oceancove

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: 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: 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: 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: Henry Doyle & Thomas McKinnon
What: Henry makes good on two promises
When: The evening following this post.
Where: Offices of Horace & Walpole
Rating: PG
Status: Complete

Darkness had reigned for only thirty minutes when Henry arrived at the chambers of Horace & Walpole. He had come on foot, walking the few miles between his home and the office building against the tide of day-dwelling commuters and office workers, all of whom were heading home for much needed rest following a long day at their various employments. Henry was one of only a very few heading into the business centre of town rather than away from it. In an hour or so nocturnal foot traffic would increase substantially, but for now it was the vampire equivalent of pre-dawn; most people had better things to do. Things like sleep.

Henry, however, had requested the appointment in the very early evening to spare the nerves and general well being of Thomas McKinnon. His secretary had assured him that such precautions were unnecessary but Henry had remained quietly insistent on the early hour. His business was not pressing; there was no need to keep McKinnon up beyond whatever bedtime he was accustomed to.

Henry paused outside of the door a moment, briefly taking in the office to which he had directed so many people despite having never come himself. It seemed like a solid building; something about it emanated a sense of stability and justice. This was, he reflected, rather the point, although Henry was impressed nonetheless. His own practice of the law in days long gone by had been carried out in the cramped chambers of the Outer Temple where counsel members read by candlelight and tried to not set their various briefs ablaze and secretaries were employed by only of the wealthiest of clients; Henry found this more modern style to be rather nicer.

"Henry Doyle," he explained to the receptionist as he carefully straightened the cuffs of his sweater, "to see Mr. McKinnon, please. I made an appointment last night?"

Who: Noel Abbott, Henry Doyle
When: Midweek, late evening.
Where: Dusk
What: A meeting and introduction.
Rating: Pg.
Status: Open and in progress.

Noel had spent the better part of the day looking for affordable housing. Coming up empty handed she returned to the rat's hole inn she called home for the time being. She let herself into her room, not bothering with the key, since the lock was broken. She had been told that the inn was used for those who were simply passing through the Cove on their way to other places.

She collapsed onto the bed, ignoring the way the comforter scratched, and the faint smell of god-knows-what. The television only got the porn channels, and that was the last thing on the world that was of interest to her. Night had fallen, and her neighbors had started their nightly fight, the dull thumping on the wall, lead her to believe that maybe tonight they weren't fighting.

Rather than listening to her neighbor's amorous endeavors, she gathered up her wallet, stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans and headed out. Noel had enough cash to get a few more day's worth of meals, with a little bit left over. Deciding to go out, and maybe have a beer she wandered through the streets of the Cove. Nightlife had started to stir, the town just as busy when the sun went down as it was at midday.

She came across the bar Dusk, decided to go in. The bouncer grinned widely at her, flashing fangs. A short thrill of excitement ran through her. Vampires were out, and apparently she had stumbled into a vampire bar. It was relatively quiet, but there were enough people that Noel figured if she hung out long enough, she could somehow score some work. Or pick a target to lift their wallet. It wasn't the smartest thing, but she had good fingers, and had picked the pockets of different species before. She didn't like doing it, but it helped her get buy when things got too tough.

The drinks were cheap and strong, Noel was able to order a cocktail. She turned, moving away from the bar to find a place to sit and soak in the space, when she tripped, over nothing. She watched-- in what seemed to be slow motion as the drink flew from her fingertips, splattering all over a man seated at a table.

Who:Henry Doyle & Thomas McKinnon
When: Late Evening
Where: An unnamed vampire bar & social space
Rating: PG
Status: Complete

Two doors down and around the corner from the administrative building that housed both the council chambers and their affiliated officers was a small, little-known bar. No sign advertised the nature of the establishment, nor was there any mention of the institution’s name on any external portion of the structure that housed it. Indeed the bar itself had neither name nor any sort of advertising budget to speak of, rather cutting down the need for costly signage. Knowledge of its existence was spread by word of mouth discreetly, passing primarily from vampire to vampire with the occasional inclusion of a feeding-friendly human or well-respected dhampir. Werewolves and fey were not exactly barred from entry, but none had ever crossed the threshold and those who sought to had a curious habit of forgetting the bar ever existed. Despite this, the establishment’s purpose was rather less nefarious than it’s propensity for secrecy and segregation might suggest. It was less a locus of vampire power and more a space for respite from the sometimes maddening mortal world outside. Blood products were served alongside (and often in) alcohol products, virtually everyone in attendance was capable of restraining their emotions, and there was no constant thrum wall-to-wall heartbeats that sometimes made life amongst the living feel like a non-stop tour of a metronome factory and display store.

Henry had retreated to the vampiric oasis after a particularly difficult day. His absences from the Cove seemed to always produce an excess of paperwork and his incoming e-mails (which he did answer remotely) always seemed to at least double. Trips abroad also invariably meant a personal visit from Aamani Mehta, who was forever inventing any number of new crimes against the dhampir population to rail against. Henry had therefore not been surprised to discover Aamani already patiently waiting for him outside his office when he arrived there in the early evening of his first night back. He had, however, been surprised and not a little disturbed to discover that Aamani had not come alone; she had instead elected to bring with her Variola Goucoff .

Like Aamani, Variola was both a founding member of M.A.D.D. and a mother to dhampir children. Variola was sole caretaker of a set of dhampir twins, females both as Henry recalled, and the self-proclaimed spouse of a vampire who had long since cut and run, abandoning his family in their native Haiti prior to their relocation to the Cove. Unlike Aamani, Variola was more than a trial to deal with; she was a genuine danger. A holy roller in the first degree, Variola never left her house without at least ten blessed crosses, saint’s medals, and rosaries somewhere on her person. She was rumored to wash her hair in holy water (Henry wouldn’t put it past her) and believed in the miracle of both speaking in tongues (one assumed she was equally insufferable in all languages) and snake handling (Henry would have given almost anything for a snake to bite the woman, but they seemed to be as repulsed by her as vampires were). She was known to occasionally brandish crosses at Cove citizenry, an offense she had been picked up for by the police on the request of vampires numerous times, but her intent was not malicious. She didn’t loathe the ungodly vampires of the Cove...she was bound and determined to bring them all to Jesus.

Henry’s meeting with the MADD delegation had taken almost three hours, every minute of which was excruciating. The touch of religious iconography could, as every Cove resident knew, kill or maim a vampire. But touch alone was not the only way such items could induce discomfort. Proximity to priest-blessed items could induce migraines, muscle cramps, blinding toothaches, and throbbing bone pain. Variola had kept most of her religious accouterments hidden, but Henry still left the encounter feeling like the repeat victim of a hit and run. Pale even for his kind and fighting off muscle tremors, Henry had dispatched two runners as soon as the women departed. One was sent to cajole Thomas McKinnon into meeting with him despite the late hour and guide him, if he agreed, to the unusual meeting location. The other, a human intern, was ordered to dispose of the card depicting Saint Ivo (one of Variola’s personal favorites and a patron saint of abandoned children) that she had left for him as a gift on his desk.

Now safe and secure in a corner both at the unnamed bar, knocked back a series of blood tumblers (which were precisely what their name suggested). Something about interacting with Variola always made him hungry, no matter how recently he had fed. The women had brought complaints against the Cove yet again, this time having concocted a grievance so bizarre Henry needed the outside guidance of an agile legal mind.

Who:Henry Doyle & Shinji Kawada
When: Near Midnight
Where: Crosswell Square
Rating: PG
Status: Complete

Henry was in the air within an hour of Amelia’s attack on a “borrowed” commuter flight departing London’s Heathrow Airport. A well-placed virus had incorrectly flagged the entire passenger manifest save one as double booked, producing a list of passengers to reroute 33-pages long and causing the entire check-in counter to collectively consume the maximum dose of paracetamol. The plane was over Greenland before the airhostesses, their memories muddled, thought to wonder why their total on-board passenger population consisted of one while back at the airport 409 very angry people were stomping around the international terminal with £5.50 vouchers that permitted them to purchase approximately half a cheese toasty, compliments of Virgin Atlantic Airways.

By the time Henry’s surprisingly spacious transport touched down in Seattle he had already gathered a great deal of information about the attack even despite the continued technical difficulties at the Cove’s small news station. A pile of police files stamped ‘CONFIDENTAL – POLICE EYES ONLY’ waited for him in the car that collected him; he spent the entire commute back flipping through witness statements, maps, and grisly crime scene and post-mortem photos.

Rather than return home immediately, Henry directed the driver to drop him off at the scene of the attack. In the hours that had passed between the incident and now the street had been cleared, although the bright yellow police line tape still remained, shuddering faintly in the light night breezes. Henry glanced from side to side, checking the moonlit street for any overly interested witnesses, before ducking under the tape and entering the irregular rectangle that denoted where the attack and subsequent killing had taken place.

Orienting himself wasn’t difficult; blood stains still marked the pavement where Lida had died and Amelia had been assaulted. Wordlessly Henry paced the area, double checking measurements and trying to imagine the scene as described by various witnesses. He took notes in the margins of the statements and carefully laid the large 8x10 glossy forensic photos on the ground where they corresponded with the blood splatters, human gristle, and corpse remains that had previously marred the usually peaceful shopping center.

Who: Henry Doyle and Amelia Drake
What: It remains to be seen
When: Thursday, April 28 near midnight
Where: Dusk, the Cove streets, & Henry's flat
Rating: PG, ostensibly.
Status: Closed & completed

The post-11pm Thursday crowd at Dusk was, for the most part, very much the corporate crowd. Men in suits and women in suit sets sat by themselves at the bar or tables nursing drinks and trying to recover from a too-long night at the tail end of a too-long work week. Most had briefcases or stacks of files (manila colored for most, colored for those with an office manager who considered themselves whimsical) with them. Laptops were common. Smartphones omnipresent. The majority of patrons kept their eyes on the mounted televisions, watching sports scores and news items tick by at a near-mute volume. A few unlucky souls shuffled through the paperwork; their days were either not yet done or, in the case of those representing the Cove's nocturnal factions, only mid-way through.

Henry sat by himself at a table for four, a lone island of un-humanity, in a dark suit and tie. His fashion sense skewed towards the formal to begin with, but this tailored look was work wear, his unofficial uniform when serving in his official capacity at the vampire representative to the Council. It made his complexion seem paler than it actually was, highlighting his heritage in a way his usual checks and grays did not, and was perceived by some of his non-vampire colleagues as imposing, which was rather the point.

Henry's early evening, the equivalent of morning for his pulse-having compatriots, had been filled with Council business of a strictly faction-based flavor. The complaints were unremarkable. The dhampirs felt the vampires were self-impressed and paternalistic. The vampires felt the dhampirs were reckless and unmindful of their place. One constituent was angry about the number of streetlights the city had erected near their home, claiming that they represented a light-bias that was unfair to dark-loving species. Another was furious because the local High School library had added to their collection an incredibly popular novel series written by a mortal that portrayed vampires both incorrectly and, Henry had to agree, unfavorably. A third had brought forth a petition advocating the legalization of human-hunting for food, claiming it was no different than werewolves hunting deer, something that they were permitted to do. Henry had forwarded this list on to the police, with recommendations that they keep an eye on the signees for awhile.

He had taken his 'lunch' break at Dusk simply for the escape, although it was a limited form of freedom. He had had to bring some of his files with him, not to mention his laptop, although here he could at least stop from time to time to watch the television when something of interest came on. At the moment it was the Premier League results that had caught his attention. Over the course of his long life Henry had supported every team on the tables (simply for the sake of variety, of course) so his emotional response to the results was something of a perpetual mixed bag. The adjusted standings flashed off, replaced by an animation that served as the segway to an item on NASCAR. Henry looked away, disinterested now, and grimaced at his computer screen. In the three minutes it had taken for the league results to play, his in-box had gained another 13 emails, all of them flagged as 'Important.'

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: Connor Macrae & Henry Doyle
Where: London, England & Seattle, WA
When: Pre-game, nighttime
What: Back story covering Connor's transport to The Cove, in fragments.
Rating: PG
Status: Closed and completed.

Connor dreamed of red. All shades of it, bright and dark and everything in between. He was surrounded by it, bathed in it, unable to escape it but always wanting more, more, more. He dreamed of screams and pleading shouts in a nonsense language that struck the ear as both familiar and discordant at the same time. There had been running too, and something reflective, and barriers lined with boxes that scattered to the floor and made it hard for people to run. But they hadn’t slowed the monster. Yes, there was a monster somewhere in there, a horrible monster that lusted for blood and tore flesh and buried it’s snout in the steaming, sticky entrails of its kills just to glory in the scent of it. It had devastated…somewhere. A battlefield, maybe. The location was inconsequential. Everything was dead except the monster, which fed on the carcasses as if it had never fed before. In some ways, it hadn’t. But then, right there, mid-glut, there had been movement. There was something left alive. The monster couldn’t smell it but it could hear it and it would have it. Now. The monster charged, searching and snarling, infuriated that anything dared live. There it was. The monster registered a flash of blonde, a mild smile. It leapt, howling, slavering mouth open.

And then there was darkness.

Connor woke screaming. The monster was real. He screamed again. The monster was him. All those people were dead. He had killed him. He was the monster. He kept screaming.

“Shh,” came a voice, soft and slow and unfamiliar. “Shh. Relax. There, that’s right, just relax. This will help. We’ll be on-board soon.”

He tried to open his eyes, to ask a question, but something cold hit his veins and drew him back under.