June 17, 2064
A ganger stirs in his sleep. The young elf had joined the Ancients only a few months ago but quickly earned a way up in the gang by seeming to be the most receptive to Doren's needs. Now his job was to sleep, dream, and pass on messages that came from the most "Ancient One". It was a pretty simple gig for the protection that came from being part of the gang.

His voice calls out from his sleep.

"We are needed. Two bikers, to deliver a very important package."

::Elsewhere::

Rowan blows out the candles surrounding the altar, while Father Mathias talks to a few parishioners about idle worries. Trying to be quiet, Skezz moves in to the church and waves frantically.

Once the dark haired beauty gets closer, he whispers to her.

"Hey girl, word on the street says something big is happening. I don't know exactly who's involved but people are getting together tonight to talk retribution against some blokes in black hats. Interested parties should be at the old market place where 15th becomes 105th in Ballard around ten."

::Everett::
Over dinner, Townshend looks across the table to Edana.

"I haven't been sure how to bring this up to you, but I'm going to try. What ever happened between you and Piotr is for the two of you to know about, I don't want any of the details. That being said, the debt between he and I has passed to you.

"My past is a lot grayer than I have let on to you. I don't like to think of the things I did during the war or afterwards. This is all coming to the crux of the matter. I've talked with Herne about France and heard about some of your exploits through friends. The Society is a dangerous group, I've seen them before, though I didn't know it at the time.

"To clear the debt between us, you need to remove the venom from this snake. I want you to break the support structure that keeps them hidden from the light. Plans are in motion and your friend Bishop said he knew a few people that would be getting together tonight. I think you should be there...

::Ballard::
Bishop and Downtown arrive at the meeting spot.

The others would be here in a few hours, if they were coming at all. Time to clear out the trash and make sure no one tries to crash the party.

June, 17th 2064

Edana’s hand froze halfway to her mouth when Townshend mentioned The Society. She’d spent the better part of a year wishing she could forget she knew they existed, and yet driven to learn all she could about the shadowy organization. All she could learn from inside a prison cell, anyway.

She still blamed them for that, though she knew better. Breaking quarantine hadn’t been The Society’s decision.

The meal she’d laboriously prepared suddenly tasted like sand and ash. The woman’s skin swirled murkily, ominous darkness gathering at pulse points shot through with electric bolts muted by the translucence of skin. A rippling sheet of blue energy flowed over her eyes and was gone. She downed the last of her soya-beer at a toss and sighed deeply.

Piotr. She’d never met the man that had smuggled she and her teammates out of Seattle, but she often wondered if he and Mickey had avoided trouble from their association with her. She hadn’t ever given them up, but the French authorities had seemed to know everything. Edana had been afraid to contact Mickey on the chance that those same authorities were still watching her. She feared they were watching her still.

Her mind flicked a touch to the whip coiled, as always, in easy reach. She could feel the deadly, lurking purpose that waited, wanting the touch of her will to call it into terrifying life. She swallowed, more than a little scared by the fury that lingered in the sleeping focus. And also at the eager surge she felt in her chest whenever her mind brushed it. She put her head in her hands and stared at the table.

She felt Townshend’s unease at bringing up France and the job that couldn’t have gone more badly. Or scarcely could have. Four of Edana’s colleagues dead, two imprisoned for life and Edana skirting a life sentence only by a trick of the law, at the price of her good name. Though she’d come to learn that good names could be bought and sold.

Edana was lucky Townshend and any of the others would even associate with her. They certainly did so at their own peril. She looked up, light-brown eyes meeting Townshend’s muddy gray. She nodded once slightly, jaw muscles clenching. She stood up from the table, collecting dishes and cups silently as the information she’d gleaned of the Templars flooded into her forebrain. She put the dishes in Townshend’s sink and grabbed two more bottles of beer before returning to the table. She popped the tops and poured, watching appreciatively as the bubbles settled into a decently foamy head.

“To fallen friends,” she raised her glass. In her mind she heard a distant howl.

*****************************************

At the appointed place, at the appointed time, Edana rolls into the meet in a road-worn, decked out brumby - definitely not a vanity vehicle. Lights on top and roll-bars, speckled with mud and ready. The brumby radiates readiness. Edana kicks the door open and saunters out, a ragged straw cowboy hat pulled down low over her brow. Long curling horns swoop out from under the hat, troll horns. She wears a long, dark coat with a tall collar and doesn’t appear to be carrying any firearms.

She lifts her head to look around as she steps out of the vehicle and her face becomes visible. Her skin is as white as snow. Her face is not a troll’s at all, but a human’s with fiercely burning light brown eyes and a dark blotch by her mouth. She mimes stroking the back of a tall animal at her side.

Herne, thanks for checking out the place. Townshend says ‘hello.’

I know.

Oh, well, ‘hello’ from him all the same. I didn’t realize you two had spoken.

We did.

A ghostly hound with lamp-like eyes shimmers into being at the woman’s side, shoulders under her hand. It is tall and rangy, heavily built. The dog looks up at the woman’s face.

Will you EVER learn to use a napkin?

Edana blinks and scrubs at her mouth, the dark blotch vanishes and her cheeks flush. The fierce effect of her entrance somewhat ruined.

Bishop is here. And another I do not recognize. I didn’t think he had friends.

He… does. I wonder if he still counts me among them.

He’d better. If he knows what’s good for him.

Edana’s brow furrows and she looks at the hound, whose hackles have risen, bristling between her fingers. You know, he got me out of there.

I know. It doesn’t make me happy that he is a big part of why you were in trouble in the first place. And technically it was the hunter who got you out. Tigger.

Edana sighs, as she and Herne go another round over a well-trodden argument. We don’t know that The Society wouldn’t have gotten wind of us because of the site that I posted. Me.

Yes. And I’m angry with you over that as well.

She makes an angry sound in her throat and turns her attention again to her surroundings, mind flickering again to the slumbering focus coiled under her coat.

You worry that sgiurs like a sore tooth.

She snorts. That’s almost what it feels like. I can’t help it.

That thing is going to cause trouble. Mark my words.

I’m afraid I won’t have to. I wish this would get underway, it’s making me jumpy.

Oh yeah? No kidding? I hadn't noticed. The dog’s eyes blaze with dark humor as his hackles settle a hair and Edana smiles a tight smile.

The P-90 clipped to Danny's combat vest swayed slightly as the Ork moved through the building. All his senses were on alert has he and Bishop swept the meeting place. Years of combat training taught him to stay to the shadow and move where the best angles were.

Though his frame was considerably scrawnier than most orks he was still bulky. Part of it was all the gear he weighted himself down in. Shooters cap, adjustable polarized glasses, combat jacket, vest, ammo pouches, canvas cargo pants and jungle combat boots. He looked more like he belonged in a combat zone than in the city.

His gloved hands held the P-90 to his shoulder as he swept the barrel back in forth. The irises in his eyes were open wide to catch all the light, helping him see in the dark room.

"I think it's clear," he said over his sub dermal comms. "Can't be hundred percent till we sweep the roof though."

Rowan favours the ganger with a small smile, and a hand placed lightly upon his shoulder. She thanks him for the information, though she is sure he doesn't know quite how important it is to her. She moves back to the alter, blowing out the last of the candles and speaks a small, whispered prayer. Nodding to Father Mathias as she passes, she makes her way into the back of the burnt out church, and up a set of cramped stairs. The room at the back is hers, a haven of sorts from the false life she has been forced to lead, but also a reminder of it. Locking the door behind her, Rowan steps to the modest bed she often sleeps upon while trying to escape from the life of Trisha Beltrane, Private Investigator. She kneels before the bed, seeking out a hidden catch, and lifts the top clear off, revealing a small arsenel secreted away there from prying eyes. She isn't going in heavy today. She'll just be packing Trisha's Glock, as it's lisenced, and easier to explain the presence of. What she seeks here, however, is armor. Walking into a meet with light arms was one thing, walking in with just her work clothes was another altogether. She carefully lifts from the hidden compartment a form fitting shirt, and peels off her top to slide it on underneath. She already has her long coat and the pistol with her, much as Father Mathias dissaproves of the tools of her trade. You don't walk through the Barrens unarmed, period.

Putting some more thought to things, she decides that packing for a potential run might be wise. She doesn't need to carry the gear to the meet, a coffin motel will do well enough for storage. She gets a military kit bag out of the locker, and begins to pack with a practiced ease. spare set of clothes first, to act as padding. Her two Benelli's follow, along with ammo and the small cases which hold her Desert Eagle, 1911A, and a pair of P18.9s. A small assortment of gear follows with her full suit of form fittng armor layered over that topped off with her habit. With a little effort she zips the duffel shut, then secures the bed again. Hefting the duffel over her shoulder she heads down to her bike, and peels off down the street.

A short while later finds Rowan kneeling in a confessional, praying silently as the priest pulls the divider aside.

`Forgive me Father, for I am going to sin...`

- - - - - - -

Her gear stashed away in a nearby coffin motel, Rowan approaches the site of the meet on foot. The situation was already unsettling to her. She was an unknown entity to the people actually meeting. This was a public place. She finds herself tallying exit plans as she approaches the meet site at the designated time, hands in the pockets of her lined coat. She fishes a cigarette out of her pocket as she waits, putting flame to it from a battered old Zippo. She's here. It's their move now.

He tossed her a towel as she came in the door.

"Get suited up. He found us another contact, someone that might be useful. Bring your bag, the Children are taking us to the meet site." He was already dressing, tugging the tight black turtleneck over the choker he wore around his neck. He motioned to the ganger standing near the door and shrugged on the offered Secure Longcoat, rolling the sleeves up just a bit to clear his wrists. The gangers trench wasn't really his style, but it would present a less threatening appearance then his own armor.

He nodded to Gellawyn as they stepped out of the building, 2 members of the gang already waiting on bikes that looked haphazardly maintained and probably hit speeds that would scare the original designers on a regular basis. He reached out intangibly as they both swung up behind the riders, locking his mind into the familiar grasp of hers so they could converse during the trip. With kind of short notice, plans would need to be made.

He said this one was an ex-Templar. The ruins flashed by them, the wind flowing over them fast enough to tear the words from his throat, if he'd been speaking.

Layout a plan, we'll stop some distance from the location. The contact, at least, will be some sort of warrior mage, typical for the Templars no doubt. He mentioned there might be others as well.

Reaching a spot several blocks from the meet, he signaled the driver to stop, taking a moment to center and prepare himself as Gellawyn checked out the locale and decided on a plan.

He summoned Fuer'yon to him, basking for a moment in the sense of fullness and unity that always came with the arrival of the spirit that had chosen to be bound to him. His task was a large one, and true companions few and far between. Besides Gellawyn, Fuer'yon was the only other that shared his life and understood his calling.

Opening himself and calling the mana to him, the icon etched runes resting on his chest warmed as he pulled from the ether again and again, attuning himself and his reactions to the world around him, cloaking himself in a thin layer of illusion, and erecting a field that moved with his body to protect him.

With the more formulaic of his preparations done, he prepared to make his requests of the spirits. He looked up without really looking, chanting softly in Sprethiel as he sought one of the spirits of sky that flitted through the winds above. He called, cajoling, bargining, explain, and asking.

"If I rise into the air of my own volition, aid me in swiftly crossing the sky. Should others try to attack myself or Gellawyn, spread chaos among all of the attackers. Remain hidden in the Astral until that time."

His own preparations complete, he looked to Gellawyn, ever the pragmatic planner of the two.

Pausing to look around after the bikes came to a stop. She began to tie up her hair and reach for the satchel slung to her side. She began to assemble her armor as she speaks. "Well, we needn't worry about the authorities out here. I think it best if you meet our potential allies while I hang back. There's enough debris and rubble here for me to find a niche and keep an eye out and on you. If you think they're worth trusting I'll come out of hiding, if not then we have some insurance if this is just another Templar trap to draw us out in the open again."

As she speaks, she straps on weapons - two long knifes and a bow to her back. Pulling out a cloak crawling with Spetherial symbols she draws it around her shoulders, securing the bow underneath from view. Her build is athletic and trim, her movements natural and relaxed. "He rarely does anything without a purpose, this may be yet another test so be prepared for anything." She pauses to share a small smile with Kraxus. She looks one last time over the terrain. Pointing off to the distance and slightly east. "I will be there and be safe." With that said she draws the hood up and the air around her distorts as the cloaking properties of the polymers embedded come to life. The sound of her light footsteps trailing off are quickly swallowed by silence.

His return smile trails her off into the darkness as she disappears. With a blink, he reorients himself to the task at hand.

Motioning to the biker that had brought Gellawyn, "You can go, for now. I'll give you a call when we need pickup." He glances at the one left behind, sparing a friendly smile. "Unfortunately for you, my firend, I need a ride directly to the meet location. Please keep your eyes open and if there are any problems, I will protect you."

He climbs back up on the bike behind the ganger, pausing to adjust the bracelet at his wrist, and nods for him to continue on.

Arriving at the meet site itself, he dismounts gracefully and nods to those assembled, eyes lingering for a moment on the unusual woman with the troll horns and the large dog. His features betray no change in his emotions, schooled as his responses are, but behind the facade, recognition occurs.

Edana...does she know, then?

He steps up to each of those attending with a natural grace, and introduces himself with a handshake. His voice is pitched low, non-threatening and friendly, and without the constant edge threatening violence that so many that move in the shadows develop.

"Kraxus."

Ghosting across the terrain, Gellawyn arrives and settles down to watch and be prepared. She reaches out through the link connecting her to Kraxus. I am here. She waits to see what unfolds.

His own introductions done, he takes half a step back, motioning to draw the groups gaze towards the biker that he driven him in, and was still waiting by his bike.

"And this is Crisis. I work with him and his crew from time to time."

Crisis took a few steps forward, revealing an elf of above average height with short cut, blue/black hair, wearing reinforced trousers, heavy boots, and a full length black coat that swished quietly as he moved. A broadsword was strapped across his back at an angle, the hilt at his left shoulder and the tip of the scabbard at his left thigh, though whatever other weaponry he had on him was concealed by the coat.

"Well, I'm Crisis, and I'm here for a little added security, and 'cause I was told to be here. So, anyone feel like explaining what this is about?" He asked the group, his grey eyes looking at each of them in turn.

'I sure as hell hope one of these people knows what this is about' he thinks to himself, his left hand unconsciously falling to his waist, and the modified Crusader MP holstered there 'cause otherwise I could be in trouble..'

Downtown fold the smg across his chest to the left, careful not to point it at anyone. He holds his gloved hand out.

"I'm Downtown, this," he nods to the guy to his right, "is Bishop. Nice to meet you all."

For an orc hes a bit short, a few inches under six feet, a bit scrawny to. But he seems to be well armed...

Kraxus sets a hand lightly on Crisis' shoulder as he speaks, showing his support of his attitude.

"Please forgive my friends directness, but he is used to dealing with a much rougher and less respectable crowd. I think his words echo all our thoughts at the moment, however, as none of us really have anything in the way of substantial information on what you're trying to do here." He looks to Bishop as he speaks, his tone inquisitive and non-aggressive.

"Nothing to forgive," Downtown waves his hand dismissively.

"We all live by our own codes. Acceptance is one of mine. I think were waiting on at least on more person."

Edana stands silently in the dimly lit back parking lot, vaguely luminescent hound at her side. The stream of Herne’s senses and thoughts flow unimpeded across the link they share.

More come. There. And there. And th--spirit! Herne takes two lunging strides forward and vanishes, charging up to Fuer’yon’s astral form. The two spirits circle one another on the brink of hostility, testing, touching, before greetings and intent are accepted and Herne returns swiftly to Edana’s side.

He is an Ally. Trustworthy for the moment. He pauses, I am much, much better looking.

Edana’s hair stands on end as the lethal pack assembles, she can see sureness of purpose and the easy grace of deadly competence. Bishop’s familiar face is welcome and she breaks into a smile as he strides up with the scrawny ork. In an instant the tension of the blind meet evaporates in a flurry of introductions.

I do believe we’ve stumbled into a Tir convention, Sturmdottir.

Edana makes no acknowledgement of her Ally’s thoughts, but nods and shakes Kraxus’ hand, “Edana, good to meet you.” Her voice is thickly accented with the lilt of Tir na nOg.

“This is Herne,” she gestures at the spirit at her side who sits on his haunches, eyes regarding the group with studied disinterest.

At least this bunch is a much savvier looking than that last lot.

Yeah, but we’re not exactly chasing down a lab coat either, this time, are we?

Her hand pauses slightly as she reaches to shake the beautiful young woman’s hand. Her brow creases very slightly as a thought nags. But she smiles through her puzzlement and eventually turns to Bishop.

“Uh… should we hang about out here like a tree fulla owls?” She tosses her head at the building that Downtown and Bishop came out of. A multitude of thin white braids sway out of their loose clasp and over her shoulder and she catches them up with a long-practiced hand.

She grins at Crisis' direct words. Straightforward lad, good. And at Kraxus' diplomacy. She tilts her head back considering Downtown closely. She smiles and turns her intense eyes on Bishop and raising her brows in query.

Crisis turns his head to look at Kraxus "You might want to consider telling your lady friend to appear, before someone gets...upset" he whispers in Sperethiel, glancing back at the others.

'Well, this may shake him up a little. Officially nobody other than Tir elves know the so-called old tongue...and it'll almost certainly intrigue the others..' he thinks to himself, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

DT sends a wink at Edna after she introduces herself. "Nice ta meet you, you as well Herne, I love allys." He finishes with a broad toothy smile.

"Yeah I think moving inside might be a good idea, I think everyone who is going to show, is here. Come on folks, welcome to our hideout."

The orc turns his back to the group, trying to engender trust. "We had to shoo a few squatter away," he says over his shoulder, "but the building is secure."

The sound of thrash metal fills the air from a block away as a rust and green pickup truck large enough for three trolls to comfortably fit in the cab barrels down the street.

A steady stream of curses comes from the large troll at the wheel, most returning to the "Frag! I'm fragging late and these fraggers are going to fragging frag me!" The curses are occasionally swallowed up by the sound of the truck bottoming out on rougher patches of the street. With a screech of tires and badly maintained brakes, the truck comes to a halt.

The troll practically leaps from the truck, hands spread wide from his body.

"Oi, Chummers! Sorry I'm late, don't shoot, don't shoot...it's just Crash. No need to get all those trigger fingers itchy."

He stands there with his arms raised and hands held open waiting for your response. His face is half turned in a flinch, expecting lead to shred through his body at any second.

DT turns to Bishop and lifts an eyebrow... Who?

"Oh, frag...Alright Crash here is where the end comes...You've always known that being late was going to get you killed sooner or later..."

The troll seems to be vocalizing his own internal monologue not actually speaking directly towards anyone in the group.

"Hopefully, they will aim for the brain or the chest, you always hear about those people who linger on for weeks from a belly wound, racking up medical bills and living in agony just so they can die and leave the family with a huge debt...

"Stupid, Stupid Crash, should have been on time. No more Pagliacci for you..."

The orcs ears perk up at the name of his favorite pizza place, "ok Crash, your cool, will discuss your arrival some other time. Come on in."

Did he just, he did, he winked at me. She flushes again, shy as she turns to follow the lanky ork and Herne snorts as he stands up and gives himself a shake.

Loud music and a beater of a truck come slamming onto the scene and Edana falls back a step, mind bleating at her to gather mana for a spell as the most improbable babbling troll piles out of the wreck onto the pavement.

She blinks as she tries to understand which pieces of dialog are directed at the assemblage and which are not. She shakes her head, "Bishop...?"

The troll keeps rattling on and Edana's incredulity grows. She can't help but smile at the words tumbling out of his mouth, but wonders what sort of attention this sort of guy has dragged along with him, she glances down the street.

Herne...

On it. The hound takes three lunging steps forward, each taking him higher into the air, the last taking him right over Downtown's shoulder before he vanishes with a whuff.

"Uh, yeah, let's get inside." She smiles and is sure to allow Crash to precede her into the building. Her mind is partly filled with the rush of Herne's senses as he makes widening loops around the building and the carpark.

Glancing at Crisis with a slightly arched eyebrow that spoke volumes, the apparently under-armed and under-armored elf turned to move with the group headed into the building, making sure to trail behind.

He doesn't bat an eye as a slim figure appears out of nowhere beside him, walking along as if she belonged. She's dressed in a long cloak, inscribed with arcane symbols along the edges, and what appears to be medieval plate mail beneath. Golden hair is tied back out of her way, and she moves with the casual grace of a born predator.

"Ok, Crash looks like you skated by this time..."

The troll gives a big toothy grin to the small orc and then tromps on inside.

"Little girl doesn't look like a troll, maybe she's still growing into her horns. Never seen a thunder storm live in side someone either, lightning probably cause all sorts of problems with a deck. Too much EM interference."

The odd troll takes in the newcomer decked out in Heritage armor and keeps Edana between himself and Gellawyn.

"Wolves and sheep. The small ones are always predatory, trolls more like big bears, powerful and clumsy. But not Crash, Crash can't even tell what color his truck is."

His rambling continues on...

Crisis hangs back a little then falls into step beside Kraxus and Gellawyn

"Please tell me you didn't invite him...I mean, by now every rat in the area knows something's going on here, and that's very, very bad for our collective health" he states quietly, a look of concern on his pale face.

Kraxus shakes his head silently and speaks quietly, "He is not known to us."

No building, especially when it is the regular dwelling of squatters, is without its secrets and it's little hidden entrances. After watching long enough to see where the others are going, Rowan makes her way around back, and makes her ingress through a second story window. She doesn't mean to be dramatic, but she's not the type to just walk in the front door. While the others are entering through the front, even as the pickup is pulling up, and Crash is being admonished and escorted to the door, Rowan is walking down a stairway, and joining the group. The first to notice her will receive a smple nod.

`Is this a private party, or do you all mind a little company?`

Her words are softspoken, her appearance innocently deceptive. Or it would be save the well worn streetclothes.

This people are................different. Gellawyn smiles politely at the newcomer, giving a slight nod of welcome as she speaks to Kraxus.

Edana makes room for the rambling troll, peering sideways up at the vocal newcomer. Crash’s attention makes her ears burn and the murkiness flows across her face like the shadow of clouds. She tugs the collar of her coat higher, and the brim of her hat lower, hand touching briefly the sapphire pendant at her throat – willing mana through the focus to shield her from astral attacks.

The shaman flinches as a woman materializes moving in step with Kraxus. They stand close, comfortably close, the space between them seeming not a space at all. I guess he was expecting her... She squeezes her eyes shut with a sharp stab of fear at what she's getting herself and Herne involved in. I should leave well enough alone. Nothing but trouble for me here. Nothing.

She moves on again, ignoring Crash, who'd paused to study and comment on her stopping. Her eyes are fastened forward studying the swaying, runed cloak, catching glimpses of it as it billows into sight beyond Crisis.

She looks at Bishop’s solid back as he stops to hold the door open for the group entering the ramshackle building. She brushes his chest with her fingertips as she passes, imparting a shard of her will to shield the grim-eyed man from sorcerous attacks.

She unconsciously checks her step when she sees Rowan moving smoothly down a flight of stairs. The beautiful woman's face seems familiar but she can't place it. She sighs mentally, One MORE thing to bite me, I'm sure.

You can bet on it, comes Herne's reply.

You're a ray of sunshine. Find anything yet?

Nothing new.

Thanks. Keep looking.

He warned us that dealing with outsiders would be different. One could imagine that having to maintain a constant state of paranoia does unusual things to people...Remember, these people are most likely criminals.

Fuer'yon's voice flows into his mind. The mental impression was burbling streams and the low growl of an aggressive beast.

Someone comes.

Kraxus glances up, watching the woman materialize ahead of them, catching himself before shaking his head.

He chuckles in his mind.

Such drama. he thinks, to his companions.

Upon seeing the stranger, Crisis' instincts took over, and his hand went straight for the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Drawing it out enough for the blade to glint when the backlight caught it, he looked at Rowan

"I don't remember seeing you on the guest list, lady." he growls, his grip on the sword tightening.

Speaking the fluid, lyrical tongue of the elves, Kraxus lays a restraining hand lightly upon Crisis' shoulder.



Switching back to English with just the slightest trace of the otherworldly accent, he address Rowan politely, one hand held up to indicate the peacefulness of his intentions.

"Please, forgive my companion. As I have explained earlier, he generally socializes with less trustworthy members of the community then yourselves, and as such, is prone to reacting ways that are considered somewhat hastily in our circumstances."

He takes half a step forward, obviously assuming that the incident had already faded from their minds, and gives Rowan and the rest a slight bow.

"My name is Kraxus, and my companions are Gellawyn,' his motion of inclusion moving to the slight blond elven female that had materialized beside him during the walk inside, "and Crisis." His hand indicates the ganger that had previously started to draw his sword.

"Since there was no guest list, as far as I am to understand, I think we must assume that we are all here at the behest of Bishop. I will speak frankly, in the interests of quickly overcoming any initial suspicion that a meeting such as this must, by it's nature, engender in it's attendees. Gellawyn and myself are agents of theTir government, engaged, trained, and supported with the goal of moving proactively against the Templars, who have committed multiple acts of terrorism in both Tir na Nog and Tir Tangire. Crisis is acting in the position as guide and informant of the local area here, and as potential protection should the need arise."

He looks to the group as he speaks, taking a moment to make solid eye contact with each member of the meeting, establishing at the least the sincerity he has for what he speaks of.

"I think it would be an excellent step towards dispelling the spectre of suspicion if we each simply stated why we are here, as I have done."

Crisis grudgingly sheathed the blade fully, a dull click showing it had locked back within the scabbard.

Though his eyes portrayed no emotion, his stance was angry, and he turned to face Kraxus



"Sorry lady, but given the area you're damn fortunate I didn't shoot you, never mind threaten you" he said half-apologetically to Rowan.

“Ok,” Downtown spoke up. “Now that were all here we can talk. We all have come together for different reasons, but the goal is to stop the threat of the templars against us, stop it permanetly. Just so you know where I stand, I am here to help my friend Bishop. My only personal stake in this is seeing him get what he needs.”

Downtown looks around at everyone and takes a second to place his hand on Bishops shoulder is a supportive manner.

“Now Edana may know the location of a Templar who is hunting Bishop, is that right Edana?”

Downtown gestures amicably at Edana and her mouth opens and shuts as the assembly’s focus turns to her. She stammers out the first bits, her raspy lilt hitching as she speaks, “I, uh, we… That is, uh, December last I took a job with Bishop and some others,” she nods her head at their host, “To, uh, track a geneticist-doctor who had skipped bail.” Her eyes stare blankly into the middle distance somewhere over Rowan’s shoulder.

She pauses for an uncomfortable moment, mouth slightly open, lost in terrible memories as her eyes sheet over with crackling energy and swirling darkness whirls under her colorless skin.

She blinks and begins to speak again, hastily, looking around to assess the reactions of the others to her lapse and to her strange appearance. Her ears grow red with embarrassment as she resumes her speech, voice quiet and mechanical, “You may have heard about the VITAS scare back then. And the quarantine. The job was a complete loss.” She scratches behind a curling horn and drops her head, “And I have little doubt that the Templars are to blame.”

She raises her head again, eyes clear and hot with intent that feels more like looking down the barrel of a gun than looking into the eyes of a frail, freakish woman. Her mouth twitches into a snarl and the effect is complete. And then vanishes like smoke. She takes a deep breath.

“There is a man here. In Seattle. I believe he is a Templar. And I believe he is after Bishop – and soon, by our association with him, all of us.” She looks from face to face squinting her weak eyes, If he’s not already watching us for other reasons.

She shrugs uncomfortably, not liking to speak at length, not liking to be the center of attention, “If there is a place to start an… investigation, it is with this man.”

Her eyes go distant again… Gonzales’ flat, dead eyes stare up at her, his blood mixing with Charlie’s in the snow, on her fatigues... the gruesome astral echoes of a woman’s tortured death… Ballefour’s neck exploding in a cloud of blood… a cell, Herne’s senses cut away from her, the flood of astral energy gone, her life an endless gray routine… a vat with a numbered label and a kind-eyed mercenary... a hospital of shrieking alarms and failing power... she blinks.

“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. I am violating parole even being here. I will bring more trouble than you lot care to have.” She shakes her head, braid ends whipping around, “I will help you as much as I can, though.”

Downtown unconsciously tightened his M-61 military coat as Edana spoke. The woman spoke with such passion and emotion it made the orc feel a lot of sympathy for her. When she finished he placed a hand briefly on her shoulder as a sign of support.

"I think we can use all the help we can get. The Temps are a powerful organization, so the best thing we can do is hit this guy hard and fast before he has time to really report back on us. After we talk to him," he chuckles as he says it, "we can figure out where to go from there."

Kraxus smiles and nods at the younger elves heated response, obviously satisified with whatever was said.

He listens gravely to the odd young womans tale, glancing around occasionally to check the reactions of those around him. He listens to Downtown as well, nodding his own support of the orc's ideas.

"I feel the need to urge slightly more caution, at least until we have verification that he is, indeed, a Templar. At that point, however, I would agree to use whatever methods necessary to bring him to justice."

Gellawyn watches the exchange with mild shock registering on her features. Upon hearing Kraxus explain and smooth over, she attempts to shake off her reaction. She listens, withdrawing a portion of her attention, she reaches out to his mind.

We must decide what to do about the daughter. We do her a disservice by keeping the secret. She should know before she goes further along this path.

Is it our place? She is obviously approaching this for her own reasons. Would adding the additional grief of a close and personal loss truly be doing her a service before we go into combat with these monsters?

I would rather she face her enemies with the full knowledge of their misdeeds. Who are we to deny her this truth in the upcoming struggle? I do not think she is as frail as she appears, she has walked this path a distance already and seems resolved to finish the journey.

A moment passes as the silence stretches in the air.

But I will yield to your judgement in this matter. I speak more from personal desire than objective observer.

You make an excellent point, as usual, Gellawyn. We shall speak of this and to her after this collective discussion.

Crisis stood silently as they discussed the Templars, deferring to Kraxus for now, this was his show after all.

'What in the seven hells have I signed up for..' he thought, listening to the conversation unfold.

Bishop speaks up.

"I'm tired of running. Everyone is here for their own reasons and mine is I'm tired of running. The Templars have taken my life, my family and almost my faith. It's time we take back from them.

"We can start with the man Edana has been tracking. I know that Herne saw someone who was on my trail here several months ago. The fact that he's still around despite my long absence means that he has found something. Something which he believe will lead to me."

He takes a moment to look at each runner.

"Tonight, we go to him."

Downtown smiles grimly at Bishops last.

"Now we need to take this guy alive, so lets try not to use to much lethal force. Edana, you want to fill us in on everything you know about our package?"

"I'm going to hazard a guess and assume this guy, whoever he is, is fairly well connected, right? If that's true then breaking into his house isn't the smartest thing to do, since he'd probably have LoneStar on the doorstep in a couple of minutes. So, we'd need a distraction, or some way of getting him away from any method of calling for help" Crisis says, his expression thoughtful.

Edana flinches as Downtown’s hand comes down on her shoulder. Not the flinch of someone expecting a blow, more the flinch of someone quite unused to being touched in the first place. Her neck prickles at the warmth of his friendly clasp.

Mind on the task at hand, Sturmdottir, comes Herne’s admonishment.

Likewise. Have you found anything?

Have I mentioned anything?

No.

And from that you can deduce...

That you haven’t found anything yet.

I’ll make a Hunter of you yet.

Edana’s face flickers through a number of briefly glimpsed emotions. She swallows and glances at Bishop, “You want to move so fast?” Her mind shrills warnings at her, “I can’t say I think that’s the best idea...”

She listens as the others speak, eyes fixed on the floor. She nods at Crisis, “It would definitely be good to catch him out in the ope--” she shuts her eyes tight and shakes her head. What am I saying? She takes a deep breath and continues,“Herne, knows a little more.” She looks up and into the distance.

You want to say your bit or should I?

I’m still scouting. Plus, you need to work on your social skills. I seem to recall a little incident--

Edana’s thoughts flare and her eyes widen – YES. That’s quite enough. I’ll do it.

She sweeps off her hat and scratches at the base of her neck, “Herne has learned a little more about this guy. He’s awakened. Initiated into the higher mysteries. We know where he works and where he lives, if I’m not mistaken.”

She looks up again, eyebrows raised.

You might be, I cannot be certain.

She shrugs and continues speaking, giving the sketchy details of the man she suspects is a Templar who months before she knew only as That Guy on the Motorcycle. A man whose sense of vengeance and anger is so strong his name radiates fiercely in the astral. His meetings with priests and associates of the Catholic Church. What his real name is she doesn't know. She knows one concrete piece...

“He's hunting a man named Walker. Michael Walker." She stops and looks around at the faces focused uncomfortably on her. "Well. Uh. That’s all I have. I’d, uh, I’d like to leave now.” She flexes her shoulders nervously and puts her hat back on, fruitlessly tucking braids behind her ears.

Gellawyn's face shows clear confusion as she speaks to Edana. "So you have no interest in dealing with the Templars directly?"

Edana's eyes darken as she looks at Gellawyn, and she snorts, "Do you want to hold a live wasp in your bare hands?"

She ducks her head, studying a scuffed boot, "No, I have no intention of facing them directly. Not again. Not unless they come for me."

She's scared. It's pretty plain. She looks up, "But I can't do much. There's too much at risk." She swallows and rubs her wrists.

Throughout the conversation between the elves, Crash had been muttering to himself, the dialogue constantly rolling out without any conscious filtering. After Edana's last words, the troll nods his head understandingly.

"Little, cloudy troll scared of Templars. Crash understands that, he was runt of litter too. Being small is hard for trolls. Little Edana could probably fight in small places though, where trolls can't reach. Crash does that, he goes into computer places where size doesn't matter. There no one knows Crash, no one yells at him for talking all the time."

There is a brief moment of clarity in the words where everyone can sense a shift from the internal monologue to externally directed logic.

"What if we tell this guy we know how to find Walker? That can let us get close to him without letting him know we mean him trouble."

Downtown grins at the big troll, "so thats what you do. Yeah, not a bad idea, a little fishing never hurt anyone."

A phone begins to ring, chirping insistently. The team looks to one another, expecting someone to answer it. Soon, Edana realizes that the phone is in her coat pocket.