“… And here today to lecture on the IASRR, colloquially known as the Waite-Largo agreement, it’s history, and The Centre which was formed by it, we have Doctor Avery Waite.” The head of the political science department stepped aside, and the rustle of feathers preceded Avery’s appearance on the stage as he landed gracefully behind the podium.

Avery didn’t like lecturing. The eyes of hundreds of students watching him, waiting for him to tell them a story, weave them a tale of their history and how it has shaped the world they live in today. He would almost rather be a dragon toothpick. He took a steadying breath, reminding himself not to fidget with his sleeves. Making eye contact with students in the audience, he asked “Is there anyone who can tell me when the IASSR stands for?” a volley of hands raised. He motioned to a naga boy in the front row. “Go ahead.”

The naga looked excited before proudly stating “The International Agreement for Supernatural Rights and Regulations.”

Avery nodded once before continuing. “That’s right. Signed and ratified by One-Hundred and Twenty-Nine countries since it’s original creation in nineteen-eighteen, after a six-month negotiation period with myself and a panel of supernatural creatures and world leaders on one side, and human Commander Matthew Largo of Spain, along with numerous human world leaders on the other. I swear, I may have been around longer than most of your great-great grandparents, but those were the longest six months of my life.” A laugh rippled through the auditorium, and Avery loosened up a little, smiling, and letting his wings relax, fanning out behind him. “IASSR was in direct response to the events of the Great War, which we all know was started due to the kidnapping, imprisonment and assassination of the heir to France, while he was visiting Spain. As an Incubus, he was not recognized by Spain as any form of royalty or even having rights, which led to the events as they were. The war escalated quickly and turned bloody, with the supernatural support behind France. Russia, with it’s large human population and supernatural lower class became the main force in this war, during which time many supernaturals were killed or fled to countries such as Germany, the United States, and the UK.” Avery paused for breath, stopping there. “After the war, we gathered the world leaders, and decided to make an internationally recognized treaty which universalized every being’s rights.” (AN: Think veeerrrrryyy complicated Geneva Convention) “That way, such events would never happen again. Unfortunately, as we all know, Hitler, the first human leader of Germany in almost a century, broke this treaty, inciting World War Two with his crusade against supernatural beings.” Avery looked around, taking a second to gather his thoughts. “I guess that’s enough history, now, on to the political stuff.” Avery really wanted to go home now. Why do I ever agree to this? “IASSR is the reason the Centre, the foremost supernatural health facility in the world, exists. When the treaty was first signed and ratified, slavery rings had formed, and many supernaturals were being kept in prison camps and some were even used to clean up toxic material from experimental weapons testing. Others still were subject to said weapons testing. There were thousands who did not survive, but we needed a place to heal them so they could have a chance at a life. Thus, the Centre was born.” Pause for dramatic effect. Avery thought, with an inward smile. “Now, with both wars in our past, we are in a relatively peaceful time although we still have our issues. There is a supernatural slave trade going strong in Madrid, and Russia, while being officially compliant, turns a blind eye to companies that force their workers into unsafe conditions. Due to those being considered non-compliant acts under the IASSR, The Centre and organizations like it have the right to interfere. Of course, in countries such as Spain, once we step foot in their boarders, it’s their game. That is why we have the Runners, a team of shapeshifters, healers and other supernaturals, who work within the boarders of countries such as Spain, under the guise of being human. Any supernatural brought to America under the care of an organization recognized as being of the Centre, is granted citizenship.” He looked off to the side of the stage, where Ladon sat. “We all have our part, and we do it well. And you never know, maybe one day you could join us.”
Avery left the stage to the sound of applause, and gladly left the campus. He could feel Ladon walking beside him, and groaned. “I am never doing that again.” He said, only to hear a huffed laugh of amusement from his friend.
“Yes you will. The next time a student asks, you will forget all about this until the next time you are up on stage. Wash, Rinse, Repeat, and you know it.”
Avery hit him on the arm, before they took flight, heading back to the Centre.

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Leo Backstory

---Fourteen Years Ago---


Ladon walked into the Miami Centre, only to be greeted by an enthusiastic tackle. “Hey Grumpyscales!” The deceptively tiny woman who was now currently climbing to sit on his shoulders, was known as Alice. Alice the Elf-Anemoi hybrid. Alice the annoying. Alice, the wife of ‘look-at-her-funny-and-die-painfully’ Sara Jane Lancaster, head of Miami Centre.
Ladon sighed, helping her get situated so she was sitting on his shoulders properly. “It’s nice to see you Alice. I got a call about needing help with a fire drake brood?” Ladon, while pretty vulnerable in human form, was fireproof as a dragon. Making him a very good choice for dealing with a half-dozen abandoned fire drake hatchlings, too young to control their fire.

Alice put a hand on his head before using it off Ladon’s shoulders. “Right this way!” She chirped as she landed, having done a perfect double flip. Ladon shook his head. Her elf mother had been an acrobat, and had been extremely petite, something Alice had inherited, only coming to 4’11. The Anemoi genetics left her artificially light -the air supporting her every movement- allowing for her to pull some of the stunts she does.

The Miami Centre was considerably more modern in design than the Colorado Centre, with mirror glass walls and metal framework, the building designed in a circular fashion. At high tide the ocean was no more than six feet from the eastern side of the building. But what was remarkable is what they did there.

The Miami Centre is the sister Centre to the original, Colorado Centre. Their focus is on children, the pediatric branch of the Centre, in essence. They double as social workers as well, working with the local DHS to help orphaned or otherwise displaced supernatural children find homes.

“I hear you are licensed as a foster home now.” Ladon comments lightly. “You’d think with being affiliated with the runners they would prefer someone else.”

Alice laughed. “Why, when you guys keep all the dangerous ones with you? We are as safe as it gets. Not that we don’t have our bumps in the road.” She looked up at the ceiling. “Isn’t that right, Leo?”

A lion cub jumps out of one of the vents, pouncing straight for Ladon, claws out. Letting his scales grow over his human skin, giving him armor, Ladon caught the -shifter?- out of the air. Hissing and spitting, the cub claws at the dragon, trying to bite, but the scales are durable armor. Ladon holds the cub away from him. “Can I shift back now? Half shifts aren’t my favorite, they itch.” Honey gold eyes look up at him, and the cub goes limp.

Alice, who had been watching in amusement, takes the cub from Ladon, cradling him to her chest. “Leo here is four years old, and a Lion-Shifter/Shapeshifter/Incubus hybrid. Or, that’s what genetic tests told us. Really, all we know is his father was a lion shifter, because the orphanage had that on record. He was at a Russian orphanage, but they were having… issues controlling him. One of our social workers offered to take him back here, and they agreed. A mountain of paperwork later, we have this demon crawling around in our vents.”

Ladon couldn’t suppress a smile. “He’s certainly got the fighter’s spirit.” He held out a hand, to see what the cub would do.
Little claws drew blood as the cub swiped at his now-human hand. “Ow.” Ladon muttered, drawing his hand back as the cub hissed. “What does he have against me?”

Alice shook her head. “He is like that with everyone. We are trying to get him placed with parents durable enough to handle him, but no such luck.”

“That doesn’t explain why he lets you hold him” Ladon mutters, not meaning to be heard.

“Because the air protects me. I sat in a room and let him try to claw, bite, and pounce at me six ways to Sunday, and he has learned by now that it’s useless.” Alice replies.

Ladon stays quiet as he absorbs this.

----

After dealing with the drake hatchlings, and spending some time being intimidated by Sara, Ladon was more than ready to go home. He was just getting ready when he noticed a small, ginger-blonde boy with very familiar eyes sitting by the door. It was summer in Miami, so it was incredibly hot out, and the kid was in swimming shorts, like he was going to go swimming and got lost. None of that would usually made Ladon pause- if the kid was outside looking lost, sure, but he was within the safety of the Centre. No it was something else.

He could see a marking, a white dragon tattooing the boy’s shoulder. A ward’s symbol. Ladon froze. No, no, no, no, no….

Alice walked around the corner, seeing the marking and the look on Ladon’s face. “Well, congrats Ladon. You’re a dad again.”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no……

(Note: Ladon’s species can’t have kids, but occasionally if they come in contact with a kid who needs protecting, their magic will sort of… choose them. If the dragon does not in turn claim the kid as their own, the kid will live at most two more years before dying. The ward marking is considered a badge of honor, because messing with such a kid is a good way to earn the ire of a dragon. Ladon has had a grand total of sixteen wards in his lifetime.)


---Six Years ago---


“Dad, let me go with them.”

“No.”

“I’ve been training with all of the Runners since I was nine.”

“I still regret that.”

“You need me.”

“We are perfectly capable of handling this mission ourselves. For god’s sake Leo, you are fourteen.”

“And we are after child traffickers, Dad-”

“No.”

“-and your mission plan is pose as a seller-“

“Exactly, you know we have a plan-“

“Dad, let me say my piece.” A huff of air then silence. “It will be suspicious if you approach looking to sell without merchandise. I know I am on the older side for them, but I have perfected age-shifts, you know this. If they suspect you are a Runner, they will shoot, and I know that is why you don’t want me anywhere near this, but you are only bulletproof in your full form, and that shift isn’t instantaneous. Letting me come could be the difference between a mission that runs smooth, and you having even more lead in you. We need to get them to tell us where the kids are being held, and I really don’t want to make athair* use his powers like that again. If I go with, you can use my ward symbol to track me.”

“I don’t like it.” But the sound of defeat in Ladon’s voice spelled the beginning of Leo’s first mission.

(* Old Irish for Dad, referring to Avery)

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A Note on Apprenticeships -Set in Steve's year at the Miami Centre

"I just don't get what all the fuss is about." Steve said, shaking his head in confusion, contacts making his eyes an eerie raspberry pink as he looked over at Sara Jane. "Why is there so much weight put on official apprenticeships?" The fifteen year old was practicing seeing across continents- Alice was in New Zealand visiting a friend, and Steve was working in tracking her movements, fine-tuning his ability to locate who he is looking for.

Sara Jane sighed, taking a deep breath. "I don't expect you to get it... a lot of the younger generations don't. Back when, a person would stake their entire reputation on a apprenticeship, it was something not being took lightly. Any success or more importantly, failure, reflected on the teacher, which is why apprenticeship seals were created." Essentially, an apprenticeship mark was a signature, telling everyone who cared to look who was responsible for the skills of the student.

"You mean the mark on your shoulder." Steve said, still curious. A sword and a crossbow, wrapped in chains. Whenever he thought about it, an image of a Scottish-looking archer, along with the name Aiofe came to mind, with the mark itself indicating training in archery and swordplay.

"Yes, I have a seal of apprenticeship. Mine is colored in red to show a successful apprenticeship. Were it a clear outline, I would still be in training, and if it were colored silver, I would have surpassed my teacher. A black mark is a cruel thing that means that the teacher has deemed you hopeless, and a mark can be rescinded." Sara Jane shook her head. "An apprenticeship has no time limit, a person can be an apprentice for centuries, with the teacher obligated to teach them all the tricks they determined under the initial agreement." She tapped her fingers across the sword belt she wore, even though the sword itself was locked in her room, away from children's grabby fingers. "It took a year of an unofficial apprenticeship before Aiofe agreed to make me her official apprentice, and the apprenticeship itself went on for almost thirty years before she deemed it complete. We went our separate ways, but I can honestly say I could not have found a better teacher. This mark has gotten me several jobs and even more respect." Sara Jane paused, thinking. "Some people prefer not to do formal apprenticeships, because they think that their successes will no longer be theirs, but there are some things that can't be taught without being marked as an apprentice. Would you give away everything you worked so hard to learn and get no credit for it? Most people wouldn't."

Sara Jane shook her head. "The way it works, is basically if I participated in an archery tournament, and didn't place, people would be able to say Aiofe was losing her touch, and if I was ranked first, I would get both credit as a good student and Aiofe would get congratulations for recognizing and developing my talent. Whereas if I had not been under a full apprenticeship, Aiofe would not have trained me as well, and I may not have been able to enter the competition at all without proving I was trained- that aspect is important for healers- and while I was trained, it would be like buying an unsigned Monet- a gamble at best."

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Seconcruise

Welcome, welcome!
Ecstatic greetings seem to be thrown at you from every corner of this labirynth, on so many tones and voices that it all blends together into one single beckoning call. Painted in an earthly red, the skyline shines under the blind white sun; And the marketplace is pulsing, pulsing like a beating heart.
Watch your back, keep your eyes wide and up; Look around. You're lucky to be roaming these streets.

Almost cubical and almost the same, houses of burnt clay beam red and white and blue, showing off the masterful craft of their keepers as they guard each side of the road like a wall, protector and captor. Bards of all kins pounce at the bystanders from the miniscule crevaces than split the buildings apart, from behind stands of silkmongers and weavers, attacking the air with their flutes and mandolins, uplifting themselves with lying praises before beggining to recite the odes left by their forefathers when they left their craft and their life behind; And follow their victims for miles across the sacred mart in hopes for a nickle and a drink.

Scoffing at the shameless trubadours, towering silhouettes draped in dark colored velvet pass by with the pace of dignity, waving their staffs and wands at each other in enunciation as they chat in voices like shattered glass about the newest alembics and cauldrons and stopping every once in a while to bargain on anything from feathers to colorful pebbles. Trailing behind come a few young Casters; their wrists are branded with various apprenticeship signs and they exchange spiteful glances from behind the countless satchels they're burdened with, but they are bound to remain silent by their mentors.

Werewolves covered in scars stand in the blessed shade of houses, waiting to trade their workforce on hunting trips and other various favors. Across the street, shooting poisoned darts of glances at their competition the wolves, halflings, elves and harpies waiting to be hired for adventures long and short across unexplored mountains and uncharted lands, ready to fight legions of orcs or trick dragons in their ancient halls for payment and excitement.

You can find anything in Seconcruise in fact, if only you have enough money.

The back alleys of the marketplace host workers in the oldest trade known: just barely protected from the sun by their clothing, vampires strut around the entrances to their lairs awaiting clients; not too far away, their brethrens, who chose dignity and safety to lead their lives, dwell in bookstores and libraries all day, among dusty shelves and beams of candlelight. They're good friends and partners with the alchemists, who left their dream of crafting the Phylosopher's Stone behind and picked up their tools to make masterful brews for all to enjoy. You would never guess who inspired that change of heart.

Humans. After milennia of strictly letting supernaturals in, Seconcruise is now home to an adorable little colony of humans who brought about their more comfortable, more practical and much more modern clothes and habits, taking the market of old centuries further. Now you barely see anyone apart from the oldest of elders speak over-sophisticatedly, dress heavily and not constantly crack slang jokes in public. And somehow, despite that, Seconcruise is still the same at heart. Endless, much like time itself, and harmonizing old and new, it is more than just a market: For many, it is home.

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In a Life of Hundreds of Years

-----------------------

Never before did the son of Earl Richard Blackledge come to regret a decision quite as much as spending his free hour beyond the walls of his lovely Eden of a garden that day. He had heard a bunch of peasant kids talking about the ancient cemetery that lay not too far from the manor, on a hill shielded by the forest, and was eversince plotting to sneak out and go see it himself. With his father away and butler distracted, the young master took the boor approach to the situation and leapt over the walls ocking him inside, soon enough stumbling across the promised land he sought to claim.

Being it the time of afternoon, the sun gandered back at the world as it so selflessly let place to the phantom of a moon. The woods were kindled with their own beauty and the twisted play of the shadows; Who knows, maybe those were the spectres of people long gone, dancing to the trill of a lone nightinghale. These wonders astonished the boy out of his mind, so much so that he forgot he was in fact standing in the middle of a burial place, surrounded by headstones and marble angels veiled in moss and ancient weeds... Until one of the angels moved.

And thus, the young lord came to regret breaking the sleep of the dead. He stumbled over his own feet backing off, firmly convinced that the statue had been granted soul to smite him for daring to intervene in the dance of death whike he still drew breath; Furthermore, he almost lost conscience when a silhouette broke from the block of marble and ushered him, "Stay!"

As friendly as a horrified soul could make himself appear, the 'angel' - a Caster, aimlessly rowing thriugh life - padded to the collapsed human, bowing with extreme care and reaching his hand out just as cautiously. To his surprise, the other accepted his help; back on his feet, the two were on equal level to stare at each other in awe and disbelief.

They were one and the same.

The Caster let go of his lookalike's hand, piercing gaze fixed into the other pair of eyes that gave the very same stare. Words practically flowed out his mouth with too little thought, a question he had always thought was adressed by the universe to him, "What's your name?"

And with the same lack of thought, the same impulse reigning, the other replied.

"Andrea."

------------------------

Weeks passed. Might have been months; but who keeps count of the times their life takes a turn for the good?
Summer was beggining to fade, but the breeze was still soft like a feather duster to the face and sweetly lukewarm. As every day, the human Andrea let his legs lead him to the cemetery, so used to the routine that he oftenly found himself not even realizing where he was headed before the destination was in clear sight.
He threw a glance around, more for appearances than actual caution - he knew that his trusty servant was on the lookout-, and then called out with a short whistle. A noble-looking man in a velvet suit pounced from behind the monuments, unusually agile for a person his size and age.
"Philip..." the Earl's son scoffed in a scolding manner, pursing his lips at the grotesquely deformed sight. He was completely and utterly unamused, rendering his friend's little mischief-making a failure.
"Ah, don't you judge me!" the Caster scoffed back, shifting back into his true self in the blink of an eye. "I grew famished waiting for you, and this man gets a pass everywhere even when he doesn't carry his money around. Swine. I taught him a lesson..."
In a patient sigh from Andrea, the two sat on the raspy grass with the very same motion.

However similar the shells of the two young men were, their spirits were pole opposites. The Caster was a mutineer down to every cell in his body, restless to prove himself, to punish, to set things right through fire and steel. Meanwhile, the human kept silent and reserved, wise, observant, spoke in a voice like honey and had a smile... What a smile. Everyone melted, becoming like clay in Andrea's hands, to be molded at his will; testament to that, he had managed to reconcile the rebelled Caster with the name his parents gave him.

"Philip, Philip... What are we ever going to do? " the noble chanted almost every time they met, not expecting an answer; although the answer did come at times: "I'll figure it all out. I'll get us out of here: you, and me, and Thomas too..." Philip blinked, pausing to think of that part of the promise." I know how fond you are of Thomas."

Thomas was the house butler; but more importantly, he was Andrea's dear friend. So hearing his friend being included, the Earl's son nodded, and returned to his smiles and his careless thoughts.

------------------------

Autumn set with the golden sun over the ridge of of a hill so steep, it captured all the light and bathed in it while the valley below, small and insignificant, drowned in shadow. And almost as if to further anger the defeated glen, a willow tree ostentatiously throned on the heights all alone; that was the new meeting spot that Andrea had chosen, after the graveyard proved to be risking exposure too much despite all of Thomas' efforts to cover up for them.

Philip hurried up the mound, more or less scaling it with the help of both his hands and legs, only stopping to catch his breath when the willowtree was in sight. Yet something was off.
Instead of his Andrea, a dark towering silhouette stood under the rustle of leaves like a nimb of black fire, and stared at the Caster. Thomas. That gander shook the young man to his core, panic making his mind foggy - Why was he here? Where was Andrea?

"Thomas?..." the Caster dared, the weight of dark thoughts slowly welling up in his chest. Without a word, the noble's servant stepped aside in a wide, revealing motion. The Caster's eyes shot open.
The body of his lookalike just... Lay there. Unmoving. Resting on a bed of silky green grass stained crimson, shirt ripped open by crude hands exposing the word 'SINFUL' carved into the porcelain skin of his chest, and his once beautiful face so violently bare.

He couldn't believe it. It couldn't be real; out of anyone in the world, for it to be Andrea that lay dead; and for his servant to be there and to do nothing to cover him and keep his dignity- So the only explanation he could think if was that... Impossible. The first impulse that crossed Philip's mind was to let the fire in his veins get the better of him; he charged at the dark man in blind rage, clenched fists aiming to crush bones, to pound the man's head in and watch him die in violent spasms - But it turned out he was venturing against a worthy oponent.
The butler easily caught the Caster's wrists as they were sent flying in charge, iron grip disarmimg Philip immediately; so suddenly, he didn't even realize he was being brutally slammed onto the ground and joining Andrea. The crushing impact cut his breath, made his whole being contract and trembme from the moment of bone-shatrering pain. He couldn't understand. The man that had just put him down was supposed to be a friend, an accomplice to their secret; instead, he showed not a shred of emotion for his dead master, and not a shard if regret for putting him without a word.

"Now that you're calmed down," Thomas mocked, very practical in his tone, "I would appreciate it if you could pull yourself together."
He had plenty of reasons to appreciate Philip managing to get over himself through whatever miracle; but no such miracle made an appearance, and as the last remnants of shock brushed by, a cascade of bitter tears followed. Writhing on the ground like a worm, stumbling in his own contradicting flood of emotions and thoughts, desperately clinging on to the lifeless carcass, the Caster provided an enjoyable spectacle. "Why... Why did you do this?" spoke the defeated blonde in a fateful end, eyeying his foe with a wild ruthless stare; that seemed to amuse said foe, even if all he displayed was a sour grimace. "What makes you think I was the one who did it? It could've been literally anyone on this Earth."

The shadowy figure kneeled slowly, staring Philip dead in the eye. He wasn't much taller, but simply through presence he dominated from somewhere far above, like an ibelisk of jet black marble. "Besides, it couldn't have been me. And do you know why? Do you?"

'Because it was you.' concluded at the same time both Philip's subconcious and Thomas' voice. In fact, everything that this man said was a perfect reflection of the words woven into the Caster's brain, mocking. "Yes yes. You. It's all your fault. You see what he's been branded as because of you? Unclean. Unnacceptable." Thomas laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised if whoever killed him actually aimed for you, I mean- Think about it. For one second put your mind to work: No honest job, no past, no home, renegated by your family..."
Blood red pasted over Philip's vision, drenching the ground, draping him and drowning Thomas.
"Stop it- Shut up! Shut up!" he half growled, half lamented, trying to keep himself composed, to swallow down his tears and keep what little dignity he had left. But that wasn't the day for him to receive mercy.
"...No belief, a beggar covered in filth... And a man, to top it all off!" Thomas finished in a beam of cruel victory. Success. His victim set aside all reason, burying his tear-crossed face in the cold body he cradled, so pained. "Admit it. Do you admit it?"

He admitted, just couldn't let his words break free. Yes, he admitted, he believed in every single word, every single deed that this shadow accused him of as if it was holy word - Because that's precisely what it was. The holy word of his conscience streaming from another creature's mouth, and in a voice so ordinary yet so hypnotic, that it was impossible not to trust. And he would've done anything to set things right, to be absolved of the crushing blame.

"I'm here to help you, you know. Here to assist you in whichever way you chose to suffer to have your sins wiped clean... Just tell me what to do." the Caligo purred, falling into the role of obedient servant all of a sudden, still weaving his prey in dangerous words that would eventually end up suffocating the Caster.

" Thomas..." Philip gulped. "To the world, Andrea is alive. And he returns to his family... Philip never existed."

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