Trip to the Marshlands

In the depth of isolated marshlands, the moon is always murky. A green fog swirls around two cloaked men in the bog. The night is eerily quiet as they make their way up the muddy path. The green fog eerily swirls around them as the odd glimpse of moving shadows can be seen within the fog. But nothing concrete is ever seen seeming that much creepier. It was as though the fog hid dark things that if revealed would leave the wizards gibbering in the mud.

The leading figure is a tall, muscular young wizard. He was no more than in his mid-twenties with a harsh visage. There is a thin black mustache on his upper lip neatly trimmed in a Parisian style. His eyes hold a bloodthirsty, violence that cannot quite be hidden. And for very good reason as Walden Macnair had killed before and had never been caught while abroad.

Following behind is a slightly taller man, powerfully built with broad shoulders and a muscled body. Unlike the younger wizard, the middle-aged man had a trimmed black beard and a gravelly voice when speaking. His dark eyes currently seemed rather bored of their present situation. But Albert Runcorn always calculated everything, and this meeting should prove useful to him. For it'd grant him the sole thing that he desired above all else, power.

"We're here," Walden Macnair said as his voice seemed to twist in the green fog.

"So, we are," Albert Runcorn murmured not impressed at all by the dingy, old home in the middle of the swamps. He'd seen better homes in the muggle villages than this tattered old home. Still, he did not speak and waited for Macnair to make the presentation.

The door creaks open as both men make their way up the squeaky stairs and porch. There standing in the doorway is a sniffing perpetual red-eyed figure of Empusa Snyde. "Please come in Macnair and guest," the widow Snyde requested as she moved aside to let them enter.

Macnair knew the way and led Runcorn through the dark, moldy-smelling corridor. The furniture was old, showing recent signs of dusting. But the moldy carpets were beyond saving and had all been thrown away. In their stead, newer and cheaper rugs had been installed taking away some of the moldy smell of the old home. Still, the dampness and moldy scent could be felt permeating throughout the old mansion.

Macnair stopped before the great old wooden doors and opened both doors with ease. Steeping aside he allows Runcorn to enter first, who coolly eyes the dismal state of the grand hall. Dark masked figures are throughout the room all waiting, all watching. The only figure's face that remained uncovered was that of a waxy pale-like man. His crimson serpent pupil eyes started right through Runcorn causing him to almost step back. But he'd faced similar gazes and survived and as such stared right back.

The wizard on the black throne-like chair reminded him of a snake or spider. The fingers were unnaturally long and thin, and all physical body hair seemed to have utterly fallen off. There was a snake-like sheen to his skin, the man even licked his lips with a thin dark tongue as if tasting the air. And as for his nose, his nose seemed to be in the process of shrinking itself. A most terrible, awful sight as at present the nose reminded Runcorn of some sort of orc-like stout.

"Welcome Albert Runcorn," Lord Voldemort graciously said. "I've heard nothing but flattering words from Macnair."

"Ah, yes, as have I," Runcorn replied in his gravelly voice. "I am told that you request that I join thee and your cause, Dark Lord."

"Yours would be a valuable asset to my cause, Runcorn," Voldemort admitted. "And you naturally would be rewarded for your time and efforts."

"And if I wished to be the Minister of Magic?" Runcorn proposed.

"That can also be arranged, but first naturally something must be done in exchange." Voldemort leaned forward as if to emphasize the point being made.

"And what exactly is that you want of me, Dark Lord?" Runcorn politely inquired, a bit intrigued.

"Passageway to a certain location."

"It's not the Ministry of Magic, is it?"

"No, no, that place at present is impossible to get into nor to maintain the building in our custody for very long even if the attack was successful."

An apt description," Runcorn slowly said. "Very well, and where is the location that requires my aid?"

A Death Eater in a mask moves forward with a slip of paper. Runcorn accepts the slip of paper as his lips twitch in a cold smile. "Yes, this might just prove to be quite tantalizing," Runcorn smirked. "Very well, you shall have my aid, Dark Lord. But I will not be taking your dark mark either. I will be beholden to no man." The Death Eaters in the room shuffle in anger or in unease is unknown.

Voldemort's crimson snake eyes study the tall, powerfully built wizard before him. "Very well, Albert Runcorn. But should you wish the position of Minister of Magic, you will take my mark."

"And I shall," Runcorn promised. "But first I'd like to know if it is worth my time. I am not a foolish pureblood to be misled by all this nonsense of supremacy of bloodlines. I am amply aware that even a muggleborn witch and wizard can be born naturally powerful. And I follow where the most power resides, Dark Lord."

Voldemort slowly nods his head as Runcorn's answer was within his grasp. Runcorn was much like himself in many manners calculating every single thought and deed to climb over the bodies of over in order to achieve his goal. But unlike himself, Runcorn did not desire a revolution but power. And whichever party handed that over to him would win him in the end.

"So be it, Runcorn," Voldemort said. "But I do require an oath on your magic for you to never speak of that which we have spoken of." Such an oath was dangerous as the wizard in question would live but without their magic should the oath ever be broken. But it was better than an unbreakable oath, where said wizards would lose their life if the oath was broken.

"So be it," Albert Runcorn rumbled as he raised his wand into the air. "Upon my magic, I vow to never reveal the events which spoken of this night lest my magic be lost. So, mote be!" A twisting-like magic can be seen around him like a thorny vine that soon disappears.

"I trust that we will hear soon from you, Runcorn," Voldemort hissed.

"Via Macnair," Runcorn made it abundantly clear who their point of contact would be.

"I expect nothing less," Voldemort said, before Walden Macnair bowed, and led Albert Runcorn the way he came.

"Is that wise, Dark Lord?" A smooth male voice asked that of S.R. Wilkes.

"Worry not, Wilkies, we shall soon make our stand," Voldemort purred, before rising from his seat. "Come, you shall aide me in my night's work."

"It'll be an honor, Dark Lord," Wilkes graciously said, before departing alongside the Dark Lord to the envy of the watching Death Eaters. They quickly hurry away to complete their own tasks. Soon, the grand hall is utterly empty except for one last single figure who seems to be staring at the throne before departing. Whoever it was there was something strange about them.