uncover our heads and reveal our souls

[mund]

WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: The fountain, the inn, town hall, by the houses. Graves is curious and is out and about exploring, feel free to bump into him anywhere.
WHEN: 16 January morning, afternoon, evening
OPEN TO: Open to everyone!
WARNINGS: Nah, none. Will warn if it comes up.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

---

Fountain;
There is an incredible indignity in drowning, especially when one has been nowhere near any particular body of water prior to this episode. It's the disorientation that wrongfoots a person, skews survival instincts just enough for that damned mouthful of water before it really kicks in. Water down the throat means air is not where one needs it to be, and Graves' nose lungs are burning as he swims towards the surface, desperation powering every stroke before he breaks through it and breathes deep, coughing out the water he'd wrongly swallowed.

He grips the edge of the fountain and hoists himself out of it, soaking wet in a pair of red scrubs that is very distinctly not what he's been wearing before he ends up here, under wholly mysterious circumstances. The surroundings are jarring, rustic and wholly unlike the bustling rush of city that is New York; and he's certain no fountain in the city has inexplicably deceptive depths. Confused, disgruntled, and entirely annoyed by the unfavorable shift in circumstances, Graves runs a hand through his hair to slick it back (he'll look like a drowned rat otherwise), his mind runs through predictable questions. Where is he, how did he get here, who had enough magic to haul him right through without him knowing? He damn well hadn't touched a Portkey, he'd know if it turns out to be something like that, and it cannot have come at a more inconvenient time.

He perches on the edge of the fountain as he shrugs off the pack that's somehow been attached to him. Another unsolvable mystery, but as it turns out -- offensively cheap clothing, a blatant absence of his wand and the rest of his usual clothes, and of course, this day is the day that keeps on giving.

The lack of a wand is bothersome but not incapacitating, and he has half a mind to dry himself off with magic (it'll only take a fraction of a second), but Graves hasn't made it to where he is now by being careless. There are No-Majs here, and more importantly, there are others, the ones who feel different, the likes of which he hadn't experienced before. His senses feel blunted, but he senses them nonetheless, as if through a foggy veil -- which definitely doesn't help. Snagging his pack and getting to his feet, the chilly air more an inconvenience than danger, he poses the ever-important question to the person nearby.

"What is this place?"

inn;
They say clothes make the man, and Graves contemplates mistruth in it -- after all, he might still be in ridiculous scrubs, but it hasn't made him any less imposing, not after he's decided to make the most of it, and bear with the undesirable clothing items he'd been left with. No, things had been worse; Graves is used to worse, he plans to make the best of it, despite the fact that things are far more inconvenient when you can't use magic.

Like drying clothes, for one. Instead of an instantaneous drying spell that could have taken care of his wet clothes in an instant, but no. Of course he has to dry out in front of the fire like every other No-Maj; there are too many pairs of eyes on him, and Graves can never violate their most sacred, highest law, not when he's the one charged with enforcing and upholding them.

The fire is comforting at least, and he asks. "Does everyone come through the fountain?"

closed to credence
Speaking of too many pairs of eyes, however. Graves doesn't look away from the fire, aware of the shadow on his periphery. Graves been here nearly two hours, drying himself off and getting information, and he'd picked up on presence's the abrupt disappearance the first half of the visit -- as if that presence is looking to hightail it somewhere far away, the spike of distress acutely felt not so much through thought but a flicker of power that is both familiar and alien at once.

Interesting.

He straightens up, a hand on the warm brick above the fireplace as he watches the flames surge and dance. When he next speaks, his words are neutral, even, and clearly directed to the observer a distance behind him. "Are you planning to talk, or just watch me all night?"

town hall;
Graves finds himself exploring the area, mapping out the village in his head as much and accurately as he can. You never know when you're going to need it, and it never hurts to be prepared. The town hall is always a place to be when you want to take a measure of the village, of what it's like, and so far it's not very comforting.

Graves is ever-watchful and on the alert for more potential signs his dislike for current circumstances set aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There are no answers to be gleaned or extrapolated, the loss of his wand and the inexplicable diminishing of his magic leaving him unpleasantly vulnerable in a place he doesn't recognise. This is nothing like New York City nor its neighboring outskirts -- if the city had a heartbeat and pulsed with life, then surely this village is barely a shadow of it, bereft of everything Graves had grown accustomed to. Worse, he's dressed to a degree of drabness that he's ultimately unused to; even battlefields did not subject their soldiers to the indignity of unpractical outfits, but he supposes that, too, is a relatively minor concern in the face of bigger problems.

He bumps into someone when he turns to go, and reaches out to steady them if they need it. "Apologies. I wasn't paying attention."

wildcard, hit him up with anything you like!

Comments

inn

[3ofswords]

As if in perfect opposition to the man, Kira fits his village clothing as if he had always put on a pair of overalls over a thermal shirt and pair of scrubs: white under black, one strap undone for the insaucience of it. His hair has grown out enough to just peek under his knit bear cap, and the tassles settle against his collar as he drapes in the adjacent chair like he's never learned to properly fit his body in an upright position.

He's just finished a particularly deep clean of the kitchen, scraping some of the grime off the stove out of boredom and, perhaps, knowledge that elective chores might get him a small glass of Kate's dwindling supply of wine.

He'd also found the last of his gifts, the bottle carefully tucked away in his room for later. Now he's settled at the fire with a leg tossed over the arm of the chair, leaned into the corner of the seat with a cup of tea.

Eyes cutting sideways over the mug, he sips as he considers the man, his closed off and simmering, watchful demeanor. It doesn't raise any flags, and he lifts the shoulder in lack of a denim strap as he sips.

"I haven't heard anyone tell a different story, though I've heard the arrivals were a lot closer together half a year ago."

[mund]

Imagine the chaos, all the splashing around in the fountain when more than one comes through. There is no Portkey within its waters, this much he knows, and the young man before him seems so much more at home in this place than anyone else, settling in with an effortless sleekness. But it's not what he does that draws the attention, no; it's the flicker of something unique, something different from No-Majs even if he can't quite glean the specifics.

He's touched by magic, and perhaps he's aware of it, perhaps he isn't; Graves can't tell, either. The stranger rouses his curiosity all the same, when he sleekly settles into the chair like he owns the place. Graves, on the other hand, moves like a tiger caged, a trait only discernible to the keenest eyes. He's already taken note of every possible exit and entry point, cultivated an array of scenarios and plans of action, because a careless Auror is a dead Auror, and dying in a backwards town is just going to be embarrassing.

"And now?"

[3ofswords]

He shrugs, shoulders drawing up around his mug, tassels moving with his body. Kira is barely-there, built for draping on furniture and wearing pre-distressed clothing, but his body has a consciousness of itself within a space, a kind of knowing. Where to be, where to look, how to be removed from and avoid even the accidental touches of others.

The new arrival, for all he gets to the point, seems high on the list of people to avoid that brush with. The sense of him is like the warmth of the fire--at a distance, a heat that doesn't burn--and for all its lack of overt emotion, it is a heat.

If one can be passionately vigilant, or vibrantly confused, then the red suits this stranger. Kira, all in black, can only meet it with his usual detachment and see what it does: he takes the time to sip and swallow, lowering the cup just so to speak over its edge. "Now we just show up like the snake someone lost in the plumbing, and sometimes someone gets bit on the ass."

He's heard gossip, even worse than his own encounters by the fountain--people asking to be killed, people ready to fight. He really needs to steer clearer of the thing. "How recently did you come up the u-bend?"

[mund]

"Two hours ago." Precisely. Graves might not have a watch on his person, but he has a knack for keeping time even without it. Kira pitches himself as Graves' polar opposite, seemingly relaxed and lackadaisical where Graves is composed, posture effortlessly straight, as if he's used to being in control and has expected no less (recent events, however, have been challenging). It's sheer force of habit, as is his tendency to size up those he engages.

He can't quite put his finger on what this person is, but he can read body language perfectly well, he's relaxed but careful, and perhaps the color black is a subconscious choice to be as unobtrusive as possible -- he could be wrong, profiling is an inexact science. The young man has a sharp sense of humor, and Graves can appreciate it despite the comparison to a reptile swimming up plumbing.

"I'm assuming you've been here awhile."

Town Hall

[womanofvalue]

Peggy isn't much of a fan when she's collided into, though working in New York had afforded her a sort of calm dismissal of such rudeness given that it was hard to avoid, especially near Times Square at the end of the war. Still, she presses her lips together as she has to grasp onto the man's elbow to steady herself. "No harm done," she assures, even if she's a little off balance. She'd been on her way to visit the gym for a few rounds with her gloves (tucked away in her coat pocket), but she pauses, now, when she doesn't recognise the man in front of her.

"Were you here for something in particular?" she wonders. "Looking for someone or something?"

[mund]

It's all right, no one's a fan of that kind of thing either. He lets go of her when he sees that she's steady on her feet again. She's a beautiful woman, striking -- one whose face he wouldn't forget in a hurry. A No-Maj with a fighter's bearing, and it's rare enough that it leaves an impression.

He glances up at the doors briefly, reluctant for this to be a wasted trip. The town hall, surely it must be the seat of someone in power, someone who can give him answers. But the stranger before him will suffice, too. "The person, or persons who run this place. Where are they?"

[womanofvalue]

Peggy should probably keep on walking, but the trouble is that now that he's touched on a rather sore spot of information, she's going to have a little trouble simply leaving. "Well, your question is as good as any," she admits. "They're not here. At least, not as far as any of us can tell," she says, eyeing the man and taking in the look of him from his rather attractive face to the bearing, cataloguing each of these things as if she might need them later.

"People might pop in and out, but certainly no one in charge that has any proper answers," Peggy notes ruefully.

INN

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana was sitting by the fire and trying to think of home. She was wearing the navy blue scrub bottoms she’d been given and a white tank top. She didn’t like wearing shoes and socks but she knew she’d have to put them on if she decided to go outside. Her knees were pulled to her chest and her dark wavy hair was fanned over her shoulders and down her back. Her fingers were holding her ankles as if to direct her bare feet to the hottest part of the fire.

It was probably an odd way to sit but it was slowly making Moana feel better. Her head turned when she heard someone speak, unsure if they were talking to her or someone else.

"The fountain? Oh, yeah. That’s where I came through too." Her voice was soft and sweet but distracted. Her thoughts had clearly been elsewhere.

Moana straightened, folding her legs in front of her and pushing her messy hair behind her shoulders. She continued to look at the man next to her, noting that his clothing was wet and he still had the pack that they arrived with. She wondered who gave it to them and how did they know that the clothing inside of it would fit. "You just arrived?"

She wondered if there was a pattern to the portal that she had missed. She hadn’t found anything yet and she knew that others have looked too. It made her feel a little bit better to check herself anyway.

[mund]

She's young, that's what he notices first. She's practically curled up next to the fire, and he supposes that not everyone takes to the cold well. He's drying off, a process that is tedious as it is frustrating; but at least it helps him blend in, lends a veneer of No-Maj normalcy that is essential for their continued survival.

"I did." He answers plainly, assessing her briefly -- the girl doesn't appear to present a threat, no; and doesn't seem inclined to kill him, which helps towards dismissing a theory that this is somehow all an elaborate setup. Still, it doesn't mean he's in the free and clear. There's the matter of getting answers to a growing list of questions he's curating in his head. "And you?"

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana didn’t have answers. More likely than not his growing list of questions matched hers though the order of importance was probably different. There was very little in this place that was familiar to Moana. It was strange and while she was trying to adjust it was difficult. She felt a pull inside of herself, like a bird wanting to be set free with nowhere to fly.

For now Moana was just trying to keep her disposition positive and her mind distracted from unpleasant thoughts. The cold had a way of sucking energy and joy from you. However that might just be because Moana wasn’t used to the chilly weather and she didn’t want to get used to it.

"A few days ago now." Her head tilted to the side curiously. "Some have been here longer from what I’ve been told."

Fountain

[candor1]

Cassian had been avoiding the fountain. Yet, as the… well… fulcrum of this place, in every conceivable way, he passed near it on every sweep.

He was nearby this time when he heard the splashing and coughing sounds.

His mind hesitated, but luckily his training rendered his body able to do what it had to without waiting for the mind.

He took off at a dash for the fountain, stripping off his coat as he went.

What he saw when he arrived made him skid to a halt, a few meters out. The usual pang that it was no one he knew coming through the fountain was superceded, this time; he watched the newcomer with a similar expression to what he'd had first seeing Jyn take out half a dozen stormtroopers with only batons. The newcomer had gotten himself out of the fountain with considerably less fuss than Cassian himself had, and was already sitting on its wall, going quite calmly through the contents of his pack.

It was impressive to say the least.

This not your first time spontaneously appearing in a new place by impossible means?

Cassian was still standing there—as Rostok had taught K-2 before Cassian could unteach it, dick in hand—when the older man looked up and addressed him. Still astoundingly cool and matter-of-fact. Especially for someone who bore some of the physical hallmarks of a bureaucrat. —Though one who was not a stranger to action, of some sort…

Pulling himself into formal at ease, Cassian answered promptly, "This is the central park in a village within a canyon on a continent and planet of unknown name or location. Your method of arrival is how everyone you'll meet got here; none of us know how or why but are given to understand that some entity has brought us here for its own purposes, which so far seem to be mainly observation." Had Graves (like any of them) arrived in his own clothes, Cassian could have gauged native technological level and planet's resources from the fabric and make, and added descriptions of those current conditions here, but without that baseline it was as likely to hurt as help if he were to try to go into such things preemptively. Instead, he held out a hand, with his own jacket in it. "I was going to offer you this, given the cold and most new arrivals' usual state of disorientation. But I see you've already had the wherewithal to discover your own dry clothes. …Which were likewise presumably provided by that unknown entity; we all arrive with the same gear."

—And though he couldn't tell anything about Graves's origin, Cassian could tell, in Graves's truly remarkable state of level-headedness and practicality, as well as something in the lines of his face and his bearing (even sitting and sopping wet), that had inspired all of that to be addressed to Graves in a matter-of-fact but respectful way. It wasn't hard for a soldier to recognize someone of comparable or higher rank—especially when they actually merited it.

"And my name is Andor. There are houses nearby, some private, some public. Would you like me to escort you to either?"

[mund]

It's definitely not his first time, although usually those times involve Graves actually being aware of where he's going, not this.

Graves doesn't miss that little detail from his periphery, the rapid footsteps of someone who comes to help (it sounds too urgent to be otherwise). Someone who's used to doing that, perhaps -- a part of him bleakly wonders if anyone's been unfortunate to drown in the fountain, and if they did, who comes to collect the bodies? -- and he comes to a similar conclusion about the stranger before him.

Military, definitely. It's all in the set of those shoulders, that unerring posture; and Graves has been in a war long enough to know when someone's also been steeped in it in one way or another. Soldiers have a look about them, he's learned, steely determination and a level head -- the ones who don't have that are the ones who don't come home.

The stranger -- a No-Maj, relatively young and clearly intelligent -- is smart, providing concise answers with a swiftness he definitely appreciates (some of his Aurors could stand to take a leaf or two out of his book). When he mentions the offering of his jacket, Graves smiles faintly. "The thought is appreciated."

Unknown entity. That thought is not promising, not with so many unknown variables already in play, but Graves has had worse immediate odds. At least this one isn't actively trying to kill you; fountain arrival excluded. Filing the information away in his head, he fishes out the dry shirt from his pack and changes it out, at the very least. Wet trousers are the least of his problems right now, and he gets to his feet, pack slung over a shoulder. It's been a long, long time since he's been this casual, and it shows.

"Graves. Good meeting you, Andor." He says in turn. Andor, he'll remember the name. It's just as well that he managed to get the smart one from the get-go, he can also appreciate the briskness of his approach; no frills, no flowery words. "And these private homes, you can have it for yourself?" No, more importantly. "What's stopping the people here from just walking out of this village?"

If someone is watching them, where are the boundaries?

[candor1]

Likewise, Cassian nods in receipt of Graves's identification. Graves's agreeableness, staying matter-of-fact, with the semi-formality of a briefing, is confirmation… and actually makes this the most comfortable interaction Cassian's had in this place so far.

"Yes," he said, "functionally this village is a commune. Interference from our hosts or captors tends to be indirect; we're largely left to our own devices. There are more than enough cabins for you to take possession of any that's unclaimed. There's no monetary or fixed barter system, though it's assumed that everyone will contribute to the community's mutual survival. It seems peaceable so far." The unknown common adversary may help. There was a u- or dys-topian strategy he hadn't seen effectively put to use elsewhere. Not for this long, at least.

To the second question: "Mainly geography." Cassian had sketched his own map of the area and pulled it out of his breast pocket to offer to Graves. Some bits were impeccably detailed and notated exhaustively (albeit in a not necessarily familiar metric); others had left empty spaces to indicate still in progress. "We're bounded by the canyon and the river. Attempts have been made to climb the canyon walls which have always failed. Possibly due to dissuasion of the hosts, though that's impossible to verify." Yet. "It could also be the elements, the limited technology available to us, or simply the inherent challenge of the cliffs."

im so sorry for this tag (cw abuse, manipulation, literally everything about credence)

[repressings]

If it weren't for the panic a few days ago with the necklace, Credence wouldn't have been as subtle as he was. His version of subtle isn't exactly anyone else's--it's enough to spy, enough to be quiet and timid and listen to conversations, but it's not enough to do much else. It's not enough to fully spy.

It's not enough to slip out as quickly as he can, hurriedly whispering to Alex to take the rest of his chores and that he'd trade them. It doesn't help that this is the first time he's done this, and it's just enough to have him dart upstairs, close his door, touch the necklace he has around his neck and sit. To help him as he climbs the stairs, he thinks of Peggy's calm demeanour. He thinks of Stella's firm assertiveness, both strangely comforting, both soothing to think about. The two women that remind him most of the witch who saved him from his own belt belt across his hands for the umpteenth time.

He concentrates on breathing. He concentrates on trying to figure out if he saw what he really saw. The more and more he thinks, the more and more he's sure of it. It was Mr. Graves, with that sturdy jaw and those thick eyebrows, right down to the small mark on the left side of his face, under his eye but over his cheek. It's him. There's no doubt about the appearance--it's definitely him. He even carries himself the same way, broad shouldered and commanding.

But which one was it? He'd seen it, the wizard named Newt waving his wand. He'd seen Mr. Graves turn into someone else, the name escaping him but the presence there. Blonde, wicked and sinister. Was he the man who had slapped him, who had called him nothing and useless only to have Credence snap? Was he the man who had promised Credence the moon, talking of a welcoming, idyllic utopia that he could join soon, so soon, if he found the child in his vision? Was he the man he trusted, the one who pulled him out of the fire only to throw him back when Credence was choking on the ash?

Credence doesn't realize, through this entire situation, he has the answer between his fingers. He wonders if this is what the observers did--they have him a necklace so similar to the one he was given. Was it in preparation? He had thought it was a cruel joke, and then he had thought it was a reminder of what he'd done. He'd worn it to prove something--what, he still doesn't know, maybe a small act of defiance, a silent 'you will not make me afraid' to the unknown third party watching them--and now a bigger part of his past had come from the fountain.

He spends the first hour or so gathering up the nerve after the decision was made: to watch this stranger, the man who is and isn't Mr. Graves or the man who isn't but is Mr. Graves, either one--and to make a move from there. What move, he doesn't know. He supposes retreating to his bedroom once more if he gets too frightened is also, technically, a move.

And just in case, he tucks the survival knife gifted to him into his biggest overall pocket. He thinks Jess Brightwell would be proud as he makes his way back down.

He doesn't get very far--rather, it doesn't take Graves very long to notice him. Of course he notices, because Mr. Graves notices everything, he knows everything--and when he speaks it's with such a strange mix of interest and dismissiveness that even if Credence wanted to be smooth and talk, he couldn't. His hair is a little longer--just a little--then when he last met the older man, and asides from a warm black fisherman's knit sweater, he's wearing the same things that are in Graves' bag. He tries to think of what Kira would say. Or Alex.

Instead, he stays there. He stares, and it seems like forever as the silence stretches.

"I know you." Half of his body is hidden behind a piece of furniture, peaking out. He still can't meet the other's gaze.

[mund]

The difference between the sheepdog and the wolf is a line in the sand. Thankfully, the difference between Graves and the impostor is even more obvious upon a closer look. Grindelwald is slippery as a viper, his bearing more predatory than assured -- and Graves is the entire opposite. He has the bearing of someone who's used to being in command, gaze steady but uncalculating.

The voice, soft-spoken and gentle, is unfamiliar to him, but the face is not. This is the boy Tina had lost her job for, and he puts a name to the face in an instant. Credence Barebone, adopted son of Mary Lou Barebone, descendant of Bartholomew Barebone, himself an unpleasantly infamous descendant of Scourers that had escaped prosecution from MACUSA for hunting down their own. Credence Barebone, Second Salemer, and it turns out some things don't change. Hate is carried down in the blood, but Graves knows, too, that he's not her biological son. He remembers the details he'd read from Tina's report, how she vehemently defended what she did, heartache and frustration against the unbending laws of secrecy and her violation of it in order to help him.

He remembers, of course. Graves had them under surveillance; compiling reports on them -- it's due diligence to keep an eye on the people who could pose a threat, even if fewer and fewer people gather to listen to Mary Lou Barebone's impassioned rants about the wizarding community. Credence lingers in the photos like a shadow, a dark cloud, folded in on himself as if he would give anything to take up so space at all. Credence's definitely made an impression, especially with those marks on his hands.

Tina says the Barebone matriarch beats him often, and she had to intervene. Graves doesn't blame her.

Credence is here in this inn, clad more casually than the photos in the reports had shown, and hiding behind a furniture like Graves is some sort of dangerous animal. It's only mildly discomfiting, and he's curious. There are a lot of moving pieces in this story, this scene. First: Credence knowing him, not knowing of him. Second: There's something different about Credence, something dangerous and strong inside of him that crackles just under the surface. Graves senses it, just like he'd picked up on the spike before. It's power, pure and simple, a reservoir of it underneath like a current, the likes of which he's never witnessed before.

How the hell had he missed this?

Three, and most importantly, because Graves stiffens at the way that metal catches the light of the flames, the very same damn symbol he had seen over and over again in reports, briefings, urgent meetings: Credence is wearing --

"Grindelwald's mark." He silently curses the absence of his wand. If this entire village turns out to be a trap, he would have walked right into it -- then again, it doesn't mean he'll make it easy for them. None of this makes sense (because how did Credence Barebone go from hating wizards to wanting to subjugate humanity?), especially when Credence doesn't seem capable of meeting him in the eye, but if Grindelwald is here, he's taking the wizard right down with him. "Did he send you to do his dirty work?"

Funny, Grindelwald's always struck him as plenty twisted, why wouldn't he want to be here personally to enjoy the kill?

[repressings]

He wants it to be right. Credence desperately hopes for it to be right--the stature is wrong, even to someone like him, who has had no training save for watching people walk along the streets of New York, and even then it's with avoided gaze and meek handing out of pamphlets. Why, he can't place it, but it's different. He wonders if that's just his imagination--he imagines it probably is.

The village has been too kind to him for it to last.

He's nervous, and agitated, and worried, and every time he looks at Graves and his hands by the fire he thinks of that sharp smacking sound that had reverberated through the church's high ceiling when all he wanted was someone to help him. He feels it, like fire and electricity and a storm all at once--it's fainter, here, but it's still scratching his skin, white-hot at the base of his skull. He forces it down with a heavy swallow and a slow blink.

Graves says something--a word, a name. Grindelwald. It's not something he can tangibly remember, but he had been so weak, so helpless, floating and crawling all at once to safety. He instinctively reaches for his necklace, gripping it between slender, pale fingers like he had going up the stairs. He's well aware of how odd it is to be comforted by something when only moments before he had wanted nothing to do with it.

He freezes, not cowering this time but still, because Graves says something that makes no sense, not at first, until a cold wave of realization hits him. This is two things: Mr. Graves is the strange blonde man and testing him, or Mr. Graves thinks he's someone else.

Wouldn't that be funny? Maybe, if this one, if true, knows someone who is and isn't Credence just the same as Credence knows one of him.

It's not that he's impolite, it's that he doesn't understand the question, and if it's a test, if it's truly the one that seeks to use him, he'd rather avoid it for long enough.

"No one sent me," he says, still a ways away. His voice is soft, and there's a surprising lack of his usual waver. He's ready. He's had an hour to summon up enough courage for this. "Do you remember the diner?"

He has a test of his own.

town hall

[00nothing]

Graves isn't the only one with the idea of mapping the town out.

Alex might have wasted a month of his time here trying to pretend like none of this was happening (or at the very least, that it was happening but didn't have anything to do with him) but he's never been the sort of person that could just wait for things to happen and his patience for, well, himself really, has finally worn down.

He's not 'cured' by any stretch of the imagination though. He's still high-strung, hyper-focused, and deeply distrusting of anyone over twenty. Which is why when Graves reaches out to help him after they collide, Alex steps hastily back out of reach, eyes going wide and mouth going flat.

It only lasts for a moment before Alex can get a handle on his breathing, his expression smoothing into something more mild and impenetrable as he answers with soft, round London vowels. "My fault, I was distracted." Distracted counting the number of steps between buildings, but he's not going to offer that little detail.

He's dressed plainly for the cold, a dark blue Russian army winter jacket with the fur lined hood pulled up and hands tucked away in its front pockets. Red scrubs are just barely visible beneath the jacket. Clearly, Alex had been planning on being out for awhile.

[mund]

It takes him only a moment to size the young man up. A curious reaction, but not entirely alien -- Graves has seen it on more than a few faces in his career (on occasion, on Aurors he summarily dismisses); the ones who can never quite relax, high-strung and wary. English; a Londoner, to be precise, and one who intends to be out for awhile.

Absolutely no physical contact, either. Graves can live with that -- he personally doesn't like the whole touchy-feely thing very much at all, but he's not beyond employing it strategically, objectives superseding his own thoughts on the matter.

"Of course." He picks up on the red scrubs -- Graves is wearing the same, except with the standard issue jacket instead. He cuts a dignified, imposing figure, still, with the questionable quality and cut of the fabrics; a man who understands the importance of appearances, not as a crutch but a weapon. For ones who know how to see the signs, to read him, Graves is a man accustomed to power, his bearing straight and shoulders squared, one who is just at home in the rough as he is in high offices.

Graves is similarly placid as he asks, "Out on a walk?"

[00nothing]

Alex can read adults well enough, though it's a hard fought, newly acquired skill in the past year, and not one he's particularly fond of besides. And sometimes he missed people like Ash anyway.

In any case, even without the others Alex would have recognized the atmosphere around Graves in an instant thanks to his associations with with Alan Blunt. Needless to say, the similarities between the two only manage to set Alex more on edge. Nothing good has ever come of Alex getting involved with men like that.

He takes another firm step back away from Graves, though his expression doesn't shift an inch.

"I was going stir crazy inside." Alex offers warily, and it's true enough. The only issue is that getting outside hasn't seemed to do a damn thing for that cabin fever. It doesn't matter if there aren't four walls around him right now, he's still trapped, in the end.

Town Hall/Wildcard

[teen_angst_bullshit]

Since the box appeared on Veronica's bed full of paper, she's been keeping a tally of happenings in the village as best she can. Strange occurrences, gifts, the attacks that left so many animals and Karen dead before the group had tromped off into the forest and come back with a body of something that looked a lot like a werewolf. In particular, she's been trying to keep track of new people -- When they show up, where they're from, trying to spot any patterns -- but it's not as easy as it used to be. It used to be new arrivals were a big event; now they keep sneaking up on her.

She's got her hands dug deep into the fur-lined coat Kylo Ren gave her for not-Christmas when she spots the distinctly unfamiliar face leaving the Town Hall. He's clean-cut, dapper apart from the scrubs, the sheer neatness of him a giveaway even if his face hadn't been. Barbers are pretty thin on the ground around these parts.

"Hi," she calls, stopping in the middle of the path, squinting out from under her hood with a smile. "You're new." It isn't a question.

[mund]

"Yes." To say otherwise is unnecessary, and Graves regards the stranger who's addressed him. A young woman, dark-haired and effortlessly comely with clever, bright eyes; he's been meeting more and more villagers in his explorations, gathering as much information as he can through them -- most of it has left him with more questions than answers, but Graves is a patient man.

"Where do I go if I wish to find out about this village's history?" Every village has an archive of sorts, every community their own written records -- perhaps an enterprising soul has taken it upon himself or herself to be an archivist, and learning more about this place is the order of the day. He takes a few precise, even steps towards her, shoulders broad and squared; the air of a man in power, and a quiet, elegant dignity of a man who knows his responsibilities. She's a No-Maj, but there's something different about her; the No-Majs he'd met so far are relatively remarkable, a far cry from the rest, and he wonders if there's a pattern to it that no one's cracked yet.

Or perhaps it really is just all a senseless, random luck of the draw (a detestable hypothesis; Graves doesn't believe all that much in dumb luck).

[teen_angst_bullshit]

"There isn't anyplace for before the first of us showed up," Veronica replies, and then tilts her head, reconsidering. "Actually, there isn't anyplace at all. I was with the first group to come through, that was about six and a half months ago, so—"

She'd been about to say that it hadn't been time for much to happen, a sort of instinctive rejoinder, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. Hell, all of them being here and who they are is remarkable in and off itself.

"I've been keeping track of things, if that's what you mean. When people show up, if anything weird happens, that kind of thing."

Rocking back on her heels, she considers him. Businesslike, polite, motivated. Not that they all hadn't started out at least a little motivated. She herself had nearly broken her wrist seeing if she could climb the canyon walls those first days.

"I'm Veronica. From Earth. Ohio, specifically, in the United States, if that means anything to you."

inn

[ex_assertiveness90]

"As far as anyone can tell, yes."

Stella is standing just on the other side of the fire from him, cup of herbal tea in hand — more or less the only reason she comes to the inn anymore, now she's taken up in one of the formerly empty houses. She'd seen him when she'd first come in, but hadn't spoken to him, not till he'd addressed her just now.

She tilts her chin up — he's taller by about half a foot — looking him over in a quick, unobtrusive evaluation. Around her age, with a demeanor that suggests wariness or suspicion, or maybe just watchfulness. Handsome in a clean, stern sort of way. He reminds her slightly of a detective chief inspector she worked for back when she was just a detective sergeant, a no-nonsense sort of man with standards even she had to fight to achieve.

"Unfortunately, that's a door that only swings one way." Which doesn't make sense, but it's the most apt metaphor she has. The fountain is solid in the bottom, which makes one wonder how one got there in the first place.

[mund]

"Which begs the question as to why our hosts want us here."

They are nebulous concepts, unseen and unknown variables -- at least up until they're solved, categorized and handled. Graves takes her measure in a few moments; another No-Maj, but quite unlike the others he's met before, and he's certain she's already taken his measure before deciding to engage. She carries herself with a strength and a boldness reminiscent of Picquery, which draws the eye. He doesn't need to draw on years of experience to guess that she doesn't suffer fools.

Which, of course, suits him very well. He meets her gaze squarely, cataloging the information that she offers. It squares off with what he's previously heard, and he nods faintly. "So you've tried. Has anyone managed to leave?"

[ex_assertiveness90]

"People have come and gone," she says. "But that seems to have been involuntary. No one who's tried to leave has been successful."

She crosses over to a nearby chair, leans her weight on the arm of it instead of doing something sensible like sitting down, deceptively casual.

"I suspect we're being held as part of some sort of experiment, but it's difficult to prove anything." If Stella sounds very slightly bitter — perhaps that's understandable. "Our captors seem to be very effective at controlling the flow of information."

She's not kind enough to use the word hosts. This is a cage, no doubt about it.