Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more (Lewisham territory claim)

[occultdisciple]

Or close the wall up with our English dead
November 20th, afternoon

Lewisham was a beautiful district. On a day like this, it was almost impossible to tell that the fae controlled most of the area. Still, one who could feel and smell magic could sense it. It wasn't something that could be allowed to stand. The fae had their own realm to call theirs; they had no need of territory in this land.

Besides, it would help him establish his homecoming.

He not only needed to make himself known among the Islington Nest, but it would do well to be noticed in the rest of the supernatural community. Besides, there were plenty of others who disliked the fae presence. It made it an easy rallying point.

He had reached out to the witches -- particularly Daybreak -- and the werewolves. The latter had a few of wary onlookers, but he couldn't afford to have them as active enemies right now.

For the day, he was seeing the sights and looking at things from a strategic point of view. There were good places to make a bottleneck, to force the fae out into the open. Or into retreat. The difficult thing would be keeping the fae from coming back through their doors to not present a second front. As he looks around, he also keeps an eye out for any of his allies... or enemies.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
November 23rd, morning

No territory dispute could happen and be maintained without the proper political groundwork. So, that was what Lord Coward put the finishing polish to the day before he intended to move. The local members of each supernatural sect were warned to either join the fight or stay out of it. If they sided with the fae, he'd warned, they would be considered outside of the protection of their groups and, therefore, subject to the full extent of the battle.

He continued to make his rounds at the supernatural haunts of the borough, making himself known in each location. Where there was someone of particular note, he sought them out. Otherwise, he found a fairly public place and did his best to look as approachable as possible.

As modest stillness and humility,
November 23rd, evening

The night was coming, and Lord Coward let himself begin a hunt. It wasn't the night for the fight, but such an attack was never just one night. For days, little things had been done. Small scuffles that had ranging consequences. So, tonight he let his hunger come out.

It was a good way to clear the streets or bring out the enemies.

He'd found a fae sympathiser some days ago and been tracking them for awhile. They were a human, loosely connected with the protection of a minor fae. Nothing particularly important, no, but enough to have caught his ear.

As he finished his meal and licked the wound to close it, he raised his head, setting the body down carefully. To humans, it would be a mysterious death. To the supernatural community, it was a marking of territory. At a sound, he looked in that direction, fangs still out, though they were shrinking back to normal size.

But when the blast of war blows in our ears
November 24th, midday

Now, the fight had begun.

To human eyes, there was just a bit more random conflict in the streets. Nothing to be worried about, but strange things happened. It was the result of magic at play.

There was only so much to be done in human circles, of course. In the supernatural, there were far more obvious clashes. It was to be expected, though, and Lord Coward kept his back straight. After all, he intended to be known here. Especially if he wanted to eventually control all of Tower Hamlets.

He noticed it out of the corner of his eye. Someone looking at him. Curiosity, ill intent, or positive thought all seemed the same in a split second. So, he merely offered a thin smile.

"May I help you?"

Then imitate the action of the tiger
November 24th, night

In the dark of the night, Islington made their strike. They and their allies had one more day, Coward had made clear, to make this definitive. They needed to drive the fae out, period, and it needed to be done before they thought this was just a token show.

So, that night, Coward's fangs were out, and those who were not with him were considered against him. The blood would flow freely where it needed to. Or, at least, where he felt it needed to.


(And, of course, feel free to make your own top levels for others during the claim.)

Comments

November 24th - OTA

[thelittlemerman]

Finnick's not a particularly strong fae. In a physical sense, he may as well be human, which is why he's been playing evasive throughout the entire conflict. He steps in and out of the shadows, brandishing his trident and makeshift stakes whenever he can find them. He's not foolish; he can see that they're losing, but he's not the type to give up. Especially not in the face of these wretched creatures. His fellow fae are still fighting, so he'll fight too.

But he still needs to be smart. After every struggle he retreats, back into shadows, occasionally through doors that he closes right behind him so he can recuperate in his own realm. This time he presses his back up against a wall in a dark alley, breathing hard as he wipes blood away from a cut on his cheek. He's becoming magically exhausted as the night wears on, which means he has to take more time to recover every time he uses it, but he still uses just a little to hide himself. His magical aura becomes quieter and he fades into the shadow a little more, but doesn't disappear completely.

[smugfox]

There isn't much magic left in Reynard, not since he'd been cast out. Even before then he'd not resorted to it all that often, preferring other methods in his arsenal. That had the upside that, cast out or not, he hadn't really lost any of the fight that was in him. He didn't see himself as a fighter, but that didn't mean he couldn't fight.

Reynard wasn't stronger than a human of his build would be, but his speed and reflexes were more animalistic in nature, which gave him a bit of an advantage. He had witnessed many battles and so he can already tell that this was a losing one, but at the very least he would do some damage, now that he had decided to join in. Maybe even do some good.

He ended up in the alley next to Finnick for a very simple reason. He'd felt his magic and how he was cloaking himself and while he couldn't copy the trick, he could certainly mooch of the benefit by staying close. Crouching on the ground he licked his arm where he'd been scratched bloody, a convenient wound to reach, the others are more difficult. Sure, licking might not be a very human gesture, but he wasn't exactly trying to blend in as anything at the moment. He glanced up at Finnick, an eyebrow raised.

"Busy night, eh?"

[thelittlemerman]

He may be low on magic, but Finnick can still tell what Reynard is, which is why he doesn't point his trident at his neck as soon as he joins him in the alley. He spares a glance at him, lingering a little when Reynard starts to lick his own wounds, but then he looks out at the street for trouble.

"Have you killed many of them?"

That's his primary concern right now. He'll deal with this strange fae when he knows they have a safe moment.

[smugfox]

Where they comparing scores? Reynard halted with his hand halfway to his mouth and ended up brushing it through his hair instead, fingers curled in. Paw-like gestures came through sometimes. "Certainly. I'll add the notches to my bedpost later."

Obviously he didn't actually keep count, much less on his bedpost. For one thing, he didn't have a bed.

[falsify]

Behind one of those doors is Eames, evidently taking a similar approach to the whole affair. He seems entirely unsurprised when someone steps through and closes the door behind them, busy assessing the damage to his knuckles while he gears himself up to get back out there. His anger shows more clearly here in the Other Realm than it does back on the other side, the way everything in his immediate vicinity seems to look more intense, a little more vicious and threatening.

It's completely at odds with the nonchalance of his manner, the way he addresses Finnick without actually looking up from his hand. "Tiring work, no?"

[thelittlemerman]

"Leeches," Finnick says, like a curse. He leans is trident against a wall carefully and then lowers himself down to the ground to sit, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. His aura seems dark, desaturated in comparison to Eames'. It's a bit gloomy.

"And they only seem to get stronger when they eat us."

[falsify]

Eames pulls a face, flexing his hands, "Lewisham will be theirs come morning." There's an edge to his voice, the same one that could be expected of any fae right now, and he inhales. A sharp pause as he checks his weapons, "I don't intend to make this easy for them however."

24th - OTA

[falsify]

It's probably nothing, right? An Islington Earl arriving in London, wandering around Fae territory. Just a coincidence.

A dead body though. Killed by a vampire, no less. That's no coincidence. That's a statement of intent. One that has Eames making several phonecalls, telling people to be ready, offering payment to people who are less invested in the situation, but have no love to lose on vampires.

Once the tack starts, it doesn't take long to realise this is a losing battle, which is a bitter pill to swallow. Having territory taken from them by anyone is less than ideal, but by this vermin? He won't let them take it without a fight, determined to make sure they suffer some real losses before they take it.

Strategic use of glamours makes it easy enough to take out the less observant invaders, and for those who get too close there are stakes and wooden bullets. But soon enough Eames is really starting to feel the exhaustion, physically and magically, and he can see it in those around him too. Time to make a tactical retreat. He brings a couple of fae with him to open a door at the end of an alley, a glamour at the opening keeping it hidden from those less perceptive, and he sends messages to those who came to help. If you can't open doors on your own, here's an escape route out of the area.

[smugfox]

Of course it was a losing battle. Reynard had known that from the start. One didn't get to be his age without recognizing such things. Not without a talent for self-preservation either. Yet he had been here, outcast as he was, fighting nonetheless. Why would be hard to say for anyone but himself, but he had his reasons. As usual, they were manifold.

It certainly didn't hurt his plans to be seen by a couple of people, at least on the fae side of things. What was even better of course was to be recognized. He had been keeping an eye out for familiar faces, so when the time that he'd decide to retreat drew close, he wasn't surprised to notice Eames. He had no intention of fleeing through the doors, in all likelihood that would be a situation of out of the frying pan into the flames for him, but he could step up to Eames with a relaxed smile, as if this wasn't the end of a battle and his clothes and weapons weren't bloody. At least most of it wasn't his own blood.

"What do you make of the weather these days?"

[falsify]

Eames is in a similar state of dishevelment, bloodied and beaten up. Thankfully most of the blood is, similarly, not his, but enough of it is to sour his mood even more. But that doesn't stop him feigning pleasure at seeing a familiar, if unexpected face and he gives Reynard an easy smile.

"About what's expected for this time of year," he says with a sigh, barely acknowledging the man in favour of keeping a watchful eye on the entrance to the alley. Though he does half wonder what he's up to; it'll take more than this if Reynard's looking to get back into the good graces of either court, but he can't help but suspect it's something else. "Shame it seems to have drawn the vermin out of hiding."

[smugfox]

Reynard lifted his arm to lazily lick one of the wounds, not even thinking about it. He wasn't exactly trying to blend in as human right now, given they were on the outskirts of a battle between creatures that weren't human at all. He let out a soft chuckle at Eames's comment, not feeling very insulted. "That's what you say now. You'd be more grateful if I'd kept you from getting stabbed in the back during the fight. I haven't, but I would have if I had had the chance and I feel even hypothetical gratitude should reflect itself in better manners."

With a quick lick of his lips and a barely noticeable shrug he moved on from his mock offended argument. There were things of actual interest here. "I've not been in the city long. Care to tell me why the fae are fighting parasites in this realm?"

23rd (For Coward!)

[hurtfew]

For all his bluster, all his grudge against the fae, all his boasting Norrell is a particularly hard man to get moving directly. He prefers to spend an excess of time talking and planning, if he can, and he most certainly will avoid any sort of front line if possible.

His books might get harmed, might get dirty! He is not a fighter, no Norrell is a researcher! He is a gentleman witch, not some common street sorcerer!

So it is that in the end Norrell agrees to meet Coward at the Norrellite coven, out of hours with only Childermass there on guard. He is carefully organising his plans, shuffling papers and taking notes still when Coward arrives. Norrell is nothing if not thorough, partly through his own paranoia. He is easily capable of imagining the worst case scenario, and that allows him to plan for it.

"Is Islington ready?"

Norrell doesn't even look up at first, finishes his note before lifting his eyes to regard Coward coolly yet still with faint curiosity. He expects Coward to be prepared, in truth, the man had seemed competent.

[occultdisciple]

"Completely."

There can be no hesitation, not at this stage. A fierce, sudden sweep is all that can be done. After all, the district has been watched. Human sentries as well as others have given their reports. Coward is as sure as he can be of the strategy he must use.

The man meeting with him has the luxury of removing himself from the frontlines. In a matter of months -- maybe a short year, as his sense of time has changed since his mortal days -- he will have earned that back. For now, though, he must lead the way in blood.

"The fae will be driven out."

[hurtfew]

He sets down his pen finally, inclines his head slightly in acceptance.

"We will provide cover with a fog. I have some witches who can accompany to incapacitate as many as people, and to turn away and compel resistance until they are forced to leave. Cloaking or obscurement can be provided, of course. If you have numbers in mind we can prepare or else you will have to accept as much as I can cover. I will manage affairs from here."

Of course, for nothing about Mr Norrell paints him as a fighter. Managing is exactly what he is good at.

[occultdisciple]

"I've procured a supply of vampire toxin for your coven, as well." He had to admit the possibility. "I know few of the Nest. I do not doubt their loyalty, but... I won't pretend it is guaranteed that none of them will lose their heads and decide to do something other than what they are meant to do. They will, of course, be handled appropriately."

Stripped of any daylight jewellery they might possess and strapped down to await the sun, specifically.

But the details are irrelevant.

November 23rd, evening - OTA!

[knowstheworld]

When Childermass stumbles upon the body, he kneels beside it to check for a pulse, even when he knows there will not be one. The flesh beneath his fingers is already cooling in the night's air, and though there are no bite marks on her skin, he knows what it is who has done this, if not who precisely. As he kneels beside the body, he wonders whether this person has any connection to the fight at all. Vampires and fae and the like. He can't get much of a read off of them, but they're dead, and he supposes that might have something to do with it. People don't have much magic about them once they've died. Vampires aside, that is.

It's not pity that compels him to reach out and close her eyes, lay her straighter on the pavement rather than in the crumpled heap she'd been dropped. It's not even human decency, exactly. Perhaps one might say it is just something within Childermass' own personal code, even as he realizes he is potentially tampering with things better left untouched. A quickly muttered spell will erase any proof of his presence there, anyway. His own personal code, and his sense of honor and tradition. A good man honors the dead, and this one is an obvious victim, one of the first to fall. He has nothing more to say or do for her, nothing to give her, no token to aid her passing in the traditional way, so he brushes his hands on his trousers and moves to stand and be off himself.

[specifiercity]

Arthur finds Childermass as he's adjusting the body. It's odd behaviour, so he slips out of view for a moment to watch, but he's too far away to hear any incantations and confirm what he suspects to be true.

Once Childermass stands, Arthur walks back into the street. He clears his throat as he approaches, putting his hand on the gun loaded with silver bullets tucked into his belt at the small of his back. His tone isn't threatening, not yet, but there's an edge of commanding in there somewhere. "Why are you tampering with a crime scene?"

[knowstheworld]

Childermass turns in place, regarding the man approaching with a keen eye. He hears that commanding note in his voice, he's just not certain whether he feels like paying it any mind.

"You do not strike me a policeman, sir," he drawls, his voice low and rough, accent thick and northern. Tampering with the crime scene indeed. He turns back to the woman lying at his feet. The body. "Someone has done far worse to her than I have done simply by laying her straight. Or would you rather I had left her as such?" he asks, turning back to the other man again. "Like garbage in the gutter." Childermass' gaze is piercing, even as dark as it is on the streets this night.

[specifiercity]

Arthur stops a few yards away, hand still on his gun. He narrows his eyes at Childermass, glancing at the woman's body again.

"Most people would worry about leaving behind evidence," Arthur says, "or ruining whatever evidence the killer left behind."

[growsowngoats]

Siobhan is not often angry, because most of the time anger feels like painful white noise to her. It hurts and it muddles the mind and makes everything hazy and awful and full of cutting edges.

But sometimes... sometimes anger is a sword, an cutting edge that can be wielded and controlled, that creates a focus that is blessedly narrow and silent.

That is the kind of anger she feels when she looks at the body, and at the man standing beside it. Norrel's man.

"I suppose he's pleased now, your master."

It is not often that she speaks of anyone with disdain in her voice, but Norrel... for the moment she has little else to spare.

[knowstheworld]

Childermass straightens and turns back at her, an inscrutable look upon his face as he does. He doesn't have to be able to read peoples thoughts or emotions to be able to tell that she is angry with him, and the mention of his 'master' leads him straight to the reason why. Well, that, and the body on the ground at his feet.

"I have little idea what you mean," he drawls, his voice low, rough, accent thick and northern. He does not give her further fodder to use against him. She will explain herself, if she wants to continue this rage she has worked herself into.

[growsowngoats]

Siobhan isn't very good at raging, really. Trying to cause harm when you will hurt yourself almost as much in the process simply isn't very productive, and so the little witch is for the most part an exceedingly peaceful creature.

In this case that leaves her at a disadvantage because she simply isn't very good at being angry, and certainly not at arguing. Words have never been her friends.

"That's a lie, that is. I've seen you, always hovering around Norrel."

[smugfox]

"Pity, honour, tradition or actual sorrow." Reynard started talking the moment he was in range of the man's hearing, but he kept walking until he could stand in his way, keeping Childermass between himself and the body. "Which is it that moved you to move her? I'm just curious, mind."

Of course he recognized Childermass from their run-in before. Rather ironic, wasn't it, that last time he'd been the one catching himself out when stealing and this time it would be so easy to see the way Childermass behaved as incriminating. Reynard's eyes landed on the corpse, his senses telling him enough, even from a distance. Just someone who'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time, if he were to hazard a guess. As close to innocent as anyone could ever be.

[knowstheworld]

Childermass turns at the voice. He recognizes it, and the irony does not escape him either, although he hardly feels caught out. He has done nothing wrong, after all. Sure, he moved a body, disturbed a crime scene, but he has ways of covering his trail, and truth be told he has very little faith that such a crime will be adequately investigated in the first place.

He raises an eyebrow, contemplating his response. Well, it certainly wasn't pity, for all that this is undoubtedly a case of the woman having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nor is it sorrow, for much of the same reasons. He did not know this woman, he does not know her story, why should he be sorry for it. Which leaves tradition, he supposes.

"Does it matter?" he asks, glancing down at the body at his feet before back at the man himself. "She will still be dead, no matter what I do for her." Which should probably give Reynard something of a clue towards the answer, considering the fact that he hardly seems to care about that fact, in the end.

[smugfox]

"I don't know how much anything matters, but I was curious, so it at least matters insofar. You're a traditionalist then, my good sir. I'm not surprised." Reynard looked past Childermass at the body, but only allowed his gaze to linger a moment or two. He was an emotional creature, always had been, but there was little good in getting attached to a corpse. "If she was less lacking in blood and you were less..." He waved his hand, fiddling over word choice. "...alive, then this would certainly be more suspicious. Not that I'd really misjudge a man like that."

He didn't even misjudge the cause of death of a corpse he'd only looked at from a few feet away. His senses gave ample answers to what most wouldn't even know without scientific methods. Of course, he could have played more of a fool, but he liked their new game of being witty around each other too much for that.