Settling down in London was a welcome change from the Summer's stormy weather.  Nevertheless, Dazmond's impulses were stirring as much of it up as possible.  She was ringing in the potions orders, making deliveries and seeking inebriating adventures on her home turf, laying claim to her old haunts.  This evening was little different from all of that, save for involving perhaps a tad more of the conniving and scandalous.

The wet wind licked the clouds away, exposing a recent (and now receding) Full Moon.  Governed by guilt for not having been round for her usual Wolfsbane users, Dazmond was planning on attending to an unregistered werewolf post-shapeshift tonight. 

With her signature woven apothecary bag strapped at her shoulder, she walked up the alley from the Shodding Arms to rap at the door of a lovely lurking lycanthrope for whom she had much in the way of respect.  Not only did Ambrosio run tricks and stalk the night like a good little boy, he often ran his tricks for her.  It was a business relationship based on fairly equal exchanges, which at rare times seemed lopsided but never to the detriment of their relations.  Such was the depth of their respect for nurturing oddities -- that is, a strange sort of brotherhood between criminal freaks in the dark heart of Knockturn.

Presently finding no response at the door of Ambrosio's flat, Dazmond sat on the stoop and pulled a pad of parchment along with an automatic ink quill from her bag to pass the time writing recipes.

It was evening in Knockturn Alley, the night after the full moon. Ambrosio had awakened earlier that day in the woods of Ireland, naked and a complete mess. He was close to his cousin's estate, therefore, he paid her visit, at least until he felt strong enough to leave, which had been around noon. He had apparated to his apartment to nap the rest of the day away until night rolled around, and thus, he did just that.

A few raps at his door woke him. He looked out the window, noticed it was evening and slovenly got himself up. He was still wearing the white button-up and khaki slacks from Liadán's father's trunk, and promptly stripped himself of the material, once again in a state of nudity. He went through his things and found a pair of blue-gray boxer shorts and put them on before going to see who'd been at the door, if they were still there. Opening it up, he saw one of his favorite people situated on his stoop.

Leaning out the door, as he was only wearing the underwear, he hissed at her. "Dazmond, amour, you can come inside. I apologize, as I was napping." He suddenly felt an urge to vomit. "Do you have my liquor, and can I bug you for a cigarette?" He knew she'd catch on and he definitely looked sick all of the sudden.

Dazmond had paused her scribbles, hearing the door come ajar.  But it wasn't until Ambrosio started looking like he might upchuck some people-flesh that she sprung up (and out of the way).  She slipped in the nearly closed doorway just behind him, clutching her bag and parchments awkwardly as she sought out a clear surface.  She settled her books and quill on a wooden chair and started sifting through the contents of her apothecary bag.  That was about the time that she took notice of his near-nakedness.  Hardly taken aback by this, Daz started checking him over for bruises and cuts. 

She thickened her brow and pulled two fags out of a silver case, handing one to Ambrosio.  "You'll have to give me a light, mate; lost my bloody wand and -- this new guy, man, I so much as touch it and... bloody mind of it's own," she murmured through cigaretted lips.  She flashed him a smile, filling the room with smoke. 

"Oh, oh oh, Ambrosio!  You look sicker than a mutt with dragon pox.  Sit down.  Aren't you freezing?"  She tossed him a blue bottle of homemade Wolfsbane and extracted another full of Bastet's Blessed Bruise Remedy.  Uncorking the top and sitting on the edge of the wooden chair, she started soaking a folded cloth.  Dazmond nearly asked if he had eaten, before realizing that he was likely still -- er -- full from last night.  Daz tended to think of Ambrosio as the type of Werewolf who didn't mind tasting human flesh.  Never mind if he remembered with the dawning of the next day. 

"Well, I'm back in London -- London Calling, you know, all that -- and will be for, well, hopefully ever.  But blast me, there's a fecking big spill that needs some cleaning."  Dazmond balanced the wet poultice on her knee and dug out an amber jar full of salve and a folded Prophet.  "I figure we're being called to duty, mate."  She waved the Prophet at him.  The chosen page's headline read:  Minister Annwyl Announces New Werewolf Legislation.  The following section was circled and marked with underscores and exclamation marks:

"The Capture Unit has been under much discussion. To assume that there will be no violent offenders is ignorant. To assume that none of them will take advantage of their transformation is equally ignorant. For those that are beyond reason, for those that can't merely be spoken to, will have to deal with the Capture Unit. This newly revised Capture Unit will be a joint venture between two departments, the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, as well as the Department for the Care of Magical Creatures. The Head of the Aurors, Tamis Raynor, has been most gracious in ensuring that the new team get some training time with the Aurors. Department Head Covadonga Gertrudis has also taken much consideration to ensure that the new team will also be better educated in the matters they will be attending to."

"It is with great pleasure that I introduce the new Head of the Capture Unit, Vane Hendric."

Editor's Note: At this point, Vane Hendric was introduced and Minister Annwl breifly expounded on his traits.  There was significant controversy when it was revealed that Vane Hendric was also a werewolf.  But Minister Annwyl was sure to point out that  has served on a number of Specialist Teams across Europe and Asia, and that as a man also afflicted with Lycanthropy, he understands how they move and fight. He also understands the more feral nature that seems to creep into the psyche of those that can change. He has over 50 years of experience and will be a very positive asset.

   

Taking the cigarette from Dazmond, he lit it with the lighter on the center table in his living room, or whatever the small space was to be called. He lit hers as well then took a long, hard drag from the stick. "Ah…" He held it in a little longer, then exhaled through his nostrils and his mouth, as a cloud of smoke filled the room. "That sure does take off the edge. I honestly don't know what I'd do without these beauties." He smiled, took another drag, then relaxed on his sofa. It was a shoddy, little thing and he was rather long, so his legs always hung over the edge.

Seeing the bottle of blue liquid, he quickly grabbed it and chugged as much as he could take before putting it down. He let his eyes fall back as he felt his tensions and pains easing slowly and steadily. "God, Daz, what do you put in this stuff? I mean, I've only had a few different kinds, but yours is by far the best." He smirked at her. He'd had the Ministry's kind as well, but theirs usually enhanced the pain before ridding it. He figured it was their way of saying that werewolves are beasts, registered or unregistered, and they should be punished no matter what. This is why he loathed the Ministry.

And as Dazmond threw the article under his nose, he figured no less of them. "How sadistic. A werewolf hunting werewolves. I'd love to see this old beast take a stab at me. From his picture, he seems a right mess of a man. Obviously haunted by his disease." He made an emphasis on the last word, as it struck an evil tone with him. He loved what he was, no doubt about it. "Oh, and I saw that look in your eye, dearest. I don't think any humans were harmed last night. I ended up in Ireland, of all places. Paid Liadán's estate a visit." He laughed, as most people knew his cousin to be an uptight bitch of a woman.

"Charming time?" asked Dazmond, cocking her head sarcastically and giving him an oft-earned, sorry sort of smile.  "I have a hard go of even thinking about visiting relatives -- lately.  Anyway, I wouldn't be so worried about your mangling folks if it wasn't for these twats in the papers.  We ought to really do something, mate; I'm dead serious!"  She laughed a bit, as if she wasn't serious, as she settled in on the floor by the couch where he was lounging, all her salves and rags lined up and hands busy.

For some reason or another, Dazmond got along swell with Werewolves (and, much to her husband's chagrin, she got on especially well with the illegal, dangerous sorts of Werewolves one might find inhabiting the alley).  There weren't all that many of them, but they all found out through one avenue or the next that Dazmond was a brilliant hand at potions and had some penchant for the furry and ferocious.  In Ambrosio's case, the two shared a more personal relationship that came with great ease.

"I'm glad you like," she said.  "The Ministry and hospice folks, right, they don't know what the wank they're doing.  This is where it's at.  Now, where's it hurt, mate?"  She twisted round on her spot on the floor with a poultice in hand, looking over his er -- well-toned body for wounds to press.  Taking a distracted drag from her cigarette, she furrowed her brows in confusion as she took the liberty of pressing out a heavy bruise on his chest.

"Tell me how this works, right.  Hendric's a wolf.  And you're a wolf.  And -- this'll sting a bit -- okay, a lot, then -- But then the moon's full, right?  And he's out a-hunting.  And you're out doing your thing.  And so doesn't he have like zip in the way of reason?  What the bloody hell sort of juice do they have him hopped up on, yeah?  The whole thing reeks, mate.  I don't know what, but I'm going to do something.  I'm going to find them out.  Give em something sour to suck on."