From the moment he awakens in bed, Oz is struck by how quiet it is, to be alone again. There is no background clamor of another’s thoughts and impulses, no disorientation of a second self, no high spiking anxiety above the baseline that is him.

When he raises his hands to inspect them, he finds long, slim, pale fingers. Raises a hand to comb fingers through his hair, and finds it intimately familiar.

He is... himself, such as he is. This self. Ozpin.

He spends a long moment like that, wondering how.

But he isn’t likely to find out by sitting here. Oz retrieves his glasses from the nightstand, his coat from the back of a chair, and— does not find his cane. It is nowhere in the unfamiliar bedroom, nor in the kitchen with the jar of berries and the note. He does read the note. He even, perhaps, believes it.

Then he goes out, looking for answers.

So: you may encounter all 6’6” of skinny, professorial-looking man, walking the streets of Deerington with the cautious and overly-attentive look of a newbie. If you look inhuman, or do anything particularly magical out in the open, he stops to watch— too breathless with surprise to be appropriately subtle.

Oz is unaware that he came in during a... fairly eventful point in Deerington’s history. But he quickly becomes aware that there are monsters here. The things do not look like Grimm, exactly, and that is more disorienting to him than any of it.

So: he’s been backed into a corner by two prowling Quiet Place monsters, and here he stands, frustratingly unarmed. He does not want to resort to drastic measures, not so immediately and so in the open— but unless he can find something to fight with, it’s looking likely.

The man— what’s his name? He isn't sure, can’t remember, there are so many— staggers down the street, disoriented. He is getting away from the thing that pried into his mind and pulled all the threads loose, let all his names and lives and memories spill out. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who he is.

There is a shock of red blood dripping from his nose, and he’s aware of it because his fingertips came away frighteningly scarlet when he touched his lips. It shouldn’t— his Aura— does he have an Aura? He has magic, doesn’t he? He had magic. The voice in his head had magic. He might be the voice in his head. He...

There is a very confused wizard on the streets of Deerington, and he might need your help.

It’s dusk, about to strike the hour when smothering darkness descends on the streets of Deerington. The Mothman is in town, perched upon a streetlamp, its wings fluttering as it inspects the light.

The concept of a friendly or harmless monster is not one that Ozpin has ever encountered. That’s why he’s watching warily, holding the first thing he could take up as an improvised weapon... which is a tree branch. He’s staring down the Mothman, holding a stick like a sword.

Please, someone, intervene.

Oz stands at the foot of the stairs, inspecting his porcelain fingertips. When he hears the footsteps of another, he speaks without looking up:

"Have you seen anything like this before?"

It is horrifying and fascinating. This is a degree of magic he hasn't seen in millenia. This is something new.

[ Hit me up at ochrona! And feel free to tag with log formatting or brackets. ]