With the capture of Verandi Farley and several high-ranking Trossach members, the British wizarding world has finally caught a break. The rate of rogue werewolf attacks have started dropping at a steady rate and, hopefully, things will stay that way. The Ministry is starting to loosen some restrictions, like not arresting werewolves standing on the street for loitering, however there’s still an obvious power imbalance between wizardfolk and werewolves.
The Cotswolds pack are continuing to advocate for the rights of werewolves and petitioning to change the legislation that has been set in motion by the current Minister for Magic, whilst the remaining Trossachs members are trying to stay out of the spotlight and keep a low profile… for now.
Whilst the British wizarding world seems to have calmed down, the same cannot be said for over in Northern Europe where a rebellion of magical creatures has risen. The state of things has gotten so bad that the European Ministry has enacted protocols to protect those under eighteen whilst their adult witches and wizards fight to keep control of their countries.
Students from Durmstrang have been sent to Hogwarts to keep them safe and those not old enough to attend school have been sent to live with relatives or designated British Ministry officials outside of Europe for the time being.
Will the low rates of werewolf attacks in Britain continue? How long will Durmstrang students stay at Hogwarts? Will the creatures usurp the wizardfolk in Northern Europe? Only time will tell.
SEPTEMBER 2019 It's been a very long, eventful summer in the wizarding world. A baby was stolen, several high ranking Trossach members were imprisoned, and werewolf attacks have drastically dropped as a result. What will happen now school has returned?
MAY 2019 An attempt to capture the beta of the Trossachs has been launched. Were the Aurors successful in their mission? Go read more here!
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 19, 2020 20:08:54 GMT
When he'd Apparated desperately, Emil had pictured Hogsmeade. Where he'd landed, was, he supposed, technically Hogsmeade, but not the part of it he normally visited, back when his weekends had usually been spent in the village. Still, it was a far cry from the mistakes he could have made, he thought as he stumbled on the cobblestones, falling to his knees in exhaustion. He could have splinched himself, and then he'd really be left for dead; if he could find someone now who was good at healing...
But a werewolf had bitten him. A werewolf had gotten its teeth in his arm, and blood was everywhere, showing no signs of stopping its flow, and it meant...
Oh, God, it meant he should never have come here. If Hogwarts found out, if the Aurors found out, if, kurwa, if it got back to his parents, what would happen to him? There were exams next month, exams there were no way he was taking now. Sitting down heavily on the cobblestone street, a sob escaped him. Maybe he shouldn't have saved himself. Maybe he should've let himself bleed out there. Then nobody would have to concern themselves with what would happen next month. Then his parents could have taken him home and buried him as they wanted, with nothing but good memories of their son. Maybe they'd have been proud of him, would certainly have no reason to be afraid of him...
Heavily, he collapsed to the ground, laying down and waiting for his senses to burn out.
Some days Askold couldn't tell the days that passed apart -- that's how little happened at Hogsmeade. Most of the time he wouldn't be one to complain about the lack of action, as living a peaceful life was something he'd always wanted for himself, but on days like this one it became a depressing drag.
Opening the Inn in the morning, seeing one new face per week if he was lucky, reading the Daily Prophet and tossing it into the pile of fire starters while trying to not spit in disgust about yet another article painting all werewolves as the spawns of the devil, spending the entire day up to his neck in flour making far too many pastries just to keep himself occupied, and then finally, closing the Inn once the clock hit 21:00.
Today had been just another one of those days. The Inn was closed, and Askold had decided to go for a little walk. He was planning to spruce up the outside of the Hogs Head with a few flowerbeds here and there, yet he didn't have a clue where to start. Of course, Madam Puddifoot's had an absolutely wonderful set of decorations around her cafe, and Askold noted to himself that come the morning, he should go and ask a few questions.
He'd made his way back to the Hogs Head, ready to head to bed, when he was spooked by a loud 'pop' behind his back. He turned around, wanting to see what had caused it... And what he saw made his eyebrows go up as high as they could.
There was a man, no, a boy, collapsed on the cobblestones, sobbing. His shirt was tattered and stained, and the ground underneath his right arm was being soaked by a red puddle. He was bleeding out.
For a few seconds Askold stood there, frozen, before the gears in his head started turning once more. A quick glance towards the sky confirmed his initial thought -- it was a full moon. This looked like a student. And if he was bleeding out on the street during a full moon?
Askold hoped he was wrong. But first thing's first, he had to get the kid off the street.
"Hey, hey, listen to me," he said, rushing over to the boy, grasping him by the shoulders and making him sit up, "Talk to me. What's your name? What happened to you?"
He put all the strength he had in himself to lift the rather limp body up, at least enough that he could drag him into the Inn.
"My name is Askold. I'll help you, but you've got to stay awake. You'll be okay, okay? I'll make sure of that. Just help me out here."
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 20, 2020 16:32:02 GMT
Someone was speaking. Emil opened his eyes, trying to force them to focus on whoever was out there, tugging at his shoulders. The pulling on his skin tugged at the wounds on his arm, and he gritted his teeth together as another sharp wave of pain went through him. From what he could see, he was exactly where he'd been before he'd closed his eyes--he wasn't dead, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to be disappointed about that or not. There was still the dust on the street, the blood sticking to his shirt, the moon shining down on it all.
The moon. He wanted to throw up at the thought of it, but he didn't feel as if his body even had the strength for that at the moment. Instead, he let himself be dragged along by the man who was carrying him off the street, wrapping his good arm around his shoulders to try and make himself less of a dead weight. "Emil. I'm Emil," he whispered, his voice rough. "Where are you taking me?" He hadn't wanted to stay awake, he had wanted to shut his eyes and make it all go away, but the man--Askold, he'd said?--kept talking. "I'm not--I won't be okay. I won't."
The kid was more akin to a corpse -- not that Askold had ever handled a human one, but -- getting more pale as the seconds ticked. The wound on his wrist was gushing red and the sight of it alone made Askold's stomach churn. But he couldn't let that distract him, he had to get over it.
"There we go," he muttered as the boy cooperated and put his arm around Askold's shoulder. This allowed Askold to wrap his own arm around his waist, helping him stand up. There was scarcely any strength in Emil's voice, and the baker was starting to doubt if he could actually help him in time. He wasn't a healer, hell, he didn't even know simple first aid -- and here was someone with a werewolf bite.
Focus, you can't let him down.
"Just over here, to the Hogs Head. I own it, it's safe there. You'll be alright, you'll be alright, Emil," he continued as he reached out and opened the front door, the bell ringing out loud and clear - a sound far to jolly for the situation.
"Okay, over to the couch, just over here, not far now." He guided the boy across the room, letting him sit down on the white couch by the fireplace.
"Emil, you've got to stay with me. Talk, talk about anything, I'll see to your arm." Askold instructed him before rushing away, heavy steps echoing across the room. There was a book upstairs that could help them both. Or so he hoped.
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 20, 2020 17:27:48 GMT
The Hog's Head? Was that where he was? The old but bright room that Emil was being dragged into didn't seem anything like he remembered the Hog's Head to be, but then again, he didn't recognize Askold, either. He let himself be set down on the couch, worrying briefly about the amount of blood he was spilling onto the soft white fabric. That was going to be a mess to clean up-- "I'm sorry. About this." He wiggled the fingers on his right hand, finally releasing the wand that was still clutched there, unwilling to actually move his arm.
It was far warmer inside the inn than it had been outside, but even as the heat from the fireplace reached his skin, Emil still felt like he was getting colder. "What--" He didn't know what it was he was supposed to talk about. What was there to say, now? That he had no idea what to do in the morning if he even survived the night?
There was little time to think about it, as Askold disappeared from vision, footsteps echoing up the stairs somewhere, and Emil leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling, waiting to see if the man would even return.
1. "A mixture of silver powder and dittany, applied to a fresh bite seals the wound, not letting the victim die of bloodloss."
The man hurried back down the stairs, flipping through the dog-eared pages of a tattered book. His brows were furrowed as he spoke under his nose.
"Cмесь измельчённого в порошок серебра и диктамнус, нанесённая на свежий укус, «запечатывает» рану, не давая жертве умереть от потери крови...1"
"So, it says here that I need silver powder, which... Well, I've got a kitchen full of silverware, I can get you that," he said, standing in front of Emil. The boy was staring right at the ceiling, his eyes misty and out of focus. Askold needed to hurry the hell up.
"But then it says I need something called 'dictamnus' and I don't know what that is, so I doubt I have that. They teach you this stuff at school, don't they? What is dictamnus?" It was a genuine question, but also an attempt to make Emil stay awake.
"You, you stay put, I'm gonna get bandages and some silver powder, just hold on!" The book was tossed aside, falling just a little short of the coffee table, the kitchen door slammed and the Inn was filled with the terrible clatter of silverware as Askold looked for a spoon and a knife, scraping them against each other like mad. After a few minutes he came back with a mortar and pestle and a handful of clean bandages. The tray was almost empty, if not for about a knife end of gray powder.
"Give me your hand, I'll try to stop the bleeding with a tight knot. You need to tell me what is 'dictamnus', so I can figure out what to do next." His voice was steady, even when his fingers were trembling in anxiety.
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 20, 2020 18:56:28 GMT
"Mówicie po polsku?" Was he really losing so much consciousness that he'd started hearing words in Polish floating through the air? His parents weren't here; nobody else ever spoke Polish to him. Was this what it felt like to come close to dying? Hearing things? Emil groaned, picking his head back up with great effort. "Srebro? Dlaczego?" How the conversation had gone from his bloody arm to silver, he didn't know, but words were happening in English again, and he had to force his mind to think about them.
"Dictamnus," he murmured to nobody in particular, the word seeming oddly familiar, even as he couldn't place exactly where he'd heard it. It sounded Latin. Sounded like a spell. Had to be something from Hogwarts. The footsteps were pacing away from him again, and his head fell back once more, even heavier against the couch. Dictamnus. Sounded Latin, yes. Where was it from?
As the man returned, Emil found himself unwilling to lift his head up again, but he heard Askold ask him to raise his hand, and even though moving it made the sting of every tooth mark come back with a vengeance, he managed to lift up the arm from where it had been hanging limply at his side.
"I need to--it's familiar, I know--" Having his arm touched made tears threaten to overflow his eyes again, but he forced himself to breathe through it. "I know. The Latin name for dittany."
Askold found himself doing a double take when the boy started muttering words that felt oddly familiar, and yet completely foreign at the same time. What had he said?
Polsku?Polish?
"Russian," he added, looking at the kid. Man, he was in such a sad state, not being able to focus on speaking in English. Of course, Askold didn't blame him for one second -- if he was in the same state, he'd be the same way, muttering in Russian. Your mother tongue was the first and last thing that made sense in this world, wasn't it?
He wrapped the bandages around Emil's wrist over and over, not bothering to even clean the wound. Once he was satisfied with the amount of layers, he reached towards the coffee table--
The knife was back in the kitchen.
A string of Russian swears left his mouth before he dug into the bandage with his teeth, trying to tear it in half like a rabid dog tries to kill its prey. Then he took a deep breath, placed the threads on both sides of Emil's arm, and tied a knot, pulling it as tight as he could.
"Sorry, sorry, it must hurt, but its already bleeding less. Now, I will run to...To Dervish and Banges or, or I don't know, I'll break every door down if I have to, I'm gonna be back very, very soon, alright? I'll get you that dittany, you'll be okay very soon, Emil."
And once more, he was running, running like it was his own life on the line.
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 20, 2020 19:31:38 GMT
Ah, Russian. That explained it, sort of. Well, Emil had never learned any Russian in his life, but maybe the Slavic languages were more alike than he'd thought. As long as he wasn't hallucinating. He felt the bandages being wrapped around his arm, tighter and tighter, pressing into the broken skin, and he clenched his jaw shut, trying to block out the pain, until Askold pulled the strips of cloth tight with a knot. "Fucking kurwa!" he yelled, a rare exclamation from the usually calm boy, but the stinging pain of the wounds being crushed seemed to call for it.
The footsteps receded again, and a door slammed, leaving Emil alone in the room. He willed nobody else to enter, nobody else to know what was happening, as the beat of his pulse against the tight bandages seemed to echo through his whole body. He was alive, somehow, even if he wasn't sure that he wanted to be, and he lifted his left arm to brush against the bandages lightly. If he untied them, if he let himself bleed while the innkeeper was away from fussing over him, was that what he wanted?
He wasn't sure. Certainly, he didn't want to face the morning, didn't want to face any more days, not when he would have to explain what he was now--could he ever go home? Would it ever be safe, around his Muggle parents? Tears rolled down his face, and he made no move to stop them. It was only the way he could feel his heart keep beating that stopped him, that made him fear the sensation of it slowing and slowing until it finally stopped.
A nervous bout of laughter burst out of Askold as the boy on the couch came alive, screaming obscenities as the baker tightened the bandages around his arm. There was fight still left in him, for sure. That made Askold feel a little bit more hopeful, but only a little bit. He still had to get his hands on dittany, whatever that was, otherwise this all would be for naught.
Hogsmeade didn't have an apothecary, which, considering the fact that under normal circumstances the majority of the towns clients were students who had potions class, was a bit odd. And very, very inconvenient. The closest thing to a general store they had was Dervish and Banges -- and that was a workshop, for crying out loud.
The Inn door slammed behind him as he ran through the cool evening, trying to keep his breathing even. He wasn't the best of runners -- his endurance was lacking and by the time he had reached his destination, he was already out of breath. There was no time to calm down though -- he threw himself against the door, banging on it until a bewildered shop owner opened the door, ready to chastise the late intruder. But Askold didn't even let him speak a word, begging for dittany and promising to pay him first thing in the morning.
After a brief conversation, the young man was clutching a small vial in his hands, both hands wrapped around it, lest he fell over -- if he'd break it, he'd never forgive himself. His lungs were on fire and his eyes weren't able to focus, but he urged himself onward, only onward. Emil needed him to hurry.
Just as loudly as he had left, he tumbled into the Inn, the golden bell above the door ringing over and over, as if swearing at Askold for bothering it.
"I'm back! I have it!" he exclaimed, rushing over to the coffee table and pulling the vial open. With a loud 'pop' the cork left the neck of the bottle and the brown liquid mixed together with the silver flakes. He mixed it up with the pestle and then sat down on the floor, his back turned to the fireplace.
"Give me a few moments," he spoke between sighs, trying to steady his breathing so that his hands would stop shaking and he'd get the mixture onto Emil's wounds, rather than on the floor.
"Okay, here goes nothing..." he said before starting to pour it right onto the wounds. There was sizzling and white smoke coming from the lacerations, but a smile appeared on Askold's face -- the wounds were indeed sealing!
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jan 21, 2020 1:30:34 GMT
Emil's eyes were closed again by the time the bell at the inn's front door rang. The world was looking very fuzzy again, and the effort to look at things seemed like more than he wanted to put in at the moment. He could hear the sound of Askold's footsteps, his accented voice, some sort of liquid being poured--and then there was a different kind of pain in his arm, making him groan again as a hissing noise came from the skin. If that was healing, it was certainly a rough way to go about it--although he'd taken a couple doses of Skele-Gro in recent months, which was equally awful, so maybe it just needed to be endured.
The sizzling noise stopped, along with some of the harsh stinging, and Emil assumed the treatment was over, although he couldn't say that he felt any better. His head was so, so heavy, rolling to the side, making him want to just lay down and sleep. If he could just move, lay his head on the arm of the couch--if Askold would bring him a blanket, that would be nice, too, he was so cold--but what he managed instead was a muffled whine. "Want to sleep," he whispered.
The wounds weren't bleeding profusely anymore and Askold finally felt like he was allowed to take a deep breath and calm down. There was a smile on Askold's face -- he'd managed to save him, right?
Emil was looking pale and weak though, and the baker knew they both had a long night ahead of them. Emil needed rest and it didn't look like he'd be able to get the kid to go upstairs to lay in a proper bed. No, he'd have to stay downstairs, and perhaps that was for the best.
"First thing's first, need to get you a pillow and a blanket. Then I'll get you cleaned up the best I can without moving you around too much. And...I have some sleep medicine somewhere, I'll give you that," he told the boy before hurrying away once more. Soon enough he was back, carrying a large pillow and his softest, thickest blanket.
"You're going to break your neck if you sleep like that," he murmured, sliding one of his hands under the back of Emil's head. His hair was...Damp? Had he sweated so much? All the more reason to get him wrapped up.
Once Emil's head was on the pillow, Askold got out his wand and cast a few cleaning spells, watching as the blood vanished from the boy's tattered shirt, the white couch and the wooden floor underneath. He didn't feel confident enough about his spell casting to attempt to clean his wounds though. No, that was best left for healers.
"Alright, now let's get you all tucked in. I'll push the couch closer to the fire too. And then you'll drink what I've brought you here, and then you'll sleep. And in the morning I'll bring you to people who can help. The Cotswolds pack, they're in Southern England. They're good people, they'll help you. But don't worry about that. Come on, drink up. If anything, I'll be here."
Now it was time to make a big kettle of strong peppermint tea and get out a book or two to read. The night was still long.