oceancove

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: 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: Amelia Drake, Eamon Flood, Connor Macrae, Lida Garrett(NPC), others.
When: Early afternoon.
Where: Croswell Square (street market with local street vendors), The Cove General Hospital.
What: Amelia finds that she's not as secure in her position as she believes herself to be.
Rating: R. (violence)
Status: Closed and complete.

Amelia had gone into the bakery only for a few hours, to intercept Keita and post a sign that they were closed due to pack business. Promising the kitsune that he would still get paid, she offered the suggestion that he go visit Yuuta. Visibly happier, she watched as her employee left. She returned home, did the breakfast dishes, and went to her office. She answered a few emails, all dealing with pack concerns that needed to be raised at the next council meeting. Business taken care of, she sat back in the plush chair, reaching for her personal cell phone.

"Need a favor. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help with the puppy. I'm stuck. Call either way. -Amelia" The text message to Hugh offered no apology for Eamon's actions, and she was still debating on whether she'd apologize to the foreign wolf. She had already smoothed things over with the residents, and taken care of the fees that Eamon's light and sound show had racked up. She got up, locking the office door behind her. Thundering down the stairs (as she could never walk delicately down any flight of stairs) she approached the man sprawled out on her couch.

"Want to go out?" The day was slightly overcast and a strong wind had pushed clouds in. From her position in the room, she could see the ocean, waves higher than normal, a dark frothy gray. "There's the street market today. I wanted to go pick up a few things."

Arm in arm with Connor she lead him down to Croswell Square which was only a few blocks away from her place. What had been massive tennis courts had turned into a street market. Vendors sold home made goods, tourists stopped to fawn over trinkets and vases with shells stuck to them. It was crowded, but not too terribly, Amelia keeping a close eye, on Connor making sure the man didn't get too overwhelmed by the near constant stimulus of people, scents and noise.

On their way to the market, Amelia had sent two other texts. One to Lida, a friend since before she came to the Cove, inviting her out and to play hookey. The other to Eamon with the addition that Hugh would never to think to look for Eamon at a street market. She brightened when her name was called, grinning broadly as Lida came over. The other woman was a bit shorter than Amelia, and stockier, but Amelia knew just how strong the woman was. Even without the boost of lycanthropy. The platinum blonde woman smiled charmingly at Connor and introduced herself.

Out of habit, Amelia looked around, it was rare for her and Lida to be out in public together. Though Lida didn't hold a high rank she was close enough to Amelia to be considered leverage. Attention turning back to Connor and Lida, she decided to step in and 'rescue' Connor before Lida somehow managed to convince him to walk down the aisle with her.

"Heard Hugh talked to Eamon." Lida's smirk was wide and evil. "Little bastard hasn't come by my place yet."

"Yeah, Eamon's going to be showing up here. Behave and keep your hands off of him." Amelia shot back, smirking. "Hugh says that he's bidding his time. Apparently the last time you talked he got the impression you didn't like him very much."

Who: Connor Macrae & Amelia Drake
What: Connor becomes Amelia middle-of-the-night houseguest
When: May 8, very early morning
Where: Amelia Drake's home
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
Status: Complete

Connor made it nearly three nights without Henry before he gave in and stumbled, shattered, into a cab and headed to Amelia's. The vampire had advised him ask his pack leader for sanctuary (Henry's word, not Connor's) from the start, pointing out that Connor's worsening night terrors and mounting exhaustion would make living alone, even for the brief period of Henry's absence in London, problematic. Connor had countered that he was a grown man, thank you very much, and he didn't need to be cared for by a babysitter, no matter how kind and attractive or pancake-capable. Henry had only shrugged, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'idiot' and left for the small, private airport he favored.

Connor had found the money and the card for the cab company with the number circled in red pen only after the vampire had left.

The night terrors had not, as Henry predicted and Connor secretly suspected, disappeared on their own. Instead they had worsened, driving the young werewolf into a pattern to downing multiple sedatives every 8-10 to gain and hour or two of uninterrupted sleep, then surviving on a vile brew of Red Bull and espresso to keep him awake and functioning the rest of the day and evening. The 58 hours since Henry's departure felt like a month.

The cab driver had not looked at all surprised when Connor, still dressed in his jams, dropped heavily into the backseat of the car. He was half-way to Amelia's before Connor remembered to give him a destination. Henry had, obviously, called ahead of time with a warning to keep an eye out for a bedraggled werewolf in need of a ride.

The cabbie had helped him up to Amelia's porch before taking off at a fast clip, apparently not all that interested in seeing how the pack Alpha would respond to a house guest arriving at 1:43 in the morning. Connor, for his part, pressed the doorbell and held it. He didn't intend to, he just couldn't bring himself to move again.

Who: Hugh Cadigan and Connor Macrae
What: “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.” - Charles Darwin
When: Tuesday, April 26, mid-afternoon
Where: Downtown in the Cove
Rating: PG, ostensibly. May change depending on the circumstances.
Status: Complete.


In the end, it was a throw pillow that broke the camel's back.

Hugh had been at the Hilton for almost a full week and, up to that point, he'd managed to stomach the décor. Through stoic self-determination he'd been able to endure the frothy cornices and Coriolis Effect carpets; he'd even survived the imperious looks he got from the cherubs painted on the ceiling above the bathtub (and was, in the process, reasonably assured of his own manhood). But when he'd looked at a beaded, braided throw pillow on Sunday night and thought, That wouldn't look half bad in my den, the trumpets of disquietude blared and Hugh knew he had to get the hell out of there or risk permanent whimsy.

They were letting houses down by the shore with rent figures that nearly mirrored what Audax was shelling out for single-night occupancy at the Hilton. Hugh spent the better part of an afternoon moving up and down the beach like the tide, checking out the selection of cabins, cottages, ramblers, and lodges. He knew he wouldn't be lucky enough to find anything like his flat back in Budapest, with its high and airy ceilings and commanding view of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, but the Americans were nothing if not practical, and Hugh soon found a beachfront bungalow that would suit his purposes. Pitching the idea to Maniel and his omnipresent employer had been an easier sell than he'd thought; in the wake of the recent murders they'd thought it might be advantageous for him to stay on in the Cove in a more longitudinal capacity. They'd used that exact phrasing. Roughly translated from Bureaucrat to English it meant, We don't know what the hell is going on either, so why don't you stick around and find out for us?

The bungalow was at least forty years old and when it rained -- as it was wont to do in Washington -- the water choked the gutters and backed up onto the roof, producing the most disconcerting groaning sound, as if the whole pile could come crashing down at any second. The wolf loved it. Here the air was pure, not processed. Centuries-old firs stood sentry along the footpath and shed their needles in thick blankets, which the wolf delighted in pushing his nose into. The ocean spray was sharp and playful; the waves slapped back for more, even when the wolf snapped at them with his teeth. Short of a White-Tailed Deer of North America Convention, the Northwest Coast was about as perfect a place as any for a lycan to be.

Hugh was in town with a laundry list of home repair essentials to buy. He could have hired a handyman (Audax had even offered to send their own interior decorator) but something about the bracing Pacific Ocean air invigorated his sense of personal craftsmanship. He'd fix those damn gutters and he'd do it by himself, dammit.

He slipped a pair of sunglasses up the slope of his nose and set out at a brisk walk up the sidewalk. Destination: the hardware store and water-rerouting glory.

Who: Connor Macrae (one-shot, plot & character development)
What: Calling home
When: Friday morning (April 22)
Where: Personal Residence
Rating: R for graphic themes
Status: Closed and Complete

( The angel watching over me / Was needed someplace else / Kicked out the feet from under me / And watched me fall to earth )

Who: Connor Macrae, & Amelia Drake

When: April 19, slightly more than two hours after moonset

Where: The beach

What: Pack Alpha meet Pack Omega

Rating: PG-13

Status: Closed and completed

Connor had been running for hours. Long enough that his lungs and legs had seared and burned and then, left unattended for so long, had dulled into no more than a constant ache. Stitches in his side had become purls, and his vision was obscured by both a thick haze of stinging, blur-inducing sweat and a damp veil of his own similarly soaked hair. His skin was chilled, although he didn't notice this, and his clothing was wet enough with perspiration that some people he passed had mistakenly assumed he had been swimming. He had crossed the three towns that the Cove encompassed twice already and was now running the length of the community's coast, sending up churning sand in his wake and earning dirty looks from seals disturbed in their pre-dawn basking.

The exhaustion, which had long been held at bay by an unnatural reserve of anxious energy, exploded onto the scene without warning. He made a misstep, then two, and by the third it was all over. He crashed face first into the wet sand, thrashed a moment, then flipped over to avoid an undignified death by dirt and hermit crabs. His long, sucking gasps for air were blocked from his hearing by the ringing in his ears, as was the slow roar of the sea as it ebbed and flowed according to it's nature.He flinched as the first foray of salt water hit his side, but only out of shock, and didn't react again when the next brushed up against him.

Believing himself to be alone Connor didn't restrain either the laugh or the sob that welled up within him, nor did he feel the least bit awkward about giving himself a fierce hug.

"Well done mate," he whispered to his other, moon-summoned self, "you didn't kill anyone this time. A brilliant improvement, that."

Who: Henry Doyle, Connor Macrae, & Roxie Marx
When: April 17, Early-Evening
Where: Dusk (Bar)
What: A werewolf and a vampire walk into a bar. The werewolf had better walk back out again with a job, because the vampire is tired of keeping him in new clothes and Fritos.
Rating: PG-13
Status: Closed and complete



Although Henry did not spend all of his time in the Cove, he had been a resident for some number of years. He knew, therefore, a number of the more established residents and, amongst them, which maintained properties that might need an extra hand. Dusk was not Henry’s first choice for a place of possible employment for his charge, but not for any reasons that reflected poorly on either Dusk or it’s owner. Rather Henry worried it would be rather…over stimulating…to the younger man.

He was not three steps into the bar before his misgivings were confirmed. The bar was sparsely populated so early, the sunlight having only recently faded, but there were a handful of women already and Connor’s attention to the task at hand had completely evaporated. Henry briefly closed his eyes as he walked, rolled them behind his lids, and then opened them in time to catch Connor finger wave at someone across the room.

“Try,” he drawled slowly, carefully plucking the annoyance from his voice before he uttered each word, “to pay attention, Connor. You need to find steady employment. Your life is here now, you need to begin to build it.”

Who: Eilís, Anyone
When: Sunday, April 24th. Early evening.
Where: The beach.
What: A dryad being silly. XD
Rating: PG at the moment.
Status: Ongoing, open to anyone!

( The ocean had always held a profound sense of mystery as far as Eilís was concerned. )

Who: Thomas McKinnon, Connor Macrae
When: Mid-afternoon, shortly after the opening of gameplay
Where: The law offices of Horace & Walpole
What: Understandably, Connor's got a few things on his mind (and they're probably not questions like 'If I transform, can I count the wolf as one of my dependents on my taxes?'). Thomas is here to help.
Rating: Likely PG, but one never knows
Status: Complete


The offices of Horace & Walpole, attorneys at law, are situated in the middle of downtown Ocean City, in a handsome red brick building. In another lifetime the building had been a rather prominent cotton works factory, providing fifteen percent of the West Coast's supply of cotton. However, in the swell of the Industrial Revolution, machines had replaced manpower and the industry had been outsourced further down the coast where there was a ready supply of migrant workers who were blissfully unaware of the phenomenon of unionization. The building sat vacant for two decades before it was bought by a financier who wanted to turn it into a speakeasy, but whose dreams of pinstripes and flapper girls dried up at the same time the government dried up the ready supply of alcohol. It changed hands again, several times, before its current owners spent a quarter of a million dollars to have it gutted of old equipment, refurbished, and turned into a set of modern law offices.

It's the kind of place that projects an image of power, though it needn't bother: when you're the only game in town, they're going to come to you whether you're operating out of an office building or a VFW hall.

Thomas's office, like all the others on the fourth floor, is accessed through a frosted wood and glass door which leads to an annex. His secretary, a petite blonde in her late twenties, occupies a desk outside of his office proper. She is pretty, deceptively so, for she's got a jaw like a junkyard dog and the bite to match. She controls ingress and egress. She, in a word, is the "muscle." The fact that she manages to do so while wearing Gucci slingbacks and a pencil skirt makes her all the more valuable to Thomas, who would almost certainly be lost without her.

He emerges from his office, pencil sucked sideways between his lips, glasses slipping precipitously down his nose. He holds a sheath of folders, their edges tabbed with red tags, the contents of which he leafs through while awkwardly trying to explain around the pencil.

"Tom. Pencil. You sound like a Marx brother."

"Mm." Beat. "Which one?"

A plucked blond brow goes up. "I don't know. Harpo?"

"Harpo didn't talk. That was his thing."

"Yeah, I get that. You wouldn't find that at all appealing, would you?"

Thomas smirks. "Careful." He hands over the stack. "Need you to file these before tomorrow. How are we doing on the Lavenza thing? Am I going to have notes by tomorrow?" He watches as she shifts the files under her palms, compressing their sides into neat ninety-degree angles. She has a wedding band on the ringfinger of her left hand. He thinks her husband does something in the construction business, but it occurs to Thomas that he never really thought to ask. Eyes to her face again.

"I'd have them for you if you'd quit bugging me already." Then, off his look: "You'll have them by five. I just need to transcribe yesterday's meeting."

"You're a terrible assistant, you know that?"

She flashes her fangs at him.

"I'll be in my office. Buzz me if something comes up --" he swings back toward his office "-- and I want those notes."