It is night, about 64F(17C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Birch and Rosewood
There is a full moon.

“How wasteful.” Celestine remarks to herself, her soft-spoken soprano spilling over her lips in unusual, halting delivery… reminiscent of a song without its melody. Her head falls slightly askew — as though to imitate a doll devoid of its stuffing, as her shaded gaze skims over the paper clasped between her talonlike fingertips.

“Given the changing of the tides, don’t you think some level of — control — might help us?” Thomas asks Matias. “We are about to be the underdogs.” He shrugs. “But who can say.”

“I find when dealing with Hell, control is an illusion but I considered a venetian oath of something like six years, six months, and six days or a hundred years or a year and a day they agree to leave New Haven in their way.” Matias says distractedly as he checks his phone and hums before looking up. “But when the boroughs all flip, I can see the risk of being known as the Legion slaying society versus one with some beholden to it.”

“It seems like this is our crowd,” Thomas says to Matias and Celestine. “Who has read The Tyger?” he wonders.

“I have.” Celestine volunteers dreamily, her head drifting softly from side to side… as though swaying to a melody only she can hear.

Matias nods in agreement as Thomas draws the reading to begin. “I read it earlier today. It is an interesting poem about the wonder and power of creation and what mind or consciousness, what sort of being might engage in such creation as the Tyger Tyger.”

“I think so, too,” Thomas says. “So that starts us off,” he says. “Who thinks the Tyger is a real tiger?” he asks with humor. “A cat, with sinew and bone?”

Matias looks to Celestine but chimes in with a bit of a buzzed baritone of a voice, very vibey and languid, “I think it is a child looking at maybe a storybook. For no real reason but the spelling, I am unsure of Tyger is a proper spelling of a real tiger, but I could see this being the thoughts of a child reason about a mythological tyger.

“One cannot fathom the form taken by the steward of our stars.” Celestine muses rather openly, head laying back against the cushions of her chair. “Perhaps it was a Tiger. Or will be a ‘Tyger’. Perhaps it is a shadowy spectator, caring only to watch the terrarium which it has cultivated.”

Matias says “Wait. “

“It’s 1797, I think,” Thomas tells Matias. “So spelling was a little more… indistinct. Still, it -is- a creature,” he says. “Perhaps it’s just Blake’s vision of what a Tyger is, but…”

Matias gets up and pulls out his phone, gets a ping and then says, “Avalon is dead and a monster has Lawson.” and he is running!