returns. (lukas mood/intro)
Exact Date Unknown.

The tip of Edana Ó Maoilriain's blade rested beneath the man's chin, forcing it back.

Her expression was set, eyes bright with hatred. "Oisin Mac Lochlainn, you're a murderer and abuser. By Morrigan's might I set you free." The figure beneath her boot no longer struggled, but his face was twisted with hot disgust. "You're no better than any of us, cailleach. This is murder." He spat at the Mage. "Go dtachta an diabhal thú."

Edana's hair danced in the firelight as she leaned in, the tip of the blade digging into his skin and drawing blood. "May you redeem yourself yet."

She spun, just once, in a graceful pivot and thrust her blade downward as she landed; grunting softly as it found its target true. She stood over the body as it struggled and writhed and finally stilled; her eyes losing their bright gleam, fading now to their usual pale blue. The door splintered open with the force of a kick and a party of three men spilled through it; their eyes adjusting to the bright, fire-licked room with its overturned tables and bloody, body strewn floor. They held arms up against the gathering smoke, coughing. One, a burly figure in black carrying a heavy axe approached the Corriguinech.

"Damnú air! What have you done, Edana?"

She stepped over a body, wiping her blade and sliding it away. Behind her, the tavern was beginning to smoke in earnest. Let it burn to ashes, she grimly prayed, with all the filth inside it. She stopped beside Abbán and met his gaze; there was confusion there; mistrust; he was beginning to fear her investment in the cause. "What had to be."

"You should have waited, the Filidh -"
"Sit and watch. We act. I acted."

The low murmuring followed as the young woman strode out into the night.


Jenna -

You asked how your grandfather died. I know you heard stories of the Ascension War. Merek never was good at backing down. Said if a man was going to fight for something, he might as well see things through to the end. You'll hear some say he was hot headed and easily goaded into bad decisions - I think he was a good man at his core.

Excerpt from a correspondence dated September 5th, 1965 to a Jennifer de Carre.


Present Day.

Lukas Ashford had never feared the dark. He'd never felt the need to, it had offered him too many chances for survival growing up. There was a twisted logic to that, he knew, deep down. But not such an uncommon one when it came to the children of alcoholics.

The sun had well and truly sunk beneath the horizon by the time he set foot outside the Phoenix Shelter for Boys in East Colfax. It was not a neighborhood to linger in at night, he knew that as well as any - better, by most accounts. The sagging chain-link fence that kept the Shelter's modest basketball court separated from the street rattled faintly as the wind picked up; scattering trash that had flowed from the alleyway; the dumpsters overfilled as usual.

The light above the stoop flickered and the young man's eyes lifted to it before he stepped down onto the curb.

He'd only managed one block before he sensed it, prying under his skin like a needlepoint. Fear, the strength of it was palpable; it soaked through his mental defenses and Lukas nearly reeled against it, he stopped abruptly; his coat flaring out against his heels and closed his eyes, attuning himself. It was coming from someone young, the disorganization of the thoughts, the wild flowering of color staining the edges.


Voices rang out nearby.
Something shattering.

A nervous, high pitched whine of leave me alone!

The Chakravanti cursed and started in the direction of the voices, jogging across deserted streets and drawing his focus into himself. Three figures crowded around a fourth, half tumbled into sodden cardboard boxes and refuse. Lukas hesitated at the mouth of the side-street; glancing both ways before he ducked into the shadow the buildings cast.

"Give us the cash, kid."
"We saw you pocket it earlier."
"It's mine! That lady gave it to me."
"Yeah and now you're giving it to us on account we'll smash your head into the ground if you don't."

A scuffle broke out; a foot found the boy's side and connected and he dropped; wheezing. In the distance, the tall silhouette shifted in the eave of the buildings. The shadows seemed to pull toward it; the air grew denser; a steel-edged sensation bit into the moment and there was a sudden hiss from the leader of the trio followed by a flurry of activity. "The fucking cops! You hear 'em? They're on to us. Run!"

Frantic footsteps.

A crash as a figure collided with trashcans, fell and scrambled to his feet once again, wildly panting: "I ain't going back, you fuckers!"
Confusion. "I don't hear anything! You hear cops?"
"Nah man but let's get the fuck outta here."
"What about the kid?"
"Man, fuck the kid. Let's go."

More footsteps.

The kid lay curled in a ball for another few moments, then seemed to realize his tormentors had taken off. He coughed and rolled; pushing himself up on one hand, wiping blood from his lip and gingerly standing; a hand pressed against his side.

"You okay, kid?"

The boy started, stared wide eyed for a beat at the tall, dark haired figure that stepped into view before his face twisted into a stony faced (and dirt-smeared) scowl. "Fuck off!" He took off running. The Chakravanti watched him go with the slightest of smiles surfacing, tucked his hands into his pockets and, after a lingering pause, slipped back into the night.

No, it really wasn't the dark you had to fear.

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