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

[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.

[mund]

Absolutely understandable. Graves will be bitter, too, if he's stuck here for any longer. Being caught in a an inescapable trap doesn't necessarily bring out one's better nature, all things considered. Graves studies her, the innate, almost predatory elegance in every movement; he recognizes it, senses it for what it could be -- that they are somehow alike.

"For now." He concedes evenly, because if he has his way, they won't get to do it for long. One of the serving staff comes over with coffee, and he takes it with a nod, looking warily down at the mug for a few moments before taking a small, careful sip.

Good coffee. Not poisoned.

"I hear they've let on some clues."

[ex_assertiveness90]

There's a determination under the superficial concession of those words — for now — that makes Stella arch her brows at him slightly. It's an approving expression. They need fighters here, not people who will lie down passively and take what they're given by kidnappers who appear to have no interest in anything but tormenting them for their own entertainment.

The problem is, it's hard to fight what you can't see.

"In a sense," she says. "We've already found at least one location where they've been observing us. The trouble is in actually finding them."

It would be nice to know where the gift boxes come from, or the feast from a couple of months ago. Stella is resolute in believing that these things don't simply appear from nowhere.

There's a pause as she realizes she's not introduced herself, that possibly a little politeness would not hurt, and she extends her hand to him. "Stella Gibson." Her grip is confident, assertive but not overly firm.

[mund]

"Percival Graves." He answers in kind as he notices the strength of her grip, the confidence with which she approaches him, and he responds in kind. These are the kinds of people he's familiar with, No-Maj or otherwise. And when in a place like this, well; these are the kinds of people who are capable of getting things done. Graves could be wrong, of course, first impressions can come with their own errors.

"Do you have any ideas?" A question asked solely because she doesn't look like a woman who will leave unknowns as they are, and he finds that he's taken an interest in her thoughts. She's straightforward, evidently intelligent -- a cut above the No-Majs he's accustomed to.

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella doesn't like unknowns. Part of this is a result of her job, naturally, but part of it is also simply that she doesn't like not knowing things, and never has. There's a reason she has multiple university degrees; she simply studied everything she could get her hands on. Information typically doesn't elude her for very long. So to be kept in the dark like this — frankly, it puts her on edge.

Which is, of course, not to say that she doesn't have her own theories. She supposes everyone here must, by now. "As I've said, I've assumed this is a social experiment of some sort — bring us here, deprive us of anything familiar, see if we can manage to cooperate or if we destroy each other." She frowns a little, her brow creasing slightly. "No one has any memory of having been kidnapped or brought here, and as far as I can tell, each person believes they've arrived here from a different time or place. I was in Belfast in the year 2012." She looks over at him, and there's a very faint, dry smile on her lips. "I'd assume you weren't." Not only from the American accent, but because she has simply grown to expect that no one else remembers things in the same way.

"It's possible we've been drugged, which might explain the alteration or loss of memories, the gaps in time." It is... at least a logical explanation, and nothing so fanciful as suggesting they're all from alternate universes. She is still skeptical on that front, and probably will be for some time.

"As far as these 'observers' go, no one's actually seen them, nor have they tried to speak to anyone. Not directly." She won't pretend as if Karen's death a couple of months ago wasn't a very clear message, after all. "They've left gift boxes for us and apparently an entire feast, all without leaving any sign that anyone had been there. No footprints, no fingerprints, no trace evidence. Whoever these people are, they're very good at covering their tracks."

Normally, that would suggest someone familiar with investigative and forensic techniques and the means to thwart them. Stella's not sure this situation is that straightforward.

[mund]

A social experiment. Graves fights to keep his expression neutral, his distaste for such an exercise concealed. But her conjectures make sense; it seems like the kind of pointless thing No-Majs would choose to do just because. He's quiet when she speaks, listening to every word -- he's in no hurry to respond, no; there is more value in paying attention to what someone says than biding your time to speak, and from Stella he learns plenty.

"New York, 1926."

Different points in time, different places, missing memories -- it is strong magic, and not out of the realm of possibility if you truly put your mind to it, but the question remains: why? Why bring them all together just to see how they work? There has to be something more than testing survival behaviors and hypotheses, and it sets Graves on edge. There are too many unknown variables, too many things left unexplained, but Stella has provided him as complete a picture as she can, thorough and objective, and through it he has a clearer idea of who she is, and what she clearly does for a living.

"You're an investigator?" She's too skilled, too clearly practiced at this not to be. She's a hunter, just like him, a wolf that's caught on the trail and is simply biding her time. "I'm assuming they've sent indirect messages. Proxy?"

[ex_assertiveness90]

"Mmm. I've been a detective with the Metropolitan Police almost twenty years."

He's the second person here to pick up on that without being told first, she notes. It must show. Certainly it does on Graves, with his taut watchful demeanor and sharp eyes. Stella holds her tongue on asking who he works for, though, at least for the time being.

He asks if the observers have sent messages by proxy and while there's not much of a shift in her expression, there's a slight but perceptible shift in her mood — not discomfort on her part, as such, just the realization that she is probably going to have to tell him an uncomfortable truth.

People in the village don't like talking about it, which is understandable, and perhaps with anyone else she would refrain from addressing it, but — Graves ought to know. Stella looks into the fire as she speaks.

"A couple of months ago, a woman was murdered during what was supposed to have been a harvest feast. Her body was found propped against a tree near the center of the village, clearly posed. She'd been killed out in the woods and dragged here."

While the rest of us were distracted by the feast, and no one noticed until it was too late. She doesn't say the words, but they're implied under her tone.

"A few people went into the woods looking for who or what killed her. They brought back the body of some creature, buried it in the snow to preserve it — I believe someone was going to try to study it later. Some days afterward, it was gone without a trace."

Stella draws in a breath, looks back to Graves. "There are people who might disagree, but I think we were being sent a very clear message."

She'd been one of the first on the scene after Karen's body had been found, and she knows how it had looked to her, crystalline clear. Don't for one moment believe you're safe.

[mund]

It shows. One tends to recognize one of their ilk, an investigator to another. It's all in the way they watch the world where the rest of the world seems content to only live in it, where they see but do not observe. He listens in silence, in no hurry to speak as she talks about the creature that was brought in, the murder that had taken place.

And, evidently, what is to be a message sent to all of them. Stella is right, and he cannot fault her conclusion -- all signs point that way, especially if the body of the murdered woman, whoever she was, had been brought back where everyone can see. There is the possibility of more than one murderer in their midst, it seems, and he believes Stella is probably aware of it.

"Do you think the creature killed her?" Or was the unfortunate creature just a patsy? That it died and promptly disappeared in days brings up the possibility of another mind behind the killing. Had the people found the creature and killed it, then?

[ex_assertiveness90]

"That seems to be the prevailing theory, and I've not found any evidence to the contrary." She did look for it, at the time, had been running her own investigation on the side in hopes of eliminating the unpleasant but not impossible theory that one of the people in the village might have been responsible. When the dead creature had been brought back, everyone else had seemed content to believe that it had been the responsible party — having caught a glimpse of it briefly herself, Stella hadn't been able to make heads or tails of exactly what it was, but it certainly looked the part of something capable of both mauling an adult woman to death and then displaying her body for all to see.

The problem, of course— "I suppose the problem is that it's difficult to know what to believe here. I think that's the way the observers would prefer it."

Another fine trace of bitterness under those words. No obvious evidence and very few resources to uncover what evidence might be hidden means they can't prove a single goddamn thing.