Absit Omen RPG

Iona obviously agreed. She’d had an indescribable amount to lose. It had never been just her implicated by the job; and while she’d realised it, she’d never really understood it until the attack. Since the age of 19, it hadn’t been just her, for she’d quite literally fallen into Zora’s life. Then, eight years later, they’d brought Waverley into their lives. That made two people who had to bear the weight of the transformed witch every month. She wasn’t sure she’d ever thanked them for being there.

Bruce frowned, glancing over Louvelle. He’d explained he was lodging with Spectre. Whether alone or not, he’d not stated. Did he have anyone close in his life that had been affected by his own bite?

Allowing the healer to explain his plan made Iona slightly anxious. She knew she’d taken the potion which should dull the sensations, but the thought of anyone trying to manipulate her left leg set her desperately on edge. It was better, she accepted, to keep talking. The distraction helped a little. What it didn’t help with, however, was her stiffening as his hands found her thigh and ankle.

“Impolite!” Bruce burst out, a little more vigorous than she’d liked but the unpleasant sensation in her leg rather forced it out. She dug her fingernails into her hips. “Count yourself lucky, Robin. My face has been plastered all over the Daily Prophet so I’d settle for the pretence that people don’t see.
“I have a designated drawer at work, charmed to burn the howlers before they can open. It’s not because I’m the ex-Head of the WCU, either.”

Waverley lingered in the doorway, hovering between the safer corridor and the unfamiliar room. She was teetering, clearly unsure what to do, and Iona wasn’t quick enough to summon her over.

Thankfully, the mediwitch offered some advice, and it was all Waverley needed to bridge the distance and envelope her mother in a hug. Despite herself, Iona winced as Wav leaned onto her. Her leg may have been the worst of the injuries, but her stomach now bore a deep set of claw marks. Mercifully, potions and spells were working their magic on those lacerations. Werewolf scratches were far easier to heal than bites.

Despite the surging pain, Iona gripped Waverly as tightly as she could, closing her eyes and breathing her in. There’d been a moment before blacking out where she’d thought she may never get to hold her again. There’d been several moments when Iona had been quite certain she’d be making Zora a widow and leaving Waverley with only one parent.

 “I am.” Iona lied through tears as she weakly smoothed down Waverley’s curly hair. When Wav withdrew from the hug, Iona dropped her hands, clasping her daughters’ to give them what she attempted to be a squeeze. It only ended up being a weak grasp at best. “Going…” she paused, letting out a slow breath and closing her eyes. Resting her head against the pillow, Iona tried again. “Going to have some ah…some bad…badass scars.” She spoke slowly, as if something were affecting her speech. Being heavily dosed up on pain potions and sedatives did that to a person.

Not one to accept help from a healer and then ignore it, Bruce obeyed and allowed him to shift her left leg away from her right. She rested her hands on her hips, feeling utterly ridiculous, but hoping this wizard could work at least some magic on her tumultuous limb.

“That happens to most werewolves after their bite. People show their true colours. The werewolf thing is a problem.” Bruce said with a raise of her eyebrows. One person stuck in her head so clearly. Kurby Bagnold and she had been close. Some of Level 4 had even used the term ‘work spouses’ when describing them. Bruce had been his mentor since he’d joined the WCU as a seventeen-year-old apprentice. He’d done his job the night of the attack and then no word for the years until she returned to the Werewolf Wing as his boss once more. That had hurt, and despite them falling back into similar habits, it still did.

“I...mmmmm” she paused, breathing out as he began to move her leg. “I managed twenty-two years working in the Werewolf Capture Unit so I quite stupidly thought of myself as invincible and totally badass. That blew up in my face when I had to face my mortality.” She frowned, closing her eyes as the ache, now duller than before, moved through the torn-up thigh. “Before, it was a job. I had to protect my team and the public. It’s not just a job anymore, and I guess my team has expanded. My priorities have changed.”

It was weird, talking like this to a complete stranger, but there was often a kinship with other werewolves, and Robin Louvelle was clearly an easy person to talk with. What would Athena say when she found out her Brucie had been seeing another healer??

Typical wizarding kind, really. Make it taste good for children but if it was worth it for the effect, the potion had to be disgusting. nothing was ever just simple, everything had to be some sort of a challenge.

Following orders, Bruce twisted on the bed to allow her legs to dangle down off the side. As gravity took her left limb, she visibly winced, taking in a rush of air through gritted teeth. Fingertips gripped the sheet below her, trying to focus her energy elsewhere.

For a friend who was lodging with Spectre, Robin seemed to know little about him. Or perhaps he didn’t fancy sharing. That was fine, Bruce got that; she wasn’t a gossip. But she felt the need to talk about something if they were going to be in this room during this extended treatment. It was like going to a hair salon (not that Bruce knew too much about that one) where one felt obliged to engage in conversation simply to prevent awkward silences.

“Yes, they lunch together. It’s all very public.” Bruce smiled. It was quite the opposite to her and her wife who’d spent about 18 years working on different floors with none of Zora’s colleagues even knowing about her. “I’m not one to know what he was before now, really. I was out of the game for nearly 3 and a half years. People can change beyond recognition in that time.”

Clearly, it was better to put her intentions and propositions to Spectre alone rather than during a meeting. Catch him at the end of the day where he’d be more pliable in the hopes of getting rid of her to go home. It was how she’d managed with management back in her WCU days. It seemed to be how Bagnold managed with her now. Bagnold, however, often held her to ransom over something else, a trick she’d not taught him in her mentorship.

The further Bruce got into the job, she more holes she found with the systems in place within the Werewolf Wing. When Carter had invited her in to offer her the job, he’d had to really sell it to her. Bruce hadn’t been at all keen on the possibility of returning to the Ministry. He had also insisted that she would be perfect because of her perspective. He’d explained how one struggled to see flawed systems if they were unaffected by them. Bruce knew more than anyone in the leadership of the ministry exactly how the werewolf curse could affect someone. Having been employed by Carter, however, Bruce had understood that she would have a certain level of support to push through any ideas and new schemes. Balfour was an unknown and she still wasn’t sure if she truly had his support. Did he have similar agendas to his predecessor? At least this meeting was causing that assumption to lean in her direction rather than against.

“It should be supported through the Ministry.” Bruce said quietly, frowning. She wasn’t trying to be obtuse on this one, but it was something she strongly believed. “It is our responsibility to protect the public, and if they’ve been attacked by a werewolf, that is on us.”
No promises. But he would try. Maybe Balfour wasn’t turning into a politician just yet. Didn’t they make promises they intended to break?

“I can put it to the Minister myself, if necessary.” Bruce gave a strained smile and raise of her ginger eyebrows. “You take my buddy Solomon and I’ll chat to Glass.”

“Better you than me.” Iona avoided having to deal with Solomon Carstairs if she could. And Fournier? While she worked with him and was perfectly professional, she’d never quite forgiven him for emptying her heavily potioned coffee back in February

“One other thing, Boss.” Bruce began, making no move to leave now their first order of business was practically complete. “I’m not sure how much you know about WCU employment contracts, but if you are taken out of commission in the line of duty, you, or your family should you be killed, receive a pay-out. If you survive, you get a pension on top. It is what meant I didn’t have to work. I was in a privileged position.” It felt ridiculous saying it. Almost four years ago, Bruce had been bitten, mauled and almost lost her life or her leg. Most wouldn’t call that privileged.

“Too many of our wards don’t have the privilege of being looked after by their places of employment. They have to work, but no one will have them. That is not something I want to continue on my watch. We need systems in place to support them. Lists of werewolf friendly employers, financial help for those that can’t work or can’t find work.”

Thursday, 18th September 2008
St Mungo's Hospital
1st Floor - Creature Injuries

Iona was just surfacing from yet another sleep. She’d spent the past several days drifting in an out of consciousness thanks to the cocktail of potions being pumped into her. Most times, she woke with a deliriousness, needing to reacquaint herself with her surroundings and her new reality. The pain, dulled significantly by the potions, served as a vivid reminder of what had happened. Iona Ballentyne had been bitten and mauled in the line of duty and she was never going to set out on a full moon to chase werewolves again.

For several days, it had been questionable as to whether she would live. Now, the question was whether she would walk unaided. As far as the witch was able to recall from her spaced out conversations with Marrowbone, the healer still wasn’t sure if she would need to take the leg. What was certain, however, was that the curse had gotten into her blood and she had a few weeks before she experienced her first transformation as a hunter turned werewolf.

“Zo…” Iona’s eyes flickered open, glancing around as they came into focus.

“She’ll be back, love.” The mediwitch gave Iona’s hand a squeeze, “Gone to Hogwarts for your girl.” Waverley. They’d agreed to tell Waverley because they couldn’t not.

Breathing in slowly, Iona closed her eyes again, letting her mind drift back into a sleepy state.

It was a couple of hours later when the noise in the room stirred Iona again. This time, the potions must have been wearing off because she felt more aware of herself and her surroundings. The pain, thankfully, wasn’t overwhelming.

The healers and mediwitches had done an excellent job of cleaning their newest werewolf patient up. The mud and blood she’d been caked in out in the woods had been long since cleared off and she was fresh and clean. Curly red hair had been plaited and fell in a messy braid down over her right shoulder. The most striking part of her appearance was the witch’s pallor, for she looked as if all blood had been drained from her body and thoroughly exhausted despite the copious hours of sleep. The sheets were pulled up to her chest, hiding the grim reality beneath.

Bruce, nicknamed after a Scottish hero and warrior, had believed she would be strong when Wav arrived. No one needed to see their mum in such a state. But the second her and Zo appeared in the door, tears filled her eyes.
“I-I’m…fine” the weak voice spoke, “promise.”

Catching up on lost time. It made Bruce think of Bagnold and all of the time they’d lost because of his reaction to her turning. Had it been similar for this Canadian healer, she wondered. Was Balfour Spectre the sort to disown his friend for becoming a werewolf?

“Everyone’s got secrets, Healer.” The witch said with a shrug as she took the glass from him. Spectre, for example, had a secret son and a past love affair with a witch who enjoyed hunting werewolves and murdering people. “Spectre is definitely not unique, there.”

A look of distaste twisted Bruce’s expression when she glanced down into the glass. From her experience with healers and their potions, these things never tasted pleasant, and she’d already been feeling nauseous all day. Regardless, she lifted it to her lips and took the whole thing in in several large gulps. Always better to gulp than sip these things, after all.

“Glurgh!” She groaned, offering the glass back. “You can’t make this stuff taste like strawberries or wine? Always feet or rotting fruit.”

Ask and you shall receive. Kurby had asked and Bruce had answered. The fact that Kurby was suddenly looking uncomfortable about Bruce’s answer spoke volumes to the witch who was still acutely aware that her being a werewolf was the big ass dragon (or rather wolf) in the room. Bagnold had a pretty huge problem with it, as evidenced by 3 years of no contact after the attack. She’d become what he hunted and their friendship would never return to what it had been because of it. He’d asked, and she’d given him just a tiny taste of what it was like in her boots.

During the moment’s silence, Bruce scanned over one of the documents before reaching for a quill. He quill was irritatingly much easier to find on the clear desk. Blue eyes danced up when Spectre was brought up. Despite herself, Kurby’s words caused her lips to twist into a small smile.

“Indefinitely.” Countered Bruce. With a flourish, she added her signature to the bottom of the parchment and moved it to a fresh new pile of completed documents. “I thought people here were backwards but now I’m just imagining other countries. Spain can’t be alone in their prejudice.” British werewolves and the British wizarding public were Bruce’s problem, though. She knew she couldn’t get herself bogged down wanting to fix the world in one fell swoop.

“Is this the response most of our werewolves get as well?” She mused, more to herself. “Those not in a privileged position?” Bruce knew she’d been better off than most. She’d not needed to seek work because the Ministry had paid her a comfortable retirement pension due to being injured in the line of duty. Others didn’t get that support.

The healer’s touch may have been light and delicate, but Bruce was grimacing as he examined her damaged limb. A white-hot pain surged from her calf upwards and she found herself gripping the sheet on the bed to stop a groan.

“Not just the leg” the mutter came at the mention of tension. Ballentyne’s jobs had always come with a certain level of tension but being the Head of the Werewolf Wing had reached a new level of tense.

“Ffyc na” The witch swore in Welsh when her stand-in healer suggested a massage. He appeared to agree that that would be a terrible idea.

“I’m not gonna’ lie, I’m starting to think it would be easier if someone just hacked it right off and gave me a wooden peg. Let’s see the wolf have a midnight party then.” Athena had done everything she could to save the leg, and Iona appreciated it, but she did often wonder if an amputation would have been easier in the long term. One could perhaps learn to adapt to that better than constant aching and pain.

Blue eyes scanned over the large wizard as she considered what his own bite must be like or how it had happened. It wasn’t a question you just asked. If she was inclined in such a way, she could have read his registration paperwork that he’d filed on arrival in the UK, but that just felt like an invasion of privacy. This wizard, like so many other werewolves, was walking fine, if he just looked a little unkempt. His scar was clearly hidden better, not detrimentally affecting his daily life.

“I’ve got time.” Before leaving work, Iona had sent a memo to Zora on Level 2. “Heal me, Healer. Then maybe you can enlighten me with all sorts of secrets about your friend, the scotsman.” Fat chance of that.

‘Oh, here we go,’ Bruce thought, not giving much consideration to the fact that she’d asked for Gamp’s speech about his principles. His point? He stood for the beings that couldn’t stand for themselves. Yadda yadda, poor vampires being unable to legally drink humans dry. Bruce pressed her lips together, all too aware that she really was taking what she wanted to hear from Gamp and not what he was really saying. She was sure he was a nice wizard, he just didn’t really seem to be her cup of tea.

“I didn’t have a choice, Gamp,” Iona replied, raising her eyebrows. “Most vampires did.” Despite herself, the witch knew that this wasn’t a fight worth having right now. Gamp had brought up the nickname and she’d simply explained it. Maybe she was quick to judge but it hadn’t served her too badly in her lifetime.

After a moment, Bruce shrugged her shoulders. “So maybe you’re not permanently straddling the fence. I was just going off impressions so far.”

An entire Peking duck. The giant of a wizard looked like he could eat a whole flock of Peking ducks and still ask for dessert. It wasn’t uncommon for Bruce, despite the exhaustion, to not eat the day following a transformation for the fear of seeing the food again in a very different state. Peking duck was certainly out of the question.

With the attention turned back to the reason Bruce was actually sat on the hospital bed, she looked down at the grim excuse for a left leg. The wolf had had a damned good attempt at ripping it from her hip socket during the attack. Flesh had been torn from the limb and now it remained a skinny and mangled mess of angry red scarring and a lack of any real muscle. Athena Marrowbone had done an excellent job at saving the limb, but despite all of her efforts, Bruce still relied heavily on a walking cane as she couldn’t comfortably place any weight on it.

“I think my furry alter ego forgets that my leg is as sturdy as cooked spaghetti. Normally, I can at least limp about a bit but not today. Bones will chew my ear off if I don’t come in when it’s worse than normal so here I am, doing as the boss says.” It was easy to make light of it and not really talk about the blinding pain she’d felt almost all day. At work and home, Iona would try to play it down, to not show weaknesses. Often with Bones, she would also try to act like it bothered her less. Unfortunately, now, this was affecting her work, even if she did mostly sit behind a desk.

A cousin. The young Beast apprentice had simply brought his cousin onto level four for what? A day out?

Bruce had spoken at their club. “I did” she said plainly, still wondering exactly why the young Pepper cousin was wondering around in the Werewolf Wing main corridor.

"Was hoping to see the cells,"

Iona blinked.

With the words that were momentarily failing Bruce with the many things engaging her mind right now, Dido nicely rebuked the young girl. Taking a moment to consider the nerve of asking such a thing, Bruce leaned heavily on her cane. Dido offered to take them, and the head of the werewolf wing shook her head.

“You want to understand? It’s the worst night of your life every 29 or 30 days.” Bruce started, slowly, her welsh accent punctuating every syllable. “Imagine you’re arriving a couple of hours before nightfall. It’s your cell, the same every month for you. So, in you go. It’s cold and no natural light. You get to make one decision during your entire visit. Do you strip off and hand the attendant your clothes or do you waste another set of clothes but maintain your dignity just that little bit longer? Can you even afford to waste some clothes because, you know, it’s hard to keep a job when you’ve got the big fat werewolf sign on your head? You wait around, often totally naked, and not having eaten for a few hours, it affects the wolfsbane, you see. And then the pain comes, worse than any pain you can imagine as every inch of your body transforms against its will. You wake up hours later, naked and cold and exhausted with no memory of what the wolf did. Maybe you’re lucky and you don’t feel much different. Maybe you are overwhelmed with nausea and pain. At least you know that that cell kept you and the people around you safe. That cell was your private space for those few hours that you lost yourself to a curse you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.”

“I think we can give my fellow werewolves their privacy and give their sanctuaries a miss.” It wasn’t said with a harsh tone, more pointed than anything else. Bruce saw herself as the gate keeper for those under the Werewolf Wing.

Iona and Zora had often been called a pair. They had always just fit. Always friends first. Athena was quite right, if they hadn’t had plans, Bruce may not have been hanging around at home waiting to head to bed alone. For a woman so strong and independent, she hated sleeping alone. Having that presence next to her was calming, especially when she was still sometimes haunted by nightmares of the night that had turned her from hunter to hunted.

“Wav moved out months ago, Bones. We’ve got an empty nest, now.” That came with both its advantages and its drawbacks. No more half-finished drinks lying around or late night wake ups by the drunken young witch coming home. But away from home, they had even less idea what their wayward vampire meeting daughter was up to, a fact which often kept Bruce awake at night.

One glass was offered to Athena and they clinked glasses in a quick toast across the counter before Iona lifted hers to her lips for a swig.
“Vincent,” She crooned, grinning. “That’s lasting.”

Healer Marrowbone was a tall, well kempt witch with a strong character and an engaging presence. Marrowbone was the healer that had been on shift most full moons throughout Bruce’s career in the WCU. Marrowbone’s Leeds accent calmed Bruce’s nerves, probably because her own wife spoke in the same accent. Marrowbone had saved Bruce’s life when she’d been hanging over the edge of the abyss. Marrowbone was about the only healer Bruce ever saw.

The wizard stood just inside the cubicle may have been even larger than Bruce’s favourite healer, but he was certainly not her Bones. His beard was overgrown and his hair fairly long. To Bruce, he looked hungover and he was certainly not from the North of England or even this island.

Louvelle…Louvelle. Why did she recognise the name?

A little taken aback by the healer offering his hand to her, Bruce took it for a shake, blue eyes shooting down to meet the tattoo on his wrist. A friend of Balfour’s. She gave an equally firm grip before letting go.

“Right…” Then it clicked and Bruce’s brows rose, realising that she was now sat in her knickers, mauled leg bared to her boss’ friend, a fellow werewolf now under her care and responsibility. This scruffy looking giant was also working post full moon transformation.

“Then you experienced my hospitality last night. Lucky you. I hear the tea and toast is great, not that I’ve ever been able to stomach it.”