undergrounds | Litha Disappearances Investigation

Pel crosses out of Daybreak territory and immediately the mark on her hand begins to itch. She clenches her fist, though she knows even thick gloves will not really hide the light. It seems to glow where the barrier between this realm and the Other is damaged, and beyond that, she hasn't figured it out. But it's a tool. It is going to work for the task she needs it to.

It's like a game of hot-and-cold. When the mark begins to fade, she has gone too far from the source of the disturbance and has to double back. When it is so bright that greenish light seeps out between the cracks of her clenched fingers, she is very close indeed. She hesitates just outside a skating park, watching a very young man--scarcely more than a boy--walk slowly away from his compatriots and into a nearby alley. She follows some ways behind. The Door opens, and she is ready.

As soon as the fae goes through, she raises her hand. A flash of green light shoots from her mark to the Door. It is completely indiscreet, but there are no other witnesses. In a few seconds, the door is not merely closed, but gone. The young man stumbles back with surprise, as if waking to find himself sleepwalking. She ducks aside before he regains himself, and watches from behind a wall for him to exit the alley. He does, none the worse for wear, bemusedly rejoining his mates.

Edited 2015-06-23 02:34 (UTC)

Lancelot is easy enough to recognise as an officer in his blue and black outfit, epaulettes declaring him a PCSO and bulletproof vest clearly marking him as staff.

In the dim evening light he could swear he sees something glow distantly, but he can't be sure. Either way, it draws his attention. At least one child has gone missing in this area very recently, and it never hurts to investigate something out of the ordinary -- even if it turns out to be someone playing with a flood light.

Reaching for a small LED flashlight he approaches the alley he thinks he saw the light coming from, one hand ready to turn it on in case he has to inspect something in the shadows.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

Well, he thinks idly, of course someone is there -- but the warning gives them time to not be surprised. There's nothing worse than a surprised person lashing out if they're unhappy.

Pel's hand closes tightly around her mark. She straightens up and peers down the alleyway, a tiny, silver-haired waif in an oversized coat.

"Aye," she calls back calmly. "Something wrong, sir?"

She doesn't want to approach before he does. She is a tiny woman in a dark alley and he is a man. She slips her hand into her pocket to touch her can of pepper spray, just in case. Maybe he just saw the light. She can explain lights. Somehow.

Edited 2015-06-23 23:55 (UTC)

Just a young girl, then. Lancelot twists on his light and flicks it along the alleyway, frowning a little curiously before seeming to be satisfied. He offers her a shake of his head, smiles faintly as he turns it off again.

"No, no forgive me. I thought I saw a strange glow, like a green light. I suppose it might have come from a window." Tipping his head back he looks up at the buildings either side, trying to gauge if one of them was likely to have some sort of horrific coloured lighting. In a way, he wouldn't be surprised. A white dog pads a few steps closer to him and Lancelot turns, holds a hand out to her. "Sit," he tells her, and she obeys slowly, ears flicking a little as she looks around the area.

Oh no. It's the perfect dog. A smile touches Pel's face, though she hesitates to approach. After a beat, she takes a step or two closer, hand outstretched.

"Didn't know they let peelers keep pretty dogs. What's his name?"

Pretty dogs? Well, he supposes she is. Lancelot flickers a smile between the two of them, tilts his head in thought.

"She isn't a police dog," he offers finally. "A little too nervous for that. Her name is Lily. I bring her out sometimes to help her conquer her fears. She won't bite, I promise."

Although she might flick her ears uneasily. Strangers can't always be trusted!

"Do you live around here?" he prompts, curious. If she does, after all, she might be a good person to ask a few things.

Pel opens her mouth to reply, still reaching for the dog, when her mark lights up like a torch. She sucks in a breath.

"Shhhhhite."

She turns to look at where the Door had been, where the Door was being remade, probably with a very angry fae coming through. She looks back to Lancelot, eyes wide. Well, nothing for it. She can worry about what he's seen later.

"Run. Run now!"

She reaches for his arm with every intent to drag him out of that alley and as far away from the pissed off fae as possible.

The first thing he notices is the green light glowing from her hand, ethereal and strange. He's about to ask what she has on -- has she broken a glow stick and painted herself with it? It's a... well, a poor idea considering the contents but he knows well enough people do it. Yet...

Yet the sight of the mark makes his skin prickle, then his eyes flick up to the door and his skin prickles further. Something about it stirs something in him, something that makes his head hurt. Lily begins to growl, low and uneasy, then Pel's hand is on his arm.

Run, she says, and he snaps back into focus. He grabs her in turn and begins to yank her along with him, at somewhat surprising speed. The prickle of something inhuman probably tickles at her senses, but with all the fae magic exploding through the area it's probably muddled up easily enough.

Cover. They need cover. Could they even hide from... from whatever is going on?

"Lily!" he snaps at the dog, and she catches up quickly as he yanks them around the corner. Okay. Not to panic. Green glowing.... happens. He peers back around the corner, feeling oddly wild with energy. "I don't suppose you'd tell me what we're running from?" He asks, and equally he's not sure he wants to hear the answer.

Pel pulls a small loaf of bread from her pocket and casts it on the ground behind her. It looks pretty silly, but perhaps the fae will be placated by the offering.

She pulls him around a corner and yanks him behind a dumpster. It's a gigantic piece of steel, which fae usually dislike for being an iron alloy. She touches her index finger to her lips to signal for silence. She sits on her left hand, using her whole body to block the light of the Anchor.

A moment later, the soft slap of bare feet can be heard. Around the corner comes a dumpy little creature with thin legs. It looks like something from straight out of Disney's Sleeping Beauty. It grunts softly with every step before stopping to bend over and pick up the bread. It stares for a moment, then takes a bite and starts chewing. Pel holds her breath, just waiting for the dog to make a noise and give them all away.

Oh, it's just... well, whatever that is. Lancelot swallows, hard, and tries to focus on not making a single sound. Lily flattens her ears and he fumbles for her instantly, trying to stop her from growling -- ending up tangled in an awkward sort of embrace with the dog. He presses a finger to his lips, half smothered by white fluff, and tries not to look directly at that creature. His heart is racing a little, I think, and he knows Lily is picking up on his fear. It's a little like he's dropped into some nightmarish children's film, the sort that aren't aimed solely at children. More Jacob and Wilhelm with feet being carved than genteel, safe cartoons. His fingers flex into soft white fur and his head spins, feeling a little like he's stood up too quickly. He wants to ask questions -- what is that? Will it hurts us? Where did it come from? Yet he can't speak a word for fear of pulling its attention.

His eyes drop sideways and catch the faint, largely suffused glow of Pel's mark. His head hurts again and he has to flail out a hand to brace against the floor as his stomach rolls.

The fae sniffs around a bit, still chewing bread, when some of the skaters start racing down the street. The fae vanishes quickly, only the slap of its feet heard running away. Pel starts urgently pulling Lancelot to his feet.

"This way," she whispers, starting back toward Circle Daybreak territory. "Quickly."

"But --"

She isn't even giving him time to protest. He gulps for air, trying to control the spinning of his head as he hauls himself using the wall for support. She's dashing back further into the city and normally Lancelot is quick on his feet, normally keeping up would far from be a problem but he feels like he might fall over any second. Like he's -- coming down with a fever, maybe? He stumbles after her, Lily glancing back before slinking to follow too, but it's barely a few steps before he grinds to a halt and grabs the wall again. His lightly tanned skin is paling even in the weak streetlights, stomach still rolling, and Lily whines in quiet nerves. The atmosphere is all tense and unhappy, and Lily isn't sure what is wrong but whatever it is it seems bad!

"Wait," he hisses, trying to steady himself a moment. "Tell me what is going on."

She knows why he's alarmed. She knows that it seems more urgent to understand than to be safe, because he won't feel safe until he understands. But there is no time. Her hand is firm around his wrist, more a reassuring pressure than anything meant to trap him. She looks him in the eye.

"I know you're frightened," she says quietly, "and I promise you I'll tell you everything as soon as we're to safety. Everything. But we have to get away first. If you trust me, I will keep you safe. I know what we're dealing with. Just trust me."

Frightened? He supposes he is. Frightened, in a way, of how little he understands. Of how out of control he feels. Equally, though, his head hurts and Lancelot --

"Where did you learn to close Doors?" he asks, and he doesn't know why he's calling it a door, or how he knows that it's been closed, only he does and he doesn't. He does and doesn't -- and he's, quite honestly, never had such an awful headache in his life but all he can say is: "You aren't fae."

He knows that, somehow, he knows even though he doesn't know how he knows.

"It's complicated." She tugs at his wrist, voice lowering to a whisper. "Just...I'm a witch. I stopped something horrible and a fae gave me this mark. Now please follow me."

Complicated. She's just a witch, with a mark, and it's complicated.

Lancelot wants to argue, wants to protest but he doesn't even know what he's protesting. It's all nonsense yet somehow it's nonsense that makes sense, on some gut level, and he has no idea why it does all of a sudden. It's like the dreams he used to have weren't dreams at all.

She's tugging at his wrist anyway, so he stops resisting -- stumbles to follow the slight woman, Lily trailing after them uneasily. He doesn't blame her, he'd be uncertain about following the both of them too.

He glances back a little, but keeps following nonetheless.

"Where to?" he prompts, trying to moderate his speed to match her smaller stride.

"Daybreak territory. Nobody can make Doors there."

This tiny girl grew up in crime-heavy areas and knows how to run. What she lacks in stride she makes up for in repetitions per second. She doesn't slow until they cross into Daybreak territory, at which point she stops long enough to look behind, then presses ahead at a quick pace.

"All right," she gasps, expression composed. "He didn't give chase when I...gave him the soda." Pant, pant. "Soda for a kid. Even trade. Good to know. Shit."

She keeps trudging on, but stops talking for a moment to catch her breath.

"You all right?"

Is he all right?

It feels a little like a ludicrous question. One he can't say he knows the answer to in truth. Is he all right?

"I'm not so sure about that," he admits, and glances around as she drags him back over the border. What is 'Daybreak territory'? It's almost as if she speaks another language, something he can discern bits of through some ancient language base all things are based on but which is largely nonsense.

"What's your name?" Her voice is low and solid in spite of how out of breath she is.

Names. Right, names at least are something normal. Names are a solid, grounding thing he can hold onto.

(Names hold power, something warns in the back of his head, and he quite honestly wants to tell it to stop for one minute. His head hurts enough and he wants for something to be normal.)

"Lancelot," he tells her, and he rather dislikes that for some reason he sounds uncertain about his own name. So he clears his throat, tries again more confidently. "Lancelot."

There, that sounded better the second time.

"I'm Pel." She's catching her breath at last, and headed for her flat. "It's good you're a peeler. A peeler and one of ours, too."

She holds her hand out to Lily, just to let her smell her.

A peeler, she says again and Lancelot has a few absurd moments to consider what peeler might mean if it wasn't (as he assumed) something to do with his job. A professional orange peeler. Someone with sun burn. Lily shies back a step from Pel and he snaps out of it, holds out a hand to pull her against his side and ruffle her thick mane of fur. One of ours.

"I'm not a witch," he begins cautiously, following along behind her even as his radio chitters and tries to pull his attention. He hesitates. Amends. "Warlock," he corrects, is that the right term? He honestly has no idea. Sorcerer? Magician? "I can't... do what you do."

Maybe the dog will make friends later. That isn't exactly foremost on Pel's mind. Lancelot and a pissed-off fae are more prominent right now.

"I didn't mean you're a witch. I meant you're Underground."

He knows this, right? Knows what that's about? He can see her mark and he knows about Doors and fae.

"Underground?"

Which would show that no, no he doesn't know what that's about. Has no idea what is going on at all, even if his memories are slowly fighting to re-arrange themselves. To make sense of what is going on with deep, buried images of bright places and winged creatures and magic. He's sure that's magic, he's sure he remembers feeling something -- remembers fighting with a blade. Remembers and yet how can he? He's just -- he's just Lancelot, and his life has never been more than it is now. He has never been some grand warrior, has never been a hero.

"Forgive me," he begins, hesitantly, "I do not know what you mean by... 'underground'."

Just in case that wasn't obvious. Which it is.

She stops walking. She looks at him with discerning intent, as if peeling back every layer of skin he has and examining each one inside and out. She doesn't seem the least bit concerned with rather he's comfortable with it.

"So you're not Underground, you're just...magic." A cleansing breath in and out. "That's how you can see my mark. You're not fae and you're not a witch, but you're a little more than human."

He's in danger, then. A great deal of danger, she thinks, if he is this way without knowing anything about it. Nothing is more dangerous to them than their own ignorance.

"I don't know," he admits helplessly, and he's saying that a lot lately, isn't he? At least, in the last short while he feels as if he's begun to know less than he ever has in his whole life.

Well.

"I --" he stops, hesitates, opens his mouth, stops again. How does he even explain this? "Something is happening to me, I think." It's cautious, as if he isn't entirely sure himself if what he's saying is right. "When you -- when I saw... what happened. I started to... remember things. At least, I think I am remembering. I think they are memories."

Good lord, he isn't even making any sense.

"It's all right."

Pel puts one hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

"Right, you're safe here. The fae cannot come into this territory. Let's get you to my flat. I'll make you a cuppatae and we'll sort this out at your leisure, right?"

Edited 2015-07-13 16:24 (UTC)

A cup of tea. Right. Lancelot lets out a sigh, something that does not fully shake the unease from him but begins to make an attempt at it. Then he nods. A cup of tea, fine. That sounds... normal, like something he can cope with. Especially if this... 'territory' is safe, as she puts it.

"Thank you," he allows at last, "please -- lead the way." He reaches out a hand to ruffle at Lily as she follows him -- equally uneasy. Everyone is so nervous! What is going on? She doesn't know, but she doesn't like it. If anything bad happens she will just have to growl at someone until it stops. Even if her idea of a growl is low and not very intimidating, she can try.

It's not too long before they reach her flat, where she settles him down quickly with a cup of tea and a mismatched little bowl of sugar with a spoon in it. She sits on a beanbag chair nearby, hands clasped.

"So...tell me what you do remember. Maybe I can make it make sense."

What he remembers? He lets out a slow breath, hands cradling the drink as he thinks on this.

"I..." he shivers, frowns. "I have always had... a gap, a break in my memories. It... it seemed years of my life, my childhood, I might never get back. Yet... there are flashes, now. Seeing that creature seemed to... inspire them. I cannot tell if they are truly memories I experienced or something else, they seem so... strange. A place like London, yet not. Everything... wilder, brighter and darker both, stranger. It... makes little sense."

She needs his help. Nothing else for it.

They first met in this park, and she has glimpsed him here since. She's here, hoodless, and intends to be so every night until he shows up or the missing kids are returned. She is only a weak witch, after all. Tal is a bloodhound, and that is where power is now.

Pel had helped him, from time to time, ease and smooth out the horror of full moons when circumstance dictated he could not free the beast. When he scented her along the block, he beelined for her.

"'Ey! You never get off at my stop." His eyes flicked to the overcast sky, the other people trickling up the stairs. Dagenham Hatheway was as rural a stop as one could get, this close to London.

He looked like one of the anarcho-punk boys who experimented with homelessness in the underground. Ratty jeans and logo-plastered hoodie, smelling like sweat and trash. The dark eyes he leveled at her were dark and purposeful, curious beneath brows quirked at a quizzical angle.

"Sommat wrong?"

Pel has her hands crammed into her hoodie against the wind. She closes the distance to him at a trot.

"You've been keepin' up with news, aye? Those pretty kids getting nucked?"

"Not a word, not a word," he rumbled, heavy brows lifting in surprise. He went with his gut instinct, leaning towards her as she approached so that he could pitch his voice for her ears alone. "Uh... bloodsucker fuckery again?"

He curved his knuckly fingers, made 'fangs' with them. "Up to old habits?"

A soft huff, something that would probably be a snort if it weren't so absurdly delicate. His discretion is understandable, but to her, unnecessary. Anyone around them will just take them for superstitious backwoods people.

"Try again. Good Folk. I'll tell you why in a bit. Where are we going?"

She just sort of inserts herself into his day like that.

"The bright lords and ladies may take a cribling from time to time," he ceded, even more surprised to hear that his court might be the root of the disturbance; but he clears himself of that with a small shake of the head.

This was something he should know. Something it'd be embarrasing not to know, should his lord ask it of him. He kissed his teeth and waved her to follow him. "Gonna go find a door, mh? Less scents to muddy a trail in the other realm, easy to find mortals in all the magic. Here? Trash grease gas sweat people people people birds trash stray cats smog--" He made a loose gesture with one hand, nose wrinkling.

To be fair, the Good Folk is a term used for either court among laypeople. The name isn't so much a label as an appeasement.

"Dead on. Next time you need my herbs, it's on me." That is murmured low for only his ears. No sense letting people think a drug deal is going on.

He flashed brightly white, faintly sharp teeth, and reached behind his neck, pulling up his ratty hood. "Cross your heart?" He inquired, clearly very pleased.

He set off at a long-legged pace, a swift walk just shy of a lope. "I know a door, closer the river, 'way from ready eyes. Now, when we go in, see, can't be all Corinthian brass as you're wont to, yeah? We come upon the bright, mind the manners proper to a point. If you're guest of mine, all you do reflects on me an' my lord."

"Oh."

Pel slows to a stop, chewing her lower lip.

"You might want to know, then. Before takin' me. I already stopped a fae from takin' a boy. Would that upset your lord?"

"Uh."

He didn't slow, but seemed to hunch over the thought, rubbing at his five-day stubble. "Don't know. Depends on who? My lord may not even know, see. Or might be one of his rivals in the court." Or it might be one of his allies; in which case Tal knew he should position himself well, act to curb aside mortal-realm meddlers.

Even those like Pel.

He grimaced and aimed for discretion. "I don't have any way of knowin'. Not without seein' who it is. And if it's a rival... I'll be doin' well by tellin' him. So."

He gave his head a shake. "On we go."

Pel swallows.

Closed Doors, at least, don't make her mark start glowing. Opening it will cause a problem. She puts her hands inside her hoodie and clenches her left hand into a fist.

He turned his head as he walked, looking over his shoulder at her, brow crumpling into small furrows. A hooked brow in her direction asked all it needed to, 'You alright?', but he'd never been a people person and certainly wouldn't press her clear discomfort.

Litha Disappearances Investigation | backdated to last week

Lancelot

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