Absit Omen RPG

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.”

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."

“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.”

A deluge of information would have been welcomed, but Samantha had no idea of her friend's reservations. Instead she took in the response quietly, nodding her head in understanding. That was one thing she knew, that it was large. It had to be large to fit so many students, so it only made sense. Maybe it had charms cast on it to make it bigger on the inside, too? Her only experience with schooling were at a muggle school and the more recent private school, both of which weren't particularly large. At least not as large as she was imagining Hogwarts now.

This time it took her an extra moment or two to slide in front of the typewriter, though it was only after she had read through what had been written. This time it seemed less due to distraction and more due to pondering an addition. She scratched her chin as she sat there, wondering what might go well along with it. The man with the bag...

Finally, her hands were brought to the keys again, and she slowly typed out another addition.

He had seemed friendly at first, but there was something peculiar about him. Why had he followed her? How had he gotten in? She stayed quiet, hoping he would think she had gone.

Sitting back and then scooting to the side, she asked, "What are the professors like?"

Cosima returned to the typewriter and had a look at what Samantha had written. She sucked in a little air at the opportunity to introduce a new character. But Samantha had asked her a question. Cosima only glanced at her long enough to offer a little smile and a bit of eye contact before turning towards the typewriter. Samantha seemed to Cosima really shy and she didn't want to deluge her with a river of information.

"It's big," she said thoughtfully. "In a few ways. The castle is bigger than any you've visited, far bigger than a school has any business being. You can literally get lost on your way to class or the bathroom. And the grounds are vast. Also, very get-lost-able."

Neologism. A word for making up new words. Like get-lost-able.

"And there's a lot of people." 

Samantha, Cosima knew, had been to both muggle school and a small local one, but Hogwarts would likely be bigger. There was so much to say about Hogwarts, about learning magic, about being away from home, about the professors, but Cosima thought that the scale of the place was most relevant for a first answer.

She typed out another few lines.

reached for her umbrella, the only half-deadly thing nearby. The person knocked on the door again, this time harder. A man's voice followed and Brenna recognized it. It was the guy from the train. The man with the bag.

"Okay," she said. It was hard to stop writing, but that was part of the fun - the pulling away. She glanced at Samantha again, hoping she was having an okay time.

Although Sam had been quite chipper when first meeting, since her mother's illness she had become more withdrawn, Cosima's chit-chat met with more lackluster responses than they might have several years ago. She didn't ignore her, but often seemed to have her mind elsewhere, especially considering the recent state of things. Samantha never had a problem with the older girl, she was just that--older. They had grown up in different times, and it was harder to relate to someone four or five years older than you. At least she was polite and never left her wondering or waiting. She'd been a bit skeptical at first when she had suggested writing together, knowing there would be a vast difference in their capabilities. She may have had a slightly advanced vocabulary for her age thanks to her constant reading, but there was no way it compared to a fifteen-year-old's--right?

Luckily, the writing seemed to help. It gave her something else to focus on, other than the books she and her father had recently purchased for school coming at the beginning of next month. Having an older student to essentially mentor her would probably come in handy too, especially considering all she'd heard about how easy it was to get lost the first few weeks. Even if they ended up in different houses, she could easily contact her through letters if she needed, or maybe they'd both end up in the same one and she'd see her in their common room.

Startling slightly when she heard the typewriter's ding as it began a new line, she looked at the latest line that had been written. Sliding in front of the old typewriter, she pondered what to write next.

Then, all of a sudden a knock sounded from the bedroom door. She was supposed to be alone in the house. Steeling herself, she

Looking at Cosima after a moment for approval, she slid off to the side to let her go again. "What's Hogwarts like?" she asked quietly, one of the first few times she'd initiated a conversation topic today, "I've asked my father but he said it would be much different for someone now than it was when he was there."

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.”

He quickly scribbled a few notes on Rooksby's notes before leaving the clipboard with the attending Mediwitch - they're have to schedule in an allergy test to confirm Robin's suspicions but the real urgent work was resolved for now.

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his robes, he laughed at Athena's tongue-in-cheek answer. "You know, I think it would suit you regardless," he replied with a mock look of appraisal. Robin was pretty tall but he hadn't come across many witches as tall as Marrowbone; something about height in a woman, it exuded regality.

And vampires were really good at that kind of thing.

            "There's cake on the second floor," someone informed them, having overheard only part of the exchange.

Robin glanced from the Mediwitch to Athena, eyebrows raised. "Cake? While the lull lasts?"

            “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.