[IC] The Symphony: Modern Magic

[Atrophy]

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13 Mourningdove Lane

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Pom was mistaken to think that the door slamming shut behind her would be her biggest scare of the night as she joined the group in the parlor room and was immediately crushed by a wave of terror when she realized that they all were young. Some of them were kinda of familiar, like Mason whose question she replied to by putting a finger to her lip because he was supposed to act like he didn’t know her in case anybody in here was a cop, man, while some weren’t. Pom might look as young if not younger than most of them, but the youths had scarily sharp senses that time and poor choices had yet to dull. They could smell the old on her, a sharp blend of Werther’s Original candies and decaying corpse.

She didn’t know if it was better to stay beside Bella, who was obviously cool and therefore they all might be tricked and assume Pom was cool too, or to give the young lady some distance lest she be mistaken for her chaperone. She ended up picking the worst option, which was doing a bit of both. She ended up getting distracted by the kitschy little knick knacks on the shelves for long enough that the invisible tether wrapped around Bella’s waist snapped and the elf started drifting away. It became her sole purpose to look at all the neat stuff, unaware that typically when someone “looked at” something they didn’t also pick it up, twist it around, and set it back down in the wrong spot and absolutely fuck up the feng shui of the room.

Lena, the Archivist, revealed herself before Jackson, the actual Archivist, chided his assistant and started off a round of introductions. Pom turned her head and stared blankly at the little ball of fire, pointing one finger at Burnie as she clutched the pie box from Norm’s with her other hand. Her eyes darted around the room as her mouth hung open, checking out if anybody else was actually seeing this shit, feeling a bit of relief when she noted that she wasn’t the only person wearing sunglasses at night but the relief soon vanishing when nobody else appeared to be freaking out about the little fire guy.

“Hey, man, does anybody else see that shit…” muttered Pom. She was always a bit of a mushmouth, but between freaking out about the flame familiar and being worried about making a bad first impression to the kiddos her words were even more mumbled and nigh impossible to hear over the other introductions. “...like is nobody else is freaked out by that thing or…” Emmeline, who might’ve secretly been the Archivist, was seemingly distracted by Happy, the true Archivist, while Matt, who definitely had to be the Archivist, was pointing to something in the shadows. “...like I get it's kind of groovy and all, but there’s a lot of flammable shit in this room. Shouldn't we, I dunno…” It was only Ethan who said anything about the weird little ball of fire. Possibly. He could’ve been talking about something else. Or maybe it was because he was just trying to play it off like he wasn’t the Archivist.

Which he was.

At least that’s what she thought until Azure called out from up above, posed precariously on the railing to make his entrance, and then must’ve slipped. A yelp escaped from Pom’s mouth, the first true bit of obviously audible noise she had made, as she dropped the pie box and covered her eyes. She waited for the much louder splat to accompany the softer one that happened when the box hit the floor. Instead, Pom lowered her hands and opened one eye as she heard Azure speak again. Her heart stopped briefly as she caught the graphic image of thick, red goop splattered at her feet, with cracked bits of crust flaked all around it. Some of the pie was still in the box, but some of it had hopped over the edge when she’d dropped it and was now on the floor.

Azure, on the other hand, was totally fine. He was floating, which really should’ve been a bigger deal, but Pom was too distracted with trying to save as much of the pie as she could to focus on anything else at the moment. She dropped to her hands and knees, scooping whatever guts she could back into the box, muttering something under her breath about the five second rule and how being exposed to germs was actually beneficial since it bolstered the immune system, quietly raving about how food safety and standards were something created by the Man to soften people up and help out Big Pharma. Pom scrambled back up to her feet with the Frankenpie, her hands a guilty red, her muted rant now turning inward to how stupid she was.

“Will you fucking shut up for one minute?”

“I’m sorry,” said Pom, thinking that she had been rudely talking over everybody introducing themselves and that the others just hadn’t said anything because they were trying to be nice, having mistakenly listened when someone they told them that they should respect the elderly. “I’m Pom.”

It had been two separate statements, but really it sounded more like the woman was apologizing for being herself. Bea was clearly snapping at Pom, after all. The young girl was probably upset that some old lady was copying her style. Now Pom had fucking done it. Talk about making a terrible first impression. They probably all thought she had arthritis and tremors and that her weak, brittle wrists couldn’t support the weight of an average sized cherry pie. Pom reached a hand up to remove the offending accessory from her face but then left them on, fearful of the others seeing her looking upset. Her thumb left a smudge of cherry filling on her cheek. She was clearly distressed even with the sunglasses blocking her eyes. Her lips tightened to stop her quivering chin as she hung her head.

“Ah. Was that meant for me?” said Azure.

He must’ve been talking about the pie. He was, after all, the REAL Archivist, and the letter had stated for her to bring one of those pies. He must’ve been upset, too, because he wasn’t even looking at her. Pom shuffled towards Azure with her head lowered before she pulled back the lid of the pie container and revealed the gooey massacre inside of it. Pom turned her head towards the window, unable to look at the carnage, and considered how painful it would be to jump through it.

“It was...I’m sorry, but when you think about it a wrecked pie is really just a cobbler. Basically the same thing. Crust. Fruit Filling. Loads of sugar. Maybe a bit of dirt,” said Pom, letting out a nervous laugh to cover up that last ingredient. “What am I saying? Cobbler’s wack. Norm’s is still open. I’ll just go get another cherry pie. Maybe somebody could give me a ride…no, no, I’ll just go. I’ll just go.”

Pom turned to leave and go hide beneath a rock for the rest of her life, only to sharply turn back as Mason shined his light past the little fireball creature and asked, ”What the hell is that thing?”

“Right? It’s so fucking weird! Why isn’t everybody freaking out about it!?” shouted Pom. She pointed a pie covered finger at the flame. “What the hell is a Burnie Cinders, man!?” Then she jerked her thumb towards Azure, nearly hitting him. "How's this Archivist dude floating!?" She threw her hands out in front of her in utter defeat. "How'd that door work!?

[Jumbus]

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13 Mourningdove Lane

“That, or a man in a ghost costume is gonna chase us around a corridor full of doors.” Rowan replied to Bea’s speculation, the reference to an old cartoon was clear. Humour did somewhat well to calm the nerves.

She had thought she was smart by bringing a flashlight, had. When the lights went out, so did her torch, she thought she switched it off accidentally. When the lights went out a second time, she thought it might be battery problems. By the third time, she understood whatever ghost was messing with the house was also messing with her. Rowan decided to stop embarrassing herself fiddling with the switch. It stayed off from then.

The flickering lights were a settling thought though. Although a master of magic it seemed, this Archivist clearly had a penchant for the dramatic and one who spent energy trying to look scary and mysterious ironically appeared to be less so. Rowan was about to make a quip about it but decided she didn’t want the attention. Instead, she took in the faces of their company between the flickering lights. Luckily some were familiar

Rowan didn’t know Lena too well personally, but she was her parent’s favourite comedian at the Grinning Imp. Her recent ‘disappearing act’ after the fire was cause for more than one dinner talks speculating on what had happened to her. Lena’s presence at such a meeting gave Rowan a peer behind the curtain of that mystery; the small elemental floating next to her was enough to hit anyone over the head with the answer.

Next to her was Ja… son? He was undoubtedly the silhouette Rowan had seen earlier and she was glad for it. No one stands as tall as he does in Twin Pines without getting some sort of reputation. His was friendly and distinctly non-threatening.

Emmy was a pleasantly familiar face to see but it was no surprise. It was reminiscent of weekends cooped up in the library with faint rays of sun peering through to light her pages. The girl seemed to only ever appear in such a place; an entity of the scholarly arts who you could approach for a nice conversation. Even before the emergence of magic, those memories hung in her mind so ethereal. Of course Emmy was going to be here of all places.

Rowan knew a decent amount of these people and, unless they were secretly the friendly neighbourhood serial killer, they were safe. It settled her mind further that none of them tried ground on her and Bea between moments of darkness.

The next part happened in a blur. The man who introduced himself as Matt called out their watcher from on high, who floated down to join them. Pom dropped her pie. This ‘Azure’ was likely the Archivist. Flair for the dramatic, solid grasp on his magical abilities, and an unnervingly confident gaze that screamed he had this gathering of fledgling mages in the palm of his hand.

“Will you fucking shut up for one minute?” Bea suddenly spoke up in a manner that could have been addressed to anyone but only Rowan knew was truly addressed to no one. That didn’t matter though, heads were already starting to turn their way, Pom already apologised for something she didn’t do.

A quick panic set in for Rowan. What if the group started to suspect Bea was talking to nothing? What if they started to believe that magic was making her go crazy? That unknown of a person’s mental state brings fear and with the added danger of magic… could they see Bea as a threat? Were they going to turn on them? Oh no, oh no, even the Archivist Azure was looking at them now.

“Ah. Was that meant for me?” He said in amusement that could clearly be hiding that he was about to banish Bea to Mars in a second. Rowan needed to cover for her friend quickly. What were friends for if not ready alibis?

“Sorry!” She eeped out quickly toward the rest of the group. “I was talking the whole car ride over… I’m a chatterbox when I get talking.” A nervous and half-hearted laugh followed that did little to conceal the worst lie told this evening. “It’s Rowan.” She decided not to describe her powers. Truthfully, it wasn’t going to be of any use if anyone in this mansion was a threat and she would rather not scream ‘I’m defenceless’ to the gathering.

Luckily, before anyone could enquire, Pom had already started talking about cobbler and driving back to the diner for another pie. Rowan felt bad for the waitress, she knew a nervous wreck when she saw one, she was one. But at the same time, in a selfish train of thought, she was grateful that Pom drew the attention more effectively. Rowan took her preferred position as a wallflower.

[FernStone]

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Twin Pines, 11:50

"For fucks sake, Da, I ain’t a kid! What d’you think’ll happen, I’ll walk in and get stabbed. This ain’t Glasgow!"

Cailean had made what they now realised was a mistake by calling their parents. They’d figured it’d be a good idea to let them know about the whole magic letter thing, but no, of course they were overreacting.

“You’re still my kid,” came his annoyingly reasonable response. “I don’t think you should go, Cailean. It could be dangerous. You don’t know who the sender of the letter is… so yes, I do think something could happen. You shouldn’t go.”

"C’mon… I’ve got magic. You’re the one who said I should go on an adventure. This is adventure."

“I told you to see the world. Not go to a small town and camp by the lake in hopes of seeing a sea serpent… which I hope you haven’t actually been doing.”

Cailean gulped. They weren’t technically camping, they had a room in a motel… but they had spent most of the day on the lake. Maybe taken a dip. Was maybe still a little damp from it. But there was no need to tell their dad about that. He was, after all, an overworrier. They’d figured calling would alleviate those worries.

"’Course not… just, I gotta know more about this magic shit. And whoever it was already sent me the letter!"

“It’s not safe. You can learn other ways… why don’t you come home, and we can help you with it? Then you don’t have to put yourself in danger. You know how much I worry about you…”

"Not this again… Da, I’m thirty-four, I can do it myself. Y’know what, put Ma on! I can’t take anymore of your nagging.“

There was some grumbling before the phone swapped hands.

“It ain’t smart, Cailean. I ain’t happy you got magic at all.”

Cailean let out a light huff, their mum of course agreeing with their dad. Like they did for everything… but Sìne could be convinced. Reo was much too cautious, hypocritically for someone who moved to the other side of the world and married an elf. But Sìne appreciated pushing boundaries for learning and academics.

"But I got it. Shouldn’t I learn how to use it? It’s like a whole new field of study- I could pioneer it!"

There was a chuckle on the other end. “That you tryna convince me to let you go?”

"Well, it ain’t like I need permission. Again, I’m fucking thirty-four! And in a different continent. I was just calling so y’guys knew."

“Mm, ‘course.” There was some more shuffling as the phone seemed to move a bit. “Y’know we can’t convince them when they’ve got their mind set on something.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should just say it’s alright, love,” Reo grumbled.

"I’m this close to just hanging up, Da!"

“Now don’t you dare hang up on us, y’here me?” Sìne said firmly. “Be careful. You dunno the people here, or who sent this letter. Anythin’ happens and you get out, alright?”

"Yeah, yeah, I’m no’ stupid."

“But you are reckless.”

"... Alright, I’ll be careful, Ma. Promise."

“Good.”

“Yes, be careful. Don’t do anything stupid… what are you bringing with you?” With his wife agreeing, Reo seemed to relax a little. Or at least, Cailean could tell he was less actively panicking.

"Uh, nothing? It’s a weird letter telling me to come to a creepy mansion."

“What did I always teach you? A halfling never…”

"... shows up empty handed," Cailean grumbled.

“Exactly. You have to bring something. It’ll make a good impression on whoever’s there.”

"You were just worrying about ‘em stabbing me!"

“I still am. But halfling hospitality is almost as important. I assume you don’t have the time or facilities to cook something?”

"No…"

“Then you’ll need to pick something up. Maybe… a pie would be a good idea. Americans love those, don’t they?”

"Fine, I’ll get a pie. There’s a diner… But I gotta go now otherwise Ima be late. Bye, love you!"

Cailean hung up before their dad could start listing off other halfling traditions. Fucking… did they really have to get a pie? Yes. Yes they did, otherwise they’d be shaming their heritage… Fuck!

Grumbling under their breath, they changed course. Now that had to walk to the diner then the creepy mansion.

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13 Mourningdove Lane, After Midnight

Finally, everyone was given a reprieve from the flickering lights. Enough time to breath, see, and introduce themselves. No more annoying flickering, everyone must be there-

The door creaked open again, and the lights turned off. Then on.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP.

Clearly, there was another Goliath on the way. Or a monster. Or maybe it was the Archivist themselves, deciding to use the front door to subvert all expectations. This was going to be it. The big reveal. The stomping got louder and louder, until…

Anyone looking at the eye level of a normal human, or taller, would be disappointed. There was no one there.

But looking down, there they were. A few inches shy of five feet, Cailean held themselves with the confidence of someone much taller. Their long, dark hair fell in curls down their back. The front had been pulled back, with intricate braids joining the curls. Pointed ears poked out, adorned with multiple gold hoops. They wore a nice, light blue shirt tucked into slightly… damp slacks? A faint smell came off them. A warm apple, with something mustier underneath. There was a white carryout box under their arm.

The illusion shattered a bit for anyone looking further down. At least five inch platform boots were clearly the source of the loud stomping. It also meant they weren’t nearly five feet… they weren’t much over four.

The mysterious, almost graceful air they seemed to have shattered as they spotted Pom holding an open box of bright red goop.

"Oh shit, you broughta pie too? That’s so fucking sound!" The Glaswegian accent that spilled from their lips was distinct, but not so strong that it was difficult to understand. They bounced up to Pom, holding up the white box. "Glad I ain’t the only one that had the idea!"

As they got closer to Pom and Azure, the smell behind the apple pie in their hands got more… obvious. At least, anyone who’d lived in Twin Pines long enough would recognise the smell of someone who’d taken a dip in the lake. Their slightly damp hair and slacks only strengthened this theory.

"I hope ahm no too late- Got sidetracked! I’m Cailean- it ain’t spelt how it’s said, so don’ try- is that a fucking floating fireball?!" Cailean’s head jerked towards the ball of fire. Then, beyond it, they saw a tragedy. They ran over to the broken bust as quickly as their little legs could carry them. "Who did this t’you?!"

Their hands shook slightly as they tried to fix the marble bust, little pieces moving with them touching them.

Because magic. Of course, they weren’t very good at it yet, and couldn’t merge rocks together so they just clattered back to the ground. Cailean let out a sigh, wiping an imaginary tear from their eyes.

"Aw my poor wee man, rest in pieces."

[NoriWasHere]

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“Tuesday, April 15th 00:10’

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The room fell into a moment of silence for the destroyed bust, save for the faint shuffle of shoes on the ground and the occasional nervous cough. Lena leaned against the wall, her arms crossed, as she surveyed the small group of people who had gathered. Her eyes landed on a short, stocky figure with damp hair and a faint smell of lake water clinging to them. Beside them stood a half-elf clutching the remains of what had once been a cherry pie, now reduced to a sad, smushed mess.

Lena couldn’t resist raising the mood. She listened as everyone introduced themself and waited for her moment to strike. Eventually, a smell wafted her way and she had it.

“Hey, Cailean,” she called out, her voice dripping with mock concern. “I love the smell of your cologne, is that Eau de Dockwater? It’s very,” Lena flashed a genuine smile, “fresh. Good thinking on the pie, though, who would’ve thought we would be down one already.”

Her eyes flashed to Jackson who simply shook his head. He had always told her that her jokes could sometimes go from good-natured fun to mean quickly, and judging by his reaction she may be perceived as mean. Lena did not like that and she knew she had to change the story.

“It was dark in here and Jackson was hearing voices and seeing shadows,” Lena forgot to mention that it was she who heard the voice, and she paused as she pointed towards the destroyed bust, “he got scared and the bust was what he took that fear out on. A sad story.”

“That is not how I remember it going,“ Jackson said as he crossed his arms. “I recall-“

“Shush, shush, shush” Lena started but paused as she heard a tapping sound.

*Tap* *Tap* *Tap*

Lena turned her head to the doorway to the next room. The tapping sound was harsh and sounded like a thin object striking the tile floor and it sounded like it was coming from above them. The room fell silent as measured footsteps echoed down a staircase and filled the room of these would-be mages. The steps continued downward, out of sight, but each one was deliberate and measured. Eventually, they stopped just around the corner and the room was once again silent.
Then, a man turned the corner and the group was face-to-face with The Archivist.

He was an imposing figure, tall and lean, who carried with him an air of calculated precision that bordered on arrogance. A neatly trimmed beard framed his sharp features, and his piercing eyes seemed to dissect the room with a single, dismissive glance. Dressed in a tailored suit that looked like it belonged to another era, he carried himself with the kind of authority that made it clear he expected obedience. His ears were pointed, giving away his Elvish lineage. A silver cane rested in one hand, though he didn’t seem to need it for support—it was more like a prop, a tool to emphasize his superiority.

“Ah,” he said, his voice smooth and dripping with condescension, each syllable enunciated with a crisp British accent. “The rabble hath arrived. How… quaint. I suppose punctuality is too much to ask from those unaccustomed to the concept of timekeeping.” The man paused as he pulled out his stopwatch. While he knew that it was set five minutes ahead, that did not excuse this sorry excuse for a group from not being early.

He stepped further into the room, the cane tapping lightly against the floor with each deliberate step. His gaze swept over the assembled group, lingering briefly on each face as if mentally cataloging their flaws. When his eyes landed on Lena and Jackson, there was a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or disdain. They followed the smell and landed on Cailean, and his face recoiled with disgust. Mason drew a dismissive look. Azure warranted a longer look, and the Archivist chuckled ever so at the way this man carried himself. Every member of the group drew a look, and overall it seemed this man before them was not impressed by what he saw.

The Archivist’s gaze lingered on the group for a moment longer, his expression a mix of disdain and faint amusement as if he were observing a collection of particularly unimpressive insects. He snapped his stopwatch shut with a sharp click and tucked it back into his pocket, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

“Well,” he said, his tone dry and dripping with condescension, “I suppose we must make do with what we have. However, I must say, that the universe’s standards appear to have… slipped. I mean really, is this the best magic could bring?” His eyes flicked to Cailean and his nose wrinkled slightly. “And you,” he said, pointing the tip of his cane in their direction, “might consider investing in a towel. Or perhaps a bath. The smell is… terrible.”

The Archivist raised an eyebrow as he pointed toward Pom, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “How generous that you too brought pie. Though I fail to see how a destroyed pastry has brought anything of value to this gathering.”

Lena snorted, unable to help herself. “He does not like pie,” she whispered towards Cailean. The Archivist’s sharp eyes snapped to her, and she quickly schooled her expression into something resembling innocence. “Sorry,” she said, holding up her hands. “Just… appreciating the feedback. Really constructive stuff. You are doing really great with this first impression and all. I like it.”

The Archivist’s gaze narrowed, but before he could respond, Jackson stepped in. He got in between the man and Lena, and used his massive frame to look down on The Archivist. As he did this, Burnie Cinder floated over his head and grew larger and more vibrant in color. “We’re not here to be scolded, nor are we looking for your approval. So, how about we skip the critiques and get to the part where you tell us why we’re here, how you knew we had magic, and what you know before I make a doorway through your wall over there and leave.”

Lena remained silent, the tension thickening as the Archivist turned his full attention to Jackson by craning his neck back. For a moment, it seemed like he might unleash a scathing retort, but then he chuckled—a low, humorless sound. He placed his cane in his armpit and then clapped three times before he took a step forward.

“Bravo! Brave words,” the Archivist said, his tone icy. “But bravery without competence is merely recklessness. Let us hope, for your sake, that you possess at least a modicum of the latter.”

“Brave words,” Lena whispered, mimicking the Archivist’s tone. “But recklessness wit-”

Jackson tapped Lena on the shoulder to hush her as he grinned, though his eyes were still wary. He had a bad feeling about the man, and wondered if it was worth it to even

The Archivist simply looked at Lena with the sides of his eyes and scoffed. “I have lived a long life, girl,” he started and leaned forward, “and you have already proven yourself to be as annoying as anyone I have met so congratulations.” He tapped his cane on the ground sharply. “We don’t have time to waste. Follow me and-”

“Hold up for just a minute,” Lena paused as she took a step towards the middle of the group, “we have a lot of questions that you need to answer first. Like what is magic, why did we develop it, and why the fuck are you such a cunt” Lena paused as she threw her arms out wide, “I think we deserve to have some questions answered first, before we do anything with you.”

“We’ll get to that when we-”

“NO.” Burnie Cinders spelled into the air as it flew from it’s perch above Jackson and landed in front of The Archivist

“You heard the fire. We have questions, you have answers, and we want them now.”

“Very well,” The Archivist placed the cane on the ground and put one hand on top of the other on top of the cane. A look of profound annoyance fell over his face, and he looked at the group with a particular disdain. “Ask away.”

[Rekkuza]

_{13 Mourningdove Lane - April 15th 00:10-ish}

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Mathias rolled his eyes at the Archivist's comment on their (barely) late arrival. Anyone who ever had to schedule meeting between multiple parties before knew you had to set the meeting at least 30 minutes before the actual planned starting time. People inevitably ended up late after all, and dealing with that fact was a skill he'd had to develop very early in his professional career.

He certainly wasn't a fan of the elf's attitude. He clearly was the kind of man who expected respect and authority without ever doing anything to earn it, who did not realize their success were all too often built on the back of other people's hard work. The kind of man he unfortunately had to constantly deal with in the corporate world.

But here, he wasn't at work. Here, he had no obligations, no fears of being fired. And he knew exactly what these types disliked and how to best strike at their overinflated egos.

Mathias leaned back against the closest wall, and waited for a bit, feeling his power, the power to change and mold, boil under his skin. An itch grew in his teeth and nails as he felt them slowly start to shift. They lengthened and strengthened, they were sharpened to a point, just as he had ordered them to be. Soon, his new fangs were too long to be fully contained by his still human jaw, his lips no longer fully able to cover them. His expression was forced into a kind of permanent half-snarl as he casually looked over his new claws, examining them for any defects. In the span of about 15 seconds, he'd gone from a tired office worker to a tired office worker who could rip out someone's throat.

Step 1. Do not show weakness or deference. Put yourself on the same level as them, by force if necessary. The fact that his transformation also doubles as a way to defend himself against this weird old Brit is a welcome bonus too.

He fished his pack of smokes and his cheap gas station lighter from his back pocket, delicately picking a cigarette between his claws, putting it between his teeth and lighting it up in only a few tries. First a deep inhale, and then a exhale which spreads a smoke cloud through the room. He casually, yet very deliberately, ashed his cigarette on the ground.

Step 2. Act disrespectful, but in a casual way, as if he did not even deserve you considering respecting him. Act low class, and dirty his stuff if possible.

And last, but not least, time to get some answers.

"So, how'd you know about my little hunting accident?" Mathias asked, tone irritated. "I got rid of all evidence, and it took place in Missouri, far from here. Got a crystal ball in this place of yours? Or some other kind of magical gizmo?"

"Because that's really the only reason I'm even here, you know. I already had my freak out about me turning into a monster, so your little speeches about magic and what-not don't interest me none." He blew out another cloud of smoke. "I just want to know how you found out, and who else might also know about this. And make it quick, I've got work tomorrow."

Step 3. Be disinterested. Have them realize that you don't believe they deserve your time, that they do not interest you. Show them that you would rather be anywhere else than here listening to them prattle on.

Mathias fought back a smile as he watched and waited for the Archivist's reaction, idly tapping his claws on the wall. Maybe vicariously getting revenge on his boss through annoying this old man wasn't the healthiest thing to do, but damn it, he'd wanted to do this for literal years, and he was going to enjoy every little bit of it.

[Blizz]

Mourningdove Lane

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The Archivist being a full on Elf made way too much sense for the sheer level of fucking gall he had. Being half elven himself, Mason got it. It just came with being an old son of a bitch with cobwebs for lungs. Still, the guy just appeared and not answering the door, or not being in the crowd when Mason walked in was weird. Mason had to wonder if this magic shit let him just appear whenever he wanted, or see what was going on like the old dragons seeing everything and not being anywhere near the things they were observing. He seemed old enough that he may very well have heard those stories when he was a kid.

They’d all talked him into a corner. The big guy started, and had a pretty good point. How did this arrogant punk spy on them? The answer was pretty obvious, no doubt.

”I’m going to take a wild guess and assume he spied on us all with magic. I’ll believe anything at this point,” Mason ”Like how it’s real, and apparently we’re some of the first since an extinction level event or something.” The voice he heard in his head, which was almost like a dream itself when he was already asleep, had made that clear. The Archivist’s voice didn’t sound the same.

”I’ve got two questions for you, old man. One: How do we get this shit under control? I can’t touch things without destroying them anymore, and I’m not convinced I won’t kill somebody by accident doing that. Two: What in the goddamn fuck caused this?” Mason was equal parts curious and distraught for the last week. ”I was hearing voices, and the voices were telling me that it’s been literal thousands of years since this sort of thing was common. What changed?”

[Skai]

_{Tuesday, April 15th / Early Hours}

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^{13th Mourningdove Lane}

Emmy guessed that her question would go unanswered long before chaos erupted.

It was all becoming too much to bear. Her life was peaceful, filled with silences that stretched for hours unless she decided to put on some music or venture out of her home. This meeting, though she had no expectations when she first arrived, had somehow gotten far too loud too quickly.

Happy's playful banter was a temporary relief. She found herself resisting a smile as she tried her best to listen to the introductions. Until his own introduction, and display of his magic, left her out right staring at him in awe. She had to quickly shut her mouth before he caught her looking at him like that.

But really, starlight? Soul perception?

If the others had mentioned their ability, it was quickly lost in Emmy's mental catalog as their group seemed to ignite.

The Frenchman seemed to notice something in the shadows. Emmy immediately felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. As if his aggression towards the mysterious shadow trigged something instinctual within herself, too.

She found herself shifting towards Happy, who she now realized had been the one to move closer to her in the darkness before, as her head tilted back to look at the source of Lefebvre's unease.

Her eyes may have revealed her envy as she watched the figure become a man, who drifted towards the ground with ease like he'd had magic for years. Could this be...?

No. This man wouldn't have given his name if he was The Archivist.

Those intense eyes the color of violets made a sweep of the room. Calculated, observant, and perhaps amused. They lingered on Emmy for far longer than she expected them to. Her own eyes met his, the dark shade of green carrying a touch of curiosity to them as they narrowed. She came close to breaking eye contact first, but fortunately his gaze moved on before her cowardice could take hold.

“Will you fucking shut up for one minute?”

Emmy sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. The sudden outburst clamored through her head. She glanced Happy's way in the hopes that she could hide her startled reaction with a smart quip, but it seemed the woman that had been muttering beat her to it.

“I’m sorry, I’m Pom.”

Followed by another named Rowan, who also apologized for absolutely no reason at all.

Emmy gave Happy an exasperated grin instead as her eyes crinkled in amusement. "This is... an interesting group." She whispered as Pom went on about her ruined pie, proffering it to the intensity that was Azure. At least the moment of misunderstanding offered her a chance to recenter herself.

She glanced towards the scene playing out before them, and her eyes travelled around the room. She tried to put faces to names that had been offered and only managed to match a few. Her eyes lingered on Rowan in the back of the room. She recognized her from the library, years ago. Another old acquaintance had seemed to be involved with magic as well. After a second of thought, it looked like a few other locals were here too. Emmy had seen the one that startled her around the docks a few times, and she'd been served by Pom at Norm's Diner on the rare occasion that her father decided to venture to support Norman Jefferies' daughter Shelly.

The lights flicked off once more, and Emmy then turned her head towards the entrance to see who else had arrived late for the meeting. The room was once more illuminated, followed by the distinct sound of heavy feet travelling across the marble flooring. The newest addition arrived, and Emmy found herself smiling softly at the sight of another pie in their hands.

"Apple or cherry?" She asked Happy under her breath.

The smell of apple and lake water reached her nose before he could answer her.

Lena's smile may have been genuine, but Emmy cringed a little as her joke didn't land as well as the fireball's owner had intended.

In fact, Emmy resisted the urge to show her disappointment in the early night's events for the next five minutes. Her gaze followed The Archivist through every movement. She'd guessed he was Elven after she'd seen the multitude of artifacts and art that filled the mansion with historical prestige. She wasn't surprised by his stature, his height and features practically screamed Elf.

Though he was nothing like her mother had been. This man exuded what every rich, academically excelled, and pompous Elf carried on their shoulders.

Pride.

While she bit her tongue about his comment on timekeeping, like she wasn't literally a walking clock, she couldn't control her reaction when those condescending eyes travelled her way. She stood a little taller, stuck out her chin just a bit, and her eyes seemed to challenge him to look down on her. She didn't like the way this man spoke to them, looked at them, and instantaneously decided that none of them were worth his time.

Lena's musing and Jackson's rebuttal to The Archivist's statements did little to ease Emmy's mood. She did have to applaud them for getting such a busy man to stand still for longer than a second, though.

Emmy took a breath as her gaze flickered around the room.

Since this Archivist presented himself in such a rude way, she considered leaving before he could spew more insults their way, but then it would gnaw at her forever that she didn't find out why this man had invited them all there. Especially now that it seemed he had extensive knowledge on magic, given his crude appraisal of what magic had brought him.

She could hold her tongue to let the others ask their questions first. Let them pull the pertinent information out of him as she listened and drew her own conclusions. Perhaps she could remain a quiet observer for the rest of the night in the hopes that she would avoid his scrutinizing gaze. He definitely wouldn't be happy to learn that her magic was as unstable as her blood pressure. Considering the letter he sent her, and it's specific phrasing, she had a hunch he already knew.

So, why should she bother to stay silent? Why shy away from this obvious challenge? She came here for answers, after all, and it seemed like most of this group wasn't going to hold back either.

She was just about to take the lead, ask the first question, but the Frenchman beat her to it. She was shocked to hear the flick of a lighter, and could only watch as he lit up a cigarette inside of this centuries old mansion. Were those... claws?

Did he seriously just put out his cigarette on the floor?

The scent of nicotine and burnt paper reached her nose and only made her headache worse. Especially after the Lefebvre revealed a very personal piece of information about his awakening. He did ask one of the questions Emmy had been wondering. How did The Archivist know what magic they possessed? Where they lived?

A few more of her own questions were brought up by the young man with the dirty tongue. This time the admission struck a chord within her. She empathized with his lack of control, and was even grateful to hear that she wasn't the only one struggling with it. Her gloved hands moved to clasp in front of her once more, as she prepared for more questions to be hurled towards their host.

Emmy chose to wait, then, and could only hope that all of her questions would be asked and answered without drawing The Archivist's attention her way.

[FernStone]

---

13 Mourningdove Lane

The Archivist finally turned up, and he was an absolute fucking dick. Of course. No normal person would go around stalking people and sending out magical letters. But the fact he was acting like he was so much better than them was infuriating.

Old, old, soooo old!

Bea raised a hand to cover her mouth at the very accurate whispers of one of her new shadows.

”This is why nobody likes old elves.” While the comment was directed to Rowan, who’d unnecessarily covered for Bea’s mistake, she didn’t bother being quiet about it. If the old fucker heard it, he heard it. She quite frankly didn’t give a fuck.

Nor, it seemed, did Matt. The moment she got a whiff of sweet, sweet smoke in the air it was over for Bea. She started to get twitching, the urge to smoke clawing at her. It wasn’t something she could resist. Not when someone else was already doing it. She pulled a cigarette out of her pocket, rolling it between her fingers.

Bea patted Rowan on the shoulder in as close to a comforting gesture as they could give, before moving over to Matt in what was becoming the smokers’ corner. They lit their own cigarette and leaned against the wall next to him, taking a long drag.

”Y’know, smoking too much gives you cancer,” she intoned to the increasingly animal like man. There was no care or fear for the fact that he’d probably just admitted to killing someone and hiding the body… it wouldn’t be too much of a loss if his claws turned on her.

She smoked away as Mason also asked a few questions. All about magic and controlling it… Bea didn’t care about what caused it, but controlling it would be nice. Not that she’d be bringing that up herself. Her little talking shadows seemed far too like a hallucination. Especially when no one else could see them.

Glub glub glub glub-

That one was getting especially annoying.

”I got a question,” Bea spoke up when the other two were done. Nobody else jumped in immediately, so there was a chance for them to get in. ”What the fuck do you want from us? I want to know that before I go any further into this creepy house.”

[Jumbus]

---

---

13 Mourningdove Lane

Rowan chuckled at Bea's remark about old elves before she watched her friend join Matt. She didn't move to join her, it wasn't that she was too bothered by second-hand smoke, more that the cat-man almost certainly implied murder. Though it slipped her mind to stop Bea from joining him.

Now that she wasn't standing next to anyone in the hall, Rowan hoped she didn't stick out like a sore thumb. Subconsciously, she held her elbows while she started to assess the Archivist.

Academic hubris was the worst kind of pride. Unlike sport or art, it is often far too late before humility is brought to the scholar; by then they have convinced others of their false knowledge and brought their own downfall. Her time in higher education had made her all too familiar with those kinds of people, more often they were men but not exclusively by any means. However, some would turn up with little more than C grades when results were brought forth while others would only see A+ on their papers. The harsh truth was that sometimes that braggadocio was legitimate and their behaviour would never be checked.

This was an old man, an old elf, who spoke like he had never seen failure before. For all her disagreements with the man's tone, it was difficult for Rowan not to acknowledge the sense of merit that swelled around him. Perhaps that is why her demeanour didn't shift so negatively as the others had. The Archivist had used magic to track them all down and already knew the nature of their powers. He had shown control over the house, for a rather silly application, but control nonetheless. No one could have learnt this all in a week; the old man was already familiar with magic and therefore was likely alive 500 years ago when it vanished.

And what did they arrive with? Rowan could shift a sunflower a little, Bea's magic was constantly whispering in her ear, Mason had just vented about having zero control over his gift. Before the Archivist started talking, the only person who showed true proficiency was Azure.

Rowan hated the Archivist's attitude. But she feared that putting up a resistance to him in the state they were in now would only prove his ego further. He had a reason to be like he was and there was no point in burning the bridge too quickly. She could learn about the new world they had all been plunged into first and, if need be, she could bring him humility when she becomes able to dish it out.

”What the fuck do you want from us?”

Rowan furrowed her brow at that question. It didn't seem quite right. From his behaviour, his language, his demeanour, he didn't want them there. He was a practised mage who spent no time expressing his disappointment at the group's perceived lack of talent. And yet, he had spent time and energy tracking them all down, knowing what their powers were, and had them all gathered here. It was something, but 'want' wasn't the right word.

“No, you need something from us, don't you?” Rowan added, her tone was curious and lacking the derision that might have signalled quick camaraderie with the others.

[PatientBean]

_{April 14
13 Morningdove Lane - 12:12am}

---

Belladonna hated every moment she stood in this....guess someone would call it a house. Not only was she amongst a bunch of people she did not know apart from Pom who, while cool in her books, was still essentially a stranger. Every fiber inside of her told her to run, get out, leave this group and this crazy conspiracy that somehow she was not actually insane and seeing things that weren't there (didn't some test show some of her relatives had schizophrenia or bipolar? she wasn't sure anymore) and that she was, actually, magic. That magic existed currently and had existed in the past and had gone extinct until now.

And this Archivist was some old douchebag with a superiority complex. Like this whole thing was taken out of the pages of some fantasy epic. Bella had to laugh. Hell, she started to. A light chuckle before she actually let out the stress she had been feeling into an uproarious laugh.

She had to be going insane. That was the only thing that made sense. The stress finally got to her and she had snapped. All of this was some intense hallucination.

She finally stopped, wiping the tears forming in her eyes, before she proceeded. If this was a mass hallucination she may as well enjoy it before she was dragged off to some soft room with a jacket made to hug herself.

"I got some questions Santa." She held up a hand showing five fingers. For every question she pointed to a digit. "One: Is the whole cryptic, old, wizened geezer an act or does that just come with the territory? Two: why be a dick when you seemingly invited us here? Three: Could you have picked a more typical place to meet? Like was a broken down farm or dark moor in the moonlight not available today? Four: How did you know about any of us getting whatever it is we got enough to send cryptic letters with information no one should know about. And five, though this isn't a question and is more of a statement: give me one solid reason why I should continue to stick around listening to you instead of getting the fuck out of this town and from something clearly in the drinking water. Does that satisfy you grandpa?"

Belladonna turned around without waiting for a response. She didn't care if others were catching on to whatever it was the old dude was hinting at. Either he spoke honest or she was leaving and leaving whatever the hell it was she had seen behind.

Heck, at this point, maybe it WAS the brownie...

[FernStone]

---

13 Mourningdove Lane

"I had a date wi’ the lake’s sea serpent- and Eau de Dockwater is a must to attract 'em," Cailean didn’t seem bothered at all by Lena’s mocking joke, instead joking back with a grin. They stopped cradling the bust to straighten back up with the pie.

"Aye, well, looks like my da was right ‘bout never going anywhere empty handed." They didn’t get a chance to open up and offer the pie… because the man of the hour was finally there. The Archivist.

Of course he was an elf. Of course he was a fucking English prick. The moment his mouth opened and that grating posh English accent hit Cailean’s less pointed ears, they were irritated. It was more than that.

The way he held himself, that air of arrogance and condescending gaze, were a reminder of their inferiority. It was a look they’d first experience when their mum took them to the Western Isles and the Elvish Clan she’d been banished from. She’d hoped that after the years, and with a child in tow, they’d change their mind. At least, she’d wanted Cailean to meet their grandparents.

All that had met them was disdain.

Then, him. Not when they first met… but eventually. Eventually he’d looked at them like they were nothing.

Cailean met the Archivist’s disgusted look with a harsh glare. There was a visible change in the previously excited person, as they clenched their fists at their side and extended their body as tall as it got.

Which wasn’t very tall.

"Tha rop cac ort (You’re talking shite)," they muttered under their breath.

Arrogant bastard. Was it really just the lake water that made him look at them like that? Was that the sole reason for his comment? Or was it because of their ‘tainted’ half. The non-elvish side… It was probably that too. Elves like him tended to dislike any but full blood elves, and one that wasn’t even half-human?

They weren’t the only one that was unhappy. Questions came from all over and they were mostly harsh. Good.

They were annoyed, but not so annoyed they didn’t laugh at one woman calling him Santa. Now there

"Of course you’re fucking English! It’s the double asshole combo!" Cailean exclaimed, lips pulling back into a sneer. "Y’think cause you knew about this shit you’re above us all, huh? You ain’t the only one who read some fucking musty books on magic… "

Not that they’d actually read any. Their mum had. She’d told them about them sometimes, but it was all based in memory… the books her clan held and protected. Of course, it was all useless when it came to Cailean’s magic. Theory, really. Nothing useful.

But that didn’t matter, it was the principle of the thing. This fucking asshole acting like he was better than all of them.

"I second all of her questions," they pointed to Belladona. "I ain’t from around here, I ain’t even got an address… so either you’re a creep as fuck stalker or you’ve got creepy stalking magic. Either way… how do we know you ain’t just gonna take us down to your murder basement and slit our throats for some crazy ritual? Wait, you wouldn’t get your hands dirty- I bet you have some minions that’d slit our throats instead."

They then glanced over at Rowan. "Oh yeah, also what you need from us if it ain’t our bodies in a ritual sacrifice."

[Theyra]

Ethan Marsh

Monday April 14th, 13 Mourningdove Lane

---

Ethan, at first, did not listen to what the Archivist said since he, while still in soul sight, was staring at Pom as he could see that for some reason. She had a second soul attached to her soul. He was too new to the soul sight to tell what kind of soul it was, but it dawned on him that perhaps he should tell her about this before it caused problems. If it has not already, and if she would believe him.

But, Ethan would turn off his soul sight and listen in to what the Archivist was saying. Perhaps Ethan was expecting too much or something since he did not expect the Archivist, who is an elf, based on what he can see. To be a prick, but who knows? Maybe living in this mansion for a long time by himself has done something to his mind, though he could just be a natural prick. An old one at that, and with a sense of superiority over them. This is going to be a long night and he sighed at the thought. Not just being with this Archivist but also with the others, and maybe it would have been better if the pie survived. At least get something good in his stomach if things take a turn. Which he hopes it does not.

So, after hearing what else the others have said, some of them being questions he would have asked and some of the others brought up good points. Like how did he find out they had magic powers and whatnot? He only had magic for a week and then his letter. There is more to this elf than they know, and while the rest are clearly pissed and ready to leave. A sentiment that he does not share since he wants to know what this elf wants and why he summoned them.

Then, a thought came to him that the others had not said, and since he did not want to be a repeating parrot and annoyed the Archivist further. However, the others will probably make that worse, so Ethan chooses to remain silent and not antagonize the Archivist further. He has questions, but those can wait for now.

[Atrophy]

---

13 Mourningdove Lane

---

There were questions, so, so many questions, so many questions in need of real answers, answers which suddenly became so very unimportant the moment a young Scot brought a little more light into the room. Cailean found the exact right lever to flip just in time to stop Pom’s nuclear meltdown. Pom straightened up as the either very short elf or extremely tall halfing bounded over, a confused smile on her face as she tried to parse out what pie sounded like. Or was Pom fucking sound? Some new lingo all the hip young cats were using? Yes, yes, yes, that must be it. She was confirmed to be hella sound.

“Oh yeah, man. So sound, absolutely rock and roll,” said Pom, her face lighting up as Cailen pointed out Burnie Cinders. “I know, it’s so weird! Nobody else is acting like it’s a big deal.”

Pom nearly floated away to join Azure above the others and would’ve trailed behind Cailen like a kite but she was pulled back down by the whiff of something off. There was the disappointing, cheap candle smell of Norm’s abysmal apple pie, an absolute travesty of a dessert that even a double scoop of vanilla ice cream and a piping hot cup of joe couldn’t remedy, but that wasn’t it. It smelled even more familiar than that god awful pastry pastiche which almost always guaranteed that Pom was going to get tipped less than eighteen percent. It was that mix of mud, fish toilet, sad nostalgia, and polluted backwash from those fucking rustbelt bastards in Ohio which now clung to Cailean’s wet hair that dragged Pom back down. She’d bitched about that smell quite often come laundry day. She’d loved that smell. She missed it.

Not here, thought Pom, pretending like she was only adjusting her sunglasses as she sniffed and shuffled away to find either a wall or a hole, whichever presented itself first.

Her body stiffened as the tapping of a cane drew her attention away from pretending she was examining a tapestry to an older, English elf who probably still referred to the American Revolution as the War of Colonial Tomfoolery. It was clear to Pom, between the pompous elf’s disdain of those gathered in the hall to his rudeness of not participating in their name game to his downright criminal inability to understand that a pulverized cherry pie still tasted like cherry pie, that this man was definitely, certainly, and, most of all, obviously was not just the Archivist, but also a no good fucking lich. After all, he had the wealth to afford a mansion and was dressed like he was from last century so he had to be ancient.

What other proof do I need? thought Pom as she was about to push up the sleeves of her jacket which was also from the last century, gearing up to go. If she was gonna get her soul sucked she was at least going to go out swinging. She stopped about mid forearm, in part because she realized her hands were still covered with pie viscera and it was difficult to do without dropping the pie box again, and in part because she thought that perhaps he was just a Shakespearean actor hired by Azure, the actual Archivist, to throw her off the scent.

“Can I use your sink? Some of the crust got mashed in with the filling so I can’t really lick it off. Well, I mean, I could, it’s not like I’m incapable of licking, it’s just that given the option between wash or lick, I would prefer wash. Actually, it’s really the only option, unless someone else wanted to lick, but I don’t think I’m there quite yet. I don’t know. How about a garden hose? I’m a mess,” mumbled Pom to herself, her words getting drowned out by the actual pertinent questions.

The only clearly audible sound she made was when she punctuated her statement with a loud gasp and nearly broke her dietary restrictions when her hand went to cover her mouth. It was around this moment that Pom, between Azure’s levitating, the blasé reaction to Burnie Cinders, Matt smoking in the corner like a real animal, and the “Archivist” and Mason both talking about magic, realized that maybe magic was actually real and she wasn’t an absolute total wastoid. However, the joy of that revelation was struck down as Pom overheard Bea make a biting remark, yet again obviously talking about her.

Pom shot the young lady, who had pulled out her own cigarette to join Matt, a horrified glance that only intensified as she realized what was happening. Bea and Matt were clearly too cool for school, signified by their choice to smoke inside of somebody’s house without asking or considering the health risk they were putting everyone else at, and here Pom was asking for permission to use a bathroom like some kind of fucking square! Bea had every right to bully her for being such a loser. Pom had to prove herself to the hipster that wasn’t even paying attention to her otherwise she would lose all sense of self-worth.

Slowly, obviously, Pom reached behind her back towards the tapestry, positioning herself to cut off the Archivist from seeing what she was doing. If being a rebel and a vandal meant that the smokers would think she was fucking sound too then she would rubbed her filthy, stupid hands over every goddamn inch of what was hopefully an easily machine washable tapestry, as tapestries were known to be. An immediate feeling of guilt came over her as she wrapped her grubby fingers around the tapestry and readied herself to use it like a towel. Her face took on the look of pathetic shame that dog’s made when they made a mess on the carpet. Her hands trembled.

She couldn’t do it! This was why nobody liked old elves like her. She might as well start cutting her hair like Nancy Reagan.

Pom let go of the tapestry, her offense hidden on the side that faced the wall, her hands no less red than her face, the incriminating streak of cherry on her cheek blending in with the rest of it as she burned red in shame for what she had just done. Slowly, painfully, she raised her red right hand up: first to her waist, then to her shoulder, then high above her head, before finally adding in some tippy-toes. Instead of just blurting her question out amongst the chorus of accusations and outrage that made it difficult to hear what was being said (a good thing too or else Pom would’ve been panicking about this supposed murder ritual), Pom waited until the Archivist turned his head towards her. She began bouncing up and down on her feet when he didn’t notice her right away.

When the Archivist finally flinched in a way that looked close enough to a nod of go ahead, Pom let out a loud pwah of breath that she’d been holding to dissuade herself from making ooh-ooh noises.

“Bathroom?”

[Aeolian]

@Jumbus@NoriWasHere@Skai@AtrophyMonday April 14th, 13 Mourningdove Lane

---

The room hummed with the weight of something unspoken. Shadows flickered against aged wallpaper, the candlelight clawing at the edges of the gathering, illuminating strange faces and stranger intent. The air held the scent of dust and something spiced—like old books and mulled cider, like autumn folded into the bones of the house itself. This place, this night, was not ordinary. Happy could feel it in his chest, a twinge of nervous excitement threading through his ribs like a half-formed melody.

Emmy leaned in, voice low but slightly amused. "This is... an interesting group."

Happy smirked, leaning toward her as if sharing a great secret. “Definitely. My kinda weird.” His voice was playful, but his eyes flickered, studying the room. A mix of wariness and curiosity danced behind them.

He took everything in—the shifting postures, the hushed voices, the way some people seemed as uneasy as he felt while others carried themselves like they belonged to the night itself. He had no idea what they were all doing here, but the energy was electric, and for now, that was enough to keep him engaged.

Emmy turned to him again, a glint in her eye. “Apple or cherry?”

"Apple, definitely apple," Happy said without hesitation, flashing her a wink. He wasn't sure why she was asking, but he'd play along. It was likely about Pom's smashed pie after he'd given it a brief consideration. Besides, there was never a wrong time to talk about pie.

Across the room, Azure exhaled softly, boredom creeping into his limbs like an unwanted guest. His violet gaze, sharp and unreadable, slid across the gathering with an air of disinterest, his fingers tracing idle shapes in the air. The novelty of this rendezvous was beginning to dull, the initial amusement of the unknown fading into something less compelling.

Pom approached, presenting the sorry remains of a pie, the crust caved in, filling splattered.

Azure tilted his head, watching the ruined pastry as if it were a fallen star. A slow, theatrical sigh left his lips. "Ah. Tragic. A shame, truly." His voice was smooth, laced with something too light to be genuine, a performance of regret rather than the real thing. But in truth, it was unlikely he would have taken a bite even if it had been pristine. His tastes were particular, and even if they weren’t, he preferred to remain an enigma.

Then the Archivist arrived.

An old elf, wrapped in the weight of centuries, sneered down at the gathering with thinly veiled contempt. His presence slithered through the room, carrying the sharp edge of judgment, his words clipped, dismissive. He spoke as though addressing children—or something lesser, something unworthy of his time.

Happy stiffened. He had been raised to respect his elders, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. His easygoing nature faltered for just a second, irritation tightening his jaw. He didn’t like being looked down on, and he sure as hell didn’t like the way this guy was talking to everyone. But instead of snapping, he settled into something more measured, more thoughtful. "I think Rowan’s got a point," he said, voice steady but firm. "You wouldn’t have called us here if you didn’t need something. So what is it?"

Meanwhile, Azure drifted. Quite literally.

He floated above the gathering, suspended in the air like an idle blue-lipped specter, watching the unfolding confrontation with mild intrigue. The Archivist’s presence had stirred the others, their responses ranging from defiant to bemused to outright irritated. It was fascinating, in its way. He observed them all, silent as he took mental stock of their dispositions, their tempers, their tells. The way their emotions flared, the way they chose to wield their words—everything was a story worth noting.

Yet, beneath his composed exterior, he was vaguely unsatisfied. This was the moment where things could shift, where the night could take a sharp turn toward something truly interesting. And yet, it was still teetering on the edge of ordinary.

Bored and intrigued in equal measure, Azure waited.