Cabin of Mysterious Badasses Introductions

Nonconsensual? Did mediwizards have to ask the critically injured patient if they consented to having their life saved? Did a magizoologist get consent from every creature they cared for? Would you allow the bewitched to suffer all because they didn't say it was okay for you to save them? The notion was inconceivably stupid coming from a child who moments before had collapsed and muttered delusions aloud. The more Gyle though about the accusation the more annoyed it made him. Nonconensual? His presence in the tent was nonconsensual. Here he was doing a good deed, and this small fool was trying to shame him for it. Did he know who just saved him? The skill and tact it had taken to pull it off so effortlessly? Problem children were nothing new to this Lamont, but his pride was not as good at ignoring them. Nonconsensual?! He could feel the rage bubbling, and then the boy continued to speak.

To threaten even. If Gyle hadn't been convinced the lad was sick in the head before, this confirmed it. Either by means of some perplexing ailment, or of an ungrateful attitude. But the fool here was not poor little Glye Lamont, and he knew this. The outburst would win the child little favor with the group - but it could win Gyle some. More than his heroic deed had already. The gracious, selfless savior that Gyle was would not let the words of some sick little boy wound him. Then he heard Henry's words. Now those just might cause a few nicks.

Gyle would turn his face to show shock and concern. Both a the accusation, but also the threat."Pardon? Sleep with an eye open?" He would try to fill his words with a sense on genuine worry. "Perhaps the injury does go beyond the surface. We can have the healers look to you later." He would say to the boy eyeing him suspiciously.

He would turn towards Henry for the next bit. "Mummy did not raise me to stand idly by when I see someone suffering in front of me." Perhaps a hint of his ego would slip in at the end of the sentence. "Though, I am surprised, Henry. You look like someone with ample room on their list of priorities. Frela would be too much, then? Pity." He wouldn't let someone talking about his mother go unanswered.

It took a few seconds of listening to the brown-haired boy's explanation for Strike to realize that the kid had no idea he was already in the very cabin he sought - not to mention already among the company of the very people he was inquiring after. The blond was about to smile and tell him he was right where he wanted to be, but then two things happened to prevent that.

The first was that a tall, dark, imposing figure emerged from behind the boy appearing to lack luggage as the latter continued to talk. Strike would have liked to say something and opened his mouth to do so, but before he could suggest they move out of the way or do something of a similar nature, Mr. Imposing reached forward to shove aside his conversation partner.

Amber eyes widened in alarm, but fortunately, the pale individual's victim managed to catch himself and regain his balance with the aid of Gyle Lamont. Strike thought said victim would end up upset or angry, and, indeed, his complexion had turned a little ruddy as he hurried to recompose himself physically and mentally. However, when he turned to address his assailant, his words were astonishingly genial. So genial, in fact, that Strike began to wonder if he and the targeted boy had the same understanding of what had just transpired. After all, the victim was acting as if he had been the one at fault.

Surely they could have probably moved away from the path of the door, but had that really warranted a shove that hard? The force of the shove combined with the strangely raspy, obviously insincere, and perhaps even sarcastic apology had Strike speculating whether or not there might have been some personal grudge involved. Especially since if the problem was that they had been in the way, then he, too, could have been shoved aside. Instead, he was stared down as the pale newcomer confidently cocked his head at him in a wordless dare.

Strike's brow corrugated with confusion as he stepped up to meet the gaze of eyes that seemed more like black, soulless voids. "Why...did you do that?" he asked slowly, trying to comprehend it for himself. "Do you know him? Did he do something to you?"

Glancing back briefly to make sure the brunet was alright, Strike swiftly strode past the noiret - careful not to touch him - in order to fetch the trunk that continued to sit forlornly outside the cabin. He had noticed it when he'd followed the Lamont fan's gaze back over his shoulder to the path beyond the door and had decided it had sat out there long enough. If someone didn't retrieve it soon, someone else might have ended up stealing it.

Looping his broom handle through the earthbound trunk, the blond willed his Firebolt to support the luggage as he guided both objects back indoors. As he did so, he called out to the trunk's owner.

"This cabin is themed after the Department of Mysteries. As for the Lamonts, I think you just managed to stumble into one of them."

@Owen Lochridge, @Declan Blackwell, & @Gyle Lamont

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| Location: Campgrounds | Date: August 1^st, 2026 | Word Count: 610 | Speech #1587A4 | Thoughts #1587A4 |
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Henry beamed as the Welsh boy seemingly shared his sentiments about wanting to be friends. At least some of the cabinmates weren't horrendously rude. He let out a quiet chuckle through his nose, "You remind me of a good friend of mine, as a matter of fact. She's always in her robes too. Smart as a whip, she is - well, she IS in Ravenclaw, after all, so, that tells you everything you have to know, I'm sure. She's basically the only reason I passed Potions and Astronomy last year. Just don't mention Acromantulas or drowning in front of her, she had a rough time with both. Bloody terror on the dueling piste, though. Bloody intimidated to go up against her. Reckon she'd set me on fire." It didn't sound like he was kidding, but he also didn't seem too intimidated by the prospect. Bloody Hufflepuffs and their ever-so-slight inclination towards pyromania.

As he turned his attention back to the blond, he did manage to hear him over the hullabaloo and gave him an incredibly fond smile, "Nice broom, by the way." he offered. He wasn't an expert on them, but he could tell quality craftsmanship when he saw it. He imagined it was likely worth more than his own parents paid for rent and utilities on their house, quite possibly many times that. And yet, he watched as Strike went off to offer help to his fellow firsties, "Seems like a good bloke..." he muttered to himself. It was nice seeing someone else who was genuinely eager to help, it wasn't something he was used to from well off kids, though he did worry whether this crowd would appreciate him.

Henry's bright blue orbs widened and his mouth opened so far you could see the gap where one of his molars used to be as the tall boy dressed in a black sweatshirt rammed straight into the boy who'd managed to mishear the irritable mummy boy. Even if the luggage-less boy was taller than Henry himself was - he was still nowhere near the lumbering case of heat exhaustion waiting to happen in terms of height. Worse yet, instead of offering a genuine apology, the foreign-sounding advertisement for the color black seemed almost vindictive. "Oi, Edgelord, what the bloody hell was that for!?"

The shortest of the assembled second years found his hand moving to where his wand rested at his side, just in case this turned nasty, but he still glared up at the overgrown Addams Family reject as he stood straight up, and still only managed to come up to about the younger boy's shoulder.

His grip around the metal and willow handle only tightened at Gyle's response to him, "I suspect she'd be getting screamed at for nonconsensual idiocy right now too, then. And for the record, I was too busy learning a third, fourth, and fifth level spell to bother with that particular one yet. I'd be overjoyed to demonstrate those for you."

Alfie was correct. Henry was not a fan of the Lamonts, by any stretch of the imagination. Thus he didn't bother trying to suppress the raucous laugh that escaped him when he noticed who Owen had managed to run into. He moved forward and looked the Irish bloke over briefly to see if he was also as worse for wear as the other boy who'd ended up on the floor, "Strike's right, for better or worse, you're in the right place, kid. I wouldn't be surprised if the Lamont who just cushioned your fall is less concerned about the collision and more worried about whether or not you'll infect them with Poorness."

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| Interaction: C.O.M.B.|
| OOC Notes: None |

The Gyle thing... he left for Gyle to deal with. His brother always liked to play the grown-up between them, so now was as good a time as any to show his talent as a pestering prefect to the group.

Clay shot Jeremy a look, stared for a second, then smiled. He flourished one arm and pulled out a writing quill from his left sleeve. Proceeding by producing a tissue from a breast pocket hidden among the exuberant embroidery of an occamy swirling a decorated dozen of nested eggs.

The handsomest of the Lamont twins scribbled for a while before eventually passing on the tissue to Jeremy. If he were to look down and accept his gift, he would find himself in the possession of his very first Clayton Lamont autograph. The message along with it read:

'Proof you met one - Clayton Oberon Osmosis Lamont'

He had been tempted to hand Jeremy proof that he had met him in particular. Still, either because of his incalculable interaction with Jo or the boy's adorable amazement at Clay's state of being, he had opted for a more humble approach. The thought that handing out unwarranted autographs had little to do with modesty was unfathomable to him.

After he had asked about the other residents' parents' occupations, he felt his new role draping around his shoulders like a warm cloak. He imagined a host, warm and inviting, for an evening soiree. Something exclusive, but not so much that it leans towards tacky, like a Lovegood luncheon. No, it was a private party of special guests. For connecting in the industry.

At the mention of security, Clay's eyes flickered with enthusiasm. He instantly imagined Jo as a tough-as-nails chief of security. Strapped in something akin to a pirate's long coat with at least five different wands holstered to either side of the chest. Her height was accentuated by a pair of tall, muddy dragon-leather boots that Jeremy watched with scorn... whom Clay had mentally punished for being a slob by imagining him as your standard-issue, bereft butler. A son of a clearly close-minded, unambitious salesman who hated people like Clay for having no use for just one potion in the entire arsenal of potioneering. Hooray for the Lamonts for offering people like Jeremy a place at their side in high society.

"Interesting, interesting..." He mused as he cupped his chin between two fingers. The Byrnes did ring a bell. He recalled several painful attempts at trying to get his mother's attention when she was late for a meeting with her usual entourage of party-planners. Yes, they did mention the Byrnes on occasion, he thought. His eyes only connected with Jeremy's out of politeness and the purpose of making new connections. "What's the name of your father's place?"

When a baby blond boy came forward and explained his mother was also in security, Clay felt his bubble burst. There was just no way even a creative mind like his could imagine a boy like that as a daring security officer. "You must take after your father." Clayton smiled politely as he offered a hand. "Perhaps I ought to mention your family to my mother sometime. What was your name again?"

His head would briefly shoot upwards at the mention of the Lamonts by a newcomer, though he could only arch his eyebrow as he watched the boy disappear from view, being shoved aside by yet another new arrival. Perhaps it had been a mistake using their actual names on the cabin lists; they had become far too popular now. Hopefully there wasn't a line forming outside.

When Jo had explained to Clayton what her parents did and how his mum might know them, she'd been braced for some kind of dismissive or scathing comment. She found herself slightly disarmed by his reaction (was it a good or bad interesting? the boy was frustratingly hard to read) And then he was positively nice to Jeremy. Granted, the niceness was slightly undercut by the fact that he had just attempted to give him the autograph Jo had refused. It seemed her earlier comment had basically made an impression for all of two seconds.

"For all the difference it made," she muttered back to Henry. She couldn't help but look extremely pleased with herself at his compliment of her (even if he wasn't nearly as appreciative of her 'diseased in the brain' comment; she didn't see why, it was clearly an accurate observation). And still her eyes were on Clayton. She couldn't tell whether the niceness was an affectation or whether he truly bought into it himself, showing a world-class lack of self-awareness. Strike's comment about his own mum's occupation, though--one of the newcomers who looked like a cherub and seemed to have the temperament of one (given he'd come in carrying someone else's trunk and was already rushing over to help a third person)--was enough to distract her.

Jo liked Quidditch., and like anyone who liked Quidditch, she had often gazed longingly at a broomstick very much like Strike's. She knew it was expensive, expensive enough to constitute 'frivolous spending', per her da. Expensive enough to know that no security guard would reasonably be able to afford one, nor anyone who held that sort of job.

"Did she get fired for stealing from her clients?" she asked, eyebrows quirked meaningfully in the direction of his broom. She wasn't really serious, but clearly Strike had misunderstood something about what his mum did, and it piqued Jo's curiosity. Jobs that paid well and could be mistaken for a security guard had to involve some measure of violence or complex magic or both.

With her eyes on Strike and his broom, Jo was perfectly positioned to take in the cabin's newest (and probably last, if she'd counted right) occupant as he walked in; tall and pale and dressed in all black, the boy was wearing sunglasses, and immediately caused a ruckus by pushing the boy who Strike had been helping, his ensuing apology dry and insincere. It made Jo chuckle despite herself. No one else seemed to think it was funny--Strike was was already confronting him, even, and Henry was calling him an 'edgelord', whatever that was. It made Jo scowl at the boy who'd been pushed and who now seemed intent on apologising to the pusher. It rather ruined her fun. It just seemed like bad form to laugh at someone who was being a total pushover (pun wholly intended).

"You shouldn't apologise," she told him with an eye-roll. "He pushed you." The exasperation in her tone was rather undermined by a snort at Henry's poorness 'comment'. She didn't know what the Lamonts had done to him (other than be insufferable) but that boy clearly had it out for them. She didn't turn to look at him, though. She found, throughout the exchange, that her eyes kept getting drawn back to the newcomer, at the way he seemed utterly unbothered by the chaos he'd caused and the way his all black clothes made him look even paler. He seemed different from the other boys, more serious, more mature. She wondered if he was older. Then she wondered who he'd be sharing a room with.

Only, of course, because there was clearly something dodgy about him. There just had to be.

Alfie was having a difficult time keeping track of all of the disparate conversations happening concurrently. He felt naturally drawn to the drama, the girl’s snark, the rivalry between the Henry Holbrook and the posh boys–

Henry, however, was addressing him again, so Alfie had to make sure he’d composed himself with resting-chad-face (something he’d worked on without his metamorph powers, as so far any attempt to looksmax himself had resulted in one sort of abomination or another).

Henry was another enigma, Alfie thought, as the older boy compared him rather positively with someone he knew. One minute he was being the self-appointed mother-hen of the group and the next he was dishing out insults as good as anyone. Alfie had been prepared to listen to more trash talk, yet here was Henry giving him a compliment-cum-pep-talk instead. Although some of what he was saying was beginning to register belatedly as somewhat alarming: duels, drowning, and– had he said tarantulas?

“She sounds–smashing¹,” Alfie managed to say, a bit less enthusiastically than he had planned. “You’ll have to introduce me,” he added. “Perhaps, when she’s in a good mood.”

Henry’s attention was drawn away, by Strike of all people, so Alfie’s eye wandered again. He’d wanted to insinuate himself somewhere a bit more interesting. And with Henry yo-yoing away from his earlier fire, Alfie’s curiosity naturally drifted back to snark-girl and whatever was going on with the more fabulous of the two posh blokes. The toff² in question was signing autographs. ‘Bachgen, bachgen³ , you cannot be serious,’ Alfie thought, but just then Henry’s voice recaptured his attention.

"Seems like a good bloke..." he was saying. Alfie’s eyes followed to where Strike was assisting the disease-fearing boy. They both looked so... nice. ‘He’s an absolute peach,’ Alfie thought, but he mustered an attempt at greater conviction and said, “Oh aye, he’s a sound⁴ lad, he is.” Not that Alfie knew, but Strike seemed pleasant enough. However, by followed Henry’s gaze Alfie was now rewarded by something more interesting.

A mysterious figure had darkened the doorway into the cabin. Dressed all in black, it loomed over the much smaller and less impressive campers. It was as if Trinity from the Matrix had a baby with that butler from the Adam’s family. What was his name? Was it Lurch?

Unpredictably, the bloke lurched forward, so to speak, and body-checked the disease-fearing boy (probably should learn his name, right?), sending him stumbling. He apologized, sounding super cool rather than super sorry. In the brief silence that followed, the snarky girl snorted.

Alfie loved that girl!

And then Henry, the cabin’s mother-hen cum attack dog, bared his teeth and growled. "Oi, Edgelord, what the bloody hell was that for!?"

Alfie couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. “Damn, Henry! The pair on you!”

The words had come out before he could stop them. Alfie flushed, quickly and unnaturally, his entire face suddenly a ruddy shade of rose, only to drain away to pale celadon, as Alfie clamped hands over his mouth and lowered his face to the floor.

‘ How much of a gaff was that?’ he wondered. The blood in his ears was pounding, but over it he was aware that an altercation was taking place. Words were being hotly exchanged between Henry and one of the posh boys, which one Alfie couldn’t possibly guess. They blurred in his mind into one especially pompous bloke

Perhaps his own outburst hadn’t been all that bad, or maybe they wouldn’t know who had said it. ‘Oh right it was the other Welsh bloke in the cabin,’ he thought bitterly.

It occurred to him that reinventing himself as a popular boy and getting everyone to like him was much, much harder than he ever thought. If he could get each person on their own he might have a chance, but you could hardly make yourself into the perfect friend for each of them when they were all there together.

Henry, Alfie thought, was relatively straight forward. Just play the solid bloke, profess to like or hate the appropriate people, and throw in just a smidge of helplessness so that Henry could play the big brother/hero role.

The posh boys on the other hand, Alfie reckoned flattery was the key there, being careful to thread the line between admiration and obsequiousness. He didn't fancy being anyone’s toady and that was where he’d be if he laid it on too thick. It would help if he could learn to tell the agro one from the fabo one.

Alfie, looked up slightly at the sound of Snarky-girl’s dulcet tones. She was reprimanding the shoved-boy for apologising for being shoved. Alfie thought he admired her the most, but he was aware she was dangerous. Too observant by half, and the sort of girl who could destroy you with a well-placed insult or withering stare.

On the other hand, shoved-boy (new name) and Strike were easy pickings. He could collect both of them together just by being nice to them. Their value? Uncertain. Fine clothes to be sure. Probably wealth there. That alone made it worth the time.

The amateur liar was, well, an amateur liar. But he was bookish and Alfie was quite well versed in bookish. He deemed him low priority, but entirely doable.

The behemoth in the door? Scary. Mean. Super cool though. Most likely befriending him would prove impractical.. Dangerous, even. But how cool would Alfie look in that get up? It was impossible not to want that.

For some reason, Alfie thought he was one camper short, but couldn’t recall anyone else.

The interlude of inner monologue had taken only a moment, much less than the time it would take some theoretical person to read it, let alone how long it would take an equally theoretical person to write it.

Which is to say that raised voices were still ringing as Alfie glanced sideways in the direction of the loudest. With his head still lowered, his eyes were at the perfect level to light upon Henry’s clenched fist and what looked like a barely concealed wand.

‘Iesu Mawr⁵, are we armed here?’ he wondered. Alfie certainly wasn’t. His wand was at the bottom of his trunk which was shoved out of the way against the opposite wall. It had not occurred to him that he would need it, and in any case, it was useless to someone as ignorant as himself. Henry had mentioned dueling though so Alfie could only suppose that he knew a thing or two about violence. And Henry did really despise that one guy, whichever one it was. Alfie took a cautious step backward, eyeing the comfy couches. He could easily fit behind one of them if he could only get there first.

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Welsh Vocabulary and English colloqualisms used in Wales:

Reducio

• ¹Smashing*****Wonderful, great, extremelly good.
• ²Toff***********UK slang for a wealthy person, especially a member of the aristocracy or landed gentry. The word carries a disapproving or critical tone, implying a person with an air of superiority of privilege.
• ³Bachgen, bachgen*****(BAKH-gen) Literally "boy, boy" used as a mild exclamation of surprise, realization, or gentle exasperation.
• ⁴Sound********* In North Wales and much of the UK "sound" describes a person who is genuine, decent, dependable, trustworthy, or just a generally great guy.
• ⁵Iesu Mawr***** (YEH-si MAH-oor - Northern Wales) An expression of surprise. Literally "Great Jesus" but used similarly to Good God! or Jesus Christ!

If satisfaction were an image, it would show that shock of brown hair stumbling like a fawn across the room. Legs battled in vain for purchase, arms extending in a veritable plea for salvation. Regrettably they did find it, following a spectacular performance, in another pair wrought with fine linen. What a shame the twit came with his very own well-dressed guardian angel, though Declan supposed the result was sufficiently ironic, given the parallels to how he’d been shoved into an upperclassman minutes prior. The blush of humiliation that painted his first impression of the boy’s face was also delicious, all but sating his lust for reprisal.

This state of fulfillment would stutter, however — like static in an old film — when the blond boy near the door met his silent challenge with a string of questions, each one sluggishly following the last, as though he were asking himself more than anything.
Why had he done it? A simple answer: he was petty. Not to mention dragging a trunk beneath the wrath of a sun who wanted him dead tended to leave him irritable. So sue him.
The following queries had more difficult answers. Naturally he hadn’t a clue as to the identity of the boy he’d shoved; he didn’t know his own family, let alone a random kid without the sense to watch where he went. He didn’t suppose he’d like to share that little tidbit with blondie here, nor relive the incident that would likely leave a bruise on his hip for days to come. Thus, his response would favor ambiguity. Besides, it was easier this way.
”He was blocking the door. Now he isn’t.”

His attention shifted back to the freckled fawn when his own ‘apology’ was echoed, marking the third time those words had been exchanged between them, and preceding an admission that he must have been in the way.
Still obscured by the sunglasses, Declan’s eyes narrowed a touch at that, as mentally he examined the response. Of course he had been in the way — he’d been standing directly in the cabin entrance. But surely he knew there was more to it than that.
The dhampir’s contemplation sharpened further as the boy proceeded to speak.
"No harm done! You're alright yea?"
What kind of a stupid question was that? Did he suppose Declan had chipped a nail in the oh-so-strenuous act of banishing his feeble frame from the doorway? Concerned for the state of his aggressor’s cuticles, was he? How endearing.

Part of him wondered if he was being mocked in some way, or if this fawn truly possessed the backbone of a jellyfish. Then the greater part of him remembered he couldn’t care less. Save for an unfeeling stare, he wouldn’t deign to respond. Unfortunately that did not spell the end of the matter, for a knight in shining armor would emerge. Declan mused that said armor might have been fashioned for a hobbit considering the knight’s stature, though his words stood taller than he.
The half-blood wasn’t familiar with any lords of edge, or his apparent relation to their kind, but the connotation was clearly less than positive.
His gaze slid from the knight’s gleaming helm to his boots — a paltry distance to travel — then back again. He saw azure flame glaring back, and noted the hand which slipped to weapon’s hilt. A bit dramatic for a meager shove, he thought. After all, he was the real victim here; his cuticles may never recover.

He inclined his chin toward the freckled fawn. ”You heard him. He was in the way. I wanted to come in, so I did.” Still the words dragged, as though he had all things better to do than have this conversation. ”And if you’re going to use that wand, I suggest you do it well.”
He had a wand of his own, stashed carelessly in a deep pocket of his cargo pants, but it was little more than a stick in his hands yet. One gracious gift from his vampiric ancestry was their magical ineptitude. He hadn’t even known his father’s powers trickled through his blood until the previous year, when his family’s disdain had squeezed the latent potential from within. To this day controlled magic escaped him, yet weakness was not all he had wrung from his mother’s genes. He had weaponry enough, in the very nails over which the other boy had fretted, and buried in his gums. All this knight had to do was fail one spell, and the minute distance between them could easily be closed.

Not that Declan had the slightest interest in a fight. That sounded positively exhausting, and he likely had heat stroke. Unless the paladin of azure flame made a move, forget it.

Vaguely he’d registered outside input from a pair of sources, one standing out as a lighter touch on his ears than the rest — a female. Despite the softer pitch, her words weighed heavier than all but those the paladin spoke. It seemed she’d found the fawn’s apology just as preposterous as he had, though was her regard one of defense, or disgust? His intrigue lacked the necessary pull to find out, yet he couldn’t shake the unpleasant sensation of eyes watching him from that direction.
The other interruption came as a rather raucous outburst — a downright guffaw at the Paladin’s comment regarding the lords of edge. This one had drawn Declan’s gaze, if only for a moment, to see a boy with hair of similar shade to his own. Hands clasped the boy’s mouth like he had just been forced to air his mother’s dirty laundry. Glancing at the paladin, the boy seemed to inch away, and Declan had dismissed him.

Presently, unless the paladin tried something extreme, Declan would take lazy steps toward the first bedroom he saw, trunk in tow. If anyone had planned for the bed he chose, that would be simply unfortunate for them.
Shaded eyes would firmly hold those of azure flame as he passed. At this rate he’d injure his neck looking so far down.

Jeremy mourned for the days (well, twenty minutes ago) when he had been the only one in the cabin, about to settle down to read. More and more kids had kept coming in, and there was now so much going on that he wasn’t sure what to do with himself, who to talk to, or where to go.

Jeremy had been to a bit of pre-Hogwarts schooling, of course, so it wasn’t like it was that hard to be around other kids. He didn’t mind talking to strangers. But to be around so many new ones at once, who were all talking to each other, introducing each other, casting spells at each other, threatening to cast spells at each other, and screaming about having spells cast on each other, it was a lot to figure out at once.

Clayton was one of the most confusing to figure out. At first, he had been furious at Jeremy about his hurt toe. Then he seemed fine, and in fact smiled, writing out an autograph for Jeremy on a tissue. Judging by the quill in his sleeve, Jeremy got the sense he had done this before.

“Uh, Proof I met one what?” Jeremy asked. A metamorph? Or was Clayton famous? He thought to ask if the boy knew that his initials spelled ‘COOL’ but then decided that of course he did. That was probably the only reason to write out both middle names (well, if Osmosis counted as a name). If Jeremy’s middle name was Osmosis he’d probably try to hide it as much as possible, so the only real good reason to include it was for the initials. Maybe he’d just made that one up to make the initials work.

As he looked down at the autograph, trying to figure out how to feel about it, he wondered for just a moment what Clayton would do if he was to thank him, and use the tissue to blow his nose. The only thing that stopped him was that he wasn’t quite sure if he was actually being insulted or not. “Uh, thanks I guess. How many books you reckon I could buy if I sell that?”

The more they talked, the more he was sure he was supposed to know who the Lamonts were. He didn’t really like not knowing things. He had read a lot, but maybe he was more interested in fictional places, or historical places. If it wasn’t old, or make-believe, he hadn’t really read quite as much about it. So perhaps he should have known what the ‘one’ was that he had got proof of meeting after all, but Clay was just too young or too real.

Probably it was one of those families his dad always rattled on around, while Jeremy tried his best to tune him out and read his book, nodding just enough that his dad might be satisfied that he was kind of listening. There were a lot of families like that. They were often the types of families where he got dragged to their houses, like this summer with Jo, so his father could talk business. He never liked those families. Of course, this time, his parents weren't around to make sure he behaved like a perfect little gentleman.

Clayton wanted to know Jeremy's father's place. He didn't know if it counted as a place, since it was just his dad. It had a name, he supposed. A kind of boring name, considering the dealings he did with other wizards certainly didn't seem to be boring for all the secrecy it needed. Maybe that was the point of the boring name. “He doesn’t really have a place. Well, he calls it 'Slater's Specialty Ingredients'. But he’s just…Thomas Slater. You maybe heard of him. A lot of important people did I guess.” he said with a bit of a sigh. Jo's parents knew his dad, and her parents knew the Lamonts' mum. Strike's mum did security too. Jer's dad knew the Valerians. Maybe there was just some giant clubs of important mums and dads, always dragging their kids off to business dinners and mingling and some tosh like that.

After finishing with Clayton, Jeremy wandered off to see what else was going on. There was a lot of arguing about 'ferula'. He thought that what Jo said about the not-deceased-and-maybe-not-diseased boy on the ground was kind of rude. He'd been thinking it too, of course, but he wasn’t going to say it.

Henry was confusing Jeremy. He seemed a lot nicer to those people he liked than he was to those people he didn’t like. Though most (MOST) of the people he didn’t like seemed to have done something to deserve it. Well, Gyle had actually helped people, twice, so he might have been nice after all. But he had also got mad at Jeremy about his trunk, so Jeremy wasn't feeling so bad for him.

But if he thought Henry had been tough before, he'd seen nothing yet, because that was when the final member of their cabin arrived (Jeremy certainly hoped it was the final member, they only had ten beds). He entered their cabin with an imposing yet disconnected presence and flowing hair and sunglasses that made him look like one of those characters on the cover of novels in the sections of the library that Jeremy avoided (though his skin looked more like he spent his time in the libraries, not in the settings of those books). He also arrived in the doorway even though somebody was already standing there, sending the worried boy sprawling.

Jeremy stared in shock at the brazen action, before narrowing his eyes at the boy in the doorway. The others about summed it up for him, which was good because he didn't know what to say. He didn’t know why the worried boy was apologizing. It seemed like he'd just been shoved. He knew that some kids could be too nice for their own good, and he wondered if this boy was one of them. He thought about helpfully pointing out to the boy that he'd just been bullied, but luckily Jo was on top of that one. Henry took care of what to say to the new boy.

Alfie, who Jeremy had wandered next to in all the chaos, seemed very excited about that one. “Damn, Henry! The pair on you!” he exclaimed, before looking positively mortified. “What’s that mean?” Jer asked curiously. The boy had a Welsh accent, so maybe it was some kind of Welsh slang. In these situations, it was probably best to just start making conversation.

“ YEAH! What DID you do to me?!” He echoes out whiteboy#3’s [Clayton] question towards Gyle. GYLE! A name he will forget, and forget he did- as he focused instead on checking himself - legs first. Then his arms and chest. “ Oh. ehe. Healling. Nonconsensual healing”. The comment comes off more like an observation than gratitude. It was at least unlike the yelled proclamation just now. Much to white boy #5 [Henry’s] relief, maybe. Given the expression he wrote followed by a ‘Bloody hell’ that made Demo vaguely remember the expression sheet he still had tucked in his backpack.

At the non-consensual hearler’s question that he could not register as rhetorical. Totally forgets the boy was unaware he was talking about looking into his eyes. “I said sleep with one eye open ……………do you rather I do it while youre conscious…? Wokey! Keep one eye open at ALL times”


The other blobs of figures talked between them and Demo didn’t feel like it was right to not let them know he was listening. Added with the newcomer talking about diseases .. gosh.. now many new faced did he have to memorise NOW? Demo counts the mops of hair that were in the room now. This was a lot more than he ever had in his life.


Jo & Jeremy
“ Ha?enggak enggak enggak - I don’t fit the description of - single quotation mark-. diseased' - single quotation mark. Brain and arms. brain arms and legs! But if I do I’ll tell you!” pauses “ I lied. I might forget. But youre fine with that right? I mean you did it earlier?' “ Ha? Nonono.

Strike
The blonde hair that he managed to somehow register in his head - primarily since he’s been repeating more or less the same thing until now. ‘lemme help carry bag?’ Thats more or less what they said right? Just like the staff back at home! “ oh oh can you get mine too there?” Naturally Demo assumed Strike was the same. Staff.


Clayton & Gyle

It was then a boy- was that the non-consensual boy? Were there two of them? Oh … he couldn’t tell- anyway - he then asked about parents? And people were joining in? Though Demo didn’t know what face he showed, his words were evidence enough.

“ who cares bout that” bluntly“ youre the one here, instead of your parents. does it make you better than the rest if your parents work over them?”. His face remained blank as if trying to remember something. “ ….. slash gee kyu”. Tone tags. /gq. He trained himself on them with the rare chances he lurks around internet social spaces on the computer. /genq.

It was then that shoving bussiness was going on, when yet another human but this time in black- kapowshed the newest(?) boy. It fine (it seemed?) though others did not think so. The staff member (strike) spoke up. Could they do that? Wow. Magical staff had spines. What did this look like…. where had he seen the act of shoving people and yelling before..




His arms raised, “WAIT WAIT WAIT I KNOW WHAT HES DOING. TAG! TAG THE ROOMATE!” . Perhaps it was not Gyle’s brightest idea to heal Demo.

“ME NEXT ME NEXT” He glances around the tent like a robot would.


Scanning.


And scanning.....


Landing on Alphie longer than the rest.


[ Permission granted by Alphie to claim his character this way, but I'm just letting people have a chance to change anything if they wanted]