oceancove

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: 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: 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 & 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: Thomas McKinnon and Althea.
What: Althea tracks down the lawyer who she shared a dance with.
When: Sometime in the late afternoon/early evening. May 18th.
Where: Starting at Thomas' office, then TBD.
Rating: PG/PG-13.
Status: In progress.

"May I help you?"

"I am here to see Thomas McKinnon."

It was rare that someone sought out a lawyer for a reason that didn't involve being on the wrong side of the law. But Althea had never possessed any trouble being an exception to a rule, and she certainly had no trouble looking for something that she wanted. Finding a human lawyer who held an association with Czech counts might have been a task considered complicated to others, but a career with prestige came with its benefits. Althea had asked Swan Lake's director, who had in turn led her to one of the show's central backers. Two cups of tea and a croissant later, Althea had a name - Thomas McKinnon - and an address, in a part of the Cove she hadn't been to before.

Swan Lake gave its company two separate nights off each week, and it didn't take long for Althea to change after the day's rehearsal. Instead of joining the company for dinner, she took a taxi towards the law office where Thomas McKinnon held his practice. The city moved by at a speed that was comfortable, long enough for Althea to collect her thoughts. If she was honest with herself, there was no reason to believe this lawyer would want to see her again. But she had rarely done things with that kind of concern in mind, and from a Fey who frequently followed her instincts, this was really no feat to be surprised by.

No, she wanted to see him again. And so, in ten minutes' time, Althea had found herself face to face with a curious, albeit bored receptionist. There had been the intent to refuse in her eyes, but Althea was never one to be dismissed easily.

"And is Mr. McKinnon expecting you?"

"No, he is not."

"He is very busy -"

"I do not mind waiting."

The receptionist regarded Althea with a level stare, as if she weren't sure whether or not to ask her if she were out of her mind or just let it pass. A few moments later the second option won out and she lifted the phone at her desk, pressing the receiver to her ear. Two beep-beeps sounded, and then

"Mr. McKinnon? There is someone here to see you."

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: Thomas McKinnon and Althea
When: May 11, evening
Where: John Talbot Memorial Concert Hall, the Cove
What: An evening at the ballet and Thomas McKinnon gets more than he bargained for
Rating: PG
Status: Complete


There were certain aspects to the legal profession that could always be counted on, regardless of whether or not your client was human or a walking homage to Bela Lugosi. Not the least of these was perfecting the art of the schmooze. Schmoozing, as Thomas understood it, had actually originated with lawyers, and the fine art of ingratiation was as useful to young law school graduates as was a working knowledge of torts.

It was also the part of the job that Thomas liked the least.

Here he was, standing in the middle of a posh concert hall, dressed up like a penguin-in-waiting, while his partners at Horace & Walpole attempted to convince a very corpulent Czech vampire to route his estate trust through H & W channels. (The vampire had lost his home during the Velvet Revolution, when he had been required to flee it very quietly and with a great deal of haste. Only now, some twenty years after the event, was the red tape beginning to peel away.) In his political prime, the vampire had been a noted patron of the Bolshoi Theatre, particularly its ballet corps. Thomas assumed that was why he was holding a program for a production of Swan Lake, likely the most famous thing to come out of Russia since vodka and that funny little man with the weird birthmark on his head.

It wasn't that Thomas didn't like the theater. He did. It wasn't that he didn't understand why it was necessary to make the client happy. He knew where his paycheck came from. It was the fact that his partners insisted that he come along, when he knew very well that he could be back in the office getting a hell of a lot more done. (Okay, and so he thought Tchaikovsky was a little overrated as a composer.) But Thomas knew that the blue chip clients were few and far between these days, and their generous retainers often helped pay for the smaller, scrappier clients who couldn't pay for themselves. He'd have to grin and bear it for a few more hours.

The lights in the great hall dimmed and flickered. Patrons dressed in white tie and tails made their way up the stairs to private boxes; the people in the cheap seats queued up outside the doors, from which a small portion of the stage could be seen. This was a classical interpretation of the ballet -- none of that fancy avante garde minimalist stuff -- and the stage was draped with a thick red curtain trimmed in gold fringe. Say what you wanted about the Cove council: they knew how important the Arts were to a community. Thomas trailed his party into their private box beside the stage and sat down. The vampire had removed a pair of opera glasses from somewhere inside of his voluminous coat, even though their seats were close enough to the stage to see the chalk prints left by so many ballet shoes.

"The principle dancer," the vampire said, his vowels round and accented, "is quite remarkable. They say she is a vision. Even better than our beloved Anna Pavlova --" he touched his plump hand to his breast in memory "-- though, I will retain my assessment for after the Allegro semplice."

A hush fell over the crowd as the house lights went down. Thomas, now fully resigned to his fate (and the Allegro semplice), turned his attention to the stage.

Who: Amelia Drake, Thomas McKinnon.
When: Wednesday May 4. Noon.
Where: The law offices of Horace & Walpole
What: The alpha seeks legal council (and plans to throw as many wrenches into Hugh's plans as she can)
Rating: Pg
Status: Complete.

The day was dazzling and borderline hot. The sky stretched out impossibly blue and clear, the streets were busy with people, and the occasional tourist. Amelia had kicked a group of school kids out of her shop, knowing full well that the school day hadn't ended early. Keita had proven himself as a competent employee, and the shop was quiet enough that he could handle it by himself for a few hours. While he was filling the displays she snuck into the back and retrieved a briefcase filled with files and reports that she intended to give to Hugh eventually. She just wanted to make things a bit more difficult for his employer.

With the promise to come back in a few hours, Amelia stepped out of the shop. She had parked the SUV in the alley across the street, since she normally walked from work to home. Plus, the car made it so she couldn't be surprised by anyone. She had a feeling Hugh would have more than a few words to say to her once Eamon was done with him.

It wasn't too difficult to find the law offices, and by the time she parked, her cell phone had blown up with messages. Having a strong suspicion that it had to do with Eamon going to visit Hugh, she turned her phone off, storing it in the glove compartment.

The office space was attractive, building quiet. Amelia approached the receptionist's desk, the blonde woman looking rather bored behind the impressive desk.

"Appointment?" Exactly how the woman managed to speak behind the wad of gum in her mouth, Amelia didn't know, and was slightly impressed.

"I don't have one, but would you do me a favor, and ask if Mr. McKinnon could spare a moment of his time? Henry sent me." Inwardly she cringed at dropping not only her name, but Henry's. The receptionist looked at her, Amelia smiled, unfazed by the look.

"Your name?"

"Amelia Drake." It only took the receptionist a few moments for the name to register. Amelia watched as the blond disappeared down a hallway, out of sight.

Who: Eryn O'Shea and Thomas McKinnon
What: Messing about at the bar
When: Saturday evening
Where: The local bar
Rating: TBD
Status: Incomplete

( A banshee walks into a bar. )

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."