"I need a Purple Nurple."

"It's only for dire emergencies and being requested to report to the High Council doesn't count."

"It does when said request is really a demand to attend a convocation.

A small shot glass filled with smoky purple liquid is immediately placed in front of him. A pale shaky hand reaches out, grasps the glass, and brings it to red lips.

"Here's to drinking the fish."

"I don't think that means what you think it means."

A thin shoulder shrugs beneath folds of black material. "Means something, otherwise humans wouldn't say it."

"Humans say a bunch of weird things, Stiles. Doesn't mean you should emulate them."

"True. Down the hatch!"

The bartender watches as his short-haired friend chokes and gags on the drink before slumping against his chair.

"Feel better?"

"Nope, 'cause I'm still conscious."

"So..." the bartender tries for nonchalance, wiping at a nonexistent wet spot, but Stiles has known him for years and can see the tension riding his spine and rippling under his skin as he obviously fights the change. "Why're you being called?"

"Not because of the Escapade that Shall Not Be Named, Scott."

They grin at one another as memories of that particular evening flash through both their minds. Scott ruffles his dark hair where he received the hard lump, which never disappeared despite his accelerated healing.

"What did you do?"

Stiles' thunks his head on the solid oak bar, his "ow" muted by the wood.

"That's not an answer, dude."

Amber colored eyes peek upward as Stiles slowly slinks to half-laying across the bar, his head pillowed on his arm as his finger mindlessly traces a pattern Scott doesn't recognize. "I may or may not have indirectly not on purpose ignored an order to desist pursuing a particular branch of magic."

"Dude!"

"I had to."

"Dude."

"She was cute."

"Dude."

"It was only the one time."

"Duuuudddeeee."

"Okay, I lied. It was a few times with a few...um...participants."

Scott stares at him, mouth half-open in shock.

"What? A mage must test the waters to find the best Anchor."

"An orgy is not testing the waters, Stiles. An orgy is an orgy is an orgy."

Stiles draws the hood of his cloak over his head to block out the look on his friend's face. Unlike WolfyMcJudgerstein over there, he isn't physically able to sniff out the perfect person for him.

"Sex magic is still magic, Scott. I just needed to make sure my Anchor could reach me through mind, body, and spirit."

"And did...they?" Scott reached across the wood separating them and pushed back the hood.

Stiles gave him a weak smile.

"Sadly no." In fact, he'd made a huge mistake choosing the partners he did, but beggars couldn't be choosers apparently. "I guess I'll have to keep on looking."

"With who? You've gone through the town's eligible shifters, most of the witches, the few warlocks, and don't even get me started on the Centaurs."

"I'll have you know, Centaurian sex is a very beautiful thing -"

"No," Scott interrupted frantically, "I really didn't want to get started on the Centaurs! I have no need to figure out the mechanics of interspecies sex with half-horsemen."

"Well, they're definitely hung like horses."

The look on Scott's face was totally worth the harsh slap of wet rag to the cheeks.

Unfortunately, that is the last moment of levity for Stiles because soon after a small air rift opens and a tail feather of a Golden Phoenix floats into his lap, signaling the Council's impatience at his procrastination.

Sighing, Stiles stands and flips a silver coin to Scott. The young shifter catches it handily, but bites it as if to make sure it is real.

"Where's the trust? I wouldn't stiff you."

"'Cause you'd never use a little glamoring to make something appear as something else."

"One time, Scott. One time. Let it go!"

"That one time landed me in Detention, Stiles. With Magister Harris!"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You met your mate there though didn't you? You should be thanking me."

"I do by letting you drink here despite the Pack Master banning you."

"Hey, the ban is totally unfair since I paid for the damages!"

"Sure, for the Hydra and the Ifrit, but what about the dimensional tear in the Men's room?"

Stiles hunches into his cloak a little at the reminder. It wasn't his fault his control of Air magic was a little shaky.

"It took four Masters to harness the maelstrom long enough to seal it!"

It was not a good time to be him after that stunt. In his defense though, he wasn't the dumb caster who decided to defend his girlfriend's honor – which, she was totally the one who came onto Stiles not the other way around – by summoning opposing Elementals and thinking they wouldn't expend energy against one another instead of the mage's target. Fire and Water are opposite ends of the spectrum for a reason. Stiles was just trying to help by tapping into the Plane of Air; he just tapped a little too hard. If it hadn't been opened in the middle of a bar with potential of sucking in a good portion of the town's population and dispersing them to universes unknown, he would've been given a pat on the back for his spell.

"You think Trix was serious about nixing my presence for a century?"

"You're lucky it wasn't for longer."

Stiles nods reluctantly in agreement, knowing it was only Scott's influence that kept him from being thrown from the Home Territory all together.

The chime of Elven bells interrupts them and Scott makes a shooing gesture.

"Dude, leave before they get really testy."

Tapping the edge of the feather against the edge of a table – which looks really soft but is one of the toughest materials known to the magic world – and Stiles felt a pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He hates this part.

When he next opens his eyes, a little dizzy and really nauseous, he is no longer in Last Call, but a cold barren stonework room void of any furniture or artwork. There are six men standing in a half-moon circle before him, each wearing robes the color of the Planar Power they represent.

"Thou so named Stiles hast been summoned to stand before thy High Council -"

Stiles normally wouldn't dream of interrupting the Herald, a small goblin standing off to the side, but mixing Purple Nurples with abrupt transportation magic is always a Bad Idea (and yes he capitalizes it in his head) because he's doubled over, showing the mages' council exactly what he was doing in the half hour before appearing.

"Yech Stiles, that's disgusting. I can see you're taking this Convocation seriously."

The booming voice is, unfortunately, no longer the Herald but the Arch Mage, also known as "Father mine." If his father is present then he's really fucked, to use another quaint human idiom.

Stiles hastily waves a scrubbing spell over his mess and stands up as respectfully as he can.

"Uh, I still haven't acclimated to Phoenix Flight."

"And it has nothing to do with the concoction you and Scott created made of the most disgusting ingredients known to Magekind?"

He holds in a groan, barely, and remembers again why it's never good to attempt to pull one over on one's father when he has eyes everywhere. Literally in some cases, Stiles mentally winces, thinking about the time with the saucy mermaid in the cove.

"Ahem, that's neither here nor there. So, how may I serve you?"

There is a tightening of skin around several of the eyes boring into him, but Stiles has never sweated the lengthy and formal small stuff; unless he's being formally charged with crimes against magic or nature or Magekind, there's no need to supplicate to them.

"It has come to this Council's attention that you've been left to your own devices too long and your abilities are in danger of atrophying. We have chosen to honor you with this quest."

"If this is about the dryads, they were willing to donate their energy to the cause."

"Stiles -"

"And I had nothing to do with the Barrow Hound let loose in the town square, even if I did find it funny. I swear I don't know who's responsible for that one."

"Stiles-"

"Okay, the hound wasn't me, but I could've had a hand in the flock of harpies. There's a good reason -"

A swirl of white and blue magic surrounds him, an invisible hand clamping around his mouth and stopping his word flow.

The Arch Mage shakes his head in exasperation, long silvery blond locks wisping against the collar of his ceremonial robe. Stiles blinks, suddenly registering the finery each Master wore. Apparently there is something more going on than recitation of his crimes – and yes, it was him confessing but it is easier to give up the lesser infractions instead of waiting for the Sword of Damocles to fall (totally a thing, though how the human philosopher had not only learned of the tale but then screwed up the details something fierce is something of a head scratcher).

"Regardless of the extracurricular activities you've indulged in – and yes, I know about the nymphs at the waterfall as well – this isn't the reason why we've sent for you. Master Gold."

The Planar Fire Master steps forward, though still a little behind the Arch Mage, and holds out a rolled up scroll of vellum. Stiles doesn't need to touch it to sense the heavy magics upon it; he gingerly grasps it and feels the skin on his fingertips heating up. He wants to glare at the fire mage, but refrains because he realizes it isn't the usual pettiness at play here.

"And I'm here because..." Stiles mumbles beneath the gag spell, knowing by his father's pursed lips he understands.

"War brews again and it threatens to disrupt the equilibrium."

And by that his father means, because I said so.

Stiles unrolls the vellum and quickly scans the contents. It seems three hundred years ago humans were expanding westward in search of new lands to build their cities and towns. Unfortunately there were shifters already living in the territory they attempted to claim and they didn't take kindly to these trespassers. At this point in history, mortals of the New World were unaware of supernatural creatures and this was a very aggressive introduction. After a long and exhaustive war – with both sides counting heavy losses - a peace accord was struck between the two factions. There was some sort of trickery and instead of sticking to the agreement, the shifters were summarily rounded up and sent to live on something called "reservations," leaving the humans to take over.

Over the next few generations, several species of shifters were decimated by disease, hunger, and crowding until only the Were population – wolves, cats, and bears – were left and they managed to wrangle a new deal which allowed them to return to their former home territories under the condition they would be monitored by a human coalition. Fast forward three hundred years and the fragile peace, which was still upheld by the human government, was threatening to collapse under the weight of political inertia and increasingly violent interactions between the human coalition and the shifters.

While Stiles is intrigued by this view into human history, he's still confused by his involvement. Magekind aren't often called upon to mediate because it is a little like bringing a gun to a knife fight: complete and utter overkill. He pointedly points at his mouth, waiting for speech to return. The Arch Mage sighs deeply, but waves a hand releasing him.

"What you hold is the reason for the Convocation. We struck a pact with a Witchling many Turns ago to help defend her domain." The Arch Mage turns his eyes to the side, a sure sign of mortal passing. "Her descendant has claimed her right."

For a mortal to wrest an agreement from a mage was unheard of simply because it was hard to find their kind if they didn't want to be found; it was one of many reasons why they were called the "Hidden Folk," not to be confused with the "Fair Folk," or the elves, a common misconception by humans.

"Are you talking "We the council" or the royal We?"

The Arch Mage manages not to roll his eyes by sheer dint of will and ignores the (totally valid) question.

"Alan Deaton, Witch of the Silver Branch, has requested aid against the human coalition who police his land. There have been several incursions against the local werewolf family he's bonded to, including attempted assassination through a house fire with all members, including children, trapped inside."

The horror on the Arch Mage's face, and the Masters surrounding him, is genuine. Children are a rare blessing among Magekind and it is incomprehensible to them as to why anyone would harm a child, much less attempt murder, regardless of race or reason.

Stiles understands his purpose now. "I'm to protect the witch and his shifters."

"Protect," the Arch Mage stresses, "not use this as an opportunity to find an Anchor. Is that understood?"

Resentment burns beneath his outward obeisance because he's nearing his hundredth birthday and is the only one among his Circle not to find one. It is a little embarrassing as everyone knows he is somewhat lacking despite the raw planar energy he's able to tap. He cannot reach his full potential without a partner to keep him in the now so he doesn't get lost in the ether; sexual comparability isn't a requirement, but he had the example of his parents' pairing in his formative years and he yearns to replicate it.

"How long will I be there?"

"There was no set time limit attached to the promise, so you'll remain until your task is completed."

In other words, capricious wild magic is in control of his destiny. Awesome.

"Where am I staying?"

"The witch will provide."

"When do I leave?"

"Now," the Arch Mage says, a small smirk playing around his lips.

"This is a punishment."

"If you desire to look at it that way, then yes." The fond look directed at him negates the words. Both of them know he's going because he's his father's son and will do what is right. It's just easier to pretend.

Stiles harumphs, folding his arms into his black robes. "I want it recorded I'm agreeing to go under duress."

"So it is noted, so it is written," the Herald intones from his corner, his sonorous voice at odds with his small body. The Arch Mage dismisses him then as his duty to witness the Convocation has ended with Stiles' reluctant agreement.

The Masters of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water spread out in a tight square formation and the Arch Mage moves until he's three steps outside the box shape, facing Stiles. Master of Life mirrors his father and positions himself at the same exact point behind Stiles, leaving the young mage as the center.

Stiles draws in a small breath to calm himself as they prepare to create a portal. In the normal course of things Magekind use Wizard Stones or Doors, small pockets of stable planar energy kept open between dimensions, which allow travel between cities or lands as easy as stepping across a threshold. Some mages are powerful enough to forgo either of these and key magical items like the Phoenix feather to specific locations, as the Arch Mage had done earlier for Stiles.

Portals, on the other hand, are holes ripped through the planes and unstable by their very natures. It requires the concentrated power of the Planar Masters in order to keep an opening long enough for someone to pass through to their intended destination; if even one hesitates or loses their grip, the portal will snap shut and the traveler could be potentially lost forever (if not ripped to shreds by planar energy).

No pressure really.

Reality shivers and buckles around him as the layers of time and dimension are peeled away, showing both the room he's standing in and a strange metal-filled one he's never seen before. He is distracted from his observation of twinned rooms when he feels a deep vibration in his bones followed by a distinctive humming sound that grows louder and louder until the roar of magic pierces his ear drums and he blacks out from the pain.

A/N: There is no excuse for this crack!fic other than I have a weird work schedule and it's messing up my sleep.