Cross - Main Plot

[Jack Cross]

Jack Cross exited the cathedral atop Ludgate hill, clad in a cassock, hands loose at his sides. He had just spoken at length with the Bishop therein, and was currently on his way to look about the city and see what he could do about the problems he had been hearing about. Cross hailed from America, and was the United States' foremost expert on witch removal.

The United States Wizarding Bureau, understandably, wanted very badly to capture him. Unfortunately they were not terribly good at it, and had informed their friends in the Ministry of Magic of their predicament, because they had heard through the grape vine that Cross may or may not be headed towards the British Isles.

As it stood, he looked very much like a priest. This was mostly due to him magicking the bejeepers out of a clergyman in order to secure himself proper vestments for his crusade. It worked fairly well, considering his state of dress, and the way he had been received by the Bishop. Though the magic had helped that, too.

Really, he was very appropriately skilled with it, he had realized quite some time ago, when removing a few witches in New York. He had supposed the abyss also looked back into him, which was why he was on his guard so much, keeping his eyes peeled. He had taken great care in his traveling of the Atlantic, going under his false name--which he had informed the Bishop of, and he supposed was now his clergy name, and he was getting used to it once more--and had arrived in Cardiff Docks a few days ago, and had trekked to London in order to continue his crusade. A reconquista, so to speak, he considered, with a smile, walking down the street.

[Arnold Aquila]

Arnold Aquila walked through the streets of London with his hands in the pockets of his pinstriped slacks. He held his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, trying to disregard the August heat as best he could. He wandered to clear his head before he went off to work, ready for yet another day of lovely bureaucracy in the Ministry. He yawned widely, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he walked and closing his eyes for just a moment. He was drawn from his yawn when he walked into someone, dropping his coat and being thrown off balance. He caught himself quickly and looked to see who he had walked into, frowning. As his eyes registered a cassock clad gentleman, he cursed inwardly. He brushed his shoulder off and picked up his suit jacket, dusting that off as well.
"I'm sorry, my good man, I wasn't looking where I was going, you quite alright, father?" He asked of the priest.

[Jack Cross]

Cross was considering deeply his surroundings when he saw a besuited man approaching. As such, he briefly considered, as most men do, who would relent their paths first.

A bump and dropped suit jacket later, Cross discovered neither. Of course.

"Quite alright, of course," Cross replied. He had incurred much more bodily harm from much worse types than this man. He smiled a little, encouragingly. His voice was very obviously accented, American, specifically midwestern, though his language seemed quite more polished than that of the archetypal American which no doubt tended to run into others in London.

"I trust you are alright as well?" Cross inquired, thankfully being of sound enough mind not to let such a minute bump tip the scales of his mood. Unlike some of those types he had encountered. He continued, "forgive me if I speak too forwardly, but I don't suspect you ran into me because you harbor an intense resentment of the clergy?"

[Arnold Aquila]

Arnold returned the man of the cloth's smile and nodded. "Good to hear, father." He noted the man's American accent, and slung his jacket over his shoulder once more, his inquisitive nature briefly demanding he ask the priest of his origins.
"All is well on my end, though I imagine if any harm came my way I'd deserve it for negligence," he replied, chuckling and rubbing the back of his head. When the priest asked him if he had more or less just performed a hate crime, Aquila couldn't help but laugh.
"Certainly not, father, I'm originally from Rome, I have nothing but respect the clergy, I was simply a tad preoccupied with a yawn, is all, which again I apologize for. If you'll forgive me for my own bluntness, may I inquire as to where you hail from, father? I've not seen you around the streets of London, and I've got a bit of an eye for faces, you'll find," He said, tapping the darker of his two eyes.

[Jack Cross]

"Of course, all is forgiven," Cross said, making the sign cruciform before him, with a genteel smile. He was quite able to conduct himself with dignity around the people.

"I hail from the American side of the pond," said Cross, "I didn't realize my accent would be so blatant, I confess. I'm here as a favor to my parish, and that of the Bishop for the time being." That was true, though that was only due to him making it so when visiting the Bishop. In truth his native parish would likely not admit to him being a member of it.

Cross was not terribly bothered by this.

"Though I had half a mind to visit Rome, at some point, I fear my mission will not let me leave England in the immediate future," he said, with enough truth in the statement to warrant it a much more direct statement of intent than most of what he had been saying this day.

[Arnold Aquila]

"I appreciate it, father," Arnold said, mimicking the priest's actions and smiling sadly as he crossed himself, something he hadn't done since his wife's funeral.

He nodded, his beliefs confirmed, the priest was in fact an American. He withdrew a silver pocket watch from his right pocket and looked at it. Deciding he had all the time in the world, he closed the watch and replaced it in his pocket.

"Rome's a beautiful place, though, I would heartily recommend it, especially to a man of the cloth. I'm willing to bet you could get there relatively easy, given your status, as well. Forgive me for asking, but you mentioned a mission. Is there a heathen problem in our lovely city?" Arnold asked jokingly, laughing.

"Oh, how rude of me, father, I never introduced myself!" He said, frowning, "My name is Arnold. Arnold Aquila, at your service," he added, holding out his hand.

[Jack Cross]

Cross nodded amicably, keeping the smile on his face, though he noted the slightly more somber expression of the suite-clad man before him.

"In London? No, of course not," Cross said, leaving the actual answer, which was decidedly an 'I don't know' to himself. He wasn't fain to bring that up in casual company, even if they were good Christian men like he seemed. He did think he could get into Vatican City rather easily, though that might require a bit more effort than his journey into England had.

"John Tomlinson," replied Cross, which was what he had originally be known as, prior to his holy rebirth, "Father John Tomlinson." Cross was not a name he used amongst the herd, at least not yet. He would once he was able to shed the veil, but for now he must retain his sheep's clothing in favor of the good of himself and others.

[Arnold Aquila]

Aquila nodded. "Well," he said, "that's good to hear, London's a good city, it'd be a damn shame for it to be populated with bad people."

He grasped the man's hand firmly and shook it, smiling. "It's a pleasure, Father Tomlinson," he said.

As a breeze rolled by, Aquila shivered and shrugged, re-donning his pinstriped suit jacket, rubbing his shoulders and correcting his tie. He patted the right side of his jacket, confirming that his wand was still in place, and, upon adjusting it slightly in the guise of brushing lint off of his jacket, he withdrew a pair of sunglasses from the left side of his jacket. Placing them on his face, he shrugged once more, the coattails flapping as his broad shoulders rolled.

"Forgive me, Father Tomlinson, but I find my right eye to be a bit overly sensitive to light, and the shop and car windows tend to glare a bit at this hour of the day," he said, grimacing.

[Jack Cross]

"London's no more infested than any other urban environs," Cross said, shaking Aquila's hand firmly. He had a strong grip. It was preferable in this case that his grip wasn't in a more vitally important place as he usually did whence gripping wizards bodily.

"The same to you, Arnold Aquila. Do forgive my intrusion into your city, I cannot help but tread where the Lord sends me," he said, smiling in a 'what can one do' sort of manner, "it is the way of the cloth."

Cross--or rather, Father Tomlinson--seemed wholly unaffected mentally by the crosswind. His cassock showed noticeable result, but his person didn't seem phased in the least.

"Of course. I'm quite glad to hear that you've still use of the eye; with scars like that I would imagine someone very much did not want you to have the service of both your eyes," Cross said, rather frankly, considering he had been naturally uninformed of the circumstances surrounding Aquila's injury.

[Arnold Aquila]

Aquila noticed the priest had a firm grip, something he was unaccustomed to from priests, he was quite used to them being meek and unassuming.

"I can hardly fault you for something beyond your control, father, and I would go so far as to say as long as you're here, London is your city too. It's a breath of fresh air to have a fine gentleman such as yourself in the city, as well," he said, returning the priest's smile.

He pushed up his sunglasses with his right hand and rubbed his eye and the scars that adorned his brow and nose.

"You and me both, father," Aquila began, "though the only real person to blame for my eye being in such a state would have to be myself, I'm ashamed to say. Falconry accident, you see, I tried biting off a bit more than I could chew and an eagle decided I would make a better meal than the incentive I had to offer, and decided to try clawing my eyes out. Lucky for me, he only reached the one before my uncle could remove him from my person," he finished, briefly considering removing his gloves and showing him some of the worse scars that marked his hands and left arm.

[Scot Sola]

"Is that what happened?" asked Scot Sola, approaching the priest and an Auror he knew from the office. He was chewing on a toothpick, and had his hands in his pockets. His height was in between the two gentlemen he approached, whereas his stature was much larger, having nearly six stone on the Auror and priest--a priest who he thoroughly did not recognize.

"I was wondering where you'd gotten that fancy look o' yours," Scot said, accent thick as ever. He turned to the priest and gave an exaggerated bow, accompanied by a wave of the hand so as to signify proper respect for the cloth.

"You'll forgive me for intrudin', won't you, father? I work with Arnold here," he said, straightening his spine.

Scot did very technically work in the Auror Office, but he much more specifically was in training, for the next three years. Two years and nine months, rather, which Scot would quickly correct, lest he be thought the new guy in town.

[Arnold Aquila]

Aquila turned to look at the vehemently Irish Auror-in-training.

"Sure is, Sola, though I must say it's far less dramatic than some of the stories you must have heard around the office," he replied dispassionately, raising the sunglasses to fix Scot with a two toned, quizzical look.

"What, pray tell, brings you around here?" The taller Auror asked, dropping the glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and favoring the young apprentice with a raised brow.

Upon Scot's mention of them being coworkers, Aquila nodded.

"Yes," he said, "Mister Sola here is among the number that make up our place of business, though he is relatively new, I'm sure in another seventeen or so years he will be quite like the grizzled veteran you see standing before you now, provided he can last that long in our line of work, though I've nothing but faith in the lad," he finished.

[Jack Cross]

"It's nice to meet you, young man," said Cross, his diplomatic persona showing through, despite his underlying ideology, which would very likely later forbid him from intellectual discourse with Misters Aquila and Sola. But for now he was not offended by playing the clergyman that they seemed rather willing to put their faith in.

"Christ tends to forgive, and as I follow His teachings, so do I, Mister Sola," Cross said, after shaking the hand of the vehement Irishman. "But you need no forgiveness, this street is no more mine than it is your own, especially if you work here; you've no doubt spent more in these streets than I. I am from across the pond, after all."

"Wherabouts do you gentleman work?" Cross asked, conversationally, since he had clearly been entrenched in conversation with two natives--though they were very clearly also not English, and likely would take offense to being assumed as such, they were variously from an English isle and the Continent from the sounds of it and would indeed be more familiar with the lay of the land. It could do him no harm to learn more of the area from a few men who worked there; his search for heresy would be eased by any and all information.

[Scot Sola]

Scot nodded at Aquila and glanced at the priest, then smirked a little at the elder Auror. "The things I've heard 'round the office are usually less fun, a couple of the less skilled employees seem to believe you have a penchant for tripping through windows," he said, and shrugged. "I was just wanderin' on through, actually, on my way to the office. What about yourself?"

"Why thank you, father. I'm glad you and I agree on what the Lord sayeth," he said, though he likely presumed himself to be of greater knowledge of such heavenly measures than even a man of the cloth.

"We work in the government, as a matter of strict fact," Scot said to the priest after shaking his hand. "Detectives, as a matter of fact. I'm the fuckin' new guy, if you'll pardon my French, so Aquila here sees fit to patronize me, asks me to get coffee, that sort of crap," he said, only mildly cleaning up his vulgate for the priest. He hadn't let up on his accent, however, understanding be damned.

[Arnold Aquila]

Aquila returned the young trainee's smirk. "Well, I've certainly found my way into and out of building via window before, though those are hardly sharp when you've a hungry, angry eagle's talons for comparison, I must say," he replied. Upon hearing the machismo trainee's reason for crossing paths with him, he nodded knowingly.

"I was on my way to the office as well, until I so boorishly walked into the good father here. I've an appointment with Ochoa, as a matter of fact," he said, "but I'm running early, and everybody knows that running fashionably late is the stylish thing as of this day and age."

Aquila couldn't help but chuckle at Scot's obvious disdain of being the new kid on the block.

"Detectives we are, and detect we do," he began with a chuckle, "and young Sola here seems to forget that the proclaimed 'Dark Lord' of the office would delegate anything to anybody, as is the lovely perk when you're among the most veteran on an already small force."