Velathra Featherbite (featherbiting) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-08-18 05:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, velathra featherbite |
Who: Velathra/Bertie.
What: Velathra tracks down someone useful.
Where: Streets of London.
When: Day.
Warnings: N/A
In the human world, the name of Velathra Featherbite was not often spoken, if at all. Even to the Night Watch, she identified herself only by the false title of Charlindra Shiverthorn. A method of avoiding the prospect of magical summoning, for words - and, most especially, names - could be powerful things.
The identity of Bertram Eden, however, was much less concealed.
She had been quietly stalking him for some time. A respectable distance, shadows, body language, hooded attire... And, of course, a little use of magic. It all helped to keep her watchful activities inconspicuous. As with hunting game, it was a matter of melting into one's surroundings and hiding in plain sight.
Until the right moment.
"Try not to scream... I would rather you retained the use of your throat."
It happened in a blur. Some hunters used traps. For Velathra's purposes, predicting the right dark alley to wait ahead for him to pass by, was more suitable. Faster than human reflexes would allow, he was taken, snatched into the shadows and held with a blade of sharpened ice against his neck.
This was not the first time they had met. Featherbite - Shiverthorn - had remembered his face, his name. The most likely reaction, had she introduced herself more calmly, would have been to recall who and what she was, in turn - and she could not risk the kind of openly startled reaction that could have provoked. Not in public. No doubt, those she hunted were seeking protection, going to ground and calling in favours.
Attracting attention would not do.
"I'm going to release you... And you will not flee nor raise alarm. I have need of you, Spirit-Talker - and you will assist me."
The sound Bertie made was more of a strangled whimper, which was all that his badly-startled nerves would allow. His heart was pounding madly, but he managed to try to clear his head and fall back on his Night Watch training, which dictated staying calm and rational in trying circumstances. He had a stray thought that this was one of those situations in which werewolf pack members who could hear the wild beat of his heart and smell his sudden fear would be incredibly welcome, but unfortunately he was quite alone.
Training helped, even if he couldn't quite clear his mind of the babbling, shrieking terror that wouldn't stop reminding him he had a knife blade pressed to his throat, and that he could be dead in a single one of his rapid heartbeats. He wondered, not for the first time, if he would haunt the place he'd died. It seemed even more likely, should he be murdered before finding time to make peace with death or receive a final church blessing. His parents - would anyone know to look for him, after his death? Would Miss Bakst come in search of him and, even if she did, would she be able to find him in this dark, hidden alley?
Focus.
Spirit-Talker, his assailant had just called him, which meant that she (she? the voice had sounded like a woman's) knew him or had heard of him. She was hooded, but he could make observations nonetheless - the most obvious being that as quickly as she had moved and, as precisely, she was something other than human.
Regrettably, Bertie rather doubted that she was a friendly mermaid.
Bertie carefully lifted his hands out to his sides, forcing his fists to unclench so that she could see he was unarmed, or at least without any weapons to hand. He didn't think she was a werewolf - they had little need of knives. The same went for vampires, although this might count as inconspicuous, for a vampire attack. Bertie's clamouring mind couldn't think past those possibilities to whatever might be left. His world was centered on that knife, on the beat of his pulse and lifeblood against it.
"Adequate," came the figure's response. The rest of it coming in the form of a relaxing, if still cautious, grip. Velathra easing herself away in a series of purposeful steps, relieving herself of the hood and allowing letting the unnaturally light material fall to her shoulders as she rounded the boy to face him. A strange mixture of feminine grace and predatory certainty; the handle of her tool being sheathed back into clothing, even as the blade of ice was allowed to melt into nothingness.
"Charlindra Shiverthorn," she falsely introduced, though it was the same alias she had used in his presence before. Different circumstances to these, with her prey of the time having been responsible for the taking of a human death. There was a disagreement as to jurisdiction. "I trust you recall our last... Dalliance. My consorting with you may not be regarded kindly by your employers, but my reasons are of considerable importance. You have a talent few of your kind possess. Can you read the whispers from an object, should it be supplied? Or are mutterings from the departed your sole speciality?"
It took him a minute, but Bertie found his voice. It only cracked slightly on the first sentence.
"Miss Shiverthorn, kind regard is an understatement. You know my employers, so you know there are consequences for threatening an officer of the law. Legally speaking, I am bound to arrest you for the good of public safety."
Not that he could if he tried - he was alone, unarmed, while she was a dangerous Sidhe with a knife and very likely more assorted weapons upon her person. Still, standing his ground helped Bertie to get his feet back under him, which made him feel a little better.
Her choice of words like 'dalliance' and 'consorting' weren't reassuring, however. As well as - perhaps better than - any man in England, Bertie knew the stories of what happened to those taken under the hills with the Sidhe into Faerie.
He decided to answer her question, quickly, before she took his warning to mean that she should simply cause him to disappear and not be heard from again. One way or another.
"I am not a witch, Miss Shiverthorn." Bertie regretted that as soon as he'd said it - being a witch was certainly more of a threat than being a human who could see ghosts. "My only talent is in communicating with spirits. Unless you have access to a spirit who knows about your object, I will not be of value to you."
He had nearly said 'of use', but that seemed to lean toward the argument for her disposing of him. Hopefully 'value' might make her think twice about murdering or abducting him.
There was nothing spoken for a moment. The figure's initial reaction was one of a slowly cocking head and an expression somewhere close to amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Legally bound..."
The phrase was echoed slowly, as though she were testing the words, themselves. it must have seemed so outlandish a prospect as to be alien. One such as he would attempt to apprehend her? It was almost worth challenging him to follow through with it.
"Then I will find you when death has prevented interrogation," 'Charlindra' spoke, matter of factly. "Your value to me, however, is in your expendability. Your influence and rank are limited in scope. This makes you an unlikely figure for recruitment or leverage by those I seek. Those who may do your world harm."
That last part was necessary to both intrigue and alert him. A hint that there could be interests which now aligned.
"The corruption of your superiors cannot be as... Certain. Your sense of duty, however, is less in doubt. Might you know of recent arcane devices passing into Night Watch hands? Tools, objects... Some among them may represent a greater threat than you know."
For a moment, Bertie was so tangled up in fear and adrenaline that he misunderstood Miss Shiverthorn's words and imagined she was speaking of interrogating his ghost after she'd tortured him to death. It was not a heartening thought, nor was his apparent value in being expendable and Bertie swayed a little with nausea, before fighting it off and straightening his shoulders in what he hoped was a determined fashion.
Really, after all the talk of interrogation and death, being told that he wasn't worth anyone else's time or bother, hardly even stung.
"I have no reason to think ill of my colleagues," Bertie replied, making his voice as firm as possible under the unnerving circumstances. "Nor would I wish to betray the Night Watch to foreign interests. Whatever value you think I will have to you, Miss Shiverthorn, I assure you I am a loyal officer of the crown and if you believe there is some threat or danger we face, then you should report it officially to the Night Watch to be investigated."
He meant to leave it there, truly, but he couldn't help it. She had piqued his curiosity, and Bertie was terrible at letting things lie.
"What sort of devices and tools? And whom do you suspect of corruption, among the inspectors?"
"You may consider this my report," Velathra responded and there was something about the way she phrased those words which seemed like she was giving him the finger. Either that or it was just that natural air of something close to arrogance which tended to cloud dealings with those of her status.
Perhaps a little of both.
"Humankind is, by nature, far too prone to desires both great and small. Simply put, I cannot trust a human agency."
Still sufficiently shrouded by the alley's darkness, the huntress made a series of gestures in the air before her. Her free hand opening to support the weight of a sculpture being formed out of the air by way of crystallising ice. First one, then another. A small number of objects, realised right down to various symbols engraved upon their surfaces.
"All you need know is to tamper with their workings is to toy with destructive forces far in excess of gunpowder," she explained, focusing on the intricate reproductions. "And that what you see before you is the rightful property of the Winter Court. Their retrieval would be looked upon... Favourably. A diplomatic gesture your employers would do well to harvest. And you, Mister Eden, would be personally responsible for helping to broker it."
A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Those low in rank were always hungry for appreciation. It was an easy enough prospect to appeal to.
Bertie had the sinking feeling that Chief Orwell would be none too pleased if he found out just how many cases Bertie seemed to be working off-the-record, lately. Trainee inspectors didn't generally work private jobs for terrifying, dubiously-law-abiding Sidhe.
"You realise," Bertie offered tentatively, "that I am a human agency. Doesn't that mean you can't trust me?"
That was perhaps the wrong tactic, but he was still jumpy, there was a Sidhe spinning visions out of the air in front of him and Bertie rarely thought before he spoke at the best of times.
"Not that I would tamper with anything," Bertie assured the terrifying vision-spinner hastily. "I certainly would not. You may rely upon that. Only, ah, if I did find something like that, shouldn't I report it to the Winter Court, if it's their property? Or is that you?" He squeaked out in a rush, trying to take further steps backward away from Miss Shiverthorn and only succeeding in plastering himself against the brick wall. "Is this some sort of underling-to-underling diplomacy situation?"
Oh God, he'd called her an underling. Bertie wished he could slap a hand over his mouth, and winced back into the wall instead.
"Trust, no. Manage, yes."
She was tempted to use the word 'control', which, while accurate, was most quite so diplomatic. It was a lot easier to manipulate, coerce or tempt an individual into doing what she wanted, than the representatives of a foreign hierarchy. It was the difference between a lone fish and a whole school of them. From the way he was backing off, however, there already seemed to be a dash of fear instilled in the man.
Of course, that could have its uses, too.
"You may consider me your avenue of contact," clarified 'Charlindra', deliberately stepping into his personal space to pat one hand upon his shoulder. A sort of 'I'll-be-watching' undertone of a gesture, accompanied by the other passing a small, smooth stone into his palm. The same variety she had given to the Institute's representative, not too long ago.
"Do not summon me lightly," she warned, clasping Bertie's fingers around the object for him. "Tap this three times and do so with intent. I shall know you have need of me... And where to find you."
She smiled, moving her other hand from shoulder to a cup of his jaw, treating him like one might a nervous horse. She had already allowed the sculptures of ice to drop to the floor where they had shattered and begun melting.
"Do not worry yourself," Velathra reassured with a smile which seemed more like a killer's than friend's. "I am sure you will carry out your purpose reliably... It would be unwise not to - and I do not think you would be so foolish. It does not become you."
Bertie flinched when Miss Shiverthorn touched him, when ice shattered into tiny sharp blades at his feet. He managed not to do so quite so badly when she touched his skin, although it crawled at her cold hand and, for a moment, all he could think was that he would smell wrong now. To werewolves and other supernaturals, he would smell like he belonged to someone else. He would smell claimed and he couldn't be completely sure that he hadn't been.
"My purpose," Bertie echoed, when he could be sure of speech without an accompanying whimper. "To… Find these missing tools. To contact you when I do."
He wished to press the stone back into her hand and tell her he couldn't manage it, but there were many sayings about wishes and none of them optimistic. And it might be that pretending he could manage it was the only thing currently keeping him alive. He had few illusions about what the Sidhe couldn't manage.
"Tap three times," Bertie repeated inanely, because it was that or gibber and he might as well be sure of the correct instructions. "When I've found something for you."
"There, now... Compliance is so much better than the alternative, wouldn't you agree? You're already helping to forge the beginnings of a new, beneficial arrangement."
Beneficial most to which party, the mysterious brunette did not see fit to voice. Still, no throats had been slit and his manhood was still attached. All in all, perhaps this should be read as a relatively positive outcome.
"Remember: With intent."
Suddenly, she moved closer and, still with that same, quietly amused smile, place a finger to lips in a hushing gesture. All it took was a blink and Charlindra Shiverthorn was gone, like those shards of ice dissolving into water at his feet.