8680/Murders of London: Mourning Moon

Murders of London: Mourning Moon
Date of Scene:	15 November 2021
Location:	London - England
Synopsis:	London's troubles start and end with the shadow Parliament. An emergency call receives a response.
Cast of Characters:	Meggan Puceanu, Alfred Pennyworth, Zatanna Zatara, Roland Livingston, Jonathan Sims, Tim Drake, Martin Blackwood, Phoebe Beacon

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Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Something has gone wrong in the City of London. A small matter, piling up like so many spots of rust until they all melt together and the pipe springs a leak. Wrongs often begin very small.

It's mid-evening in London when John Owen finally concedes defeat. He puts his ceremonial hat on a desk crammed into a former supply closet. Running a hand over his thinning crop of hair, he twists the dial on a safe hidden in the wall. Inside reside papers, a firearm, a worn book bound in unstamped leather. Hand-copied notes peer up at the Ravenmaster of the Tower of London as he shakily thumbs through to the end. Stitched into the pages is something older, much older indeed.

His mouth moves. The instructions are clear. A shot of gin from the bottle in his drawer and the last of the copy later, he hastily punches in a phone number. Too long to be local. It rings. And it rings.

Old enchantments embedded in wires stir. A blinking light seeks attention in Gotham. Another phone rings in Edinburgh, a third at the Empire Club in London. Cell phones jangle from a London-based number. The rare few might dream about sitting on a stool, in a non-descript pub, while a gentleman with a splendid white beard and weathered look to him talks to them. All with the same peculiar message recorded in a chap's elegant English baritone. One Allan Quatermain, if it matters.

"Sorry to bother you, bit of a cracking emergency here. You're on the list to help. If you are receiving this message, then something dreadful has befallen the Tower of London and I am in no position to assist. The sooner you look into it, the less likely the whole thing spirals wildly out of control and ends up making the World Wars look like an afternoon tea at the Savoy. Look for the Master of the Tower if he still lives. Raid his gin cabinet, fine stuff."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    There's an unusual disturbance at Wayne Manor. An old memento of Alfred's older days suddenly going off - the thing was never supposed to work anyway, given the advent of modern technology. When it did though, Alfred was keen to notice. The lat and long coordinates were familiar to him, their method of delivery not so much, but it was enough to arouse suspicion. He quickly maneuvered about to fulfill his duties and then left a brief note explaining his departure - personal matters.

    One of the Wayne family jets was resource enough to get him to London, and like an old dog returning home, he quickly sank into his old apparal. The proper butler tuxedo was replaced with a plain black suit and hat - still bearing the meticulously maintained pocket square - but rather more functional than his usual attire to the keen observer. It didn't take long between Wayne resources and his own abilities to arrive at the tower, already putting his 'amateur' detective skills to work to begin surveying the location, making the appropriate mentions of duty to those involved with the casual ease of an actor mid performance.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The cellphone sounds a cascade of crystalline bells on the magician's bedside table. Zatanna resists it. It is only 4 in the morning, and she had only gotten to bed at midnight. A feather floats in the air after she punches her pillow and reaches for the phone. She is awake by the end of the message, climbing out from under her warm duvet to reach for the clothes laid out for her for the coming day - a roomy black deconstructed jacket and the matching pants from her favorite Japanese designer over a starched French-cuffed white shirt. A quick brush out of her crow-black hair, and she is off to the races.

Only an espresso could make this go better. Muttering to herself, "He said the Tower, didn't he?" She traces a portal in the air and steps through onto the cold cobblestones of the Inner Ward. Not surprisingly, she is alone for the moment.

Roland Livingston has posed:
He'd heard the stories. His ancestors had even been in a few of them. Still, the call came as something of a surprise to Roland. When he received it he went to work immediately, packing some adventuring supplies and boarding his private jet to London.

Being back in England for the first time in nearly a year feels surprisingly good to the young man, even if he is here on business. He rides to the Tower in a cab, not wanting to attract too much attention to himself. As he exits the vehicle and starts to look around he grabs a backpack and slips into it, looking much like a local student. Of course, the bag is full of investigative tools. Good for getting to the bottom of magical mysteries and whatnot.

The other people around the ancient edifice are scanned and studied. It's hard to tell if one is supposed to meet other people when they receive a mysterious phone call.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    The dream that comes to Jonathan Sims isn't meant for him at all, not originally. It's clearly meant for his grandmother, but he blinks out of sleep in the Triskelion and mutters, "Well, /bollocks/." Texts his trainers to let them know he won't be around for 7am training, texts Tim Drake to ask if he wants to come answer a call to help the Tower of London because 'look maybe I hate the place but I'm pretty sure if the Tower falls the Empire falls and the Empire now includes, you know... NATO.'

    In short order they're in London, having taken a private jet, heading to the Tower in what might be a rented car or might be a car Tim happens to have kept there--who knows with rich kids, right? Jon's awake by this point, wearing his favorite green cardigan as if for luck, carrying his collapsable staff worn on a holster inside. He's looking around with mystic Sight from the start, in case that might help pinpoint the location of the disturbance to his dreams.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There's a bird joke to be made here. Well, maybe not, given that of the folks relaxing in the back of the private jet with him, Martin is an outlier. He doesn't know that Tim is Red Robin, and as much as it'll probably be a massive pain in the ass for Jon to keep that secret, well.

    Tim appreciates the effort.

    He takes note that it's one of the backup jets that they board, though there are several people who have access to the fleet should the need arise to travel under the cover of their civilian identities.

    Despite the hour, Tim is bright eyed and bushy tailed, still in the suit he'd had custom-made for a social obligation he was thrilled to have an excuse not to attend. Most of the flight it spent with him on one of the couches, legs stretched out in front of him as he types away on his laptop, earbuds in. Digging into the Tower, its history, whatever his mundane detective skills might be able to find across the internet.

    Once they're landed, he switches to a tablet, which he has tucked under his elbow as he follows after the Archivist and his husband, and Phoebe. Tim knows he's here as nerd backup, and he's fine with that. Another peek under the veil, another opportunity for him to continue his work in cataloguing all the things that go Bump In The Night.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin only minorly questioned the dream at first. Dreaming of old British men in smoking jackets in strange establishments speaking to him as if he was some sort of 1920s agent? Not too far out of the norm for him when he had all but devoured the books and movies depicting such actions as a child and an adult. But when he woke from it and found Jon already getting ready and making calls, his curiosity was piqued.

    After some clarification and realizing that the dream was not *just* a dream, he moved into action. An overnight bag was packed and with it came most of what he would need. He considered long and hard as to whether or not to bring his badge. This wasn't a SHIELD operation after all... this was something else entirely. In the end it was his ICER that made the decision for him, better to have the authorization for the weapon than to get holed up in CUSTOMS for having one without the other.

    The private jet was a nice touch, something he could get used to with the ease and speed of its travel. He is dressed as he usually would be for such events. Grey slacks, blue turtleneck, a shoulder holster for his ICER, and a heavy leather jacket. The boots on his feet shine but have the tell-tale sign of being put to great use. The cool London air brings back good and not so good memories as he looks around before sliding on a pair of leather gloves inscribed with formulae and sigils of magic that are a mix of his mother's (unfortunately) and his own make. They're not necessary, but they make his actions and decisions a lot easier in the long run and they haven't failed him yet.

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe Beacon was almost always up for an adventure, and when asked to accompany Tim to London she jumped at it, oddly, for someone who was largely a homebody. She met Tim at Gotham's airport, greeted the Archivist and genuinely looked confused at meeting his husband, but figured it would probably be best to not ask questions at the moment. Tim gets to see the selfie she took with the white Tower of London and the Tower Bridge in the background wearing a 'Mind the Gap' T-shirt from her last trip to London, but mostly spent it sitting near him, as besties are wont to do, helping research the tower or researching on her own for something that might be useful.

    When they arrive at the tower, she's wearing a gray coat against the cold, hood up, her knee-high 'bicycle' boots laced and hiding throwing knives, her leather pack over one shoulder as she purses her lips.

    She had texted her current legal guardian and remaining Dad, of course, to let him know she was helping a friend out with something and might not be able to help open the bar the next day.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
After 9:00 PM, the Tower of London becomes a lovely beacon of mortared stone dwarfed by any modern skyscraper. Floodlights wash over the bastion of British sovereignty near the edge of the City and its slowly gentrified East End. It's quite hard to miss, a 90-foot white pinnacle enfolded in defensive walls, peering over the Thames. A party barge floats past, brightly lit and full of the noise of happy people getting sloshed to Stormzy and Ed Sheeran.

An iron portcullis at the entrance gate and the filled in, grassy moat serve to keep the hoards of tourists at bay during daytime. At night, the Beefeater guards keep watch over a place that has more bloody history per square inch than anywhere else in the British Isles.

A Beefeater in a squashed black hat, lounges against the wall, crushing his crisp red-trimmed surcoat. The pike in hand still remains at parade rest. He looks around often enough, impatient bastard waiting on his Deliveroo curry to arrive. Anyone loitering too close to the closed ticket booth at the entrance gate would normally be shooed away, but he squints closer, hesitant.

"Halt!" It's routine, seven hundred years of asking the same question. He genuinely raises an uncertain tone, almost imploring. "Who goes there?"

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Alfred is surprisingly spry for his age, padding about the grounds as they begin to close, and then taking the opportunity to secure the guards' trust before it becomes too late in the evening to engender too much distrust. "Evening, old boy - Alfred Tulwicky, at your - and Her Majesty's - service," he offered in an overtly formal fashion, pulling a non-descript wallet from his inner coat pocket to display identification in a hasty and decidedly domineering manner. "I will be having some friends show up, quite possibly... could you see to it that they're afforded a welcome?" he asked, flashing a polite smile.

    Should the ruse work - or more, even if it didn't, he'd take the momentary fluster to glide into the Tower proper - Alfred began to glide about the entry way, establishing a presence to afford 'whoever' had contacted him the opportunity to join, still as yet ignorant to the call's true nature.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The guard's loud halt bounces over the cobblestones, coaxing a stifled curse out of Zatanna. She speed dials a number on a hunch after stepping back into a dark corner of the lit yard.

After a few rings, she texts a message, "Tim. Tell me where you are right now, please. I'm at the Tower. Did you get a message, too? I'm in the Inner Ward." She hangs up, makes sure it is on vibrate only and speed dials another number to text a message, "Jon, I figure if I'm at the Tower of London you will be, too. I'm inside the walls." Zee pockets the phone after looking at a map of the area and waits for a response.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
In the Inner Ward, a low croak slips into the misty, cool night. The sound doesn't travel far.

A door opens near the north side of the inner ward, and out spills John Owen with his regimental blacks and hat crammed back on his head. "What now?" He scowls up at the Hospital Block where a puffed up black bird snaps its beak. "Oh, lovely bit of help that is."

A sigh. "Who d'you suppose you are, and what are you doing here?" he asks the lone woman standing there.

Roland Livingston has posed:
That older gentleman seems to know who to speak to to get into the tower, Roland notes before he begins heading in that direction. He greets the Beefeater with a smile, "How do you do? Roland Livingston. Here to sort things out." He's got IDs, too. One even says that he's a consultant with Scotland Yard. Who knows where that one came from? "I'll be inside if you need me." And he steps inside to follow the older guy, see where he's heading.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon peers at the Tower for a long moment, then leads the little group on up to it. "Nothing obviously amiss from out here," he notes. "The White Tower is white, the whole place feels... orderly. Secure, as it has been for about a thousand years. It's strangely comforting, I have to say."

    He stops in his tracks at the call over the cobblestones, glancing to Martin and gesturing idly with one hand. "Show them the badge please, love?" he whispers, while he pulls out his phone to frown down at it for a moment.

    He texts back to Zatanna: I am indeed at the Tower of London. You're inside? Can you see anything odd in there? All looks to be in order from out here.

    Then he'll follow Martin or whomever else on into the Tower grounds, so they can get a proper look around.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The best part of having someone sitting next to you when you're doing internet research, is that sometimes it just takes a brief change of your search term to strike gold. Plus, Phoebe knows all the dark web magic sites, whereas Tim has only really begun to scrape the surface on that. Thusly, they make a great internet sleuthing team.

    Wrapped up in a slim-cut peacoat and a cashmere scarf, Tim is still poking at his tablet as they arrive, in a car that may or may not be owned by the Wayne family. He and the driver are familiar enough with one another to be politely friendly, though, for whatever that might imply.

    Out on the sidewalk, Tim buries his face into his scarf, letting the actual British folk handle things. In his pocket, his phone rings. Well, it actually doesn't, it just makes the smart watch on his wrist buzz, and Tim is apparently perplexed enough about why Zatanna would be calling him right now that she hangs up and switches to text instead.

    He taps out a few messages on his tablet that gets sent through his phone back to Zee:

"fancied a spot of tea. don't tell alfred. decided to fly all the way to jolly old england for it."

"we're outside. didn't get a message but was happy to foot the travel bill."

    And then he turns around, lifting his phone up above him and snaps a quick selfie that includes Phoebe, Jon, and Martin in the background, with the guard further on being confronted by two figures, one of which may be an as-yet-unnoticed Alfred Pennyworth. Is Tim sticking his tongue out at the camera? ...yes he is.

"anyway think we're going to sneak in. be with you shortly *thumbsup emoji* *thumbsup emoji* *thumbsup emoji*"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The Beefeater adjusts his grip on the tall steel pike and the minor slouch in his posture unkinks itself. Alfred bound in hardly represents the sort of threat one expects to storm the home of the British crown jewels. "Aye, Mr. Tulwicky was it?" Good name to stumble over with the mates and a pint later. "You're having what now? A stag do or something?" His expression moves from perplexed to outright startled, and the active military bearing starts kicking in. "You have to wait back here, old chap, even with a special pass."

Yeah, he's not buying it from Alfred exactly, offput by something. His eyes still turn briefly to the dark stretch of pavement and grass, looking for other movement. Ravens? Tourists? Then back to the closed Entrance Gate. When one of those 'others' start showing up, his bafflement sinks into something a bit more polished. Is that ID? He reads it! Legitimate ID must help. A cackle echoes into the night from somewhere overhead. "Oh, you're Met. Bloody hell. Look, you've got until ten, you really cannot be out here past that," he tells Roland quickly. "Go look for the Meister, and stay right away from the White Tower. No opening the doors unless you want to enjoy rotting in the dungeons. Offense against the Crown's a type of treason, you know."

He ain't lying.

The cackle sounds again, following them to the gate and through the walls.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin watches Alfred's quick words and Roland's (possibly dubious) identifications fail and work (respectively) on the guard before he approaches and offers his SHIELD badge. If it does nothing more than back up Roland's Scotland Yard claim then so be it.

    "I'm Agent Blackwood, this is Agents Sims, Drake and Beacon with SHIELD" he says and gestures to his small group of four and kicking his own Mancurian accent into high gear. "Hopefully we can solve this small crisis we have on our hands. It wouldn't do anything good for security--global or otherwise--should the Crown be in distress, now would it?"

    He gestures for the others to follow him. Sometimes all you need to get into a place is the right ID and a strong stride. Martin has both at the moment.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Alfred is hardly amused, his face quickly turning stony as the guard questions his legitimacy. Without a -real- leg to stand on though, he prepares to turn to a mixture of bluffing and military candor before Roland and Martin's arrival eases his entry some. The shift in his tone of voice is noticable to those who might know him, but to strangers it simply sounds like a dressing down. "Infringing on matters related to the -security- of Her Majesty's Crown may be considered a slightly more grave form of treason, lad - and i'm more than familiar with every shape it can take. If we're here later than ten, why don't you go fetch your CO to speak with us, if there's an issue?" he snapped, his brow furrowing in a menacing fashion.

    Catching the name 'Drake', Alfred turned with a smile to the arrivals at the Tower's gate proper. "Well then - if this isn't a surprise - Tim, you didn't tell me you were involved with Mister Blackwood and Sims here. And Miss Beacon as well?" he quipped, belying any notion of service in the almost flippant manner of his greeting as his hands disappeared into the pockets of his trousers.

    Possibly only detectable by Tim, there was a pointed glare that spoke to the point of 'There will be words later' despite his smile, and with one final glance at the guard he spun on his heel to make his way into the Tower grounds. "Shall we start with the Ravenmaster?"

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe just keeps her hands in her pockets. She'd been helpful on the flight over, if quiet and subdued. Mostly because the last time she was in Lodnon, her passport said she was a feline behaviorist from Bludhaven, and she just hangs back a bit, breathing out as she relaxes her vision and tries to take a look into the astral herself.

    No luck, though. Third eye's still blind.

    So instead, she keeps close to Tim, tailing behind him as she physically winces at getting introduced as an agent of SHIELD, and gives a look over to Tim, and gives a hand signal of 'ohmigawd'. Because teenagers.

    Other than that, she's completely calm and neutral-faced.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Sneaking into the Tower of London's a fair bit more difficult than just moseying through some doors. It helps to have a Beefeater watching the way, counting down the minutes and having to look at the clock over the river for the time rather than any watch. Such timepieces, like phones, are forbidden. The path is a long route along the outer wall, past the Water Gate, and turning into the first arched door. Even in modern times, a place like this is built thick and strong, the mortared walls opening onto a yard circled by several different buildings. The White Tower lies in the center, the very one the guard warned not to open the doors of.

A few ravens, fat and happy, are scattered about, two audible and two visible. One's above John Owens in the northeast quadrant, chortling away. Another preens itself over a dish of raw meat, stopping only to peck at a late dinner. It doesn't care about their guests. The place, unlike its walls, resonates of ordered, old magic, as linear as old-school math.

Roland Livingston has posed:
"Ah, welcome," Roland says to the newcomers with a faint smile as he steps through the threshold. "I don't suppose we're all here for the same reason?" His thumbs hook themselves into the straps on his backpack as he ventures forward, looking over everything there is to see. Upon catching sight of the birds he nods his head, "Good evening. Any chance you can point me in the right direction?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Oh lovely! Haunted towers and mad cackles all bode well, Zatanna thinks to herself as she steps back into the light to text Jon back.

:Not seen a thing. Does mad cackling count?:

It doesn't surprise her in the least, considering the number of innocents that met their ghastly ends here on the gallows and chopping block. No surprise at all. The Tower's stones are steeped in ancient magic.

Without second-guessing herself, Zatanna touches three fingers to her forehead, closing her eyes to concentrate.

When she opens them, she scans the yard, her eyes drawn upward to the ramparts of the Tower that rustle restlessly with glowing wings and sharp eyes that follow her. Gossamer threads glow between the restless birds, connecting them into a web that weaves between the Tower and the walls. Finally, a voice in a throat not made for speech from high above the magician asks her: "And /who/ might /you/ be?"

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods to Alfred respectfully. "Mr. Pennyworth," he says. They've met, but he doesn't figure the man remembers every single person who comes through Wayne Manor. Jon remembers /everything/ though, and so remembers him.

    He eyes Roland a moment and then gestures him to join the group. "If you got a message about checking on the Tower of London, to see the master of the Tower and raid his gin cabinet? Yes. I'm Jonathan Sims, this is my husband Martin Blackwood and our associates Tim Drake and Phoebe Beacon. Mr. Pennyworth seems to know where he's going." He looks around. "Everything's still the same, magically speaking. Old magic, /very/ old magic, ordered and linear."

    He looks down at his phone and texts back: Just the ancient magic, and I can hear the cackling. We've found the Wayne butler; did *you* know he gives off an air of a less-creepy Bond when he's out and about?

    He looks up from his phone, then, and over toward the Ravenmaster, John Owen, eyes narrowing. "He's panicked," he says. "Quite nervous." A pause to note, for Roland and Alfred, "I, ahh... I'm a telepath. Martin, weren't you telling me about some Daily Mail story about the ravens?" He doesn't read the Daily Mail, Martin's better at sorting through that kind of muckraking.

Tim Drake has posed:
    There might just be a slim chance of Tim pulling off the whole SHIELD agent thing, despite being a fresh, young twenty years old. The odds aren't great at his estimation, but the clothes often make the man, and Tim can fake it til he makes it with the best of them.

    His estimate for convincing the guard that both he and Phoebe are SHIELD agents? Uhhh... maybe not. He responds to Phoebe's hand-signal with a disbelieving shrug.

    Wait.

    Wait, is that Alfred? Tim's eyes go big as saucers and after the Wayne family butler aims a subtle Look his way, Tim grimaces and tucks his head downwards. Yes, they're certainly going to have that talk later, aren't they?

    Then he starts tapping at his tablet again. Zatanna gets a rapid series of texts:

"oh my god alfred is here."

"i was wondering who took the jet with the reclining seats!"

"sooo i'm in big trouble. *skull emoji*"

    His eyes slowly begin to lift away from the softly glowing screen, gaze narrowing in on where it seems the cackling is sourced from. "Not a big fan of the whole crazed laughter thing," he mutters, under his breath. Mostly for Phoebe to hear. He sends another text:

"z are you hearing some joker-esque laughter? i don't like this."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin looks at Alfred with an air of interest before inclining his head. "Mr. Pennyworth" he says with a nod of greeting before answering Jon's question. "Yes. There were originally 10 ravens in attendance at the Tower. That number has recently dropped to seven." The cackling of the resident seven doesn't seem to bother him too much. Ravens are not known for being quiet birds. "Gripp and Poppy were found dead earlier this year. And now Harris--one of the more posh and popular ravens if you'll believe that--has also gone missing from his roost."

    He frowns. There has to be six on site otherwise... well... catastrophe. Obviously." One can't mistake the seriousness in his tone, even if the statement alone is rather ridiculous. "As far as the legend goes, the Tower itself and the Kingdom of Britain will fall if the six ever leave their post. And... while many legends have dubious claims in them it is best not to tempt fate by testing such things if you can help it." He looks at the gathering, those called by dream or phone and those called by those with either on hand and smiles. "I think we're here because we *can* help it."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    "... that one's a true one." Phoebe states quietly. She, too, feels the age and the weight, and she stays near Tim, and rubs at her left wrist through the strap of leather wrapped there. She still hangs to the back of the group, and pulls down her hood so she can get a better look around the tower and its paths and hills, and she reaches with her left hand to gently touch against Tim's elbow, dark eyes looking over to him as she gives a very gentle smile.

    "It's the birds." she softly says to him. "They're noisy ay-eff."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Ravenmaster of the Tower, John Owen," the Ravenmaster says in none-too-loud a tone. He keeps a stiff arch to his eyebrows at the woman there. Zatanna's work and her tone must do a number of a gentleman already under enough stress to leave his brow and nape damp. "Boffin was right after all." The comment's under his breath before he shores up what he can. "I'm not sure you had introductions with the previous fellow, but might I have your name? Please."

It's all he can do not to wring his surcoat, but his iron posture and military rest beaten in by years of service prove more telling than fear. Muckraking could be partly responsible. "You get the call, then, did you? We need to get into the office straightaway before..."

A look of total fear spikes when his pale blue eyes shift to the shadows in the dark. There are enough to bring him to reaching for Zatanna's arm, stopped when civilian clothes identify the gaggle of other men and woman as not his peers. Chuffed, the chortling raven takes to wing, departing the rooftop to go lurk on some other perch like a void-shaped gargoyle. Stone echoes tales of numbers of ravens, and that at least is more promising than other Beefeaters, but not much past 'journalists.'

The ravenmaster rubs his face and points to the door. "These are the reinforcements? I was expecting..." The thought isn't said aloud. "I need you stowed away before the ceremony locking up, else we're all in hot water. Right on, inside, shall we? If you got a phone call from some plummy chap threatening to shoot the last zebras in Eswatini, follow me."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
"Mister Sims - always a pleasure. Recovering well I see - I assume you're here for the same reasons I am?" Alfred replied to Jon with a grin - one uncharacteristicly sinister for the butler's normal demeanor - as he adopted a carefully blank and intimidating look. The Wayne family butler almost seemed to grow younger as he regressed to a time unknown to many in his life, back to his service with MI6. Gone was the friendly and warm personage of Alfred, replaced instead with someone wholly dedicated to a task - almost reminscient of his own employer, to those that knew his alter ego.

    "The kingdom -still- hasn't fallen, has it? I think you're right, Mr. Blackwood - it's best not to tempt fate," he acknowledged. Gliding, this time with sinister purpose, rather than his usual homely dutifulness, he slipped up beside Zatanna and offered in an incline of his head. "Miss Zatara - it's been rather too long, I think. I imagine we're all the reinforcements you're getting, my friend - but I assure you we're the most capable," he offers in one part to Zatanna and the other to the Ravenmaster. "You'll forgive our bedraggled nature, Mr. Owen?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zee returns the texts but not in order.

To Tim and Jon: * LOOK UP, LOOK AT THE RAVENS!*

Tim: *You are so in trouble.*

Then, back to Jon, *But he's a dear old spy. Tim thinks he'll be in trouble.*

She pauses, scrutinizes the ravens, then adds.*The ravens are talking to us. Something IS wrong.*

The magician's blue eyes glitter with the glow of the ravens. She counts them, arriving at six.

Zatanna takes a step toward the faint sound of voices coming from the entrance to the yard when a man's voice stops her. She whirls around to face him, transforming a growling challenge into a smile, stage presence reasserting itself, "I...why I'm Zatanna Zatara. Did /you/ send the message? John Owen, you say."

She nods her dark raven head slowly, putting the puzzle together, "Ooooh, that Ravenmaster. They are glowing, you know. Do they do that often?"

And yes," she pats his arm then gestures to the shadowy figures coming toward them, "reinforcements. The best of the best. They can help, I'm sure."

"Why hello. Alfred! Always lovely to see you! You know Mr. Owen I take it? I'll let everyone else introduce themselves."

Roland Livingston has posed:
At the introductions the scholar of the arcane inclines his head, "Roland Livingston. I consult with various police departments, among other entities, with regards to supernatural phenomena." He lets the others talk, continuing instead to keep his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary as introductions are given.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon looks down at his phone, then looks up at the ravens. The look becomes a stare and then he... gapes. Just... /gapes/ at them. He'll go where someone leads him (presumably Martin), but he's tracing lines in the air with his hand, frowning slightly. "Perfectly ordered," he says. "Geometric precision. Same angles, every time. Are they even real? They /glow/, they're crystalline, like... Dr. Foster or... but no, that doesn't even make sense..." He frowns, trailing off, mouth moving without words.

    Then, suddenly, his eyes go distant and shift color, from brown to an almost glowing yellow-orange.

    He speaks in a high-pitched half-screeching tone, "Look who finally showed up."
    His voice changes subtly. "That one doesn't have legs nearly as nice as Nemo did."
    A third change, "Quatermain called -children?-"
    Then, a fourth, "No, no, you know the old man /loves/ his stupid heroes' quests, think they'd KNOW by now it just leads to death."
    A fifth: "Where's the venison, did you leave any, you great piggy?"

    One might presume he's voicing what he can hear from the ravens. Or they're speaking through him.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A host of chortles and one distant, mocking gurgle-croak that would make an Ent proud answer Jonathan after the space of about a second.

They heard that.

Tim Drake has posed:
    The revelation from both Phoebe's quiet statement and Zatanna's text is honestly a relief for Tim. It's just the birds. He peers up at them for some moments, still unsettled, but taking comfort in the knowledge that there is is little chance of the Joker with a Cockney accent about to come after him.

    If there's a bogeyman for the Batkids, it's the Joker. Killed one, paralyzed another, nearly brainwashed a third... well, Tim doesn't like to think about that last one.

    "I'm Tim," he says, forgoing last names. Easier that way, for him. He'll follow after, but for the moment he's quiet, subdued. His thoughts are elsewhere.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin just *stares* as Jon starts speaking for the birds above. "That's... new..." he says. He starts to move forward, taking Jon by the arm. If they need to get inside, then they need to get inside.

    His focus turns to the Ravenmaster. "Martin Blackwood" he says in greeting. "I and my partner, Jonathan Sims" he says with a gesture to the man he is leading, "are with SHIELD formally but yes we were given invitation by your associate to come to your assistance along with Ms. Zatara, Mr. Livingston and our associates Mr. Drake--Tim--and Ms. Beacon."

    "I take it this is to do with the nature of the missing ravens?" he asks. "What can you tell us? I've read the reports--both legitamate and not-so-legitamate--but having the inside story from the one who cares for them directly would likely give us an even greater understanding of what we can do to assist you and the Crown."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    At her introduction, the young woman with the blue glasses gives a nod, her hands in her pockets. She's listening intently, though her expression sort of flattens at the accusation of being lumped in as a child (she is aware that she's the youngest there by at least three years, thanks). She follows along behind the group, boots tapping on the cobbles as she goes.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The ravenmaster's office is not large. Even shoving his chair fully aside or standing under the coat-rack armed with a heavy peacoat, the group has a tight fit. A high window gives a sliver of sky and the White Tower to keep claustrophobia marginally reduced.

John Owen backs up against his desk, not up to sitting on it. "If you'll forgive the hospitality." He pats his surcoat up and down. Deep in a hidden slot, he comes up with a key and opens a drawer. Inside, he looks at the stack of clear cups, a bag of sweeties, and a bottle of gin. "Unless you want a Mackintosh's toffee, not much for snacks. Still getting settled in," he explains. "Hello, Mr. Livingston, good to meet you. Might be your specialty I need. Mr. Blackwood, Drake, Sims, and Ms. Beacon. I'm missing anyone? Been a day, sorry, right up. I did ring, in fact. Great bloody nuisance that was. I've had a spot of trouble."

His expression gets a little thunderous. "The book-- err, that is, my predecessor Mr. Skaife, gave me orientation that if the Shadow Parliament shrank to a certain number, I was to call you. I can't find a raven." Hence the hangdog expression, the sign of a man distressed not for himself, but the birds. "We've lost three now. No reason or rhyme at all. No signs of illness or broodiness, and none over twenty. They live to forty. I keep hoping Poppy will turn up, but it's been a full six weeks and now Harris has gone. You're the broken glass in case of emergency."

The face he makes is a bit telling. "This is the emergency. Losing Harris puts me up against a ticking clock, for we're losing numbers. You know the old quote? So the Shadow Parliament goes, so the might of Britannia? It's no lie. Replacing them is an ordeal unto itself." A long pause lies there, and he involuntarily drops his gaze to his desk again. "Probably not fast enough to stop the pattern and it feels awful lot like a targeted act." Raising his hands helplessly, he goes, "Not a spot of CCTV footage either, and every last corner here is full of it. No traces on their usual routes. None have seen them: my staff, the Met, the barristers at the Old Bailey, even some blonde who asked the dragons of London. Whatever that was."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Pressing himself to lean against a wall, Alfred tries to adopt a casual posture, crossing on leg over the other and resting the toe of his shoe on the ground. "Wasn't there talk of chicks, recently, Mister Owens?" he asks, clasping his hands down near the front of his waist as his head listed to the side. "What about guests? Is there a ledger, or some kind of record? Or do you know of any that were trying to be overtly friendly with the ravens?" he asks, eyes darting toward Jon for a moment after his 'outburst.'

    There was a slight softening to his demeanor as his eyes flirted toward Tim and Phoebe, though a slight hint of annoyance was apparent, before snapping quickly back toward the Ravenmaster. "If you have any records on visitors since the Parliament started to disappear, I should like to see them, Mister Owen."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Head tilted back, Zatanna lips thin into a fey smile as the ravens speak through John. She reads the lines that glimmer between the six birds and the Ravenmaster, who is more than their keeper.

Not many cultures ignore Ravens - bringer of death in some, tricksters in others, the souls of witches in one tradition, double symbol of Odin in another, Apollo's bird of augury. Yet, anyone observing the natural world cannot overlook their intelligence and magic.

Crowded into the office, she places herself in the back, squeezed against a bookcase full of curios and old tomes. Alfred asks the logical question. Though a question burns on her lips, after hearing them speak through Jon, "Do they guard Britain? I see the lines...they encompass so much magic, time and space."

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. He crowds himself against a wall since he's one of the tallest in the room, rubs at his eyes, then puts his glasses back on. "Apologies," he murmurs. "That... happens, sometimes. The Archivist... just speaks things aloud." For those who might know what that means; his predecessor, who'd held the title for the last fifty years, had been a woman who knew a great many people.

    He looks to Zatanna. "It's a tradition going back at least to Charles the Second in the 17th century, against the wishes of his astronomer John Flamsteed--the ravens got in the way of his work at an observatory in the White Tower. King Charles had been told that the crown and the Tower would fall if the six ravens at the Tower ever left." He gestures around the room. "Thus, this office, and the Tower's ravens. The age of the magic indicates that the spells themselves may be older, but regardless, they're clearly important to the functioning of Britain, which in turn is important for the functioning of Western society. An easy, and subtle, pain point. Too many people today don't take those things seriously, don't believe that, yes, there's a /reason/ for all of this business." He sighs. "Can you trace the threads, Zed? My own Sight rarely goes beyond direct sensory range, as of yet."

    Then he turns to John Owens. "You say we're the 'break glass in case of emergency'... alright, who is /we/? Agent Blackwood and I," he gestures to Martin, "both got dreams of an old man in a pub telling us to come here. The others got phone calls. We can certainly help," yes he's saying that to reassure the guy, "but knowing why /we/ were specifically called may aid in our endeavor."

Phoebe Beacon has posed:
    Phoebe squeezes in, pressing close to Tim and trying to ignore the annoyed look from Alfred as she took up as little space as possible in the office, and pointedly does *not* accept any gin, just quietly keeps to herself.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Alfred earns a nod. "We raise specially selected chicks here. Finding a suitable candidate meeting all the criteria is time-consuming, and frankly I've not done it before, making it even longer. Real finicky business, can't be rushed, since they aren't ordinary and the requirements have to match perfectly or the whole gambit fails." The ravenmaster sketches a light shrug, embarrassed and his jaw setting. "Bad timing, this business, hardly a coincidence."

Another whimsical croak is answered by a drowning serenade of the shrunken Parliament. <Best to see the Gentlemen don't choke on eels while prancing past. Is that a Yorkie bar I hear?>

The ten o-clock hour approaches and the rustling birds flap about, making a ruckus because they can. Or they're a Parliament in the truest British style: noisy and full of tossers, one and all.

John Owen clears his throat, then barks a dry laugh. "We've approximately three million people visiting annually. Might have names from ticket sales by plastic, but not quid at the booths, so most of a million since this began." Might be a dead end unless Alfred is prepared to clean up a database of information. SHIELD and the Bat Family, united in scouring records! "We... you're the ones at the other end of the call. Helping Britain. I just dialed the number, I don't know the whats-its and whys-its, mate, the ceremony's six hundred years old. It found the most appropriate people and Harker told someone in 1915 to stop ringing her for apocalypses."

For Zatanna, his reply is grim. "Aye." A rough nod. "Been doing so since Wars of the Roses, probably earlier, but I've no proof. In the fifteenth century, William Parron employed Killingsworth's tables to reinforce the wards. The ravens guard the beating heart of this land. My job's to keep them safe and doing a bang-up job, seeing as we've lost three. But you don't just walk away, I swore the oath and that's now my problem. Best not to die a Yeoman Warder, they say. God help me, at this."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Nodding with a furrow of his brow, Alfred waves a hand about dismissively in offer to the drink, and the general sense of his question. "I'd like to get access to them at some point, Mister Owens, but now isn't the time - " he pauses, head listing to the side apprehensively. "I'm a little out of my depth on these 'wards' and other magical business, but at the very least, i'd like to take a look at the physical security. Not that I doubt the Tower or Her Majesty's vigilance, but... times as they are, and with -people- as they are, it can't help to be overtly cautious, hm? Whenever might be appropriate, by your reckoning, Mister Owens - the sooner the better," he offered.

    The older gentleman was clearly a little out of his element: the Cold War was much easier than mucking about with wizards and sorcery. A hand darted into his pocket to retrieve his phone, and after only a mild amount of fiddling about with it, he withdrew to stare into the screen with some determination.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Leave it to Alfred to take care of the concrete, when he has finished she says, "I thought I needed an espresso, but a gin will do, thank you."

The magician sighs, "Yes, Jon. Anyone who knows their history knows that. I meant the beating heart of it."

She likes the old man; he understood the meaning under her question, the magic of it. "Thank you," she replies softly, still following those lines in her mind's eye.

"So those were the wards I felt." Concern pinches her eyebrows, "But, you know, it's not your fault. Has anything ever threatened the ravens before? Anything magical?" After a pause, she frowns, "Or demonic?

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon stares at Owens for a full half-minute. It still doesn't register, that yes, now you're the Archivist, so now you're on the 'break glass in case of emergency' list for who knows how many people. He sighs. "Right," he mutters. "Right. Well, then." He reaches up a hand to rub at his face, peers out the window toward the ravens, resists the urge to yell at them to shut up already. They're just doing their jobs. "You called for help," he says to the Ravenmaster, tone steadying now. "And, ahh, I'll take a gin. It comes recommended."

    He shrugs to Zatanna. "That's what I remember from history class. I'm still learning the rest. I hadn't been focused on England; I didn't know..." He shakes his head. He didn't know he was supposed to be keeping an eye on these things. Worries for another time.

    "William Parron... Henry VII's astrologer?" He's saying it as much for the others in the room, who might not recognize the name, as anything else. "Order, precision, that would fit with astrology, and... it could be as simple as miscalculation, one imagines. Stellar drift, or some such. But I know /nothing/ about astrology." He looks around at the others in the room, as if to say, do any of you? Zatanna, particularly. "Demonic? Lovely."

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    At the offer of gin, Martin declines. His mind has been focused on listening and gathering information on those assembled. Why this group? What particularly those assembled? His own expertise might aid in recall of the birds in question if they happen to find them, he could contain and protect them if necessary but there are others in the gathering who could do it better and faster that he. And as for investigative duties, there are still others better than he.

    He frowns. Contingencies may be the ultimate reason for his presnce, but he isn't putting a great deal of stock in that alone. This group was all gathered for a reason beyond just that there was intrinsic overlap in their various skills.

    "The physical security is a good place to start, Mr. Pennyworth and I... would like a copy of the CCTV footage if I could... while I don't doubt the vigilance of your or your crew's ability, there are some things that might be missed at a cursory overview." He looks at Tim and Phoebe, they're own expertise at more modern tech work might be a boon in this situation. "The day of and perhaps... three prior to each of the raven's disappearances--if records allow." If there was one thing he was certain of it was that the Historical sites of England kept records for years if not DECADES of their surveilance footage, it was a national pastime for London, after all.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
John Owens reaches for that bottle of gin in his desk. He pours himself a finger, and offers a splash from anyone else who wants some. Zatanna receives a glass, the same amount splashed out. It's the good stuff; Quatemain wasn't lying about that.

"No offence taken. I can't take you all the way round since we've the senior gentleman blind to /my/ role, and it's supposed to stay so." Downing the whole mouthful gin in a gulp, he puts the glass down and doesn't take another. "A brisk look round today. Stay until tomorrow at opening, you can have the proper tour. We open at ten. Usually closed Mondays but we can make a dispensation."

He nods a bit. "Aye, and there were unofficial ones prior but we barely found Richard in a carpark. Finding actual organized books of the nameless courtiers? I'm a soldier, not a boffin out of Magdalen College." He coughs out a laugh, and the laugh is a contingency roosting in a croak more than anything. "CCTV's not my call entirely but I can work with SHIELD or the Met. If Mr. Livingstone and you put the right screws..." Let them figure that out.

The poker face lasts a bit. Some. "Demons don't stand up well to this magic, never have as I was told. Too stygian and invested with order through the sovereign. Sorcerers don't come round so much. They supposedly sniff the casting age and scarper. Nothing I saw, and the ravens know magic when they see it. Plenty stupid to try to pull a spell on them when they're right there to tell us."

Another fluting croak-cackle inks the night.

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
Taking it as a small relief that someone else was taking an interest in more temporal matters, Alfred nodded in Martin's direction before a sudden rush of air from flared nostrils drove the stately butler from his position on the wall. "Hells - i've done more with more than a drink or two in me..." he quips, conceding to receive a glass of the liquor as he glances out toward the Tower grounds. "I'll take a quick stroll around in time. I don't think anyone will notice." It comes more as a statement than any sort of assurance meant to disarm some concern, his brow furrowing in thoughts much - likely much along the same line as Martin.

    "I'll see what I can do about securing us the footage, Mister Blackwood. I still have some friends I can reach out to in Her Majesty's service. This reeks of conspiracy, as if I didn't have my fill of it when I was a little more spry," he professed, taking a sip of his gin.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
One of the ravens croaks to the other. <Quick, look like a decoy. Let's see if they mistake you for a carving.>

<Have a little walkabout, aye, aye, find the spiders.>

<You find a juicy spider, precious?>

<None quite so grand as the great fat ones when Vlad-->

<I'll rip your viscera out if you go on about Vlad one more benighted time.>

<And we'll end up with a new chick in-->

<--those are keys-->

<Sparkly!>

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Of course, the age and the order of the magic feel so familiar to Zatanna whose ancestors were Parron's contemporaries. The magic felt like a homecoming of sorts. She gives John a quick smile when he mentions finding Richard's remains.

"Parron's magic is so orderly," she muses aloud. "Shame that he made that prediction about the queen, isn't it? Scuppered his career as an astrologer. I look forward to the tour, though I will certainly leave the security in better hands than mine." She glances between Martin, Tim and Phoebe then takes her glass and raises it in a toast to the Ravenmaster before drinking off half of it.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    "Something else, then," Jon muses, staring up at the window. "Something powerful or stealthy or both. Dragons. The Fair Folk. Gods..." He trails off. "Death is still broken, ravens deal in death..." He shakes his head, rapidly, annoyed that the puzzle pieces won't fall into place. "That, or some kind of advanced invisibility technology." He takes a deep breath and downs the gin. It is, indeed, good.

    "I /am/ a 'boffin,'" he notes blandly, "so if we think it'll do any good, I can scour through the libraries. Might be able to pull alumni privilege at Oxford." He looks to Zatanna. "Sounds like a good idea, the tour, so we can look about magically and see if anything jumps out?" He smiles, and adds around, "It's worth it if you haven't been--"

    He stops. Stares up at the window again. "Spiders? Why are they talking about spiders?" A visible shudder runs through him. Then he repeats all the ravens have been saying, in a normal voice this time. Translating.

Martin Blackwood has posed:
    Martin gives Jon a look of astonishment again. He's still speaking *for* the ravens. That's a skill he didn't know the Archivist had in him. He answers all the same. "They're probably talking about them for the same reason you and I talk about a good steak" he replies. "Food." At the mention of keys he rolls his eyes. "They're like children..." he says softly. "Really chatty children..."

    Turning his attention back to the Ravenmaster and Alfred he gives a nod. "I'll get someone at SHIELD to clear the transfer. The offices here can probably secure it and we can look through it with a fine tooth comb." He then nods at Zatanna. "I think that's a good start. You, Jon, Mr. Pennyworth, and anyone else who wants to join in can check the mystical and mundane security that comes with the tour while the rest of us work on seeing if anything might've been... overlooked or hidden in the footage." He gives the Ravenmaster another look. "Is there anything else you can tell us or should we get to what we were called for?" he asks.

Tim Drake has posed:
    Throughout these last few minutes, Tim has snuck himself right into a corner and started taking notes on his tablet, somehow managing to crouch down against the wall so he can balance the tablet and its currently-attached keyboard on his knees. Like Alfred, he's keen on getting access to the records from the Tower, because combing through data is something of a specialty of his. Accessing the CCTV records, if there are any, is another thing on his to-do list. Maybe Babs has a back-door built in already... hm.

    After some time, his fingers pause against the keys. He looks up. "Would one of you that speaks bird ask if they'd mind having trackers? I could make, uh... bracelets." In fact he's already logged into the Roost's mainframe, queuing up the 3D printers in the basement to start doing just that.

    "Temporary measure. If they want bribes just ask them for their demands and I'll take care of it."

Tim Drake has posed:
    After Jon's next batch of raven-translations, he adds, "I will literally bedazzle these things with diamonds if they want them sparkly." Though his tone of voice is rather flat there, he's still serious.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"I don't quite know what to say. The ravens don't go flapping off on their own without coming back and they're a chatty bunch, as you can see," the ravenmaster says with a touch of pride and something akin to exasperation. "One brooding off on its own isn't unknown but they aren't cats. We see the sick ones and tend them, and they know to come to us for help."

He sounds weary and befuddled more than anything. "As I've said, we run a tight ship. More security here than most anywhere, and that includes the Royal Mint. Be damned if I know what can pluck a great, angry bird from its roost when it doesn't want to go. Beaks are sharp, claws just as much. Enough birdwatchers in this city to tell us if Harris or Jubilee flapped off, too, they post regularly and not a peep about our cheeky boy popping up on a balcony. They never stray so far. Certainly not South Bank or Greenwich despite what the tabloids say. Right bloody mess, insisting I'm not doing my job properly by letting them fluff off wherever they like in London. They never go past the City, not ever. They can't. The bindings don't let them."

He gives a polite horrified sound. "You can't do that. Not without being bound yourself, and that confines you to a one square kilometer. I'm not explaining that to your parents."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The gin or the magic makes Zatanna's head spin as she hears Jon repeat the raven's conversations. Spider sends her down a thought tunnel, beginning with the origin myths.

"Arachne and Athena," she murmurs. "I don't see the connection. Weavers of fate? Or good eating for a raven?" Still holding her gin, she gestures to the narrow window and outside where the ravens roost. "Keys? Keys to the Kingdom? Keys to the Tower? Freyya...Frigga?" She grimaces in frustration and finishes the rest of her glass. "Why hurt them or kill them? I'm back at the beginning of things, except now I can't stop seeing the lines."

Points an admonishing finger at her favorite nephew, "We can track them magically if they give me permission."

Alfred Pennyworth has posed:
    Scowling at the mention of Tim's parents and shooting the Ravenmaster a glare, Alfred shakes his head dismissively. "No dice, Master Timothy - i'm taking you back to Gotham on the good plane, we'll figure out what's happening without having you tied up here. I have Maltesers on board already," he quips as the more paternal aspects of his character break through once more. He slips back into his previous demeanor as he glances about the group. "What about Vlad? Vlad II Dracul, Vlad Tepes, Dracula, whatever you choose to call him - i'm not above suspecting some kind of vampire given everything i've gotten to experience as late,"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Zatanna's question is pretty easy for the Ravenmaster to answer. "Destroying them brings down Britain. All of it, Orkney to the British Antarctic Territory. Probably our embassies and consulates, though I'd prefer not to find out about that. By rights, it would sink Canada and Australia in the same token. How fast? I don't know, it's not like they left me notes on it." He looks pretty unhappy about the open uncertainty. "Not many people think my role's all that important and how many know about the court astrologer? How many believe it? I can tell you we get chuckles on the tour and not much more. Someone who knows this isn't dabbling in a bit of online muck, then tossing. Something that can hurt one of them ranks as a problem in my book, reason we carry those pikes and spears. And something that can kill them is going to be a great right problem. They don't fall like normal birds."

<Vlad was tremendous, even if you didn't right-->

<Shut up. I'm eavesdropping.>

<--not even getting the titles right! The /Third/! Humans have no respect-->

<You're just bitter Van Helsing and Quatemain got a shot in.>

<You're just jealous he gave /me/ eyes!>

The ravens are back at it, albeit if one doesn't know Raven, it's mostly happily ominous chuckles and squawk-croaks.

Jonathan Sims has posed:
    Jon nods to the Ravenmaster, though he's listening to the ravens. "I wonder how they were made," he muses idly. "Are they ravens at all? Human souls put in the bodies? Magical constructs...?" he shakes himself, shakes his head.

    "You don't have to go that far afield," Jon notes to Zatanna. "We have entirely homegrown raven-connected deities. There was some /very/ messed up business with the Morrigan recently, yes? Something about..." He frowns, trailing off. "I can't remember, quite. Or maybe the thing was never more than tangentially aware of it. There's trouble in the trinity, is my point, and she has deep connections to ravens. Even if it's nothing to do with that, well... something. Something powerful enough to ignore the wards and grab the birds or pull them from their roosts." He glances to Alfred, nods. "Vampires, one supposes. Vampires, dragons, faeries, gods. Aliens. There's been portals opening to other realms recently, it could be someone from Nilaa."

    He shrugs. "I think Martin's right--about the spiders, too, eugh. If we can track them magically, terrific. We wouldn't want you to be stuck here, the City's boring as all get-out, trust me. None of the good pubs 'round here, and I suspect if I offered to take you to the good ones Mr. Pennyworth would glare me to death. So." He huffs out a breath. "So, get the footage, take the tours, I'll see if I can dig anything up in a library somewhere. Sound good?" And Jon's probably going to get more than a glaring for bringing Tim on this little adventure, but that's later.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Tapping a finger to her lips in thought. "Alright, closer to home then. Eagles, hawks, owls and climbing snakes (none of those here) as any good ornithologist knows are ravens natural predators. I would bet that whatever it is flies. Bats do, too."

Tim Drake has posed:
    Rather than outright stating that his parents are dead, much as he'd like to, Tim just looks up sharply and lets his mouth twist a little bit. "I'm not really a drinker," is all he says, in response to the talk of pubs. Bit too reliant on his brainpower to go sinking it under a lake of beer.

    He stands up, no obvious discomfort in his knees despite being crouched as long as he was. "Despite what you all think, mundane means might be just as effective in protecting the rest of the parliament. Because if it's some necromancer or mad wizard, they're just as likely to neglect checking for non-mystical means of surveillance." His weight shifts from one foot to the other, and then he nods at Jon. "Between Alfred and I, we might be able to spot anything out of place that might put us on the right track."

    Tim's fingers fidget against the edge of his tablet case. "...I do like Maltesers."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The sounds get louder to cover up for one of the guards tramping by as Jubilee the raven takes to the wing, making an unholy ruckus that probably isn't good to listen to. Ravens in a croaking cacophony sound a lot like Parliament, which is no place for a nice person to be. It's nothing like Congress. For one, about twenty decibels louder and full of thrown paper, or in this case, a spider.

<You're getting way too big for your boots
Tell me lies, we can argue, we can fight
You're never too big for the boot
Yeah, we did it before, but we'll do it tonight
I've got the big three claws on my feet
A silly American agent with the blunt teeth
With dark skin, looking at me like he know me
Your face ain't big for my foot,
I wonder if he got the G or shiny
Dem boy dere tried twist up the truth
Let me find out and see, coming over to me, yeah
How dare you twist up the truth, look
You're getting way too big for your boots!>

---

"I'm not saying anything against mundane means. Doors will open at ten if you come to the ticket booth again. Please no popping by earlier," John Owen says as one of his charges makes a menace of herself, flapping about to the dull complaints of a Beefeater learning spiders are -awful- snacks. Just awful.