Bane

January 14, 1964

"She midwifed the birth, and attended Emily in my absence, yes... but I want to know my son. I want to help raise him."

Grifford reclined in his black leather chair, putting his bare feet up on his desk. He considered Clayton a long time, silence hanging thin in the office. "If only we were all as attentive as you, yes? I can't give you a leave of absence. We need you. I need you... out there in the field collecting data on the heathen religions."

"Nothing can be done to balance this out?"

Grifford averted his gaze from Clayton to the ceiling of his office. The murals painted on the ceiling quite literally cost a fortune. They told the story of The Order, from Salem to Driftwood. They were for all intents and purposes a detailed hieroglyph of their history. Of course The Order went farther back than Salem; farther back than the United States, and though their story began with the court of Oyer and Terminer, it survived into the contemporary world. "What I am about to say cannot be repeated outside this office, or in the company of others. Not ever."

"Judge." Clayton nodded an affirmative, glancing around Grifford's office. It suddenly felt more like a mausoleum, the mounted heads, and animal skins a reminder to anyone standing in the office who the judge truly was.

"The Order is old, Clayton. We have archives that span from centuries of inquisition." Grifford turned in his chair, pulling his feet from the desk, and setting them on the floor. He stood abruptly, in a way most hunters of The Order do, without warning or hesitation. He stood from behind his desk, and pushed his chair in.

"I understand, your honor. I only ask because this is my first child."

"...and hopefully not your last. The world is unstable, and much of it is from the infernal heathens twisting the natural order to their own ends. Much of it is from the innate evils that exist in the hearts of all men."

"Very well, your honor. I respect your decision."

"...and you hate it. In a nation of freedom, you're a part of a a society whose own Constitution impedes that of the secular United States. The times are changing, and with them so must The Order."

"Sir?"

"Who for is Jonathan matched when he is old enough?"

"Mary Hutchinson."

"Mary Hutchinson." Grifford nodded, his thoughtful expression a clear deception, as both Judge Grifford, and Clayton already knew the answer. "The Order is stagnant, static, and unchanging. For as long as we existed here in this country, we did things one way, behaved one way, and existed one way."

"Tradition keeps us stable, your honor."

Grifford shook his head. "Many our traditions keeps us complacent. This Silent War is at a stalemate. No matter how many join our cause, or who we train, they join an old order."

"We do our best."

"...but our best is no longer good enough. Coven out there in the world, in our territories, they're smarter. More able to hide, practice, and flourish than even a decade ago."

"The Order needs to adapt to these changes, then."

"You're more correct than you may know, Clay."