The Tomb of Neferkaptah, Egypt

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

Date: 3rd-4th November, 2008
Tag(s): Warren Sorrow, Lucy Bishop

Childhood memories had a curious way of dredging themselves up from the depths of some long-neglected corner of the brain at an astonishingly appropriate and unwelcome moment. Currently, Bea McCann could hear the strident voice of her Aunt Cathy admonishing her from yesteryear, saying ‘you shouldn’t leave things to the last minute girl’ and ‘hurry up, last tram Annie’. It really was rather vexing: but then again it could not be helped that she had misplaced her magnifying glass. Yes, she knew how silly it was to insist on taking your own possession when such a thoroughly mundane item could easily be acquired from any number of sources within the HQ building. It was childish, but Miss McCann had had that particular piece of standard equipment since long before she arrived here, and she was dreadfully insistent that it was lucky – and with field work one generally needed all the luck that could be accumulated.

However, she’d have to do without it if she couldn’t find that damn thing.

It was as Bea rifled through one of her drawers that a single knock sounded upon her door, breaking the comfortable silence of the small hours with all the force of cannon-fire and startling her. After an almost indiscernible pause this opening salvo was followed by a veritable trill of solid notes as whoever was on the other side decided that the wood was an impromptu drumming surface. She glanced at the alarm clock just as its vibrant digital display flickered to read 4:07 am, and rolled her eyes. Three guesses wouldn’t be needed to ascertain who the source of the rat-a-tat-tat was, and that rhythm didn’t seem to be coming any closer to ceasing. The brief few steps to the door were taken quickly – the speed wholly down to the fact that someone would sooner or later be roused and attempt to belt her partner round the head - and with a deft twist of the handle she wrenched it open. The assumption of a few seconds before had been well-founded, as what she came face to face with was indeed Warren Sorrow, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on his face and a fist poised in the air as he registered the fact that the door was no longer within his range.

She didn’t even bother with a ‘hello’, or a ‘good morning’, or any other conceivable form of conventional pleasantry. Instead, she made the universal sign for quiet – the classic finger in front of the lips – and commented in a soft, slightly reprimanding observation, “Other people are sleeping Warren.”

“Give me two minutes.” Bea requested, confident that such a simple boon would be granted to her; however, this did not mean that she did not expect the witch doctor to find some small way to make a nuisance of himself in the intervening time. They might have only really met on and off during the years she had worked at the Bureau, but he was one of those people who was easy to remember (and that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that nearly everything he said was some sort of jest). Her feelings flickered between amusement and resignation as she returned to her previous occupation of fishing through the drawer that had been left open, head bent over it as she scoured its contents for what was surely the hundredth time. Her rucksack was lying in lonely splendour upon the neatly made bed, merely waiting for her final addition and then to be cinched closed.

Thread Inspiration Song: John Williams - Indiana Jones Main Theme

[WARREN SORROW]

Warren looked a little different then usual. He lacked his great coat, and his thick cotton trousers had been replaced with thinner, lighter tan ones, and his usual shirt replaced with the same style with a sturdier cloth, but still pushed up his forearms. But, like always, he had his signature hat. He had a black bullwhip hanging from his belt on his left hip, a combat knife in a sheath at his lower back, and his revolver at his right hip. A small box, containing stacks of rounds, sat on his belt just behind his gun. The man simply stood in the door way for a few moments, adjusting his bags and their various straps. He had a simple suitcase in his right hand, brown with a thin white strip near one end, his doctor bag that hung at his left hip, with a strap over his shoulder made from one of his other belts, and an old world war two american rucksack with his supplies. He perused the inside of her room, taking notice of a practically full pack on the bed. "So... what exactly are you looking for?" He asked simply as he strolled into her room and sat down upon the edge of the bed, rummaging through her rucksack. "Shouldn't even be bringing this... women and their 'fashion'." he muttered as he placed her bag beside him and twiddled his thumbs, his suitcase kept in place between his feet. "Also, your clock is wrong. It's 5:07, not 4:07. So... ya might wanna hurry."

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

Bea couldn’t let a comment such as Warren disparaging of ‘fashion’ slide . . . especially considering the fact that it couldn’t touch the truth with a ten foot pole. The young woman glared at him over her shoulder for even daring to suggest such a thing as she pointed out, “There are books in there. Hieroglyphic codexes. Thing’s we’ll need.” – even though the justification would no doubt be lost on him. As she returned to her rummaging, her glance swept over the bookshelf, and a glint of metal caught her eye; a handle poking out that she had somehow managed to miss. “Right. Brilliant. Love it. Let's go.” she murmured triumphantly, pulling it free just as Warren dropped the bombshell that her timing was out and they were late. Needless to say, that came as a bit of a bolt from the blue for her, the bemused expression on her face speaking volumes as she paused to consider that new information. Thankfully the break in her movements lasted nothing above a second or two (no doubt it would only have vexed him further), as she hurriedly stuffed the magnifying glass into the top of the rucksack, swung it onto her back and proceeded to shoo him out. It took a minute for her to twirl the key in the lock, securing her room and then they could quite happily make their way to the garage.

The silence in the corridors was eerie, the padding of their soft footsteps echoing off the metallic walls and striking her ears as an oddly reflective symphony. Of course, with no-one around, and the fact that the worry caused by being late had made her stride forward with all the fervour of a sergeant major on parade. They reached the cool confines of the garage in next to no time, where the Alfa Romeo sat in splendour, all sleek lines and shining paintwork.

“Hey Indy, hurry up and open the car then.” She prompted, having looked him cursorily up-and-down, taking in the odd choice of attire. The ‘Indy’ comparison was nothing if not well-deserved – Warren had gone the whole hog, right down to the whip, and Bea couldn’t quite stop herself from indulging in a disbelieving shake of the head as she awaited the opening of the car.

As Warren undid the padlock (a padlock, really, as if someone would be stupid enough to take the Alfa!), Bea asked with studied innocence, “By the way, you do realise that this is a field mission and not a fancy dress party don’t you?”

[WARREN SORROW]

Warren slipped the locks into his left pocket, then went and opened the boot door and placed his luggage inside, taking Bea's pack and set it in next to the others. He smirked at the Indy comment and moved around the car to open the left hand door for Bea, "Just shut up and get in the car, Marion." he added the name at the end with an ever so slight chuckle. He left the door open for her and stepped around the car to his door, sliding in in one swift motion, shutting it behind him. He took the key from the breast pocket of his shirt, and started the car. A thunderous roar responded to the turn of the key, the engine growling like a Big Cat that was having an entirely shite day. "Oooh, that is the sexiest sound in the world." Parts of the dashboard let out a strange sound as state of the art gadgets revolved outwards. An analog clock, which said 4:19 an XM radio reciever, cigarette lighter of course, and a cd player/tape player.

"I mean, ya really just can't beat it." He said with a sigh, revving the engine slightly to add a little oomph. "Now. we have a flight to catch." he smiled wildly as he peeled out from his spot, whirling through the garage at mad speed and sending the car flying out of the ramp and onto the street. The radio played "Ride On Josephine" by George Thorogood as he produced one of his cigarette from the other breast pocket and flicked his thumb, a small flame jumping to life at the very tip. He lit the cigarette and shook the flame out and went back to steering, weaving in and out of traffic, speeding towards the airport. Purple smoke rolled out of his mouth as he spoke, "Want one?" he offered as he produced another and offered it to Bea, his eyes never leaving the road. The twenty minute trip was turning out to be a five minute trip, seeing as Warren didn't obey ANY of the traffic laws.

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

She hadn’t need to be told twice to get in, despite being cast as ‘Marion’ – something Bea chose to assume was intended as a compliment. She’d shut her door with a respectful delicacy whilst Warren placed their baggage in the boot. The dials and instruments whirred metallically as they emerged, the song swirling from the radio having to compete with the revs of the growling engine. The emergence of the various bits and pieces of modernity embedded within the car had captured her interest for a second or two, due to the contrast between them and the rest of Alfa’s meticulously preserved 1938 interior. And then Miss McCann had spied the clock, and more importantly: the time.

“Four Nineteen . . .” – Bea trailed off, the implication of Warren’s miniscule bending of the truth hitting her as the minutes slowly flicked past. “You lying little toerag.” She denounced with a flash of indignation; unfortunately this collided with his proffering of an odd cigarette, and it was difficult to glare at someone who was spewing purple smoke as they talked. The offer was declined with a simple, “Nah, you’re alright.” – and so Warren merely put it back in his pocket. They drove on in silence – on his part, Warren seemed caught up in the thrills of letting the Alfa loose, and she was content to listen to the music and watch the suburbs flash by at what to anyone else would have been an alarming rate. Several one-way streets, pedestrian crossings, T-junctions, and more red lights than you could shake a stick at later, the Alfa had hurtled its way through the crack-of-dawn Trenton traffic, Warren driving as though blissfully unaware of the regulations generally enforced on the roads. It was as they joined the main artery of the highway that he requested to use her phone once more. She pointed out that such an action, was, in a technical sense, ever-so-slightly illegal. The look she received in answer was worth a thousand words, and it was with a roll of the eyes and a muttered, “Fine.” that she handed the mobile over. He tapped the number in just as they had coasted into a little hiccup of a jam, had a very brief conversation that left her no wiser than before having heard his half of the abrupt exchange, and handed the phone back. The hold-up resolved itself, the barely-restrained revving of the engine changed into full-throttled roar of momentum, and they were pulling into the Trenton airport in next to no time. Naturally she’d been to this place before, but the greenery of the surroundings always surprised her - in a way Bea had never quite gotten used to the fact that the US could prove itself to be just as verdantly pleasant as home when it wanted to be.

Bea hadn’t expected them to just waltz through check-in, baggage drop-off, and security – all the routine hassles of air travel – but that was precisely what happened. They had dropped the car at one of the secure parking facilities (the young attendant had gazed upon the Alfa as though it was hallowed, and all his Christmases had come at once), grabbed the packs and gone. A flash of government IDs had allowed them to skip the usual protocols, avoid the main building entirely in fact, and head straight onto the tarmac. The plane itself was a bulky gunmetal-grey affair, and not at all what she had been expecting; the thick propellers and low-ground clearance giving the agent the beginnings of an inkling that there was something not-quite-right about this flight. There was a stumpy set of stairs waiting to admit them, and it was once she reached the top of these that her suspicions were confirmed. There was a small area that was relatively clear; a little breathing space for access between the cockpit and the cargo, with crates stacked neatly against the slightly curving sides.

And the cargo itself, well, it clucked.

“. . . Chickens?” Bea asked, surprise colouring her tone as she planted her pack on top of one of the crates of hen feed. The rest of the plane was filled with neat rows of cages, each housing a gently clucking chicken. An answer, an explanation, would have been nice. A warning would have been better.

[WARREN SORROW]

"Chickens." He confirmed simply, and even slightly ominously.

Warren first placed his ww2 pack next to Bea's, being very careful with it's contents. It contained everything he needed for his ace in the hole, if he needed it. Then sat his satchel, filled with all sorts of concoctions, potions, salves, and such, against the crate below it, and sat his suitcase onto the floor. It was soft enough to use as a cushion, luckily. They were gonna be in that flying tin can for quite a few hours.

He removed his hat and plopped it onto Bea's head, "Care for that with your life." he said with a bit of humour in his voice. He headed towards the cabin, opening the door and poking his head in. "Hey, Baruti! You in-.... You're not here." He ended his sentence in slight disappointment. He was hoping to find the South African soon, so they could depart. But luckily as Warren peaked out the front window, he spotted the man, waved, and sat into the pilots chair. Baruti had a shaved head, wore a tie-die shirt full of reds and blues, and cargo shorts, and wasn't wearing shoes. But then, that's pretty much all he wore, strangely enough. The biggest distinctions one could make about him though was, one, his blue eyes, two, his missing his pinkey and ring finger on his right hand. Warren had done that a few years back, much to his shame. Never get drunk and slighty high in a war zone, and that's the final word on that. And three, his size. He was only five foot even.

Baruti trotted over, slipping a bottled water into the large pocket on his right leg and hopped into the plane, smiling and offered a wave to Bea before heading to the cockpit. "What are you doing in my seat, Warren? We both know you can't fly. " He said in a thick accent, his big smile not leaving his face and threw his arms wide to hug the big voodoo enthusiast. "Yeah, yeah, I know Ruti. Just keepin' it warm for ya." He smirked and hugged the short african. "Ruti, the lovely female passenger back there is Bea, she's workin' with me on 'something'. So no funny business, got it? This ain't like Thailand, there will be no prank flying involved." He smirked again, and then they both chuckled heartily. "Just remember, she's with me." he leaned and whispered to the pilot, glancing back at the woman then leaned back to full height, winked and then clapped the man on the shoulders. "Now! Get us the FUCK OUTTA HERE! " he said excitedly and walked back to the cargo area. Baruti just laughed, putting a hand to his stomach. "Don't worry, i'll get you two there. Just don't have too much fun back there when i'm not looking. Dont' want the chickens to be disturbed when I sell them." He bellowed out a laugh and started up the flight prep.

Warren snagged his larger bag off the crate, placed it down on the floor gently, then sat down himself, his suitcase propped up against the crate. He opened the straps in the backpack, and removed a piece of wood from the largest pocket. It was about half a foot long, stripped of bark and was the strangest colour of tan mixed with moss green. Then, he reached in again and produced a thin, short item of some kind. It was wrapped in white satin and smelled of rum. He unwrapped it to reveal a small carving knife. The blade was short and curved outward, while the handle was made of the tip of an elephant tusk, and had strange symbols carved onto both sides. The young agent began his work, carving out strips of wood at his leasure.

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

The hat was rather unceremoniously dropped onto her head, the admonishment to look after it half-heard as Bea adjusted it so that she could actually see past the wide brim. By that time, Warren had wandered into the cockpit, with his jovial greeting for the pilot changing drastically in tone as he realised that the person he sought was not present. However, Baruti did appear in the following minutes; all smiles, loud clothing and a friendly wave in her direction that she returned before he entered his professional domain and hugged Warren. Whilst they caught up, she pulled out one large, yellowing map of Egypt. Whilst it was true that the exact location of the tomb of Neferkaptah was currently unknown, it couldn’t possibly hurt to brush up on knowledge of the general lay of the land in the area where it was suspected to be. That, and she had never possessed the innate, intuitive sense of direction that some others were gifted with: hence Beate-Maren always, always preferred to examine where she was going in order to compensate.

The conversation in the cockpit became momentarily hushed – surely not a good sign – and the Agent had to strain to catch the words, ‘Just remember, she's with me’. “Oi! I heard that!” Bea piped up jokingly as Warren glanced back at her in a poor attempt at being surreptitious - with him indeed! His ensuing enthusiasm to be off provoked a chuckle from Bea as she lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the cold metal floor, back to one of the crates, map unrolled and spread across her lap. However, her interest in the task at hand didn’t prevent her from glancing up as Warren settled himself down opposite and pulled out a lump of wood and a silk parcel that turned out to contain a knife. He used the strangely-decorated blade to methodically chip away at the wood, and Bea chose not to question it at that moment, though it was an undeniably intriguing occupation. The propellers rattled into life, and the engines followed suit, drowning out the staccato click-click sound of various switches being flicked from the cockpit. The chickens seemed riled by the sudden increase in noise, and their gentle clucking escalated as the plane lurched forward for takeoff, the roar of the engines hiking as the aeroplane made its first foray into the air.

Following the climb to cruising altitude, the birds settled and so did the people: for the first hour or so the only sound was the occasional rustle of paper, the soft rasp of wood shavings hitting the floor, and Baruti’s irregular hollered inquiries as to whether everything was okay. The deft movements of the knife against the wood caught her attention out of the corner of her eye frequently, and progressively the former ‘lump’ began to take on a definitive, though strange, shape.

“What on Earth are you doing?” she asked eventually, curiosity getting the better of her as she abandoned her focus on the map to regard Warren’s efforts with puzzlement.

[WARREN SORROW]

Warren had begun to quietly sing an old favourite of his, "Rapid Roy" by Jim Croce, and then stopped. Mid note, mid cut even and looked up at the woman. He blinked a few times, like he was internally debating something. He pursed his lips and everything, twitching them side to side then ungracefully got up. He didn't really use his hands, they were kind of full after all, then strolled over to Bea's side and sat right next to her on her left, shoulder against hers. "You remember... that job back in Albuquerque? You know, the thing with the arms and all the eyes? 'Bout the size of a fat mans tank? Now, do you remember the twenty foot cyclops that fought and killed it, and for some inexplicable reason, it disappeared and I passed out? I made that." He ended flatly, moving his face close to hers before retracting to proper posture, his eyes returning to the soon to become form in his hand.

It had been shaved down a few inches, in both height and width. "Hokay..." he sighed out as he flipped it to the presumed bottom and started cutting out large chunks. "I carve out the monsters from a blessed piece of a smiling Willow tree with a knife that has been touched by the Loa, then I can bring them to life, fully under my control. Every twitch of it's fingers to every snarl, all me." He went on to mutter "I've even used that technique to copy a prime minister once. Got bras banned for four days. Then everyone realized that the P.M. had been on vacation." he smiled at the old memories. "Back to the point, I bring it to life, it takes my life, we win the day, everyone goes home happy and then I get drunk. See? Happy." he said with a smirk, adjusting the hat to sit at the very end of the back of her head. Her small, small head. "There. Nothin' blockin' your map viewing." he siad softly and smiled warmly at the woman. The very beautiful woman.

'Knowin' my luck, one of us is gonna die by the end of this. Which just makes me hate this job.' he thought and his eyes sunk from warm and shiny to slightly sullen. He shook his head suddenly and then returned to carving, gently singing the tune from before, his head bopping along with it.

"He got a tattoo on his arm that say 'baby'
He got another one that just say 'hey'
And Sunday afternoon he is a dirt track demon
In a '57 Chevrolet"

[BEATE-MAREN McCANN]

Warren looked rather ungainly as he made his way over to her side of the hold, like a newborn calf attempting to find its legs – she half-expected the roll of the floor to unbalance him - settling himself down shoulder-to-shoulder with her, which was erring on the side of too-close to her mind but she let it slide. This impression was, however, merely confirmed when he leaned in – tone as perfunctory as could be - and she pulled back, because being bored into with such a stare was unusual to say the least. Of course, she remembered Albuquerque – it had been her first field assignment, and had been a complete ‘throw them in at the deep end and see if they can swim’ mission. At the time it was the most awful, mind-bending thing she had ever experienced; hence her gladness when the gaps between outside mission became longer and longer, her linguistic knowledge trumping any other abilities she might have been considered to possess. The memory had since then become a funny one, and it provoked a grin from her and a nostalgic haze to cloud her eyes. On the other hand, his explanation, while it answered her question, left more concerns in its wake than it dissipated – how else was the knowledge that he was, in effect, slowly killing himself doing this job supposed to affect her other than provoke worry?

While this feeling was becoming paramount in Bea’s mind, he adjusted the hat, which was an infinitely beneficial idea because its ill-fitting nature was irksome in the extreme. She had been on the verge of saying ‘thank you’ when Warren’s expression too changed from flippant to gloomy. “Cheer up” she admonished, noticing the sudden wave of change sweeping over his expression, “It can’t be that bad.” She qualified with a smile, hoping that her own brand of buoyant cheerfulness would produce a lightening of whatever it was that had soured his mood momentarily. It wasn’t necessarily her own merits that produced another change in his mood, but he did resume his singing, which she took as a good sign. Bea would’ve remarked that he had good taste in music, but this was rather redundant because the half-Siren appreciated at least some pieces in most genres. Songs her father sang were just that bit more nostalgic and therefore much easier to listen to no matter who delivered them. It almost prompted her to join in, almost – she had to consciously make an effort to cease the notes before they formed, though it would be entirely the Southerner’s fault if she had.

Bea managed to do a sterling job of presenting a facade of tranquillity during the remainder of the flight, keeping the fidgeting to a minimum; the occasional adjustment of sitting position, or when the map finally became ingrained on her eyes and gazing at it became tedious were all the movements she made. Warren’s little project took shape as the hours passed, becoming rather more hideous as time went on, and after a while her glances towards it to check on the progress ceased. Admittedly, they could have slept, but that didn’t happen; not for Bea because she was much too awake to even consider it, and it would have been (even by her standards) a tad embarrassing. So the time passed, and time-zones were crossed, something that would doubtless mess with their body clocks once it was given the chance. The chickens kept up their soft cooing clucks in the background – it would have been pleasant even, had the situation not been coloured with anticipation of what they were expected to accomplish once they arrived. Eventually, the long-awaited descent began, and as soon as the plane had hit the tarmac, she’d risen and stretched – spine cracking with a dull popping sound - taking the fedora and depositing it onto Warren’s head (where the accursed thing belonged) before gathering up her bag, clearly itching to be on the road. Baruti taxied the aircraft to one of the empty docking bays, and seemed much quicker at cycling through the post-flight shutdown than any commercial pilot, which Bea infinitely valued; she was certain that they made it longer for no real reason, apart from maybe the dreaded ‘health and safety’. He exited the cockpit and unlatched the door, ignoring her offer of help – because really, what would she know about such things – though there was more than a hint of amusement in his expression, doubtless at her expense and she perched on top of one of the crates, ready to leave. The steps were lowered, and the residual heat thankfully did not possess the force that the full glare of day would have done, which was something to be grateful for. The South African was on the receiving end of some appreciative recognition on her part, which he waved off good-naturedly as unnecessary by which time Warren too had regained terra firma and was doubtless looking to have a quick conversation with his friend before they left. The least she could do was give them the space necessary for that, and with that in mind the Agent made her solitary way to the entrance to the small terminal building, waiting for a few moments at the door to the arrivals hall (a laughable description, it was about the size of two good barns put together and housed everything most airports took triple the space to set out), before Warren noticed and waved her on; a prompting she took with as much enthusiasm as a child being told they were permitted to run ahead whilst on a family walk. The passport officer looked over her British documentation with distinct disinterest, the BPRD badge not being necessary in this instance, and then she was free to make her way out of the quiet, echoing hall and into the dust and slight humidity of the oncoming Egyptian night.

Their transport had already been pre-arranged by the Bureau (which meant it wouldn’t involve one of his contacts, which Bea considered a possible blessing), and was supposed to be immediately outside. The car that was waiting for them, complete with a smartly-suited and patently tired sales rep, was an old model Land Rover, with a drab paint job and a prominent spare tire in the middle of the bonnet. Warren might have wanted to drive, but she hadn’t bothered to ask, and with the cool keys being handed over to her by the middle-aged man it didn’t look as though there would be much chance to argue the fact. Bea had beamed at the poor rep, who returned the smile with an almost boyishly-toned shyness, fiddling with his tie as he returned to the comfort of the air-conditioned booth his company operated out of. The lock on the back of the car proved itself stiff, and a momentary frustration until Warren decided to take the matter in hand and undid it as easily as one would unwind a ball of string. Bea briefly considered thanking him for this act of helpfulness, but when she caught the satisfied smirk on his face she decided not to – instead taking the highly mature option of sticking her tongue out at him once her pack had been slid into the boot, and then taking the few small steps around to the driver’s door; opening it with a creak and shutting it with a slam. A turn of the key prompted a few splutters from the engine before it leapt into life, which had given Mr Sorrow plenty of time to store his own supplies and install himself in the passenger seat. A few revs, and they were on their way, hitting a road that was surprisingly well-kept, though there were a few gaping pot-holes to hold the interest. The reason they had not landed at one of the main airports had been a simple one: convenience. The flight might have been longer but the drive, in comparison, was more than halved, and within no time at all Bea had manoeuvred the vehicle into a handy parking spot in the square of the little hamlet where the intention was that the exact location of the tomb would be given to them.

“There’s absolutely no chance of you just staying in the car, is there?” Bea asked, despite the fact that it was utterly redundant to do so. Upon receiving the answer that was expected all along, she exited the Land Rover and took the few short steps across the cooling pavement to the rendezvous. The cafe was a dingy little hole in the wall affair, with a few huddled groups of men dotted at tiny tables sipping pitch-black tea or coffee and chatting away in hushed tones concerning their day. Their Arabic was peppered with slang words and contractions, but for the most part Bea could follow the gist of their sentences and this was really all that was needed, though that was not to say that it didn’t take concentration on her part. Their informant, once she spotted him, was a ratty-looking individual whose grey-threaded hair was slicked back wearing a nondescript pair of battered jeans, a Dunlop green shirt with the sleeves rolled up unevenly and a sour expression. Perhaps this should have been conducted elsewhere, in a place that wouldn’t have made the pair of them look so conspicuously mismatched – the academic nature of her speech didn’t help, and she would have sworn blind that she could feel the eyes of the room pivot upon them despite the fact that the bubbling talk never missed a beat. Warren, meanwhile, had ensconced himself at the bar, and she couldn’t rightly keep an eye on him when she was engaged in something this essential. He could, in theory, look after himself. The contact’s eyes kept shifting, and he refused to look her dead-on for any length of time – it was obvious that he’d never really done this before, and that nerves were getting the better of him in this regard. The sweat was beading on his brow, and his voice was tempered to a whisper which made his hoarse words even harder to follow – in fits and starts he hesitantly talked her through where she needed to drive to from here, and the study of the map came into its own with this new information. With a curt nod and some meaningless blessing-orientated pleasantry she left him be; and in the nick of time it seemed, because from what she could observe the bartender seeming to rapidly lose his rag with Warren, if the gestures and tone were anything to go by. Really, this should have been a cause of worry, but conversely all it did was produce laughter that needed to be hastily stifled in order for her to be capable of diffusing the situation. Upon reaching the bar Bea attempted to ascertain what had happened, and instead was treated a garbled tirade of swift Arabic, which was hard to catch but the general feeling she took from it was one of deep offence on the bartender’s part. A few seemingly-heartfelt apologies on Warren's behalf apparently did the trick though, nevertheless Warren (who was the picture of equally offended innocence) was treated to a dubious glance or two before the man left to make a round of clearing tables.

“So, I’m assuming you were attempting to order a drink?” Bea asked, sounding torn between being unimpressed and amused, “I dread to think where you learnt your Arabic.” She continued with a mock-despairing shake of the head, leaning on the bar, before (quite correctly, in her humble opinion) pointing out,

“We really should be going anyway.”

[LUCY BISHOP]

Lucy had been perusing the wares of an old female Selkie in a small Irish town when she first heard the news. The woman had been trapped long ago, but despite her pelt having been found, now she spent half her time below the sea and half above, selling items she found below the sea. Though the people of the town in which she lived certainly didn’t know that she could take the form of a Grey Seal. The old woman had mentioned off-handedly about news she’d heard from a traveling brujo, news about a book.

There was a list Lucy had received from her grandfather when she first began to travel the world with the help of her Keyring. A list containing powerful, magical items and objects whose positions were currently unknown, but that in the wrong hands, could prove tragic for the known world. The key-wielding little witch had kept her eyes and ears peeled for any news concerning these objects and because of this dedication, she’d been able to retrieve some these items and deliver them to the Collector, her grandfather, for safekeeping. When she heard the news of a powerful book, and when a few questions confirmed that it might, indeed, be the famed Book of Thoth, Lucy dropped what she was doing and set about collecting more information. The Selkie had heard about the book from the brujo, who’d heard about it from a troll traveling through Peru. A quick trip there, followed by quick pop over to Newfoundland () and then to South Africa and finally Lucy had received enough information to now be wandering the streets of Egypt.

Once she’d confirmed that the Book had apparently never left Egypt, or if it had, had now returned, she’d done a little preparing. Outfitted now in clothes more suited for the desert; a loose billowing linen shirt over a tank top, fitted khaki pants, scarf, along with her now packed utility belt. It was filled with wonderful little items that would no doubt prove useful on her romp through the desert and she couldn’t help but grin at the possibility of using some of them. Hidden weapons and leather boots, Lucy was ready for an adventure through the ancient burial sites of Egypt....she just needed to get some better information. So she was on her way to the local watering hole, a real dive actually, somewhere she usually tried to avoid, but her weasel of a contact apparently loved this place.
Stepping through the door, Lucy casually pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, scanning the room for a familiar rat-like face. Instead she found something worse, one Warren Sorrow. Of all the gin joints in the all the world, that southern git had to be in this one....or something like that. And apparently he’d somehow convinced some poor woman to accompany him. Rolling her eyes as she strode forward, catching a bit of the conversation, something to do with Warren butchering yet another language (no surprise there), she stopped in front of them,

“Well if it isn’t Marion and Indiana idiot? ”

[WARREN SORROW]

Warren stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the womans voice, his right hand slapping against his chest, resting just above his heart as though it tried to leap out. He grumbled quietly between his teeth at a furious rate. "Fuuuuuuuuuu-I hate you Beruti, I hate you. Selling me bat wings that bring me the wooooorst of luck." He growled audiouly as he produced the wings from his right breast pocket. "Pieces of shit." he stated even more quietly as he glared at them and put them back. "Even you don't bring me any luck!!" He whispered as whipped out his shrunken head from its compartment on his belt. "I tried t-" it replied as Warren quickly stuffed it back into the leather compartment.

Warren gripped Bea's arm and pulled her next to him, his back still towards Lucy. "Never, NEVER believe any of her stories about me. NEVER. They're all slander. Slander, I tell you!" he growled at Northern Irish woman before turning on his heel and putting on his best smile. "Luuuuuucyyyyy!" he exclaimed in false excitedment. "Mon petite choux! Where have you been this whole time, chere?!" He whined slightly as he strode over to her and threw his arm around her shoulders. "By the way...." he trailed off for a moment. "Whatthehellareyoudoinghere." he said flatly, glaring into her eyes.