London, 1979, all sides of the city have delved into chaos. A dark fog and oleaginous smoke wafts over the horizon from dawn to dusk. The radio waves chatter that it is an astral phenomena, that this too shall pass, and the sun will rise again.
The...
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Whitechapel, London. 1979
One would be hard pressed to refer to the Ouroboros as ethical - but they certainly could have been worse. It was a upright order, at the very least. They didn't kill mudbloods, if that was any consolation. Unlike the Deatheaters, who reveled in causing as much chaos as possible, who dragged men and women out of dens in the night, slit their throats in the name of blood supremacy and worshipped a figure so far from godly that he would more closely resemble the devil. Dually, the Ouroboros were different from the Vitruvian, who paid no mind to the cleansing of blood, but sought for the wizarding populace to rule both the muggle and magical world with the power of the light.
The Ouroboros and the Deatheaters had one thing in common. They were intelligent enough to understand that anything worth taking had to be thieved in the dark. But, their tactics were dissimilar. Enoch Ames had long ago partnered with the heads of magical creature factions that had formed across Britain. It wouldn't have been a shock to find a centaur sipping tea in the galley of the boathouse, a Veela's head thrown back in laughter as she grazed a sensual finger over the rim of her cup. Tommy didn't like the way the vampires showed up in the night, reeking of coagulated blood, stood stark against a full moon on the fire escapes. Though, she couldn't deny they had been useful more than once.
Perhaps, the greatest difference between the three was their choice in clothing. Black was the force that swept across England, great swaths of it that formed serpents in the sky to harken in a band of Deatheaters like a morbid parade of the dammed. The Vitruvian wore white. Tommy thought emerald green was a perfectly sensible color.
"Three minutes," she claimed, her pale form starkly contrasted against the cloud of green essence she had erupted from in the center of Nocturne alley.
Sinai Novak had already disappeared, the remainder of Tommy's sentence chasing after her as she crashed through the stained glass of Borgin and Burkes. Tommy was on the verge of giving another time estimate, but it fell moot in the closed quarters. Sinai was already holding the shopkeeper at wand point.
"The death mask," Tommy said, holding out a paper with the artifacts silouhette scrawled over gold leaf.
It smelled of mildew and parchment, fear and sweat. The shopkeeper screamed, they always did. But in the end, with Sinai's wand tip crushing his windpipe, he adjusted his spectacles and looked at the page. "I haven't seen it in ten years. It was purchased by a private collector."
"Specifically?" Tommy asked.
Terrified from gut to gleam in his eye, the shopkeeper squinted to make a recollection. He offered the crack of a laugh, and the bob of his adams apple as he choked down the truth. "I would have to check my records."
"I should turn you inside out like a trout and eat your entrails," Sinai whispered into his ear. Her crimson tongue grazed his earlobe, voice low and haunting. They had ran through the proper protocol for these types of situations one hundred times over. It never mattered. The moment Sinai was in the throws of a fight, she chameleoned from morose to blood lust. Which was exactly why she made such a productive right hand.
