July 2017 Destiny Province Philadelphia, PA

Marshal Minerva Hennigan regretted having to sleep sometimes. Her watch over the city was vigilant. Her mind canvassed stone and iron sculptures and fences; around the restless spirits in prisons past; swiftly curling around St. Augustine’s steeple and through Franklin’s shuttered print shop.

From her penthouse perch, Minerva inhaled, the smell of ink comforting her, satiating the need for safety through the ages.

A part of her spirit canvassed the commons where homeless now slept and lovers now kissed, knowing that beneath their peaceful activities rested mass graves of plague victims and slaves carelessly buried in shackles and pepperings of lead musket balls and many other buried shames and secrets. Wizards and mages were hardly above the sickening things done by mundanes; if anything, these horrors were reflected in other ways, hidden behind masks and mirrors of magic and tradition.

But marshals, she knew - marshals denied no truth. Marshals sought justice.

Relatively satisfied with the state of things, her partial spirit took a jaunt past Jeanne d’Arc’s immortalized golden visage, down the flag-lined road, chuckling at the landmark declaring “LO/VE” and back down towards Old City. It settled restfully behind Independence Hall in a haunt she enjoyed frequently, sitting next to the statue of one Commodore John Barry. She concentrated in an attempt to better project, not entirely familiar with this part of her abilities, until she could read the familiar plaque next to the statue. “Born: Wexford, Ireland--” she began aloud.

Minerva stood before her impressive view of the city, a knee-length satin blue robe fastened around her. She was interrupted by a low and playful voice.

“Your mind is out there again, Hennigan,” he said. Tall. Muscular. Black hair in a ponytail. Glasses discarded after dinner - and before they’d taken to bed.

She scowled in response, but didn’t turn. She simply folded her arms and brought her spirit fully back to herself.

“It is my duty.”

“...I was giving you a break because I thought of all the things we talked about, maybe you were worried about your mom. You know, I heard you’re still hung up on--”


Slipping her wand out of the robe’s pocket, Minerva turned to face the other marshal. She continued: “Do not make the mistake of becoming my opponent - or worse - my entanglement.”

The marshal put his hands up in the air in mock surrender. Olive skin, bluish eyes, disarming smirk. Minerva’s response was her scowl as he began to speak again.

“I just don’t get how you could have left your mother in the care of a college student.”

“Lance. Stop it. This is not a game.”

Oh, but it was to him. Her rage was alluring. What more could she have expected, with the way she was: distant and predatory, committal only towards her sworn duty.

He opened his mouth to continue, and her wand rushed as a threat towards his throat - then towards the door.

“Get out.”

At least she’d had a chance to dispel her suspicions: there had been no Gorecaster mark on the man’s form.


After shutting the door behind Lance, Minerva dressed herself in loose jogging pants, a white button down shirt, and a hoodie. Wand was in an arm holster; marshal badge on the shirt hidden beneath the hoodie. After shutting the door behind herself, she ran her hand up the outside of the oak. The symphonic sound of locks engaging pleased her ears as she smirked at the door before turning down the hall.

It was her day off, but she patrolled anyway. Whether at home in Mishipeshu, primaschola, Greybranch, or at New World Magischola, Minerva had always had something to do because she’d always had patrol.

What was it that mundanes said about those who dabbled in magic? Many of them were solitary. They practiced alone: just as Minerva now patrolled.

She found herself, in person, at the statue of Barry a good half an hour later, with the sun still asleep. Her hand caressed the words on the plaque as she sat with the problematic history of the new world around and beneath her.

The weight of this city suited her spirit.


The marshal nodded to a pair of mundane police as she walked past them, making her way into the City Hall concourse, folder in hand no different from those held by the nonmagical beings that surrounded her. She surveyed the area before taking a seat, finding familiarity among the ornamentations of the architectural details, but also seeking to examine every shadow.

Her communication device buzzed. It was a new ‘cat message - a sketch of a familiar, swanky bar not terribly far away. Quintana was at The Continental, ready for the handoff. “10 minutes,” she replied.

Standing tall, she walked east, wondering what Quintana would make of the creatures stirred by the mundanes’ recent airport reservations.

And like those creatures, it wasn’t sleep she needed so much as rest.

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