Realistic or Modern Task Force: Valkyrie: Blood Feud (Closed)

[StormWolf]

D.O.G.S.
The Division of Occult Global Security

__________________
Task Force: Valkyrie​

Clemens Park, Kent, United Kingdom - 0300 local time

The Towton estate has always been viewed with some halting, haunting reverence. A looming and imperious victorian estate surrounded by high walls and dense, dark woodland appears to be ripped from the pages of a macabre gothic novel. Alexander Towton, the aged master of the estate, was always perceived as an eccentric sort by his peers; a dabbling occultist who rubbed shoulders with the strangest of fellows through most of his life.

If only the gossips knew the half of it.

The Right and Honorable Viscount Alexander Ward-Grey Townton, known to his friends and proteges simply as “Alec” or “Sage”, sat before the cozy warmth of the hearth in his favorite chair. Skeletal hands clutched at an old leather-bound tome, his skin like parchment. Half-moon spectacles perched precariously on the pronounced bridge of his aquiline nose. Those who knew Alec in his hayday might be dismayed at the heavy tax that time had levied against him, but his grey eyes were sharp as ever. A dangerously keen and frustratingly cunning mind ever-active behind them. A living and ever-expanding rolodex of arcane lore, occult stratagems, bestiaries, and british baking recipes.

“Must be a real page turner, hoss,” called a voice from behind him. Alec peered around the broad back of his armchair to see the flash of Clinton’s stormy blue eyes. Crystalline ringing told Alec that Clint was at work with the scotch decanter. That was why Clint was one of Alec’s favorite students. Even though he may be a godless American, he knew how Alec worked, which made working with him that much easier.

“Well, you read the same copy of Les Cultes de Ghoules every year or so and it starts to wear on you. Ah, thank you, my boy.” Alec took the tumbler in one hand, swirling and sniffing the whiskey, glowing seductively in the firelight.

“Thirteenth century French is a drag to read? I’d never have guessed.”

“That’s easy for an American to say. You savages can’t even spell “colour” correctly.”

“Whatever you say left-tennant.”

The master and apprentice shared a brief chuckle, then sipped at their drinks tentatively. It was rare to find such relative quiet in the Towton estate since the Blitz. Alec coughed as the scotch clawed at his throat, and dabbed his mustache with the sleeve of his smoking jacket,

“Though, I must admit, Niobe’s additions were a pleasant surprise this time around. Seems that you and the team have made quite an impression.” Thumbing to a page marked by a neon pink post-it, the old manuscript creaked as it opened. The cracked leather along the spine flaking ever so slightly into the musty persian rug below. Clint walked around the back of Alec’s chair and snorted a laugh at what he saw: the scribbles of a seven-year-old in the margins of ancient and arcane vellum. He saw every member of the Valkyries rendered in painstakingly cartoonish detail. Even their archivist and Alec’s butlert, Claude. Clint recognized the orc immediately.

“I think I should scribe my own edition of this book and include these in the illuminated manuscript,” Alec said, tapping his finger at the surly caricature of Clint, complete with looney-toons guns. Clint couldn’t help but smile in his lopsided, wolfish way.

“That’s why you make the big bucks, hoss.” Clint clapped Alec on the elderly man’s bony shoulder. They had resumed conversation, discussing the lycanthrope reservation near their Maine facility when the dreaded, familiar cry of Niobe echoed through the old manor.

“Oh dear. That sounds like a doozy…” Alec grumbled, but Clint was already halfway up the stairs, that protective instinct in full swing. It wasn’t a surprise in the least. Ever since Operation: Cassandra and little Niobe under their care, Clint had been like a tiger with its cub. Somewhere between parental and penitential.

After seven years of constant study, the nature of the Oracle remained a mystery. How they perceive the signals from beyond varied, always changing between individuals and incarnations. Niobe’s particular method of divination seemed to come through dream-walking. Alec’s mind wandered to the first vision she had, which had manifested in a bout off sleep-walking that had the Valkyries tripping over themselves trying to keep Niobe from tumbling down the stairs. As the years dragged on and the world seem to steadily devolve into greater madness and confusion, nights like this one were getting ever more common. The shrill, soul-rending cry of a child’s terror. A nightmare that, for all those in the Division knew, was real and tangible for the girl.

Clinton all but threw the door to Niobe’s room off its hinges. Her room was small and quaint, the antique finish set against modern furnishings. Trembling in her single bed, her cerulean eyes wide, but unseeing, she shook as if stricken by a seizure. Niobe was an average height for her age, with the rich caramel-chestnut skin tone of afro-mediterrainean heritage, her untamable mane of dark, frizzy hair flashed with highlights of sun-kissed gold. A single stride brought Clint to her bedside, taking her tiny hand in his.

“Clint?” Alec called from the stairs, opting to simply add to the racket than wrack his knees against the stairs. “Is she okay?” Clint didn’t answer immediately, checking Niobe’s pulse. It raced like she’d been running for her life, her breath rapid and panicked as a cold sweat glistened upon her brow. Tears welled up in her eyes. Whatever she had seen - or was still seeing - was horrible.

Heavy footsteps lumbered from the hall in long strides as a massive individual filled the doorway. Claude, Alec’s attache, looked every part the massive pacific islander if you ignored the ivory tusks peeking out from his lower lips. His massive hands fretted, occasionally fiddling with the reading glasses perched on his nose.

“I heard from the study. Is-” Claude started, his voice deep, gentle and soft.

“Muster the troops, Claude. Round table room in twenty minutes. Code Black.” Clint barked firmly over his shoulder.

“Oh dear. R-right away. Sir Towton, I-”

“I heard, Claude. I’ll get the coffee on.”


Within minutes, Clint’s phone buzzed in his pants pocket with the programmed “Code Black” signal. The rest of the Valkyries would receive an identical message, and Clint hoped they were all somewhere in the compound or its sub-levels. Ever operative was encouraged to have some level autonomy and manage their own affairs. Some had family outside the vigil, direct or otherwise. But it was expected to be able to answer a call at the drop of a hat. While Niobe's visions might provide a cushion, they operated on the basis of rapid response and deployment.

Spoiler:

Ayama
Rusty of Shackleford
ThatGuyWithSouvlaki
GreenEyedStranger
Caffeine Freak
KhorneFlakes
Epiphany

 

[Ayama]

Wraith

"We are the candle.
We guard the light.
We keep the Balance.
We hold the Vigil."

Herja was down in the basement, as was very often the case when she wasn't sleeping, eating, or off on assignment somewhere. The basement level of the compound contained, among other things, the Valkyrie armory and training rooms. Anything from hand-to-hand combat, to long range marksmanship, to tactical combat operations, and everything in between.

Herja was in the 'active combat' training room. It was a modular space that could be changed to fit the user's needs. At the moment, it looked something like a lazertag arena, with added fun elements like conjured opponents that jumped out and shot you with rubber bullets or minor fireballs, pits that suddenly opened up in the ground, and all sorts of traps.

Herja's objective was to get from one side of the room to the other, still in one piece. She progressed forward cautiously, twin Berettas at the ready. She peered around a corner then stepped back, following standard tactical procedure. She then stepped out fully, arms extended, gazing straight ahead but on the lookout for any peripheral movement, breathing steady.

A shadow opponent suddenly darted out and shot at her, twice. She reacted just in time, pressing back against the wall to present less of a target and shooting back in rapid succession. The opponent retreated and Herja stepped carefully forward, knowing another attack was imminent. Sure enough, a few more shots came her way, but she was ready for them and evaded easily.

She waited for a couple seconds more, then rounded the corner with surprising speed, sinking two 'bullets' into the apparition's chest before it had time to do anything. The wraith evaporated on the spot, and Herja wanted to chuckle. A Wraith taking out a wraith, she thought to herself. Most people would have rolled their eyes, but Herja thought herself hilarious.

She continued fighting her way across the floor, only getting nicked by a bullet once. Her shirt did end up singed from a fireball though, which Herja felt ashamed of. Many thought she was too hard on herself, but she knew that, in battle, even the smallest mistake could cost a life, and that was a price she wasn't prepared to pay, no matter how much she fought for it.

This was why, at virtually any time of the day or night, she could be found here, training. Fighting was all she'd ever known- all she was meant for (in her mind, at least)-, so it was all she did. Some admired her for it, others felt sorry for her- outside of combat and the Task Force, she had no life to speak of. But for Herja, fighting was her life- all of it.

She had nearly achieved her objective when an insistent beeping sounded in her earpiece. She knew what the beeping meant, but she glanced at her high-tech wristwatch anyway as she shut down the simulation and vaulted from the room at high-speed. The logo displayed on the screen meant nothing good, and she sped up as a knot of tension appeared, twisting her gut.

Code: Black.

Worry over Niobe made her accelerate even more. The missive attached to the warning had instructed them to meet in twenty minutes in one of the conference rooms, but Herja didn't even bother. She headed straight up to the living quarters and made it to the Oracle's room five minutes after receiving the message. She was unsurprised to see the door open and the room occupied.

"Clint," she said as she hurried to the bedside in two strides. "What happened?"

Location: Niobe's room

OOC: All the worrying!

With: Niobe, Clint

 

[Viper Actual]

TEMPLAR
​

Unlike what some would expect from a man whom had been fighting wars for his entire life and for someone who knew nothing but a myriad of ways to kill a man (or beast) Alistair was in reality a calm and gentle person once you got to know him. Take this exact moment for example. Sure, he was cleaning off werewolf blood from one of his shotguns but he was also taking the time to listen to a podcast about finding your inner sanctuary.

As his gloved hands wiped the rag back and forth, slowly chipping away at the dried crimson splatter, Alistair took long and slow breaths while the podcast woman kept on rambling. Truth to be told he already had inner peace. Between his work- his duty- and his faith the soldier had very few concerns in life. There wasn't really a point in worrying. If it could be fixed then it could be fixed and if not, well, then it was a challenge presented by the Lord himself. As for the podcast he did enjoy the lady's voice. It was very calm and comforting. Serene.

Finally the last of the dried blood was gone. Alistair grabbed the bottle with CLP to begin the oiling process. Might as well maintain the gun while he was at it. He glanced upwards at the wall in front of him. Several firearms were standing on the racks lining the wall, each with a note attached to it with the owner's name and what needed to be done with it. Alistair wasn't quite sure how he ended up helping the others with firearms maintenance (it was actually really soothing to do) but he didn't really mind it. In-between their missions the few hours he'd have by himself inside the armory was some well-deserved Alistair-time.

He could recall few places where he had felt as calm as he did inside the manor armory. Maybe that time back in Durban? With the German mercenaries.

Alistair grunted and nodded to himself.

Yes, that was a good week.

Just then his phone started buzzing. Acting on pure reflexes Alistair found himself without the oil-drenched plastic gloves looking at the cellphone. Code Black. Twenty minutes.

He quickly cleared the workbench, covering up his disassembled shotgun with a white cloth. Quickly he grabbed three weapon from the wall racks. An enchanted FN SCAR rifle chambered in 5.56, a FN Ballista chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum and a standard 9mm Glock-17. Chambers were cleared, sights were checked and accessories were readied. Following up were a reinforced ammo case marked with a piece of tape with A. CALLAHAN written on it in with permanent marker. Inside were an assortment of silver-tipped bullets and other enchanted projectiles alongside with the magazines for each of Alistair's weapons.

Once the magazines were loaded and the case stowed away everything but the Glock (which was holstered) was dumped in a duffel bag on the floor near the armory door. Next to the bag were Alistair's helmet and vest which he hadn't had time to go through properly just yet.

He looked around the room and nodded. He was ready. Grabbing his vest, helmet and duffel bag Alistair made his way upstairs, closing the armory door behind him. Roughly two minutes later he found himself at the conference room where he dumped the bag unceremoniously whilst checking his surroundings to see who else was there.

 

[ThatGuyWithSouvlaki]

Thaddeus was in the Memorial Room, a rather small room in the compond considering such an important purpose in Thaddues' opion. Here was were the people who served in D.O.G.S since its founding and have passed either in the line of duty or by natural causes were buried or at least honoured. On the walls of either side of the room were the wall graves of some of the most well known agent while in the far end on a pedistal was a slab of an obsidian like rock and atched in gold was the names of the fallen including those who could not be buried here or chose to be buried elsewhere. A single intense line shined over the black stone which served to reveal the true beauty of the stone. A rainbow of colours moved down the stone diagonally as one moved towards the stone before turning back to complete blackness when you were a step away. A symbol of the various races that served the organisation and the secret nature of their work.

Thaddeus came here often, one of the few who did now a days beyond memorial day each year. He stood infront of a particular grave, touching the stone plague with the name of "Jacqueline "BlackJack" Carmine, 1833-1904". His eyes closed and head bowed in silent prayer and rememberce to an old friend, mentor and love. With a long life like his, one would expect one to become unfeeling in the passing of mortals and for a certain extend for Thaddeus it was correct. However it did not mean some select people were not worthy of some feeling for their passing.

The code black call comming on his earpiece made him sigh, he wished for a few minutes more lost in memory. Still he kissed his hand and pressed the hand on the plague before taking deep breath. He turned and began to walk out of the Memorial room, his cane makin a loud thud on the marble floor with each step. He entered the conference room a couple of minutes later. He was dressed in mostly black with black trousers, shirt and along black coat, hardly apperal for battle but he had little need for armor or pouches. "Good Morning." He greeted politely with a bow of his head.

 

[KhorneFlakes]

Heathrow International Airport, England, 0030 Local time.

Just outside the parking lot of the busiest airport in England, there waits a tall figure in a dark coat. Standing alone, underneath one of the overhead lights in the parking building, has made Anthony a highlight amongst passerbys. He looked mysterious, shady even, in a black business suit underneath a long, dark coat with leather gloves to match. He looked like a businessman in that getup, but no ordinary businessman carries with him two large equipment cases. If anything, he stood out as a threat to the everyday Joe passing his way as they make their way to their cars.

Anthony didn't mind the curious glances, he's gotten used to them. During his days as Junior Excorcist (first two years as agent), his superiors would often make it hard for the rookies to get round. Forcing them to take commercial flights and routes instead of military escorts. Watching them get stopped for carrying weapons, or forgetting what identity they chose. But it was training after all. Training them to how to blend in public, how to inform security that you're allowed to bring weapons, or how to play the identity you've been given.

To Anthony, all of this felt familiar. At his rank, he could enjoy military escorts at his request, but right now he was on a short leash. Still, Anthony found it nice to reminisce on old memories, however that had to wait. He was running late.

Anthony's eyes were fixated on the screen of his satellite phone as he has been for the past ten or so minutes. Glued to the recent message he received, his eyes read

CENTRAL to WARLOCK
RETURN TO ARCADIA IMMEDIATELY
REPORT ONCE ON-SITE
AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS
Received 20 minutes ago

Anthony knew better than to keep central waiting, especially when it concerns the Oracle. When not at Towtown estate, Anthony would be sent to do intelligence and excorcism work just like before, but he considered this new deployment as punishment.

The night was just getting colder, and Anthony was getting anxious. He glanced into the entrances of the car park hoping that his escort would come anytime soon. He'd hate having to hire a private bus and explain to them why there's a set of guns in his lugagge (if ever they choose to open them). But before he had a second to reconsider that option, he hears a vehicle's engine rushing closer and its headlights peering through the coloumns.

A police van drives closes, brakes to a screeching halt in front of Anthony. Three men come out of the van, to from the back door, and one from the driver's seat.

"Sorry for the delay, sir! There was a slight mixup" spoke the man who came out from the driver's seat in a rushed manner, perhaps embarrasses by his tardiness.

"It's all right, please get my luggage in." Said Anthony in his everyday calm demeanor.

The two from the back quickly went and placed the two cases into the back of.the van. When everything was stowed away, all got inside the van with Anthony in the passenger's side.

"I take it you've been briefed on where I need to go?" Anthony said to the driver

"Yes sir, I've been told."

"I need you get there in a hurry."

"Understood, sir." the driver said before he pressed his foot on the gas. Once the van has gotten out of the car park, the driver turned on the siren and they msde their way to Towtown estate.

0255 local time, en route to Arcadia

The road was lonely. Dead silent with the only exception being the van and it's siren filling up the streets. The road to Towtown was easily just around 50 kilometers and they were making great time from the lack of traffic.

The driver looked at Anthony, his unfazed looked and constant dead stare into nothingness. There was little to surprise Anthony anymore, he'd seen pretty much all there has to be seen. Anthony stared out into the night, watching the buildings rush pass them within seconds. There were plenty of things on his mind, especially what he might think the Oracle dreamt up.

"Y-you're... you're Warlock, aren't you? Agent Warlock, the excorcist?" the driver nervously asked. He was young too, he looked barely pass 25. The words came out him like a scared grade schooler asking the principal if he's in trouble.

Anthony turned his head to him, surprised by the question
"Yes, yes I am," he said.

"I've read about what you've done for us. I-I mean what you've done for us here, in London." the driver continued

"Ohh thank you. It was nothing special really. It was a long time ago." Anthony replied with a subtle smile to go with.

"But still, it was incredible what you guys did. They told us all about it back in training." the driver's nervous tone was replaced by an excited one.

"Ohh, you flatter me. I just hope it doesn't happen again." Anthony replied with a bigger smile and small chuckle to boot.

"Too right, mate. Too right."

The conversation was then to be cut short when Anthony's satellite phone started to ring. He picked it up to find a familiar voice on the other end.

"Warlock here. I just got back to England from my assignment in Paris."

"Good, current position?"

"I'm about thirty minutes from Arcadia."

"I need you to double time, new orders."

"What is it?" Anthony asked anxiously.

"New development at Arcadia, it's a Code black."

"Understood, ETA is about ten minutes."

"Before you go though, how are you settling in? Liking your new deployment?" the voice asked in what was a teasing manner. However, Anthony was in the mood for trivial matters, if anything it would annoy him right now.

"Can't complain. I get to see old friends."

"I know you'd get used to it. Just remember, you're on a short leash." replied the voice in a slightly harsh tone.

"Why didn't you tell me that she'd be on the team?" a hint of anger accompanied Anthony's response.

"Ohh, I didn't think you wanted be reminded of bad memories." the voice said mockingly.

"Don't mock me." Anthony replied, trying to hold back his anger.

"Just hurry up. Central out." The call was cut and Anthony out the phone away. He looked to the driver and signalled him, with a hand motion, to double time.

The van blazed past the streets and corners, burning rubber on the asphalt. Close to ten minutes has passed and they were near their destination. The blaring sirens must have alerted every D.O.G.S lookout in the area but they're well aware on who is arriving at this late hour.

The van pulled over to the front of a beautiful, old stone house. The driver turned off the sirens, left the van and helped the other two with Anthony's luggage.

When he got off the van, Anthony made his way up the old stone stairs that were washed away from decades of aging. When he got up to the large wooden doors, he looked up to the right most corner, into a hidden camera. There was no knocking involved, if anything knocking would end up getting you shot from the sniper whose scope is fixed on the door.

After a few moments, the doors slowly crept open and revealed Claude behind it.

"They're upstairs, I'll take care of your things." Claude said as he received Anthony through the front door. He took look around the foyer and proceeded up the stairs. His footsteps sent creeks all throughout the seemingly empty house until he reached the bedroom door. He opened it slowly to find Clint and Herja already there.

"Clint, Herja" Anthony greeted them with slight nod.

Tonight would be the start of another set of dangerous tasks for Agent Warlock. It isn't getting any easier for the old man.


​

 

[Caffeine Freak]

​

Location: Sub-Level Laboratory

Time: 03:00

CS: Realistic or Modern - Task Force: Valkyrie - Operative Dossiers

The lab's lights were dimmed. For the most part, the room was only lit by the rhythmic pulse of violet light and orange sparks. It was at the room's center, where Samuel Locke was perched, arc welder in hand, as he made the finishing touches on a metal contraption hanging from a hook. The lens of his welding helmet flashed with the steady progress of his work, right up until his hands stilled with the distinct sensation of his work phone resonating from within his pocket.

Locke carefully replaced his welding tool and removed his gloves as he stood, staring down at his phone screen. He had to take off his welding helmet just to make sure that he really was seeing clearly.

Code black.

No time was wasted before Locke hit the light switch, illuminating the laboratory in its own harsh white light, and revealing the machine he had been maintaining so meticulously. With the press of the release key on a connected computer, the powered exoskeleton hummed as it was lowered to the ground. Locke tossed his welding outfit onto a table as he suited up into his fatigues, before hooking himself into his exoskeleton. The machine frame embraced him, locking into shape until it became an extension of Locke's own body.

Servos whirred as Locke hightailed it from the laboratory. Undoubtedly a brisk walk would have still sufficed in getting there on time, but Locke wasn't one to waste any time in an emergency. He tapped restlessly throughout the proceeding elevator ride, then continued heavy-footed toward the conference room.

By the time Locke arrived, there was still a good fifteen minutes before the meeting was actually set to start. He just nodded his head by way of greeting and took a seat in a chair that groaned the moment he went to sit down.

 

[u k i y o]

- Yuliy Kotov -​

Yuliy sat at the desk inside his room, blaring music that was practically deafening from the headphones that rested comfortably over his ears. The music was so loud in fact, that it could be heard quite clearly by those not wearing them (or even in the same room if one listened closely). Despite being rather infamous for how silent he and his footsteps were, he was also just as infamous for his music. If he weren't concerned with disturbing the others too much, he'd be playing it on speakers instead.The genre of the day was rock, and whilst most would consider it "violent", Yuliy found that the beats of it were rather calming, and naturally took some of the accumulated stress from the day. For him at least. He continued to concentrate on the task in front of him— creating his training regime for next week. It would be the most difficult by far, and yet Yuliy was having a bit of trouble adding more challenges. He had always been adaptable and able to pick things up faster than the average human, and as such finding a challenge was well— challenging. He twisted the pen through his nimble fingers absentmindedly, before scribbling out almost a fourth of the page with what was almost a frustrated groan. He leaned back in his chair and glanced up, wracking his mind for something that would prove difficult to accomplish, but would most definitely be beneficial on the field. He wanted something he'd rarely done before.

He had just found the perfect exercise, when a loud blaring stopped the music on his phone. Jerking into motion, he immediately flipped into action, literally. Leaning out of his chair the rest of the way and back flipping out of it with practiced ease. Every muscle in his body was tensed, and his dragon bladed knife was in his hand in stead of the pen before he could even blink. It was during times like this that muscle memory was useful, as he didn't have to consciously think about arming himself or getting into a defense position anymore. It took a few moments for the adrenaline to leave enough for him to realize that it was his phone making all the noise, and he quickly took off his headphones as the noise pierced his ears, being much louder than his music. He read the message, and a small pit of dread dropped into Yuliy's stomach. Code black.

He sheathed his knife, turned off the alarm (as well as the music that played after it), and picked up his chair, righting it properly at his desk. He then quickly began his journey to the Round table room. He still had several minutes to spare, but for him, being early was being on time, and being on time was being late. He quietly entered the room and saw that there were several others before him, not that it was much of a surprise. "Hey everyone." He greeted, both to be polite and to announce his presence. By technical terms, he was one of the youngest on the team, and respect his elders was important to him, even if not all of them looked it.

 

[Epiphany]

The Right Honorable Viscountess Enfield

An incessant buzzing at last woke Bryony Pollard from sound sleep. She rubbed the remnants of her peculiarly mortal dreams from her eyes and cast her gaze about in the near-perfect blackness of her townhouse bedroom. While she kept her primary rooms in Wrotham Park, being on call for the Order required certain sacrifices. Including the abominable buzzing currently demanding her full attention.

By feel more than sight, Bryony picked up her mobile before the pattern of buzzing registered on her still drowsy mind. Code Black. Well then. That didn't leave much time to dress.

The Faerie shed her nightgown in the same way she shed her faux-humanity; a simple intentional change of shape to a cup-sized version of herself, who flitted clad only in her undergarments from the now-falling sleeping robe. Her wardrobe was normally kept orderly in her master closet but the corner of the room held up an outfit for these sorts of situations, suspended by pull-ties. Bryony swooped down the neck of it, reoriented herself and once more resumed her 'human' size, abruptly filling the outfit.

She inspected herself in the full-length standing mirror. Pinstripes looked emminately suitable for dealing with the public, in her estimation. Bryony checked to ensure the vest waistline to ensure her white blouse wasn't exposed. Satisfied, Bryony took her twin shoulder holsters from a neighboring stand, strapped herself into them and covered those particulars with a pinstriped coat. Perfect.

By the time she stepped outside of her townhouse into the cool night air, a driver stood next to a Bentley modern enough to be nearly unrecognizable. Dressed in a suit so nondescript that it could be a uniform, the man opened her door upon her approach. "Your Ladyship," he said with a nod of acknowledgement, eyes dipped down to the pavement.

"It's Mister Davis, isn't it." That wasn't a question and his nod was perfunctory in response. "You received the same notice I did, no doubt. How do you ever manage to arrive with a car before I'm even off premises?"

"Trade secret, my Lady."

Bryony smirked, mirrored by the small smile on her driver's face. Then she bent her head, accepted his hand and was professionally seated within before he closed the door, took the driver's seat and got them underway. "Very good then. How many others of us have been called up, do you know?"

He shook his head. "Afraid not. But you're not the only one."

"Right." Bryony glanced down at her mobile, thoughtfully checked her calendar and spent the rest of the ride to Clemens Park rearranging her schedule for the rest of the week.


Arrival at the Townton Estate put Bryony in high spirits. It was so refreshingly unchanged despite a century of such radical change in the world. Its owner was equally relatable, a man of great constancy and possessed of an honorable heritage as well as his own dignity. Of course, hers wasn't in her own right but she'd held it for longer than the Right Honorable Viscount Townton had been alive and that counted for something by her estimation.

Mr. Davis saw to her door and Bryony emerged into the night with a suit just as black, her only hints of color lying in the white blouse peeking out from beneath her vest, and of course her rather extraordinarily red hair. A pity hats weren't in fashion for professional women these days. She rather missed her old drawn-bonnets and, all these years later, it felt peculiar to walk about in public uncovered. Still, needs must.

Her driver saw her to the door and she was admitted moments later, escorted by one of the Order's...servants or junior agents or whatever one called a man young enough to be questionably a boy. They exchanged brief pleasantries that made no impact upon her whatsoever. And then the man fulfilled serving his function by opening the doors to the conference room for her.

Slowly, the Right Honorable Viscountess Enfield surveilled the assemblage before her.

Viper Actual
The handsome warrior who waited patiently for the others to arrive caught her eye next. That scar might be offsetting by modern standards but Bryony privately thought it added character. They hadn't much of a working relationship just yet but there was a vitality about the man that suggested he was good for many years yet, unfortunate circumstances notwithstanding.

"Sir Callahan," she said next, with another nod.

ThatGuyWithSouvlaki
Thaddeus Millard looked very much the modern man, and very much wasn't. By a remarkable set of coincidences, Bryony understood Mr. Millard had actually lived in Enfield when she and her husband ran the estates back in the 19th century. She didn't recall meeting him when he was alive and barely recalled meeting him after he wasn't, to be honest. He'd always seemed a withdrawn, taciturn man. For a vampire.

"Mr. Millard," Bryony said, and she added a small smile out of regard for their mutual longevity and their comingled mortal origins.

Caffeine Freak
The sight of the armored soldier widened the slight smile she'd carried over from other, more familiar acquaintances. At least he looked comfortable seated, waiting for the meeting to begin. How many of these agents had actually been onsite at Clemens Park, anyway? This one in particular she'd never had the experience of working with. And so she took another step into the conference room, walked around the table and offered her hand to the man.

"Samuel Locke. Mr. Locke, is it? Or do you have a rank I should address you by?"

u k i y o
Once the niceties were settled, Bryony Pollard last turned to Yulily and offered him her hand as well. This close, her green eyes seemed alight with speckles of flame and there was a wild energy to her that no amount of mortal comportment or costuming could conceal. "I don't believe we're acquainted either. Is it Mr. Kotov then?"

She reached into a pocket in her vest and produced a small silver antique case, which she handled with a touch of discomfort. Opening it, Bryony produced a pair of calling cards, which she promptly placed with both Locke and Yulily.

Spoiler: Bryony Pollard's Visiting Card