When good trees go bad?

Hyde Park

Hyde Park. Trails run through the large city park, statues dot the landscape. Near a corner is 'Speaker's Corner'.. that location where anyone can say almost anything and not be punished or prosecuted for it.


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Wade Charlie

It's late out at Hyde Park, sun gone down, moon raising into the sky overhead. Lamplight creates pools of illumination along the park paths, though still few linger inside of the islands of light. Things are still, mostly. Trees are silent save for the occasional groan, no footsteps, and Wade's about the only thing in the immediate vicinity.

He's at the park's bridge, bent at the railing, eyes over the water. In his hand is a phone, one he used to place the call. Something up at the park, not red alert, but something nonetheless. He's got a few things with him, a duffle bag over a shoulder, a few rocks and thin metal cylinders pinned under hands.

He waits, and he watches.

A soft whistle rises in the night air. Shadows in the shadows flicker under the path lights, and of them all, one allows himself to be seen fully. Charlie Mesner is dressed casually; blue jeans, sweater under a jacket, and on his head, a ballcap, faded and well loved. As this is England, there is no hint of a sidearm; it's either concealed or not at all. For those who work within The Department, only a few offices within the agency are allowed to carry.. unofficially. The trick is not to get caught.

Walking towards the bridge, Harry's eyes search the immediate area, looking for clues; any hint as to exactly why he'd be called to Hyde Park.. other than the errant shifter who used a homeless guy's park bench as a bathroom— oh, sorry— loo.

He approaches, his pace slow and casual.

"Hey.." His voice is low; easy to carry. "You okay?"

"For now." Wade's voice chimes that back, low, but it carries easy without the noise of cars, chattering people, or clopping feet to obscure it. The man twists, cranes his head around to take a quick glance over Charlie. Motion is made for the ma to join, a few of those items on the railings scooped up in the process.

"Hope you don't mind," The man chimes, "But I might need help." Fingers rise, sketch out across the expanse of water and trees. "No dead people yet, so I'm out of my element. But I found something interesting, and I wanted to fix it up before I did get called in, in official dead-person capacity."

That's where he's recognized the younger man's face. Morgue.

Charlie peers over the railing as he takes the couple final steps to join Wade. "Okay.." The word is drawn out. "Shoot. What'cha need?" The American accent is obvious. "If there's no dead people, what's the problem?"

Straightening to look at the other man, Charlie's brows rise in inquiry as he leans against the railings as items are pulled in. "What'd'ja find that made you need pick up the phone and call it in?"

"There were dead people," Wade clarifies. "An unusual amount, really. That's why I decided to come and take a look around." Things are tucked together, bag slung a bit higher on the man's shoulder before he begins to move, across the bridge and toward the trees on the other side.

"I think someone was playing around in here," He explains. A flick of a glance is given over at the other man, question of, "How much do you know about magic?" A longer pause after that, an addition of: "Or, about trees."

"Dead people." A statement. "Zombies? Vampires? Ghosts? Or dear departed Aunt Molly who is back and offering tea and scones again?" Charlie's not getting a great deal of information to move on, and is put into a position where he's got to follow— and it doesn't make him very happy.

"Hold on.." and Charlie does follow as Wade begins to move. "Magic? I know enough to call in the big guns if there's a hint of a dead language that really should stay dead being lobbed around." Or shoot them. "And trees? Used to have a neat treefort when I was kid. Climbed enough of them to know what branches'll support a small structure." His answers aren't the most conducive to serious research either, so..

"Magic and trees together? It means I hold the fort and locate someone who'll clean up the place and pretend nothing happened."

Wade does hold on. Just for a second. Enough to pivot to regard the man again, fingers flickering out at the dark once more. "Normal dead people. Trees fell on them." Which seems like an embarrassing way to die, but an improperly kept tree is a dangerous thing. "And other questionable things."

"You probably won't need a very big gun," The man assures, "And the plan is not to burn down the park. Someone carved a spell into a tree, and it's not a polite one. Possibly something to make them angry. So, I'm going to fix that." Pause. "Good?"

"Wow.." Trees falling on a person really isn't a good way to go. "Okay.." The word is drawn out again. "Grab a camera, if you've got it, get a picture—

"Wait.. and other questionable things?" Charlie's brow creases as he pulls an air quote over the word 'questionable'. He gets something of an explanation with 'not polite' and is willing to leave it there, but repeats his request, "Get a picture of it so it can be passed on. Then, we get rid of whatever pissed off the trees." Isn't that the 'them' to which Wade is referring? Odd that Charlie can believe in the ire of a .. tree. "Go forth.. and fix it. I'll watch your back."

"Stabbings," He clarifies. "With things that aren't knives. I would go with spears." It's not a far walk, but the trees grow dense. Thick, close, leaves making a sibilant rustle whenever the wind strikes them right. It's easy to tell which tree is Wade's tree. It's bigger, dark, almost hunched looking. The bark has been scoured by what seem like knife marks, cut into a few geometric lines.

Wade, thankfully, is prepared. There's a camera there, something that he snaps up before questioning, "No magic at all?" He doesn't wait for an answer, steps forward a draws out three nails. They're all pinched between fingers, the man crouching beside the oak.

And there's something in the dark. Hard to see, off to the left. A blob of moment, something that Charlie might catch. Not as tall as a man, longer than one. Animal, maybe.

The closer to the thick copse of trees the pair get, even Charlie can feel the hair on the back of his neck go up. Reaching behind him, he pulls out his pistol, and carrying it with his finger off the trigger, he is still very much ready to shoot.. and kill whatever gets in his crosshairs.

Stopping at Wade's tree, brows rise again in curiosity, and a low whistle emerges. "Hmm? Nope.. no magic at all." There isn't a magical bone in his body. Not sorcerer, not shifter or were, nothing. Purely human, and he likes it that way.

Charlie does catch movement, and he moves off to the side, dark eyes flickering from the shadow that is moving and the person he's watching and protecting. "How're you doing there? Any way to hurry it up?" He's not going to leave the younger man; area isn't secured.. not by a longshot. If need be, he'll come back later and hunt.

"At least you won't be backseat counter-spelling." It's a joke, a tiny one while Wade works. It's not hard work, but it'd be easier if he could just wag his fingers at it. He can't. What he does is jam his nails into the tree, hammering them home with a flattened rock. There's a lot of gestures after that, splashing and anointing, beats of palms.

And the thing in the dark is there for a little while longer. Then it goes, a few heavy thrums of air before it's gone again. All it leaves behind is a human shadow, a gangly shade that dances through the moonlight as it retreats. Then quiet again.

And when Wade is finished he'll take no note of it, merely go, and leave the rest for another time.

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