undergrounds | The Initiation (Closed to Lancelot and Faolan)

Entry tags:

The Initiation (Closed to Lancelot and Faolan)

The day has come for the new Guardians to be initiated by the Night Council. Step inside their headquarters in Westminster, take a seat in the study, and wait. There's a large, empty fireplace, a live owl perched in an iron cage by the mantelpiece, a bookcase of old and dusty tomes (mostly supernatural history and biographies) and several overstuffed leather armchairs. The bay window affords a view over Whitehall.

The owl watches with beady eyes. You get the sense it's watching you.

The initiates are called one by one. A woman wearing glasses pops her head into the study every few minutes to collect the next one. She'll take you to a large dimly lit chamber, usher you in, then leave, closing the door behind you.

At first glance, you'd be forgiven for thinking that you're surrounded by people. The chamber is circular and around the walls there are standing figures, men and women, life-size. They're statues in various poses, some with their hands in front of their faces as if trying to protect themselves. The expressions carved into their faces are mostly grimaces and many of them are wide-eyed, perhaps shocked or fearful.

But the statues are just decoration. There are real people here: the Council members, all sitting in front of you. They're arranged in a rough semi circle around a table, with the President Sylvia Redbright in the centre. Her seat is raised above the others, almost a throne. She's directly ahead of you.

Also directly ahead of you, between you and the Council members, is a small square table upon which sits a thick sheaf of paper and a golden pen. Both have a magical aura. The paper is high quality, printed on in black ink and bears the seal of the Night Council. It runs to twelve pages.

Sylvia nods at you, smiling. "Come forward. Don't worry, it's a quick process, nothing complicated. All you have to do is repeat a few words, then sign the contract. Okay?" She glances at her fellow representatives and they each stand up, Sylvia included. "Stand by the table and place your hand on the contract." She gestures with her palm flat, and waits for you to follow her lead. "Then repeat after me. 'I stand here before the Night Council to swear an oath. I am a Guardian of the Night Council. From this moment on, I pledge my allegiance to the Night Council, in life and in death eternal. I swear to devote myself to the Night Council, to the protection of its members, and to my duties as a Guardian. I swear this by everything I hold sacred and dear in the world.'"

She pauses, then indicates the contract on the table. "On the bottom of the first page, you'll see a space for your signature. Go ahead and sign it."

As you step forward, Peter Vrinak, the Witch Representative on the end of the row, stands up. He comes over to stand next to you, waiting for you to sign the document. The moment you have, he takes the document and strides back to his seat while the other Council members sit down.

"Thank you," Sylvia says. She smiles. "And welcome! We look forward to working with you. Just one more thing before you go. We take security very seriously. We also take our oaths very seriously. That's why the contract you signed is magically binding. It will hold you to your word. If ever you break your oath, you will turn to stone."

She pauses a moment to let that sink in. The statues around you, were they...?

Sylvia clears her throat. "Of course, this is a measure of last resort – a precaution only. But you are forbidden to reveal it." Her tone is matter-of-fact, laying down the law. "That means you will be unable to discuss the oath at all, or make any attempt to reveal it to anyone else, whether in speech, writing or any other form of communication. Every Guardian makes the same oath and none of you can speak of it."

The eyes of the Council members are all staring down at you, every one of them serious, stern. Your secret will not leave this room, any more than the stone statues can wake up and walk themselves out of here.

Sylvia waves a hand, dropping the formal tone. "And that's all. Thank you. Really, I do mean thank you. Being a Guardian is a lot to take on. We have your contract for safekeeping and if you want to come back and read it over in more detail, it's always available. Your training starts tomorrow. Best of luck."

Best of luck, newbie. You've been officially initiated.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lancelot may look as if he fits in, as if he's in his element, but it isn't exactly like he does come here often. It's more that he's always relaxed.

Well, so long as he isn't being chased by a werewolf.

He gestures vaguely to make it two, sighs as he glances around at the shelves and settles more comfortably into his chair -- flicks Faolan a wry smile and jerks an eyebrow.

"Don't go thinking I can afford to eat here every day. I last came here..." Lancelot pauses, squints a little as he thinks. "Two years ago, maybe? For a friend's birthday. I just like the decoration, the atmosphere. Well -- the food's good too, but it's nice pretending you're part of a gentleman's club for a little while."

Faolan nods, glancing around again. It is nice. Certainly the atmosphere fits the description Lancelot has supplied. And he supposes that it is relaxing, in its own sort of way. It's just not his first choice of where he might go to relax himself. Especially not after events like that evening's. Environments like this, while nice, certainly don't put him at ease.

And then the comment about affording it? Faolan raises his eyebrows at the other man again. Just what sort of a place has he taken him to, here? "I would have been fine with a lot less than this place, you know," he points out. He had been expecting it, really. A semi-decent bar, not too shit but not too high class. Maybe a cafe. Not a restaurant of this caliber. Is he trying to impress him? What is Lancelot playing at? Or had he really just wanted to treat him? Once again, Faolan finds himself questioning nearly everything about this situation.

"You might have been fine with it, but it would not have been much of a thank you to someone who saved my life. Besides which, it seems we're going to be colleagues -- that deserves at least a little celebration, I think."

He shrugs minutely, studies Faolan a moment in thought.

"Forgive me if this question is foolish," he begins, "but... are such contracts... normal, in your experience? The clauses... I understand, of course, they must protect themselves but..."

Well, somehow the threat of being turned into a statue still feels... drastic.

Faolan cracks something of a smile at that and decides to hold off any comments about whether or not he should wait to be celebrating being colleagues with him until he had determined whether it warranted celebration or not. Let him leave the self-deprecation for another day, he thinks to himself.

"Well, the whole statue thing is rather new, all things considered," he says. "I can't say I've ever been threatened in quite such a way before. But I have had certain cases with clients who were equally as... Particular. The more power you have at your fingertips, the more you have to worry about coming at you from other corners, I would suppose. And considering who the Night Council are, considering the fact that they should need Guardians in the first place..." He shakes his head. "I can't say that I'm exactly surprised. Maybe that I should have become wrapped up in such a thing myself, but not by the fact that such clauses exist themselves."

He studies Lancelot in turn, wondering what exactly the other man had known of this side of everything before he had decided to volunteer himself for such a position. "You okay?" he asks. "I know it's sort of... Well. A lot to take in."

Lancelot takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh and shrugs.

"Well," he says lightly, "I'm not dead, and I have a new job. It's a little... like you say, it's a lot to process, but... So long as I can stay alive I should think it's not so bad. Hopefully the learning curve will not be too steep for me, and people will be... patient."

He winces, face morphing into a slightly bemused sort of smile.

"Perhaps, if I am lucky, a friend will help me out along the way. If... that is not too much to ask."

Faolan can't help but cracking a smile at the other man in return. (A friend? Is that what he is now? Well, he's certainly not going to turn the offer of friendship down. It's been a while since he's been anyone's friend, all things considered. Though he should hardly think that he deserves such a thing, so he's just going to... Let the comment slide, for now.) "Oh," he says, making a show of thinking about it, "I don't know. I suppose it isn't too much, no."

He laughs, shaking his head after a moment, sobering slightly to say, a little more seriously, "Of course I'll help you. We are practically partners in this now, yeah? I should hardly leave you to figure things out on your own -- that in itself is a recipe for disaster for us both." He sits back in his seat, trying to make himself as comfortable as he can, despite the fact he feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb. "I have a feeling you give yourself less credit than you deserve. You've already picked up this much this fast."

He quirks something of an eyebrow at the other man as well, as he settles his elbows on the armrests of his chair, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "Besides, you've treated me well thus far. Perhaps I have ulterior motives, in wanting to keep you around as well." He flashes a wider smile for a moment.

He widens his eyes a little, as if mock-concerned about ulterior motives, tilts his head ruefully and sighs as he settles back himself -- begins to unbutton his sleeves to roll them up and slightly reduce the formality of how he's dressed. Try and put them on a more even level.

"Well," he says lightly, "I suppose if that is the case it would be only fair. There is no reason I should be the only one to gain from this. Although I'm not so sure what your ulterior motives might be. Should I expect to bankroll more meals? Be offering Lily's charm for difficult cases? I am afraid her tracking skills are not quite good enough for official business yet..."

Faolan can't help but raise his eyebrows and quirk something of a smile in response to that. Mentioning the dog again, really? He has to wonder whether he really has so few friends as that, or whether he simply loves her that much. "If it's any comfort, I hardly expect you to continue to pay for places like this one," he says, wryly. Still rather taken aback that yes, they really are in a gentleman's club, of sorts.

"I told you that I was fairly easy to please," he reminds the other man gently. "I hope you know that I meant it. All this," he says, gesturing around them with a hand, "is lovely. A treat. But honestly, coffee was just as nice. Or takeaway? And." He cracks another wry smile. "You could even bring the dog, if it would make you feel better."

Lancelot scrunches up his face at that, shrugs a little -- glances sideways as someone comes over to slide their drinks onto coasters for them finally. He thanks them quietly, flashes a smile before leaning forward to slide it a little closer.

"I will take that under advisement," he says finally, and picks it up to take a sip. "Next time we can get takeaway. From McDonalds, perhaps."

Faolan makes certain not to spill his drink at that suggestion, at the very least. It's a point in his favor, if he says so himself. He does however raise a very questioning eyebrow at the other man. McDonalds?

"I said that I was easy to please," he points out. "That doesn't mean that I don't have standards, thanks." He raises his drink to take a sip himself, before setting it back down again. He waits a long moment before he quirks a smirk back at him. Honestly, he doesn't really care. But he likes taking the piss a little. Especially when it comes to Lancelot. The whole bashful thing he's got going on is rather endearing, all things considered.

"Do you regret it yet?" he asks, changing the subject rather abruptly, but he can't tease him forever. (He'll come back to it later.) "Volunteering for Guardian? Do you suppose it will be what you expected?" What did he expect out of it, for that matter? And could he handle it, if things turned sour? Considering they're now contracted into it -- possibly for life.

Regret it? The amusement fades from Lancelot's expression into something thoughtful at that, considering it.

"What reason would I have to?" he answers finally. "I believe in justice, in keeping people safe. I admit, I am not so sure I knew exactly what to expect -- that much has been proven to me -- but... We will not know the truth of that until we begin in earnest. We have signed up, but we have not truly been on duty yet. That, I think, is when I will find out if it is what I hoped for. Or... when I found out I will need a good few more drinks to handle a mistake."

Faolan nods slightly. It's an honest answer, really -- they won't know in truth what's in store for them until they start their first few days on the job and actually give it a go. The true concern is that... Faolan doesn't think that this is exactly something that they can try out and if they discover that it isn't for them, just move on. In fact, he's fairly certain it isn't. Fairly certain that there will be consequences, to such ideals of Lancelot's. Part of him is almost grateful that at least they are in this together, that at least he is there to keep an eye on the other man if nothing else.

"Well," Faolan says, after a moment's pause. "You know where to find me. If you should determine you'll need the drinks." He quirks something of a smile at the other man, speaking over the rim of his tumbler as he continues on to say, "I'm nothing if not a willing companion in that." He raises the glass in something of a cross between a salute and a toast, and takes another swig.

Lancelot smiles easily in answer, lifts his own drink in reply and takes a sip himself.

"It's strange, that we should have met before only to be reunited here. Do you believe in fate, Faolan?"

He squints in thought, studying the man.

"It could easily be a coincidence, of course, but... This will be the third time. London is a big place."

Faolan shrugs slightly, sitting back in his chair and cradling his glass between his hands as he does. "I would believe more in coincidence than I would in the idea of some greater purpose," he admits. "It is only the same city. You could have walked past me hundreds of times and never noticed -- until I happened to start bleeding on you."

"The second time was less fate and more through association with our first meeting. You were just lucky I was nearby. And now..." He shrugs again. "The supernatural community is a lot smaller than London, anyway. You are no doubt getting some idea of that already, what with Sylvia being the President of the Night Council, Mother of Witches in Circle Daybreak, and Chancellor of the Redbright Institute."

"She does get around, it's true..."

Which he hadn't particularly dwelt on until now, but on reflection is an interesting thing to consider. Sylvia Redbright has a lot of power in a lot of places. If Daybreak and Redbright spread further. Sylvia would have power of a majority of London. He tilts his head in thought, files the thought away for later consideration. Now is not particularly the type.

"Perhaps I am just a romantic," he admits. "I like to imagine there is a little more to life than we see."

Faolan nods in response to this. He's not honestly surprised with the other man's reaction, considering his opinion on a lot of other things. His motivations for joining the Night Council as a Guardian, for example. Everything seems to be so... So wholesome and good. Of course he should believe in such a thing as destiny or fate or whatever it is that he's hinting at. Still he can't help but speak up to say, in response to the other man's questioning...

"What would you make of it then?" he asks. "If you are hesitant to put it down to coincidence. Would you label it as fate, such a thing? And if so, then why? Shouldn't fate have some sort of a purpose? A goal in mind?" He knows he's being a smart ass, but Lancelot was the one who brought it up, it's only fair to turn the question around on him in turn.

"Do you think it has no purpose?" Lancelot tilts his head at the question, eyes narrowing a little as he considers this -- as if the concept genuinely confuses him. "Why should it not? Just because the goal is not clear to you does not mean it does not exist. We cannot know our own fates. To know it for certain would be to make us second guess our actions, change it, but we can guess at such things. Try to make sense of the world around us. Is that not human nature?"

Lancelot shrugs after a second, takes a sip of his drink.

"I like to think there is a meaning to all things."

Faolan shrugs, feeling oddly as though he has touched on something more personal to the other man than he can understand. He does not believe in anything remotely related to a 'greater purpose' or a 'destiny'. The things he has seen and experienced in his life, there are those that make little sense, that would never make sense to him, and to try and find reason for them would be to insult the experiences themselves. Sometimes terrible things happen and there is only the choice to be consumed by them or to survive. And Faolan's spent a lot of time fighting to survive. He doesn't need to think about any of it beyond that.

Still. It wouldn't hurt to tease Lancelot a little. Especially given the fact that they're out for drinks together, eventually dinner, at a particularly ornate restaurant. It really is something of a date. Which means that he has the grounds. He takes another sip of his drink, peering over the rim of it at Lancelot as he says, "What meaning have you found in meeting me, then? Or haven't you discovered it, yet?"

"I'm still working on that, although I have a few ideas."

Ideas mostly based around them both being Guardians, perhaps having been meant to befriend each other and work together so they might make a difference. So they might help the community for the better. Lancelot has always wanted to make a difference, and that this might be his chance -- well, the idea appeals a good deal.

The usher re-appears and subtly waits, gestures and quietly asks if they're ready to come through. Lancelot looks over to Faolan questioningly, ready to follow his lead.

Faolan raises an eyebrow slightly, waiting for the explanation from the other man, but when it doesn't come and when their usher appears, he defers to the situation at hand. Moving to stand, he waits for Lancelot to stand as well before following along behind the usher and the other man into the restaurant itself.

Being led inside, past only the area they were seated in before and actually into the main room itself, Faolan knows that he's underdressed. He also knows that he sticks out like a sore thumb, while Lancelot seems to fit in right at home. It had been a purposeful act, for is attendance of the Night Council initiation, but here? Well, he supposes he's grateful that at least Lancelot doesn't seem to mind or care. He glances over to the other man as they're nonchalantly lead over to a table and seated. No, he doesn't take his jacket off, and no, when the usher offers he'll refuse again. Instead the look he has is only for the other man.

"And I thought that I stuck out in the lounge," he murmurs across to him, uncertain whether to open his menu and hide in it, hide in his napkin, or just give up and not bother at all.

"You don't stick out," he protests lightly, and Lancelot smiles warmly at Faolan across the table -- settles himself into a chair and takes a sip of his drink. "Although, admittedly, you pushed the boundaries of smart-casual a little further than I did."

The furthest Lancelot pushes it was not having smart shoes. Although they are clean and neatly laced.

"Come on, relax -- see what you like. I haven't tried everything here, though, so I wouldn't ask me for advice unless you happen to hit the two things I have tried. The rest will be second-hand opinions."

Faolan raises an eyebrow at the other man and the smart clothes that he's wearing at the moment, uncertain whether he's making a joke or he's being serious with that comment. "In my own defense, aside from the Night Council event, I hadn't imagined that I would be doing much more with my night besides making my way home. Not that I'm complaining in any sense of the word," he says, picking up his menu and opening it in front of himself. "I'd take a night out like this over a night at my flat any..."

It's about at that time that Faolan's eyes register not only the words on the menu, but also the prices as well. Any thought that he might have wanted to express goes entirely out of his mind as he takes a moment to stare, before glancing up and over to Lancelot again. He's fairly certain his mouth is at least not hanging open, at least. He can't speak for his expression but at least he's certain of that much.

"I'd like to think my company is preferable to otherwise," Lancelot quips, and absently realises he isn't sure if Faolan lives alone. He hasn't mentioned anyone else, so Lancelot has rather assumes he does, but he isn't really sure. He looks up, catches the expression on Faolan's face and widens his eyes in a comic mirror of it -- reaches over and very carefully turns the page for Faolan to the set menus.

"Less expensive," he whispers, and flashes an amused sort of grin at him. "Although if you want to sure the seventy-five pounds worth of lamb I suppose I would be obligated to indulge you, since you are my guest."

"It is. Preferable..." Faolan agrees absently, as the other man flips the page of his menu and he breathes out a silent sigh of relief. He'd known that the place had been fancy, but he'd gotten something of a sticker shock when the first thing to really catch his eye had been that pricing. He hadn't even been looking for that particular meal, the number had just stood out for him, and then the rest had registered, and then he'd suddenly wondered just what sort of a place had Lancelot taken him to? What sort of an outing was this? The other man was treating it a lot more casually than it ought to be, if he was about to be dropping that kind of money on him.

The next page is somewhat better, although each meal is probably around what Faolan would seek to budget himself for in a day, never mind a single meal. It's only when he looks up at the other man over his menu that he gets the distinct sensation that the other man may be laughing at him. He nearly flushes at that, certainly looks embarrassed, and when he opens his mouth, his words may or may not be a little defensive. "Seventy-five pounds worth of food should feed an entire family. For days. Not..." Well. Him. He won't even kid himself, to think he's worth that sort of extravagance. He starts to study the menu, finding the lowest priced items and then choosing among them what might interest him the most. As though he were on his own budget, and the other man hadn't offered to foot the bill after all. Habit, perhaps. Or too long spent on his own. Perhaps both.

"I will admit, I was hoping you'd see it that way."

Lancelot's lips are still quirked up into a smile, amused at Faolan's reaction. At the flush across his features. He isn't sure he's ever seen the man this way before, and it's... well, a nice change. A different side of him. Someone other than more serious, grumbly hunter.

"You never told me what you expected," he says suddenly, setting down his menu as he considers Faolan. "As a Guardian. You asked me if I thought I would regret it, if it would be what I hope for. You never told me what you hope for. What you would like the job to be."

Which, Lancelot thinks, will be interesting to hear. Faolan could simply brush him off with an easy answer, of course, yet still.

The Initiation (Closed to Lancelot and Faolan)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)