Absit Omen RPG

Briggs' paranoia about the Black Chimaera and Cinead Tawse had been allowed to fade over the summer; neither made any omen of ill will or, even, that they cared about Briggs at all. It helped that Nate had once again given up burglary as a past-time. It also helped that his probation from his 2009 wand attack on an Auror in the course of one of those burglaries had finally ended. Now, no one cared where he went. He hadn't seen Bagnold or Lorelei Hunt either. No, this was the happiest Nate Briggs had been in years.

He inhaled from the cigarette and plucked it back from his lips to hold between his fingers before taking a sip from the brown liquor in the opaque glass. The index finger on his right hand had been absent since April, the skeletal prosthetic removed by a healer - he'd avoided the topic.

"What, like it's hard?" he asked with a hint of a smile. Nate spent a great deal of time with the very interesting, congenial, strange, and clever Aviad Cohen. Nate knew that his former neighbor was into dark and dangerous things, but perhaps that was part of the appeal, being doom-adjacent.

Then he elaborated. "Saw it played a few times in Azkaban. Where's Tzipporah?"

The cursed or re-animated toucan was a frequent companion for Avi, and Nate loved a pet.

Nate responded to healer Nagde's insistence at knowing more about the finger's whereabouts with a shake of his head and a grunt of non-compliance. He didn't want to explore how a dead finger could be used against him - although he was sure his necromancer neighbor Aviad would  be able to enlighten him should Nate choose to entertain himself on a stormy night with more possibilities of Bagnold screwing him over.

"Don't worry about it," he said, hoping that would end that train of questioning.

It had been a good long while since Nate had been to a proper Healer, and he wouldn't admit to a pang of nerves as Nagde began assembling the tools of her trade.

"Wouldn't mind a cigarette," he answered her, running his hand through his hair instead. "But do your worst. Can't be any worse than how it got on there in the first place."

Famous last words, he thought to himself.

"You going to just lop him off?"

"Original finger was - is - ," Nate clicked his tongue impishly, "unrecoverable."

Nate missed his finger, but its last known whereabouts was in the possession of an unhinged werewolf hunter, so he considered the thing lost. They hadn't crossed paths since that night and Nate would keep it that way.

"That's me, luckiest bastard in Knockturn Ally," he replied.

The Healer kindly deadened his arm and it felt instantly, magically heavy. There was sensation, but from the elbow down he couldn't affect any movement at all. He rolled his shoulder and shifted his seat on the table, unconsciously searching for his hand again. It wasn't pleasant, but it was preferable to a Petrificus Totalis.

"That's a neat trick. Nah, but take it. He's yours. No help to me at all."

The boney finger flexed and stretched, and tried to pull itself along Nathan's trouser leg. Nate pulled back at the shoulder and the bone finger's progress was null again.

Nathan hadn't craved a shocked response to his digital malformation and hadn't expected it. It was more weird now that he was done being horrified by it. Healers were strange as a group, excited by gore. He had ended up in a state of apathy over the constant threats to his survival, but he wouldn't deny he'd rather the skeleton finger was gone.

"Partly," he said. Telling the story of how he'd sold stolen unicorn blood to Lorelei Hunt, then confronted her for (supposedly) blowing their anonymity to a werewolf hunter, splinching in his escape, and having his gentle necromancer of a neighbor patch him up all macabre - well, it was uncomfortably populated with multiple felonies.

"The skeleton was summoned somehow, but I don't know if it was ever a person."

Nate knew little of the practicals of Dark Magic nor the extent of Hunt's insanity.

"It doesn't always cooperate. Nearly stopped trying to poke out my eye, which I find nice. Can you take it off?"

At this notion, the finger protested and Nate, unperturbed, forced his right hand down to his lap with the help of his left. He smiled then, and nodded.

This was new. Someone around here taking him at his word, as irreverent and mocking as it was, and more than that, taking him seriously. Nate really didn't know what to do with it. He'd gotten so used to everyone he encountered finding him suspect, and in turn, responding accordingly.

What kind of game is she playing, he thought. He wasn't someone who smiled when nervous, so he didn't. He took a wrapped sweet but didn't open it. He twisted both ends in his fingers.

The finger-wagging, too. Entirely unexpected, scathing and almost gentle. It was all so damn unfamiliar. She was American - Native American - perhaps that was part of it.

The answers to her health-related questions were all the same.

"No, nothing like that."

Nate also didn't apologize when he was nervous, so he didn't.

"I feel fine."

He drank, he smoked, he kept odd hours, he was under constant stress, and had no social or familiar support system. But perhaps more pressing, and what she'd soon find out anyway, was what his silly glove concealed. He set down the candy and peeled the glove off his right hand. His index finger from nearly the base was skeletonized. He opened and closed a fist and turned his palm down then up, showing that it all functioned.

"It's not mine," he explained, skipping to the end. Somehow, clever savvy Nate understood there was no reason to evade this strange witch.

The Healer was an old witch with a long braid and an American accent Nate wasn't worldly enough to pinpoint. Her stilted gait gave Nate the impression she might not always have been a Healer, at least not in such a low-key environment. The last healer he'd seen was in Azkaban and the manner was far less conversational. He took the chair and occupied it in a manner of a detained student.

"Confirm I haven't died," he offered, scratching his stubble near his ear. He was wearing one simple leather glove on the right hand while the other hand was bare.

"Maybe note down if I'm under an Imperius Curse. Check for lycanthropy."

Snitch about his replacement zombie skeleton finger, tacked on after a splinching by a shady Israeli mage.

"You know. The usual, I expect. Nagde."

He read her name tag. "Where's that from?"

5 April 2012
Thursday @3pm
Department of Magical Law Enforcement

"Since when?"

"Since it's been a year since your release and you're due."[/des]

"That was two years ago. That was 2010. Two and a half."

"Ach, so you missed last year's. And this year's. That's not good. Best not be mentioning that to anyone who matters."

"No one noticed last time, must not be that important. I'm busy."

"I do see the logic, but this is the Ministry of Magic, love. Logic doesn't enter in. See the Healer down the clinic. Bring a book. Might be a wait.

"I didn't bring a book."

"A magazine, then."

With a mighty roll of his eyes, Nate Briggs, Azkaban parolee made his way through the convoluted passages to said clinic. He wasn't the only one waiting in the strange-smelling place. Even on a random Thursday, there were Magical Law Patrol wix some of them with an assortment of grim-looking injuries.

He checked in.

"I'm supposed to have a physical," he told the wizard at the counter.

"Name?"

Nate told him and the wizard flipped through a large book.

"Case number?"

Nate told him. The wizard nodded and handed him a clipboard with a too-long curling parchment form. "Have a seat, fill this out. Have a seat. Might've brought a book."

Cook Nate Briggs owed kitchen manager Tamara Handrow several fresh favors. She'd managed to keep his name on the books during the Calaveras buy-out while he was out with an 'illness'. He'd spun her a better story than, 'I recently had my finger stolen by a necromancing hag and returned to me by a crazy werewolf hunter nemesis but it's still off and it's all really upsetting.'[1] She'd let him lie to her for as long as she could, she'd said, but he had to turn up eventually. "Or they'll stick you opposite Larry."

Nate turned up in the middle of the transition a few days ago, sliding his way into the new menu, new procedures, new staff, and new customers. Calaveras had been turned on its head seemingly overnight. Nate had enjoyed his job insomuch as he enjoyed hating it. For someone like Nate, the best relationship one could have with a straight and steady job is resentful resignation. There was an arrangement. An understanding. He was managing to keep a low profile, but the scrutiny that came with an eager, nosy new owner was unwelcome.

The kitchen was overcrowded with cooks getting trained on the new menu, so as soon as Nate arrived Tam diverted him towards taking stock of the bars. He didn't mind. He pulled his blazer back on, and adjusted the single brown glove he wore on his right hand to cover the fact that one of his fingers was skeletanized, a bony prosthetic arranged therein by an Israeli mage.[2]

There were several new faces since Nate's return that he didn't flinch at the unfamiliar wizard tending Number Three. He was older, attractive, Latino, and seemed completely at ease. Another ringer.

Clipboard in hand and wand tucked under his armpit, Nate squatted down to begin counting out the wine bottles on the lower shelves.

"Behind you," he warned, but waited until the bartender was out of conversation with the customer before saying anything else.

"You the new Tully?" Nate asked, referencing one of the usual day-time bartenders who Nate had noted as being on the schedule.

1.	20 Jan 2012 - Names in Smoke, 20 Mar 2012 - The Message
2.	20 Jan 2012 - Guts On Fire

How Aviad Cohen was so clear and free compelled Nate. The feeling was part admiration and part envy - Nate could only guess how he managed it. He had to suspect his neighbor had a less gentle side that was sufficiently intimidating. Or, perhaps that more dangerous aspect meant Cohen was willing to do more to serve Tawse's interests than Nate would. Nate was technically an Ex-Azzie who'd fared better than most, but he didn't share Tawse and his kind's virulent anti-muggle ideals.

Nate watched Aviad and realized he'd prefer his company over the specter of arrest awaiting him at the hotel. That spark of 'walking backwards into hell' was piqued again, itself compelling him to take his chances with Cohen, to trust the strange fellow once again. The same one who kept bones for pets.

Nate put his hand to his mouth and scratched his stubbly chin for a moment then shrugged. "The hard place it is. But I'm buying."

He'd taken enough favors from the strange neighbor and if he wasn't careful he'd be further into debt with a man he'd rather be on an even keel with.

As there was only one direction to go other than the way they'd come, Nate took the lead out to the common room.

On the surface, the Black Chimaera looked the same as any other dive on a Tuesday night. It was quiet and there were many seats available. The specials were mean to lure people in, half price on this or that. But the Black Chimaera was no normal pub. Only some of the patrons were fully human and Nate suspected that any wands in the room were likely to be ill-gotten. Neither fact were particularly disturbing to the on-again-off-again thief.

At the bar, Nate requested one of Aviad's cigarettes and asked about his preferred drink order.

Nate narrowed his eyes at the tetchy spat between Aviad's skeletal creatures; the gentle neighbor had adopted Hunt's hand and now he wondered if he'd come by the toucan the same way.

Nate crossed his arms and wiped a hand over his stubble. Aviad's questions were fair and the answers were no secret, but that was the strange thing: what did it mean that Aviad apparently knew nothing about why Nate was famous at the Chimaera but knew the less publicized fact Tawse had a kid? The blunt answer (that Aviad had been Tawse's man the whole time and was sent as a spy) didn't align with Tawse's usual way of doing things. And even Cinead's modus operandi of Polyjuice disguise didn't pass the smell test and was frankly not a performance even Tawse could pull off.  Besides, Tawse didn't need those tricks for Nate - his charisma and largesse were always enough.

Aviad was giving Nate every reason to be suspicious but he kept convincing himself to trust in the strange wizard with his bickering bones.

"I blew up the first one," Nate said finally with a shrug. "Not my fault, but that's not as grabby a headline. Regardless, I don't think he's forgiven me for blinding his mastiff."

But that wasn't all. Nate lowered his voice and had a look at his marred right hand.

"And I know from his own mouth that Tawse's thrown with Hunt."[1] Did he need any more reasons?

Even so, Nate kept home the part where Tawse knew just about all there was to know about Hermes and how much he'd stolen last fall from locked homes and businesses. Why, he wouldn't want the Sodding Arms tenant board to think he was some kind of criminal.

1.	11 Nov 2011 - Sane, Sane, We're All Insane - Nate is present when Cinead offers Lorelei help in her chaotic errands.

And so they were off. Aviad's hand on his shoulder and that calm easy smile, it made Nate forget for just the shortest moment where they were and why. Nate unstuck his feet and followed along down the ramshackle corridor, deeply uncomfortable but with few other options. As they went it became inescapable that they were quite underground. The Black Chimaera was a verifiable warren, it seemed. When he'd come to find Lorelei Hunt, the surroundings in the main part of the pub were clearly more cellar than penthouse, but he'd not had time to explore the whole premises before she'd nearly killed him.

Aviad began and Nate scoffed. No one liked to be lumped in with, 'all the same'. But the follow-up, well, it had some merit. Nate would hardly characterize himself as 'jumping' in response to 'tugs', but considering how Aviad had found him today, Nate could suffer leaving pedantry at the door.

"Oh, I've noticed. Their hands are all tied right up until they aren't. Paperwork is backlogged until it isn't. And I'm a werewolf if it's convenient for the werewolf hunter."

Nate then tapped Aviad on the arm to get him to hold up. They were nearing the end of the corridor. He spoke in a low voice.

"Look, mate, I wasn't kidding. Last time I was here, I left that finger behind. And, if you didn't know, this is the second Black Chimaera."

He had to laugh a little then and mutter to himself. "Merlin's frosty bollocks. Is it just Tuesday?"

Nate took a deep, cleansing, calming breath. He was beginning to acknowledge that tonight's events were bringing him to a breaking point, that it had been building up and building up, and a temper he'd never had before was finding its voice. The calm in Cohen and the calm in Bagnold rankled him and made obvious a growing instability inside him. He exhaled and flexed his hands, then peeled away from his stance opposite his neighbor, jealous of the cigarette but not interested in asking to bum one.

"I'm all ears," he said said, calmer now. He flipped his wand around in his hand to a neutral hold and crossed his arms again. Scratched his nose. He wasn't exactly optimistic about whatever Aviad's secret strategy was. Anything involving whatever brand of magic it was that Aviad practiced was right out, as was leaving the country. Nate didn't have the viciousness or social pull that Cinead Tawse had either, and no friends in high places. At the moment, all he had was a docile Auror (Jonas Trevelyan) and his beguiling neighbor from parts far-flung.

Nate didn't like this. He didn't like being portkey'd to an unknown destination and he didn't like being set-up in a shitty little bedroom in some hole in the ground. It felt too much like getting escorted between cells, no matter how friendly the host. The range of a portkey was significantly greater than the range of an Apparition which cut that option off.

"Tawse?" Nate turned around. It dawned on him. There was only one person named Tawse that was worth knowing about. He hissed, shifting into action. "This is the Black Chimaera! Shit, I can't be here!"

His wand ready for the fourth time tonight, he moved past Aviad to the door and found it was mercifully unlocked. He looked down the crooked corridor with the uneven floor. It was empty. He turned back to Cohen their eyelines about level, and gave him a long hard look. He spared a glance to the skeletal hand gripping his neck.

"What do you know? What is this?" he asked tightly. Tawse was on a benevolent streak, these days, and no true threat to Nate's welfare - that didn't mean Nate was keen for him to know about any of this. But Hunt? She could be anywhere. She could be here.

Nate waited as Aviad finished his own preparations, speaking to the wisp, organizing his familiars - which included the rest of the skeletal hand. He was not over-excited for a reunion with his donor, unsurprised somehow that Aviad had kept it. Nate didn't have to wait long for explanation of the matchbook because shortly Aviad offered it in the manner of a portkey. Keeping his wand in his right hand, Nate reached out with his left and his fingers grazed Avi's.

Fin. Continued at the Black Chimara: 20 Mar 2012 - In the Wake of the Medusa

Nate looked up at Aviad and his skeleton bird friend, no idea what an Arba was or any idea what his neighbor intended. He wasn't ready to leg it and violate his parole, but there was nothing foolish to clearing out of the hotel for the next couple weeks. It paid to be paranoid (and Nate hadn't been paranoid enough lately), but at the moment, Aviad was the only ally he had. More and more it seemed he was a powerful one as well. He considered long moment then got to his feet.

"Give me a minute."

With quick incantations, Nate began a series of repairing spells for the table, ceiling, and crockery then cast cleaning spells on everything, as much to cover-up previous spells cast as to clear away excess debris. The blood, he drew up from the floor in levitating globs and cast them into the simmering fire which had survived dinner's destruction. Then he began rifling through the myriad bottles on the mantle. Even though many of them were unlabeled, Nate knew which ones needed to be gone. These he threw in his bag. Also in the bag went several dozen galleons from a stash under the bed.

He had to be careful to make it look like he hadn't left - clean but not too clean, no obvious sign of struggle, either - which would set off red flags if anyone did show up looking for him.

It was then he noticed the parchment and picture were missing. Bagnold had taken it with him, it seemed. Nate couldn't blame him.

When he was ready, Nate doused the fire, left the flat, and locked his seven locks behind him.