(This thread is open to any Black Chimaera regulars, and is intended to be part of the Dementors Dementing plot!  PM Cinaed Tawse for any questions on who would be able to access the BC.)

The rain beat steadily against the windows of the pub, tapping a faint rhythm on the glass.  As much as the new Black Chimaera's exact location was a carefully guarded secret, there was no mistaking its usual weather for anywhere but northern Britain.  But even with the cold and the rain as usual neighbors, the tavern's enchanted hearth burned brightly enough to fight off any invading chill. 

It had been six weeks since he'd first come here; probably nearly as long since the rechristened Chimaera had again opened its doors.  In that time, word had been spreading quietly through Knockturn.  Ex-Azzies and Knockturnites, old regulars and new faces:  judging by the speed at which the crowd had grown, it was clear that everyone had been craving somewhere new to go.  The Black Chimaera was the one location that was completely off the Ministry's magic map, and with all of the precautions and defenses surrounding it, there seemed little chance that that would change anytime soon -- provided they were careful.

Aviad let out a grumble from his usual seat near the bar.  With the reopening of the Chimaera, some of the old regulars had gone about collecting a new set of bones for the weekly skeletal barfight.  The Israeli mage had clearly been intrigued by the idea -- but he had also loudly expressed his opinion that he could do a better job of casting an enchantment on the skeletons.  That had nearly ended with his own addition to the collection -- but once tempers had cooled, the old pub stalwarts had agreed to let him try his hand.

Unfortunately, no one had told the bones to cooperate.

"Will you hold still?" he growled at the nearest skeleton, which happened to currently be a three-legged dog.  It gave a silent bark in his direction, and then crouched down low, wagging its bony tail in an enthusiastic attempt to get him to throw the oversized rib bone in his hand.  Aviad scowled and snatched at it, but the creature bounded playfully out of his reach, colliding with the next barstool over and nearly sending the patron tipping.

"I'm trying to give you another leg!" he snapped at it, exasperated.  Three-legged or four-legged, the dog didn't seem to care.  It let out another silent bark, and then bounced back away from him, clearly eager to play. 

Rolling his eyes, the mage flicked the rib bone across the room.  The dog went racing after it, barreling into at least one more table in its hurry to retrieve its prize.  Aviad scowled as he turned back to the counter.  His drink had gone nearly empty; he picked up the glass mug, drained the rest of it, and then dropped it heavily back onto the bar.

"I need another beer," he grumbled, turning partway on his stool to wait for the skeleton's inevitable return.

"What are ye?  A helpless muggle lass?"

Chin as scraggly and unshaven as the day he'd died, Manfred slouched with his back against the bar, hovering an inch above the barstool.  The latest edition of Veela Vixen lay open on the table, the spoils the newest gullible patron who believed supplying an issue of the busty adult witch's magazine was a legitimate condition of admittance to the Black Chimaera. 

Distracted by Cohen's attempt to assemble the dog skeleton, Manfred Ashfort abandoned the magazine in favor of providing a critique of the man's endeavor from the sidelines. 

"Just- have you- it's a dog."  A dead dog, but a dog none-the-less.  "How hard can it be?  Just-"  Manfred reached for the bowl of bar snacks on the table but grunted when his hand passed straight through the food, bowl and bar top.  "You put the head on last."  He threw his hands up in exacerbated impatience and floated in a swivel-like fashion to face the magazine, again. 

"You look like a toothless flobberworm trying to swaddle a pixie."  The former Death Eater grumbled. 

The pub's proprietor was perched on his usual spot behind the bar.  He leaned back on his stool, feet propped up on the rail running the base of the bar.  A broad grin twitched his beard as he watched the commotion.  Cohen was still fighting with the skeletal mutt that, apparently oblivious to its current lifeless state, seemed to be having the time of its life.  Time of its death.  Whatever. 

Cinaed Tawse glanced down the bar to where Mannie hovered, tossing unhelpful criticisms in his own crotchety way.  For a moment, Cinead wondered if, underneath the old DE's griping, Mannie was feeling some strange sense of kindred spirit with the skeletal dog.  The spirit separated from his skeleton and the skeleton separated from its spirit.  Cinaed knew Manfred was still adapting to life as a ghost, so he knew better than to suggest the idea.  The ghost would, undoubtedly, turn his mumbled griping on to him. 

Cinaed turned back to Cohen as the man tossed the rib bone to the side.  Trying, with minimal success, to suppress a hearty laugh, Cinaed pointed down the bar at the ghostly figure.  "Hey, now.  It's no good insulting the hand that turns the pages.  Keep it up, I'll go pull out pictures from that time you tried to reassemble that eagle skeleton Colburn got us." 

"The head bit is a good suggestion, though," Cinaed offered as he drew another pint of ale and set it in front of Cohen.  "Though, it usually takes a few shots to convince newbies there's really no graceful way of doing it.  Not without a binding charm and that just gets you accused of being a preppy Ravenclaw."  Watching the reassembly rodeo was as much a part of the entertainment as the fight itself.  What would drinking men have to talk about if they couldn't boast about their accomplishments and exaggerated capabilities?

With the distinctive crackling of bone-against-bone, the three-legged bone dog came loping back with the rib between its teeth.  Instead of going straight Cohen, though, the skeleton bumped blindly against barstools before curling up between two seats to set to chewing its own bone.  It froze, presumably offering a soundless growl whenever a patron strolled by. 

"Unless you're feeling brave this evening, brooms in the corner."  He pointed towards a simple kitchen broom propped in the far corner, its handle covered with telltale chew marks. 

It had been awhile.  James had learned through a series of network contacts that his favorite haunt had reopened.  He always had the distinct feeling Cinaed had more than met the eye to his pub and this more or less confirmed it.  Wondering if there was a secret knock or handshake to enter the pub, James debated for a second.  Up until this point in time, he could quite easily claim that he did not know what the #@$! was going on with Tawse.  This meeting through that all out the window.  On the opposite spectrum, he really missed the Shephred's Pie.  James assumed that the recipe did not change with location, but he never knew one way or the other. 

Idly, James wondered if their would be the same pleasant companionship around the bar this time as that was also a major feature of the previous location.  James still put his quidditch career before everything else though, so he would have patroned the place regardless.  Without further thought on the matter, he simply opened the door.  What greeted him was a strange sight.  A canine undead/ghost thingamajig had just knocked over a patron, and a ghost commented on the spectacle itself.  James could not help but comment.

"Cinaed, I had heard things had changed around here, but I had no clue how much.  Is resurrecting canines a new policy, or have I missed a few things since the last time I saw you?" James asked. 

He wondered a number of things.  He had a good idea as to why the old pub had closed, but had no idea why he chose this place to reopen.  More importantly, did he want to know of the things going on here?  He definitely wanted the shepherd's pie though.  Though he still was in the league, he had noted (as well as his coaches) a slight decrease in his performance after he stopped eating the concotion.  He really did need to learn how to make that recipe one day.  However, he did need to verify one thing first.

"I almost hesitate to ask, but please tell me resurrected food is not in the shepherd's pie?  Assuming it is not, would you mind serving me one" James asked.  Not that James was particularly squeamish, but there were some lines he would not cross.  Eating the undead was one of them.   

((OOC: Rated 'S' for 'the squeamish may want to look away))

"fweeoo~fweoo~fweeeee~fwoo~fweeoo" was the sound of somebody doing a horrible job of trying to whistle the way you call Scruffles or Mr. Poodle back into the house. "Clear the runway gramps!" Dotty said as she descended the last of the steps. There was more pep back in her steps now that she had fallen into a more 'supportive' crowd and place of vittles. Sure, you had to have something like the effect of Logorrhea-Lite and solemnly swear you will not blab the spot, rat out your fellows and be willing to help the bar should you be asked (and other errata) before you could get into the place but it beat boredom in Knockturn the full day. Sure it was out in the middle of nowhere but some of Dotty's best and simplest years were out in the middle of nowhere.

With her was the scabbing noise of a bunch of tiny claws on the bricks. It looked at first as if she had an unruly mop until it the 8 rats were recognized tied into a 'Ratten-Kong' (because Dotty could not pronounce a word of German). Eight rats with tails tied in an irregular octagon...and an incredibly tacky pink and quartz dog leash clipped near center. Not just any rats but the giant kind that could be up to three feet. Each in a various state of decay on what bones were visible, one completely skeletal except for the strip of fur on its back down to the tail that was needed for the knots.

"One Snakebites. Singular not plural because I learned my lesson after last time."

If Tawse wasn't a saint, he was the next best thing.  Aviad flicked a hand in thanks as a pint was set down in front of him.  It was much easier to let the running commentary roll off his shoulders when he could pick up the drink and drain half of it, giving him an excuse to avoid eye contact.

He set the mug down on the counter with a clunk, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.  "How'm I supposed to see if it works if I don't put the head on?" he demanded irritably.  Coming from the spirit, 'flobberworm' was practically a term of endearment; and indeed, the mage didn't really look all that annoyed as he peered after the dog.

"It is not resurrected," he informed Forrester stiffly, leaning down to try to see the dog between the stools.  "This is an old skeleton, and animal shades don't linger very long.  And besides," he added, his voice beginning to take on its familiar griping tone, "why would it matter whether there was anything resurrected in your pie?  It's still dead."

Someone did a horrible impression of a whistle, and Aviad's head whipped toward the door.  At the sight of Squiggs' creation, he nearly blanched.

"What is that?" he demanded, looking ill.  He wasn't the only one who had spotted the creature; the skeletal dog had immediately sat straight up upon its entrance, the holes where its nose had once been alert and nearly trembling, and there was a crashing sound on the shelf over Tawse's bar as Tzippori[1] knocked over a glass on its way to scramble for a better look.  Not sharing the fascinated interest of the two skeletons, Aviad gripped the edge of the bar as if he were on the verge of falling over.  Under his tan, the mage had turned a decided gray-green.  "Squiggs, ma l'azazel?![2]  Can't you strip the bones first?"

1.	Aviad's familiar.
2.	What the hell!?

Rick, on his part, laughed at the entire proceedings no matter how gross Squiggs has, once again, proven she could be—albeit quietly, because while he was an ass, he wasn’t stupid. The Black Chimaera was pretty easygoing as far as shady pubs went, he had come to find, but that wasn’t because the owner or the patrons were soft. Better Forrester than he, to ask stupid questions.

Rick’s relationship with the underbelly of the criminal sphere was a slippery one at best; while the one he had with the upper crust was just as so, if not more so, there was at least mutual need for discretion, for more than one person’s public persona was at stake. The lower crust, on the other hand, infrequently had such need, for more often than not they had fully withdrawn from aboveground, usually for their own self-preservation, and while this invisibility ordinarily lent itself to a lack of influence and connections, it also meant there was just even less to lose.

Rick, belonging to neither (at least, not here, in this rank, rainy place where they had ‘biscuits’ instead of cookies and tea was an actual time of day), had more to lose than either, and so usually kept to who were technically his kind– forgettable, low-key craftsmen who were slightly more visible to the legitimate side of things than the other, and only to the latter when they were specifically directed to. It was cautious-going, especially when you frequently straddled the damn line (and hung out with socialites and Ministry employees) like he did, and things hadn’t gotten any easier.

At the risk of sounding like a paranoid piss  something was stirring. And it wasn’t just the dementors.

But that was worry for another night, Rick decided as he sipped his whiskey, laughter subsiding as quietly as it started. And as he watched– well, admired Dotty’s rat with similar, if somewhat impressed disgust –the mountain lion wound around his chair, rattled quietly at his feet, its skull idly tracking the mage’s itinerant dog. Eyeless as it was, there was nothing else to indicate observation, save for the slight turn of its head. “That is ugly as hell, Squiggs,” he agreed, eyeing the desiccated bodies of the rat-thing. The collar was very… her. “Where’d you pick it up, Borgin & Burkes’ dump?” His tone, though, was free of any real acrimony; rat kings were hard enough to get a hold of in Germany. Though maybe he just didn’t know the right people.

Glancing at Tawse, Rick took another sip. Though it’d hardly last more than a single Scourgify, he didn’t envy the man of the mess that inevitably rose from skeletal barfights. Sometimes the spell couldn’t do anything about the odor, especially where flaking zombie rats were concerned.

Darius hunched in a dark corner of the new-old bar, scowling out at his fellow patrons over a Broken Wand -- the drink, not his twice-mended palm rod, though that also lay on the table next to a small burlap sack of sunflower seeds. A small pile of seed casings had begun to pile up at his elbow, with more added each time he slid another handful into his mouth.

There were, he supposed, worse places to spend an evening. At least here the drinks were strong and liquor was good and there was no chance of a stray, overly talkative reporter trying to chat up their comrade Juda Darzi. Besides, it was the best place to find work in this oh-so-troubled times. But he could have done without the shenanigans of skeletal dogs and dancing bones. What did a man have to do for a little peace with his meal?

Darius wrinkled his nose as the rat-king skittered across the floor, leaving flecks of dirt and-or rotted skin wherever it ran. The leash was the creature's one salvation. Had it dared within stomping distance, Darius would have smashed the whole nest to dust. Bed enough that Cohen brought his twisted excuse for a familiar along, now they had rotting rats running about at the whim of a half-mad American nutter. This was why he'd sent Faigel out the window the moment they'd entered the bar. His dearest friend deserved the freedom of an open flight here where he wouldn't be seen, and did not need to subjected to such brutal company.

Tossing his head back, Darius downed the rest of his Broken Wand into two large gulps, then slammed the glass against the table and wiped his lip on his sleeve. "Wherever it is from," he muttered at the end of Donovan's question, "should best burn to the ground. I should be surprised if the xəbislik[1] is not infested with plague." His dark eyes rolled sourly to Tawse, pushing the empty glass towards the owner in silent request for another. "Extermination will be in order in addition to cleaning, yes?"

1.	Azerbajani -- abomination, loathsome beast

Once upon a time, the Black Chimaera could boast of having one of the most diverse clienteles in London.  Over the years that the pub had operated out of London proper, everyone from Knockturn Gutter Rats to the occasional ministry folk found their way into the shadowy bar.  In Cinaed's mind, it had been the picture of what all of wizarding London should look like.  Diverse.  Proud.  Inclusive.  At least inclusive of those who could wield a wand.  The new location might be a bit more restrictive but, even still, there seemed to be a healthy assortment of patrons.  Revolutionaries.  Quidditch Players.  Crazies.  All just enjoying each other's company. 

And, fighting skeletons. 

"Naw.  Bone Nights have been a long standing Chimaera tradition," Cinaed reassured Forrester as he settled back on his stool behind the bar.  "Always been on Thursdays.  And kept a bit hush.  We had to take a little break when the old joint started drawing too much Level 2 attention, though.  Now that we don't have to worry about them anymore-"  Cinaed's voice trailed off into a grin as Cohen's unique brand of moody annoyance tackled the questions of resurrected bones and stews. 

Cinaed shook his head and offered a vague: "I can only promise the shepherd's pie is neither better nor worse than it was before.  If it hasn't crawled out of your bowl yet, it's not going to start now."

Squigg's entrance piqued Cinaed's curiosity much as it did everyone else's and he leaned against the bar once more to get a better view of the witch's prize. 

"Extermination will be in order in addition to cleaning, yes?" 

"Or something."  Cinaed slid another Broken Wand to Gabor.  "Squiggs, you are not bringing those back upstairs.  Besides, fights are one-on-one.  One of those things isn't going to stand a chance against Boney McLegless over there."  He got to his feet to gather the newest round of dirty glasses and deposited them in the sink, not noticing the old condensation on the glasses had started to freeze. 

"I do not know if that's reassuring or not - serve one to me regardless please," James commented to Cinaed's question, not really thinking about the consequences of it.  Still, James decided to order one anyways.  He'd have to remember to cast detect undead or something else discreet, but figured  that Cinaed would not feed his patrons undead food.  He hoped.

"So my dad gave an interview the other day.  Should be in the papers in a couple of days.  He does not like the new minister apparently.  Apparently she lost control of the dementors and he does not like her policies." James commented.  He figured this conversation topic had to be better than undead rats, canines, and whatever else someone wanted to resurrect.  Or at the very least, someone would decide politics was boring and could change subjects to the weather, quidditch, or anything else really.  James did not particularly care what they were talking about, so as long as he could eat in realtive peace.

As James surveyed the bar, he noted that this crowd was not as fair as he would have liked, but it appeared to be full of competent magi.  Not for the first time, James wondered if he made the wise move in returning.  He would figure it out later.  For now though, he would simply be careful.  James did not know exactly what Cinaed or anyone here was planning, and he had no intention of finding out.  He would try to remain as ignorant as possible, while still happily eating the pie.  It had been almost a year since he had been here.  He did not intend to make such a long absence again.

Dotty and her rats, bless her. She was a few sandwiches short of a pic-nick but she did have nimble fingers. Lawrence wouldn't mind her putting those to use in other ways if she looked at him twice in that way. It had been such a long time...

"... He does not like the new minister apparently.  Apparently she lost control of the dementors and he does not like her policies." The quidditch star who thought the sun shone out of his backside was mouthing off at the bar to everyone, trying to divert the conversation about the skeletons.

"Who does?" Lawrence retorted. "Witch is a fool, what with the goblins, people turned inside out, and now the dementors, she wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the Dark Lord's time. It's pathetic." He reached out for his glass and flinched back away from it, suddenly looking down. There was an ice pattern forming over it, like a window on a crisp winter's morning.

He glanced about him, looking for a culprit and then felt an all too familiar feeling of dread fill his stomach - a horrible, heavy feeling of despair which he'd only just managed to feel rid of in recent weeks. The ex-Azkaban inmate swallowed audibly, and reached his remaining hand for his wand.

"Is it me, or is it as cold like the North Sea in here?" He asked his drinking companions, fingers now properly around his wand handle. The sick feeling in his stomach was intensifying, especially with the memory that he'd not yet been able to cast a patronus since getting out. All those happy thoughts had become dull grey memories in the decade of incarceration and even being stunned into a bush after gawping at Admete Brown's knockers hadn't cheered him up enough to conjure one.

Darius downed a fair chunk of his drink in one gulp, grimacing at the familiar stab as alcohol hit his system. Felt like a shard of wood right to the trachea -- hence, he supposed, the name. He wiped his jowls on his coat sleeve and muffled a satisfied sound as warmth spread into his bloodstream. It mixed strangely with the bar's sudden chill, creating a disconnect between cold body and warm mind.

Paradoxical warmth. That was the term.

The sudden tension in Lawrence Musgrave drew Darius's alert, his self-preservation instincts surging to the forefront of a muted mind. His hand crept towards his wand, but it seemed slow and distant, as though it belonged to someone else. Darius locked his eyes on the frost crawling up the glass, yet he did not feel the cold. He felt warmth, hot and dry. Cracked skin. Broken lips. Blood...

He smelled blood. He tasted blood, thick in the hot desert air.

"Ruh Emici?" he muttered, finally closing his fingers around his wand. The name differed between languages, but all wizard cultures knew of the soul-sucking creatures who brought despair. Speak of the wolf and it arrives...

"Who does?" Cinaed said, almost at the same time as Musgrave, providing the same response in chorus.  He raised an eyebrow in Forrester's direction as he set a bowl of food in front of the man.  Merlin help whatever poor bastard come in saying they liked the Minister, her policies or the Ministry of Magic as a whole. 

Musgrave was right - in an era of turmoil, the old witch wouldn't last.  Which was why the time was ripe for more turmoil. 

With a bark of a laugh that dripped with a mixture of derision and jovial comradery, he nodded towards the cozy subterranean pub and the motley crew gathered around the piles of old animal bones.  "They can't even control us!" he called out across the room, with a broad grin.  He hoisted his own mug of ale in toast and a few tipsy cheers met the raised glass.

Just as he was setting the mug back down, the cold around the deepened and grew heavier.  A  thin layer of ice was forming under his fingers, cracks and crystals spreading out across the bar like little dense spiderwebs.  As the cold grew, a time-worn yet still familiar sense of panic started to spread through his core. 

He knew the feeling that was pressing around them.  With no doubt in his mind, he knew exactly what it was. 

The Ministry had dismissed the dementors not long after Cinaed had found himself tossed into the cell next to Mannie's in Azkaban.  But, those few long months under those creatures watch had been enough to burn their oppressive cold into the back of one's soul.  Cinaed was nothing like the teenager who'd first found himself cowering under their menace but their presence but he had to fight the rush of urge to avoid finding himself giving in to being that kid, again. 

"Bloody hell!" he cursed, jumping to his feet and pulling his wand.  He cast a quick glance down the bar to where Mannie hovered, seemingly oblivious to the breadth of the threat.  Before he could warn the ghost, soft but rushed footsteps from the stairs up the living space in the tree's crown distracted him.  A young woman came rushing down the stairs, a confused and terrified looking toddler in her arms. 

The girl stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared for a moment at the crowded room. 

Finally, as if in answer to Gabor's dismal mutterings, "Dementors!"  She cried, "Coming through the trees!  I saw them!  They're coming!"

The whole room seemed to stop in its tracks, eyes widening, and the skeleton bones clattered without the attention of a wand.

Lawrence's head wanted to get out and back to London, Hogsmeade anywhere where dementors were not, but and overwhelming misery was already seeping into him, dragging his heart into his boots, and seeing the despair in the eyes of the woman and her child his limbs couldn't make the run. Old auror habits instead kicked in his self-preservation, and he made it to this feet.

"Which direction?" He implored with a commanding tone to her, a predatory, wild look in his wide eyes.

"Find somewhere else to haunt!" He snapped at the ghost, without further explanation, wand at the ready.

"Someone tell a ruddy joke, or we're going to be dinner dates."

James was not the best joke teller, though that was sound advice as anything.

"So a young lad had a hard time dealing with some older kids, who always gave him the choice of a knut or a sickle.  He always chose the knut.  When his parents asked him about it, he simply replied that if he took the sickle, they would quit giving him knuts and thus far he had already made 2 galleons from them" James offered, hoping it was good enough.

He did not wait to hear the response, but only offered a "Do not worry, I am not quitting my day job Cinaed.  I will still be able to pay my tab," admittedly James was not the best at comic delivery, but hoped that it was good enough for a distraction.  Still, he had no desire to become dementor food.  He thought of something fast.  He did not particularly like the idea but felt he had not other options.  He did not know how the spell would react, but he was about ready to panic.  In all honesty, James (and probably everyone else in the pub) would have liked more warning.  Someone could have come up with a better idea.  As it was, this was the best he had.

"I have an idea, but I'll need to concentrate.  And if someone else could cast Partis Temporus that would be a great help as well," James called out.  It had been years since he had last cast this spell, but James had no time to be choosy.  James did not yet see any dementors, so he mentally prepped himself.  The spell was hard enough to cast under the best conditions after all, and the misery from the dementors was not helping.  He tried every trick he could think of to get rid of nervousness before a match, and prayed that his gambit would be enough.