Absit Omen RPG

He had explicitly stated not to mention the mating habits of sea creatures and yet...!!!

In response to Sasha's many questions about mate stealing and metamorph abilities, Rascal simply raised a finger to his lips and spoke in a mock whisper while he leaned forwards. "Sssh! They'll hear you! Water is an excellent conductor for sound. You'll have to contact the proprietors in writing but I understand it was a very traumatic incident. And you wouldn't want to bring back bad memories on purpose, now would you?"

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. The pursuit of knowledge was not always a smooth one. Very lobsterlike indeed. Rascal was about to say as much when he felt something clumsy prodding at the periphery of his natural mental defences.

What was this? A spy? His gaze shifted to the one who wasn't very lobsterlike, to Virgil, who had clearly realised his mistake. What a nosey little boy. Clearly shoulders over toes for Cepheus. Was making assumptions out loud. Appeared younger every time he looked at the Division Head. Classic symptoms.

"Afraid we only stopped to say hello." Rascal dragged his suspicious gaze from Virgil, grinning boyishly instead at both Sasha and Nicholas. "I must misuse Cepheus' ears in private, to debate glowing cephalopods and plots to take over sandcastles in Brighton. Very hush hush. Another time, maybe?"

Rascal only ever visited  The Closet for their quiz nights. No, that wasn't true, he sometimes visited to help them prepare for London Pride, but he didn't count it among his regular establishments. Largely as an act of mercy to the wixes who came here for freedom and peace, not marching mannequins[1]. Cepheus would keep him in check tonight.

No madcap adventures, not on a Monday night. Maybe.

              "What's your opinion about recreational versus relationship sex?"

What lobsterlike friends, Ceph had. Rascal shook hands with the two who got up, ""What, they haven't reached sea creatures and footwear yet?" he replied affably to the one named Sasha. The other one looked intimidated. Not lobsterlike at all. He turned his head to Nick, conversationally.

"I can't be one hundred percent sure," he began as if though the question had been posed to him instead of the wizard whose arm was linked with his. "But the mating habits of sea creatures are taboo conversations in this club. Bad incident with a cuttlefish. And I don't think squids have relationships, so you're barking up the wrong tree."

Rascal looked back at the group in general, pleased to be meeting these young mammals! "Not that squids can be found in trees. Keep that in mind for the sea creature round."

1.	Eccentric Author Leads Mannequin Army Down Diagon as People Scream - 24th Oct 2010

They were unexpectedly, though not unpleasantly, joined by a third familiar face. It was none other than Flint! Rascal's nostalgic little smile broke into a cheerful grin at his friend's inability to repress joy. He hugged her and glanced at the wizard behind the bar to ask for another of their Hibiscus thingies.

"I'm only consistent in my fiction, not correspondence!" he winked before allowing his attention to be drawn to the beam in question. Ah yes. It really was a fantastic job. Better than shoe horse crabs, this repair. This reimagining.

             "Did you do that over your chips gone cold?"

The author laughed, nudging Andromeda's leg with the tip of his Oxford shoes. She was much wittier than he expected - but how dare he underestimate Cepheus' flesh and blood?

"I hope Josie had the sense not to let her chips go cold," Rascal smiled at the other witch with  bit of mischief, "But come tell: there's no better time than at an event like this. Is there a story behind the carving?"

He squinted in mock suspicion at the goblet of pumpkin juice that they had been served, and glanced up only to bow his head in thanks for Andromeda having paid for their drinks - it was kind of her. And it gave them a reason to stick together for the rest of the evening, which was what one always did if a friend bought rounds. Everyone else looked much too officious or sloshed to be fun anyway.

They toasted. Rascal laughed and echoed, "Phoenixes! The Leaky Cauldron!"

What went down his throat was not, thank Poseidon, a Gurdyroot syrup. It was much sweeter. In fact, it made the pumpkin juice taste almost like tangy candy.

"Huh, what is that he put in?" the auror was right to query.

"Bit floral, isn't it?" Rascal made a show of thinking, leaning against the bar while others around them called out their orders. "And we know it's red-" he glanced at the pinkish hue that their pumpkin juice had taken on, "- but not rose. Nor grenadine. Hibiscus? Hibiscus!" he took another, more hearty sip.

Yes. It was good. The author looked around the bar, leaning in a little closer to his friend. "It's crowded now but how long do you think before it will be.... back to normal?" Despite the serious subject, his eyes held a playful light.

"Back to slow afternoons and chips gone slightly cold? And spare rooms always available, or a corner free to read with your tea. And suspicious looking witches waiting for nervous looking gentleman." Rascal smiled fondly at his memories of the Cauldron. "I hope quite soon. The crowd doesn't become it."

"I'll try anything once!" Rascal exclaimed in response to his friend's dislike for Gurdyroot - it was so foul a drink but surely there must be someone out there who liked it, for the thing existed after all! The author followed Andie into the pub and felt the smile on his face widen in recognition.

Home! Home away from home, and just like home it never feels the same every time you return. He took the witch by her arm so that they could break through the throng at the bar without being separated.

            "What say you Rosier?"

"Oh, I don't know..." he murmured pleasantly, winking at her so briefly that it could have been missed. "Wow seems apt, if you ask me."

They found themselves wedged between two groups of young wizards with high-pitched voices, each calling out to the bartender for all manner of drink. Impatient little lobsters! But Rascal was in no hurry to drink or to be anywhere else, so he continued his chat with the auror in a casual way.

"Let's see. We could say, I suppose, that it is everything we lost coming back to us? Or is that love I'm thinking of?" he mused with a flippant frown. "No. We should go with phoenixes. They burn and are reborn and their tears - hello, barman, two pumpkin juices with a surprise syrup if you'd please! - and their tears are healing."

Rascal grinned, laughing to himself. "How's that? Good enough?"

Andromeda finally cracked a smile in greeting, and it was a relief because most people looked much better when they smiled. Especially when they didn't know it! Rascal glanced innocently at the ceiling as he was told to be good, hands going behind his back in mock naivety. Him? Why, he was being nothing but good  today! Within reason.

His grin softened a bit at her anxiety. "If something did happen, it would be a cliché," he told the Auror. "So I doubt anything will happen."

Whoever had destroyed the Leaky Cauldron in November had an eye for storytelling but not for conventionalism.

          "Did they ask you to cut the ribbon? Or did they ask someone safe?"

A dramatic sigh cut into her question and Rascal flung a boney arm across Andie's shoulders, as if though he'd been struck in the chest by bow and arrow. He made a showy gesture towards the front of the pub with his free arm.

"Safe! They want everyone to feel safe don't they?" his eyebrows went up, more in excitement than ruefulness. "The ribbon would have turned into something more shocking than bubbles if I'd cut it," the author tutted at his own imagined behaviour. "Now, what are drinking? Should we surprise ourselves and ask the bartender for their least popular order?"

Rascal didn't drink alcohol, a well-known fact, but there was always more to the Cauldron than being inebriated.

Rascal had been there when the Cauldron had exploded... and worse, even, he had predicted the third blast that had sent so many to their doom and injury. But he had no nerves about returning to hallowed ground. It had happened. It was no longer happening. There wasn't a point in reliving that hurt.

The author - resplendent in his velvet, ochre robes - applauded with the general public as Augustine Fortescue opened the event. Smashing! Good actress. Well cast for the historic event. Flashbulbs stuttered and went off in the crowd. He turned to mingle with his fellow lobsters.

People were still healing from the events of last bonfire night, underneath their physical wounds. Some bore it easier than others. Rascal passed his old Headmistress in conversation with lesser beings, moving instead in the direction of a familiar face in the throng.

Why, it was Ceph's sister! She'd just bumped into a particularly rotund gentleman who seemed on the verge of saying something incoherently drunk.

"Andromeda!" Rascal exclaimed cheerfully to intervene, a contrast to her withdrawn manner. "How are you this weekend? You've got your serious face on but I don't think I've committed a crime to earn it...." he drew next to her so that they had a view of the busy pub. "Yet."

Rascal was, of course, playing a game of pool against himself when Margo and her entourage came streaming into his side of the bar - Ministry workers found themselves here most nights, drawn like objects in space to some mass of dubious gravitational pull.

The author didn't drink but he was aimless enough to be around people who did, excessively, and shrewd enough to note that people said all sorts of silly and revealing things when they were drunk. He had cheerfully waved to Margo before sinking a yellow striped ball with satisfaction.

"Nathaniel, Nathaniel-!" Rascal exclaimed with cheer as he spotted the lawyer heading over, and he brandished his cue stick to point directly at the other wizard's Hawaiian print chest - barring him from joining the others just that moment. "You're looking a cuttlefish more colourful than you did in the papers.[1]"

They had met before on other occasions that involved Nate and the others with too many drinks inside them, Rascal with a safe number of sparkling pumpkin juice tickling his own innards.

He lowered the cue stick after a beat and tucked it under one arm to take Nate by the elbow conversationally. "I like your sandals. Margo!" Rascal called out, approaching the table of familiar faces. "Do you like his sandals? Did he keep them on, or did Cepheus make him take them off?"

1.	Ménage à trois and Mischief - Witch Weekly, March 8th

It was warm beneath the branches of the blackened tree, and Rascal Rosier was glad for it as they laid fleece blankets over the damp grass in the winter night. He was glad for many things - but chiefly for his date. How dreary it would have been if some dullard had been matched instead!

And he would have had to come here by himself. Being alone is not all that terrible but being alone when one had expected to have company... a special brand of pathos.

"Cumbria," the author answered while he folded up his gangly legs beneath him and gently bumped shoulders with Cepheus, to all appearances not taking note of his hair being picked clean. "It does, if we don't allow the present to pollute our past. If a childhood is golden it should be golden always."

Rascal spoke in a plain, faint tone that fell out of theme with his usual theatricalities - he began to unpack the large picnic basket while they chatted. Out came a bottle of nectarine bubbly and crystal flutes. The food came in little brown boxes that he unfolded; chicken liver pate and toasted thickly sliced bread, followed by a jar of fig marmalade. Sliced mangoes and papayas on a bed of pomegranate.

Neither of them looked like men of big appetites but Rascal knew that looks were deceiving. He drew out the last box, full of chocolates because some clichés are delicious.

Cepheus' arm around his shoulders caused him to look up in mild surprise, and he shuffled a bit closer to toast their flutes with a soft clink. His date smelled faintly of sweet orange, and something woody. Summery scents.

"Thank you for coming. It would have been dull if you hadn't..." Rascal enjoyed the company of people who were brave enough for a spot of adventure.

What was expected here? Was it a kiss at the start of the date or the end? Rascal knew - but he decided that if you wanted a kiss, it should never matter when. He lowered his glass, resting a hand on Cepheus' knee before leaning in to press his lips against the other's wizards smiling mouth.

He tasted sweet, like their drink, and also like the air around a place where lightning has struck.

Rascal was pleased as pineapple punch to see that Cepheus caught on - not that he doubted, considering the other wizard was more brain than brawn (the preferable alternative as it was less misused). He reached for the card but resisted touching just yet, and glanced at their lady seamstress one last time.

Coralie winked, bestowing permission. "By your leave," she said[1] before the author looked back to his date.

"To the thunder tree then, on three!" he wiggled his fingers. "One... two... three!" The two wizards were pulled off their feed with a violent jerk and the world went by in a flash.

---

Rascal rolled forward as they landed on the plateau of a high, muddy field beneath the Cumbrian night sky. He felt the breath knocked out of him but fell on to his front with hands outstretch right away, a startled look beneath the mess of his bangs. Right! He really wasn't any good at making graceful portkeys.

The wizard breathed in - the air was crushed winter grass and recent rainfall - before he turned over to sit. Cepheus had not landed far.

"Coral reefs!" he exclaimed, laughing and looking around. It was dark but light emanated from a nearby source: Rascal saw now, a large and blackened leafless tree stood where the ground was highest. "Thunder tree."

A patterned paper lantern hung from one of its twisted branches and below it, a picnic basket cradled in a pile of blankets. There was a shimmer of magic about it all. He supposed his past self might have been sensible enough to cast a charm to protect it from the English weather.

He got up to his feet and looked around at the rest of the treeless landscape. Dark silhouettes were scattered across the countryside. This was a recognizable place. A large shape in the distance caught his erratic attention, what might have been a very large stone cottage.

"I used to live there!" Rascal pointed, a little boy excited by the familiar. "Before all the cuttlefish and squid..." he trailed off and sighed sweetly, smiling at Ceph. "Silly me, bringing me back full circle. Shall we eat?"

1.	Permission obtained from Jess!

"My lady Malkin!"

Now, with his pinky finger restored to optimum sticking-out state, Rascal was more than at leisure to be himself. A good thing his date didn't need to prick anything...

He kept umbrella upright as he lowered himself to a sort of curtsy before the cheerful witch whose temperament suggested cooperation on this adventure must have been simple to derive.

"Your specials over any other in the alley - I would not trust the most talented of cuttlefish to sew me a dress so sweet as one of your own." Rascal stared thoughtfully at the pink envelope in her hands and looked aside to Cepheus, as if though he were frightened of what clue he'd left behind for himself this time.

Hopefully it would not involve Cora sticking him with a pin.

"You'll excuse my doing this with delicacy?" Rascal looked between wizard and witch before handing Ceph the umbrella (it had a merry time of constantly being passed) and bending over the envelope laying level flat on Cora's palms. "Can't trust myself," the author murmured without thinking.

Using his wand as you would a pair of tweezers, he slowly unstuck the flap of the envelope bit... by.... bit. It came loose after some patience and he drew it open altogether.

Inside the envelope was a plain card, the printed words  "THIS IS A KEY"[1]   barely visible on the top. Rascal swallowed, back straightening.

"Shall we?" he glanced at Cepheus and then, with a wider grin at Coralie. "If the lady doesn't mind these two lobsters taking leave?"

1.	This is a Portkey!

His relish of the nautical theme was most infectious and Rascal grinned at his date's conjecture, shaking his shoulders in delight at the very idea. Port! Yes, better port than starboard but there was no front or back to trees so they would have to sort that out once the matter was reached.

He was hardly abashed about poor Emeline Trumble: even as his poor pinky was painfully cramped in an unnatural position. "We will ask like the gentleman sailors that we are," he confirmed.

"Here, do you want me to fix that for you before it swells up like a sausage?” the offer hadn't been missed the first time, only the pain had been fresher and easier to ignore. Swimming through the weekend evening crowds to reach dear Malkin did make his injury feel even more uncomfortable, and so the author nonchalantly offered his hand to Cepheus.

Palm downwards, a smear of ink visible just underneath his cuff. He pushed their shoulders together and drew slowly to a halt just in front of the shop - all dark but for a dim light somewhere deep inside.

"Do your sausages swell up too then?" Rascal teased the other wizard's phrasing with a quick, whetted smile quirking one corner of his lips. "I do love my wand hand and would be very grateful. Who's to say what magic we'll need ahead of us?"

And that was his writing hand, as well!

Rascal was trying rather hard to be brave by pretending the frighteningly able witch had not just broken the pinky on his left hand - she didn't even like being called a Cuttlefish, highest honour anyone could expect on this fine weekend! Cepheus had the right idea of course and the author made a hasty little bow before he used his other hand to push himself up across the counter.

"Farewell Miss Trumble! I'll see you for my Tuesday coffee!" he called out as he joined his date on their way out of Alohomocha, snatching the envelope from his nimble hands. As soon as they were out in the cold, Rascal looked down at his hand and let out a whimper.

His tiniest finger was slightly swollen, and positively out of order. In no way, shape or form was it going to be any good if he wanted to stick it out while having a good cuppa.

They slowed down, the drizzle having somewhat stopped, and were ambling at a reasonable pace once distant enough from Alohomocha. "Any good at fixing writer bones?" he asked before clumsily handling the letter he'd written to himself. "But later, words first, squirrels are waiting." Rascal tore the top of it and gently pulled out the yellow memo inside with his teeth.

Dear Cynric

what foolish venture, unwise task,
in which I hope your date will bask,
has led you to this thunder tree?
this burnt up fae whose soul is free?

but blackened trunk hides treasure - gold!
and innocence you once thought sold
lay at its port, as soon you'll see,
the seamstress has our magic'd key

Sincerely,
Cynric

"That is absurdly vexing of me..." he handed the memo to Cepheus and squinted up at a streetlamp, then past its brilliance at the cloudy skies. "The first bit is all a story I once wrote. There's a tree in Cumbria that was struck by lightning, they say the faerie who lived inside has had a wandering spirit ever since."

Rascal looked back down, scratching his chin and then wincing, having forgotten not to move his left hand. "But I suppose the witch Malkin has answers as to why we must seek it. Shall we accost her, as lobsters often say, with a bit more directness?"