To be as slippery as Homer Jackson requires a practiced finesse, and more importantly, confidence to fit into any space and lie. To be the soulful artist at a cafe, the patriotic soldier, the manic actor, the successful businessman-- all dependent on time, place, and advantage. But when he's close to the truth, or in this case, a witch among witches, lying becomes more challenging, and Jackson gets far less comfortable. Never mind that he dislikes socializing with his kind, he especially dislikes the hoity-toity pretension of English Witching Kind.

He's always been the outsider, even back home. Here? He's a red sore thumb.

Following a trip back to America recently, Jackson's been reminded of how important it is to work on his-- not friendships, but alliances with his own kind.

That's why Jackson's here, picking idly at the collar of his finest tuxedo. He's been awkward and quiet throughout the party, which is unusual for Jackson, but goddammit, he has to try. So when he hears conversation that piques his interest in this circle of Witches: something about American-British Coven relations, he speaks up.

"I think we oughtta not rock the boat. Isolationism is the best way to maintain power-- why should Daybreak cultivate relations with an American coven, when we can barely handle our own shit?"