Category: CoD

This time, when Tag opens his door he isn’t greeted with the usual industrial concrete of the cabal sanctum. His face collides with a big black furry spider. The prop is suspended expertly from a web that reaches across the entirety of the hallway ceiling. The space and room beyond are littered with pumpkins, pho Victorian candelabras, and all manner of seasonal spookery.

Tag gives an imperceptible sigh and waits for the inevitable appearance by the pink werewolf.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Carried aloft on a cloud of novelty Halloween music, Spindle prances from one end of the foyer to the other, trailing black and orange paper streamers in his wake. His singing is out of tune, but it’s bang-on in its enthusiasm. The little werewolf does a pirouette, ending with one foot in the air and his nose pointed toward Tag.

“H-hi!” he chirps. “Um. Surprise! D-do you like it?”

“I…” Tag’s sentence is cut off when the creeping fog begins pouring across the floor and over his shoes. Tag silently watches it travel outwards. “It’s….festive. I didn’t know you were into Halloween.”

“It’s my chance to m-make all the stuff I want, and have the best costumes, a-and it’s the time of year when everyone wants to be a werewolf.” He gives Tag a meaningful look. “O-or a wizard.”

Tag completes his walk through the hallway and into the kitchen. On the kitchen island sits an assortment of what looks to be part mad scientist beakers and equipment and part potion brewing supplies from a witch’s lair. There are glowing fluids of all colors bubbling out more fog. “Yes, you’ve certainly made a lot of stuff.”

“W-wait until you see what I made you,” Spindle teases. He skips ahead to the pantry and opens the door, unleashing a clown head on a spring. “Um. Not this. This is for Grimnir. You’re harder to surprise than he is.”

Tag’s mouth twitches into a half smile. “Make that clown head a wolf head and you’ll certainly get a reaction out of him.” He weaves around the Halloween props to find an apple that he believes is actually real.

Spindle seems to have decorated the apples like Easter eggs, with monster faces painted on with edible dye. An oni grins back at Tag’s teeth.

“Th-there are still plenty to booby trap. Um. I still have materials. How should we prank Skald?”

Tag grimaces at the face and puts it back with its companions. “One thing you should learn, Spindle, is that you never surprise a Forces master.” He instead walks to the fridge to snag one of his infamous protein drinks.

His protein drinks seem to be missing, though there’s a large glass flask with liquid roughly their color that someone’s labeled ‘Witch’s Brew’.

“Why not?” Spindle asks as he fusses with a bag of waffle mix. “I won’t be around when it happens.”

“And neither will our home after she’s done.” Tag swishes the liquid dubiously, then pours himself a glass.

Spindle frowns over his shoulder. “Th-that’s silly. If I can control myself then she should be able to, too. Y-you all still have basically human levels of feelings, right?”

“I’m not even sure what you mean by that. But, you can go ahead. She may only stick you to the ceiling with static cling,” Tag says as he smiles at the mental image and takes a sip.

“Sheesh,” Spindle grumbles. “You make it sound like y-you’re more cheerful than her.”

“I’m the proper amount of affable,” the older mage says with a little indignation.

The werewolf perks up. “Th-that’s great, because I made you two costumes, and you get to choose which one you want!”

“I’m a little old to go Trick or Treating.”

“So? Y-you still get to walk down the street looking cool!”

“I don’t think cool is the word I would use to describe a fully grown man parading in a costume on a night meant for children.”

Spindle’s right eyelid twitches. “N-no it isn’t. It’s all about getting to be spooky, a-and have fun. Adults do lots of stuff on Halloween. There are parties, and movie screenings, a-and just admiring how hard everyone works on their costumes. It’s fun. J-just some nice fun.”

“Since when?” As incredible as the question is, the mage seems genuinely baffled.

Spindle stares. “Since forever?”

Tag’s eyebrows scrunch in disbelief. “I know that several of the compacts seem to have a preoccupation with costuming frivolity, but I’d assumed it was a quirk of some supernatural culture clashing.”

“C-can you hear yourself right now?”

“What?” Tag asks raising his arms, palms up.

Spindle facepalms, his expression just short of agonized. “T-trust me, it’s for adults. Um. You can have fun without getting too close to anyone, too. S-stay on the outside enjoying the view.”

“Halloween has a significant higher statistic for crime than other days. I’d do better keeping watch than dressing up.”

“Y-you can do both, though.”

“What purpose would a costume serve?”

“Fun,” Spindle repeats. “Th-they’re just for fun. They won’t make you any worse at f-fighting, or m-make you get too close to anyone, or anything y-you don’t like. They’re just fun! Please, try to have fun?”

Tag shakes his head. “The damage to the city…it’s had a costly effect on everyone. I need to stay on top of things.”

“Y-you can do both. Really. I just…I r-really worry about you.”

Spindle sits at the table, his chin on his crossed arms.

“Don’t be. I’m fine. This just isn’t a good time for me to goof about.”

“B-but that’s exactly why you need a little joy! You’ll burn out if you don’t get any.”

“I promise I won’t burn out.”

“C-couldn’t you at least take a look at the costumes? I made them just for you.”

Spindle turns on his sad eyes like headlights.

Tag tries to ignore it by finishing his glass of sludge. When that doesn’t work he nods his assent.

Spindle cheers as he flounces off to his room. He returns shortly after, staggering under the mass of two zippered suit hangers. One makes a rattling sound as he drops it on the table in front of his teacher to open.

“Better,” Spindle insists, beaming as Tag unearths what looks like an exact replica of Tony Stark’s Iron Man suit from Civil War. “A-and I have a Spider-Man one, too. So, um, that’s one set.”

Tag picks up the shiny red and gold helmet and hold it up to his face. “Well it’s damn impressive looking. You did this in metal working class?”

Spindle fidgets, watching Tag carefully to check for enthusiasm. “N-no, just for fun. Um. I sort of have to not show off too much in class. B-but it’s for you. Um. For Halloween. Y-you can dress up like a hero and no one will think you’re weird.”

Tag chuckles at that. He moves the helmet around in his hand to examine it from all angles. “It’s a really impressive piece.”

“Th-thank you. Um. I didn’t install any jets or anything since I’m not actually a scientist, b-but it lights up.”

“I would expect no less from you, Spindle.”

“S-so you’ll wear it? Um. I have a second costume, too, i-if you don’t like this one.”

“What’s the second one?”

Spindle pushes the second suit preserver into Tag’s hands. It has a more fabric-like give to it, and no clanging metal. “Open it!”

Tag does as he is bid.

Inside is a surprisingly tasteful set of Harry Potter-style wizard robes, with red trim around the edges.

Tag looks at the costume without comprehension. “Graduation robes?”

“N-no, Gryffindor.” Spindle makes a snarling face. “Y-you could be a wizard in public and no one would notice.”

“Wait. Is this Harry Potter?” Tag scowls down at the costume.

“W-well, yeah. I made myself a matching set.”

“Don’t you have friends at the University that you’d rather go to one of those parties with?”

Spindle props his elbows innocently on the table. “P-porque no los dos?”

“Either of these costumes would draw a lot of attention.”

“S-so? Everyone would congratulate you, then go on with their lives. That’s p-pretty much how it goes. You’d just make them happy for a little while.”

“But you made the costumes.”

“And?”

Tag’s hand goes to his forehead. “And I won’t take credit for your work.”

“S-so? You wouldn’t be.”

“You’re not going to let up until you get what you want. Are you?”

“I made you two costumes s-so you could pick which one you wanted,” Spindle wheedles.

“The illusion of choice.”

“I can’t really do illusions.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Spindle’s shit-eating grin reaches his ears. “S-so the wizard robes?”

Tag places his hands on the counter and leans in closer to Spindle’s face. His eyes narrow at the werewolf. “The armor. I’ll give you one hour.”

Spindle cheers. “Wooooooo! D-do you want to see a movie? Party? Show off? What?”

“I don’t care. Just pick something,” Tag says, rubbing his temple and shaking his head.

“Y-you know,” Spindle whispers conspiratorially, “Harry Potter was sort of an Adamantine Arrow. He grew up and became a wizard soldier.”

“Don’t you have a Forces mage to annoy?”

“But you told me not to because she’d blow up the house.”

“A prospect that sounds less and less undesirable.”

Spindle is displeased. Tag sees it in the set of his frown, the way his fists dig into his hips. He’s staring into his teacher’s bedroom and clearly finding fault.

“C-can I paint your walls?” he asks. “Please? S-something?”

Tag is situated on the far side of the extensive room that makes up his living space. The ceiling stands a full two stories tall, and the walls still retain their preserved concrete and exposed metal rafters. Every wall houses large, black-barred windows that overlook the industrial district of Seattle. The room is a monotone of greys and dark metals, and is lacking in furniture save a bedroll in the corner and several training apparatuses neatly pushed to another corner. It stands in stark contrast to the werewolf’s now decorated room.

Tag looks up at his apprentice. In front of him is a large wooden traveling chest. He has it unfolded to reveal its inner storage shelves. Lined in neat rows are several small metal capsules the size of large pills. He’s in the process of attaching two halves together when Spindle arrives. “Why?” Tag asks.

“This is your home, right?” Spindle shifts from foot to foot, eyeing the capsules. “It should feel like home. R-right now it doesn’t. You don’t need to have a lot of stuff, b-but it should be nice to look at.”

“I like the simplicity of it. I don’t need much, and not having much means it’s easy to be ready to go whenever I want,” Tag says placing the capsule carefully in its place.

“B-but you’re not leaving, right?”

“No, but I like to keep my load light.”

Spindle continues to fidget. “C-can I just paint the walls? You don’t have to take those anywhere. Y-you can just take pictures to remind you of home.”

“Why is that so important to you?”

Spindle scowls. “N-nothing. Just, can I? Y-you can help pick out the designs.”

Tag folds his legs and swivels to look at Spindle fully. He raises a dark eyebrow and leans forward, arms hanging off the front of his knees.

Spindle crosses his arms, pinning Tag with his best stubborn stare. Tag is content to wait for the answer to his question.

Spindle’s inhumanly stubborn, but Tag is worse, and the wizard wins the staring contest in the end. “I’m scared you’re not going to stay long, s-so I wanted to make it feel like home for you,” he admits, studying the exercise equipment. “To, um, m-make it feel more like home than your other homes.”

Having gotten his answer, the mage shifts his posture and settles back onto his elbows. “Is that it?” He reaches over and lifts one of the capsules and offers it to the werewolf.

Spindle eyes the little metal gadget with suspicion. “Wh-what is that?”

“Well come here and I’ll show you.” Tag wiggles the capsule in his hand for emphasis.

Spindle trots across the room until he’s within sniffing distance of Tag’s palm.

His nose picks his teacher’s usual smell, along with some Old Spice and a hint of wet moss that never seems to completely leave the man. The capsule is oval shaped with a brushed, shiny metal surface. Neatly carved into the top half of the pill are letters that read ‘Auckland, New Zealand’.

Spindle continues his skeptical sniffing. “Wh-what is that?”

Tag motions for Spindle to look at some of the others. The trunk is lined with hundreds of these same capsules. Each one has a neat name inscribed on it: ‘Salisbury, England’; ‘Motuo, Tibet’; ‘Easter Island’; and ‘Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland’ are among the names he sees. “These are how I get from place to place. Or at least they make it a hell of a lot easier.”

“Are you sorting them like records?”

“In a manner of speaking. I take a small piece of something from the location. I can use it to hone in on the location after that.”

“Th-that makes sense. Um. What does that have to do with you leaving here?”

Tag places the capsule back in it’s spot. “It’s like this. Distance is less of a barrier to me. Like when we traveled from the east to west coast of this country to watch the 4th of July fireworks over and over again. I’m never far away from here.”

Spindle crosses his arms, his scowl back in force. “It’s not the same.”

“Why’s that? Are you worried I’m leaving the city undefended when I leave?”

“No, I just-” Spindle flails as he digs for the right words. “I just want y-you to care about this place.”

“I do. I took an oath to protect this cabal, this city.”

Spindle shivers. “H-how many other places did you swear to protect?”

“This is the only place I have now.” He gets up and places his hands on the teen’s shoulders with deliberate motion. “You think I don’t care about Seattle?”

“N-no, you just…you just travel a lot. You, um, m-make sure you can leave whenever you want. I just don’t want to be left behind.”

Tag’s eyes soften somewhat. “You’re my apprentice. I’d never leave you behind. I was always with my master. Same with us. He pauses to consider. “Except for school. You need to finish school.”

Tears bubble up at the edges of Spindle’s eyes. “S-so can I paint your room?”

Tag gives a small sigh and looks around his barren living space. “How about one wall?” he offers as a compromise.

Spindle claps his hands, perking up instantly. “Yeah! Um. I s-sort of have some stuff in mind already, but I’ll paint anything you want.”

“I’ll let you decide.” He taps the bright pink hair on the werewolf’s head. “But nothing too loud, yeah?”

Tucked away in the leftmost corner of Spindle’s new room, past his cotton candy pink shag carpet and overstocked workshop, the werewolf has erected what appears to be an altar. Beneath a cat’s cradle web of thread that forms a dome over the whole production sit jumbles of esoteric objects carved from wood and bone; surreal cross-stitched landscapes where landmarks sit at odd angles, their proportions bloated; old cell phones soldered into a rat’s nest of wires; and a mixed media statue of a sitting wolf made from natural and electronic elements, and spray painted with vivid slashes of red. Before the shrine the student has laid a woven rug with five wolves joined teeth to tail in a circle, each a different color: ice blue; black; russet; grey; and scarlet. On more than one occasion while walking by the room Tag has spotted his apprentice kneeling on the mat with his head bowed, his fingers busy with some unseen art.

Tag can’t really help but notice. Spindle never did make any efforts to hide his shrine or his devotions. He’d resolved to let his apprentice keep his spiritual practices private, but really, is it really intruding on something that’s held openly? He pauses silently by the door to the werewolf’s room as he grapples with the decision.

Spindle doesn’t speak as he prays, but Tag does see his arms moving, the elbows turning in and out in a knitting pattern. His toes wiggle in time to some internally held beat. The show goes on for another few minutes before he climbs to his feet, setting down whatever he’d been working on at the foot of the altar. When he looks over his shoulder and catches sight of Tag he grins and waves. “H-hi! What’s up? Did you, um, n-need something?”

Tag remains at the door a little awkward for having been spotted. “Nothing. No. Sorry,” he says turning to leave.

Spindle stands up, his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket. “H-hey, you don’t have to go. Um. Or apologize. What’s wrong?”

“Everything is fine,” he says. “Just passing by. Didn’t mean to interrupt your reverie.”

“Oh. Um. You didn’t. Um.” Spindle looks over his shoulder at the wolf-god. “Um. S-sorry, it’s not private or anything. Um. I do my rites out in the open most of the time, and I sort of wanted to let you wizards watch if you wanted. Um. I figured Grimnir would want to since he thinks everything spirity is cool. I was just making Sagrim-Ur a scarf anyway.”

Tag looks in at the idol, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. “It’s your tribal totem right? The one you’re tied closest to?”

“Y-yeah. Um. I guess that’s one way to put it?” Spindle scratches behind his neck. “I sort of just try to stay in contact. Um. They don’t answer back very much, but that’s okay. They’ve, um, g-got a lot of other stuff to do. But it helps me focus, and inspires me. I’ve been pretty lost since Des Moines. Um. Is this sort of how you do it? I stole some ideas from human stuff I saw in books.”

Tag gives a knowing nod. “You haven’t spoken a lot about your time in Des Moines.” He silently motions his request to come in.

Spindle quivers at his own rudeness. He steps far inside, making more space than Tag needs. “Um. It was pretty rough. R-really rough. A lot of bad things happened to a lot of good people, and it’s been sort of hard to, um, f-feel…” He looks at his bookshelves for inspiration. “Um. Faith, I guess.”

Tag does a short tour around the perimeter in the room. His eyes scan over the handmade furniture and original artwork. He stops at the shrine. “I never should have let you stay there. I knew it was trouble as soon as that ‘CEO’ of theirs made their presence known on the boards.”

There’s a partially-finished scarf at the base of the statue. It has a simple green and silver pattern, and the yarn looks like real wool. Tag’s seen those colors somewhere before.

“Y-you think you could have stopped me going?” Spindle asks, surprised into stillness. “It wasn’t really your decision.”

Tag’s answer is hesitant, as though he’d had to consider his answer. “No. I suppose it wasn’t. But I should have made the option to come back more forcefully.”

Spindle eyes his teacher, his expression slowly settling into a frown. He takes a seat on his shag carpet. “I can’t just teleport away from school. Um. It’s really, really important for me to stay p-pretty human in a human life. I’m a student. I, um, n-need to study, and mingle, and be just as human as I am spirit. It’s really not good to magic all my problems away.”

“You can’t magic your problems all away. But you shouldn’t have been alone either.”

“I think if you’d gone there y-you would have tried to kill them, and they would have tried to kill you, and it would have made everything even worse. They sort of have to just live with their mistakes because I don’t think we could take them all.”

“I wouldn’t have killed them.” Tag says with a small roll of his eyes. “But I’ve seen more than one brood of Begotten effectively take control of an area and not for the better.”

“W-well, what would you have done?”

“I’d have listened to you for one thing,” Tag says kneeling in front of the statue to look at the scarf.

The scarf has a simple zig-zag pattern, the kind Spindle can likely zone out while knitting. It has tassels on its completed end. The way it’s coiled jogs Tag’s memory: He’s seen those colors on a snake.

“I don’t really know if I could have given you advice. I d-didn’t really know what to do, either. But, um, that still means a lot.”

“You knew that the Beasts clustering up together was making the Shadow worse. You knew that granting sanctuary to a spirit Ridden was a horrible idea. They were too busy identifying with it to see any danger or care.” He picks up the unfinished scarf. “Was this for snakes? Did you like snakes?”

Spindle blinks. “Um. No? Th-that’s for Sagrim-Ur. It’s a Slytherin scarf. I’m s-sort of trying to make clothes for the statue so I can dress them up in all kinds of weather. I thought it would be cute. And, um, yeah. It seemed like they were trying to convince me they were Ridden.”

“My point exactly. They’re too much like the ones we’re supposed to be fighting. They should be held at arm’s length.” He puts the scarf down. “I don’t recall that tribe.”

The blink is slow this time. “Th-that’s not a tribe. Um. Remember when I freaked out that I wasn’t a Hufflepuff anymore? Um. A-and I said I was scared I was evil because I was in Slytherin?”

Tag closes his eyes slowly as if reliving an irksome memory. “Yes, and I told you I thought you were taking an internet personality test a bit to strongly.”

“I am not! I’m honoring Sagrim-Ur’s cunning!” Spindle huffs. “Symbols are really important.”

“They are, I suppose sometimes in spite of their source material,” Tag says with a sigh.

The little werewolf huffs again. “I think I would have freaked out about your magic a lot more if Harry Potter wasn’t around.”

“You can’t be serious. It isn’t like werewolves don’t have magic of their own.”

“N-no, I am serious. It helped me accept a lot of stuff. You said you even make potions.”

“I don’t. Some of us do…look, that’s not the point!”

Spindle sets his chin. “Werewolves aren’t exactly accurate in Harry Potter either, b-but Lupin’s still a pretty good guy, and I like that.”

“Who? A werewolf colleague of yours I haven’t met yet?” Tag’s question is as genuine as his ignorance.

“N-no, he’s a fictional character.” Spindle grins. “He’s a really nice werewolf who tries his best.”

Tag just shakes his head. “So you say you had a crisis of faith over in Des Moines?”

“Y-yeah, I guess. Um. The other werewolves there weren’t very helpful, and most of the others were either awful or n-not all that helpful either. I tried everything to make them help me, b-but I think everyone hated me by the end. It sort of killed my confidence.”

“Then what were they all concerned about?”

Spindle blushes. “They said I was bossy.”

Tag snickers a little bit. “Well, what of it? Were they doing anything more important? Sounds to me like a mass apathy. That’s not your fault.”

“N-no, but it-” Spindle chews on the tip of his tongue. “Um. It’s not that it’s my fault, b-because it’s not. I just feel bad because I d-don’t know how useful my way of doing things is.”

“Isn’t maintenance of the Shadow pretty important?”

“V-very! I just mean…I tried to be nice. Maybe it would have worked better if I wasn’t nice.”

Tag pats the floor next to him. “I’ve got a reputation. Some of it engineered, some of it wild speculation and fanciful recollection. I’ve learned to make use of it. But. If you can get people to follow your example out of respect then you’ll be the most effective at what you do. I think you can be that example.”

Spindle shuffles his butt next to Tag. “I kind of hope the Arrow teaches me how.”

“Since the Ten Second War we’ve been diminished to a shadow of ourselves.”  Tag lets out a sigh. His forehead wrinkles at some distant memories. “Most of our leaders are dead. Even here in Seattle the only other Arrow is Skald, and she’s been…well, she seems to be fighting her own demons. I suspect a lot of your lessons are going to be forged in the thick of things.”

“Th-that’s okay. At least I’m not doing it alone, right?” Spindle nudges him with his shoulder.

Tag ruffles the pink hair. “No. No you’re not. You have your brothers and sisters in arms and your faith.” He points to the shrine.

“Y-yeah.” Spindle reclines with a grin, resting his head on his hands. “Y-you might like Sagrim-Ur if you met them. They’re curious, and smart, and they don’t let themselves get tied down. Maybe I could introduce you one day.”

“Heh. Wouldn’t that make Grimnir jealous. Though given his chosen name he might not feel too keenly on meeting giant wolves that could eat him.”

“F-Fenrir is a different wolf. Um. I’m not a Blood Talon. Sagrim-Ur chose me.”

“Thank the heavens for that,” Tag says grinning widely.

The day is still early when Tag arrives at the cabal’s shared home with a certain pink haired werewolf in tow. They walk past the safeguards and enter the front door. Tag is mid sentence when they enter. “…so basically this is our shared base of operations. You’d still have your residence in the dormitories but you could set up another home away from home here.”

Spindle has his hands in his pockets and an entranced look on his face. He stops suddenly at the threshold. “Um. Mr. Tag? Are you sure I can, um, c-come in? I haven’t really asked everyone.”

Grimnir is sitting in the main shared area, with three or four books and a notebook arrayed around him. He looks up as they enter, quirking his eyebrow.

Catching sight of the Obrimos, Spindle launches himself into a bow. “S-sorry to intrude, Mr. Grimnir, sir!”

Grimnir looks at Tag, then back to Spindle. “Nothing to worry about. Just doing some light reading.”

Tag motions for Spindle to come the rest of the way in. “I’m glad you’re here, Grimnir. I thought it was time to let the kid have a look at the common areas.”

“S-so I’m just in? Um. I d-don’t have to swear any sacred vows? Bind myself to a spirit?”

Grimnir takes a moment, setting his books aside. “Ah, I see. Well, then, welcome to our humble abode.”

“There’s no oath for a visit,” Tag says with a small roll of his eyes.

“Indeed. Besides just… you know, being a good guest,” Grimnir adds.

Spindle squeaks. He extends one foot over the threshold and plants it gently on the other side. When it doesn’t explode in magic flames he takes a full step, then skips inside.

Tag walks over to the fridge. He pours himself a water and offers Spindle one. “I did want to talk to you, Grimnir. Seeing as how Spindle is my apprentice I would like to discuss his membership in the cabal.”

“Membership…Well, then. What are you proposing? He’s not exactly a…standard apprentice, as it were, or a typical Proximus.” He sits up fully, looking interested.

Spindle also perks up. “I s-sort of wonder that, too. Um. Mages can join packs.”

Grimnir nods. “Yes, as can the Lost, from what I have seen. Our organizations aren’t as…well, we operate differently. It’s more of a political and interpersonal matter than a mystical one.”

“He’s a unique case, but he understands the importance of an oath. I think we could both benefit from each other.”

“I d-don’t want to intrude on your home. Um. But I think I would like to be part of it.”

“I see… I’m not exactly opposed to the idea. I think you would be a good fit. I do have a question if you don’t mind?” Grimnir probes.

“Y-yes, sir. Um. I’ll answer if I can!”

Grimnir leans forward, and asks, “How would you see your responsibilities as Tag’s apprentice, and your responsibilities to your people, balancing with that membership? And, along a similar vein, how would your people see us being caught up in your responsibilities to them, because of that membership?”

Spindle swallows. Something in his question seems to bother the werewolf. “Um. I’m m-mostly not worried about my people. But my duties as Uratha…um…h-have I explained to you what they are yet?”

“I’m sure you’ve mentioned it, but feel free to expand as much as you feel is necessary.”

The swallowing turns into a full-on gulp and an uneasy glance in Tag’s direction. “Um. Well. All Uratha are supposed to keep the balance between Flesh and Spirit. Because I’m Ithaeur, I’m extra tied to spirits, so I spend a lot of time getting to know the locals and stuff. Um. That’s not incompatible with being an Arrow or part of the cabal, since it’s all about making the world a better place. Um. It does sort of get complicated with my Tribe, though.”

This time when he looks at Tag he’s downright desperate.

Tag leans against the couch and makes a “go on” motion.

Spindle steadies himself against the furniture as well, trying to look cool. “Um. Well. I’m an Iron Master. Th-that means I follow Red Wolf, the spirit of change. We’re supposed to watch over humans and all supernaturals who live among them to make sure they don’t disrupt the balance. They’re our, um, ‘s-sacred prey’, we call it. Mages are included. Tag knows about it, a-and it’s totally compatible with being an Arrow since I only hunt the bad ones, but it’s kind of hard to explain. Um.”

“We have people that police our own as well, Spindle.”

“Y-yeah, but I would be upset if someone came and told me they were policing m-my people…”

“A fair thing to be concerned about,” Grimnir interjects. “That said, I am sure our peoples have different definitions of ‘bad’ in this case. Differing priorities, after all. What do you, specifically, consider a disruption of the balance? I assume it has a great deal to do with the spirits and the Shadow, both from what you have explained and what I can guess.”

“B-basically, yeah. Um. We mostly overlap, honestly. I r-really hate lots of violence because of what it does to the Shadow, but it does have to happen sometimes. M-most of the time the big problem is Shadow stuff sneaking across the barrier, or humans w-wandering through by accident. Um.” Spindle winces. “If a spirit Mage went really, really bad and started, um, b-binding lots of spirits, or making them all go to war, or s-something like that, I would have to talk to them, or, um, k-kill them if they didn’t stop hurting people. B-basically what mages would consider bad.”

Grimnir considers. “Some mages, especially the Seers, would likely not consider that bad in the least. They seek to bind everything to their masters’ will, in one way or another, and spirits are no exception to that. That being said…I suppose any action you take would fall under the right of Nemesis, were you a member. Does that fit with your understanding, Tag?”

He chuckles and adds, “Assuming it wasn’t me you felt the need to take action against, anyway. That would be a different conversation altogether, and one I would hope we could have before it got to such an extreme.”

Tag nods. “Right of Nemesis, possibly the right of sanctuary if it’s concerning Seattle.”

“H-hunting doesn’t always mean killing!” Spindle races to explain. “It j-just means taking care of the problem, and you can be creative. Um. B-but can you explain the rights to me?”

Tag’s vocal cadence settles into a well rehearsed list. “They are known as the golden laws.

“Right of Crossing: Let no borders stop an Awakened with a clear heart.

“Right of Emeritus: Those who have earned respect must be treated with respect.”

“Right of Hospitality: Those who request hospitality must be granted it.

“Right of Nemesis: When vengeance is declared, let none stand in its way.

“Right of Sanctuary: Protect your home, and let no action cause it harm.”

Grimnir nods again. “Each cabal chooses which of the Great Rights they will follow, and codifies that in their charter. We’ve elected to respect all of them equally, as well as the addendum that we would prefer not to antagonize supernatural beings friendly to us.”

Spindle’s head wobbles back and forth as he thinks through the Rights. “Th-those are mostly fine with werewolves. Um. Except the Right of Crossing. We sort of run into problems if we try going into someone else’s territory.”

Tag chuckles. “Well, believe it or not, we don’t walk willy nilly into each others’ territories. We negotiate passage first.”

“Indeed. Thus the clear heart portion. Hard to get a read on that without meeting with someone first. But, in an ideal world, we wouldn’t hinder another Pentacle mage who needed to pass through the territory we claim as the cabal’s, and they would act like a good guest while they pass through.”

“Oh. Okay. Y-yeah, that’s pretty much right! Um. S-some really grouchy traditionalists might get mad just because they can, b-but that’s totally within my values.”

Tag smiles. “You’re as much an ambassador as an apprentice. That was part of why I wanted you, Spindle.”

“I’ll do my best.” Grimnir can see Spindle’s spine bowing under the pressure. “Um. Anyway, I d-don’t know how much my time is going to be limited. B-being a student takes up just as much as being a werewolf.”

“Fair enough. Mostly I wanted to make sure I understood your thought process on it, and your position on things.”

“So. Spindle. Can you in good conscience follow those rules?” Tag asks.

“Y-yes, I can. They’re all pretty much what I do anyway. Um. Human and werewolf values.”

Tag smiles and ruffles Spindle’s pink hair. “So. Want to pick a space for your own?”

“If, um, it’s really okay?”

Grimnir offers a quick thumbs up. “It’s fine with me.”

Spindle’s pupils grow hearts. He bolts off the side of the couch, shifting into Urhan as he goes. He zooms around the room, bouncing on furniture while sprays of drool slop from his mouth.

Tag looks at Grimnir and with an expression of rare sincerity he smiles. “Thank you, Grimnir.”

Grimnir returns the smile, and say,s “Not a problem. I agree that we call all benefit from this, and I look forward to seeing how things develop.”

Spindle flops onto Grimnir’s shoes and continues drooling.

-Logan, Toby, and Lindsey

The gray sky has only just begun to retreat from the rising golden light of the sun when the silent scene welcomes its first newcomer. The man is athletically built and dressed in a simple t-shirt and sweats. He runs at a brisk but steady pace. The morning air is still cool enough to leave little puffs of steam as he expels the air from his lungs. He slows and stops at an unremarkable industrial building and takes a moment to stretch his back.

“S-sorry! Sorry! One second!”

The adolescent who had been trailing at his heels stopped a block back to wait for a car to turn through his path. Tag didn’t need his powers of precognition to foresee his apprentice defying the rules of the road in order to be nicer.

When his path is clear, Spindle skips across the sidewalk to join Tag in front of their headquarters, sweating despite the chill. “S-so are we doing this every day?”

The older man nods. “I try to run every morning. It’s a good way to wake up and do a small patrol at the same time.” He picks up two small towels he’d left by the door and hands one to the pink-haired youth. “Didn’t you do runs with your pack before you came down here?” He speaks with a very pronounced Irish brogue.

Spindle happily smears the towel over his face. “Y-yeah, of course. Um. I’m not complaining or anything, j-just trying to remember to set my alarm. Um. A-and figure out how early I’ll have to wake up to get here from the U District.”

Tag wipes the beaded sweat from his salt and pepper hair and beard. “If you’re committed to joining me in the morning I can make your trip considerably shorter.”

“…Oh. OH. Oh, right!”

Spindle smacks his forehead with his towel hand.

“Y-yeah, of course. Um. If you’re willing, that would be great! Driving half an hour each way is, um, a l-lot of carbon. Thanks, Mr. Tag.”

Tag smiles a little despite his usual gruff demeanor. “You’re welcome. This is your home too, Spindle.” He opens the lock and motions for the werewolf to walk through.

Spindle enters like he still can’t believe he’s allowed, checking every corner of the sanctum for disapproving wizards. “Um. S-so, if it’s my home, I can decorate? A-and help secure it? And cook for you guys?”

“I’d be interested to go over with you what you’d like to contribute to the defenses.” Tag closes the door and walks over to the kitchen area. “You’ve got a space you can decorate to your tastes. As far as food? Well, it’s grab whatever you want.” Tag walks over to the pantry and pulls out one protein drink and one V-8 vegetable blend. He proceeds to combine the two in a glass and drink them. “Want one?”

Tag hears a strangled sound from where Spindle’s standing. “Wh-what…what are you doing? Th-that smells- is it an American thing? Um. Irish thing? Irish-American thing? B-because it’s c-curdling.” The kid holds a hand tight to his mouth, trying not to breathe. 

Tag pauses and looks down at his brew. “Well, it might not win a cooking contest but it’s an efficient way to get a meal in.” He continues drinking.

Spindle whimpers, fidgeting from foot to foot. “B-but you can teleport wherever you want! Y-you have time to eat real food. Um. That’s not food. A-and it’s not good for you. Juicing ruins vitamins. Please, please d-don’t torture me like this.”

Tag finishes. “Well, I don’t really have to eat at all and this is just… quick,” he says ponderously like he’d never really considered it before. “You don’t HAVE to have any.”

“Th-that’s not the point!”

Coming to a decision, Spindle pivots toward the cupboards, flinging boxes of power bars over his shoulders like a dog digging through the dirt. “Mr. Tag, I’m going to make you eat food,” he declares. “R-real food. And what do you mean you don’t have to eat? Everybody has to eat!”

Spindle finds to his horror that beneath the boxes of prefabricated nutrients and dehydrated nutrients are things like dried ramen packages and old half used ingredients, but nothing that resembles this food thing.

Tag rushes to catch the boxes as they’re tossed. “Hey! Some of those were expensive!”

Spindle continues, his mouth set in a familiar determined pout. “S-so are diamonds, but diamond spirits are awful. If you don’t need to eat, then you should eat to be happy, s-so I’m going to make you happy. Do you have any flour? Um. Sugar?”

Tag sets down the discarded boxes and walks over to the fridge with the same puzzled look. “It’s only a breakfast shortcut.” He kneels over and Spindle can hear rummaging for a few moments then a grunt of satisfaction as he finds what he was looking for. He withdraws from the fridge with an open bag. “Ha! Here’s some flour,” he says, handing it over. The bag reads potato starch and it’s expired by several months.

Spindle recoils like a vampire who took a wrong turn into the sunlight. “TH-THAT’S NOT FLOUR! Um. M-Mr. Tag, I’m going to fix this, and then I’m going to make enchiladas, and I’m going to be grumpy about it.”

Tag holds it up to look at the label. “Well it’s pretty much flour right? To tell you the truth I used it for a ritual circle. It was on sale and a lot cheaper than salt.” Tag puts it back in its chilly place.

Spindle, about to yeet a can of Campbell’s, pauses. “W-wait, you make ritual circles, too?”

“Sure. Usually not with cooking ingredients, but I was in a hurry,” Tag answers.

“Wh-what for? Most of the time you just say stuff that makes my head hurt, or stuff just sort of happens without any preparation.”

“Taking time to properly set a spell up beforehand has definite benefits.”

“But cooking stuff?” Spindle stares as though he can’t believe that wizards would use something mundane in their wizardry. “Um. I use art stuff, but everyone sort of laughs at me for it.”

“Your art? It’s quite good. Why would anyone laugh at that?”

“B-because werewolves mostly beat stuff up for our rites.” He looks at the soup can. “Anyway. We need to get you food. Um. I’m going to run to a grocery store to stock up, a-and then I’m making enchiladas. I’m putting an angry face on mine because y-you’re like twice as old as I am and you don’t know what flour is, and that’s not okay, so you can’t have any.”

            The mage looks a little indignant at being called old but takes it in stride. “Look, I know what anger food is for you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you would care so much. Truce?” he asks holding a hand out at the can Spindle had nearly lobbed. He even manages to affect a contrite expression.

Spindle plops the can of muck into his teacher’s palm, his expression still stubbornly set. “Of course I care! Food is, um, i-it’s a nice thing people make for each other because most of us need it, a-and it can make you really happy and healthy when you do it right, even when you’re not being fancy. Um. Making it is really calming, too. M-maybe you could do a ritual where you cook something and that’s the magic.”

            Tag slides the surrendered can out of reach should the werewolf be tempted to take up arms again. “Well potion making is a skill some cultivate.”

“Y-you can think of it like that. I guess? Um. I don’t care as long as you eat something that’s n-not radioactive. Um. I’ll be back soon.”

Spindle jogs out the way they came in.

Tag watches the pink werewolf go before shaking his head, finishing his swill and following.

Spindle’s a real monster in the kitchen when he returns. He makes his own red sauce from scratch, and slices meat and fresh vegetables like a celebrity chef. For all his threats of making an angry enchilada he seems to be having a great time, whistling Beyoncé as he chops. “Y-you’ve had enchiladas before, right?”

“Sure I have,” Tag says as he watches from the other side of the counter. “You sure you don’t want my help? I’m good with knives.”

To his surprise, Spindle perks right up. “I thought you’d never ask!” He sets the knife aside and snags the cheese shredder, content now that he’s finally weaseled his teacher into cooking.

Tag silently takes the knife and cutting board and obediently cuts in accordance with his student’s wishes.

–Tobias and Lindsey

Welcome to the recap for Seattle’s CoD-X venue for 6/29. These serve as a way for people who couldn’t make it to the game or who might be curious about what goes on in the CoD-X venue to get a taste of our weird little venue.

This particular session was the culmination of a lot of plots and character actions over the course of months, so a whole lot went down.

[Have you tried the fried chicken? Oh hey, is that a mer-man?]

The Summer King invited members of Seattle’s Lost community and their guests to attend a midsummer’s feast which also happens to serve as the passing of the crown from the Spring to Summer. What wasn’t made abundantly clear to some of the attendees is that the event was Masks optional, so most of the changeling revelers came as they normally are. Non-Lost
visitors were surprised to find a private outdoor gathering near the banks of Puget Sound packed to the brim with literal fairytales. Merfolk, Ogres, Tolkien-esque Elves, and weird skittery Jim Henson style creatures. Food, and contests of strength were the order of the day, as attendees made new friends, and got to know some of their local changeling neighbors.

[Four Thrones in Cair Paravel]

Attendees also got to witness the arrival of the four Seasonal monarchs of Seattle’s Lost society. The Winter King, frail and thin, made seemingly of purest ice and snow. The Autumn Queen, resplendent in full Victorian mourning attire. Gother than thou, The Spring Queen, an unearthly elvish beauty trailing flowers in her wake, and the Summer King, a brutish ogre in a tank top and suit jacket.

[You’ll know the Go sign when you see it.]

At the festivities came to their culmination, the Spring Queen gave a small speech about community, and how the Lost were stronger together than they were apart, and how the natural change of seasons was a necessary cycle.

The Summer King demanded that he be given what he was due. That he be given his crown. Spring knelt to Summer, and crowned him, but as she did, she named him Oathbreaker, and all hell broke loose. The crown transformed from a traditional circlet to a barbed wreath of thorns, and the glamour surrounding the Summer King’s adviser shattered, revealing him to be one of the Gentry’s Huntsmen. Weapons were drawn, fire rained down, gunshots boomed out. When the dust cleared, the Summer King was subdued, the Huntsman was destroyed, and a lot of very pissed of Lost went about trying to clean up the aftermath, but no one was quite sure who was now in charge of Summer, or what happened to the actual crown…

[OOC: Shout Outs]

Thanks to all of the CoD-X players for bearing with a really large mass combat, and for keeping that process running relatively smoothly. I hope that everyone had a good time, and enjoyed the small “feast” that we
provided OOC.

Jesse Means, US2002023293
Seattle Interim CoD-X VST

CoD-X Recap 5/24/19

Welcome to our monthly recap of the Seattle CoD-X game sessions. I like to present these as a way to keep the game fresh in the minds of the players, and let people who missed that game get a sense of what went down.

Men in Black VI, Agent D::

The Seattle based coalition of supernaturals who just want to be left in peace added a new member to their ranks in the form of Agent D, a Federal Agent who presented himself as a potential ally. Or is he?

Sun’s Out, Guns Out:

Following up on the shooter who attacked an IHoP, and killed one of the local Lost, a group consisting of at least one Lost, a Beast, the aforementioned Agent D, and several Mages tracked their quarry to a house in Bellevue. What ensued next involved automatic gunfire, angry ghost rats, some nonconsensual brain-bending, and a lot of cops.

In the Chamber’s Chamber:

Several individuals discovered that the captured shooter, and the home he was hiding out in were affiliated with both Victoria Chambers, and her deceased mother, Helene Chambers. Victoria as it turns out helps run the Bellevue gun club that’s been training people to hunt supernaturals. Several other members of the group learned that Helene Chambers might not be as deceased as they were previously led to believe.

Roses are Blood Red, Violets are Black and Blue:

A formal informal meeting of the Spring Court Party Planning Committee have put out the word that the Summer King’s transgressions, now long unaddressed will not be allowed to stand any longer. The stage is set for an epic reckoning in fair Seattle where we lay our scene, and its set to go down at the Summer King’s Midsummer’s Feast next month.

(Which is our Featured game for June! Will the Summer King get his much deserved comeuppance? Will members of Seattle’s alliance fall to a Huntsman’s blade? Who will take the Summer Crown in the aftermath of this sumptuous feast? Tune in next time!)