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.

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.

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.

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.