heronyearwood

[heronyearwood]

"The one who doesn't like to run unless she has to, Jesus, you're chatty." Pet names are cute, coming from a monster; and Heron won't lie; Aelin's butch little vibe even in winter kit is definitely ten or so points in the appeals bracket but it's business, here, not pleasure. "I'm cold, and it's late, and I have a metric fuck-ton of other, bigger, and genuinely - not saying this to be mean - more important fish to fry." She lets Aelin in close, feeling the electric buzz along he inks of the proximity wards etched into her skin, beneath her layers of wools and synthetics. Sarcasm soaks into her tone; "Now how do you think I'd get blood from a willing vampire? A needle, silly. Really sharp, really clean needles; back in a building that is very warm and very dry."

"What self-respecting hunter hunts in expensive and useless boots in the winter?" Aelin chuckled as she headed toward the paved path that had been shoveled adequately. "As you wish, Princess." The paramedic never valued appearance over function, especially as a Hunter, well ex-hunter.

"I am flattered that you think I am magical, but not the adjective I would use." Aeline shrugged as she plopped down on an empty bench. It was a subtle way of giving an advantage to human. "I do miss hunting. How are you planning to take my blood? If you want to kill me, I will have to resist. I don't want to hurt you, but I have no intention of rolling over to die." She had far too much-unsettled business for that bullshit.

[heronyearwood]

Carnifex stares the prey down, just a little under a quarter of a lacrosse pitch away. Heron's no vampire - she doesn't have the sort of blind speed they do. But she does have her marks, both old Brotherhood and Fellowship. They give her the edge she needs to have survived as long as she has.

"Magical blood has a thousand uses, I don't know what I want it for right this second, just that I'm fresh out."

She would just go to Reid, that suicidal weirdo who's convinced he can reverse the curse that makes him a blood-drinking beast, but he's gone and she's not quite yet become so attached to him that she wants precious time hunting him down to ask nicely.

"I mean, that comes down to you - but these boots are expensive and not snow-proof so I'd really prefer that whatever we do we do it over here on the pavers because some of us can still feel cold."

"What do you need it for?" Aelin stopped. Her curiosity peaked at the way she made such a statement. It was interesting. She didn't care about her diet or what she drank; the thought made Aelin's brow knit together. Hunting for pure sport, maybe? Aelin didn't know her well enough to understand the complex motives.

Aeline appeared about 25 yards in front of the Hunter. "I used to hunt vampires, too, but I didn't want their blood; I sure as hell got it, though." Aelin leaned against the tree, staring at the hunter, studying her expression intently. "I don't want to fight you but don't take that as me being weak. Push comes to shove, I will Fuck you up to survive." She would do it, kill if she had to. She was not innocent in this new immortal life of hers. She had many regrets, and they started with Aurelia, but she had yet to find an end. Her remorse was like a never-ending sea of dominos, one stumbling into the next.

"So, what will it be? Do you want to have a chat or fight to the death?"

[heronyearwood]

Heron stares blinkingly at the woman, more than a little stunned at being offered the sob-story right out of the gate. She pulls her long coat tighter to her chest against the chill as she stands, without response, one eyebrow peaking in an arch underneath her cap. Heron doesn't stop following either, but she does hesitate when the Vampire veers of the path; partially because the snow, which she's fairly sure is higher than the cut of her boots, and partially because this is known Pretorius territory, and she's not looking to tussel with an arch-vampire tonight. "I don't care if you drink deer blood and cry yourself to sleep every morning," she calls after her. Her question curves a grin onto Heron's features - this constant notion that a hunter hunts for the benefit of mankind. She's little more than a poacher. Trained from a young age to track and kill monsters in the name of God or Humanity, she's long since thrown out the pretense of dogma. "I need vampire blood, that's why I'm doing this." She calls out through the empty park. "Don't make me chase you through the woods for it, because then I won't be so open-minded about how to get it."

Aelin was having a shit night, and this was the icing on the cake. “Just like it's hard to continue being a hunter when you get turned? Sadly, I’m used to the ironic contradictions. I admire the bravery in waltzing right into the vampire den. The last time I did that in your shoes, I came out dead on the other side.” It could have been a threat; maybe it was. Aelin had become more at ease with her vampire nature over the last 10 years. But she was by no means a menace to society; she used her connections to eliminate killing. Not that a few casualties had not happened early on in her undead life. She brushed it off, turning to continue deeper into the gardens. The vampire veered off the path, hoping to deter Hunter’s pursuits, but doubtful it would work. She would keep talking, delay the fight or flight response, and threaten to take over. The more feral side of her would fight if necessary, but the human part that still clung to her insides wanted to lay down on the chopping block.

“I can handle the temptations. I love what I do too much to stop. Isn't that why you are doing this, to help people?” Aelin chuckled, “No, you probably like the thrill of it? You like the chase?”

[heronyearwood]

"Yeah we're not exactly in our Glory Days," she laments. "Getting tired of being a clown. If this were team spots we'd be selling naming rights at this point." "Feng-Lindon's still our best bet. They've got elementals - dangerous, yeah, but you know what you're getting into. The other covens here are too wildcard. Just as likely to end up with your skeleton coming out of your ass... mechanically or chemically." She flexes her shoulder, still crunchy and marred from Davenport's stupid briars. "Besides, there's a score to settle there. We might could make a nice little example out of them - maybe see if we can cause a cockfight if we play our cards right - word is things are destabilizing. Maybe we push them into the open."

"Just give me a heads up 'fore you do anything, 'kay, Yearwood?" Of course, Valka never wanted to turn into the bureaucratic Brotherhood types she abandoned, but her Fellowship hunters tended to shoot from the hip. It was a great advantage in better circumstances, but with so few of them kicking in Port Leiry after everything lately, it would be better to keep the strength in numbers. "All it takes is for him to bite the wrong person on the wrong day and he's SOL. Hell, even a Buffy wannabe might try to get lucky."

The butcher just nods silently at the mention of curse and the wolf. She's bitter that she barely got to know or teach her son before he was taken and turned and returned to her something he shouldn't have been. That bitch he keeps calling 'mother' teaching him all the worst parts of the world. And as far as Valka knows, neither the Bookers nor Heron know about him yet. But that would be a secret she couldn't keep forever -- how would it look, that she couldn't even properly take care of her own child, in whatever form that would take.

"It's a shame -- I figure that given a chance to let loose, she'd be half decent. Losing two thirds of the Halsteads from the game doesn't bode well for her if she can't get wise and get out," Valka mutters. She continues the work of slicing the pig, catching runoff blood for just such an occasion as a vamp like Reid walking in trying to convince everyone he was domesticated.

"The Masquerade... Graver's... every little creep on Port Leiry must think they've got us on the ropes. I'll burn this whole city to the ground if I have to to teach them a lesson." Her voice is a growl. Val trusts Heron's instincts. She just wants fuckin' results. "See if we can't shake out a witch or two for more ink. Some of us'll need to re-up soon, give 'em a surprise they won't see coming."

[heronyearwood]

There are a lot of people who think a marked hunter waltzing into Vampire territory is stupid, or mad, or ill-advised. In truth, waltzing into a predator's territory to bag the predator itself is, well... hunting. Westriver isn't safe; a common dumping ground for the offal of vampires who find themselves overzealous in feeding, but who don't really want to hazard taking a body beyond the city limits.

Hereon isn't too share when she's made, but the fidgety nature of the vampire she's been tailing makes it clear that she has been made. Heron decides to press her luck and stop being subtle, and eventually the Vampire turns and hails her down, issuing a command that has a quaver in its delivery. Leave her be. Heron, hands in the pockets of her peacoat, smiles. "...No?" It's not exactly the deepest part of Westriver, and they're still on the paths. "Maybe I'm in the market for an unworthy target," she chirps. "S'gotta be tough, running EMT work when blood makes your tongue tickle, huh?"

A Familiar Dance

Closed starter: @heronyearwood

Location: Westriver Gardens 9:00PM

Aelin was aware of the Hunter and the somewhat annoying fact that she was being hunted. In a past that was now distant, She, too, was the hunter. "Fuck." She muttered as she rounded a corner nearing the Westriver Gardens. It was Vampire territory, and the Hunter would be reckless if they continued to tail her. She desperately wanted to avoid a struggle, especially since she was once a part of the Brotherhood. The moment her heart stopped beating, she was thrust on the defensive. The past did not matter now.

Aelin continued walking along the path, pulling her hood over her head before looking over her shoulder. Yes, she was being followed, "Fuck you! just leave me alone." She spoke the words with an unconvincing confidence. She struggled enough with her demons, let alone the threat of hunters in the shadows. She was not the worst bloodsucker out there and, by her own past standards, would barely be considered a win for the brotherhood.

"You can find much worthier targets, you know?"

[heronyearwood]

She takes up his arm in hers, wandering them slowly into some far-flung corner, away from prying ears or eyes. "And talk shop is exactly what I'm wanting to do, Mayor Harding. You see, I represent a fellowship of like-minded do-gooders who seek to protect the interests of the common man." A flowery way to broach the type of conversation they're about to have, but as she moves to untwine the crook of her arm from his, she fosters a tone of great concern. "Now, unfortunately, I'm no fly on the wall, and I can't very well be aware of what it is your predecessor may or may not have told you, but I know that, as somebody clearly concerned enough with the goings-on of Port Leiry to put his name in the running for leading it, you're likely more than aware of some of this town's more unique issues." She watches his features, his body language- any twitches in his hands, his shoulders - any sign that may or may not betray knowledge of The Hidden World. "What is the single biggest issue facing Port Leiry right now, Jonas? I'll give you a hint - it's not tourist traffic or draconian parking fees."

"Or that." This woman is blunt. But it's not something he hasn't heard before. Still, he holds out his hand to this Heron Yearwood and takes her hand in his and gives it a firm shake. "I'm not quite drunk enough to refuse you or to give some well thought out responses."

He doesn't know where would be good to talk, so he gestures broadly around - "Lead the way to somewhere more quiet, if you like - I'm always available to talk shop."

Whoever this woman is - she seems to know what she wants and he's willing to listen. The next few months will be filled with meetings just like this. "What can I help you with?"

[heronyearwood]

"Well, maybe I will, maybe I won't - man like that's on a time limit though - I've seen it before - a Hunter gets turned, thinks they can fix it, or that they can hide it enough to keep on fighting the good fight." She watches Valka work. "Never works - either the wolf changes them or the blood does - these poor, sad fucks forget that we're all weak in the soul when up against a curse." At talk of the sister she issues a derisive "tch. Probably just got smart - realized that the options are kill beasts or die trying. Worst crime the Brotherhood commits is filling their heads with all this nonsense about morality and imperative, all the pretending that it isn't at least half about the sport of it." Leaning on a counter, she watches what's left of the pig's blood seep into the gutters of the butchers' block. "I'm gonna keep this Halstead boy on a string as long as I can - if he's trying to play both sides of this he'll no doubt have friend - other vampires, a witch or too maybe. Graver's Isle was a big setback an I want to recoup some of that loss."

"Sorry, Heron. I'm just as disappointed as you are to hear he's askin' every hunter to the dance," she says with a bit of a laugh. In truth, Valka's not disappointed -- if anything, she's amused. Curious. About what Reid's game is here, and if he really thinks alerting half the Fellowship to his plight is gonna get him any sympathy points. Halstead tragedy only has so much weight in these intimate circles.

Heron's always been an interesting one to watch. Carnifex, with an admiration of butchery. But she takes a more artistic interpretation of the word, really. Her knifework is more artistic, whereas Valka's is artisanal. One's a craft, one's a trade. At least, that's how the older woman sees it (with her one good eye, no less). Enhanced hunter strength, while useful, plays little part in her cleaving of meat here. You could have all the strength in the world, but if you make a sloppy cut, you're selling half-assed goods to the masses. Bad cuts, bad rates.

"With all the witches and shamans and deals with the devil out there, if someone had found a cure for anything, it'd be known," she mutters with impartiality. Valka believes in the fantastically unlikely as much as the next person, but that only made the true impossibilities that much surer. Like the thought of ever really, truly having her son back. The way he was, the way she made him to be. "Only cure of all of us is death. And after that, salt -- Yearwood, I've gotta have you over for some proper fuckin' bossam sometime."

But Valka digresses. She picks her gaze up from the meat on the table for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you so sure you'll be the one to do him in, huh? I'm sure his sisters won't take too kindly to it, though I hear one of them's outta the game entirely these days."

[heronyearwood]

The Fellowship hasn't had a solid win since Siltshore, and even that had wound up pyrrhic in nature. This is an opportunity, though - new blood in the office. She wonders just how up to speed the human element who 'run' this city are aware that they are only in partial - if even that - control. She smiles - "Or it could be that you're drunk and blind, Mayor Harding." It's an uncouth, blunt comment, but she makes it anyways. She pushes her hand out, "My name's Heron Yearwood, may I shake your hand?"

"I know you must be incredibly busy, and staring down an entire host of responsibilities and commitments but I was wondering if you had a few moments to spare to discuss the concerns of some of your new constituents."

open starter (0/2) during a celebration party after the mayoral election

The speech earlier had been nerve-wracking - his fingers had found the raised bumps on the pedestal and went over them the entire time he spoke, not missing a beat. Maybe he'd find out that he wasn't cut out for all this later, but for now he felt.. good.

For the first time in a long time.

He walked away from someone extending him congratulations on his win, and turned into someone - nearly jostling them but holding out an arm to steady both of them. "My apologies. Must be the alcohol giving me two left feet." He waits a beat, smiling a bit, "I hope my speech wasn't too boring."

[heronyearwood]

"Same thing he wanted from you, apparently." She says, clicking her tongue, face darkening into disappointment that her fun little news wasn't fresher on the hook than it is - the pout fades however. She tilts her head, regarding the the exacting cuts. A cleaver may not look the part, but its size and weight betray the finer points of its use, and watching somebody who knows how to use it is an experience that she isn't all that often audience to - instead usually in the position of one demonstrating where to strike a joint for clean separation. She nods at the dragging of the Brotherhood and the Halsteads, even if she agrees more on the latter assessment than the former - Brotherhood influence out here might be waning, but that cult has deep claws in the world. Still, an opportunity is presenting itself. "Initially it was your average self-hating hunter turned vampire, couching suicidal ideations in some hare-brained attempt at finding a cure - I wish I could say it was novel but, well, the opposite actually." She shrugs. "I still think I'll entertain him for a bit, see if he can lead me to anybody interesting before I put him out of his misery."

Valka looks at meat and she doesn't see what it used to be -- a living thing, all cute and on its hoofers. She looks and she sees what it will be -- carved in sections, each cut a different name. Further still, how it's going to be dinner. The woman considers how crispy she could get that pork belly, how loud the skin would be between her teeth. She's got no time for reminiscing, no nostalgia for a creature's dead body. Not in her line of work, on either side of the supernatural divide.

"Never a bother," she slips in between Heron's words as she works the cleaver, the scent of cold flesh and distant copper permeating the space. Valka can't hide her growing amusement as Heron speaks though, both at the other hunter's clear conspiratorial tone as well as her own knowledge of the subject.

"Is that so? Kinda suspected as much on account of he walked into my shop recently looking to cut some sort of a deal," she hums in response, swinging her cleaver through another solid few inches of pork. "It's a shame, how that whole Halstead family sort of fell apart, hm? But the Brotherhood's dying out."

She says nothing of her own son, returned to her a wolf after over a decade spent apart.

"He came to me sayin' he knew Book and how he wanted to broker an alliance. Hell, I saw him contemplating some of the bait blood I keep for fang-faces just like him. But what'd he want from you, Heron?"

[heronyearwood]

Things have... stagnated. She knows they have because she's here chasing a lead in a fucking roller rink like she's living out the ghost of her mother's Disco heydey. The entire place is fucking sad. Dying Americana - this place really is on its way out. When somebody collides into her back, she nearly tumbles forward, but the inks and metals and flora wrought into her skin beneath her clothes provide preternatural strength and more than adequate alacrity to keep her balance, and she instead spins on her skates, looking at the pile of... boy? trying to keep his own bearings. "Trouble, trouble, trouble..." she coos, in tandem with the music. Trouble's right, as she feels that familiar, tingly burn along the length of the glyph under her shirt, along her breastbone - it's been lingering since she chased the boring case in here, but with this little accident her clavicle's practically on fire. Heron offers a steadying hand, first by way of polite kindness, second by way of confirming a suspicion. "Hi."

open to any, moonlight skate

"I don't know who Taylor Swift is." He is unaware if that's an offense deserving of punishment ⸻ Part of him wants to cover and protect his face for what could potentially come. When his chest tightens, he has to remind himself that things are not violent here, in the real world, where the pack is nothing but a child's nightmare story. Speaking the truth is not a bad thing ⸻ He doesn't know who sings the upbeat song blasting out of old speakers.

His ears ache slightly, no more than his feet, but it fits the place. "I know All-Stars. You know ⸻" Gripping the railings hard enough to cut off blood, he attempts to move his body to a tune he is familiar with ⸻"Somebody once told me, the world is going to roll me ⸻ You know, Shrek."

He doesn't know what he is doing here, in a place that reeks of stale socks and old sweat, where his feet can barely balance his body. He didn't particularly want to be alone at home, and he couldn't stop thinking about how his uncle had promised him to take him skating before ⸻ Well. One thing leads to another, and here he is, losing his grip and tumbling forward in the direction of another skater. "Oh shit, I'm sorry." Shouldn't werewolves be cool and skilled? What a shame of a wolf and boy he was.

[heronyearwood]

HERON YEARWOOD — NOUVEAU GRAND OPENING

With a fellow hunter's name in the billing for display at the Nouveau Ribbon Cutting, Heron brings herself out of whatever Fellowship endeavor she currently labors under in the effort to attempt to woo him away from the Brotherhood, and maybe sniff out a few leads in the process - either for mortal bounties, or slips with a bit more bite.

[heronyearwood]

She doesn't trust him, not one lick. Maybe that will change, maybe it won't - the Brotherhood are a faithful lot except when they aren't, after all. All for the cause until they aren't. Politics, she thinks to herself, pft.

Reid at least seems to be the kind of crazy that means it, for whatever that's worth - she doubts she'd have the resolve he seems to be displaying to doggedly off himself for the betterment of the world were the scenario reversed. It's all violence to her, it's just that sometimes the teams change.

Cold fingers wrap around her own palm, warm and pulsing quietly with blood. "Well then, come inside, won't you." She says, with a smile, stepping aside and gesturing to her office; "Welcome to my little Sherlock office. Have a seat, tell me a bit more about the nature of the case."

Evidently, she'd spent her time wisely; coming up with an ultimatum. It's Halstead's second hunter-given one, at that. And he has this terrible feeling it won't be his last, either.

What does that mean, Yearwood? The question is in his gaze, flashing with the obvious dislike of being left in the dark (far too long). He's spent so long growing up, knowing the black and white of life; monster, kill. Mortal, help.

Then he died and his world became shades of grey.

Is it selfish that he doesn't at first care that Heron wants to bury a potential fix — if they miraculously manufacture one? Reid thinks so. But, grey applies to his morals too, sometimes. It's read in his hesitation; that traitorous narcissism. So brave and noble in his arrival, so childish and cowardly in hearing her bend to mediate his favour; bargain; exchange, morbid curiosity. Whatever gets a woman like her off at night. He won't allow himself to be hopeful, this arrangement is merely a hail mary of an attempt for a maybe. What is a little bit more pain to entertain them, when he's convinced he's already suffering the most in other ways.

"You're implying that you don't care if monsters continue to multiply..." It's a thought, spoken aloud. One of those too-loud ones that should stay hidden. He's got no right to be horrified or pissed that Yearwood might sooner see creatures spread like an infection just so she can keep her stake sharpened. They were once protectors. Halstead should have realised years ago, those odes are outdated; lost to the greed of destruction. "— Because you're afraid to be bored?"

It's psychotic. It makes him feel insane for warring with whatever twisted nature has taken root in his stomach and morphed him into a pale, shell of undeath. I'm a monster, and I still care for the world more than you do? What the fuck is a moral fight going to do for him here? Reid shakes his head, hands running through his hair like he's genuinely bargaining with a demon; that everything he's been enduring has simply been the opening act. He pauses to look back at her, disbelief smears his features, his arms lowering from their movements.

And the woman puts her own hand over the line dividing them like she dares it to get bitten off.

That hesitation stretches out in length, second by second; the steady beat of a heart, thump thump —

Reid licks his lips, debating what choices he has here when he's been the one pulling teeth with Heron on the doorstep; metaphorically on his knees, pleading for a partnership. He manages to verbalise the acceptable conditions: "We bury it, at the end of it all." He's careful, with making sure they share the same level of options, "Or you bury my ashes, Yearwood. That's it."

He meets her hand, and an icy palm connects with its warm counterpart.

[heronyearwood]

guess who came to dinner

who: @kannivalistic where: Two Sundays

Heron enjoys watching Valka work on the pig. She finds the dull thud of a cleaver on a block rhythmic and soothing in its own way, like a bassline. She's no stranger to butchery, her chosen nomme d'guerre of Carnifex chosen specifically for the imagery it might afford. "So the reason I'm bothering you, Valka..." She leans over the table, pressing her fingertips to the clean surface as she smiles wide. "the one Halstead son, Reid, really isn't dead after all - I'd heard rumors but I'd had doubts - he's a vampire, Hadley, and he's a suicidal one at that." Briefly, her lip tucks itself under teeth as her eyes scan the chopping of the pork on the block. "And he wanted my help." The entirety of the sentence is couched in incredulous giggling, as if she can't get it out with a straight face.

[heronyearwood]

"If I do this - see if we can find a way to slash that little prefix off of your death, you serve a purpose beyond just filling a phial with whats left of you." She turns her head. "We find this vampire panacea you're looking for, we use it on you, and then we bury it. We don't show it to anybody else, Reid. You got that? Because I do this job because it excites me, and I'm getting too old to be bored - I don't have any intentions to spend my days knitting because I killed off a third of my job security." Heron's neck stays turned, like she's daring him to bite - to taste the acidic citric vervain and tart boysenberry brandy filtering into her blood; there's a thin, deliciously sharp white-oak athame in the loop of her belt, behind her back and beneath her untucked blouse that wants him to, because he's insane, and desperate, and pitiful. It's almost adorable.

Her hand crosses the threshold, offering an accord.

He might have preferred if she continued to laugh or jibe at him. Because standing in the pitiful silence of Heron Yearwood pouring herself another drink is just salt in an already open wound. Reid's beginning to understand the frustration of being barred entry to houses — he doesn't want to cause harm, but it's increasingly more degrading to be stood outside, on the porch like a child or a dog being told to sit and roll over just to get a whiff of a bone.

The most monstrous thing he might admit he's done tonight is glare at her like he's allowing the detrimental thoughts to win, for a second or two. Then, he shakes it off and takes another step away from the porch, to kick back against the wooden post that holds up the veranda. Distance, helps.

So when she's finished painfully dragging this out, he's certainly past bitter. But, he's already played how desperate his hand is to be here to begin with.

Reid didn't come with a tangible offering, besides himself. He has little to give in the way of valuables, or resources. Barely out of the woodwork of his hidden existence as it is. He's got a job, that pays his rent. It's not like he's admitting how powerless to Heron he is, with the neglectfulness of his new abilities. She's probably smart enough to tell, just by looking.

So he's plain with it. Catching her indifference to the question; he can lie about it, but it's not going to get him anywhere. Jerking his head up, once he steps forward — driven there by the powerful force of intrigue.

She's so close, that he can scent the undertones beneath her liquor and its woody, caramel notes. Her skin vibrates beneath the pulse at her throat and the one at her wrist. He swallows. "What do you want?"

[heronyearwood]

Heron breathes out a heavy sigh. In all her years in this trade, she has never been subject to a vampire practically begging to be tortured. She isn't so obtuse or stupid to suspect that such is exactly what Reid Halstead is stood outside her door asking about, but its close enough. She pours herself another drink, face scrunched up in the imperious work of weighing the options here. The Fellowship threw off the yoke of old tradition where the craft of Hunting Monsters were concerned; every Hunter, at end of day, had their reason for being in the work. Some had their revenge, some had genuine noble cause, others were simply there to kill that which they deemed inhuman - trained from a young age to accept her parents' zealotry and nobility, but she had long since realized something, and that - leading to her being a founding member of this fledgling coterie of monster killers - was that she did this shit for the love of the game. Pour. Clink. Tip. Sip. Book might kill her for this. But she's dealt with an angry Book before. Valka too, might have her misgivings, but at the end of the day, what did she really care.

"I'm assuming you have something to offer towards this endeavor?" She asks, tone like an annoyed schoolmistress. She's wandered close to the doorframe now, close enough that Reid could, if he so wanted, simply reach in and tear her out of the shaky safety of her officefront. Tip. Sip.

It's not laughter that greets him as he watches Heron's dramatisation of his shocking statement. Every ounce of self-control is redirected for half a second to stop his eyes from rolling at another person prepared to batter down the walls of his agonies.

For a moment, he steps forward and nearly hits the threshold — an instinct to help, in case she had been choking. His hands brace on the doorframe of the door. Suddenly, it's bothersome. Reid leans against it; his palms press on the painted wood, asking: "Are you o—?"

Reid.

Her recovery cuts him off.

Eyes break away from her speech, and divert to the side, to stare at a side table, with a wilting flower in an ornately crafted vase. "I was a hunter too, Yearwood. I know perfectly well how to turn to ash."

Halstead shoves back off the frame. It cracks once, but he creates the distance between himself and the invisible barrier that protects the Fellowship hunter.

"There's been ways with magic that have dampened — lessened the affliction. I don't see why science or something alchemic can't work to try and resurrect the dead. Necromancers do it, why is everyone so afraid to try another way?"

A beat, to get to why he's at Yearwood's door. "I know the Fellowship has the resources — the kind of people unlike the Brothers do. They would never attempt such a sacrilegious thing." It's not bitterness for his former people, but despair. If he thought they would, he'd have gone there first, and not a dozen witches who were either making his state worse or too temporary to tolerate.

That, and witches seem to keep dying on him or joining undeath.

Reid sighs, waiting for the blow of Heron's impatience to be the death of him: "Don't tell me you wouldn't like to see how far you could push it, with a creature who was willing to sit and endure it?"

[heronyearwood]

She rolls her eyes at an even larger dose of his self pity, shaking her head. She could interject, explain, but why bother - Halstead has a purpose for being here, and he doesn't strike her as the type to opt a direct hit. The ghost of the past months looms large; the concert, the gala, the witches coming for their own. All of these have forced the Fellowships' meagre presence in this city to reassess. When he finally answers her question, Heron's eyes go wide like saucers and she sputters the sip of her drink, hastily putting it down to avoid further indignity, fanning her cheeks for a moment while she clears her throat.

"Reid." She shakes her head, standing. "You want a cure?" She shakes her head again, somehow more incredulous. "Rosewood, ash, poplar, even." She points a finger over her heart. "That's your cure, Reid. A morning walk if you're for something more dramatic." This is pitiful, seeing a hunter who bought it reduced to this sort of false, faint hope. "What makes you think it's even possible?" There are other questions, surely, but that one will quickly establish if this is all simply a huge desperate waste of both their times.

He doesn’t want to believe this is a mistake. But it’s beginning to look an awful lot like one. As if he’s poked a tiger too long, in their own den and it’s finally up from free lounging. It’s preparing to decide if the invader is a meal or a battle.

Reid prefers neither option. “I didn’t come to fight.”

There’s hesitation when she speaks like he might assume this is an ambush tactic; she might be distracting him; that she’s summoned hunters from the sideboard she leans comfortably on. They might be convening as she talks. But he doubts he gets the honour — Heron is enough hunter to do the damage all on her own, he’s sure of it.

“Funny,” What else can he say in her amusing speech of his torturous demise? “I don’t know what you find interesting in a man being struck from the roster, but consider me so glad for you,” The bite of his tone is laced with sarcasm. But he’s sure she’s smart enough to pick up on that.

He’s prepared to be laughed at, again. “A cure,” he states, like it’s the most obvious thing in the goddamn world. Before the hunters were enlightened, monsters were just shadows in stories. What is to stop them doing the next near-impossible revelation? “You cure them — you break their curses, whatever it is. You kill them, by fazing magic out of existence.” He’s not sure where to start — or how else to answer the question; hunting them, is effective to a degree.

But Reid won’t last, in his turmoil of being a foot in one world, to the next. So his options are equally as cold as death and ash — or playing guinea pig and an antidote.

[heronyearwood]

♖

People can change, surely. She's changed. Booker, probably the closest thing she has to a friend these days, has changed. People change. Monsters don't change. A Vampire is a perverted, twisted reflection of the person's life set to haunt the world and play on emotions to rob people of blood. A Werewolf is a wolf in sheep's clothing, no matter how kind and sweet they are in the day, they're always a hungry beast when the moon shines high. Witches play at protective and guarding sweetings, but for every spell there's a price, and if your magic doesn't stop at pickling herbs and grinding chicken bones into a poultice, it's probably too high of a price.