heronyearwood - Tumblr blog

[heronyearwood]

Great. Painkillers are fine but she was hoping for something a bit more thorough; beggars can't be choosers however, and she senses a helpful sort here. Heron limps over to where she's directed and sits, grateful for a resting moment but still tense to leave - no word from either Alejo or Booker or any other Fellowship hunter inside yet. "One of the Vampires in there... he tried to make me drink his blood." She says, working herself into tearfulness. Her marks would be obvious in their magical nature to any witch whose ever crossed paths with a hunter, in or out of friendship, but many of her designs are old Brotherhood sigils in nature; which she hopes will obscure any of her involvement with Siltshore.

She could help with minor things but a broken arm? That was way above her pay grade. But luckily she had enough health training, along with using magic to practice on injured animals, to help stabilize the other's arm. "Alright, but all I can do is take away some of the pain," she said, not wanting to get the other's hopes up. "Come on, there's a stump right there if you want to sit on it"

[heronyearwood]

immediately following Heron's escape

When Heron emerges from the landscaping, she is a mess; mask broken, dress a shambles, blood smeared on her chin and throat; but she is alive, though her arm, already not in its best shape after the Phial Witch's thorny poison, has some sort of pain, a likely fracture from the ungentle landing. It'll heal overnight with the Vampire blood in her gut, but she has to be careful not to die in the next twenty-four. Still, she needs to set her arm if she wants to avoid unpleasantness later. When she finds somebody setting up a triage in the outer courtyard, she slumps against the wall of The Sentinel. Her seeking sigil burns on her skin; somebody ahead has witchblood, and she gnaws at her lip. "Could use help setting a broken arm," she calls.

open masquerade ball starter - part 2

She may not have been the most experienced at healing people but she sure as hell could try. So, having made a make-shift infirmary just outside of where the originally fun event had taken place, she wrapped a make-shift bandage around a small child's arm before standing up, dress now covered in blood. "I feel like there are way more qualified people to be doing this than me," she mused with a small chuckle, looking to see someone near her. "If you need help you should probably find a nurse, I've reached about my limit for the night"

[heronyearwood]

who: self-para where: Masquerade, Part II

She was in the restroom when she got the text from Booker. She was on her way out of the Bathroom when she heard the Vampire address the whole of the party; she stays behind the door, voyeuristic in her spying, watching things unfold.

It isn't all cowardice; she has a very good memory, not eidetic maybe, but close enough for a Hunter's work, and though Alejo will be missed, he is providing important field research as she watches just who among the party-goers lunge for him as he's flung to hungry masses. They may be wearing masks, but many of them are showing skin, many have unmasked. The Fellowship will remember. She isn't expecting the second part of Markus Villier's little incitement though, and that is when she decides it's pertinent to find the others and issue a retreat before any of the younger or more hot-headed among them do something incredibly stupid. She doesn't get that chance, though, because she realizes that, in the course of fixing her makeup, her glamour has been dispelled, and with her glamour gone, she's been made. A vampire kicks her to the floor of the restroom through the door and is on her with a blur of movement. The fight is fast and the fight is furious, and as the filthy thing tries to snap at her and suck her dry, she flips the script, going for his, sinking human teeth into vampiric flesh and taking a mouthful of blood before mustering all her strength and kicking him into an open stall, flinging a spike of ashood into his shoulder - it doesn't kill but it does enough to slow him as she dives for the ornate frosted window and smashes through with a flare of her Hunter's mark, weathering ribboned skin and a heavy impact to the ground twenty feet below.

[heronyearwood]

"They are crafty," Heron signals, as if he should be able to glean everything she means from those three words and her tone; You could always expect them to have something up their sleeve, some spell or rite, or, God forbid, a curse. It's why they're useful tools and annoying prey. And like any hunted animal, that unpredictability eventually becomes predictability.

And when Cam answers, she gives a little golf clap. "And he's right again." She smiles, a wide, toothy thing that seems to threaten to split her head in half.

"What if I could offer you a tool that could just... point you in the direction of night-stalkers. Surely you're not so doggedly attached to the frustration that comes with figuring out where to start."

"Are you absolutely sure? Witches are crafty." He's known a few, shared a bed with a few, and used even more. There's no shortage of knowing just how conniving they can be. But he doesn't hate them the way Heron seems to, judging by her expression which shifts once more back into a smile.

She moves, and his head turns with her for a moment. But the answer is an easy, simple one. "Knowing who is who and where they are. Obviously. What of it?"

[heronyearwood]

She screws her expression up at the way he phrases it - yes the witches had managed to grab a few of their little adventurer's party - but that screwed up expression loosens into the same shit-eating grin she always wears. "Yes, but I'm going to guarantee you that we're going to get more out of our haul than they will theirs." She paces around him. "What is the most annoying part of hunting the freaks in this or any town down, Cam? Be honest."

He has joy. Just not for this - or her. If anything, he simply seems bored of the situation. "We've caught up. You're well. I'm well. We're both hunting." As if that's the only thing they need to talk about. But he doesn't tell her she needs to leave or that he's tired of her presence.

He just.. waits.

"The mutual kidnappings? Yes, I did." His head tilts her way, narrowing his eyes slightly. "And the business with the music festival. What reason do you ask?"

[heronyearwood]

As they rush alongside a low, brick building, Heron's rushed lunge bites her back, Blair's witchcraft smearing her blood across the masonry while Heron catches up. She recognizes the witchwriting a hair too late, though, and yelps as spikes fire out of the wall tearing through the cloth on her sleeve and taking a large bite from her arm, making her recoil and letting Davenport gain distance. But hunters are prepared, and she is nothing if not a hunter. Blood ripping down her sleeve and wrapping vineline around the fingers clutching her knife, her free hand's fingers worm their way to her lips where a sharp whistle sounds out. Ahead of Blair, another hunter swings from around the corner, checking the witch with his shoulder to knock her to the ground while Heron maneuvers around the blood-born spikes and closes the distance between them, swinging a boot across her face before reaching down to haul her up by the shoulder. "Why run away, babydoll, we just need a little bit of that witchblade." She spins the knife in her hand, lifting blair as the marks on her wrist and hand flair with wild energy, the pain of its burn on her flesh blind to her nerves in this moment. Putting her forehead against Davenports, she smiles. "In another life maybe you could have realized the perversion of nature people like you represent, and you could have course corrected."

She drives the knife into her side, deeper than the shoulder strike from earlier before hiding it away in a sheath marked with runes that light up in the presence of witchblood. "Consider this an advanced tutorial." Heron steps back, and gets a signal in her ear before looking Blair over - it looks like she won't survive the trip back to their staging ground, and so Heron sighs. "They're no good to us dead, leave her. Let's rendezvous with Book and Alex before they all realize what's going on." She kneels down in front of Blair, thumbs some of the blood from her side, stares at it with morbid curiosity, and then wipes it off before standing, wincing at the gouge in her own shoulder. "Let's roll."

Fuck fuck, FUCK. The chorus of swears echoed through Blairs head. She wasn’t sure what was just her racing thoughts, and what was falling out of her mouth as she scrambled through the dark of the festival in chaos. The angry shriek of the hunter echoed in the witches ears. It reminded her of the old tales of Banshee’s her fathers used to tell her.  Something filled with vengeance that would stop at nothing to tear Blair to shreds. Blair wasn’t sure if she had done anything to stop the she-devil or if Blair had just succeeded in pissing her off.

The unspoken question was answered by an explosion of pain radiating out from her shoulder. The blade sinking deep into the muscle. The force of the blow sent Blair stumbling forward, slamming her body into a nearby building as she grabbed the wall trying to stay standing. She hadn’t known pain like this since the night her fathers died. She reached back to touch where the knife had pierced her skin, fingers coming back with hot sticky blood. Fuck she wished she was some sort of fucked up blood witch so she could do something more useful in this moment. 

Blair started to trace a familiar sigil with the blood onto the stone of the building hoping to cause spikes to flare out and impale the hunter behind her. She was unsure if it would even work or if it would be enough.

[heronyearwood]

Heron's eyes are wide with surprise and maybe a little bit of second hand embarrassment as Liam looks to her for... what, agreement? Commiseration? Validation, maybe. "Did your parents strike you a lot as a child?" Is all she really says, sipping on her own cocktail and flipping her hair to one side as she rests her chin gently on her hand and her eyes judgementally on Liam. She looks around those nearby, who are largely either stunned into quiet or are awkwardly grinning through it. She could appreciate a good bully, surely, but not when it infringed on her own personal leisure time. "We're all very impressed. I'm actually dripping in my seat right now."

where: any bar

who: open to all

Liam tapped his fingers on the counter of the bar, impatiently. He'd ordered a drink fifteen minutes ago and if he didn't get it soon, he was going to flip. Patience wasn't his strong suit, nor was being sober for a full fucking day. But he had managed. He had. But now, he needed something. Something strong. Something to take the fucking edge off and--

A tall glass of something was sat down in front of him. The pungent oder of beer filled his nostrils and he grabbed the glass. "This is not what I fucking ordered." He rose his voice at the bartender before grabbing the glass in his hand, lifting it, and dropping it onto the ground. The glass shattered on the floor; beer spraying everywhere. "And now you have something to clean up." His eyes flashed with anger before turning to the person nearest him. "Honestly, how fucking hard is it to get an order right? It's their fucking job."

[heronyearwood]

"Oooh, mongrels." She says, playing up the drama of the second word before she waves a hand between them and makes a digusted scoff. "I'm just trying to catch up, Cameron, you joyless motherfucker." She takes a few steps back, eyeballing around his gallery with a casual eye. He has ever been a frustrating colleague in the business of hunting monsters - in it for the wrong reasons, or rather, not enough of the right ones, she'd say. But he is effective, and he is a valuable contact, despite factional discrepancies. Heron turns to regard a piece of hung work. "I'm sure you heard about the action down at the Mausoleum?"

He doesn't mind the nickname - she would know it's his preferred name. But his head tilts as she enters his space. He doesn't offer her a reaction and doesn't particularly have one to offer, either. With Heron, he's grown used to her brand of.. interaction.

"Up to? As in hunts?" Surely, that would be the only reason she would come along, yes? His lips twitch into something of resembling a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes - blank and uninterested as ever.

"I've eradicated an infestation of mongrels within the last month, is that what you'd like to hear?"

[heronyearwood]

"Well I resent the idea that I need anything from anybody, Cam." She says, familiar whether he approves or not. "As for why I am here, well, maybe it's not a matter of needso much as desire." She's moved across the gap between them, close, closer than most might dare, she reckons, but not so close as to disallow him any personal space.

She smiles, arms folding over the lapels of her blazer. "What are you up to these days, aside from the same old same old, hm?" Her eyes scan around, the grin, pretty but shit-eating, never leaving her features, a warm contrast to his cold demeanor.

He looks up to the pieces and gestures to one - "Not mine." And then another across the room. "Mine." The one that isn't his is a little more tame, but less tasteful. His is in black and white, save for the splash of red against skin and the blossoming purple around what seems to be thighs and arms. It had taken a bit of time for the subject of this particular photograph to adjust, but he'd been meticulous. As always.

"Good evening, Heron."

Small talk is just about the worst bit of interacting with others, and he dreads even opening his mouth to talk about how things are - so he doesn't. She can infer what she likes. Instead, he simply asks, "Are you coming about the happenings around the city, then? Or simply need my assistance?"

[heronyearwood]

There's a charm in hunting witches, Heron has always maintained; unlike Vampires and Werewolves and other such monsters, who all came with a fairly consistent and common pool of tricks, witches were a mixed bag, able to pull off any number of tricks - seemingly at random. Of course, over the years you learn what to watch for, you learn that there are limits and there are types and there are schools to which these people adhere. And with every category comes a counter.

Case in point, the exploding glass phial is unexpected, and when its toxic, colorful haze hits her she shields her eyes a hair too late. It's enough to at least preserve part of her vision, though immediately her eyes water over and her nose sets on like a faucet, the entire affair of it eliciting an annoyed and pained shriek.

But Heron is, by day's end, a Hunter, and an accomplished one - and one doesn't survive into their fourth decade in this career by being unprepared. Something low and latin gravels out of her throat as she takes off, using more of her ears than her eyes to follow the startled, drunken Witch. Already the chant of visio manifesta is telling her where she needs to go, and her vision is enough shape and color for her to lunge, knife high, and drive it for Blair's shoulder.

Something was deeply wrong, Blair could feel the churning sensation in her gut that told her she needed to be anywhere but where she was. The deep unease was sharp enough to cut through the cross-faded cloudy haze that occupied her mind. The last time Blair could recall this level of trepidation running through her body was when the hunters paid her home a visit back in louisiana. It didn’t make any sense. She was at a fun music festival with a gorgeous woman who seemed focused on getting her alone to hopefully maybe get laid. 

 The war between Blairs instincts and her intoxicated logic left her distracted. She couldn’t react fast enough when the other women practically became a blur of motion. Blair hit the ground hard as her legs were kicked out from under her. A gasp tore through her lips as the air was pulled out from her lungs. Blair dissolved into a coughing fit quickly. She rolled quickly through the dirt and scrambled back to her feet to face the women. 

“Carnifex. You know typically I'm into women who can kick my ass but I promised my therapist I would retire the knife play for my own health. So I’m gonna have to decline.” Blair snarked back at the women that she could now identify as a hunter. Blair used the response time to  reach into her pocket, pulling out a small vial of herbs she quickly tossed into the air. Muttering the triggering incarnation as the vial exploded into what Blair had affectionately been calling magically enhanced pepper spray. It would burn like a mother fucker without the right magical wards against it. 

Blair tried to use the small magical explosion to scramble away. She knew she was out classed. Maybe if she wasn’t flying higher than a helicopter she could have stood her ground. However she was a realist. She knew she needed to get to a place with people, lose the crazy bitch and regroup.

[heronyearwood]

There's a reticence in Heron to break off from this; to keep this girl talking, to see if she can, through some deception, squirrel her away for the bag and tag. Under the brace on her arm, conspicuous and inconspicuous all at once, the mark, cobbled together from Brotherhood Rite borrowed and bastardized by the fellowship, the glyphics and runics that compose her new brand itch and burn with proximity.

But alas; the last thing she needs is all the air getting sucked out of her lungs because she got cocky, and when your intel is rumor and squawk from around town, it's not exactly actionable. So while Jac does her best to answer fake questions for a fake editorial in a fake magazine, Heron does her best to fake that she's interested. Still - confirmation of the young woman's magical nature is useful, if only for down the road reasons. "You did great, lovey," she says, thanks so much for your time! She catches a compatriot's eye - the one she'd been trying to flag down in the first place, and watches as they pantomime tapping a watch. "I'm gonna go see who else I can get to squawk into my little box, though, yeah? You have a good night." With that, she shrinks off towards the wider crowd; "Oh!" she says, spinning around. "Enjoy the show tonight, yeah? It's gonna be killer."

Again, Jac feels like a bug under a microscope, and while she's never been interviewed for anything before, for one, she's not entirely sure that this even is an interview, and two, she doesn't think she should be the one representing the town for a publication in Portland. She looks around nervously, as though someone might come and rescue her, but people are all wrapped up in their own worlds and families. "Yeah, the tourists like it, but I dunno... I think there's probably some truth to it. I mean... if there were witches, and they did get burned, that'd make for some pretty angry spirits."

Jac tries to make herself sound how the stereotypes describe teenage and young adult women. Vapid and lacking any sort of depth. The problem is, Jac couldn't act normal in under the best of circumstances, and she's definitely not in those now. She tries to think of a reason to refuse the woman, unsettled by the way her instincts are bleating like a lamb, despite this very ordinary-looking human in front of her, but her mind blanks.

"Sure, um, yeah okay," she stutters out, eyes going slightly crosseyed when Beth produces a recorder. "Well like.... you know, like I was saying, we have a good ghost tour and um... some of the local, um, indigenous tribes? They've been setting up a museum for their culture which is really interesting and unique." She's rambling again and Jac forces herself to stop talking. "Is that... okay?"

[heronyearwood]

"Well, how now. I am just running into all sorts of people I know here, it' wild. At least this time it's somebody I don't want to peel like a grape."

She has higher hopes for this little meeting with Cam; she's always enjoyed the rare few chances she's had to work with him when she's in this neck of the woods. Of course, those were years ago now, and now she finds herself on the opposite side of the fence. Hopefully the coming days will give her time and opportunity to talk sense into him. If not, well... at least she knows who to go to for tasteful decor.

Eyes drift to the piece he's just unhung from the wall and her lip curls. "Yours, or somebody else's? Beautiful, either way. How is life, Cam?"

McCormack may be one of the few Brotherhood hunters she has hope for - he's never been one for the frippery, the pomp, the rites. At the same time, he's also never been overly concerned with the cause either. Still - this drop-in is necessary in her eyes.

closed: @heronyearwood

In with the new, out with the old. He lifts a frame from the wall, and sets it gently on the ground. The photo within it is shot in black and white, with a tint of red where ropes dig into skin and blossom into bruises. It's one of his favorites of this particular set - but a new one should be arriving within the week.

When he stands, there's a woman entering. At first he thinks it's a customer missing the sign on the door. And then, upon further inspection - a quick glance to her hands and neck - that he realizes he's in the presence of another.. not quite like him.

"A house call?"

[heronyearwood]

Blair's salacious proposition crooks Heron's lips into a smile, and she plays at being coyly bashful, turning her head to one side as if she's dodging it. "I'm glad you like them." She utters out a quiet, small laugh - more at the irony than at any sort of real nervous response.

It's a tiny bit of a tragedy that there isn't more time, she thinks to herself - a bit of heated passion before the penny drops could make all of this just all the more satisfying after the fact. It doesn't matter though - she'll have her fun either way.

With Blair closer, Heron smirks. "Oh he's very exclusive, but I could definitely arrange for you to meet him."

That's when the lights vanish from the Pavillion and the festival grounds, and when Davenport is distracted enough, Heron moves in a flurry of movement - not so quickly that she could be mistaken for a vampire, but faster than any normal human's reflexes could carry, her leg shooting out to throw the witch off balance before her hand reaches somewhere under the slip of her sundress, producing a thin, rude knife older than either of them.

"My name is Carnifex." She says. "You can come with me on your feet or in spirit, it doesn't really matter."

Summerfest was a time for Blair to let loose. Responsibilities left to the wayside for one weekend of getting drunk and more than a little high. Summerfest was one of her favorite times of the year in Port Liery. Attending with her aunt had been one of the catalysts for Blair crawling out of her depression pit as a teenager. As she got older it became the time of the year where she could relax. Ever since Kiri died Blair had been feeling her skin grow tighter, suffocating her and as the idea of relaxation had fallen father and farther away. Blair was treating the festival as a chance to breathe, releasing some of that tension that had been strangling her. Falling back to her old habit to feel something again.

Blair was a couple joints deep with a cider in hand when the women had approached her. Blair was a sucker for a pretty face. She didn’t think too deeply about the questions. The festival was a hot spot for fucking bloggers, and everyone had a podcast nowadays. Blairs limbs felt floaty, and the idea of going somewhere a little more private with the older women was just appealing enough to not set off alarm bells for the witch.  

“We could skip this whole interview and go for the more personal questions?” Blair drawled out, voice slurring slightly from the combination of drugs and alcohol in her system. “Have you ever considered getting in front of the camera yourself? Your tattoos are worth documenting” Blair would say, eyes squinting in the dim light as  examined the silver and purple. The movements of the symbol tickled something at the back of her intoxicated mind. A memory long buried. “I don't think I’ve seen those before..” Blair trailed off. Cursing herself for being unable to place it.  “Who did them? I'm always looking for a good artists for my next piece” That's when the lights went out, Blairs instincts kicked in. Screams reached her ears. Something was Wrong. Blair slowly reached for her pocket where she kept a few of her emergency spell components. “What was your name again?”

[heronyearwood]

who: @whisperdreams-blair where: Tidal Pavillion, Summerfest when: Right Before Shit Goes Down

While by no real means a town of bumpkins, Port Leiry certainly is a town of rubes, or, perhaps more likely a town full of cretins with a vested interest in not raising a scene. Vampires lurk in blood-crazed hives, werewolves pack into the fringes of the woods and quiet areas. Witches congregate in secretive mass. She'd like to be out of here before the dogs and neck-biters know whats happening, which is strange to consider, given they're her favorite thing to hunt. But, this is all in service of that, and so, the stage is set, and soon the die will be cast. But the Hunters? Hunters, while protectors of The Great Secret, are not meant to indulge the instincts of monsters, and if the witches don't want to help rid the town of this filth, they can be made to. And if The Brotherhood, feckless and soft, is roiling under its own weight with reticence to act? Everything burns, at the end of the day, and a hunter who doesn't hunt can serve better as wood to fuel the fire. She's had to forego the Feng-Lindon heir - wrong place, wrong time, but she can hope somebody else has the chance she didn't.

Still, she thinks to herself, it's not a total loss. Blaire Davenport is one of a handful of names pried from the tongues of captured witches. A Phial witch. Pretty, young thing.

It is well-off that Heron's studied in hunting, and its unfortunate that in hunting monsters, one sometimes needs to employ fire for fire. Spellcraft is a human art, one that can be learned, at least in a lay enough form to be of benefit to a hunter, given the weak un-focused nature of the Fellowships' brands. In her forty and some years Heron's mastered two glyphic wards - one that detects magic, and another to mute its effects on her mind. The first of those is etched into her skin via her Fellowship mark, and the second is bent into a lace of silver and amethyst around her neck.

"So yeah I feel like, right here, this is a good frame for you, I just have a few questions, real casual, real easy." She's lured Blair in with equal parts outsider charm, asking questions about the area, and equal parts cougar-tinged flirtation - the hip, trendy Gen x music enthusiast act seems to be getting play. It seems overkill to go in for this kind of playacting, but she loves lie. She loves the thrill. It's like dress-up, but with violence.

[heronyearwood]

"You know I did some reading, as recent as the eighties they were still culling, out here. I don't know what's changed, but we need to show them why none of these things are to be trusted. This town deserves a better class of protector - it's infested."

Book motions to the marked out hive, looks back to their bloodied and beleaguered guest. "Once we have what we need we won't have to waste time like this." She snatches a phial and a needle from beside him. "All this effort to find one little nest is inefficient and outdated. If you want to go in there, I'll touch base with the others, see how things are progressing, and then meet up with you - maybe I'll go see if that washout has any solid info."

Turning back to their captive, Heron moves to the side, and she can hear the barest hint of words trying to struggle out from behind huffing breaths and grinding teeth. "I don't think there's enough spark in this one to keep around for long." She says, more to herself than her partner.

"I'm going to do you a favor, you wicked little thing." She smiles, gloved hand gentle on the jaw while the other sticks the needle into the wrist. "Aconitite tincture - Wolfsbane if you want to be medieval about it. We usually save this for the Dogs, but normal folk don't like it either, and since you've all become so comfortable here in Port Leiry together, well... what's good for the goose, amiright?"

There's only the weakest protest as she administers enough of the purple solution; maybe not enough to kill a wolf on its best night of the month, but certainly enough to kill a man five times over. She steps back abd takes a seat as the shaking starts. "But who knows, maybe the spirits will help you."

He drinks his beer to the soundtrack of screams and begging, punctuated by questions that sound too gentle and innocent for the violence that is driving them. He's not bothered by the torture, watches the entire scene dispassionately and he's only halfway done with the bottle by the time Heron extracts information alongside a few teeth.

Book stretches, rolling the tension out of his neck as he wanders up beside Heron, looking over the map and the points of interest she's marked. With a pen, he circles each one and shakes his head in disgust.

"Right under our fucking noses and didn't lift a single finger to stop 'em," he snarls. It's a common complaint he has against the Brotherhood's leadership. All talk and no action, constantly striving for diplomacy with monsters and beasts incapable of understanding the term of it. "Now we gotta come back and clean up all the shit they missed."

He points to the vampire hive with a grunt. "Start here and make our way inwards? Can test out some of the new blades we picked up."

[heronyearwood]

"Bottom of your to-do list? Huh..." Stepping off of his bike, for what seemed like the second time, she folded her arms. "Explains so so much." He's close to her, too close for comfort, but Heron'd never been one to be intimidated by moth-eaten washrags like Hare. "I think maybe we're done here for now." "Oh, yes, us forty year olds and our MySpace Top Eights, amirite?" She smiles at him, brightly, and takes a ginger step backwards. He had his uses. He'd eventually serve it, and maybe - just maybe, she thought - he'd unfuck this lackadaisical attitude surrounding the all encompassing danger represented by witches so willing to work with monsters. He's ranting about something as she moves a few paces up the street before opening her car's door, but as she goes to enter, she stops, looking at him and his bike over the roof of the vehicle.

"You're right about one thing, Marcus. We are definitely at war." Being called a child is just another hallmark, to her at least, of an old man too burnt out of his prime. "This whole town? A big, wide open no man's land. Might wanna stop straddling that fence so hard. That high up, it makes it way easier for you to catch a stray bullet."

"You came here for my knowledge, I gave it," Hare shrugged. He'd become used to not being listened to, what with the way they'd edged him out back in Louisiana. But Hare had survived what others hadn't, had done his dirty work in the field while others had sat behind desks, barking orders and taking credit. He hadn't carried the family name, which meant he was little more than a dog on the chain.

Here though, there was something of a vacuum of power, nobody quite in charge. Too many ideas, too many plans and actions, nobody working in sync with each other. He blew a few more smoke rings, watching them dissipate in the air. "Witches in general, bottom of my to do list. There's new wolves who aren't under control, and I'm confident the Lomidzes are up to something. Most of the witches aren't interested, or even capable, of doing any real damage to humans. Except Seabrooke, of course."

Top of his to do list was getting Heron to vacate his bike. He didn't want pull her hair, but he wasn't above it. He leant on the side of it, getting in her space, signalling that she ought to move. "We're at war. Last thing you want is to be fighting on multiple fronts, especially when there's more of them than us. Learn to prioritise - or don't. Your funeral. And for God's sake you could stand to actually talk to one another. You're all treading on each other's toes. Start a Whatsapp or whatever you kids do."

[heronyearwood]

"Oh?" She says, with faux interest faux-piqued, and her smile splits her features in half. "I'll definitely have to check that out."

Heron looks around, first for her compatriot, and then for nobody in particular, before her stare rounds back on Jacqueline. Heron is, she will later admit, a bit tickled by this mouse-ish girl, who, if intel serves, is a potentially prodigious witch from one of the largest unified Covens on the Pacific end of the country, if not on the continent itself. It makes the lack of eyes on the whole rotten lot of them even more egregious - the Brotherhood, in their lackadaisical reticence to serve their purpose, have let them fester unfettered.

Without betraying her inner distaste, Heron smiles, fishing a digital recorder out of her bag. "Well, as a local you mind answering a few questions? Just stuff about the festival, the town, stuff like that? Totally fine if not, I can get out of your hair if you've got somewhere to be."

She blinks when Beth suddenly seems more interested. She wasn't really expecting genuine interest, and quickly tried to wrack her brain for real local history that didn't touch on the supernatural. Jac starts to say something about one of the local indigenous tribes that have a place within their borders, but the question on burning witches makes her choke slightly.

"I... I don't know anything about burning. Or about witches," she adds quickly, with a 'duh' expression on her face that is hopefully convincing. "Um... we have a good walking ghost tour, I'm pretty sure that takes you to the old lighthouse they say is haunted."

She shuffles her feet a little, feeling put on the spot under the reporter's gaze. "Besides, in Salem, I'm pretty sure they proved that most of those women were just victims of misogyny."