse. He was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, a published historian, and an Elder on the Wizengamot. He was a registered werewolf with the Ministry of Magic, perhaps most important of all, which allowed him a supply of clean and legal Wolfsbane Potion. But not everyone had his luck.
Savvina Katapodis (https://absitomen.com/index.php?action=profile;u=10578) for one. Horatio Higgins for another.
Greyfriar had met Savvina only once. He didn't know her name then, but had put the pieces together. What had been most consequential was that Savvina knew Greyfriar's name and had given that name to the werewolf hunter Kurby Bagnold who'd done nothing with it. Just paid a visit.[1]
Horatio, Greyfriar knew a little better. Single father of four, celebrating a new job. Horatio was one of a handful of unregistered werewolves who, like, Savvina needed help acquiring safe Wolfsbane Potion. Greyfriar had the connections and resources to make this happen. But once his name had come out of Savvina's mouth, things had become complicated.
It had taken some time to secure a channel, but it was finally nearly complete. He just needed one more thing, something that an old friend called Aristotle could provide: a problem.
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The problem Aristotle provided stood six feet tall in a leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, black t-shirt, and boots, with a shaved skull resembling a concrete wall under a freeway overpass graffiti'd by the more artistically inclined members of a street gang. Zoe Sappho Cassandra Antonopoulos slouched and smirked at the Rosetta Stone. An Egyptian man steals a necklace from a tomb in his backyard and is imprisoned for grave robbing. A government finances the whole-scale looting of the Valley of the Kings and it's called archaeology. Zoe hawked a glob of thick green mucus from her lungs, but resisted the urge to splatter it all over the polished glass case. Instead, she let it loll in on her tongue for a moment, then swallowed it back down with a chug of her throat. She'd swallowed a countless number of similar urges in her 41 years of life; as always, it left her nauseous from brine and slime.
The werewolf stood unmistakable in the crowd, at least to her. He looked like hell. Underneath his eyes the skin sagged purple, but the eyes themselves were clear and sharp. He examined the stolen stone like a professional. Not someone in her profession, but someone in Aristotle's. A scholar. A student of shit that didn't matter. Someone with privilege and the luxury to devote his life to something other than putting food on the table. Zoe almost walked away. Mister Saggy-Eyed Werewolf needed Wolfsbane Potion -- that was immediately clear -- and she was sorely tempted to just let him suffer. In two days all hell would break loose... But she knew it wouldn't. In the same way she knew her 1987 Yamaha FZ650 would catch and wail when she turned the key in the ignition, she knew that this man would not be roaming the streets of London as a wolf in two nights time. Why not? She had no idea. Maybe she was going to get him his Wolfsbane. Maybe he'd relocate to the Yorkshire moors. Maybe the moon would fall out of the sky. She had no idea. But he would not be a werewolf in London on this turn of the full moon, of this she was sure.
She shrugged and the buckle on her motorcycle jacket clinked. Aristotle. Their relationship was complicated, but when he contacted her from back in Athens and asked her to help an old friend of his, she'd agreed. It hadn't been worth arguing about at the time. Of course, Aristotle hadn't told her exactly who she'd be helping, and now that she saw the man she was inclined to let him suffer. His clothes were finely made. His nails carefully manicured. And it occurred to Zoe he would make a fine mark. Help him now, bide her time, redistribute his wealth at a later date. It was as good a plan as any. And it would make Aristotle happy, for what that was worth. Zoe had never really been able to pin down the worth to her of Aristotle's happiness. It kept shifting, like the Pachies Ammoudies of the Lemnos desert, the landscape of their association remade again and again over the course of their thirty-odd years together.
For now, Zoe decided, she would help the poor, desperate werewolf. Because it suited her to, and for no other reason than that.
She stepped forward into the wereworlf's blind spot, just behind and to the right of his right shoulder. Let's see what kind of power you have, old man...
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As the crowd moved gently around him, Knox was aware he was a stone in a river. The water the ebb of time and, like an ancient pedestal, Knox supported - oh, damn. What was that now? He thought he smelled something old and familiar and that got him patting at his pockets and in the process bumped into someone at his right. It took two glances, one quick and one lingering, to take in who it was. She was nearly at his eye level, dressed like one of the more unpleasant four horsemen, and looked like she'd as soon rob him as - no. No, that was it. It had to be her.
From his pocket he found a cigar. He regarded the tall witch.
"Miss Antonopoulos, I very much hope so. You know me, I think."
A guy like Knox, he had some kind of smile for most people. For Aristotle's student he offered a wary one, like he didn't want to spook a feral cat. At the same time, he didn't want to embolden someone that radiated chaos.
"They won't let me do this here." He gestured with the cigar. "Someplace quieter? If you'll permit me, Miss Antonopoulos, you do stick out."
He was aware of the irony.