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She wasn’t supposed to be there.

Not in the way she had been. Not in the way that meant recognition passed through her like lightning through old copper. She’d walked into the apothecary like it was routine—because it was. Or had been, once. Lavender, valerian root, chamomile if the harvest had been good and the wards outside town didn’t taste too much like blood. Irene kept her hood up and her steps quiet.

And then she’d seen her.

Of course she had. Threads like Thera’s didn’t fade. Not really. And maybe Irene had known before the door even opened, before the air shifted and time stuttered like it sometimes did around certain people. Thera had always been a person like that. A knot in the pattern. A point of memory so old it didn’t always feel like hers.

She hadn’t spoken. Couldn’t. Not in the way either of them would want.

She’d looked at Thera the way she’d looked at the house after the fire. The way she’d looked at her mother when her mother stopped looking back. Like everything she thought she understood had just warped an inch to the left and taken her name with it.

The message had been simple. A tilt of the head. A silence shaped like warning and apology all at once.

Get out. Not because you’re in danger —but because I am.

Irene wasn’t seen easily these days. And when she was, she made sure it was on her terms. This—Thera, the ghosts stitched into her threadboard, the way the room still held the echo of her father’s name even now—this was not on her terms.

She’d followed the crow.

Of course she had. What else was she supposed to do? Pretend like the storm in her chest wasn’t picking up? Pretend she didn’t remember the dream-stained plane where Thera had shown her the truth instead of speaking it? Where memory had become mirror and Irene had shattered it with her own hands?

So she walked, damp air curling into her collar, boots dragging on uneven stone.

She would find Thera. She always did.

And when she did, she wouldn’t say thank you. She wouldn’t say I’m sorry. She wouldn’t say anything she didn’t mean.

But she would say..

“You’re harder to shake than most.” A beat. Her bright blues flicker, unreadable. “What are you even doing here?”

Closed Starter for @ireneclermont

Location: Tūmatarau Apothecary

An errand that was supposed to have resulted in a restock of her lavender and valerian root stores as well as maybe a run in with Kiri had quickly turned into a clandestine weave back to her store. Fate sure knew how to keep Thera on her toes.

When she had arrived at the apothecary she should have been more surprised to see Irene Clermont, but Thera would be remiss if she hadn’t wondered after the faintly speckled thread that been weaving its way through her board.

She had tried to warn him. She really had. But even those drawn to magic often questioned things they saw as just possibilities.

Thera had been glad to see her, alive and whole. But she hadn’t wanted to be seen with her. Not abnormal, especially for someone with as many secrets as Irene.

She didn’t doubt that his line had been cut. Now with his eyes stood in a different face, boring into hers. Eyes she had also seen when turning favours with Reverie.

Irene had looked at Thera like she had seen a ghost. Communicated as only she could that she needed Thera out. In a different location. C&C, a warded space, Thera’s space, an offer. Irene would find it, through magic or by her hunter’s whim.

Thera glanced up at the sky as Shay swooped over head. Thera smiled, her crows would guide her if nothing else.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"

The wind had teeth out here.

Irene hadn’t meant to come this far. She’d walked until the roads narrowed and the town thinned behind her, until her ears were full of the sea’s growl and the storm’s hush. Her boots stuck twice on the walk down to the rental lot, the mud soft and mean beneath the heels. She could feel her wards straining —distant, but tethered still—and every bone in her body whispered that she should turn back.

She didn’t.

The dock looked abandoned, lights off, boats lashed in neat crisscrossed lines like some ritual offering to the waves. Practical. Smart. Not enough to keep anything truly safe. She didn’t expect to see anyone, let alone the figure mid-run at the edge of the dock.

Irene stopped short just as the woman jumped.

Not slipped. Not fell. Jumped. Clean. Deliberate.

It was the sort of motion that knew gravity’s rules and simply chose not to care. The sort of leap that wasn’t meant for onlookers. So when the woman surfaced—sleek, sharp-eyed, at home in a way that made Irene’s skin feel too tight—she held her gaze, because looking away felt wrong. Unkind, even.

“You know,” Irene said, once the silence had grown long enough to deserve words, “Most people call it a day when the storm starts naming things.”

Her voice didn’t carry well over the wind, but she didn’t raise it either. Just enough for the other woman to hear, if she wanted to. Just enough to be real.

She didn’t ask what she was. Didn’t need to. There were some things you didn’t poke with language.

Instead, Irene’s hand found the railing, fingers brushing over the salt-slick wood.

“I won’t stay,” she added. “Didn’t come to interrupt.”

But she hadn’t moved yet, either. The kind of stillness that came from knowing you weren’t the only one who’d come out here to remember something you couldn’t name. Or forget something you couldn’t shake.

Let the sea judge them both.

Who: Open (0/4)

Where: PL Boat Rental

If the wind were still able to fill her lungs, Ha-Jeong knew that it would taste like magic. She knew storms, had sailed in more typhoons than she could count, and this was no natural storm. But she found that she cared little for its origin. She was reminded of her centuries at sea. How she had volunteered herself for solo deck duty in almost every storm the ship had seen. It had been a selfish move as much as it had been a logical one. Her body could simply withstand more than her human crewmates, but she had also loved the feeling of being swept up in something so much bigger than herself.

She sat on her dock, the humans she usually employed to run the place summarily dismissed and sent to safer pastures. She had gone around on her own and spider tied all vessels that hadn’t been stored on racks or in the 3 operating boat houses. The dock rocked beneath her, undulating with the sea.

Ha-Jeong stood and started to remove her jacket. The other haenyeo used to call her ‘ineo’ when she had spent her decade on Jeju. That was perhaps her favourite way she had spent the 90s. She cocked her head from side to side as she took a starting position. If she was honest with herself those ladies hadn’t been the only people to accuse her of having a more aquatic than human nature. Ironic for this was perhaps the one human idiosyncrasy she had left, as she ran towards the edge of the dock, wind running through her hair, she was reminded of a little girl centuries ago who would have done the same.

As she flew over the water, the tumultuous storm current sipping around her body, she felt a presence appear behind her on the dock. As the water welcomed her, an embrace no colder than her own, she quickly broke through the surface to meet the eyes of someone who was either just brave or just stupid enough to witness her in her human indulgence.

She doesn’t flinch under the weight of his stare. Don’t look away either. Just watches him, steady, like maybe if she looked long enough, the shape of him might make more sense. It doesn’t.

His laugh isn’t funny. But neither is the fact that she hasn’t really breathed in weeks. Not properly. Not without it catching somewhere just beneath her ribs, like her own lungs are playing tricks.

The grocery bag shifts against her leg again. The handles are digging in now. She doesn’t move to fix it.

“I know I’m here,” she says finally, low and even. “You think I don’t?”

That’s all he gets. That’s all she owes.

The truth isn’t something she’s ready to let out in the open —not in the salt-slick dark, not under the eye of a storm that already feels like it knows too much. Home hasn’t felt like home in a long time. Her father's face doesn’t sit right in her memory anymore. Like someone rearranged the pieces when she wasn’t looking. Her mother is not the person she once knew. Even the air inside that house feels secondhand, like it's already been used up.

But she doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, she stays where she is, soaked and cold and choosing, for some reason, not to walk away. Maybe because there’s nowhere else to go. Maybe because the sea isn’t the only thing with pull.

“You’re not the only one the storm likes,” she adds after a beat, voice quieter now. Not a challenge. Not quite a confession either.

Just a fact. One of many they don’t have names for yet.

        césar does like the sea, he does find solace in its violence. though, he’s far from it. peace, solace, safety, calm. he has no use for them, the effort of reaching them isn’t worth the stretch because this war-torn wild body is all he knows. the sea, at least, has her moments. césar does not. his waves never find a gentle lapping at the bay, they never curl delicately. his beauty is a furious chaos. and today, through this storm, so is the sea’s. he hopes she swallows him whole. he doesn’t want to swim, he wants to go straight down. 

        in the storm, everything blurs together into rough crevices of water and madness. the pockets of light don’t mean much underneath the clouds, illuminating scarcely anything. with his nose stuffed full with the smell of rain- wet dog -and magic, his senses gather next to nothing. césar doesn’t see, or smell, or hear the woman until she speaks, and it produces another dry laugh from him.  “ can’t it be both? ”  insane, and looking to get dragged into the harbor. yeah, it sums up césar pretty neatly, and it almost draws another laugh from him.  “ ‘cause, well, it’s both, chiquita. ”  ever his father’s son, his pride roars inside his chest. but the wrath is louder, greedier, hungrier, and so it always wins out. besides, he’s standing here, dark curls strung down in his eyes by the rain. pathetic, perhaps, but terrifying, ravenous. césar meets her eyes from across the street, through the storm, tearing away from the sight of the drowning docks.  “ it is funny, you’re just not in on the joke. ”  at first, it’s like a stubborn instance, piercing into the blue of her eyes like, eventually, she’s just going to get it. but he’s not avi. he doesn’t care. avi’s playing leader to his group of mutts and teo’s off the grid and so here he is, alone, bone-cold, seeking vengeance from the sea for an act he wanted to do him-fucking-self.  “ big fuckass storm’s the best thing’s to happen here since i got back, hardee-har-har. ”

        dark gaze had migrated back to the water, though it finds its way back to miss judgy blue eyes.  “ and, anyways, ”  césar makes a point, something he’s sure she’s already realized.  “ you’re here too. ” 

“You,” she said, dry as old parchment. “Are the reason we keep finding glitter in the mortars.”

She didn’t look up right away, just let the words hang there, flat and bone-dry, while her thumb flicked once more over the tablet before finally setting it aside. Her chair creaked as she stood, already moving like she knew where this was headed.

“Left something, huh?” she asked, tone resigned. “Again?”

No true irritation in it—just the kind of tired that comes from expecting a mess before you even see it. She crossed the shop with the easy familiarity of someone who’d cleaned up after Allie more than once, passing the shelves with the faintest glance, sharp eyes already scanning for the usual hiding spots.

She crouched down near the broom closet, reaching into the gap between the cabinet and the floorboards without needing to be told, and came back up holding a small glitter-streaked notebook with the caution of someone handling a hex in progress. “This thing,” Irene said, holding it between two fingers like it might explode into confetti at any moment, “—has been migrating around the back room for three days. I found it in the tea drawer. Under the peppermint.”

She offered it out, though the look on her face said she’d very much like to throw it in a salt circle and set it on fire.

“Tell your little chaos spirit to stop kicking it under the shelves,” she added, dry as the desert, “or next time I’m keeping it. Glitter pens and all.” And then, the faintest raise of one brow. “Urgent-ish, huh. You’re lucky the walls like you. I was two minutes from bolting the door.”

        “ sorry, irene! ”  it comes out in a chime, almost song-like, and allie meets irene with a sweet, bright smile. the wind sweeps her in and she slips inside, the bell matching the sound of her voice. she is late, and she is sorry for it, but she’s made it just in time before irene locks herself back up somewhere that allie imagines is very cold, very dark, and all sharp corners. like a punishment she can’t understand, even though she’s trying.  “ it is, pinkie promise. ”  her eyes bleed sincerity as she nears the counter,  “ well … ish. urgent-ish. ”  and she did, a hundred percent, forget her dreamless tea, but she’s always forgetting that. really, she’s always forgetting everything, which is why she’s here.

        “ i, um, left something behind, so … thanks for not yelling at me. ”  and while she’s not quite sure where it is, she knows she’s left her something around her somewhere. that something being a little journal, full of bundles of mismatched, scrawled notes in glitter gel pens. anything to make sure she remembers. sometimes, all it takes is breathing in the apothecary for her to learn something.

Irene’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to pass for one if you weren’t looking too hard. “She’s definitely got her own methods,” she murmured, sliding the parcel gently off to the side like it might shift on its own if given the chance. “Half of what she says feels like riddles until you’re knee-deep in it and realize she gave you the answer three weeks ago.”

She didn’t comment on the sleep. Just nodded, once—like she understood more than she was willing to say. Like maybe sleep didn’t come easy on her end either. At the mention of the cabaret, her gaze flicked back up, steady. Not judgmental—just observant. She knew the name. Everyone did, if they’d been in Port Leiry long enough to learn the map beneath the map.

“Mm,” she said again, a catch-all sound that meant, I’ve heard of it, that tracks, careful in there. But she didn’t say any of that out loud. Just moved to straighten a jar on the shelf with idle precision.

She wasn't the first Phial she'd seen come through. They move quiet, but they move together. Irene never met one who didn’t have at least three others watching her back.

She let that settle, then turned back, gaze sharp beneath the tired.

“You ever need supplies on short notice—real ones, not dreamless tea—I keep some stock off the books. You just have to ask.”

She didn’t say it with warmth. But she said it with clarity. Which, for Irene, was as close as you got.

"There's a good poppet," she says, air affectionate, and flashing a smile to Irene. "Kiri's methods are a madness all their own, I understand."

To the next question she offers only a shrugging motion at first before continuing; "Night shift, mostly. I've my own troubles finding sleep. Or had, at the time."

Sleep does come easier now; with the death root being fed and the sun going down in the sky every day she's no longer stuck in the cyclical horror of an endless winter's day. The strange dreams, not her own, have also been ferreted out; a situation she is dealing with, or planning to, slowly.

She smiles again. "I work down at the Satin Cabaret now, playing my wiles and wares there."

A knowing wink. Phial is a federation of self-motivated witches; relatively free of dogma or overbearing code. Support eachother, and keep eachother secret and safe; it is a rule which even she has no qualms abiding by. If Kiri trusts this woman here at Tumatarau, so will Briar.

“Mm.” Irene tilted her head slightly, like she was considering whether to answer or how much to give away. Her hand hovered near the tin she’d just nudged back, fingers idling at the edge like they hadn’t quite decided what to do next.

“You’ll get names eventually,” she said. “But names don’t matter as much as habits.”

She shifted her weight, leaning one hip against the shelf. Her voice stayed soft, steady. Not whispering — just quiet in that way people get when they know too much and don’t like wasting breath.

“There’s one who wears gloves all the time. Doesn’t shake hands. Always asks about the fire exit but never uses it.” She glanced toward him, holding his gaze for a second. “Don’t let him sit with his back to the wall.”

Then a shrug, like maybe that was too much detail or not enough. “There’s a woman who comes in once a month to leave something under a seat cushion. You’ll think she’s harmless because she tips too much and smells like cardamom. She’s not.”

She let that hang a moment.

“And if anyone brings their own glassware,” Irene added, “don’t ask what it’s for. Just take your break early.” She didn’t sound afraid. Not even particularly rattled. Just resigned — like she’d been on the wrong end of these people’s stories before and didn’t see the point in sugarcoating it. “You’ll be fine,” she said, after a pause. “You’re already asking the right kind of questions.”

Then, almost like she was remembering something else entirely, her gaze flicked back to the mug in his hands.

“And if it ever feels like the lounge is... watching you? That’s because it is..”

Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. He took another sip, trying not to dwell on the fact that it had drawn him in as well. There was little reason in the way he’d stopped on the listing for Obsidian and hadn’t bothered to look elsewhere, and he felt less and less like a person with every passing day, since Jyoti had been put into the ground.

“Somewhere quiet, where they could meet or make deals, I can offer. I’d have to figure out where the previous owner was sourcing the blood...” Jaya said, drumming his fingers on the sides of the mug. It cannot be through legal means, not to an establishment like this. “I... don’t particularly like the idea of serving it in crystal stemware. Both for sanitary purposes and in general.”

Potions-witch or not, Irene was offering him real answers. He’d be a fool to refuse. “Who should I look out for?”

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.    

She shouldn’t be out. She knows she shouldn’t be out.

The wind was picking up by the time she stepped off the curb with her bag of essentials —a few candles, batteries, water purification tabs, and a box of matches she’d definitely pretend she didn’t already have four of. Enough to make her look responsible, not enough to make her feel less like she was just pretending at being calm.

The spell at the house would hold. It had to. The wards were layered, written sharp and tight into the corners with salt, red thread, and sweat she hadn’t meant to cry. It was good work. She rarely admitted to being proud of anything lately, but that spell… it would hold. Long enough for her mother to sleep through the worst of it, anyway.

And Irene? Irene needed air.

The streets weren’t empty yet, but they would be soon. Most windows had already been boarded, the sharp metallic tang of storm-braced magic riding the breeze. Her boots left muddy half-prints on the uneven pavement as she walked, head down, the plastic bag swinging at her side. She didn’t have a destination. That was the point.

Anywhere but home. Anywhere but there.

The docks called to her—not because she liked the sea (she didn’t) or found solace in its violence (she absolutely didn’t)—but because it was the last place anyone with sense would linger. She could pretend for a few minutes that she didn’t belong anywhere else either.

And that’s when she saw him.

At first, just a shape in the distance, upright and dark and laughing in the rain like something pulled too fast from a dream or a warning.

Her steps slowed.

It wasn’t the figure that stopped her—it was the feeling. The storm recognized him. That’s what it felt like. The wind didn’t whip around him, it curled. Familiar. Like he belonged to it, or it to him. She didn’t know which was worse.

“You’re either insane,” she called out over the howl of the wind, voice even but thin from disuse, “or looking to get dragged straight into the harbor.”

Irene stopped a few feet off, the grocery bag bumping lightly against her knee. Her hair was soaked, curling around her jaw, her coat clinging heavy to her arms.

“And you’re laughing like it’s funny,” she added, quieter now, more to herself than him. “God. What the hell is wrong with you.” What the hell was wrong with her?

But she didn’t leave. Not yet. Let the wind scream. Let the sea rise. She wasn’t ready to go home either.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         thing is, césar knows the smell of a storm. 

         it’s fiercer, now, when he’s far more wolf than man, so much so that dark fur covers every inch of him, deep sharp canines lie behind a curled lip. giving way to the monster of his body is supposed to let him feel free, feel wild, but all it’s managed to do since coming home is make him paranoid. a wary, feral animal, nobody likes him at all. it doesn’t make him useful, only dangerous. césar likes it this way, keeping everyone out without even having to touch them at all. just the threat of him is easy enough.

         thing is, césar should know the smell of the storm, should know better than sticking around as the clouds start to darken and churn, how the air begins to taste of ferocity and the water grows vengeful. but, honestly, he just doesn’t fucking care.

         he cares just enough to force his body back into human shape. dark curls, and dark eyes, and the same kind of wild imbued in him as there was moments before, as a wolf. he walks through the city, watching as the weather just begins to worsen. some unfortunate soul has left their laundry out in the pouring rain, césar plucks it from the line. even cold and wet, it suits him just fine. now clothed, he watches the sky, the water, lets his eyes trace over port leiry, even hurricane ridden. the storm is beautiful, the ocean wild, he feels right at home. the boats are sure to be dust by dark, similarly to any person sticking around, and the docks …

         the docks.

          huh, how about that. yuisa’s pride and joy, soon to be swallowed by waves. césar laughs. he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. as he wipes both an amused tear and a sweep of rain from across his face, he finds that his own hurricane plan doesn’t matter as much. he’ll figure it out along the way, wonders if his previous indiscretions at that college party two years ago would bar him from entry of the stadium. césar tips his chin up to the sky, and breathes it in.

The tablet made a quiet thunk as Irene set it aside. She didn’t speak right away—just sat there for a moment, watching the woman through the dim light like she was weighing the effort it would take to say no against whatever her own bones were asking of her tonight.

“It’s fine,” she said finally, voice softer than before, if still tinged with fatigue. “You’re already half inside. Might as well finish the job.”

She reached across the counter, palm open without fanfare. “Let’s see it.”

Her gaze skimmed the paper quickly, practiced. She didn’t react outright—just let her eyes pause on the larger quantities, the odd placements, the way none of it seemed to belong together until maybe it very much did. Verbena stood out the most, of course. Not just the amount, but the shape of the scrawl around it. Like the hand that wrote it hesitated, then leaned in.

Irene’s brow ticked, barely. Not suspicion exactly. Just attention, sharpened.

“You making tea,” she asked, deadpan, “or trying to banish someone politely?”

She handed the list back, already stepping toward the shelf-lined wall.

“We’ve got most of this. One of the berries might be low—I’ll check in the back.” She paused at the threshold of the back room, glancing over her shoulder with a dry look. “No promises on the verbena. That much, you might need to pre-order unless you’ve got friends who forage on private land.”

Then she was gone a moment, the quiet of the shop resettling in her absence. When she returned, she had a worn basket in one hand, already filling with a few small paper packets.

“Couple of these are in stock now,” she said, setting the basket on the counter. “I can hold the rest for pickup tomorrow if you want. Won’t charge ‘til it’s all in.”

And then, more gently, like it just occurred to her, “You alright walking back this late?”

We closed five minutes ago. The words hit Juniper like a sack of bricks as she has one foot in the door and the other still out in the dark and damp. Sage on her shoulder and a series of bags on her left arm, she had been shopping all day. She peeks her head out to look at the sign on the door, then down to the watch on the inside of her wrist. This motion repeats a couple times as she comes to terms with the fact that… yup. She was too late. 

“Scheiße.” she cursed under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She was still getting used to navigating at an appropriate speed for her condition and she had vastly underestimated how long her errands would actually take. Running a hand through her hair she took a breath, the subtle earthy note within the shop's air doing wonders to settle her frustrations. 

“That’s… unfortunate. Sorry for the intrusion. I saw the lights and assumed I wasn’t too late. Thank you. It certainly isn’t so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow. I just-” She hesitated. Not wanting to bother a person off the clock. But her bones ache and the idea of having to walk all the way back here in the morning was less than inviting. “I am so sorry. Would it be too much trouble to just take a look at this list. I don’t need to buy anything tonight. I’d just like to save myself the trek tomorrow if something is currently out of stock.” 

She waited with bated breath for any form of confirmation before going inside and handing over the small piece of paper. Scrawled onto it was a variety of herbs, spices, dried berries and the like, an impressive variety but no single ingredient had a strong or obvious purpose when places next to the others. Most notable among them was verbena. In a rather large quantity.    

“Mm,” Irene hummed, a noncommittal sound. She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she looked like someone slotting a puzzle piece into place. “Sounds about right. Most people who end up here didn’t mean to. Or didn’t plan to stay.”

She watched him over the rim of her own mug now, steam fogging faintly between them.

“The lounge has always had gravity. Even before it was Obsidian,” she said, voice a little lower, like the walls might be listening. “Something about that corner keeps pulling strange things toward it. People. Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. You know.”

Or maybe he didn’t. But if he was still sipping the tea like that—carefully, like someone who grew up taught to test for toxins before taste—then she figured he knew enough. You can't ignore the magic.

At his question, she let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.

“Yeah,” she said. “There’s many.” Her eyes flicked up again, sharper this time. “Some just want somewhere quiet. Some want to make deals. Some want to drink blood out of crystal stemware and pretend they’re still civilized.”

Irene reached over to nudge the tin of tea leaves back into place on the shelf.

“You’ll learn which is which pretty quick.”

Then, almost as an afterthought—though her tone was too even to be casual—she added, “You ever need help knowing who not to serve… you can ask.”

“Neither. I simply needed a change. I wrote to some people who I hoped would be helpful to know in a new town, and received a response from someone who lives here.” Jaya said, leaning back on the counter before Irene set down the mug.

He took the mug gratefully, cooling the tea a second longer than necessary. An old habit, one he was barely even conscious of at this point, taking in the scent for any clear signs of known poisons. His mother was a careful woman, and no potioneer worth anything would let their children roam free without ingraining the basic instincts to avoid being hurt by any rivals. All he could pick up was chamomile, and a note of apples. He took a sip as he considered what she said.

“I've never tended bar before, no. I was only trying to purchase the apartment above the lounge. The owner was clearly sick of being here, and wanted to be rid of more than the apartment. I got a very good deal on the whole place.” He paused, the mug an inch from his mouth. “I... had not considered the more nocturnal customers. Are there many, in this town?”

WHO: @rivenvictors WHERE: close to her house.

She noticed him halfway down the Wash Tub Laundry. Not the loud kind of tailing—no heavy steps, no labored breath—just a rhythm behind her that matched hers too cleanly. Too careful. A step when she stepped. A pause when she adjusted her bag. Like he’d practiced it.

Irene didn’t stop walking.

She kept her pace steady, let the keys in her coat pocket clink just enough to sound like someone not paying attention. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold, but her fingers curled tight in her sleeve, brushing the hilt of the knife she always carried. Just in case.

At the corner near Calley Street, she turned left instead of right—off the main path, into one of the narrow lanes that ran crooked behind the houses. She didn’t glance back.

Let him follow.

The moment his foot hit gravel, the blonde moved.

She pivoted fast—knife out, weight behind the motion—shoving him hard against the nearest wall. The blade pressed just below his collarbone, sharp enough to draw a bead of heat through the fabric.

Then she saw his face.

The breath caught in her throat.

“…Riven?” she said, voice low, disbelieving. Her grip on the knife didn’t ease, but something else shifted behind her eyes. A flicker of confusion. Recognition. Anger, maybe. Or something older.

He looked the same. Just not as tall. Not from what she could remember, but then again, how long had it been?

"Rivy?" she said again, softer this time, like the name alone might anchor him into being. Like if she said it wrong, he’d vanish. Her knife didn’t move, but her breath did—tight in her chest, caught between disbelief and something colder.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, not really to him. More to the night. To whatever twist of the universe thought this was the right time. Her pulse was loud in her ears now, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if she was awake at all.

“Because if I’m dreaming, this one’s just mean.”

Irene raised an eyebrow, faint but visible. She slid the ledger a little off to the side and reached for the kettle tucked behind the counter. “The Dubai?” she asked, glancing up just long enough to meet his eyes. “Like —skyline, sand, too much glass and not enough shade?”

The water hissed softly as it hit the mug, steam curling into the space between them.

“Can’t imagine why anyone would trade that for Port Leiry,” she added, quieter now, more to the mug than to him. “Unless you lost a bet. Or pissed off the wrong kind of person.”

She didn’t press. Everyone here had a reason, and most didn’t come up in polite conversation. Still, she turned slightly to pull a tin from one of the wall shelves—something floral, mellow, just enough bite to keep a conversation upright.

The shop filled with the faint scent of chamomile and dried apple peel.

“Irene,” she offered, setting the mug down on the counter between them. “I help keep this place from falling over when it rains.”

A pause. She leaned on the counter now, one hand still wrapped around the cooling kettle.

“If you’re taking over Obsidian, you’ll want to meet the people who trade here after dark,” she said. “Half your ingredients won’t come through daylight doors.” A faint shrug. “Some of your patrons either.”

Then, after a beat —so casual it almost passed unnoticed—“You ever bartend before? Or just dive straight into ownership?”

Jaya cocked his head at the list connecting each of the herbs to the sort of drinks they’d go in. He’d not heard of nightmouth. That had to be a personal nickname of the apothecary owner for some sort of flower that was edible or usable in cocktails, maybe dried hibiscus? He really needed to google how to make these sorts of things, if he was going to run this place properly...

The offer to actually make tea gave him pause. To his own surprise, he didn’t immediately deny it. “I’d like that, thank you.”

The lounge was dimly-lit and sparsely populated enough to be a quiet place that he could drink and could keep himself from being alone without getting overwhelmed with a too-noisy bar, but it didn’t have any familiarity. The alchemist’s shop felt too close to home for him to be comfortable, but he didn’t want to leave it too soon. “If it’s not a bother. I’m Jaya, I just moved here from Dubai.”

Irene didn’t flinch at the mention of imprisonment. Just blinked, slow and tired, like the word didn’t surprise her — or maybe like it just didn’t matter here. Plenty of people came through this town with things trailing behind them, and it wasn’t her job to follow any of it home.

“February,” she echoed, half to herself. That would’ve been after she got here. After she’d unpacked more than she meant to in a house that still felt as empty as the moment they walked in. She hadn’t touched her inheritance yet. Back then, she thought she’d be in and out, keep her head down, move on. Not still here, not letting the town get under her skin.

She caught sight of the tattoos when she moved — didn’t stare, didn’t ask — just noted the language like you do a warning carved into stone. Then her eyes dropped to the parcel. The mix didn’t surprise her, though the mention of wombs did. Irene’s jaw shifted slightly — a faint, reflexive tension — but she didn’t rise to it.

“Appreciate the warning,” she said, tone steady. “Won’t add it to the tea. That blend’s for the everyday folk. Not the kind looking to sink too deep.”

A pause. She finally reached forward and pulled the parcel the rest of the way toward her, careful not to jostle it too much.

“I’ll tag it for storage,” she added. “Stephens’ll know what to do with it, if it’s meant for her.” Her voice softened a little, though not by much. “She doesn’t write much down. But she remembers everything. Like a bad habit.”

Irene let the silence sit for a beat, then looked up again, brow just slightly furrowed. “She teach you much? Or were you mostly here for the night shift?”

"Briefly, when I came hitherto from imprisonment." She has always taken little and less care in masking her nature as something not altogether mundane. She makes no bones about either her nature as a witch nor at her prickly nature. She invites conflict, because conflict often feeds that which needs be fed. Besides, she's among allies here in Tumataru;

"Took my leave come 'round February, working the late shifts here for the nightfolk and latecomers. I find shop work dreadfully boring even if the goods aren't, much more fun, dancing for wandering eyes." She rests a hand, dotted with old ancient tattoo-work - symbols and glyphic signs that will make sense aught anyone else but her - on the parcel she's set down and slides it down the counter.

"Hemlock, hogsweed, and a bundle of oily snakeroot that might find home in your Dreamless Tea. Take care though, only a dram of that if you do, lest you accidentally fallow the womb of some poor woman who simply seeks help for night terrors."

There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.

“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”

Still, she didn’t say no.

The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.

She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”

Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.

“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”

A pause.

“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”

She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”

Another beat.

“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.

“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.

Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.

Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”

Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”

That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.

"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."

Irene’s head tilted, just slightly. Enough to mark the shift from disinterest to something closer to mild surprise.

Obsidian.

That explained the way he hovered near the door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted in or out. Lounge owners always had that air about them—too many faces, too many favors, too many half-forgotten deals with people who’d since vanished or turned into smoke.

“No need,” she said after a beat. “You’re already here.”

She set the tablet down on the counter, screen gone dark. The glow stayed on her face a moment longer than it should have, like it didn’t quite want to let her go.

“Kiri did keep records. Not exactly in a modern system, though. More... scrawled-in-margins and labeled-by-mood kind of thing.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a small ledger bound in cracked green leather. The edges of the pages were feathered with use.

She opened it, flipping past notes in looping script, some in ink, others in pencil or chalk, as if she couldn’t decide on permanence. Her finger stopped somewhere near the middle.

“Obsidian. Yeah, there’s a list,” she murmured. “Mostly mixers. Citrus peels. Wyrmwood. Fennel. A dried flower she only ever wrote down as ‘nightmouth’—which isn’t a real thing, far as I know, but there’s a jar back there with that label, and nobody’s gotten sick off it yet.”

A small pause. She didn’t look up.

“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow, if you want to talk shop while I’m less... halfway out the door. But since you’re already in, I can get you a starter list now. Most of it’s in stock.”

Then, as if realizing something too late, she added, more quietly, “And if you want tea, I’ll make you some. It’s not dreamless, but it’s warm.”

She didn’t know why she offered that. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—like something about this place pulled at him in a way he hadn’t expected. She understood that feeling.

Too well, maybe.

The mixing scents of the herbs in the air, rosemary the strongest, almost made him turn and walk out. They say scent is the sense most connected to memory, and his days spent reading and working in his family’s own storage rooms packed with herbs were not too far behind him. What should have been a familiar comfort brought only a heavy ache to his chest.

“I’m not here for dreamless tea, although I’d take some if it were offered.” A poor attempt at being congenial. The shopkeeper was clearly annoyed, and it was his own fault he’d pushed off restocking some of the shelves at the lounge for this long. “I, ah.. I am the new owner of Obsidian. I believe the previous owner of the lounge had a running deal with this apothecary to keep certain ingredients stocked? His labeling system is disgusting, so I was unable to identify what some of the empty jars held, but I was hoping there were some sort of store records for his purchases?”

It wouldn’t be any magic herbs. The Obsidian lounge seemed to thrive off of the rumors of potioned cocktails, but he had yet to find any real proof of them. He was fairly good at discerning the magical from the non-magical, in a botanical sense, and none of the empty jars had smelled like anything more powerful than verbena, which is really an herb of debatable magical origins, if you really thought about it, and—

No. He dragged his attention, kicking and screaming, from that train of thought, focusing back on the shopkeeper. He was trying to distance himself from potioneering, not throw himself into a new town’s version of the same thing. “Should I come back tomorrow?”

Irene’s eyes flicked up just long enough to catch the shape of the woman behind the counter before dropping back to her screen. One corner of her mouth tugged — not quite a frown, not quite amusement.

“Goody Stephens isn’t in,” she said simply. “Hasn’t been for a while.”

She finally set the tablet aside, screen darkening with a quiet blink, and leaned back in the chair like someone bracing for a shift in weather. The stranger —no, not quite a stranger, not if she knew where the burdock root was kept and didn’t flinch at the smell of the drying room —had that familiar kind of confidence that came with previous access.

“She’s not here,” Irene said, tone dry but not unkind. “But I can take the parcel.”

She didn’t move to grab it. Instead, her gaze followed Briar’s fingers drumming on the wood. The sound grated just enough to set her nerves on edge, but she said nothing about it. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “New-ish.” That was all she offered at first.

As for the dreamless tea, she gave the barest shrug. “Nothing fancy. Valerian, skullcap, pinch of nettle. Enough to knock out a restless hedgewitch without leaving ‘em foggy in the morning.” She paused. “Does what it says. No bells. No vampire facials.” That part almost sounded like a joke. Almost.

Then, softer —less like a statement, more like a test, “You worked here before?”

"Oh I wasn't aware Goody Stephens closed shop til dawn, given... well..."

Best not be outing things to new faces, Briar - a bit of subtlety, indeed. This one might be soft-headed, might need held by the hand; it has slowly dawned on her in her some five months living in this town that not all are quite so well equipped to handle the mania of the second, darker world lurking below the obvious.

"I'm simply here to drop off some fresh herbs for her; a gift in exchange for a favor paid; is she not here? Zounds, I'd have spoken with her."

Briar adjusts a parcel under hear arm, drums her heavy acrylics along a counter as she peers about the shop before settling on Irene. "You're new - or I simply haven't been back in a while." Then she's behind the counter, like she knows her way around; Goodwoman Kiri had helped her along in work for those first few months. Now she has slightly more exciting employment, but she's a soft spot for this little shop still.

She leans on the counter then, looking up into the woman's eyes, trying to suss out a first impression. "Dreamless tea, though? Do tell."

She never knows, with things as they are. Things are sold with strange names that are all smoke and spice and no delivery on substance. She'll never forget the disappointment that was vampire facial.

Irene blinked against the brightness of the laundromat lights, the hum of the machines loud enough to fill the silence between them. Her jacket still smelled faintly of dried mugwort and something acrid from the burner at work —something half-finished she hadn’t meant to forget.

She didn’t meet Shiv’s eyes right away, just stepped in and let the door fall shut behind her.

“Nothing,” she said after a second, like the word had to work its way through a wall first. “Maybe I just need to wash some clothes.”

It was a lie. The kind that didn’t even try to convince.

She hated asking favors. In general, she hated asking anyone for anything. It made her feel like she owed something back, like she'd cracked open a door she couldn’t close again. But the Shahs… her dad had trusted them. Said it more than once, like a scratched-up record he couldn’t stop playing. If anything happens to me, find the Shahs.

It was even in the will. Right there with the money he left her and a half-page of careful handwriting that tried too hard not to sound like a goodbye.

So maybe it meant something. It had to.

She dropped a small canvas bag beside one of the empty machines, but didn’t open it. Arms crossed loosely, fingers tucked beneath sleeves like they might betray more than she was willing to admit.

“Place felt quiet tonight,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Too quiet. I figured I’d go train for a bit.”

There was a pause. Not quite hesitation—more like a space to breathe.

“You feel like joining?” she asked, finally glancing his way. “Could use the company. Or, I don’t know... maybe just the noise.”

WHO: @ireneclermont WHERE/WHEN: Wash Tub Laundry / Late Evening

If Shiv had a nickel for every secret Brotherhood witch they knew and had a detailed case file for, they’d have two nickels. Two nickels with uniquely different baggage Shiv had no clue where to begin with. 

Gemma’s case was less cause for immediate concern. If things blew out of water, Gemma still had her brother and father to cover for her. That wasn’t the case for Irene. She’s an outsider coming in; Irene has no one within Port Leiry’s Brotherhood Sect to come to her aid in the worst case scenario... No one except Shiv that is. 

Technically all that Asim wanted in his will was a watchful eye on the Clermont Girl but Shiv found themself acting as their fellow hunter’s keeper unprompted. Not that Shiv's father could blame them. Compassion is a Shah bad habit: plucking up weary hunters and taking them under their wing like stray cats needing a home.

Tonight Irene comes into the laundromat with a glint in her eye. The kind of glint that gives Shiv pause. “Clermont.” Shiv stands up from where they were sitting behind the front desk, turning their full attention to the young hunter. “Working late again, I see. How can I help you?”

tag drop.

Mera Cross-stitch update 02/10/2020 ----- 50 - 55% done!

The weather and lighting has been horrendous for the past week, so I had to muck around with a filter, but this is pretty representative of the actual colours.