oceancove

Who: William Harwood & Ilsa
What: Ilsa makes good on her promise to show William around the Cove.
Where: Beginning at Sugared, and then going from there.
When: Evening.
Rating: TBD

He lamented slightly at having to wait until darkness to meet with Ilsa, as he was fairly certain that the Cove was likely a lovely sight in the hours just before twilight. William wasn’t a sentimentalist by any means, and had long ago stopped giving a damn about things that mortals viewed as awe inspiring – such as sunsets and sunrises – but something about the seaside community made an odd sort of longing to see such things crop up (as they tended to do every couple hundred years). However, he chalked it up of growing slightly bored of his lodgings and office space, the desire to actually see what the Cove had to offer in the way of any form of excitement causing him to feel restless.

Since their meeting at the ballet some weeks previous, Ilsa had offered to show William about town, as he hadn’t really been anywhere aside from where he lived and operated, the coffee shop along the way, and the theatre. Any inclination he had to do any “sight-seeing” was often squashed by not wanting to appear as a tourist to those around him. He loathed the idea of feeling out of his element, and while as a whole the Cove did not present those feelings, he certainly wasn’t as comfortable as he was in London. And considering that for the foreseeable future that this was to be his home, he figured that perhaps he may as well get to know it a bit better.

Ilsa had suggested that William meet her after one of her shifts at Sugared, and William had agreed. He hadn't set foot in the confectionery shop since arriving, but had heard many good things about their cupcakes, often prepared by the alpha of the lycans, Amelia. He had no aversion to lycans, or even sweets necessarily, but embracing either wasn't exactly the highest on his list of priorities. As he stepped inside the shop, the bright colours and the scent of things freshly baked filled his nostrils. Save for himself, the bakery was void of customers. William glanced at his watch to make sure that he wasn't terribly early or late before forgoing all the baked goods and sweets around him and approaching the counter.

Who: Amelia Drake & Hugh Cadigan.
What: A promised, grown up dinner.
Where: Bocelli's Italian restaurant.
When: Evening.
Rating: TBD

Amelia had been kicked out of her own shop by Keita. The kitsune, who apparently was fed up with her pacing and the constant need to fix and adjust things had taken her shop keys and promised to close up and complete the nightly drop. Earlier in the day she had contacted Hugh, dropping into the conversation the dinner they had agreed on before he left the Cove. She hadn't expected the quick turn about and rapid fire discussion, and the decision to go out later that evening. The rest of the day, she was constantly in motion, and had made enough cupcakes and sweets to keep the shop open for the next six days without needing to bake anything. Only slightly worried about how she was going to unload the extra pastries on unsuspecting people, she left the shop, lead by a firm hand on her elbow, as Keita chattered about 'having a good time', and 'not worrying about opening the next morning'.

It was mid afternoon when she arrived at home. Far too early to get dressed for an evening out, she opted on cleaning the entire house. And painting the kitchen, which only created more mess, and the issue of paint on her hands, and the fact that no matter how hard she scrubbed it wouldn't come off. Deciding to peel the paint from her fingers, she plopped down on the couch, lost to the lure of daytime television.

The sun had started to set, sending long shadows into her living room. She clicked off the television, showered, and spent far too long deciding on what to wear. Amelia gnawed at a thumbnail, stared at the contents of her closet before selecting a cream colored halter dress that floated away from the body--leaving her hair loose and in waves. It was casual enough not to put on airs, but at the same time nice enough that she looked like she spent hours getting ready. Which she had, in her own roundabout way. Low rise black pumps and a black clutch were snagged at the last moment, and it wasn't until she was behind the wheel of her SUV that she had forgotten the jewelry laid out on the bed. It would have been a distraction anyway. Nerves would have caused her to play with it all evening, and that wouldn't do.

She wasn't sure why she was so nervous. It wasn't a date. Two adults having dinner, in a grown up setting alone. Amelia stabbed at the button to unroll the window, a flush coming to her cheeks at the flashes of the evening they had time they had before it was interrupted. She could almost hear Eamon's amusement.

It sounded like a date, the more she thought about it. Telling herself that it didn't matter, she pulled into a parking spot and turned the car off. The night was mild, streets quiet, despite it being early. She waited outside the restaurant, a little early.

Who: Eamon Flood, Hugh Cadigan, & Connor Macrae
What: Competitive penis measuring Training
Where: Eamon's Yard
When: Late afternoon
Rating: TBD

Rumor had it that Eamon Flood was building an army. Or possibly a pit fighting ring. Or an obstacle course. Or, some rather broad-minded folks suggested, all three. The fourth rumor was, as it happened, rather closer to the truth. In the weeks since Amelia’s attack Eamon, along with several other pack wolves, had been busy transforming the Second’s backyard into physical training center for non-humans. Deep sparring pits had been dug and staked, weights and complicated looking physical fitness machinery (some still bearing price tags) had been found in quarters best not mentioned, and attack dummies had been sewn and stuffed. A brick barbeque that could be best summed up as ‘immense’ had been added alongside a two double-wide refrigerators that were continually restocked with beef and beer (mostly Newcastle’s new ‘Werewolf Ale,’ which the pack found hysterical despite the berry flavor). Power came from a half dozen surge protectors that were themselves hooked onto long extension cords that terminated not in Eamon’s home but, rather, in the woods rather near to where one of the city generators squatted. Thus far the city had yet to investigate reports of possible electrical use malfeasance—something about having to wade through a pack of werewolves first seemed to put them off.

 

In recent days the pits and weight machines had begun to fill with trusted werewolves. Some came on their own, others came at the command of their Second. It had taken only a day or two to become a deafening affair marked by roars and snarls and clangs by day and shouts and song at night. The summons sent to Hugh Cadigan had initially run ‘Your sheep-shagging arse here, now’ but the runner who had delivered it had had the good sense to adjust the language to something rather more polite. Hugh wasn’t pack, Eamon certainly wouldn’t consider him anything close to it until he dropped his foreign loyalties, but he was, he knew, a reliable set of claws and jaws should Amelia come under attack again. He wanted the Welshman training with his wolves. He wanted to know, too, what the sheep-shagger thought of the training system currently in place. Outside eyes bought fresh perspective, no matter what sort of man they were attached to.

 

Now Eamon paced between pits, watching the combatants below him thrash and scramble. To his left was an evenly matched pair of heavyset wolves, each trying to use their own weight to unsteady their opponent. Other wolves, unchanged, sat watching as they received a lecture on the technique being demonstrated and the best ways to counter it should they ever come across it in combat. To right the match was far less fair. Connor, wolf form and manacled so he could hardly move, was beset by eight of his pack mates. The pup was learning to control his shifts better under duress, but his ability to shift at will from wolf to man was stalled. Blood, noise, and the threat of danger seemed to lock the wolf in and the man out. The wolves in the pit were trying to break him of the habit as one breaks a kicking horse with a hobble. Ahead, on an embankment rather than a pit, pairs of werewolves in their bipedal form sparred as well. A werewolf was always stronger on all fours but there were situations wherein a change might not always be possible or best. Later there would be training against non-werewolf bipeds. Eamon was not taking anything to chance.

Who: Lillie and Joseph Carlisle
What: Spending a little time together.
Where: Starting out at Lillie's apartment.
When: Just after sunset.
Rating: TBD

"Well, well. Red's fallen in love."

Max hadn't said that loud enough for anyone other than Lillie to hear, and he had been rewarded for his observation with a heeled shoe's press against his foot. But there hadn't been any complaints about Lillie's changed mood. There was a considerable lift in her step and a brightness in her smile, and vampire or not it wasn't hard to guess why she was happy. It was ridiculous, poetic, and obvious all at once.

She was in love.

When Lillie had left the club, she'd gone to the bed and breakfast Joseph currently called home. Sunrise was coming and she wouldn't wake him for only a few moments' time, no matter how much she might have wanted to. Instead she'd ( left an envelope underneath the door. )

Who: Thomas McKinnon and Althea
What: Following the Swan Lake closing night
Where: The Cove's Performing Arts Center
When: Evening
Rating: TBD


It was no secret that the Talbot Memorial Theater had been named after the principal character in the Wolf Man movie franchise. That is, according to the guide books, which attracted visitors to the Cove annually, many of whom where turned away owing to the Supernaturals Protection Act of 1998 -- a piece of legislation which Thomas McKinnon was intimately acquainted. As it turned out, the fine arts center was not named for a werewolf at all, but after a local businessman who had profited in the post-crash market of the 1940s. As the economy in America grew following the Great Depression, so too did the fine arts scene, resulting in a number of opulent cinematic palaces up and down the Western seaboard.

Thomas arrived late, well after closing hours, when the ushers and patrons had retired for the evening. The success of Swan Lake had entered into a kind of infamy in the Cove and he could remember precisely his actions that night: stealing the bright, young ingénue away from her adoring fans and proposing instead that they share a couple of coney dogs. He'd been surprised that Althea had agreed. Even more surprised by the warmth he'd felt in the center of his chest when speaking to her, as if someone had lit a furnace behind his ribcage.

His actions that night were almost as inexplicable were his whereabouts this evening: standing on the velvet steps in the theater's main foyer, his tie slightly askew from a day's work, wondering what he was doing and why his mind was constantly returning to a blonde with a penchant for walking on her toes.

He migrated back to the dressing rooms, knocking on a particular door with a signature silver star.

Who: The Cove (Gathering Post)
What: The closing performance of Swan Lake
Where: The Cove's Performing Arts Center
When: The evening of June 21st.
Rating: TBD
Status: Incomplete / Open to all

The closing night of any performance typically resulted in a large turn-out, either of those who had yet been afforded the chance to see the production and didn't want to miss out, or those who wanted one more chance to take in the entire spectacle. No matter the reason, there was always a hint of sadness in knowing this would be the final night, yet a thrill of anticipation for what was to come next. Where one curtain might fall its last time, another would rise in a few weeks' time and the spectacle of dance would come again to the Cove. Rehearsals had already been scheduled for the next production, and the company would get a scarce break before starting again.

Soft lights illuminated the foyer and the theatre, conversation and the clinking of glasses against one another setting a quiet backdrop for the event. It was comfortable to gather before the production, where servers in black and white attire moved soundlessly with trays of hors d'oeuvres. Photos of the dance company lined the outside of the room, portraits in black and white, with the female and male leading roles showcased towards the center.

The performance went without incident from the first notes played by the orchestra to the final curtain call, and the producer crossed the stage to place a bouquet of two dozen red roses in Althea's arms before pressing a kiss to her cheek. Three curtain calls came and went with thunderous applause before the house lights came on again, and the magic of Swan Lake drew to a close.

Afterwards, the reception was waiting. Caterers rushed about in black and white costumes, balancing heavy trays with champagne glasses and clean plates, maneuvering between linen-covered tables and finely dressed patrons. A feeling of festivity came through the room and when the company came to join it only elevated to a higher level.

Another successful production at the Cove had come to a close.

Who: Mark Davidson - Open
What: Tending to flowers
Where: His nursery
When: Friday afternoon
Rating: TBD
Status: Incomplete ; open

Mark Davidson was probably one of the few people who actually liked to get up with the rising sun. Just when the light started to touch everything, and he felt a bit like he'd stepped into the Lion King, everything was waking up including himself. Before he'd ever had his coffee, or done anything really, Mark went out on his porch. He'd sit there for a while, the length of time didn't really matter. Just until he felt like moving again. Those were the times when he was in his most natural state.

If he could have melted into the earth then, he would have.

Once he rose, the scent of the dew making him wake up more than any caffeine ever could, he'd water his own flowers. The ones he kept especially for himself. He had an affinity for the illegal ones, and so far no one had ever found them. That's how he liked to keep it. He talked to his flowers. More so at home than at the shop. No one who worked for him needed to think their boss had flipped out.

After a sufficient time in his own place, he got showered, dressed and headed to the shop. He was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Today was no exception. It had been relatively busy all day though. Being summer, and the impending heat made people want to get things done in a rush.

As people passed him by, he tended to the flowers that were for sale, keeping an eye on those that passed by.

Who: Kirk Alden & Tess Graham.
What: The full moon occurred the previous night ... and that's all that Kirk remembers about it.
When: Morning after the full moon.
Rating: R
Status: Complete.

The days after a full moon were always a little on the rough side for Kirk. Despite having been a lycan the entirety of his life, the transformation often took a lot out of him now. Before going to Iraq, the shifting from his human form to his wolf was something that was just a part of his life, and often not trying in any degree when the moon held its sway. But upon arriving home from his tour of duty, and after having suffered years of blackouts, the full moon could sometimes render him exhausted and weaker the following day. It was never anything terribly debilitating, but on those days he did prefer to just lay low and nurse the headache and the slightly aching muscles that he inevitably received. It was something that he had gone through and experienced for over one hundred years, and aside from his blackout phase, which had ended a few years ago, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the process (well, from the standpoint of a werewolf).

That is, until the night previous.

Kirk woke up slowly, his eyes slowly blinking open, watching the sunlight filter in through the leaves on the trees. Groaning, he covered his eyes and rolled over onto his back, letting out a sound of discomfort as a tree root dug into his back. Realization dawned that he was outside, and his eyes flew open as he removed his hand from obscuring his vision. He was in the woods, or what would classify for words in the little subdivision he lived in, he recognized that much. Sitting up slowly, his eyes scanned his immediate area.

He hadn't remembered arriving there.

The more Kirk thought about it, the more worried he became, as he hadn't remembered arriving there amongst the trees. Standing up carefully, he held onto a nearby tree to aid him in slowly finding his feet. Kirk was able to piece together bits of the previous evening, but it had all been before he'd actually changed. He recalled going down to the living room and moving furniture in anticipation of changing, just in case, and then ... and then ... and then waking up in the forest. Kirk whirled around, attempting to gauge his exact location so that he could get home. The woods ran close enough to his house that he didn't run the risk of anybody seeing him. He hadn't blacked out since roughly a year before his release from prison, and the painful memories of what he'd done the last time he blacked out prior to being incarcerated hit him in the gut with enough force to render him breathless momentarily.

Turning in the direction of home, Kirk caught sight of his hand just within the peripherals of his vision and stopped in his tracks. There was dried blood on his palm, and after inspection of his body some on his chest and legs as well - none of which was his own. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm himself. It was just an animal. It was just an animal. It was just an animal. As he got closer to his house, he was relieved to find a deer - or what was left of it. Inspecting it closely, he was able to pick up his own scent on it, and breathed a sigh of relief. While the fear of having hurt someone went away, there was a lingering fearfulness that he couldn't remember what had happened.

Upon arriving home, Kirk stood in the entryway to his living room, surveying the little bit of destruction that he had caused. It wasn't too bad, but a chair by the window had obvious bite and slash marks from his fangs and claws in it, and he'd knocked his bookcase over, leaving texts and photo albums strewn across the floor. He ran a hand through his hair and heaved a heavy sigh, then grabbing his jeans off of the floor and putting them on, before moving to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee to clear his mind do he could begin to wrap it around what had happened.

Who: Shinji Kawada, Henry Doyle
When: Night.
Where: Shinji Kawada’s apartment
Rating: Pg
Status: Open and ongoing.

It hadn’t taken much digging to find information on Graeme Ecclesfeld. Almost everyone had a digital trail these days unless they actively and regularly erased it. Graeme, obviously, had either not bothered to attempt erasure or had been uniquely inept at doing so. The trail that Graeme had left, however, was worrying and it took Henry only the most basic of searches to trace the missing vampire’s trail to Seattle and what precisely it was that had called him there. All roads led to where Henry had feared they might; going further would be dangerous and would certainly require outside assistance with access to more formal channels of inquiry.

Evening found Henry outside of Shinji Kawada’s apartment. It was a relatively safe neighborhood a short distance from the city centre, the sort of neighborhood where a non-resident vampire could spend quite a bit of time waiting outside a private residence without raising too many eyebrows. The only person who had even inquired as to why Henry was sitting so long and so patiently on the retaining wall outside the complex was an elderly woman, a human, who had cautioned Henry with a wag of her wrinkled finger to not cause any trouble for “that nice young man; such a handsome boy.”


Henry had promised faithfully to not harm Shinji in any way possible, then had sat and listened to the woman explain the intricacies of her family history and circle for over an hour and a half before she had retreated inside with a cluster of her friends for a game of mahjong. She had returned once to deliver a small paper plate of freshly baked sugar cookies, which Henry now ate in between sips of blood from the thermos he had brought with him.

Who: Amelia Drake, Hugh Cadigan
When: Evening
Where: Amelia's council office.
What: A reunion of sorts (round two.)
Rating:
Status: Ongoing and in progress.


The head of security at the council offices was a frail fey who everyone called Chuck. The only reason Amelia was able to be at her office without an entourage of eight or more wolves was because of Chuck-- and his hands of power. Amelia had seen the frail figure shatter, giving way to something darkly beautiful and utterly destructive. She nor Chuck ever spoke of the times she saw him use his abilities, and she didn't like to think on those times too often. They tended to bring nightmares. The offices were quiet, only a few representatives worked into the evening. She had stopped by Henry's office, to find that he hadn't arrived, or had already left. It was late enough that the vampire could move around comfortably.

Amelia preferred the quiet. She hadn't been in the offices since she had healed, and she liked that she could hear if someone approached. Someone- she had a hunch Chuck, had also installed a video surveillance system in her office and she could watch who wandered the halls. When she had taken her place on the council, she had gutted the office, fashioning it more to her taste. This office too, had dark woods, deeper colors and over-sized furniture. Decidedly masculine, though there were slight feminine touches.

She had been in the office for a few hours, gotten half way through old request forms when there was a knock at the door. Keigo Casimie, one of the humans who worked with the council and often ran the meetings let himself in. Work was set aside for polite conversation and the assurance that she would in fact be at the next meeting, and no they didn't have to worry about Eamon or Rammsteiner sitting in her stead. (Though, she figured they didn't want either of the wolves there for very different reasons.)

Nearly forty-five minutes later, and four ever present clove cigarettes, Casimie reached across her desk, shook her hand and took his leave. She could almost taste his want to ask what happened to Lida's body, or if she knew anything more than the small amount of information they had sated the press with.

She came across the file on Hugh that McKinnon's office had brought by. With a grin, she settled in to flip through it. Naturally, her thoughts turned to the other wolf, the abrupt call back to Budapest and her. Amelia's lip curled on reflex, annoyed at how Hugh was pulled back and forth. She wanted to keep a close eye on Hugh, her reasoning more personal than she'd like to admit.

Who: Ilsa and Thomas McKinnon
What: A consultation
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: H&W
Status: In-Progress

She swam that morning. She left before the sun had properly risen, before the air had lost its cool edge, and went out to the sandbar that some of the Gray's Harbor seals favored. They weren't any relation - ordinary seals, all of them - but they were good company. They all played in the surf until the pups tired, and then collapsed onto the sandbar as the fog lifted. The cold of the morning lingered on her skin for hours afterward, a reminder of what she had to gain.

Ilsa prepared for her meeting with Thomas McKinnon with a strange calm; she was certain this was the right thing to try. She didn't know what she might need, or even what was reasonable to ask Mr. McKinnon to do (her impression of the human legal profession having been primarily gleaned from assorted television shows), so she gathered everything she thought might be helpful, all the documents related to Teague's will and estate, assorted letters, even the postcards he'd sent her - a record of his travels. She didn't linger over any of them.

Such papers had always seemed like human detritus to her, but this was how humans established precedent - it was how they made truth, albeit of a more flexible variety than the fey were used to. She was almost human by now. It was time she made their methods work for her.

Ilsa arrived ten minutes early. As a direct result of extensive business dealings with fey, she had a habit of precision that for her included, among other things, punctuality; however, her experience of humans had led her to understand that punctual was often synonymous with early (annoyingly, the internet did not seem to agree on how early). She came prepared to wait. Ilsa greeted the rather impressive receptionist (noting with interest the taste of blood and death around her), and waited for instructions, her manner pleasant and easy.

Every once in awhile, chimeric water dripped from her hair.

Who: Ian Rammsteiner and Kirk Alden
What: An evening out
When: Saturday evening, mid-June
Where: Café Cèdre, the Cove
Rating: Negotiable
Status: Open and ongoing


He took coffee every evening at the café on Stoker Street. The venue was small, but it had the advantage of being well off the beaten path of pedestrian traffic (Washington state, through no fault of its own, had become a sort of Mecca for coffee enthusiasts and caffeine junkies, many of whom had no business mainlining further external stimulation). It also relied upon the French press model of coffee making, which Ian found far preferable to the Italian design. Rows of the devices occupied the shelves behind the counter, their glass cylinders and pistons like something out of Frankenstein's laboratory. The employees were capable and not too chatty. There were no displays of tie-in merchandise. There were no frequent customer punch cards. No Xfm radio station playing over the sound system. It was the sort of business that had enough respect for its patrons to leave them the hell alone. The coffee, it must also be said, was exceptional.

Ian Rammsteiner arrived at exactly 7:17, two minutes shy of his usual time. He had spent the afternoon with council business and had then made an impromptu trip to the nearby kitchen supply store, where he had treated himself to a Paderno copper 10.25" frying pan and a set of Masahiro chefs knives. The clerk had delayed while tying his parcels. Ian had felt his anger rising but calmed himself by focusing on the light reflecting off the side of a chafing dish. He thanked the clerk, smiled, and took his bags with him out into the street. His car hunkered down next to the curb. He had the key fob in his palm but changed his mind at the last moment and veered away onto the sidewalk. The café was not more than a ten minute walk from here. He had stored his parcels in the trunk of the car and then turned north on foot.

At the café they acknowledged him with a glance. He ordered his usual -- a café mélange -- and chose a seat on the open terrace. The sinking ball of the sun reflected off a pair of smoked half-lenses balanced across the bridge of his nose. He was looking forward to using the Japanese knives. The blades were made of carbonized steel with polycarbide handles, making them both sharp and reliable. He would like to go to the village in Japan, Seki, where the blades were manufactured. Legend had it that the village had once produced swords for the samurai. Ian believed there was much that could be learned from Eastern tradition.

He raised his cup to his lips and took a sip.

Perfect.

Who: Noel Abbott, Thomas McKinnon.
What: Noel comes seeking help.
When: Friday afternoon.
Where: Law offices.
Rating: Pg
Status: Open and ongoing.

Noel had left the hotel around noon, heading into town. Surrounded by people escaping the office for a few moments of sunshine and a lunch out from behind the desk, she felt somewhat safe. It didn't take her long to locate the law offices that Henry had recommended. She stood across the street, watching a few people go in and out. She approached the building, and then retreated back to safety across the street. She repeated this a few more times, before actually entering the building. It was far too official, and stifling. Extremely nervous, fear settling in she started when the secretary spoke to her.

"I have- I have an appointment. I called a few days ago." Glanced at the clock behind the woman. "I'm a bit late, is it too late?" Her hands went into her pockets, curled onto herself, an attempt to appear smaller.

"I can reschedule, I'll come back," Before she could turn to get to the door, the secretary rose from behind the desk, and assured her that Mr. McKinnon would see her, and she just needs to wait for a moment. Noel watched as the secretary left, disappeared down a hall. The urge to disappear rose quickly, and she had in fact turned, took a few steps toward the door, when the sound of footsteps stopped her.

Who: Henry Doyle, Amelia Drake, Eamon Flood, & Connor Macrae
What: Shenanigans!
When: 4:14am, June 2
Where: Amelia’s home
Rating: That is so, so up in the air
Status: In-progress

When first discussed the plan had seemed innocent enough. Connor had mentioned it only casually over a dinner as a sort of throwaway just-so-you-know remark. He had made plans, as he told Henry as they each prepared their respective meals, to spend the evening with Amelia Drake. She had been a bit depressed of late and needed a bit of cheering up. They were going out for a few drinks, just to get her mind off of things. Henry had nodded at the time, muttered something about the plan sounding like a pleasant evening, and forgotten entirely about it…at least until the first photo of a penis was texted to his phone.

The text came in the middle of a meeting heralded only by a soft buzz of the vibration function on Henry’s Blackberry. Successive snapshots of various body parts (none of which were even remotely appropriate to a small-session council meeting) quickly followed the first image. He had tried, perhaps foolishly, to ignore them at first. But they kept coming relentlessly, occasionally intermixed with perplexing messages such as ‘WE GOT BEADS !!! GUESS HOW!!,’ ‘BODYSHOTS ARE BRILLIANT - WOO,’ and ‘DOES YOUR CREDIT CARD WORK FOR LAP DANCES?’. After the thirteenth photo of foreign testicles and the sixth shot of extreme nipple close-up Henry had quietly excused himself from the meeting.

Unable to search the Cove’s bars himself (that, certainly, would get back to his abandoned meeting-mates in a flash) Henry directed his driver to Amelia’s home. The lights shining in her living room briefly buoyed his hopes that the pair had decided to call it an early night but he found only Eamon there who, much like Henry, had been receiving similar pornographic images on his own phone for the past hour. Hugh Cadigan, Eamon had pointed out, was also receiving at least some of the same photos: his cell phone number appeared on quite a few of the graphic texts. Attempts to call either werewolf ended in voicemail and texts in reply received no answer.

That had all occurred hours ago however. Since then Henry and Eamon (both having decided to wait for the missing but apparently (given the still-incoming texts) jubilant pair) had watched three full-length football games (Reading vs. Swansea, Canada vs. Ecuador, Japan vs. Peru), two rugby matches (Reds vs. Crusaders, England vs. Barbarians), and half a cricket match (Ireland vs. Pakistan) on Amelia’s PPV-enabled television. They were in the midst of deciding between midget mud wrestling from Thailand and naked ski jumping from Austria when both paused. Somewhere out in the darkness someone, no, two someones, were singing very loudly and very, very badly.

“Connor,” muttered Henry.

“Amelia,” grunted Eamon.

They rose as one man and crossed to the door. There, coming up the path, just entering the long rectangle of light spilling down the porch and walk, were Amelia and Connor, both staggering, both beyond drunk, and both still singing albeit entirely different songs and at completely different tempos.

Who: Lillie and Joseph Carlisle.
What: Joseph comes to Lillie's apartment for the first time.
When: Right after this thread.
Where: Lillie's apartment.
Rating: R / likely not safe for work.
Status: In-progress

The question hadn't been whether or not they'd make it the distance to her apartment, but rather when they would do it. Even though she was beyond pleased about the notion of Joseph being able to spend the night (actually stay, fall asleep, all of those things), the hardest part had been convincing herself to disentangle from his arms and get herself dressed again. Lillie had to bite back a smile at his tousled hair and the hopeless mess they'd made of his room, the wrinkled pages that had been everywhere when they finally found the means to leave. She'd offered to help him collect them, but he'd insisted it could wait.

There were still several hours of nighttime and darkness left when Lillie led the way across several blocks, to the apartment buildings that she called home. For awhile it hadn't been a question of comfort, just of getting by, but in the Cove she had been able to find something suited to her tastes, and she hadn't been about to pass it by. She didn't need a dozen rooms, but the apartment had two bedrooms and more than enough space for another person to live, should they not be opposed to sleeping on a sofa or in a more open room.

Lillie didn't have to detach her fingers from Joseph's to open the door, something that she was glad of. Her keys had been in her hand about a block away from her apartment, and she let them through the double doors and into the entryway. The elevator was around the corner and to the left, and from there it was a quick ride to one of the upper floors. Whether she was conscious of it or not, she hadn't let go of his hand since they'd left the bed and breakfast. Even when Mrs. Jones had fixed them both with a stern, wizened gaze as they left, Lillie hadn't dropped her fingers from his grasp. Instead she'd stifled a giggle with a turn of her head and managed to give a polite, pleasant smile when they stepped outside.

Now, though, there was no one to listen in on them. Neighbors were discreet, and even in that case no one would hear them. They had a relative amount of privacy.

"Do you want the grand tour?" Her voice was amused as she opened the door, looking over her shoulder to his face while she let them both inside. The apartment had definitely become her home, save for the vacant and spare bedroom which was decorated in relatively conservative tones. Her own bedroom was directly across from the front door and the open living area, the door slightly open. To the left was the kitchen and dining area, and a comfortable sofa across from a flat panel television set. Books were lined in stately rows across four book cases, with statues and other trinkets decorating here and there. The apartment most certainly had her touch.

"And here, just put your things anywhere you want. Something to drink?" A pause, then an amused smile. "I haven't played hostess in awhile."

Who: Kirk Alden & Tess Graham.
What: Rainy days promote staying in bed and contributing nothing to society.
When: Early morning.
Rating: R.
Status: Complete.

It was the kind of day that promoted the doing of absolutely nothing - the sun was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of clouds, a light misty rain occasionally breaking free from them, a chill that hung in the air and refused to go away, and fog rolling in from off the water. Besides being the perfect day to do nothing, it was also the perfect day to stay in bed, which Kirk was more than happy to do. While beyond the covers was a little on the cool side, beneath them was anything but, and Kirk likely had the other occupant in his bed to thank for that.

Lingering somewhere between being asleep and being awake, Kirk rolled carefully onto his side to look at Tess, who was sound asleep with no indication that she would be waking up any time soon. As was a constant with Tess, her body was warm to the touch, and could easily be felt without touching her, simply by being so near to her. Her body had effectively warmed the blankets and sheets as well, although not uncomfortably so, certainly not for a day like today.

Either by the grace of some higher power, or a sudden willingness to play hooky or switch her shift, Tess didn't work that morning, which Kirk found slightly odd. But he would have been a fool to question when she'd shown up on his doorstep the night before with very clear intentions that she would be spending the night (it might have been the whole near-tackling incident). Kirk wasn't scheduled to work, and had never been more thankful for the opportunity to not go and make money.

Smiling to himself, Kirk reached over and gingerly played with her hair, letting the curls slide through his fingertips, doing is darnedest to not wake her up, as she looked so calm and peaceful.

Who: Ilsa, Henry Doyle
What: A missing vampire
Where: Henry Doyle's office
When: Very late evening, not unreasonably early for a vampire
Rating: PG
Status: Complete

Ilsa's drive to the council building was somewhat…restless.

Her limited knowledge of Henry Doyle may have not have been cause for worry, but with a fresh cut on her hand as an irritating reminder of her almost-humanity, she was all the more keenly aware of the contrast between her near-powerlessness and his age and position. Amelia's word that Doyle was as trusted as pack had truly eased her mind on the subject, but the knowledge of her own lack still sat there. The cut hurt where her fingers were wrapped around the wheel, and she was tense, her hands a little too jerky at the wheel, her feet a little too heavy on the pedals.

Another driver cut her off, and she swore as her pulse leaped high. She paused, let out a breath, and then noted the driver glancing at her in his rear-view mirror. She gave a shaky laugh and cheerfully flipped him off.

At the council building, she passed through security and headed to Henry Doyle's office. She walked slowly, putting her thoughts in order, and her distraction lent her a faraway aspect; she all but drifted to Henry's door, paused, and then knocked gently, precisely on time.

Who: Tess Graham & Kirk Alden.
What: After considering everything Kirk has told her, Tess shows up at his house with an interesting request.
When: Evening of May 29.
Rating: R (and most definitely not safe for work).
Status: Incomplete and in progress.

Tess had spent the better part of the week thinking, almost in a daze - to the point where she'd moved from her apartment to work and back again in something resembling a trance, going through the motions on such a detached level that Mr. Ferguson had pulled her aside on more than one occasion to ask her what was wrong.

Nothing, she'd answered, forcing a smile on her lips that she hoped looked convincing enough. The answer was simple at best, but the truth was anything but - and, really, how could she even get into sharing it? She could tell by his face that he didn't believe her for a minute, but he didn't pry for the details, and he wouldn't, not unless she was willing to offer them.

Almost five days had gone by before she made a decision. She could either sit around, allowing herself to stew things over in her mind for yet another twenty-four hours, or she could take the first step towards closure. Kirk had shared everything with her, laid the truth of his past out in the open without any lies or withholding, and that alone was proof that she could trust him, regardless of what had happened years before he'd come here. She knew the feelings she had for him, and she knew how real they were becoming, and while a part of her was scared by how quickly she'd come to care for him, there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she was doing the right thing by going to see him.

After work, Tess closed up in a rush and drove over to his place. Before she could convince herself to turn around, she was there, parked in the driveway, wringing her hands up until the moment she turned the key in the ignition and shut the car off. She marched up to the front door and squared her shoulders, her face determined as she lifted her hand to knock. There were a million greetings she'd practiced in the car on the way over, favoring some over others, but none of them came out by the time he opened the front door.

"I want to see it," she blurted out, and immediately flushed. "Okay, wait, no, that didn't come out quite right."

Who: Shinji Kawada, Henry Doyle
When: Night.
Where: Henry Doyle's council office.
What: Shinji has a couple of questions, and hopes that Henry can answer them.
Rating: Pg
Status: Closed and Complete.

Shinji had relished his day off. His lieutenant had given Shinji and Dee a full 24 hours of what he liked to call 'silent time'. The only time they would be contacted would be if there was an all call emergency. He had spent most of the day lazing around, cleaning, doing laundry and thinking about a particular elemental that he hadn't gotten out of his system.

The urge to possess someone so fully concerned him. He had fed regularly off of a few people, and even had a few on speed dial. He hadn't had any want to call them, instead his attention focused on Toshi. Convinced that he was going batty, he headed out after sunset.

People moved past him, the sidewalks crowded, most moving in packs of three or four. Shinji knew that wouldn't help much, but he wasn't one to create fear, and with the groups they had a slight chance of getting away rather than the individual. He stopped outside the council office building, pressed the buzzer to be let in.

"What do you want Kawada?" He recognized the disembodied voice, another dhampir who had failed the police exam, but had entered security instead.

"I'm here to see Doyle." Five minutes passed before the gate swung open, allowing Shinji into the building. It felt weird to walk the halls in civilian clothes, and at one point he debated turning back. By that time he was at Henry Doyle's office.

He knocked, two sharp taps, waited for permission to enter.

Who: Yuuta Hiroki, Sophie Finucan
When: Afternoon.
Where: Public library
What: While doing some research of his own, Yuuta is more than willing to talk.
Rating: Pg
Status: Open and ongoing.

Yuuta had been packing up the last few term papers, with the intention of taking an early afternoon and getting some time to himself, when his TA knocked on the office door. Evie walked in, and put one of the term papers that he had assigned her to grade on the desk.

"It sounds really familiar, and I can't place it." She looked worried, confused and a bit frustrated.

Yuuta thumbed through the paper, skimming, noticing striking similarities to a couple of C.S. Lewis' essays. "I'll take this one." He dismissed her with a nod, keeping the papers separate from the rest of the ones he needed to grade. The essay, in parts was nearly word for word one of the essays he hadn't assigned for this term, but one Yuuta was fond of assigning. He headed down to the university library, paper in hand.

The book of essays in question had been removed by a student, and no matter how much Yuuta bargained with the library attendant she wouldn't give him the name of the student who had checked it out.

Mood growing increasingly darker with each step, Yuuta headed down to the public library. He muttered, in undertone at a few of the books. The essays in the library were contained in three different books, and it took a few minutes to track them all down. He set his briefcase on one of the tables, essay in front of him, combing through the books to find the passages this particular student had lifted.