A Job
A letter is carried on darkened wings with tips as silvered moonlight enter through a window that on such a chill evening Orion would have believed it closed. Amber eyes would blink with a quiet intelligence as it identified Professor Orion Lécuyer, Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. The scroll was concealed within a long, slender, silvered tube that was capped on either end. Small, sparkling gems, dark blue all of of them, almost an inverse of a starry night sky.This letter is forward-dated the furthest at this present time a thread can be forward dated January 23, 2025. I have been asked to initiate this series of events so I am doing so. I have been told that the other player that the dNPC mentioned in this post is relevant to is aware and in agreement. I state this because it is best practice to ensure all parties are consenting because dNPC loss would effect both parties.
The letter within would feel warm to the touch, in contrast with the bitter chill outside and the icy feel of the metal, even the cool wings of the avian messenger. The parchment was ink black and would appear empty to the bearer, but the bird, the case, and of course the parchment would be familiar to the Professor. The words were there, just hidden, like a secret yearning to be told. All he needed to do was hold the letter over a flame, a flickering candle, even the hearth. The heat would not cause the paper to burn, not right away as silvery lines would manifest on the dark paper.
It would read--
There were curious references in the letter. They came from a man that was often unwilling to answer questions, but rewarded those loyal to him handsomely. He had a low tolerance for failure, most of all from his kin. The weave was the statement that likely concerned the former hit-wizard turned daycare worker. The weave was a romanticization of fate, a way for them to explain their diviners skill. But Orion had always suspected that there was something more to this, with a family as old as theirs, with ties as dark as the ones that are known, something would twist in the man's gut. So soon after Aamon's alleged difficulties with living dolls, he could see how these might both be somehow connected. How someone was seeking to perhaps undermine the family through the children. Of course this still did not wholly explain the nebulous 'weave' and how a common man, well as common as any unimportant pureblood could be. But his previous mission, if he could call it a 'mission' was to kill hags. The one before, a trio of killers responsible for the deaths of several former employees and although it was not known at the time it was likely learned later, ties to the illegal potion trade in the early 2000s. One could wonder if he was being sent to kill bad men, a bit convenient but it helped soothe ethical concerns when an us versus them mentality could be used to describe the other as 'evil.'𝔒𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔏é𝔠𝔲𝔶𝔢𝔯,
ℑ𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔨𝔢, 𝔶𝔢𝔱 ℑ 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔰 ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡. ℑ 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔬𝔫 ℑ 𝔬𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡—𝔰𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔱, 𝔰𝔲𝔯𝔤𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔩𝔶, 𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔮𝔲𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔰.
𝔄 𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔦𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔤𝔢𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔉𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞𝔤á𝔦𝔫 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯—𝔞 𝔫𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔞𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔤𝔫𝔦𝔷𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯, 𝔚𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔡 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯, 𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰. 𝔚𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔣𝔯𝔢𝔡 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔞 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔣-𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡, 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔪𝔶 𝔪𝔦𝔡𝔡𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔫, 𝔐𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔞𝔰 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢. ℌ𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯, 𝔉𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞𝔤á𝔦𝔫 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔶𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔳𝔬𝔯, 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔩𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡. ℌ𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯, 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔨𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔲𝔩𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔡𝔞𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢.
𝔉𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞𝔤á𝔦𝔫’𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔡, 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔫𝔬𝔫-𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔲𝔢, 𝔞 𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔰𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱. ℌ𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯, 𝔡𝔞𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔉𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔫𝔞𝔤á𝔦𝔫’𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔪𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣 𝔞 𝔡𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔶—𝔞 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔴𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔦𝔱𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣. ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔡𝔞𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢.
𝔒𝔲𝔯 𝔖𝔢𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔢𝔴, 𝔲𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔥. 𝔒𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡. 𝔐𝔶 𝔰𝔬𝔫’𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱; 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔴𝔦𝔷𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔱𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔬𝔰 𝔴𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔢, 𝔞 𝔰𝔶𝔪𝔟𝔬𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔱𝔥, 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔩, 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪.
ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯’𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔲𝔢𝔡 𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔰 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯, 𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔭𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔯𝔦𝔭𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔯 𝔟𝔢𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱—𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔱—𝔟𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡.
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔟𝔢, 𝔒𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔩𝔰𝔬 𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔲𝔫𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔢. 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔶 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔞𝔰𝔰. 𝔄 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫.
𝔖𝔬, 𝔪𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔒𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫: 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩. 𝔄𝔫 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱. 𝔄 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔞 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔯𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰. ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰. ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰. ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰.
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 14𝔱𝔥, 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔲𝔫𝔴𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫. ℑ 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔬𝔣 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔰 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔞 𝔧𝔬𝔟 𝔢𝔵𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢—𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔢, 𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔶 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔠𝔱 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱𝔩𝔶 𝔡𝔦𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔭 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢, 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔥 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔡.
𝔄𝔡𝔡𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶, ℑ 𝔞𝔡𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔢. 𝔖𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔦𝔫 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔭𝔢𝔯’𝔰 𝔠𝔦𝔯𝔠𝔩𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔠—𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢, 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯, 𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔥𝔦𝔪—𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔞𝔩 𝔢𝔣𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔶. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔡𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔭𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔟𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔱. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔪.
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔡-𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔲𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. 𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔲𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔠𝔢𝔰, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔬 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔪𝔢.
ℑ 𝔢𝔵𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔲𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔭𝔲𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. ℑ 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔩𝔶, 𝔒𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔫𝔢𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲.
𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱. 𝔇𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔢.
𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔢𝔲𝔰 𝔄𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔬𝔰
Reducio@Orion Lécuyer,
It has been some time since we last spoke, yet I trust that the skills I call upon you for have not dulled. I recall your work for the precision I often demanded—swift, surgical, and most importantly, unseen. It is for these qualities that I find myself turning to you again for your services.
A situation has arisen that requires immediate and discreet attention. The target is Fionnagáin Harper—a name you may recognize in connection to his daughter, Winifred Harper, a student of yours. Winifred Harper, while a half-blood, is soon to be wed into my family through my middle son, Mathias Pride. Her father, Fionnagáin Harper had attempted to extort payment for his favor, of which he has been summarily rejected. However, a grievous error on the part of a reckless member of my family has resulted in damage to the weave.
Fionnagáin’s reappearance, while neither expected nor welcomed, should have been a non-issue, a rapscallion that could be thrown into the street. However, damage to the weave has diverted Fionnagáin’s course too far from the intended path and he has proven himself a dangerous anomaly—a thread unwoven and fraying the tapestry of fate itself. His interference has already caused damage.
Our Seers are aware of the fates that have been altered by this new, unexpected path. One that should never have been created and one that must be eliminated. My son’s betrothal is not merely an arrangement; it is a statement to wizarding society that undermines tradition and creates the chaos we require for change. The union is deliberate, a symbol of strength, progress, and control, bridging bloodlines without breaking them.
Harper’s continued existence pulls at the strands of order, risking a collapse that would ripple far beyond this family. This cannot—must not—be allowed.
You understand how fragile the weave can be, Orion. You also understand the necessity of severing loose threads before they unravel the whole. Fates such as your own happy ending that will never come to pass. A fate you have likely seen.
So, my demand of you is simple Orion: make it look natural. An accident. A tragic misstep for a man already running from his responsibilities. His daughters. His lovers. His families.
You must complete this by the 14th, before order is unwoven more than it already has been. I need not remind you of what happens should a job extend beyond its timeline—questions arise, scrutiny sharpens, and opportunities to act quietly diminish as does our opportunity to seal the rip made, to resume the happy lives we both intend.
Additionally, I advise that you remain flexible. Should others in Harper’s circle prove problematic—whether it be his wife, his daughter, or any outsider aligned with him—you will be expected to address them with equal efficiency. The weeds must be pulled by the root. It is merely my hope that they are merely flowers late to bloom.
The agreed-upon terms for your previous work will be honored and doubled upon completion. For any complications requiring further resources, you know how to reach me.
I expect this matter handled with the same meticulous care that has defined your reputation. I do not take failure lightly, Orion, and neither should you.
Make this right. Do not disappoint me.
Thaddeus Athanatos
Event NPC
A Job
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He had recognized the owl before it had even dropped the silver tube in front of him; it was one he had not seen in years. With a shaking breath, he accepted the oblong object from the owl and dug into his desk drawer to find a treat to offer the feathered messenger.
Before opening the tube, he stood up and locked his door with a simple charm, then sat back down at his desk. Despite the dread roiling in his stomach, his hands were steady as he opened the silver tube. The letter was warm. Unsurprising. His lips pressed into a thin line; it was the usual. He hovered the letter over one of the candles on his desk, waiting until the ghostly handwriting appeared, taunting him with the sins of his past life.
Thaddeus’s words were clear: the rip caused by Mr. Harper was too dangerous to ignore. It was the his veiled threats that slammed into the Frenchman harder than he would ever admit. The mention of his happy ending. Thaddeus always knew when to strike, where to twist the knife. He had no doubted the news of his engagement had gotten back to the wizard, but after two years of silence he had assumed it was the end of that chapter of his life.
A scowl pulled at his lips at the threat towards the young girl. It seemed Thaddeus was taunting him with one of Orion's rules; he did not kill innocents. In other words, either he killed this man properly or the bastard would find a way to force him to kill a muggle and a child.
By the time he reached the end of the letter, his fingers were clenching the parchment. Failure would not mean danger for himself, but for Galahad.
He had spent so long trying to bury who he had once been, trying to leave the life of shadows and blood behind him. He was a professor now, someone his students could look up to. His once empty heart had reconnected with his lost love. It filled him with hope of redemption, of bright tomorrows and promised futures. Thaddeus had unraveled it all in a single letter.
He could have tried to refuse, but he knew he had no choice but to once again become the monster he had so desperately tried to erase—the precise, efficient executioner Thaddeus had once praised.
Fate, it seemed, was a cruel master.
A dark silence stretched out, tension coiled inside of him as he picked up a quill to pen his response owl. It would not be lengthy, a mere two sentences had been scrawled across the parchment:
Orion had always sent an owl to Thaddeus upon completing a job. The owl always carried one drawn symbol; Θ, the theta symbol. A Greek symbol of death. At the time of his hiring, Orion had assumed it was a nice touch, given Thaddeus' Greek roots, but now he only found the mark haunting.It will be done. Await my usual sign.
- O.L.
After tying the letter to the owl's leg, he watched it soar into the pitch black of the night. There was one thing left to do. His attention turned to the original letter, laid out at his desk like a cursed object. He grabbed it off the desk and turned towards his fire place, the dance flames almost mocking the icy chill he felt within. The parchment was fed to the flames, the edges curling and blackening as it was consumed. The words vanished into ash, but his own fate remained unchanged. It was an act that only erased the physical evidence of the sin he was about to commit.
---
Orion traveled to the fifth floor and slid into Galahad's residence. He hesitated at first, feeling like an intruder in the room he had called home only days before. The mattress would dip as he crawled into the bed and his arms wrapping protectively around his love. If the Gryffindor stirred, Orion would only softly mumble sweet nothings into his ear until he was lulled back to sleep.
He would watch Galahad sleep, the rising and falling of his chest comforting him. Orion's eyes burned, but rest would not find him. Galahad was not a stupid man; he had spent his life hunting criminals as an Auror, a trade much noblier than the path Orion walked.
It was only a matter of time before he was discovered.
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│ │ | │ │ | STA: 10 • EVA: 15 • STR: 5 WIS: 20 • ARC: 10 • ACC: 20 | │ │ | • Calming Presence • Perfectionist • Evasive Maneuvers I & II • • Nonverbal Magic • Wandless Magic • Occlumency • Legilimency • | │ │ | │ │ |
A Job
Following the events of The Art of Murder.
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Three days remained, he was cutting it close to the timeline, but it could not be helped; he had a full time job to worry about. Besides, these sort of things took time. Death got so messy when the proper precautions were not taken. He had no intended of leaving a single end loose.
The letter the Frenchman sent Thaddeus Athanatos would remain simple, as promised. His hand carefully drew the theta symbol on a piece of parchment, it was a single symbol to let his employer know that Fionnagáin Harper was no more. He had left the scene hours before, but was unsure if anyone was yet to find the man's body. A longer wait would be beneficial to Orion, but a morbid surprise for the unfortunate person who did discover his body. He could only hope it was not one of the man's daughters.
He tucked the single piece of parchment he had drawn the symbol into an envelope and sealed it. The same owl he had used before was selected to deliver the news. The snowy owl took the letter within its talons and disappeared into the afternoon sky, carrying the news that the deed was sealed and payment was now owed.
Θ
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│ │ | │ │ | STA: 10 • EVA: 15 • STR: 5 WIS: 20 • ARC: 10 • ACC: 20 | │ │ | • Calming Presence • Perfectionist • Evasive Maneuvers I & II • • Nonverbal Magic • Wandless Magic • Occlumency • Legilimency • | │ │ | │ │ |
A Job
The letter was received in silence. Thaddeus sat alone in his study, the dying embers in the fireplace casting jagged shadows that stretched and writhed along the walls. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and ink, but beneath it lingered the scent of something darker—old iron, dried blood, and scorched parchment. Old secrets that death and time could not fully wash away.
The old man's eyes, sharp as flint and cold as winter’s bite, traced the symbol drawn on the parchment. Theta.
Finality.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The edges of his lips curved—not into a smile, but into something crueler. Satisfied, perhaps. Or vindicated.
The Harper man had outlived his purpose. He had been allowed to linger too long, to flit about the edges of the Athanatos affairs like a moth drawn foolishly to flame. Pulled by his own avarice. And like all things that wandered too close, he had burned.
Thaddeus folded the parchment and set it down on the desk with a deliberateness that bordered on reverence. Then, as though brushing aside some insignificant distraction, he reached for another piece of parchment and began to write.
The reply was short, precise, and devoid of flourish:
He set the letter aside and rang a small silver bell. Moments later, a man appeared, faceless but impeccably dressed. Thaddeus did not look up as he gestured toward the envelope.
“Deliver this.”
The man took the envelope and vanished as quickly as he had come.
Thaddeus turned back to the flickering embers in the fireplace, his thoughts already moving beyond Orion’s success. Pieces were shifting. The board rearranging itself. He had taken a pawn today. And yet…
His lips thinned. Orion’s precision and silence were valuable tools, but tools could be replaced. Thaddeus would watch him carefully in the days to come. Success bred ambition, and ambition—unchecked—had a tendency to rot the foundations of even the most useful assets.
But for now, he was content.
In three days’ time, the coffers would be emptied. And when Orion’s reward arrived, it would be brimming with gold.
Enough gold to fill a grave.
The old man's eyes, sharp as flint and cold as winter’s bite, traced the symbol drawn on the parchment. Theta.
Finality.
He leaned back in his high-backed chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The edges of his lips curved—not into a smile, but into something crueler. Satisfied, perhaps. Or vindicated.
The Harper man had outlived his purpose. He had been allowed to linger too long, to flit about the edges of the Athanatos affairs like a moth drawn foolishly to flame. Pulled by his own avarice. And like all things that wandered too close, he had burned.
Thaddeus folded the parchment and set it down on the desk with a deliberateness that bordered on reverence. Then, as though brushing aside some insignificant distraction, he reached for another piece of parchment and began to write.
The reply was short, precise, and devoid of flourish:
The wax seal pressed into the envelope bore the Athanatos crest. An emblem of eternity, knowledge and sacrifice.𝔒𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔏é𝔠𝔲𝔶𝔢𝔯,
𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨 𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔩𝔢𝔡𝔤𝔢𝔡. 𝔄𝔰 𝔞𝔩𝔴𝔞𝔶𝔰, 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔢𝔵𝔠𝔢𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩.
𝔓𝔞𝔶𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔶-𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰. 𝔑𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰. 𝔑𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔰.
𝔖𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔣𝔲𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔬𝔶𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔢.
—𝔗. 𝔄𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔬𝔰
ReducioOrion Lécuyer,
Your work is acknowledged. As always, it is exceptional.
Payment will be delivered within seventy-two hours. No deductions. No delays.
Should you require further employment, you know where to find me.
—T. Athanatos
He set the letter aside and rang a small silver bell. Moments later, a man appeared, faceless but impeccably dressed. Thaddeus did not look up as he gestured toward the envelope.
“Deliver this.”
The man took the envelope and vanished as quickly as he had come.
Thaddeus turned back to the flickering embers in the fireplace, his thoughts already moving beyond Orion’s success. Pieces were shifting. The board rearranging itself. He had taken a pawn today. And yet…
His lips thinned. Orion’s precision and silence were valuable tools, but tools could be replaced. Thaddeus would watch him carefully in the days to come. Success bred ambition, and ambition—unchecked—had a tendency to rot the foundations of even the most useful assets.
But for now, he was content.
In three days’ time, the coffers would be emptied. And when Orion’s reward arrived, it would be brimming with gold.
Enough gold to fill a grave.
Event NPC