Dresden Files: Caught in the Undertow

Vlad
"Why is he here?" He growls, backhanding a sevant who got in the way, with almost enough force to break his neck. The others ignore it. Most of them have scars from their lords displeasure already, the only wounds that never heal.
"I want him gone."

Lara
"Oh no. Anyone with any clout is coming, so he can dictate the new pecking order. Except Marcone, of course. He has this thing about the Khine getting out of their place in the scheme of things."
She winks. "We're just the best looking ones. Here's our lift."
A man with more then family resemblance to Kincaid dressed in a primitive outfit consisting mostly of furs and leather is waiting at the gate. He must have arrived shortly after you.

Lara

"Madame?"

The driver hands the White Court vampire an envelope.

"This...suddenly appeared. It's addressed to you, madame."

The driver was chosen for his looks and his ability to drive a car. Critical reasoning was not a qualification.

Inside the envelope was a declaration of intent to strike against Vlad. It's written in crayon.

These sorts of documents, provided that they are given to at least ten members of the Accords, allow for secret, first-strikes without a formal declaration or duel. Of course, those who received them were under no obligation to keep the declarations secret.

There is another sheet of paper underneath. Still written in crayon.

"The White Court owes the Archive a debt from an incident 513 years and 29 days ago. I invoke a vow of silence regarding this declaration of intent for 24 hours."

Marcone

A similar letter floats onto Marcone's bed, brushing against his nose, and stirring him awake. The other note enclosed was different than Lara's, however. A photocopy of the top half of a parchment manuscript.

A Spelle to Restore the Soul's Connexion to a Living Body

There is a young woman in a Wisconsin hospital who could use such a spell.

Lara
She looks at it. It should be a joke, everything was there, it had all the makings of a good one, but she wasn't laughing. Not even a little bit. She sighs. She looks at it, then sighs again. "Solidarity. Fuck."
It's the first time Sartorius has ever heard his sister swear. She's usually too cool, elegant and reserved for the idea she could do something like that to even exist. She does it surprisingly well, heart-felt and with venom. She clenches the paper in her hand, hard enough to scrunch it, and looks like she wants nothing more then to put it into a shredder.
Then she signs it with bad grace, and gets herself under control. And tries not to get too mad how people interrupted her best laid plans.

Marcone
He looks at the sheet. Carefully. He reads it twice. Then he puts it down, and swallows. Those can't be tears in his eyes. He picks up the reciever near his beadside table, and dials a number. "Miss Gard, if you could be so good as to bring in an independent contractor in the buisness of solving problems, I would not only pay your rates, but offer you a generous raise." His voice is slightly breaking with emotin as he speaks, although he does a good job of covering it up.

Cowl
"Oh, ignore him. He's a dinasaur long made irrelevent by never learning to diversify. It's quite sad really, two thousand years and he's still running the same old con with no new tricks. Even sharks have evolved." It's not many people who can insult while reassuring in such an ironic way it was undetectable. But those who knew him would not be surprised Cowl was proficient at it.

"We have more important matters to discuss. Like the crime lord with delusions of power, mocking you."

Marcone

The photocopy cuts off midway through the manuscript; the spell (more along the lines of a ritual, actually) is incomplete.

It's fairly obvious what's needed in order to get the other half.

Bartholomew Dee

{Say Cracklord, Father Forthill never did respond to Bartholomew Dee's question}

Sanya

Sanya bashes and slashes at the door until it swings open, then charges forward, unlimbering the AK-47 from his duffel as he runs.

Bart Dee
"I heard." He replies shortly. "You're not the first to make his way here, young man. We're running short on places to sleep, actually, you'll have to slum it on one of the pews."

Marcone
He looks at the document, then takes a felt-tip pen and writes at the bottom 'Name your price'. He's been pressured in his one vulnerability that he's spent so much time hiding it seems impossible that anyone could have found it out.

Bartholomew Dee

{As an offered explanation as to why Ivy knows about Beckitt's kid...the former Crime Family that stuck her in an anonymous intensive care left a paper trail, and even when Marcone destroyed said trail, the Archive still have a memory of it.

After all, that's what the Archive was for.}

Bartholomew freezes.

And then his mouth curves upward into a big grin!

"Ha-ha!" He cries out, then kisses Forthill right on the cheek before running off to see who's hiding out in the church.

Bart
Some dozen or so people are there already. Some you recognize, most you don't, beyond an occasional glimpse or name-basis. It's hardly what you'd hoped for, but it's still a relief after fearing a total genocide.
Of course, that could still happen. Kincaid might not have struck in a day, but that does not necessarily mean he's off the job.

Bartholomew Dee

Bartholomew takes his time greeting people and asking if they've seen Lydia or The Pierson twins or Rob the Kinetomancer. He gets little information.

Finally he clears his throat and addresses the crowd as a whole. "Okay, folks: this is what I've figured out: one or more Supernatural Heavyweights are in town, and they're gunning for practitioners. They've killed...too many."

He shakes his head once. "They've compromised the Paranet procedures: for those who don't already know, the Safehouse is not safe, so don't go there. Currently the Alphas are alive and kicking, and still ready to kick ass. A cop from the Special Investigations is also willing to help: she and a few others are clued in, and packing heat. Here's their number."

He recites it.

"There are at least three extremely evil mo-fos that we need to watch out for. There's a group of freaky human-esque fellows dressed in Conan-the-Barbarian gear, fur and all: they've got sharp swords, brawny arms, and they may be able to transit to the Nevernever."

He falls silent for a moment. "There's a Blonde man as well. Long, Haired, Handsome, and extremely deadly with firearms of every stripe and range. His name's Kincaid, but everyone calls him the Hellhound. That should tell you how dangerous he is."

He swallows. "He killed Bock and Richie. The Fucker's mine to kill."

He rubs the back of his head. "The last of the League of Evil I know of is a man who calls himself Nick. He's got a cheesy tie, a gray stripe, and a shadow that can grow wings and strangle you. He also has a nasty habit of tossing weird artifacts at your Lord Sauron style."

He begins pacing back and forth. "Not that I'm making some weird power play here: but we need to prepare for someone trying to attack us once more. Raise some Wards, try and get in touch with anyone else who survived, get some weapons, make potions. Prepare for the oncoming storm. Heck, prepare for a counter-attack once we figure out exactly who to attack and how to attack them in a way that won't result in us dying horribly."

He looks around. "If we stick together we've got a chance: and maybe, just maybe, we'll give those arrogant Paranormal Heavyweights a nasty surprise."

Silence. "And now I'm going to bed, because I am tired as hell."

He makes his way over to a cot and collapses on it limply.

Vlad
He is marching through the crowd, parting them like an icebreaker. Most of them are the retinues of those who were invited, the actual people themselves are few and far between, but most are smart enough not to come alone. The Summer and Winter Courts both dispatched envoys, as has every other signatory who has business in Chicago. All those who don't, are not welcome. Only people Vlad happens to be unable to kill get a chance to negotiate first.
"You are right." He says to Cowl, missing the irony of the statement. "Very right. When morning comes, there shall be a red sky. It is good, for beneath a red sky there can be no quarter, and no mercy. We will attack with the rising of the sun, before he can marshal what little strength he possesses.” The voice had changed. It had lost what humanity it had possesed, and now burned with a cold feeling, ruthlessness, diamond clarity, a hammer of pure titanium descending upon an anvil of yielding flesh. The smoke he exhales swirls around his head like some infernal halo, and his eyes begin to brighten.
He stares at Cowl. "Your advice has been good. You were right to suggest I come here, and you were right about Kincaid as well. You shall be rewarded above all others."

Cowl
"Your most kind to this undeserving one." He replies smoothly. "And now, it seems I shall have to leave a moment. Matters to deal with, of course." With that he steps away, and into the Nevernever. he walks quickly, deep in the bowls on a subterranean realm filled with gardens of glittering quartz. The stone was vaguely organic, and had a suggestion of life. Cowl didn't pay it any head, simply following the tunnel until satisfied, then stopping and stepping out before a church.

The Almighty is something he believes in, though not in a manner that would be familiar to most priests. And a church was only the slightest of barriers to a mortal, particularly one who had no intention of doing harm. His magic is barely bound. Which is just as well.

He steps through the door, and into the assembled small-time magicians. He's slient, interested at the Stage magicians patter. The man had long dormant leadership qualities. To think. Then, just before he finishes his spiel, Cowl steps forward, and interupts him smoothly. He cuts a mysterious figure, back robes and hood drawn up, faintly sinister, but not threateningly so. And while the more trope savvy of the audience are perturbed by his outfit, he does not seem particularly aggressive. Quite the opposite actually. A white marble is rolling in the palm of his left hand. What it is, you do not know, but assume it's some sort of focus.

He clears his throat, loudly and politely, then waits for silence. “Excuse the disguise, and my anomynity. But given the trying times, certain precautions are all that keeps us alive, as I'm sure you understand. I am an agent of The White Council. I was dispatched for your safety. You are targets in a supernatural war that just began, and it will be a while before a counter-attack can be launched. Too long for you, and so I am here to relieve you. To use the tritest of clichés, and believe me I cringe even as I speak, come with me if you intend to survive the night.”

Lara Raith
She steps out of the car and into the hotel, sashaying only slightly, and drawing every eye in the place without even trying. She tosses her head, subjects them all to a dazzling smile, then steps into the crowd and begins coolly examining who is here and who isn't. Apparently, she's going to war, which makes her very glad she brought her violent half-brother. Because she doubts she's getting out of here without a fight, somehow.

Vlad
He looms over her, like a sudden iceberg appearing on the navigation radar, too close to avoid. "Miss Raith. Your father insults me, by not seeing fit to send a more distinguished member of your sad family."

Lara
She only smiles. It's genuine, too. She loves it when men embarrass themselves. It makes it all so easy. "On the contrary, I volunteered. I was just..." She pauses a fraction of a second, enough to let the mind go all sorts of places. "Dying to meet the legend."
Vanity was so easy. When men thought a beautiful woman was the one excited to meet them, they seemed to lose all control, and become such easy prey.
And somehow, she doubted Vlad would be much different.

Sartorius

He follows his sister into the hotel eyes darting all over the place and locking with other eyes a few times that saw fit to stop and stare. To the women he gave a lazy heart-stopping wink( What? He may be a fighter but he was still a Raith). To the men he just gave them stares of cold indifference, almost as if to say I could care less who you are because you are not worth my time. When Vlad approaches them he gets the same feeling he got from Kincaid. He shivers a little as he suppresses his nature to extend his aura. This was a party and the last thing they needed was an all out brawl. When Vlad and his sister start talking he is a little ticked at not being acknowledged but swallows his anger as he sees his sister go to work on Vlad. The best thing that he can do now is be quiet, lest he disturb her plan and turn her ire towards him. He may be confident of his ability to beat his sister in combat but he was still a male, and all males have an inborn fear. Fear of the wrath of an angry woman.

Bartholomew Dee

{Wait. Is any Wizard truly powerful enough to Open a way past the Threshold of Church as old and established as Saint Mary of the Angels?

...Wait. Cowl. Never mind then.}

"And now I'm going to bed because I'm dead tired...huh?"

Bartholomew Dee turns around. And sees a man in a thick, black, swaddled cloak that screams 'Ringwraith'. With a voice that's quavering and oddly enunciated, like a snake's, almost.

This rings his alarm bells slightly.

"If you are who you say you are." He says slowly, "Then perhaps you can tell us who exactly is ordering the Hellhound and the Barbarians to kill us."

Vlad
He lets out a little growl in his throat. To him, that alone was all that was needed. With that, he has already established the pecking order for this meeting, and therefore set the tone. She was an inferior being, and therefore beneath his notice. The fact that this is exactly what she wants him to think doesn't even occur to him.
And as her brother had come with her, then therefore he was even lower on the chain by the chain of strength, the only process he understood. The strong ruled, in whatever form their power took, the weak served.

Lara
Her brother was getting agitated. He was not a patient man, in fact that was why she had bought him. Like was like, and subtly was wasted on men like him. Hence the trashy outfit. Beneath her, but that was the point. He saw what he expected, and so underestimated her. There was power, real power, just as great as Vlad's in it's own way, in controlling people as they thought they controlled you.
She looked around again. This was far from a party, no matter how he introduced it. Lara knew parties, she attended at least three a week on average, given her life and disposition, and this was more a funeral. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all.
"No music, Vlad?" She teases, tossing her head an inch to the left, in a sort of challenge. "That's disappointing."

Vlad
He bared his teeth. "This is not to cater to your whims, phage." He growls, defensively, then turns and storms away, shoving aside a few of his children with his shovel-sized hands. They cringe and scatter, like rodents around a wolf.

Nicodemus

"Somehow, my dear, I rather doubt Drakul knows what 'music' actually is. Screams of agony and cries of submission are more along his tastes."

He approaches the pair slowly and gracefully, cane tapping against the ground.

"Oh...I see you have an escort."

Marcone

More writing appears underneath Marcone's.

Sign the declaration of intent. And don't speak of it for 24 hours. I'll give the rest in afterwards.

Cowl
He stares at them all, although the cannot, of course, recognize this, and then pauses. "I can tell you things. But if I do, you will never be able to return to your life. You'll become part of a world where you are a resource, prey in the truest sense of the world, and one where you will have to choose a side or die. If any of you want that, then I will not keep you in ignorance. But believe me, learning of this may make you long for ignorance, or even oblivion. It is not easy to know these things."

Thomas
He throws a handful of money in the Taxi Drivers face. "Drive. Don't stop unless I tell you to. And don't ask questions." He's covered in blood. Dedire's in lingerie. Questions seem inevitable.

Lara
"I suspect you're right. No doubt, even if he did he'd pick something dreary and dull." She replies. "I can't stand boring men. This is my brother, Sartorius Raith. Since I can't seem to find an interesting man, he did me a favor and escorted me."
She waves over a servant and picks up for a drink. "Join me?"

Marcone
He signs it. He doesn't even hesitate.

Nicodemus

"But of course."

He sets aside his gin and tonic, already finished with it.

"Another," he orders.

Bartholomew Dee

Bartholomew senses Cowl's serious intent in his voice and frowns a bit.

"We are already 'prey' as you describe it, O Mysterious Ringwraith: we're already being hunted down like animals. Besides which, we live in a world where Vampires stalk the night, the Fae entice the unwary with song and dance and bargains, where Demons, Creatures of the Nevernever, and things from 'Outside' reality lurk in the shadows, and where incredibly powerful Wizards such as yourself do as you please and never let anyone know what's going on."

Bartholomew rubs at his eyes, then sticks his hands into his pockets. "I mean, Christ, I'm actually missing Dresden right now: at least he didn't look down on us minor practitioners. So let me ask you again: who's trying to kill us? It should be possible for you to tell us that at least without revealing..."

He removes his hands from his pockets just long enough to make quotation marks.

"Secrets Man Was Not Meant to Know."

Cowl
"And you'd know so much better then me, wouldn't you. Stands to reason. You have all these names you've learned from browsing the back of old second-hand magical textbooks, names you don't understand the subjects of, or recognize the significance beyond thinking they sound impressive." He replies laconically. It's clear your attitude is failing to make much of an impression on the man. "And you insult me for wearing a black robe, with a rather trite reference to professor Tolkien, when I have done nothing but be honest with you, and offer you help. Your entire reasoning is because of a color. If I was wearing white, I can only assume you would automatically assume the opposite, get on your knees and beg my help. In short, you seem determined to jump to conclusions, sir."

He stares at them all. "You are prey, I agree. And at the moment, you are under threat. But you're overlooked. Nobody sees you as worth any effort. If we talk, that changes. If we talk, everyone of you will be in as much danger as you are now for the rest of your lives. Do you understand?"

Then he looks at Dee again. "Apparently you think you are brave enough to know things that most Members of the White Council remain blissfully unaware of. Very well. Anyone else want to know as much as this man?"

Elaine

She reaches up weakly for the telephone by her bed, fingers fumbling for the number to call. Someone was hunting the minor practitioners. Someone who knew all the usual safehouses.

She calls the Church.

Cowl
The phone rings. He pauses, and tucks his hands into his sleeves. "Please. Answer." He says softly, tilting his head.

Bartholomew Dee

Bartholomew's ears burned slightly as the hooded, mysterious figure basically called him the Occult Equivalent of Trailer Trash.

Oh you did not just say that... Bartholomew thought, his mind painting all sorts of fantasies of Groin attacks.

Then the phone rang. Bartholomew stared at it for a moment.
"Of course, oh Great and Mighty Wizard." he replied sarcastically.

He picks it up.

"Hello?"