undergrounds | Every act creates a ripple with no logical end.

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Every act creates a ripple with no logical end. | OPEN.

It's a little odd to work out of her livingroom, but in Njoki's experience it's a good idea to have regular clinic hours set up for those that aren't comfortable with house calls. Most of what she does during these times is a bit of basic consulting, the occasional spot of under the table first aid, and listening to people talk through their own worries. It's never very busy, but this is her calling, not her job. Some of her friends and family have been helpful and discretely passed out her contact information and she knows that a little pocket money is a fine thing, but she doesn't believe she'll ever make a living off it.

As she fills and puts the kettle on, she huffs in amusement. At least it's a good excuse to make sure her flat is scrubbed and clean enough for company once a week.

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There was a problem. A small one, but it was becoming larger by the minute. For the past few days, Nancy's apartment had become crawling with all manner of bugs. Summer, alright, she didn't live in the best part of town. But this was bloody December, and there shouldn't be bugs around her apartment. Juliet, her cat, absolutely loved having things to chase and try to eat, but Nancy? Could do without bugs trying to get into her tea.

Which was precisely why, after some research on her own, she found herself nocking on Njoki's door.

"Hullo? Njoki? It's Nancy- are you in?"

"Door's open. Come on in." The kettle was just whistling, so she quickly pulled it off the burner before heading into the main room.

It's not a large space, but neat enough and furnished with plain pieces. A few bookcases lined with a wide and sometimes curious assortment of novels and books - personal interest, school textbooks, biology, and so forth. It's clear she's a magpie when it comes to what she wants to have handy. There's a low coffeetable and beside that a toolbox.

Faolan doesn't exactly know what he's doing, coming to a place like this. To a witch, for healing. He could be going to a hospital, and probably should -- the cut on his arm is large enough to need stitches, he knows. But hospitals make him uncomfortable. Hospitals remind him of a time of his life best left forgotten. And without someone like Lancelot accompanying him there, forcing him to sit and wait and keeping him company, preoccupied, he's not entirely sure that he can do it. Is going to see a witch doctor all that much better of an idea? A witch doctor that he knows to be in Circle Midnight? Not in the least. Is he standing on her step with his hand poised just above the bell? Of course he is.

Steeling himself to push that one final step, Faolan raises his good arm once more, and presses the button. Hoping that this is not about to be a case of coming out of the frying pan an into the flame, as they say...

Shortly after he rings the bell, Njoki opens the door and blinks in surprise for a moment. He looks familiar, but she can't quite place him out of context. Either way, he's come for help and so with a nod, she steps back and out of the way. "C'mon in."

"What's the trouble?"

It had taken close to three days to finally get what Njoki requested but Kenzi would go to lengths to ensure a new client remembered she would get them what they needed come hell or high water. Kenzi was, for once, glad she specialized in charms and amulets - all that good stuff. It made her sort of indispensable to people who worked in other areas (and mostly everyone did).

She had the charm wrapped in some brown paper and tucked it under her arm to knock on Njoki's door.

Kenzi would wait to be let in, or at least told she could come in. New client and all that.

How exactly the card came to her, Abigail won't say. After all, not every witch who answers to her wants to be known. Midnight is still greatly scattered. While many will offer her support as the High Priestess, they're still waiting to see how things play out in the larger scheme of things before coming forward with their loyalties. But, either way, the card has been passed to Abigail.

Which has led her to this place.

She knocks on the door. For all she knows, it's someone peddling so-called magic who isn't actually a witch. Or it could be a staunch Daybreak supporter who will slam the door in her face the moment she's seen. Either way, she's there to find out what's going on here. She knocks on the door and waits.

"Thank goodness." She pushed open the door as she took off her coat, shutting the door behind her.

"First things first, thank you very much for having me, and I'm absolutely sorry about what's about to happen." To prove a point, a few bugs squirmed under the door. "I've been cursed, and getting a fumigator into my building didn't do squat."

She sighs and drops her coat and purse to the couch.

From somewhere inside the little flat, a voice calls out and the accent makes it pretty clear that it's Njoki's. "Door's open!"

The room itself is small and neat, with bookshelves lining some of the walls, good places to sit, and nothing that really marks it out as the home of anyone particularly supernatural. It's just a flat. Sure, there might be a couple of odds and ends that another practitioner might recognize - saint's candles, blue glass bottles, a little fabric bag pinned above the doorway - but nothing exceptional.

"Coming!" Njoki's voice is light and sweet with a strong West African francophone accent. It's at odds with her appearance - tall, broad shouldered, and far more traditionally masculine than most women.

After opening the door, she looks Abigail over and tries to place her without much luck. She's still very new to the city and hasn't really had much of a chance to feel out the local political landscape. "Hi, how can I help you?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you." Abigail's voice is light, all proper London accented. High society and not at all bothered by it. She stands tall, but her frame is thin. Still, she smiles a little as she produces the woman's card. "I found this and was curious as to what it is you sell."

And what, precisely, you are. But that doesn't need to be said. Not right now. Witch, fae, metahuman, human... What matters most right now is assessing who she is and what she's capable of doing.

"It's no trouble. C'mon in and let's chat," she says walking back into her apartment and leaving room for Abigail to enter if she'd like. "Do you want anything to drink? I just put the kettle on and there's plenty of water."

At the very least, human or otherwise, she's got good manners.

"I'm Abigail," she says politely as she comes in. After all, introductions are in order. Even informal ones now. "Thank you. A cup of tea would be lovely."

It's a relief, certainly, that this conversation can, at least, start civilly.

"Good to meet you, Abigail. Like you saw on the card, I'm Njoki, but if it gives you trouble, just Ki is fine." She knows that not everyone is comfortable with an 'nj' sound and it's easier to hear it shortened than mangled.

"And, well, I do a bit of conjure. Nothing flashy, but I know enough to do what I do and recommend people on to others if it's not to my talents." Or interest. Or in line with her morals.

"Ki, then." For now. If she proved to be someone Abigail wanted to be on better terms with, she'd have the name pronounced several more times until she could say it with ease.

"Conjuring, huh? What sort of conjuring? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind at all." There's already a little sugar bowl on the low table by the chairs in the livingroom, so all Njoki needs to bring out are two mugs of tea. If Abigail would like lemon or milk, she's welcome to ask for it.

"There's all the usual things that people ask about: love, luck, worries about their partners, their children. You know how it is, hmm? What's troubling you?" It's fairly easy to weed out the 'tourists', but it doesn't hurt to be cautious.

"...oh."

That is not good. Not good at all. Njoki reaches for a white candle in a tall, blue glass jar and lights it, setting it down on the coffee table before she takes a seat herself.

"You know who did it or why? Or are we starting from scratch?"

"What isn't?"

It's said lightly, but there's more truth than she likes to admit to it. Still, it gives her a place to begin. A way to get to know what she's dealing with.

"My family. ...Found family, that is. If it makes any difference. I'm worried about them."

Njoki takes a sip of her tea and hums thoughtfully. She prefers to drink it very sweet and very dark and often forgets that not everyone else enjoys a malty Yorkshire blend.

"Family is family and there's always something to worry over. What's pressing? What's the big issue you want to tackle or the smaller things that you need moved out of the way first?"

Abigail puts a bit of sugar in her tea and sips it, mostly to buy time. It could have tasted like oil for all she cared. She just needed the moment to think. But, well, Sylvia already knew anything she might tell this woman. There was little danger.

"I need to keep them safe."

"I'm going to be very honest with you, ma'am. I can do a few things that might help, but there's no one, perfect thing that can guarantee safety and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying or wants to make too harsh a deal." It's not a speech that's designed to sell charms or trinkets, but there are things far more important than a little money.

"Who are you worried will hurt them? That they'll hurt themselves? Someone they know? Something they don't?"

Abigail arches an eyebrow then offers a small nod.

"Then I'll return the favour by being honest with you. My name is Abigail Widdowson. I am the High Priestess of Circle Midnight here in London."

Words that might mean nothing. To a mortal playing at or who believed themselves a witch without being one, they were meaningless. But one from outside of the English system, it might mean just as little, even if they were a witch.

"Ah. Well then, High Priestess, you are still as welcome here as you were before. Such as it is, my hospitality is yours." Her smile is a bit too toothy for your average human, but her reply is genuine. She's not about to get upset or do anything foolish.

Abigail gives a small nod.

"You'll have to forgive me for not saying anything earlier. But with the secrecy the Night Council requires, it's always best to make sure who I'm talking to."

"Better safe than sorry." When it comes to platitudes, Njoki prefers 'measure twice, cut once' but that might be a little too much. She's not sure just what the local opinions on fleshcrafting might be and it wouldn't do to get everyone up in arms just yet.

"Wasn't too sure who to chat with in town to make sure I wasn't stepping on toes. I figured I'd find out sooner or later, eh?"

"Sylvia Redbright is the Mother of Witches here in London. I... would suggest speaking to her." But she doesn't sound like it's something she would want to do. Still, better to send her there now rather than wait for Sylvia to seek her out.

"I would suggest not mentioning my name. She and I aren't on good terms."

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