Absit Omen RPG

            “It should be supported through the Ministry.”

He lifted his shoulder, a helpless shrug, as if to say this was the way of things. It wasn't that he disagreed - werewolves were members of the public and were entitled to their assistance - but he, more than most, had functioned in a social atmosphere of anti-werewolf sentiment for many years. You didn't wine and dine with Ira without witnessing the casual cruelty of those views.

"You want to chat with Glass?" he repeated incredulously and then, quickly catching on, smiled. "Aye, why not. Ask him for more than you're asking me, Bruce. Go all out."

They could go for a variation of good cop, bad cop. And Bruce made a fantastic bad cop when she wanted something, when she was really invested in it.

"It'll soften him up for me," Balfour clarified, tapping his cigarette thoughtfully. "I can play it off as compromise, he doesn't know enough about my views to think I'm on your side anyway."

And he hadn't forgotten about seeing Glass at dinner with Ira[1] last year, when Bal had crashed Ascendio looking for blood. From that alone he could assume their Minister's views didn't follow a true moral compass.

1.	14th Jan 2011- What's a King to a God?

He thought about another cigarette but decided against it.

            “One other thing, Boss.”

Balfour reached for his cigarette case and listened as he lit up again, promising himself that this was the last one until he got home. Bruce had got her foot in the door, she wasn't about to leave without saying everything she intended to when she entered his office. He nodded once - aware of the werewolf hunter contracts, similar to those of certain beast handlers.

"Resources should be straightforward enough," he thought out loud, pensive behind a veil of smoke, "but financial help will have to wait until I can bring it up at a meeting with Glass..."

Somehow, it was difficult to imagine that would go swimmingly. Balfour sighed as he scratched the scruff of his five o'clock shadow. "Maybe. Hm. Maybe we can sort out some manner of," he gestured with the cigarette, "sponsorship situation. Businesses, organisations, anyone with deep enough pockets. All through us, of course."

Merlin knew it would be easy enough to abuse the trust of werewolves desperate for employment. That would be the kind of thing Ira would do. Cultivate a dependency, compromise them. Balfour felt his mouth go sour at the thought of being able to see the world through her lens.

"I'll think on it," he half-smiled at Bruce, trying to shake the feeling. "No promises but I can promise you I'll try."

            “Then we have the problem of needing enough experienced staff to man them..."

So it would come down to manpower, if they did this. Balfour tapped his cigarette again and realised it had nearly burned down to the stub - that kept happening these days. His cigarette box was being refilled more often than it used to and he wasn't fool enough to think it had nothing to do with new responsibilities.

"I'll talk to Solomon," he offered, before taking one last drag. "We're on familiar enough terms, I don't see why he wouldn't agree to it if it means more werewolves registering." After all, Sol's wife was a Lycan.

Out went the cigarette in the ashtray and Balfour sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. "Fournier's easy enough to convince. I'll work on the short term if you'll apply yourself to the long term - whatever form that takes."

More cells, more safehouses, more trained staff. It was so easy to see, from his new vantage point, how people or being could fall through cracks in their system. Wixes simply didn't care that much about the minorities of their population. Out of sight, out of mind... and when their main interaction with werewolves were terrifying Prophet articles, well, it was no wonder the campaign for rights wasn't as vocal as it could be.

[Your name/nickname:] Nuri
[Your affected characters:] All
[Start date of absence:] Tomorrow
[Approximate date of return:] Early May

[Reason (optional):] Reduced activity notice! Ramadan is starting soon and I try to focus on my irl well being during this holy month. Might be online less but I will still be posting!

More or less back now that Ramadan is over and we've done the last of Eid gatherings!

             "Why, were you lookin' for somewhere to put it?"

Merciful gods reward him for not immediately asking if Bagnold was offering. Balfour grinned a little, twirling his wand in one hand as he watched the group negotiate the sharp turn of the passageway. It was stunning and precarious. His blood sang a little, this close to anything that could easily kill him.

"You give me too much credit," he replied in that easy way of his, "I'm hardly a paternalistic hand holder. Not enough hands for it."

Though he did see level four as a kind of extended family of its own, full of eccentrics and big personalities and an undercurrent of drama. Balfour was silent for a second while he watched them tackle the trickiest bit of the turn; eyeing their wrist motions with a kind of professional admiration.

"You can just tell me to fuck off," he said abruptly, tone still light and carrying a note of humour. "You know, if you were thinking about it. Always an option."

Everything in Bagnold's bearing screamed it anyway - at all times but especially tonight. Balfour couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly about him that irked the other man. It seemed to run deeper than accusations of opportunism.

Sometimes, it was a little funny. But perhaps it was better to be frank on a full moon.

He found that it was nearly impossible to tear one's eyes away from the beast - and that's what werewolves were, on a full moon, they were beasts. Balfour clocked the unsteadiness with which it was being levitated and he took off his reading glasses as he glanced at Bagnold.

             "Oh, it's been grand," the hunter wasn't amused, focused more on his task.

The whole lot of them looked worse for wear and he felt a twinge of sympathy for the pressure placed on the Werewolf Wing. Dragons and Sphinxes didn't turn back to human, after all. And some of these poor things were little more than cursed bairns... to say nothing of the headlines should Bruce's division slip up.

Kurby suggested paperwork. Balfour's mouth twitched into the kind of amused, supercilious smile that used to get him into bar fights as a transient young man. It couldn't help itself; the product of someone accustomed to the protection of his station in life.

"Some of us don't need hours to sign off on reports," he replied lightly. "Though maybe you could use an extra wand?" Balfour offered in a more grounded, serious voice.

Anyone else and he'd already have drawn his to join the effort - but this was Bagnold's dance. It would be rude to cut in without asking first.

Fifty to a few hundred...?

His brow lowered slightly, information sinking in. Balfour knew there were networks of unregistered werewolves out there - back when he'd been on closer terms with the Donovans, it wasn't unusual to hear them refer to their illicit friends or places like Lapin. What he hadn't anticipated was how many there just might be. A whole other world hiding in their wizarding world.

It was a realisation much like many others he had when familiarising himself with Beings. Vampires, centaurs, house elves, everyone in their own worlds that intersected with wizarding norms.

"I'd rather two dozen werewolves in cells they're unlikely to escape from," he muttered dryly, thinking of the bother they had at the last full moon[1] with a werewolf attack near muggle territory.

Luckily, real life was rarely a this-or-that situation. "There has to be something we can do to better our chances. Some of these unregistered werewolves, they must be using alternative cells, especially the ones who've been hiding it for years. Alternative cells that work..." Balfour tapped cigarette ash into a green glass ashtray and sighed out a cloud of smoke.

"Can we offer to appropriate the cells, if they're willing?" he looked doubtful as he took another drag. "Make it out to be like a free upgrade. They don't have to abandon familiarity, we offer to reinforce and man their safehouse."

The last thing he wanted was to offer amnesty and safety, and fail on both fronts should somebody escape to commit a massacre. It was probably the last thing Bruce wanted too.

1.	3rd August - Goodnight Moon

As during the full moons preceding tonight's, he wasn't certain what he was doing here. Balfour thought - just as he did in July, June, May - of home. He could have been home with his husband and son all evening instead. With Feliks  around in the summer, it had become a priority to avoid overtime where he could.

For all those years missed, Bal wanted to be a present father and devoted partner. But he was here tonight anyway.

Officially, he was filling in for Bruce Ballentyne; he had been doing so since returning from his honeymoon in April. The act was demonstrative - under Bagnold, the Werewolf Wing ran itself without interference and according to Bruce's plans. Balfour was here just in case. At least that was what he told himself - just in case something unusually explosive happened, much as it had the night Alec Carter died.

He grimaced at that thought as he left the Remus Lupin library, where he'd just passed time reading old werewolf case studies. Restlessness had set in and he was headed to Bruce's office to let her secretary know that he was retiring to his office.

A clamour of drunken singing distracted him. The wizard slowed down as he crossed an intersecting passage and was surprised to see a living, breathing werewolf. It was surreal; the equivalent of seeing a Chimaera casually drifting about Beasts Division, he had to check an instinct to draw his wand.

Balfour couldn't resist approaching the procession from behind. He glanced briefly at the weary wizards he had initially missed - Bagnold was recognisable from most angles.

The head of the WCU had told him to the face that Alec Carter would head home by seven, on a full moon. Balfour was learning to live with Kurby's abrasive nature by simply pretending it wasn't. The eye roll brought out a dry smile in him.

"What a fantastic creature," he said as he slipped his hands into his pockets, reassured by the feel of his wand. "Been a good while since I've seen one this close up. Live, anyway."

His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the head and snout of the unconscious beast. Balfour thought of the mounted werewolf heads in Ira's apartments. He looked back at Kurby with less of a smile. "Difficult night?"

He wasn’t drunk but he absolutely felt drunk, standing before the crowd of family and friends (and in some cases, strangers) beneath the high marquee ceiling.

It was an open marquee - the sprawling grounds of the Spectre estate fell away from the celebration in a carpet of Spring grass and the lush, sharp trees jutted starkly out in the forests beyond. A beautiful day, thanks the gods.

            ”You remember your vows alright?”

Nathaira’s voice was a whisper but, as she was his ‘best man’ and stood right next to him, Balfour heard her well over the murmuring watchers in their white Edwardian chairs. He had been contemplating the scenery and glanced over his shoulder now, wry.

“Did you have to ask?” his eyebrows went up, “I’m nervous enough, thanks.”

He spoke in a whisper as well, to avoid disturbing Balthair - who would be performing the ceremony - and Feliks, who stood in concentration next to his great grandfather holding a long strip of their clan tartan.

The two grooms would have to tie the cloth in a knot when they, well, figuratively tied the knot.

            “Oh that's daft, you’ve nothing to be nervous about,” Knox clicked her tongue lightly. ”Little brother,” she added, ”who slays dragons.”

“You know I don’t slay them,” Balfour retorted as he turned his gaze to the end of the aisle formed by their guests. “And besides, Johann’s much prettier than a dragon.”

Their exchange did help settle his nerves - and he knew that had been the point of his sister’s jesting, though he wouldn’t admit it. Knox drew breath to start on a rejoinder but she gasped instead.

          “Oh, they’re coming!” she exclaimed at a regular volume, causing the wedding chatter in the marquee to drop.

Balfour felt a calm come over him. He had not seen his husband-to-be all morning, and wondered if maybe his anxiety had been that lack of Johann’s presence. If so, why be anxious for any longer?

The bagpipes shocked the wedding crowd with a sudden clamour of noise. Balfour’s laughing smile turned soft. Here came his groom, walking down the aisle.

            “You look fine!”

Balfour adjusted his tie fussily, glancing at his grandfather in the reflection of the mirror. They were in the Study - a mirror had been brought in, all manner of clothes and tartan ribbons, bits and bobs littered about the usually neat but cosy room.

Fair sunlight streamed in through the windows and leant the place a dreamlike ambience.

The other groom had taken over the parlour just off the living room, which had once been his mother’s parlour and nowadays served as Johann’s workspace.

“I know, I know,” he muttered as he turned around to smile grimly at Balthair. “Just… nervous, you know.”

Gods knew why. This was all pomp and flash; a public declaration of a life they were already living, two men in love. But still, something stirred in his belly, not unpleasant.

Seanair lit his pipe, leaning against the cluttered desk whilst Balfour checked that his long socks were even and his kilt unwrinkled.. “I was, too. When I married your grandmother.”

It was kind of Balthair to lead today’s proceedings. His parents, though in attendance and always cordial, were not entirely comfortable with him marrying a wizard. Today was not the day for a shadow to fall on anyone’s happiness.

“Shaking in your shoes, I bet.” Bal laughed, feeling some tension leave him. “Ridiculous. It’s a ceremony, a dance, why do I feel like this? Christ.”

He breathed in and out slowly, and rubbed his face. It was Balthair’s turn to laugh. An old man’s cackle - and behind it, he picked out the murmur of the manor. Chattering voices in the passageway outside, the entrance hall, the kitchen. Children yelling or giggling.

Balfour strode to the Study window and looked out across the side terrace; he could make out the corner of the white marquee they had set up at the back of the house. Guests were making their way from the front, where the portkeys landed them, though they seemed oblivious to the groom gazing out at their blithe, prettily dressed figures.

“Too good to be true…” Balfour said to himself as he reached into his sporran pouch to retrieve a cigarette. “That’s what it feels like. I shouldn’t be allowed to be this happy.”

He drew breath, puffing away. The scent of his tobacco mingled with that of Seanair’s, and he felt the old wizard’s hand on his shoulder. It was light.

            “Don’t go talking nonsense now,” grumbled Balthair before letting go. “You’ve as much right as anyo–”

The door flew open with a bang, Knox suddenly in the room wearing a rust-coloured taffeta affair that brought out all the warmth in her already flushed countenance. She made a frustrated noise, gesturing at the two men.

”What are you dawdling here for? Gods, Balfour, put that bloody thing out!” his sister exclaimed, glancing at the wall clock anxiously. ”You’re getting married!”

He hastily ditched his cigarette. The Spectre wizards exchanged a sheepish look.

He laughed a little at Bruce's insistence on the word - it played well with her description of its potential, as if the amnesty were an eccentric carnival arriving in town. She was really trying to sell this, wasn't she? Balfour listened placidly enough but he could already see himself picking at the corners, trying to find the weaknesses or downsides.

            “Septamnesty on your doorstep.”

"Actually vetoing that bit. Nobody's going to come into the Ministry, aye," he slipped a cigarette out of its case, "and nobody wants us on their doorstep. What if people call us in to register their mates as a prank? Bloody nightmare."

Balfour lit up, drawing breath as he glanced at the wall that dominated one side of the office: an unbroken map of their territories, with various pins to signify different populations, safehouses, sanctuaries and so on.

"So, no Ministry locations. Spots all around the country, that makes sense...." the wizard puffed out a tendril of smoke as he looked back to Bruce. "Do we have any idea how many unregistered werewolves there are? Educated guesses, statistics? Let's not worry about a no-takers scenario."

If nobody registered - fair enough. They could say they tried, they opened their doors and offered a clean slate. But if there was a sudden influx of werewolves registering...

"I want to know we're ready." Balfour's gaze flicked to the folder Bruce had brought into this afternoon chat. "Do we have enough safehouses? Enough wolfsbane? What would it mean to your wing if you suddenly had to deal with, say, a dozen new werewolves? Two dozen?"

It was beginning to seem obvious that Bruce's good mood was part and parcel of ulterior motives this afternoon. Balfour settled comfortably into his office chair as he crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands together.

He was more relaxed these days - having discovered that being department head often meant having to quietly sit and deliberate on matters, a skill less in use within the Beast Division. The divisions on four carried intersecting tensions and sometimes it felt like he was directing traffic at a clogged up muggle motorway.

           "A big and powerful word beginning with A.”
"Um," the wizard frowned a little.
            “Amnesty.”

Ah. Balfour tilted his head to the side, still somewhat confused. The last time he'd been discussing amnesty was with the vampire Vaillancourt, who he asked to give him a brief lesson on vampire history. Tristan mentioned the amnesty bestowed on old vampires when they registered after the hunting ban.

"Amnesty," he repeated after a pause, understanding now. "You mean for unregistered werewolves?" Balfour's eyebrows went up for a moment. "That would be quite tidy wouldn't it? Good press if we play it right. And we'd get some long time stragglers."

Those werewolves who had gone unregistered for so long, who might be desperate for the respite of consistency in Wolfsbane or safe house. He was sympathetic - he didn't trust the Ministry either, for most of his adult life, and gods knew what he was doing here at the heart of it.

"Alright. I like it." Balfour said in a decisive tone, reaching for the cigarette case on his desk. "An annual occurrence, you think, or just this one time thing? And I'm vetoing Septamnesty, sorry."

He chewed, without really tasting, the croissant Mrs Lanningham had brought when he returned to the office from a day of conferences. Balfour was in street clothes as he took another wolfish bite over his desk - eyes glued to a report propped up in front of him. Something or other from the Spirit Division about a supposedly haunted castle.

A glance at the clock above the door.

Still an hour or so until he got off from work to meet Feliks, for a long walk they had planned through the city parks. Bal tried not to have anything scheduled for the very end of a work day; it was the appropriate time for drop-ins and last minute reports, and the atmosphere was certainly less officious than morning hours.

He was about to give up on the Spirits report when Bruce walked in, and he reached for tea to wash down the pastry.

"A nuisance of dung beetles," he shut the folder, leaning back in his chair to smile dryly at the witch. "Aye, the irresistible aroma of our esteemed department." Although by now his nose had grown accustomed to a plethora of nauseating scents.

Balfour noted the leather folder Bruce was holding - nor did he miss that she was taking a seat. The werewolf had something to say.  And whatever she had to say, it would be much more entertaining than reading about shifty ghouls in Scottish castles. He tried not to betray biases but the Werewolf Wing was very interesting to him.

Never a dull moment. "Welcome back to the jungle, Bruce..." Balfour ran a hand through his hair, conversational. There was a boyishness to him lately - from spending time as a father, maybe, or as a reaction to the new responsibilities of department head. He didn't notice it himself.

"Something on your mind?" the wizard asked casually; he noticed some crumbs on the front of his shirt and dusted them off.

THE BAD

Jebediah Layton
Continued existence as Joseph Leslie in June + July.
Spying on werewolf nightclub, Lapin in June + July?
Continued relationship with Camille Duerr, pro-werewolf sentiment.

Terrence Hooker
Laying low in June + July, especially due to more daylight hours.

THE UGLY

Tristan Vaillancourt
Two weeks holiday in June, to Tanzania.
Requested Laz help him find missing items from his collection of vampire artefacts.

Salvador Falcón
Living it up with Las Calaveras, befriended locals.

Koko Yukawa (Lil Snigger)


HOGWARTS

Sylvain Onuris
Two weeks holiday in France, in July.

Osha Warrington
Working at Floribunder's with her mum all summer.

Feliks Spectre
Summer holidays with Balfour and Johann.
Lots of time spent on the estate. New hobbies?

CURRENTLY NOT PLOTTING

Dietrich Eisenberg, Rascal Rosier, Roger Lemon, Arthur Lemon, Peter Thackeray, Nathaira Spectre.