Bane

January 14, 1964

Samael Grifford's home office was large as any master bedroom.

Larger.

From his desk, situated in front of the thick ballistic glass bay window, to the mounted trophy heads from his big game hunts, there was nothing that did not echo the man's lavish tastes in comfort or reflect his mastery as a hunter of beasts, and men.

There were no suited armor display pieces standing in corners collecting dust and cobwebs; no tacky sword replicas hanging from the redwood walls.

A grand, thick furred carpet of mammoth skin spanned the floor from near the hearth of the massive fireplace, whose mantle held witch tomes encased in glass displays, all the way to the ornate bar Grifford's kept opposite of the fireplace. Two massive curling tusks twisted from it's either side, and disappeared into the painted ceiling like tusked struts holding the ceiling in its place away from the floor.

Clayton opened the double doors into Grifford's office, admiring the decor as he did.

He shut the doors behind him.

He stood alone in the office, staring out the protective bay window. Outside, a cacophony of scattered thunder clouds drifted across a sky already covered in darkened stratus clouds, the darkness layered over darkness.

"It is an attractive view, is it not?"

Clayton Walker glanced over his shoulder to see Judge Samael Grifford standing before the mammoth skin rug in a heavy black bathrobe, the double doors closing in silence behind him.

He nodded. "Indeed. Good afternoon, Judge."

Grifford walked over the mammoth skin rug, past Clayton, and around his desk. He stood at the window and admired the view, his back to Clayton. "Welcome home. I received your report on the Ruk. Well done. The Order dispatched a compliment of Zealots to aid American armed forces in training South Viet Nam."

"Thank you."

Grifford turned and grinned revealing a mouth full of aged and yellow stained teeth. Hairline fractures webbed across the judge's teeth; they looked as though they would shatter, or turn to dust any moment. Even in his advanced age, Grifford was hearty. His teeth would never shatter, never chip or break, and they would never turn to dust until long after he rested in the cold wormy Earth. His was a bloodline long lived, longer still because of the Rites and Blessings from The Order. The judge's grin faded, though he kept a pleasant tone. "...all congratulations aside, it is unnecessary that you're here on a routine report. You're not about glory, or recognition, Goodman Walker. This begs the question: what do you want?"

"May I speak plainly?"

Grifford nodded, waving his hand.

"My son is born only two months. I would ask you to give me leave to help raise him."

Grifford grimaced, his deep wrinkled face weary. "Who would you have stand for you in your absence? Goodman Hutchinson? Blackwood? Carter? Surely not Carter. You're a young man, Clay. You're the best man for your duties, and I dare say the best man in our part of The Order."

Clayton tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "With respect, your honor... I need to be with my family."

"If I recall correctly, has Mrs. Walker not been assisted by Granny D?"