"Where are you from?" Raven asked. She started simple, hoping to delay the inevitable time when Jon learned of her deception.

He answered with a grin. "Nowhere, and everywhere." Noting Raven's darkening visage, he explained further. "My tribe is nomadic and has no fixed homeland. I believe my mentor said I was born on the border of 'where the hell are we' and 'the middle of nowhere'." Her expression cleared and became tinged with curiosity. "My turn!" he exclaimed cheerfully, and Raven couldn't help but feel a bit buoyed by his enthusiasm. He leaned in close and in a quiet voice asked, "How well known are you, really? From the expressions of the people on the way here, I'd assume very."

Raven grimaced a bit. It wasn't that she didn't care for the fact that she was rather famous, although she didn't. Obscurity would have been preferred, in fact. She simply didn't care for how others acted around her because she was famous. She was just performing a service that needed doing, and would have been just as happy doing it from the shadows. Still, there was only inquisitiveness coming from her table-mate and not the strange mishmash of emotions she usually met with from the more rabid fans. She hated those emotions, especially idolatry. It was close enough to worship that her demonic heritage nearly shivered in pleasure. It made her feel somewhat sick. "How well known am I?" she reiterated. At his answering nod, she said, "In this city, very much so. I don't doubt that if you stay here for any length of time you'll find out exactly. The work I do is... rather high profile. Aside from that, one could say that I'm extremely well-known in certain circles." She rushed on with her question in an attempt to head off any response. She was enjoying this time as a normal girl, and she didn't want to give it up quite yet. "So, what do you do for a living?"

"Ah, that's a simple question with a somewhat complicated answer. For money, I publish poems. However, my service to the tribe is a bit more esoteric. I am what my tribe calls a 'Chronicler', one who collects and tells stories." Jon settled back more comfortably in his chair and continued. "There are two main repositories of knowledge in my tribe. The Loremasters collect information that pertains directly to the tribe and its operations. Their knowledge is more narrow in scope, but has great depth. A Loremaster would know the gifts given at a diplomatic meeting with the Queen of England, for example." He paused to take a hit off of the hookah. When he released the smoke it curled around him in a type of evanescent shroud. "A Chronicler, on the other hand, wouldn't know that, but would probably have an idea of the gossip surrounding the Queen, and likely that of her lineage as well." Jon looked at Raven and hastened to add, "Not that we're simple gossips; we collect any form of knowledge. Indeed, we collect all knowledge." A small grin graced his features as he concluded with a far-off look in his eye, "I suppose you could say that the Loremaster collects information for the sake of power while the Chronicler collects information simply for the sake of having it." Shaking himself from his reverie, Jon said "Interesting question. What is it that you do for a living?"

Raven flushed a bit, cursing her pale skin that made it so obvious. "I suppose you could say," she began delicately, "that I work in a form of specialized law-enforcement." Not exactly untrue, but certainly misleading to a greater or lesser degree. Why was this so difficult? It should have been a simple manner of saying, "Oh, I fight over-powered metahumans and other empowered individuals on an ego-trip. You might know me as the creepy member of the Teen Titans." But noooo, she had to dissemble. This was only going to make it more difficult to come clean when a straight answer was unavoidable. Jon was looking at her with a look of surprise and concern on his face.

"Aren't you a bit young? I mean, isn't that dangerous? You can't be older than eighteen or nineteen..."

"Let's just say that there are... special circumstances."

With a dip of his head, Jon agreed to let it go. If he was correct, it involved the application of those suspected abilities that he couldn't outright ask about. "As you wish it. Your question."

Raven glanced somewhat suspiciously at Jon. If he was unsatisfied with her short, evasive answers he wasn't letting on. His face reflected exactly what her empathic senses where reading, and that was a simple sense of curiosity and enjoyment. She pondered her choice of questions for a moment before saying, "Forgive me if this is inappropriate, but can you tell me about your tattoos? Do they have a special significance?" Jon's face closed down a bit, and he seemed to be in deep contemplation.

"There's nothing to forgive," he began haltingly, "and they do have a special significance, but I'm afraid that I can't tell you what that is until I know more about you." He looked up apologetically. "If you'd like, I'll take that as one of my passes."

"No need," Raven responded with some surprise. He had so far been so open that the idea of him refusing to answer a question fully (and with extraneous information) seemed foreign. She took a moment to examine him more thoroughly. He was taller than her, but that wasn't particularly difficult. Raven herself stood at five feet and a few inches, which put him at about six feet. His age was difficult to pin down. One moment she thought he was about Cyborg's age, the next he seemed to be decades older. There was also something about his tattoos that-

"Rachel?"

-that... her train of thought was broken. Burying her irritation, she turned to her companion with narrowed eyes (she hated having her thoughts interrupted) and asked, "Yes?"

Jon's eyes were locked onto something behind her. His face was a study in indifference. The muscles of his jaw were slightly tightened and twitched occasionally, and his nostrils flared like an animal sampling a scent on the air. Raven, curious, began to turn around.

"Don't move." Raven suddenly found her muscles stiff and unresponsive. "I know that I'm new to this town, but unless architecture has gone in new and exciting directions while I was in Japan there's something really weird going on. Near the door to the kitchen, about two-thirds the way to the ceiling I saw a pair of what looked like eyes appear. They were staring right at you. Look and tell me if you see it." Her limbs fell back under her control, and she turned towards the indicated area. The kitchen door swung inwards and out, allowing servers to pass through with trays of food and plates. The walls around the doors were painted the same rich red as the rest of the establishment, although their proximity to the doors had led to a greater amount of scuffing and staining. After a few moments of observation, two red circles appeared on the painted drywall. A vague outline that suggested a face appeared, and something clicked in Raven's mind.

At the same moment that this minor epiphany occurred, the White Monster leaped from its meld with the wall and accelerated towards their table. Jon said something, but Raven was too busy chanting out her mantra and preparing to perform her duty as a defender of the city. Her eyes flashed white as she levitated into the air, a phantom wind causing her sweatshirt to flutter and her hair to dance.

"Azarath Metrion ZINTHOS!"

=-=-=-=-=-

I wasn't exactly sure what the creature was, but I was fairly certain that it didn't mean well. It was big, probably twice my height and half that wide. It loped towards us at an amazing gait, its movement somewhere between a gorilla and a man. At times it took to all fours. The beast was a shocking white which contrasted sharply with the black patterns on its face and the ruby malevolence of its eyes.

Rachel began to chant and levitate, which was all the indication I needed to try to heal my leg in the most immediate and complete manner available to me.

My eyes glowed a hot blue as I cupped my hands around my leg. "Spirits of Earth and Fire, Water and Wind, hear my plea. What now is sundered, once was whole. Recall its form, and make it so. By the powers so beseeched, I cast this spell: SO MOTE IT BE!" A burning heat flowed through me and centered in my leg, but the energy wouldn't stick and perform its healing work. I bit off a curse, and glanced towards the battle. Rachel was doing her best, but the monster was outclassing her rather handily. There was no choice then; I'd simply have to do my best with a gimp leg.

I stood and waited for an opening, gathering raw energy and looping it through my body. Rachel was throwing tables, chairs, and anything else she could find, each item encased in a field of black energy. Occasionally the beast would manage to throw a punch through the onslaught, and each time she managed to block it with a hand that trailed more of that strange (though effective) black energy. Eventually, however, a haymaker made it through her defenses and she went flying through the doors to the kitchen.

Seeing my moment, I unleashed the stored energy. "Eldritch Blast!" I shouted, simultaneously firming my resolve and focusing my attack. A beam of crackling magic, pure and violent, tore from my body and arced to the monster. It was a strange colour, bruise-like in its composition of blacks and purples, jaundiced yellows and sickly greens. It gathered ambient energy as it went, latent magic fueling it as it tore, screaming with silent fury towards my opponent. For a moment the creature was engulfed in energy, roaring with some unknown emotion. Finally the field cleared and the beast stood before me, iridescent in the colours of the attack I had just thrown. It looked at me then, a flicker of purpose lighting in its mechanical eyes. Suddenly I felt a strange sensation. The beast spoke, though the word doesn't accurately describe the procedure. It wasn't exactly telepathy, either. It felt as if I was remembering a dream where I had a telephone conversation: vague in recollection, yet distinct at the time. "Chronicler..."

I was surprised. Did the beast have some intelligence? "I am the Chronicler known as Jon. State your name, as demanded by custom."

The creature didn't respond immediately, and I sensed a sort of confusion from it. "We have been called Arform."

We? "Arform, why do you call to the Chronicler?"

The confusion left, replaced with a singularity of purpose that was completely inhuman. "We have a message for the Chronicler."

Whoever or whatever this thing was, it knew the protocols of my tribe rather well. "Messenger Arform we have met poorly, but perhaps not unjustly. May the rest of our meeting be of a more civil tone. The Chronicler shall hear your message under a flag of truce, as demanded by custom."