mundifies | (no subject)

the seventh son of a seventh son; destined for greatness, prophesied to be a most revered and heralded healer of their age. dr mcpherson's life was quickly and deeply rooted in the supernatural from a young age; magic ran in his blood, after all.

a mage himself, fraser mcpherson was quick to immerse his son in everything he knew and niven quickly became accustomed to dealings with fae, demons, ghosts and other supernatural beings. niven was a quick learner, eager to meet whatever destiny fate had in store for him and do some good in the world. while his mother's untimely death proved a difficult blow for niven as a teenager still learning his craft, he reconciled with his guilt over not doing more. he was just a boy, after all. it only left him with determination to work harder.

initially studying scottish ethnology and celtic culture at university, he worked well over a decade in formal education towards earning a doctrate, focusing in folklore, the supernatural, and occult sciences (studies which complimented his work as a mage). he is a respected but quiet presence in academic circles, offering both advice to others in the field and the occasional lecture to students at both glasgow university and the university of edinburgh. it pays well, he supposes.

while he is commonly found between scotland's two largest cities for the sake of academia, his real work takes up most of his time. he maintains a base at his father's old apothecary shop - housing an impressive collection of occult literature and items (some most likely illegal) - working closely with his apprentice, kitty, who keeps the shop running while he's out of town.

he deals in the real deal of magic: a consultant on supernatural matters, a handler of occult artefacts and caster of spells that lie in the field of white magic. and while people often find him difficult to follow with the broad accent that even a formal education couldn't touch, he's incredibly competent and skilled at his work and a rather learned man, still eager to better himself. he's also quite pleasant to get along with, according to former and present colleagues and clients.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The dreary weather in Edinburgh signals an uneventful day. Standing in front of a couple hundred students for an hour at a time is hardly Niven's ideal way of working, but it pays well. But a text as he quietly prepares in a faculty offices is more welcome, even if he doesn't recognise the number. He reads the texts over with a frown - Ben Dearborn? - before sending a quick text Kitty's way. The reply is almost immediate: yeah, sorry boss. he really needed to talk to you

Niven can't help but take the formality with amusement. If he hadn't realised he'd opened a text conversation, he'd really think he was reading another of Mr Dearborn's emails. Dear God, is this how he texts? Emails between a couple of academics is one thing, but this is... something else. ]

Ben, please don't worry yourself. There's honestly no harm done in reaching me this way, the apology isn't needed. No boundaries overstepped.

Kitty gives out my number for more 'delicate' matters on occasion and she has my permission to do so. Paper trails are more trouble than anything else for things like this, a wiser choice than using the university emails.

Unfortunately, I'm in Edinburgh giving a couple guest lectures for the day. I'd cancel but I'm afraid the Head of Department is not a woman I'd like to inconvenience at short notice. I'll be free by 6pm at the latest.

( the response is enough to send Ben ducking for his xanax, but the content of the reply is, in its own way, an instant relief over him. it's also an answer he should have expected: Dr. McPherson is a busy man, busy as Ben himself can be, and it feels like a moderate blockade in the road. )

Oh please, no, I wouldn't allow it if you tried to cancel anything in your schedule on my behalf. The phrase 'short notice' is enough to give myself hives.

I could meet you at 6pm. I'm in the area, which is how I was able to meet your apprentice. I'd meant to approach you in person, but as it happens, my penchant for bad timing persists.

There is a locale in Edinburgh we could meet at, if it isn't too unsuitable.

( what does he mean by 'unsuitable'? well, he sends a location next after his message, and it is...

definitely a bar.

but, Niven might note, given his life of experience, not just any bar...but a front for magic practitioners, and the occasional people of inhuman design and origin, to meet in the privacy of secrecy. in fact, given the location, Ben wonders if Dr. McPherson is more familiar with the Silver Shell than he himself is. or maybe he's never stepped foot within its door. who knows? )

More of my own poor hours of availability than your bad timing, really. I can be a bit of a nightmare to organise with at the best of times. Probably another reason why Professor Younger would skin me alive if I cancelled.

[ Meaning: organising these lectures into the timetable were an absolute pain in the arse. Niven can't help it - he keeps odd hours for the most part. The supernatural don't sleep when he decides to ... and neither do the students, either.

Niven lets out a small snort of a laugh at the final text, glancing at a familiar location. A bar? What a cracking idea, really. If anything he's going to need a drink after these lectures. But he's familiar, of course. He's had more than a few meetings there over the years.

And honestly, the scotch selection there is a thing of beauty. ]

Ah, I know the place well. It's been a while, actually. But consider it very suitable.

6pm it is. I'll see you there.

[ He just has to get through the boring part of his day first. Although: ]

If you're there before me: a double Balvenie, neat. I'll pay you back. Cheers.