Birds of a Feather
Griffin shook the sand out of his hair briskly, tossed his bag onto his chair, and grabbed a bottle of water, chugging at it mercilessly. Killing Paladins makes me thirsty, he thinks to himself, tossing his empty water bottle on a table and grabbing another, taking half of it in one pull.
Actually, it is quite a workout, taking down Paladins, running them around in circles until they trip up, keeping yourself from being caught in their mechanical web. It's like being on red alert, all the time. Living on standby, ready to become active at the drop of a hat.
You never know when they're coming for you.
So they best not know when you're coming for them.
Griffin downed the rest of his water and stretched languidly, walking towards the opening of his lair, out into the newling dusk. The sun was melting over the horizon, drenching the sand in liquid gold, leaving the sky hued grey with its absence. He let his eyes roam over the horizon, gliding past the nothingness that surrounded him, until something bright caught his eye. A pure whiteness, glistening, tremoring.
Perched on a rock right outside the entrance of his lair.
Griffin walked over, cautiously, slowly. He saw that it was an owl, but couldn't believe that one was perched there, in the desert, sun still out, far away from anywhere. He had never seen an owl at all around these parts, and certainly not one as white as snow. It stood out, gleaming, like a beacon of light. He could feel it watching him as he approached. Sizing him up. Judging him. He suddenly got the feeling that this owl was here for him. Not looking at him; looking for him. As he got closer he saw that there was something stuck on its leg, some sort of paper. When he got close enough to touch it, the bird stuck its leg out, an obvious offering. He reached out tentatively and took the rolled paper from the owl. There, written clearly on the roll, was his name.
I must be going crazy.
Griffin sat in his lounger, a piece of parchment smoothed over his leg. His fingers grazed lightly over the top of the snowy white owl (whose name he had learned was Hedwig) that had followed him inside and perched itself on the arm of his chair. He sighed and leaned forward, picking up the parchment, and began reading it for a third time.
Dear Griffin,
Bet you've never had mail delivered by owl before, eh? This is how we do it in our world. Our being… well, you know already, don't you? What I am?
But what are you? I have to admit, I'm curious. I think you are, too. We should see what we can find out. What we can make happen.
Test the limits.
There's a place called The Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road in London, between a book store and a record store. You won't see a sign, just a wrought iron witch stirring a cauldron, hanging above the door. Meet me there, 22 December, eleven o'clock.
You show me yours and I'll show you mine.
Ginny
P.S. Hedwig won't leave until you reply to my letter, and she'll only be patient for so long, so write me back, will you? Unless you like owl bites.
Griffin smiled in spite of himself and put the letter back down. Hedwig stretched out her neck and nibbled lightly on the back of his hand. "Okay, I get it," he muttered, and got up to search for a pen and paper.
Meanwhile, at Paladin headquarters…
A woman in a grey suit sat in front of a desk commandeered by a black man with white hair. In front of him were security camera images from a London mall, showing two Paladins, a known Jumper named Griffin, and an unknown girl, possible early teens, with red hair.
And a wand.
"Are you sure?" he asks her, and she leans forward, smiling tightly. "Absolutely," she responds, "and he'll lead us right to her."