Traceurs [IC] Les Âmes de Paname

[Deadly]

"All those who try to unveil the mysteries always have tragic lives. At the end they are always punished."
-- Anaïs Nin, The Mohican

Traceurs - Les Âmes de Paname
A chronicle of Mage: The Awakening

http://i.imgur.com/lvSGb3zl.jpg

Links
OOC (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?529567-Traceurs-OOC-Palimpseste)

The Cast
Elanorin as Eris (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=22220869&postcount=93), Mysterium Obrimos
Thanqol as Bellerophon (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=22212832&postcount=84), Adamantine Arrow Thyrsus
Anarion as Rothko (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showsinglepost.php?p=22213419&postcount=87), Free Council Moros

*

Rothko, a man has been found sitting cross-legged right on top of "point zero", the spot designated as the center of Paris outside the Notre Dame Cathedral. The place is a dense node of ley lines - nothing new there - all crossing each other right there. The Sleepers who wander around the plaza don't see him but they unconsciously step around him all the same, and the coins that some have thrown at the spot have instead formed a ragged star of radiating lines around him. He appears to be meditating blissfully and hasn't moved so much as a muscle in nearly a week now.

What do you know about this man? Also, are you there, or ... where are you exactly?

Eris, it isn't every day you are invited to join the Hierarch herself for a casual chat over lunch at a café in the center of Paris (with a view of the plaza in front of Notre Dame and the mystery man sitting on top of "point zero"). Maybe you've never met Sabbat before, or maybe you've only seen her in her official role at Consilium meetings where her grand and dramatic presence belies her largely ceremonial role of tie-breaker. Sitting here in a sunny café, sipping from a glass of dark red wine among piles of obsessively scribbled notes, fingers stained permanently black with ink from endless hours of note-taking, she looks nothing like the "Queen of Satan" persona you may be more familiar with. Instead you find yourself looking across the table at a studious, seemingly young woman in fashionable goth attire. If Count Dracula and the Wicked Witch sent their Seventh Daughter off to study in Paris ... she might graduate one day to look something like Sabbat. But there is definitely something unsettling and secretive about her, even in this lovely sunny light. Then again, no-one's met the Mastigos who wasn't unsettling and secretive yet, I suspect.

Though you are both Mysterium mages, your own status doesn't normally bring you such grand attention. Still, it's not official Consilium business, so it's probably Mysterium business. Unless you think the leader of the Paris Consilium has developed a personal interest in you? Tell me, what is this about?

Bellerophon, may I call you Lero? Where are you now? Not in Tibet, but you have recently received some vague news or rumor from someone you knew back there, though the news aren't about Tibet, are they? Tell me about it.

[Thanqol]

Bellerophon, may I call you Lero? Where are you now? Not in Tibet, but you have recently received some vague news or rumor from someone you knew back there, though the news aren't about Tibet, are they? Tell me about it.

Simple. Mars is in alignment.

...

I should explain.

Mars is both planet and Astral Realm - cluster of Astral Realms. In the collective dream of humanity, the Temenos, Mars is the realm associated with battle - dreams of conflict and war. When Mars' power wanes the world is at peace. When it waxes it is a time for great conflict across all of humanity. Dreams naturally make their will manifest in the societies of the world and the presence of Mars inflames flashpoints and provokes great battles. This naturally creates a feedback loop with the Shadow. It last aligned during 1917 and remained in ascent until 1946. It is part of the natural order of the cosmos and its nature and presence is closely tracked by the Adamantine Arrow above all others.

Everyone else only takes the time to notice Mars when it's directly impacting them. Which is now. The Order's records are clear what happened the last time this occurred - the Astral flooded with Mages looking to control the realms of Mars directly, inadvertently creating the very battles that empowered it. Everyone called in the Arrow's debts and oaths of loyalty and the Order fought on every side of the war. Things spiralled out of control. So far so good.

Thing was, Gilgamesh didn't like that. He likes war but doesn't like unmanaged war. He thinks that no one else understands war as well as the Arrow - or him personally, same difference - so they should just keep their big noses out of it. He's spent the last half century consolidating power in the Order so that most peoples' first allegiances will be to him rather than the rest of the Pentacle, or sleeper nations, or whoever. The rumour that I'm hearing is that he has a plan for how to channel the energies of Mars' alignment and he's directing the entire global Adamantine Arrow to regularly visit the Astral and contribute to his vision, and also to violently discourage anyone else from messing around with what he regards as the Order's great big holy event.

I don't know what the big picture plan is. I expect I'll get some marching orders soon.

You may call me Lero. I am currently standing behind the Councillor for the Silver Ladder and holding a shotgun. I do not use shotguns but he seemed to think it would make me look more intimidating. Currently the Councillor is holding a crowbar and banging on an Egyptian sarcophagus screaming for the person inside to come out. I suspect he is somewhat emotionally distressed. I haven't been informed about who is inside the sarcophagus but the Councillor doesn't need to explain himself to me. I am just here to hold the shotgun. Perhaps I simply do not grasp the ritual subtleties about what he is doing.

[Deadly]

You may call me Lero. I am currently standing behind the Councillor for the Silver Ladder and holding a shotgun. I do not use shotguns but he seemed to think it would make me look more intimidating. Currently the Councillor is holding a crowbar and banging on an Egyptian sarcophagus screaming for the person inside to come out. I suspect he is somewhat emotionally distressed. I haven't been informed about who is inside the sarcophagus but the Councillor doesn't need to explain himself to me. I am just here to hold the shotgun. Perhaps I simply do not grasp the ritual subtleties about what he is doing.

Councilor Chiltepin bangs the crowbar on the sarcophagus like an ancient Egyptian master whipping a slave into bloody submission, shouting loudly at whatever is hiding inside, spittle flying and mixing with droplets of blood from his knuckles. Intermittently he switches to shouting in some other language, the words flying right over your head. Ancient Egyptian perhaps, who knows? You're not there to provide linguistic assistance, I'm sure.

Finally he flings the crowbar aside in rage. "Alright, that's it you decrepit old artifact!" he shouts and starts wildly pulling at his clothes to get them off, jumping around like a long-legged bird without its head dancing to a shaman's crazed ululations. Finally he gets his limbs and his head free of the clothes and throws them all to the wind, standing naked like the day he was born in the middle of the old tomb. His body is wiry and tough, angry old scars lashing his back like rungs on a ladder. Now he's found a bottle of oil somewhere and is busily smearing himself in its contents, shouting obvious challenges and obscenities at the sarcophagus, his muscles gleaming in the faint light you brought down here with you.

It's quite clear that he intends to challenge the inhabitant to a wrestling match in the old style, to settle this like men. He looks like he could take a beating, too, but is this really a job for a man of learning and law? What has the world come to when judges and lawyers engage in fist fights? Surely this is what the Arrow is for, and if anyone here has to wrestle a mummy, it should be you, right?

On the other hand, he looks so enthusiastic, gleaming with oil and ... uh, standing at attention. You could stand back and watch, or you could offer to fight as his champion. I'm sure whatever ancient law the inhabitant of the coffin knows would consider that acceptable terms.

[Thanqol]

"Councillor," Bellerophon said. "Put your clothes back on."

Her tone is flat, commanding. Service is mastery doesn't mean unquestioning submission - it means that the master is at the mercy of an enlightened servant.

Her stance shifts slightly as she speaks. Whenever Lero expresses an opinion she always immediately makes the decision on if she's prepared to back her words up with violence. As a consequence of that decision she will tense, and the conversation from that point will simply be a countdown until that promised violence materializes - the time until the tiger remembers it is a tiger.

A more eloquent person would explain herself here, persuade and cajole, remind the Councillor of his role and hers, appeal to vanity or law. Give the other person a way to back down without harming their ego. Lero just stares intently. The only concession she's prepared to make is to give him a few minutes to posture and figure out his own excuse why backing down is the right move. People need that for some reason. Stupid. Animals know immediately when they're prepared to fight over something and have no shame about backing down when they're not. A wolf doesn't need a reputation. A wolf is.

She'll happily fight this thing, whatever it is, as soon as it occurs to Chiltepin to instruct her to do so - if that's what he really wants. Who knows with humans?

[Elanorin]

Eris, it isn't every day you are invited to join the Hierarch herself for a casual chat over lunch at a café in the center of Paris (with a view of the plaza in front of Notre Dame and the mystery man sitting on top of "point zero"). Maybe you've never met Sabbat before, or maybe you've only seen her in her official role at Consilium meetings where her grand and dramatic presence belies her largely ceremonial role of tie-breaker. Sitting here in a sunny café, sipping from a glass of dark red wine among piles of obsessively scribbled notes, fingers stained permanently black with ink from endless hours of note-taking, she looks nothing like the "Queen of Satan" persona you may be more familiar with. Instead you find yourself looking across the table at a studious, seemingly young woman in fashionable goth attire. If Count Dracula and the Wicked Witch sent their Seventh Daughter off to study in Paris ... she might graduate one day to look something like Sabbat. But there is definitely something unsettling and secretive about her, even in this lovely sunny light. Then again, no-one's met the Mastigos who wasn't unsettling and secretive yet, I suspect.

Though you are both Mysterium mages, your own status doesn't normally bring you such grand attention. Still, it's not official Consilium business, so it's probably Mysterium business. Unless you think the leader of the Paris Consilium has developed a personal interest in you? Tell me, what is this about?

Eris was sat, relaxed in her chair, face raised to the sun, her ink-free fingertips slowly spinning the base of a second glass of wine (a Tokay). She was herself dressed in a more modest goth fashion, a white knee-length lacy tunic under a corset belt in white leather and knee-high white high heeled lace-up boots. Her hair was black and white in a carefully styled mess that reached just below her shoulders, but she had decided to go for soft tones on her makeup today. Eris didn't always dress like this (though she had a soft spot for theatrical goth outfits and grand monochrome makeup) but she had hoped to catch Sabbat's eye without being too obvious about it. She hadn't removed her Bulgari sunglasses, partly due to the sun in her face but also because it allowed her to discreetly study Sabbat without having to pay any notice to decorum. While this was the first time they were together on their own, Eris noticed Sabbat, in more ways than just as the Hierarch, some months ago and had welcomed the invitation.

Sabbat had said she had something to show her and by the look of the surprising amount of notes and material that lay stacked on their small table it seemed to be quite something. Eris was not in a hurry, however. She was enjoying the wine and the company and whatever business brought them here was all well and good but it wasn't the main reason she'd agreed to come. As such she did not press the issue at all and instead was perfectly happy to keep casual conversation for as long as Sabbat would allow.

"You know, this is the very first time I've been here," Eris said with a contented sigh, like a cat lazing in the sun, "but I will definitely come here again. There is something quite soothing to sit and watch people go about their lives. Like an aquarium."

[Anarion]

Rothko, a man has been found sitting cross-legged right on top of "point zero", the spot designated as the center of Paris outside the Notre Dame Cathedral. The place is a dense node of ley lines - nothing new there - all crossing each other right there. The Sleepers who wander around the plaza don't see him but they unconsciously step around him all the same, and the coins that some have thrown at the spot have instead formed a ragged star of radiating lines around him. He appears to be meditating blissfully and hasn't moved so much as a muscle in nearly a week now.

What do you know about this man? Also, are you there, or ... where are you exactly?


Obrimos mages can cast invisibility and might perhaps do so if the ritual suited them, but inaction of this sort is not an Obrimos ritual. No, the symbol of coins heavy in the straight is classic Moros symbolism. Indeed, had Rothko wanted to begin a ritual to enchant the stones themselves of Notre Dame (which was no easy task, the cathedral was heavy with the weight of years and the wards of a myriad of mages), he could have thought of no better method. Well, barring the fact that he didn't have the talent to make himself invisible. A week is also an exceptionally long time to keep that going and no other mages have intervened.

As such, Rothko's best guess is that this individual is a Mage, Moros with forces talent or some Obrimos friends, with a long-term enchantment cast upon him (likely by ritual before getting into all this) and that he in turn is setting up for some sort of grand Moros working beyond merely casting a single spell by ritual. Further, he has the blessing of a major organization that would allow this, most likely the Consilium itself.

As such, Rothko has not approached the man, at least not yet. For the moment, he has simply set himself up at an outdoor table at one of the coffee shops across the square from the cathedral directly in line with the man and his symbolism. He sits on an outdoor second floor balcony, an old black wrought-iron edifice with curls and swirls in the workmanship that are reminiscent of ivy curled around spears. He sits at a little wooden table perched precariously atop this balcony with a white tablecloth over it contrasting with the blackened iron. On the table is a coffee cup for a latte, of which half has been consumed, and next to the table, wedged into one of the iron swirls, is an easel upon which Rothko is painting every detail of the ritual scene, including the man's form that is not visible to the passers by. One of the waiters commented that Rothko had a vivid imagination putting a man into that scene just where the coins were, and with the week passed, the oil painting is nearly complete and Rothko is just finishing up the final touches. He rather hopes that someone might come up to speak to him about the finished painting today, recording something like this in all its hidden details is dangerous at times, and ought to be attracting attention. Especially with all the deep somber coloring he has added himself, a reflection of the ghosts that haunt those hallowed walls. It's said that even Jeanne d'Arc herself has occasion to speak to the visitors of Notre Dame if they are apt to listen.

[Deadly]

"Councillor," Bellerophon said. "Put your clothes back on."

Her tone is flat, commanding. Service is mastery doesn't mean unquestioning submission - it means that the master is at the mercy of an enlightened servant.

Her stance shifts slightly as she speaks. Whenever Lero expresses an opinion she always immediately makes the decision on if she's prepared to back her words up with violence. As a consequence of that decision she will tense, and the conversation from that point will simply be a countdown until that promised violence materializes - the time until the tiger remembers it is a tiger.

A more eloquent person would explain herself here, persuade and cajole, remind the Councillor of his role and hers, appeal to vanity or law. Give the other person a way to back down without harming their ego. Lero just stares intently. The only concession she's prepared to make is to give him a few minutes to posture and figure out his own excuse why backing down is the right move. People need that for some reason. Stupid. Animals know immediately when they're prepared to fight over something and have no shame about backing down when they're not. A wolf doesn't need a reputation. A wolf is.

She'll happily fight this thing, whatever it is, as soon as it occurs to Chiltepin to instruct her to do so - if that's what he really wants. Who knows with humans?

The councilor stops his manly strutting and posturing and looks around, his eyes looking you up and down for a moment. Then he swiftly revises his decision and shoves the bottle of oil at you as he himself takes the shotgun. "These old relics only understand one kind of respect," he explains (helpfully?) and then starts squinting at the shotgun as if he's never seen one before. "I'll draw it out," he mutters distractedly. "You show it you're a man."

He takes one last good look at your face - your eyes - then resumes banging wildly on the coffin ... with the shotgun. Spirits are starting to gather at the edges of the room now, like distant spectators of an ancient Roman arena. The light seems to lose its vitality, grow older and weaker. Maybe it's the shotgun, maybe it's something else, but something is happening at last.


Eris was sat, relaxed in her chair, face raised to the sun, her ink-free fingertips slowly spinning the base of a second glass of wine (a Tokay). She was herself dressed in a more modest goth fashion, a white knee-length lacy tunic under a corset belt in white leather and knee-high white high heeled lace-up boots. Her hair was black and white in a carefully styled mess that reached just below her shoulders, but she had decided to go for soft tones on her makeup today. Eris didn't always dress like this (though she had a soft spot for theatrical goth outfits and grand monochrome makeup) but she had hoped to catch Sabbat's eye without being too obvious about it. She hadn't removed her Bulgari sunglasses, partly due to the sun in her face but also because it allowed her to discreetly study Sabbat without having to pay any notice to decorum. While this was the first time they were together on their own, Eris noticed Sabbat, in more ways than just as the Hierarch, some months ago and had welcomed the invitation.

Sabbat had said she had something to show her and by the look of the surprising amount of notes and material that lay stacked on their small table it seemed to be quite something. Eris was not in a hurry, however. She was enjoying the wine and the company and whatever business brought them here was all well and good but it wasn't the main reason she'd agreed to come. As such she did not press the issue at all and instead was perfectly happy to keep casual conversation for as long as Sabbat would allow.

"You know, this is the very first time I've been here," Eris said with a contented sigh, like a cat lazing in the sun, "but I will definitely come here again. There is something quite soothing to sit and watch people go about their lives. Like an aquarium."

Sabbat's hands keep working through the notes - calmly writing, sorting, arranging - even as she looks up at you. Her eyes are strikingly gray, with a clarity that seems to defy any distance, as if looking at someone across the world would be as natural and easy as looking at you just across the table. Like gazing into a pair of scrying pools under a silvery moon.

She stops writing long enough to move her glass of wine a little, but the attention of her eyes is on you. "And yet every hour, every moment, the fish are different. The aquarium isn't an aquarium at all, is it? But an ocean seen only through one tiny window at a time," she muses amiably.

One of the notes is a drawing of a scarab, surrounded by scribbles that have been written so small and so closely that they seem to almost flow together into one great smear of ink. But the drawing of the scarab is clear and stands out from the notes around it. It's not a work of art, not like Rothko's paintings, it's simply well drawn, detailed.

And Sabbat's busy hands haven't touched it since you sat down. All the other notes, you think, but not that one. It just stays on top, in plain view, even as all the others get shuffled around, like a buoy in a stormy sea, bouncing around among the waves but never disappearing below the surface. You're quite certain Sabbat knows exactly where all her notes are, even without looking, and that this isn't mere chance. It is there for you to see it, that much is clear.

Oh and, unrelated, but there's a "tingling" at the back of your neck (metaphorically speaking, I'm not sure what this actually feels like to you). Something old, something ... familiar but hazy, like smoke. Nothing to do with Sabbat, it's coming from somewhere else. Or perhaps it's nothing. Probably nothing.


Obrimos mages can cast invisibility and might perhaps do so if the ritual suited them, but inaction of this sort is not an Obrimos ritual. No, the symbol of coins heavy in the straight is classic Moros symbolism. Indeed, had Rothko wanted to begin a ritual to enchant the stones themselves of Notre Dame (which was no easy task, the cathedral was heavy with the weight of years and the wards of a myriad of mages), he could have thought of no better method. Well, barring the fact that he didn't have the talent to make himself invisible. A week is also an exceptionally long time to keep that going and no other mages have intervened.

As such, Rothko's best guess is that this individual is a Mage, Moros with forces talent or some Obrimos friends, with a long-term enchantment cast upon him (likely by ritual before getting into all this) and that he in turn is setting up for some sort of grand Moros working beyond merely casting a single spell by ritual. Further, he has the blessing of a major organization that would allow this, most likely the Consilium itself.

As such, Rothko has not approached the man, at least not yet. For the moment, he has simply set himself up at an outdoor table at one of the coffee shops across the square from the cathedral directly in line with the man and his symbolism. He sits on an outdoor second floor balcony, an old black wrought-iron edifice with curls and swirls in the workmanship that are reminiscent of ivy curled around spears. He sits at a little wooden table perched precariously atop this balcony with a white tablecloth over it contrasting with the blackened iron. On the table is a coffee cup for a latte, of which half has been consumed, and next to the table, wedged into one of the iron swirls, is an easel upon which Rothko is painting every detail of the ritual scene, including the man's form that is not visible to the passers by. One of the waiters commented that Rothko had a vivid imagination putting a man into that scene just where the coins were, and with the week passed, the oil painting is nearly complete and Rothko is just finishing up the final touches. He rather hopes that someone might come up to speak to him about the finished painting today, recording something like this in all its hidden details is dangerous at times, and ought to be attracting attention. Especially with all the deep somber coloring he has added himself, a reflection of the ghosts that haunt those hallowed walls. It's said that even Jeanne d'Arc herself has occasion to speak to the visitors of Notre Dame if they are apt to listen.

Whether you realize it or not, you are sitting not too far from Eris and Sabbat. Perhaps you can even see them, if you lean forward and look down at the right angle.

I have to question one part of your theory: if it was invisibility, surely the sleeping masses would be stumbling over him by accident, not unconsciously walking around him. More likely it is a Mind effect. The rest, though, you may well be right about.

It is not the maid of Orléans who joins you, no angel in shining armor but a darker kind of angel. Do you know Black Angel, or is this your first time meeting him? Familiar or not, you sense him before he's reached the top of the stairs. "Bonjour," he says in a voice of a lifetime's smoke and drink and sinks into a chair next to you. "That's some talent you have," he says, indicating the painting with one leather-gloved hand grasping a glass of whiskey.

You can feel the workings of magic all around him. He's not doing anything right now, but there's something going on about him, that's for certain. Tell me, what does magic feel like to your senses? How does your "sight" work?

He "just happens" to be well out of sight of Eris, by the way.

[Thanqol]

The councilor stops his manly strutting and posturing and looks around, his eyes looking you up and down for a moment. Then he swiftly revises his decision and shoves the bottle of oil at you as he himself takes the shotgun. "These old relics only understand one kind of respect," he explains (helpfully?) and then starts squinting at the shotgun as if he's never seen one before. "I'll draw it out," he mutters distractedly. "You show it you're a man."

He takes one last good look at your face - your eyes - then resumes banging wildly on the coffin ... with the shotgun. Spirits are starting to gather at the edges of the room now, like distant spectators of an ancient Roman arena. The light seems to lose its vitality, grow older and weaker. Maybe it's the shotgun, maybe it's something else, but something is happening at last.

Bellerophon's face flickered into a brief smile at seeing the crowd start to form. She liked this behaviour and encouraged it wherever she could. Having an audience, a crowd, felt good - felt connected. Like the world itself thought her worthy enough to pay attention to. Like her skill had objective meaning. Of course all the world was mere shadows cast by the Adamant Self, but if that was so, this must surely be the part of her soul that felt pride in her own abilities. Probably a dangerous thing - but surely a small thing given how crushing the rest of the world could be.

She traced her hand in the air. Mana erupted from her fingertips in the shapes of pink autumn flowers and rich hazelnuts - and she cast them into the audience like a bride throwing a bouquet, or a grandmother feeding pigeons. A display of confidence - arrogance - to disarm herself so before a battle. Spirits were like animals - they only really understood violence and rewards. They couldn't be tricked with words - but they also couldn't misconstrue her motivations when she gave them a gift purely to show how much she liked them.

Then she turned to face the sarcophagus and settled into a posture suggestive of battle. Magic crackled around her fingertips and eyes as she opened her senses to both Life and Spirit - did either have any sort of bearing on what she was about to fight?

[Channel Essence: Converting 3 mana to Essence and feeding it to the spirit crowd. 7/10 mana remaining]

[Elanorin]

Sabbat's hands keep working through the notes - calmly writing, sorting, arranging - even as she looks up at you. Her eyes are strikingly gray, with a clarity that seems to defy any distance, as if looking at someone across the world would be as natural and easy as looking at you just across the table. Like gazing into a pair of scrying pools under a silvery moon.

She stops writing long enough to move her glass of wine a little, but the attention of her eyes is on you. "And yet every hour, every moment, the fish are different. The aquarium isn't an aquarium at all, is it? But an ocean seen only through one tiny window at a time," she muses amiably.

One of the notes is a drawing of a scarab, surrounded by scribbles that have been written so small and so closely that they seem to almost flow together into one great smear of ink. But the drawing of the scarab is clear and stands out from the notes around it. It's not a work of art, not like Rothko's paintings, it's simply well drawn, detailed.

And Sabbat's busy hands haven't touched it since you sat down. All the other notes, you think, but not that one. It just stays on top, in plain view, even as all the others get shuffled around, like a buoy in a stormy sea, bouncing around among the waves but never disappearing below the surface. You're quite certain Sabbat knows exactly where all her notes are, even without looking, and that this isn't mere chance. It is there for you to see it, that much is clear.

Oh and, unrelated, but there's a "tingling" at the back of your neck (metaphorically speaking, I'm not sure what this actually feels like to you). Something old, something ... familiar but hazy, like smoke. Nothing to do with Sabbat, it's coming from somewhere else. Or perhaps it's nothing. Probably nothing.


Oh, curiosity. A force of power deeply underestimated.

Eris was becoming aware of the strategically placed piece of paper, how it alone remained untouched, seemingly unintentionally but clearly not so. That, she thought, would be the reason behind this meeting. But she knew how these things went. She knew people, including Mages, even ones like Sabbat. Once their attention was openly on that, whatever it was, the subject that brought them together would be resolved. Perhaps a brief discussion would take place, maybe exchange of knowledge or a request of some kind, but it didn't matter, it would resolve their immediate need to be here, sat, at this table, together. And then it would be over.

Eris didn't want it to be over. Which is also why she had utterly failed to mention the elephant in the room sat on point zero.

She turned her head to look directly at Sabbat, paused for a moment before she said, "True. I have not thought of it that way, but you are absolutely right." She sat up and leaned forwards a little, picked up her wine with one hand and leaned forwards on the table a little with her other arm accidentally pushing the scarab notes in amongst a pile of others.

"Ever played?" Eris asked, voice a tad lowered conspiratorially, her American accent bleeding through a little stronger than normal. "Conducted a little 'fish experiment' just... cause..."

A chill air trickled across the very surface of her skin, sending every tiny hair to stand on end. Tiny prickling pin pricks down her back, her Energy was reacting, the tang in the air was suddenly prodding her mind towards one of its many bolted doors. There were degrees of unpleasant events, people and memories in her past but the one thing they all in common was that they were all pretty much, well, unpleasant. It was old energy approaching her own and that automatically ruined her day.

Eris' face fell and her glittering smile faded. Her eyes immediately started darting around to try to discern the source and possible escape routes all at once.

"Are you hungry? Should we go for lunch?" Eris failed to fully erase her sudden desire to leave from her voice.

[Anarion]

Whether you realize it or not, you are sitting not too far from Eris and Sabbat. Perhaps you can even see them, if you lean forward and look down at the right angle.

I have to question one part of your theory: if it was invisibility, surely the sleeping masses would be stumbling over him by accident, not unconsciously walking around him. More likely it is a Mind effect. The rest, though, you may well be right about.


A very good point, that does make more sense. I wonder, in any case, why I'm not affected by it, I haven't been putting up any particular mind defenses. Perhaps it's just triggering my mage sight and my base level of training on the topic. Yes, perhaps that's all it is.



It is not the maid of Orléans who joins you, no angel in shining armor but a darker kind of angel. Do you know Black Angel, or is this your first time meeting him? Familiar or not, you sense him before he's reached the top of the stairs. "Bonjour," he says in a voice of a lifetime's smoke and drink and sinks into a chair next to you. "That's some talent you have," he says, indicating the painting with one leather-gloved hand grasping a glass of whiskey.

You can feel the workings of magic all around him. He's not doing anything right now, but there's something going on about him, that's for certain. Tell me, what does magic feel like to your senses? How does your "sight" work?

He "just happens" to be well out of sight of Eris, by the way.

I can't say that I've heard of Black Angel. Should I have? The name strikes me, personally, as the sort of shadow name chosen by a man who awoke at a younger age and was regrettably committed to it before he understood quite how foolish attempting to be dark and edgy appears to most people. His presentation seems to be committed to the theme at the least. Leather, whiskey, tobacco, all the signs of a man who desires very dearly to appear "cool" and does so through the trappings shown to him by magazines and movies. I have respect for a man who commits to his theme, if for no other reason than I would die from the hypocrisy of holding any other view.

I take a sip of my coffee and continue the last few brush strokes without turning to look at him, but say "thank you" in response to his compliment.

My sight varies of course. I tend to see death as a sense of weight and gravity around a person. If his magic is occurring to my peripheral death sight, I'm sure that the air around him would be darker than it ought to be, his shadow practically dragging him to the floor as he moves about carrying such a burden. Matter is the more scientific. I have a painter's eye, so things through matter shift and divide into their constituent shapes and components, showing me a vision of how they fit together and interlock. Mind I see as colors. Cliche, yes, yes, I am well aware, but even the worst sort of cliche is established for a reason and the association of color with emotion is adequately fundamental that it transcends cliche and simply approaches truth.

[Deadly]

Bellerophon's face flickered into a brief smile at seeing the crowd start to form. She liked this behaviour and encouraged it wherever she could. Having an audience, a crowd, felt good - felt connected. Like the world itself thought her worthy enough to pay attention to. Like her skill had objective meaning. Of course all the world was mere shadows cast by the Adamant Self, but if that was so, this must surely be the part of her soul that felt pride in her own abilities. Probably a dangerous thing - but surely a small thing given how crushing the rest of the world could be.

She traced her hand in the air. Mana erupted from her fingertips in the shapes of pink autumn flowers and rich hazelnuts - and she cast them into the audience like a bride throwing a bouquet, or a grandmother feeding pigeons. A display of confidence - arrogance - to disarm herself so before a battle. Spirits were like animals - they only really understood violence and rewards. They couldn't be tricked with words - but they also couldn't misconstrue her motivations when she gave them a gift purely to show how much she liked them.

Then she turned to face the sarcophagus and settled into a posture suggestive of battle. Magic crackled around her fingertips and eyes as she opened her senses to both Life and Spirit - did either have any sort of bearing on what she was about to fight?

[Channel Essence: Converting 3 mana to Essence and feeding it to the spirit crowd. 7/10 mana remaining]

The spirit crowd roars to life like hungry beasts, gorging themselves on the promise of blood sport and howling for the thrill of the battle to come. Arenas since ancient times did not ring with celebrations of Death, but of Life: the pumping of blood and adrenaline, the thrill and heat of battle, the glory of mighty struggle.

Life ... Life comes flooding forth from the gaping sarcophagus, a Supernal cornucopia overflowing with myriads of crawling, burrowing life. What you find, staring into the space behind the stone lid, is immediately recognizable to your sight: a gateway - an Iris - to a Supernal Verge of the Primal Wild.

From this portal emerges a beast, a challenger, like the mighty lion emerging from the gate to face the gladiator, or the raging bull charging out to face the sword of the Matador. But this is no King of the Jungle but a king of the crypt, a massive pale maggot-like monstrosity with short needle-legs in the hundreds. Its alien face is turned towards you, sensing your power as a challenge.


Oh, curiosity. A force of power deeply underestimated.

Eris was becoming aware of the strategically placed piece of paper, how it alone remained untouched, seemingly unintentionally but clearly not so. That, she thought, would be the reason behind this meeting. But she knew how these things went. She knew people, including Mages, even ones like Sabbat. Once their attention was openly on that, whatever it was, the subject that brought them together would be resolved. Perhaps a brief discussion would take place, maybe exchange of knowledge or a request of some kind, but it didn't matter, it would resolve their immediate need to be here, sat, at this table, together. And then it would be over.

Eris didn't want it to be over. Which is also why she had utterly failed to mention the elephant in the room sat on point zero.

She turned her head to look directly at Sabbat, paused for a moment before she said, "True. I have not thought of it that way, but you are absolutely right." She sat up and leaned forwards a little, picked up her wine with one hand and leaned forwards on the table a little with her other arm accidentally pushing the scarab notes in amongst a pile of others.

"Ever played?" Eris asked, voice a tad lowered conspiratorially, her American accent bleeding through a little stronger than normal. "Conducted a little 'fish experiment' just... cause..."

"Strictly observation," Sabbat said, a mysterious smile dancing in her eyes. Her hands began casually gathering some of the notes, including the scarab note which vanished into a stack, no more to be seen.


A chill air trickled across the very surface of her skin, sending every tiny hair to stand on end. Tiny prickling pin pricks down her back, her Energy was reacting, the tang in the air was suddenly prodding her mind towards one of its many bolted doors. There were degrees of unpleasant events, people and memories in her past but the one thing they all in common was that they were all pretty much, well, unpleasant. It was old energy approaching her own and that automatically ruined her day.

Eris' face fell and her glittering smile faded. Her eyes immediately started darting around to try to discern the source and possible escape routes all at once.

"Are you hungry? Should we go for lunch?" Eris failed to fully erase her sudden desire to leave from her voice.

"Relax," she said and leaned a little to the side, slipping into a more relaxed pose. You got the feeling she had no intention of hurrying to end this meeting; did she actually enjoy just casually chatting with you over a glass of wine? It could seem so, but maybe that's just the impression she wants to project? "It's just you and me, observing the fish. This particular aquarium is worth watching, trust me." She raises a hand, her ink-black fingers with their long black nails moving playfully as her eyes drift to the bracelet watch around her wrist, its face turned up like her palm.


I can't say that I've heard of Black Angel. Should I have? The name strikes me, personally, as the sort of shadow name chosen by a man who awoke at a younger age and was regrettably committed to it before he understood quite how foolish attempting to be dark and edgy appears to most people. His presentation seems to be committed to the theme at the least. Leather, whiskey, tobacco, all the signs of a man who desires very dearly to appear "cool" and does so through the trappings shown to him by magazines and movies. I have respect for a man who commits to his theme, if for no other reason than I would die from the hypocrisy of holding any other view.

I take a sip of my coffee and continue the last few brush strokes without turning to look at him, but say "thank you" in response to his compliment.

My sight varies of course. I tend to see death as a sense of weight and gravity around a person. If his magic is occurring to my peripheral death sight, I'm sure that the air around him would be darker than it ought to be, his shadow practically dragging him to the floor as he moves about carrying such a burden. Matter is the more scientific. I have a painter's eye, so things through matter shift and divide into their constituent shapes and components, showing me a vision of how they fit together and interlock. Mind I see as colors. Cliche, yes, yes, I am well aware, but even the worst sort of cliche is established for a reason and the association of color with emotion is adequately fundamental that it transcends cliche and simply approaches truth.

Whatever magic he's wrapped himself in, it is not within one of your expertises, though you sense something. It's surrounding and suffusing him, hanging over him. A sort of death perhaps, an end, but not Death.

He's silent for a good minute, studying the reality created by your brush. Then he points to a figure sort of on the edge, a sleeper in the crowd, with a casual move of his hand. He takes another few seconds to actually look at the figure he's pointing at, as if he didn't actually look where he was pointing at first. "That one," he says and leans back again, sipping his drink. "He's looking at the guy no one else is looking at."

True enough. Someone in the crowd was actually looking at the meditating man? And you happened to capture that look. Or maybe it's just a coincidence, or a trick of the eye, but now you can't unsee it. There is definitely a man in the crowd looking at the guy at point zero, a look of intention in his painted gaze.

[Anarion]

Whatever magic he's wrapped himself in, it is not within one of your expertises, though you sense something. It's surrounding and suffusing him, hanging over him. A sort of death perhaps, an end, but not Death.

He's silent for a good minute, studying the reality created by your brush. Then he points to a figure sort of on the edge, a sleeper in the crowd, with a casual move of his hand. He takes another few seconds to actually look at the figure he's pointing at, as if he didn't actually look where he was pointing at first. "That one," he says and leans back again, sipping his drink. "He's looking at the guy no one else is looking at."

True enough. Someone in the crowd was actually looking at the meditating man? And you happened to capture that look. Or maybe it's just a coincidence, or a trick of the eye, but now you can't unsee it. There is definitely a man in the crowd looking at the guy at point zero, a look of intention in his painted gaze.

I wipe off my brush and put it down along with the palette and turn to look more fully at Black Angel. "So he is" I say. Another sip of coffee. I move my view from Black Angel to the crowd and then back, perusing both with active Death sight. "Is there something I should know about all this, or your presence here? Or perhaps I should say, something that I ought to know other than what I will learn from sitting here and watching?"

[Thanqol]

The spirit crowd roars to life like hungry beasts, gorging themselves on the promise of blood sport and howling for the thrill of the battle to come. Arenas since ancient times did not ring with celebrations of Death, but of Life: the pumping of blood and adrenaline, the thrill and heat of battle, the glory of mighty struggle.

Life ... Life comes flooding forth from the gaping sarcophagus, a Supernal cornucopia overflowing with myriads of crawling, burrowing life. What you find, staring into the space behind the stone lid, is immediately recognizable to your sight: a gateway - an Iris - to a Supernal Verge of the Primal Wild.

From this portal emerges a beast, a challenger, like the mighty lion emerging from the gate to face the gladiator, or the raging bull charging out to face the sword of the Matador. But this is no King of the Jungle but a king of the crypt, a massive pale maggot-like monstrosity with short needle-legs in the hundreds. Its alien face is turned towards you, sensing your power as a challenge.

Bellerophon starts in shock and delight. To face a being of the Supernal in direct, bloody combat was an honour she hadn't had... ever. Her mouth goes dry and her hands twitch. Beautiful. Life in death. Life of Death. Reincarnation and rebirth. The hidden organic machinery of the world. Her heart pounded at the potential to learn, to integrate, to claim some aspect of this hidden marvel for-as herself.

With a wash of flowers autumn flowers and the barking of the delighted red hound, she breaches the Gauntlet and Pegasus storms through on hooves of light and water.

With a crackling buzz of focus and the eager bounding of the golden hound, she centres herself in this instant and drinks in the possibilities of danger.

With a howl and the blurring speed of the black hound, she and pegasus begin to race together, moving as a blur around the hundred-hundred legs, turning on a dime maneuver in the cramped tunnels, watching with cunning eyes to get the measure of this opponent.

[Reaching: +1 Reach Instant Cast, +1 Reach Opening an Iris: 10,3,5,1,2,2 - Potency 3 Duration 1, a portal to the Shadow opens for 1 round, allowing Pegasus to physically cross the Gauntlet.

Paradox dice: 4, no successes.

Activating Fate Armour - 1 Mana (6/10), Defense is now 18 and applies to firearm attacks]

[Elanorin]

"Strictly observation," Sabbat said, a mysterious smile dancing in her eyes. Her hands began casually gathering some of the notes, including the scarab note which vanished into a stack, no more to be seen.

"Relax," she said and leaned a little to the side, slipping into a more relaxed pose. You got the feeling she had no intention of hurrying to end this meeting; did she actually enjoy just casually chatting with you over a glass of wine? It could seem so, but maybe that's just the impression she wants to project? "It's just you and me, observing the fish. This particular aquarium is worth watching, trust me." She raises a hand, her ink-black fingers with their long black nails moving playfully as her eyes drift to the bracelet watch around her wrist, its face turned up like her palm.


Eris froze for a moment in her nervous fidgeting, and cast an apprehensive look Sabbat's way, the thought whether or not Sabbat was trying to hold her here went through her mind. Shortly followed by the possibility that she was part of whatever was putting her on edge, part of whatever unpleasantness was looming. Had she not sounded awfully reassuring just then? Like someone stroking an agitated pet to submission right before handing it over to the vet.

"Is that right? Just you... and me?" Eris asked, not hiding her suspicion. As much as she was attracted to Sabbat and excited by her interest, she was too used to running to just wave off her instincts just like that. "I'm... not as convinced of our privacy as you, cherie," Eris added, deciding to give Sabbat the benefit of doubt for just a moment longer and continued to glance all around. "And what's so special about this particular view of the aquarium?"

[Deadly]

I wipe off my brush and put it down along with the palette and turn to look more fully at Black Angel. "So he is" I say. Another sip of coffee. I move my view from Black Angel to the crowd and then back, perusing both with active Death sight. "Is there something I should know about all this, or your presence here? Or perhaps I should say, something that I ought to know other than what I will learn from sitting here and watching?"

"Me?" Black Angel lets out a brief, raspy chuckle. "I am only here to watch. I don't know what I'll see, only that I made sure I would be here to see it." He drains his glass and hands it empty to a passing waitress along with a healthy tip. She hurries off to bring him a new one. "If you want my best guess, I'd say it stinks of Arrow ambition, but don't take it from me. What you want to do is really none of my business. Go with your guts, if you have any, as I say."

He's not a ghost, or haunted by any ghosts (personal demons, on the other hand ... but that'd be Mind). He seems like the kind of Mage who knows how to go along with the flow, so either Fate or Time would be a good guess as to what's going on with him.

The man at point zero is holding something between his hands. A soul, contained within a small glass orb ... like a snow globe. But there's something very, very peculiar about the soul behind the glass. You can't tell at a glance what it is, but focused scrutiny might reveal its secrets. That, however, would require you to focus all your attention on just the soul jar, and would invite attention right back.

You also spot the man Black Angel pointed out in your painting, still wandering the crowd. He's constantly staying within a clear line of sight of point zero. He's got a determined posture and a driven expression framed by short black hair and a full black beard, and a large nose. He's wearing a simple black suit, slightly aged.

Here, too, is something hidden, obscured from sight. This isn't like the man at point zero, who seems to be only hiding from Sleepers who might otherwise have disturbed him out of plain ignorance. This man, on the other hand, is hiding something from Awakened eyes. If you wish to pierce it, you'll have to roll to contest (Gnosis+Death vs. 2 successes), but you can't scrutinize the soul jar at the same time.

A car just stopped, and Gilgamesh stepped out. He's not doing anything, just watching ... a very tense kind of watching, but nothing weird or unusual there. You get the feeling a lot of eyes are watching, or will be watching very soon. Oh, do tell us, what does Gilgamesh look like?


Eris froze for a moment in her nervous fidgeting, and cast an apprehensive look Sabbat's way, the thought whether or not Sabbat was trying to hold her here went through her mind. Shortly followed by the possibility that she was part of whatever was putting her on edge, part of whatever unpleasantness was looming. Had she not sounded awfully reassuring just then? Like someone stroking an agitated pet to submission right before handing it over to the vet.

"Is that right? Just you... and me?" Eris asked, not hiding her suspicion. As much as she was attracted to Sabbat and excited by her interest, she was too used to running to just wave off her instincts just like that. "I'm... not as convinced of our privacy as you, cherie," Eris added, deciding to give Sabbat the benefit of doubt for just a moment longer and continued to glance all around. "And what's so special about this particular view of the aquarium?"

Do you wish to try to determine her true intentions, or perhaps sense any deception? Either is Wits+Empathy, but the former is vs. 3 successes.

Sabbat looked away from her watch and back at you, leaning back. "We are in a public space, sitting out in the open, so I would surely not advise you share any deep secrets without precautions," she said. "But I'm confident everyone here are paying very little attention to us, as long as you do not draw undue attention to yourself."

She pointed behind you at the man sitting on point zero, still meditating. "That man's awareness isn't even on this plane of existence. You could walk right up to him and draw a mustache on his face, and he wouldn't notice. Others would, mind you, which is why he can sit there without any great concern."

Her hand moved, gesturing at a car that just stopped nearby. "There's Gilgamesh," she says, as the big man steps out of the car. Gilgamesh needs no introduction. "This is his big gamble. He and the rest of the Arrow are here to see to it that nothing interrupts the show until we know if it's a success or not. I am here, at least officially, as a neutral observer for the Concillium. That means I am to sit here and watch, and not interfere as long as all goes well. You are here, officially, because if I have to sit and observe the Arrow bang their collective heads against a wall, I'd rather do it in good company over a glass of wine." She smiles and lifts her glass to you.

"Unofficially, you and I - and a few others - are here because there are certain things for certain eyes to see. What that is, and what the eyes make of what they see is up to each of them."

"I think your friend Rothko is still sitting above us, another witness, though I didn't bring him here. You know the man who is with him, I believe, but his time here is short and he too is only here to watch. I do not think he will hang around afterwards, or come looking for you. Not today, at least."


Bellerophon starts in shock and delight. To face a being of the Supernal in direct, bloody combat was an honour she hadn't had... ever. Her mouth goes dry and her hands twitch. Beautiful. Life in death. Life of Death. Reincarnation and rebirth. The hidden organic machinery of the world. Her heart pounded at the potential to learn, to integrate, to claim some aspect of this hidden marvel for-as herself.

With a wash of flowers autumn flowers and the barking of the delighted red hound, she breaches the Gauntlet and Pegasus storms through on hooves of light and water.

With a crackling buzz of focus and the eager bounding of the golden hound, she centres herself in this instant and drinks in the possibilities of danger.

With a howl and the blurring speed of the black hound, she and pegasus begin to race together, moving as a blur around the hundred-hundred legs, turning on a dime maneuver in the cramped tunnels, watching with cunning eyes to get the measure of this opponent.

[Reaching: +1 Reach Instant Cast, +1 Reach Opening an Iris: 10,3,5,1,2,2 - Potency 3 Duration 1, a portal to the Shadow opens for 1 round, allowing Pegasus to physically cross the Gauntlet.

Paradox dice: 4, no successes.

Activating Fate Armour - 1 Mana (6/10), Defense is now 18 and applies to firearm attacks]

The beast is the size of a large bear, a ton or more of raw body mass eight feet long wrapped in a hard exoskeleton. It moves deceptively fast and, despite having no apparent eyes, it tracks your movements with perfect ease as you rush past. You do not think it has any blind spots, though its senses may be limited to living things and spirits.

You know it can sense spirits because it has wrapped itself in an ephemeral shield of invulnerability, warding against the influence and attacks of spirits the moment you summon Pegasus.

[Thanqol]

The beast is the size of a large bear, a ton or more of raw body mass eight feet long wrapped in a hard exoskeleton. It moves deceptively fast and, despite having no apparent eyes, it tracks your movements with perfect ease as you rush past. You do not think it has any blind spots, though its senses may be limited to living things and spirits.

You know it can sense spirits because it has wrapped itself in an ephemeral shield of invulnerability, warding against the influence and attacks of spirits the moment you summon Pegasus.

Bellerophon pauses after the initial rush, Pegasus slowing to a canter. Together they keep moving, heartbeats synchronizing, wordlessly communicating through twitches of legs and adjustments in stance. Pegasus tosses his head proudly to distract from the sudden cold rush he feels. He is the lesser here, and he knows it. His instincts tell him to run and find immortality in distance, but his pride transfixes him - and only the nervous clatter of hooves against stone betrays his nerves.

Lero doesn't reassure him. Those instincts are valuable - that pulsing adrenaline is the only thing that will save them if the beast comes for them. Calm would dull his edge. She reserves all that for herself. Her hands flex through the mudras of recognition - if she held a saber she'd be performing a duelling salute as she assessed the enemy's form. As she gestures the three hounds whisper secrets in her ear. The red hound tells her eagerly how she can win. The gold hound quietly informs her of her foe's names and titles - and some of these may pass beyond human language alone, so at times she may resort to soft bites or ominous stares if necessary. The black hound says nothing, but with his stance he makes it plain how seriously he is taking this.

[Know Spirit: 5,9,1,9,3 Disclaimer: I am not sure if Know Spirit applies to Supernal Entities in general, but it or something analogous almost certainly does to beings of the Primal Wild specifically. With Potency 3 I get three questions:
- What is its ban and bane?
- What is the spirit's name?
- What is its rank?

I am also curious about its defence, and if it counts as a Spirit for the purpose of Gossamer Touch?]

[Anarion]

"Me?" Black Angel lets out a brief, raspy chuckle. "I am only here to watch. I don't know what I'll see, only that I made sure I would be here to see it." He drains his glass and hands it empty to a passing waitress along with a healthy tip. She hurries off to bring him a new one. "If you want my best guess, I'd say it stinks of Arrow ambition, but don't take it from me. What you want to do is really none of my business. Go with your guts, if you have any, as I say."

He's not a ghost, or haunted by any ghosts (personal demons, on the other hand ... but that'd be Mind). He seems like the kind of Mage who knows how to go along with the flow, so either Fate or Time would be a good guess as to what's going on with him.

The man at point zero is holding something between his hands. A soul, contained within a small glass orb ... like a snow globe. But there's something very, very peculiar about the soul behind the glass. You can't tell at a glance what it is, but focused scrutiny might reveal its secrets. That, however, would require you to focus all your attention on just the soul jar, and would invite attention right back.

You also spot the man Black Angel pointed out in your painting, still wandering the crowd. He's constantly staying within a clear line of sight of point zero. He's got a determined posture and a driven expression framed by short black hair and a full black beard, and a large nose. He's wearing a simple black suit, slightly aged.

Here, too, is something hidden, obscured from sight. This isn't like the man at point zero, who seems to be only hiding from Sleepers who might otherwise have disturbed him out of plain ignorance. This man, on the other hand, is hiding something from Awakened eyes. If you wish to pierce it, you'll have to roll to contest (Gnosis+Death vs. 2 successes), but you can't scrutinize the soul jar at the same time.

A car just stopped, and Gilgamesh stepped out. He's not doing anything, just watching ... a very tense kind of watching, but nothing weird or unusual there. You get the feeling a lot of eyes are watching, or will be watching very soon. Oh, do tell us, what does Gilgamesh look like?


Due to outside sources, I am obligated to point out that Gilgamesh is a tall, powerfully built blond man. He's getting on in years, so his blond hair is nearly white and he wears it slicked backwards and just long enough to end in a few points. He's dressed in an expensive high-quality leather jacket and slacks.

Now, as to my options, you present some interesting choices. I think I'd like to understand the man in the crowd before I delve into the mystery of the orb. I may not have time for both, but I'm also not sure how fast everything will happen here, and the man who appeared only in my picture interests me at the moment just a little bit more than the show happening on the main stage. [gnosis+death=4d10: 7, 9, 7, 4. Plus willpower: 7, 1, 8. A tie. My reroll for the clash of wills is 9, 3, 2, 3. ]

For the moment, Black Angel is ignored as I focus on the crowd. Too many things to examine and I don't have the arcana to really understand him anyway. It's enough that he's here because he ought to be and isn't planning on causing trouble.

[Elanorin]

Do you wish to try to determine her true intentions, or perhaps sense any deception? Either is Wits+Empathy, but the former is vs. 3 successes.

Sabbat looked away from her watch and back at you, leaning back. "We are in a public space, sitting out in the open, so I would surely not advise you share any deep secrets without precautions," she said. "But I'm confident everyone here are paying very little attention to us, as long as you do not draw undue attention to yourself."

She pointed behind you at the man sitting on point zero, still meditating. "That man's awareness isn't even on this plane of existence. You could walk right up to him and draw a mustache on his face, and he wouldn't notice. Others would, mind you, which is why he can sit there without any great concern."

Her hand moved, gesturing at a car that just stopped nearby. "There's Gilgamesh," she says, as the big man steps out of the car. Gilgamesh needs no introduction. "This is his big gamble. He and the rest of the Arrow are here to see to it that nothing interrupts the show until we know if it's a success or not. I am here, at least officially, as a neutral observer for the Concillium. That means I am to sit here and watch, and not interfere as long as all goes well. You are here, officially, because if I have to sit and observe the Arrow bang their collective heads against a wall, I'd rather do it in good company over a glass of wine." She smiles and lifts her glass to you.

"Unofficially, you and I - and a few others - are here because there are certain things for certain eyes to see. What that is, and what the eyes make of what they see is up to each of them."

"I think your friend Rothko is still sitting above us, another witness, though I didn't bring him here. You know the man who is with him, I believe, but his time here is short and he too is only here to watch. I do not think he will hang around afterwards, or come looking for you. Not today, at least."


Her true intentions? Where's the excitement in that? Although now you come to mention it I am scrutinising her for signs of untruths. While I am inclined to believe her, not just because of who she is (though I do try to not take reputation in to account when I judge character) but it seems to make sense, I don't make a habit of ignoring my gut instinct. Good things do not happen when I do that.

[Rolling Wits+Empathy: 8, 5, 8, 6, 5, 9]

Gilgamesh? The name made Eris' break eyecontact and immediately look in the indicated direction. Her fingers began to itch with electricity wanting to be let free. Her eyes narrowed yet her mouth smiled.

Oh a tiny little raincloud just for you, wouldn't that just make your day, hm?

She was a little distracted as Sabbat went on to mention Rothko and guest. She glanced around in a final failed attempt to spot them but soon gave up. She took a large sip of her sweet wine and only then did it dawn on her, had Sabbat just flirted with her?! How could she have missed that! In a desperate attempt to save whatever fragments of the moment still remained Eris offered a big warm smile and held up her glass in salut.

"Sounds like a show most entertaining to watch. To good company, may it linger."

[Deadly]

Bellerophon pauses after the initial rush, Pegasus slowing to a canter. Together they keep moving, heartbeats synchronizing, wordlessly communicating through twitches of legs and adjustments in stance. Pegasus tosses his head proudly to distract from the sudden cold rush he feels. He is the lesser here, and he knows it. His instincts tell him to run and find immortality in distance, but his pride transfixes him - and only the nervous clatter of hooves against stone betrays his nerves.

Lero doesn't reassure him. Those instincts are valuable - that pulsing adrenaline is the only thing that will save them if the beast comes for them. Calm would dull his edge. She reserves all that for herself. Her hands flex through the mudras of recognition - if she held a saber she'd be performing a duelling salute as she assessed the enemy's form. As she gestures the three hounds whisper secrets in her ear. The red hound tells her eagerly how she can win. The gold hound quietly informs her of her foe's names and titles - and some of these may pass beyond human language alone, so at times she may resort to soft bites or ominous stares if necessary. The black hound says nothing, but with his stance he makes it plain how seriously he is taking this.

[Know Spirit: 5,9,1,9,3 Disclaimer: I am not sure if Know Spirit applies to Supernal Entities in general, but it or something analogous almost certainly does to beings of the Primal Wild specifically. With Potency 3 I get three questions:
- What is its ban and bane?
- What is the spirit's name?
- What is its rank?

I am also curious about its defence, and if it counts as a Spirit for the purpose of Gossamer Touch?]

Its name is a level of intensity, which can approximately be expressed as a particular color, #550022 or #502. There's a precise expression for it in High Speech, but it's easier for us poor mortals to refer to it as Cinqzérodeux.

If the beast is brought into a ring - like an arena or such like - it must kill all within that ring before it can leave, or lose all willpower. It can be harmed by the leaf-less branches of the coffee plant.

I have no strong argument against Gossamer Touch affecting it. I believe it's also considered solid within the Verge itself.

Its base Defense is 6.

Rank is 3. Gauntlet strength here is 1. Inside the Verge itself it is 0.

*

The beast danced around on its hundreds of legs, an intensely provocative display clearly meant as a challenge. It's testing your composure, trying to goad you into attacking it blindly.

Control Instincts: Trying to make you act rashly, basically cranking the Fight instinct up to 11.
+1 Reach to affect supernatural creatures
+1 Reach for instant casting
+1 Reach for advanced potency
+1 Reach for advanced duration
+1 Reach for sensory range
+1 Reach to change primary factor to potency
Potency 3 + 3 for -6 to the roll
Power+Finess (14 - 6 = 8): 2,4,3,9,4,8,2,1 = 2 successes

However this all turns out, this is a genuinely dangerous situation, so take 1 xp.


Due to outside sources, I am obligated to point out that Gilgamesh is a tall, powerfully built blond man. He's getting on in years, so his blond hair is nearly white and he wears it slicked backwards and just long enough to end in a few points. He's dressed in an expensive high-quality leather jacket and slacks.

Now, as to my options, you present some interesting choices. I think I'd like to understand the man in the crowd before I delve into the mystery of the orb. I may not have time for both, but I'm also not sure how fast everything will happen here, and the man who appeared only in my picture interests me at the moment just a little bit more than the show happening on the main stage. [gnosis+death=4d10: 7, 9, 7, 4. Plus willpower: 7, 1, 8. A tie. My reroll for the clash of wills is 9, 3, 2, 3. ]

For the moment, Black Angel is ignored as I focus on the crowd. Too many things to examine and I don't have the arcana to really understand him anyway. It's enough that he's here because he ought to be and isn't planning on causing trouble.

For all the world it seems the man is alone in the crowd. But he's not. He is in fact followed by a young girl, maybe twelve years old, black with long hair braided in cornrows, wearing a black leather jacket and glasses. She's there, but she's not. She's had all connection to the world severed, making her just an empty presence.

She also has no soul. The man is holding her hand, leading her like a parent would a child so she doesn't get lost, but her eyes are fixed on the other man. Perhaps it is her soul in the orb, because nothing else seems to hold her attention and she occasionally, instinctively drifts off in that direction before his hand guides her back. [Take 1 Arcane XP]

The man turns and looks directly at you, having noticed your scrutiny. His face shows no change, but in that moment, with his attention turned to you, the girl manages to pull her hand free of his and starts heading directly for the man at point zero, heedless to anything else. Her guardian spins around, but the crowd is making it difficult to pursue, and the girl is swift.

Her guardian mutters something you can't hear, but probably a curse, yet he remains calm. He takes in the situation while his hand slips inside his coat ... and comes out holding a pistol, which he aims ... at the girl, or the guy still at point zero. It's hard to say, it could be he'll only decide the moment he pulls the trigger, which is any moment now.

Meanwhile, something is happening there. The ley lines of the city just shook, as if Zeus' own battering ram just collided with the adamantine gates of Tartarus ... and the gates stood strong, ringing from the blow but barely a scratch or a dent. Even the crowd of Sleepers felt something, a confused murmuration of voices rising from the plaza.

And the man pulls the trigger.

And below you, you feel Sabbat's mind reaching straight for his, though what she's doing is more than you can tell reflexively.


Her true intentions? Where's the excitement in that? Although now you come to mention it I am scrutinising her for signs of untruths. While I am inclined to believe her, not just because of who she is (though I do try to not take reputation in to account when I judge character) but it seems to make sense, I don't make a habit of ignoring my gut instinct. Good things do not happen when I do that.

[Rolling Wits+Empathy: 8, 5, 8, 6, 5, 9]

Gilgamesh? The name made Eris' break eyecontact and immediately look in the indicated direction. Her fingers began to itch with electricity wanting to be let free. Her eyes narrowed yet her mouth smiled.

Oh a tiny little raincloud just for you, wouldn't that just make your day, hm?

She was a little distracted as Sabbat went on to mention Rothko and guest. She glanced around in a final failed attempt to spot them but soon gave up. She took a large sip of her sweet wine and only then did it dawn on her, had Sabbat just flirted with her?! How could she have missed that! In a desperate attempt to save whatever fragments of the moment still remained Eris offered a big warm smile and held up her glass in salut.

"Sounds like a show most entertaining to watch. To good company, may it linger."

Gilgamesh doesn't even deign to look your way, but what did you expect?

Sabbat clinks her glass against yours and smiles. You detect no falsehood, but there are surely things she's refrained from getting into. You're certain it's not out of any malice or intention to deceive, however. Maybe she intends to talk about it later, or maybe she doesn't think it's anything to bother you with.

And then something shook, like the Hammer of the Gods against the foundations of the world. Sabbat is standing up, almost before you feel it, and the entire crowd just stopped, eyes looking every which way. Sabbat's are fixed, not on the man at point zero, where the blow seemed to originate, but at someone else across the plaza. Her nimbus is flaring like a labyrinth of shadows and impossible angles, hiding a thousand eyes like animals peering out from far distant realms.

And above all the sudden murmuring, there's a shot ...

Oh, and take 1 xp for roleplay. I didn't set out to make this a romantic meeting, yet here we are.

[Anarion]

Her guardian mutters something you can't hear, but probably a curse, yet he remains calm. He takes in the situation while his hand slips inside his coat ... and comes out holding a pistol, which he aims ... at the girl, or the guy still at point zero. It's hard to say, it could be he'll only decide the moment he pulls the trigger, which is any moment now.

Meanwhile, something is happening there. The ley lines of the city just shook, as if Zeus' own battering ram just collided with the adamantine gates of Tartarus ... and the gates stood strong, ringing from the blow but barely a scratch or a dent. Even the crowd of Sleepers felt something, a confused murmuration of voices rising from the plaza.

And the man pulls the trigger.

And below you, you feel Sabbat's mind reaching straight for his, though what she's doing is more than you can tell reflexively.


I could stop that gunshot easily. A single stroke of my brush and the gun would be subtly misshapen to throw the aim before the man fires, or the shadows themselves would catch the bullet behind the girl. There's an elegance to that, I think, it would make a beautiful image.

But then, what reason do I have to intervene in this? The act going on is fascinating and the gunshot is likely intended to prevent interference. I am enjoying the sense of destruction brought about by this spiritual battering ram. May the child find peace, and may her spirit roam free and not be haunted by such grisly business, I might say.

I might, and yet I am touched by kindness. The whole of Notre Dame could come down and I would revel as the dust settled over my face and obscured the crowd. But this young girl, she does not deserve the shot aimed at her, at any part of her. Whatever this is, the finality being brought to this child is...premature.

So my brush taps the canvas as the man in the crowd raises his gun, and though the shot goes off, its aim is wrong and it sails harmlessly through the air, or perhaps the gun simply misfires, the hammer unable to work appropriately to fire the bullet.

[Shaping rote. +1 reach to warp solid matter, +1 reach for sensory range, +1 reach for instant cast. The spell is at potency 2. Each point of potency reduces the bonus of the weapon, and if the bonus is reduced to zero, the weapon becomes useless. There's no pistol listed in the book with a bonus of more than 2, but I'm going to take a dice penalty anyway to get up to potency 3, just in case this pistol is special somehow.]
[roll0]
10 again is a 1, just a regular success.

[Thanqol]

Its name is a level of intensity, which can approximately be expressed as a particular color, #550022 or #502. There's a precise expression for it in High Speech, but it's easier for us poor mortals to refer to it as Cinqzérodeux.

If the beast is brought into a ring - like an arena or such like - it must kill all within that ring before it can leave, or lose all willpower. It can be harmed by the leaf-less branches of the coffee plant.

I have no strong argument against Gossamer Touch affecting it. I believe it's also considered solid within the Verge itself.

Its base Defense is 6.

Rank is 3. Gauntlet strength here is 1. Inside the Verge itself it is 0.

*

The beast danced around on its hundreds of legs, an intensely provocative display clearly meant as a challenge. It's testing your composure, trying to goad you into attacking it blindly.

Control Instincts: Trying to make you act rashly, basically cranking the Fight instinct up to 11.
+1 Reach to affect supernatural creatures
+1 Reach for instant casting
+1 Reach for advanced potency
+1 Reach for advanced duration
+1 Reach for sensory range
+1 Reach to change primary factor to potency
Potency 3 + 3 for -6 to the roll
Power+Finess (14 - 6 = 8): 2,4,3,9,4,8,2,1 = 2 successes

However this all turns out, this is a genuinely dangerous situation, so take 1 xp.

Candice is instinct. Instinct is enlightenment. The answers are all as simple as they are relentless and Cinqzérodeux is the icon of this. There are paths to victory here for a woman - a coffee bean and a Compelling spell would make a deadly spear - and there are paths to escape for a steed - a circle of salt and a spell to attract the rats. Hounds red and gold whisper their advice but this is not their moment. This is the moment for the black, this is a moment for howling, this is a moment to show the world that I AM STRONGER.

Horse and rider move as one.

Whenever Lero fights it's the climactic discharge of a lifetime of self restraint. Every awkward conversation, every hour spent filling out forms, every day spent in that goddamn mascot costume - all of it subordinate to a vast and decrepit engine that claims a bloody monopoly on the use of force. She herself is in service to that machinery of sanctioned violence. Intellectually she knows there are very good reasons to be so - the world can only survive if monsters like her - like Cinqzérodeux - are kept chained to concepts of honour, morality, service. The jungle in her heart is so deadly it would consume her own soul if she let it. The Adamant Way is merely a set of words, but they are words that have been beaten into her bones with fists and rods, and the jungle can learn and adapt.

The same cracking percussive beat of her training comes out in the form of a hand, creator and destructor, open and closed, pounding into pliant white flesh.

[Exceptional Luck: Potency 4, 5 dice cast+3 willpower (4 reach)
- +2 reach +1 mana for reflexive (5/10)
- +1 reach for advanced duration (1 scene)
- +1 reach for advanced potency
Bestows a Boon for +Potency dice for +potency dice rolls.
- 1 success

Strength+brawl+willpower+4 - 6 defense = 8 dice
9,10,7,2,9,7,4,7 - 10 again 4
3 successes, so 3B damage

6/8WP]

[Elanorin]

Gilgamesh doesn't even deign to look your way, but what did you expect?

Sabbat clinks her glass against yours and smiles. You detect no falsehood, but there are surely things she's refrained from getting into. You're certain it's not out of any malice or intention to deceive, however. Maybe she intends to talk about it later, or maybe she doesn't think it's anything to bother you with.

And then something shook, like the Hammer of the Gods against the foundations of the world. Sabbat is standing up, almost before you feel it, and the entire crowd just stopped, eyes looking every which way. Sabbat's are fixed, not on the man at point zero, where the blow seemed to originate, but at someone else across the plaza. Her nimbus is flaring like a labyrinth of shadows and impossible angles, hiding a thousand eyes like animals peering out from far distant realms.

And above all the sudden murmuring, there's a shot ...

Oh, and take 1 xp for roleplay. I didn't set out to make this a romantic meeting, yet here we are.

Eris is on her feet, a second after Sabbat and immediately searching around her for what had just caused the tremor she'd felt and then, the next moment, the shot that had caused her to flinch in a reflexive duck-for-cover move which she'd only half managed to interrupt.

It wasn't until a moment later that she fully took in the sight of Sabbat and her flaring nimbus. It was hard not to be utterly distracted (and impressed) by the sight. If she hadn't found her attractive before...

[Deadly]

I could stop that gunshot easily. A single stroke of my brush and the gun would be subtly misshapen to throw the aim before the man fires, or the shadows themselves would catch the bullet behind the girl. There's an elegance to that, I think, it would make a beautiful image.

But then, what reason do I have to intervene in this? The act going on is fascinating and the gunshot is likely intended to prevent interference. I am enjoying the sense of destruction brought about by this spiritual battering ram. May the child find peace, and may her spirit roam free and not be haunted by such grisly business, I might say.

I might, and yet I am touched by kindness. The whole of Notre Dame could come down and I would revel as the dust settled over my face and obscured the crowd. But this young girl, she does not deserve the shot aimed at her, at any part of her. Whatever this is, the finality being brought to this child is...premature.

So my brush taps the canvas as the man in the crowd raises his gun, and though the shot goes off, its aim is wrong and it sails harmlessly through the air, or perhaps the gun simply misfires, the hammer unable to work appropriately to fire the bullet.

[Shaping rote. +1 reach to warp solid matter, +1 reach for sensory range, +1 reach for instant cast. The spell is at potency 2. Each point of potency reduces the bonus of the weapon, and if the bonus is reduced to zero, the weapon becomes useless. There's no pistol listed in the book with a bonus of more than 2, but I'm going to take a dice penalty anyway to get up to potency 3, just in case this pistol is special somehow.]
[roll0]
10 again is a 1, just a regular success.

The trigger moves under his finger, there's a bang but as you expect no bullet ... which serves to remind us that guns aren't always that terribly useful among mages, so it's worth pausing to consider why this man would bother with one. More so because, if he's the one who severed the girl's connection to the world, then he's a master of Death and certainly doesn't need the gun to kill, if that's his wish.

But maybe it's not the gun he wants. Maybe it's just the symbol of a gun. Or the "sight" of one. After all, a gun, even without bullets, may still serve or at least aid a purpose. Especially if you're a mage. As it is, a gunshot is still a gunshot, bullet or no, from the perspective of a crowded Parisian plaza already on edge from the unexplained quake and the shadow of terrorism.

In that context, it doesn't take much to excite a crowd into mass hysteria. But, to not diminish your action's worth, the girl at least is unharmed - for now.

But before we get that far and everything erupts, an observation and a question for you. Right next to the plaza you're looking out over is, coincidentally, conveniently perhaps, the Prefect of Police. With aforementioned terror on the mind, a large force of armed and alert police and emergency services are literally steps away from the scene, always ready to charge in at a moment's notice.

Also right next to where you are is the Hôtel-Dieu hospital, the oldest and most central hospital in Paris. It's not the worst place to have an emergency, one might note.

The question is, who runs these two aspects of the city? I mean, who really runs them? Are the police under Pentacle control, or do the Seers have their grubby claws all over it? Or maybe it's complicated/stranger than that? What about the hospital?


Eris is on her feet, a second after Sabbat and immediately searching around her for what had just caused the tremor she'd felt and then, the next moment, the shot that had caused her to flinch in a reflexive duck-for-cover move which she'd only half managed to interrupt.

It wasn't until a moment later that she fully took in the sight of Sabbat and her flaring nimbus. It was hard not to be utterly distracted (and impressed) by the sight. If she hadn't found her attractive before...

You spot the man with the gun just as the crowd breaks into a panic at the rumble and the gunshot. You don't even notice a young girl stumble out of the roiling sea of chaos and wrap her arms around your legs like a life buoy, but there she is, out of literal nowhere, holding on for dear life yet at the same time drawn inexplicably towards the meditating man ... or something he's got.

This much is going to happen, but here's a question before we get too far ahead of ourselves. Sabbat is focused on the gunman, who is focused - like the girl - on the meditating man or something he's got. Gilgamesh and whatever Arrow backup he's got are going to have all eyes on protecting their man, because whatever mind effect is making the crowd ignore him can't prevent people from being shoved into him. It doesn't stop the gunman either.

With the gunman possibly distracted by Sabbat for a second or more, you may have a chance to get at the meditating man (or whatever he's got) before Gilgamesh and his Arrow backup. It's probably a super bad idea, but it'll surely piss off Gilly - don't call him that - and there's a juicy beat in it for you if you make the attempt.

Do you take the chance, or do you stay where you are with Sabbat and the girl? There's no time to think it over or analyze the situation first, or the chance will be lost, so I need your answer up front.


Candice is instinct. Instinct is enlightenment. The answers are all as simple as they are relentless and Cinqzérodeux is the icon of this. There are paths to victory here for a woman - a coffee bean and a Compelling spell would make a deadly spear - and there are paths to escape for a steed - a circle of salt and a spell to attract the rats. Hounds red and gold whisper their advice but this is not their moment. This is the moment for the black, this is a moment for howling, this is a moment to show the world that I AM STRONGER.

Horse and rider move as one.

Whenever Lero fights it's the climactic discharge of a lifetime of self restraint. Every awkward conversation, every hour spent filling out forms, every day spent in that goddamn mascot costume - all of it subordinate to a vast and decrepit engine that claims a bloody monopoly on the use of force. She herself is in service to that machinery of sanctioned violence. Intellectually she knows there are very good reasons to be so - the world can only survive if monsters like her - like Cinqzérodeux - are kept chained to concepts of honour, morality, service. The jungle in her heart is so deadly it would consume her own soul if she let it. The Adamant Way is merely a set of words, but they are words that have been beaten into her bones with fists and rods, and the jungle can learn and adapt.

The same cracking percussive beat of her training comes out in the form of a hand, creator and destructor, open and closed, pounding into pliant white flesh.

[Exceptional Luck: Potency 4, 5 dice cast+3 willpower (4 reach)
- +2 reach +1 mana for reflexive (5/10)
- +1 reach for advanced duration (1 scene)
- +1 reach for advanced potency
Bestows a Boon for +Potency dice for +potency dice rolls.
- 1 success

Strength+brawl+willpower+4 - 6 defense = 8 dice
9,10,7,2,9,7,4,7 - 10 again 4
3 successes, so 3B damage

6/8WP]

The beast takes your pounding, new scales and wicked spines seeming to grow from its body with each beat. Tentacles sprout from its head, twisting and churning in hunger, as long as its body and strong enough to grapple.

Firstly, I liked your suggested condition, so take "-2 composure ongoing, resolve when you do something super dumb due to anger."

Transform Life (Life 3):
+1 Reach for instant casting
+1 Reach for advanced potency
+1 Reach for advanced duration
Potency 3, no penalty
Power+Finess (14): 10,7,5,8,9,4,4,9,9,3,1,8,4,9;4 = exceptional success, taking +1 potency

The beast gains 2/1 armor, venomous spikes, immunity to venom, and tentacles

As I understand it, since it has free reach (also, no Integrity/Wisdom) it can't normally risk paradox except in the witness of Sleepers. Correct me if wrong.

[Thanqol]

Lero slowed from a gallop, shaking her hand, still furious - but having discharged just enough anger to arm herself before returning to charge again. Her hand swims through orange light and three sets of jaws align themselves with her careful, sharp strikes through the air. Her foe seeks to destroy her by becoming ever less human and she will overcome it by being ever more so.

Even as she readies herself, though, she envies it. Even if she overcomes it, in these few seconds it has proved itself master of both its own body and her emotions. The bloody animal will there understands the true nature of things far more deeply than she does. It is larger and faster and more cunning and her only sword is Fate's unnatural habit of favouring the underdog.

[Gossamer Touch
Base pool 10+3 Willpower = 13
-8 for +4 potency = 5D
Duration 1 [Scene/hour] – 2 dice
1 Reach: Advanced Potency
1 Reach: Scene length
1 Reach: Item transfer
1 Reach: Instant Cast

1,10,5,9,2 - 10 again 9, so 3 successes
Potency 7 so Lero's hands are now 7L weapons.
Note: With Gnosis of 1, Bellerophon can only maintain 1 spell without penalty. Between this and Exceptional Luck she's now taking -1 to everything.

5/8 WP]

[Elanorin]

You spot the man with the gun just as the crowd breaks into a panic at the rumble and the gunshot. You don't even notice a young girl stumble out of the roiling sea of chaos and wrap her arms around your legs like a life buoy, but there she is, out of literal nowhere, holding on for dear life yet at the same time drawn inexplicably towards the meditating man ... or something he's got.

This much is going to happen, but here's a question before we get too far ahead of ourselves. Sabbat is focused on the gunman, who is focused - like the girl - on the meditating man or something he's got. Gilgamesh and whatever Arrow backup he's got are going to have all eyes on protecting their man, because whatever mind effect is making the crowd ignore him can't prevent people from being shoved into him. It doesn't stop the gunman either.

With the gunman possibly distracted by Sabbat for a second or more, you may have a chance to get at the meditating man (or whatever he's got) before Gilgamesh and his Arrow backup. It's probably a super bad idea, but it'll surely piss off Gilly - don't call him that - and there's a juicy beat in it for you if you make the attempt.

Do you take the chance, or do you stay where you are with Sabbat and the girl? There's no time to think it over or analyze the situation first, or the chance will be lost, so I need your answer up front.


Here's the thing, Gil is special. I both dread and look forwards to our paths crossing, all day, every day. I hold a very particular flavour of resentment for that man and it is not without some satisfaction that I feel utterly entitled to send any and all punishment my whims conjures his way. Though, as a human being, he's really not much more than your average despicable person, but he wronged a friend, and that I will not forgive.

It is possible I carry a grudge greater than my relationship to this particular Mage really allows, even by a generous medieval reckoning. It is possible that I will carry it longer than Lero herself. But no, he's a ****ing ass that deserves every damn lump he gets, and it is a sacred duty to ensure he doesn't go too long between hits.

So yes, I'm going. I have no quarrel with the meditating man, yet, but he seems to Have Something, something Gil either wants or seeks to protect. That's plenty motivation for me.

The off chance that this particular display of stupid recklessness impresses Sabbat is a tasty side.

[Anarion]

The trigger moves under his finger, there's a bang but as you expect no bullet ... which serves to remind us that guns aren't always that terribly useful among mages, so it's worth pausing to consider why this man would bother with one. More so because, if he's the one who severed the girl's connection to the world, then he's a master of Death and certainly doesn't need the gun to kill, if that's his wish.

But maybe it's not the gun he wants. Maybe it's just the symbol of a gun. Or the "sight" of one. After all, a gun, even without bullets, may still serve or at least aid a purpose. Especially if you're a mage. As it is, a gunshot is still a gunshot, bullet or no, from the perspective of a crowded Parisian plaza already on edge from the unexplained quake and the shadow of terrorism.

In that context, it doesn't take much to excite a crowd into mass hysteria. But, to not diminish your action's worth, the girl at least is unharmed - for now.

But before we get that far and everything erupts, an observation and a question for you. Right next to the plaza you're looking out over is, coincidentally, conveniently perhaps, the Prefect of Police. With aforementioned terror on the mind, a large force of armed and alert police and emergency services are literally steps away from the scene, always ready to charge in at a moment's notice.

Also right next to where you are is the Hôtel-Dieu hospital, the oldest and most central hospital in Paris. It's not the worst place to have an emergency, one might note.

The question is, who runs these two aspects of the city? I mean, who really runs them? Are the police under Pentacle control, or do the Seers have their grubby claws all over it? Or maybe it's complicated/stranger than that? What about the hospital?


My nimbus flares from the spell cast, and a mage gazing at the balcony where I stand might see a visual of the wrought iron rusting and crumbling away into dust as my shadow gives sight to my displeasure. That is annoying. I could have rendered the gun useless entirely with the exact same spell at the exact same power, but my affectation in creating a misfire allowed him to create an effect on the crowd that I'd have preferred prevented. I shall suffer the blame for focusing only on the child.

The police are now to get involved, and perhaps the hospitals. Paris has a complex history with law enforcement, and you'll no doubt find it unsurprising that such a history is the work of competing factions of mages. The Paris street fighters of the 18th and 19th centuries, the so-called Sans-Culottes were an effort by the Free Counsel. The National Guard were a creation of the Adamantine Arrow, an attempt to bring their ideas into practice across a whole nation. The modern police force typically has Seer influence, but because the fighters of Paris were the natural inductees into its police academies over the course of the 19th century, the Free Counsel and the Arrow have maintained their influence. The police today represent an unusual mixture of forces vying for power, with the Arrow and Counsel in an uneasy alliance against the Seers for every little appointment and staff sergeant.

As for the hospital, for my part, I thought of such places as neutral ground. They are of interest to a number of paths, and the less scrupulous mage may very well attempt to draw power from the sick in a variety of ways (the Thyrsus life scientist most notably), but I would not call a hospital under the sway of any particular faction, at least directly. The Seers have enough monetary resources available that they could direct its policy through a considerable donation for a new wing, of course, and there's no matching that from the Pentacle. I suspect that some mages may even be making efforts to maintain that neutrality. Those self-same Thyrsus would have an interest in ensuring the integrity of the hospital's spirit to ensure that their experiments are not tainted. Perhaps there is an alliance of Shamans and the odd death initiate who seek to preserve the place in its primary operations without interference.

[Deadly]

Here's the thing, Gil is special. I both dread and look forwards to our paths crossing, all day, every day. I hold a very particular flavour of resentment for that man and it is not without some satisfaction that I feel utterly entitled to send any and all punishment my whims conjures his way. Though, as a human being, he's really not much more than your average despicable person, but he wronged a friend, and that I will not forgive.

It is possible I carry a grudge greater than my relationship to this particular Mage really allows, even by a generous medieval reckoning. It is possible that I will carry it longer than Lero herself. But no, he's a ****ing ass that deserves every damn lump he gets, and it is a sacred duty to ensure he doesn't go too long between hits.

So yes, I'm going. I have no quarrel with the meditating man, yet, but he seems to Have Something, something Gil either wants or seeks to protect. That's plenty motivation for me.

The off chance that this particular display of stupid recklessness impresses Sabbat is a tasty side.


My nimbus flares from the spell cast, and a mage gazing at the balcony where I stand might see a visual of the wrought iron rusting and crumbling away into dust as my shadow gives sight to my displeasure. That is annoying. I could have rendered the gun useless entirely with the exact same spell at the exact same power, but my affectation in creating a misfire allowed him to create an effect on the crowd that I'd have preferred prevented. I shall suffer the blame for focusing only on the child.

The police are now to get involved, and perhaps the hospitals. Paris has a complex history with law enforcement, and you'll no doubt find it unsurprising that such a history is the work of competing factions of mages. The Paris street fighters of the 18th and 19th centuries, the so-called Sans-Culottes were an effort by the Free Counsel. The National Guard were a creation of the Adamantine Arrow, an attempt to bring their ideas into practice across a whole nation. The modern police force typically has Seer influence, but because the fighters of Paris were the natural inductees into its police academies over the course of the 19th century, the Free Counsel and the Arrow have maintained their influence. The police today represent an unusual mixture of forces vying for power, with the Arrow and Counsel in an uneasy alliance against the Seers for every little appointment and staff sergeant.

As for the hospital, for my part, I thought of such places as neutral ground. They are of interest to a number of paths, and the less scrupulous mage may very well attempt to draw power from the sick in a variety of ways (the Thyrsus life scientist most notably), but I would not call a hospital under the sway of any particular faction, at least directly. The Seers have enough monetary resources available that they could direct its policy through a considerable donation for a new wing, of course, and there's no matching that from the Pentacle. I suspect that some mages may even be making efforts to maintain that neutrality. Those self-same Thyrsus would have an interest in ensuring the integrity of the hospital's spirit to ensure that their experiments are not tainted. Perhaps there is an alliance of Shamans and the odd death initiate who seek to preserve the place in its primary operations without interference.

The crowd panics and people start running for cover or looking around for friends.

Black Angel leans forward a little as Eris rushes into the crowd, a hint of smile playing across his face. His finger idly stirs the ice in his glass as he watches her, but he shows no other obvious reaction to all that he's taking in of the scene.

A man is shoved and nearly falls over the meditating man, but at the last moment his momentum is turned and he is swatted aside like a fly by an invisible hand. Instead of crashing into the meditating man, he falls away to the side, hitting a woman who drops her glasses on the ground. In her rush, she doesn't pause to pick them up.

Turn Momentum (Forces 3, rote)
Reach: instant casting
Reach: scene duration
Reach: sensory range
Reach: reflexive action
Potency 4 + 2 = 6
Gnosis+Forces+Athletics-4: 2,3,8,5,7,1,4 success

Paradox: +2 (reach) +1 (sleepers) -2 (dedicated tool) -1 (mana) = chance die : 1

Eris, you recognize the manipulation of momentum for what it is, though you couldn't say with certainty who was responsible (though a fair bet would be Gilgamesh) without stopping to scrutinize it, and you may have other concerns on your mind. It does prevent you from getting close to the man, but ...

The orb is glowing between the meditating man's fingers, growing in brightness and suddenly gives off a bright flash. The light catches in the glasses on the ground, and the beam of light shoots across the plaza, right through the crowd, and hits Gilgamesh right in the eye just as he's swatting aside another stumbler. For just a second, Gilgamesh is blinded, but it's long enough ... the stumbler falls, drops her shoe, which flies unhindered through the field and hits the glowing orb, which flies out of the hands of the meditating man and disappears into the crowd.

Eris, here's your chance ... roll wits+dexterity to see if you catch the orb. Or perhaps you wish to risk some magic - levitation perhaps - sleeper witnesses be damned.

Meanwhile, the meditating man opens his eyes. Rothko, you don't need anyone to tell you that he's dead already. It'll become obvious to others soon enough too, but here's what they may not have seen without Death sight: it wasn't the orb getting kicked out of his hands that did it; he was already dead when the shoe left the stumbler's toes, his body just hadn't had the time to react until a fraction of a second later, which just happened to coincide with the shoe hitting the orb. This could be crucial information in the likely blame game to come.

As it is, the fire has left the orb and rather than give up its breath and flicker out, it has latched on to the nearest source of sustenance: the man's soul. It is burning up, bright enough to blind anyone looking directly at it, growing swiftly into a conflagration of celestial fire. People nearby are getting caught in the flames and may die if no one does something.

Death might just be the most common thing in the world, but an Enlightened soul burning ... that is no common death. Have you ever witnessed such an event before? What is it like?


Lero slowed from a gallop, shaking her hand, still furious - but having discharged just enough anger to arm herself before returning to charge again. Her hand swims through orange light and three sets of jaws align themselves with her careful, sharp strikes through the air. Her foe seeks to destroy her by becoming ever less human and she will overcome it by being ever more so.

Even as she readies herself, though, she envies it. Even if she overcomes it, in these few seconds it has proved itself master of both its own body and her emotions. The bloody animal will there understands the true nature of things far more deeply than she does. It is larger and faster and more cunning and her only sword is Fate's unnatural habit of favouring the underdog.

[Gossamer Touch
Base pool 10+3 Willpower = 13
-8 for +4 potency = 5D
Duration 1 [Scene/hour] – 2 dice
1 Reach: Advanced Potency
1 Reach: Scene length
1 Reach: Item transfer
1 Reach: Instant Cast

1,10,5,9,2 - 10 again 9, so 3 successes
Potency 7 so Lero's hands are now 7L weapons.
Note: With Gnosis of 1, Bellerophon can only maintain 1 spell without penalty. Between this and Exceptional Luck she's now taking -1 to everything.

5/8 WP]

When facing a rider on a horse in combat, it makes sense to separate them before engaging. Even a beast can reason so. The beast utters a harsh command, compelling Pegasus to follow its equine part and ... run off in search of grass to graze, but not before throwing off Lero.

Command Spirit (Spirit 2)
Reach: instant, advanced duration & potency, whatever else matters
Potency 2 + 3 - 2 (Pegasus rank) = 3

Power + Finesse - 6 (potency) = 8: 3,3,8,5,4,1,8,5, success

*

Meanwhile, Councilor Chiltepin has stuck the gun under one arm and has his eyes buried in the screen of his phone, flicking and tapping through things as if in search of something. He seems entirely oblivious to what's going on around him.

The same cannot be said for the host of spirits, who continue to cheer you on. You may be facing a superior opponent, but that only makes them cheer you more. Everyone always favors the underdog, especially when said underdog hands out free, delicious essence to the crowd.

[Anarion]

Death might just be the most common thing in the world, but an Enlightened soul burning ... that is no common death. Have you ever witnessed such an event before? What is it like?


So much is happening in the world and so quickly. All over a single gunshot. Such a fool. While the crowd is panicking and Eris and Gilgamesh are casting, I look at the man next to me, the one who has access to the magic of Fate and Time. Has he cast a spell, is his nimbus flaring? Do the hackles on my neck stand on end from my unseen senses? Or is this all a coincidence? Ha, such a word as that. Tell me what I see from the man beside me in the chaos.

As to your question, no, I've never seen it. I've heard of it. Fern told me of it, of her time back in Vietnam. The symbol of the flamethrower was used by...certain mages in a ritual during the war. They sought power, to capture something from the unique sort of death that comes from napalm, the true agony that only fire can elicit. And to fuel their ritual, through some artifice, they obtained an awoken soul and burned it. The ensuing conflagration wiped 20 square miles of forest into ash and is still remembered by sleepers as one of the greatest bombing atrocities of the war. Fern warned me that if I ever tampered with such a thing, she would personally kill me the instant she learned of it. As far as I gathered from her, the awoken soul is like unto its own sun, containing more energy within than can be understood merely from the form it takes. Within a Mage, it is the source of all magic, the core self that creates imagos to the Supernal, while the body is like a vessel shaped to fit it. And like a sun, if the power within runs out of control, it can change its shape and size, and in the worst cases, it can explode at a scale of vastness that far outstrips what it had been before. They say that the sun, for example, would expand to completely engulf the earth before it ever went supernova, and the explosion would be far vaster still, though in my mind's eye, I see it as a catalogue of creation, incredible, unique elements never before seen bursting forth into existence from the power. And I wonder if an awoken soul might be the same.

I watch intently.

[Deadly]

So much is happening in the world and so quickly. All over a single gunshot. Such a fool. While the crowd is panicking and Eris and Gilgamesh are casting, I look at the man next to me, the one who has access to the magic of Fate and Time. Has he cast a spell, is his nimbus flaring? Do the hackles on my neck stand on end from my unseen senses? Or is this all a coincidence? Ha, such a word as that. Tell me what I see from the man beside me in the chaos.

As to your question, no, I've never seen it. I've heard of it. Fern told me of it, of her time back in Vietnam. The symbol of the flamethrower was used by...certain mages in a ritual during the war. They sought power, to capture something from the unique sort of death that comes from napalm, the true agony that only fire can elicit. And to fuel their ritual, through some artifice, they obtained an awoken soul and burned it. The ensuing conflagration wiped 20 square miles of forest into ash and is still remembered by sleepers as one of the greatest bombing atrocities of the war. Fern warned me that if I ever tampered with such a thing, she would personally kill me the instant she learned of it. As far as I gathered from her, the awoken soul is like unto its own sun, containing more energy within than can be understood merely from the form it takes. Within a Mage, it is the source of all magic, the core self that creates imagos to the Supernal, while the body is like a vessel shaped to fit it. And like a sun, if the power within runs out of control, it can change its shape and size, and in the worst cases, it can explode at a scale of vastness that far outstrips what it had been before. They say that the sun, for example, would expand to completely engulf the earth before it ever went supernova, and the explosion would be far vaster still, though in my mind's eye, I see it as a catalogue of creation, incredible, unique elements never before seen bursting forth into existence from the power. And I wonder if an awoken soul might be the same.

I watch intently.

There's still something off about him, something tickling your senses, but it's still outside your purview to pick apart. There's also a definite whiff of alcohol and a light feeling of intoxication in the air. It's a weary intoxication; old, a long withering death slow in coming. Coincidences, indeed, are not to be trusted around this man. You get the weird feeling like you could rub his old leather jacket for good luck, probably. If if wouldn't be obscene. This man is like an old, leathery monkey's paw preserved by alcohol and smoke ... in human form.

"Don't look at me, boy," he says, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the light, casting only a brief glance your way when you look at him. "All this mess would have happened without me. That's the whole reason I am here. I was on my way through Brussels a few hours ago, you see. On my way to London ..." He flicks the ash from his cigarette and takes a long drag of smoke, still watching the madness intently.

[Thanqol]

When facing a rider on a horse in combat, it makes sense to separate them before engaging. Even a beast can reason so. The beast utters a harsh command, compelling Pegasus to follow its equine part and ... run off in search of grass to graze, but not before throwing off Lero.

Command Spirit (Spirit 2)
Reach: instant, advanced duration & potency, whatever else matters
Potency 2 + 3 - 2 (Pegasus rank) = 3

Power + Finesse - 6 (potency) = 8: 3,3,8,5,4,1,8,5, success

It was like being ripped in half and Lero wasn't certain who she was more furious at - Pegasus, the fly, or Zeus.

The fall lasted forever, fire lashing through and around her. Supernal symbolism boiled to the surface; fear and fury made true in the crackling aura of a Nimbus made manifest. She was in the clouds that were not clouds, wearing wings unfeathered, unblinking eye cast downwards. She was Ikarus ignited, tumbling in flames, dragging the sun down with her. She was the threading promise of a lifetime blind and all knowing, a destiny inescapable as gravity.

Of all the emotions she could feel, it had been decreed that the only one she would feel was wrath.

She grabbed that destiny and twisted it. Sharpened it. Delayed it - for just a few seconds. Her fingers brushed the ground and muscles like iron used that to arrest her momentum and launch her forwards, first to land on her feet, and then forwards into a lunging punch that discharged all the power of her Fall from Olympus. She struck the monster like a condemned meteor.

[Strength 3+brawl 5+4 (Exceptional Luck, 2 charges left)-1 spell tolerance+3 willpower = 14 - defence 6 = 8 dice

9,9,4,6,2,8,8,3 - 4 successes +7L damage weapon - 11L damage less its 1 armour, 10L damage

Willpower 4/8]

[Deadly]

The beast shudders as the shockwave of your punch travels the length of its body, ripping it up from the inside, causing massive internal damage. It collapses in a heap and appears to begin rapidly dissolving. All life appears gone in an instant, snuffed in a single, massive blow.

There's a silence all around, the spirit crowd yet too stunned by your knockout in one ...

Reflexive resistance to stay conscious: 4,6,10,3;4 success

No penalty for injuries (yay for Corpus)

Combined: Suppress Life + Suppress Aura (Death 2 + Death 2)
Usual reach stuff
+2 Reach: spend 1 mana to make Suppress Life reflexive in response to your attack

-2 for combining spells

Power+Finesse-2 = 12: 8,10,8,4,8,4,1,1,1,2,3,6;3 success

The beast appears dead, instantly, and its aura flickers and dies.

–2 penalty on Empathy checks and super-natural attempts to discern its emotional or mental state. Magical attempts to see through the disguise provoke a Clash of Wills.

[Thanqol]

The beast shudders as the shockwave of your punch travels the length of its body, ripping it up from the inside, causing massive internal damage. It collapses in a heap and appears to begin rapidly dissolving. All life appears gone in an instant, snuffed in a single, massive blow.

There's a silence all around, the spirit crowd yet too stunned by your knockout in one ...

Reflexive resistance to stay conscious: 4,6,10,3;4 success

No penalty for injuries (yay for Corpus)

Combined: Suppress Life + Suppress Aura (Death 2 + Death 2)
Usual reach stuff
+2 Reach: spend 1 mana to make Suppress Life reflexive in response to your attack

-2 for combining spells

Power+Finesse-2 = 12: 8,10,8,4,8,4,1,1,1,2,3,6;3 success

The beast appears dead, instantly, and its aura flickers and dies.

–2 penalty on Empathy checks and super-natural attempts to discern its emotional or mental state. Magical attempts to see through the disguise provoke a Clash of Wills.

The three hounds flicker and dance around Lero, and her hand gently smokes from the immense force of the blow. The gold one licks her knuckles gently while the red one barks at the downed monster.

The Primal Wild has a logic, Lero knows, and that is of predator-prey-consume-cycle. Just because this creature represents the end of that cycle doesn't mean it has any special immunity to it. The Spirits know this as deeply and instinctively as she knows it. This is the Ritual, the Sacred Hunt.

Lero picks a small sharp knife from her pocket and approaches the fallen monster to cut out its heart alien, eat it, and in so doing perfectly commune with it.

[Deadly]

The three hounds flicker and dance around Lero, and her hand gently smokes from the immense force of the blow. The gold one licks her knuckles gently while the red one barks at the downed monster.

The Primal Wild has a logic, Lero knows, and that is of predator-prey-consume-cycle. Just because this creature represents the end of that cycle doesn't mean it has any special immunity to it. The Spirits know this as deeply and instinctively as she knows it. This is the Ritual, the Sacred Hunt.

Lero picks a small sharp knife from her pocket and approaches the fallen monster to cut out its heart alien, eat it, and in so doing perfectly commune with it.

You lean over your fallen foe with the knife ... yet, as you point out, with death comes those who feed upon the remains. That is the way of the Wild.

The beast understands this, and it understands how to use it to its advantage ... no one says the feeders will be coming for the beast. Not yet, if it has anything to say about it. But come they will, and in their hunger they'll eat anything ... or anyone ... in their path.

Lero, do you know just how good you smell right now? You're about to find out as rats and insects come flooding out of every little hole and crevice of the ancient crypts, not to mention the Verge. And they all have their eyes set on you ...

If you do nothing about it, you'll be swarmed by hundreds of tiny teeth in a matter of seconds, and thousands more are likely to come running after the first wave.

Lure and Repel (Life 2)
Reach: usual stuff
+1 Reach: lured creatures are benign to the beast

Luring all vermin: fleas, lice, mice, and rats to name a few.

Power+Finesse 14: 7,10,6,9,5,5,7,5,9,3,6,10,5,10;9,6,4

Exceptional success, Lero gains condition Wild Attractor: Animals see you as food and will attack you on sight. Resolves when you become (or appear) too poisonous to eat.

[Thanqol]

You lean over your fallen foe with the knife ... yet, as you point out, with death comes those who feed upon the remains. That is the way of the Wild.

The beast understands this, and it understands how to use it to its advantage ... no one says the feeders will be coming for the beast. Not yet, if it has anything to say about it. But come they will, and in their hunger they'll eat anything ... or anyone ... in their path.

Lero, do you know just how good you smell right now? You're about to find out as rats and insects come flooding out of every little hole and crevice of the ancient crypts, not to mention the Verge. And they all have their eyes set on you ...

If you do nothing about it, you'll be swarmed by hundreds of tiny teeth in a matter of seconds, and thousands more are likely to come running after the first wave.

Lure and Repel (Life 2)
Reach: usual stuff
+1 Reach: lured creatures are benign to the beast

Luring all vermin: fleas, lice, mice, and rats to name a few.

Power+Finesse 14: 7,10,6,9,5,5,7,5,9,3,6,10,5,10;9,6,4

Exceptional success, Lero gains condition Wild Attractor: Animals see you as food and will attack you on sight. Resolves when you become (or appear) too poisonous to eat.

Oh. Oh.

Lero skips the knife, flexes her hand, and plunges her hand through the downed maggot's flesh to rip out its heart and cram it in her mouth. The situation was already catastrophically bad but turning her back to a wounded and cunning enemy like this at this moment would be outright suicide.

[Strength 3+brawl 5+4 (Exceptional Luck, 2 charges left)-1 spell tolerance+ = 11 - defence 6 = 5 dice
2,6,6,7,8 - 1 success, +7L weapon - 1 armour = 7L damage]

In the same moment her mind is racing. Mastery of the subtle arcana of Fate was no defence at all against a swarm. Fate was a brilliant defence against a bullet or a blow where millions of probabilities and factors occurred at once and could be manipulated, but it was no shield at all against attacks where chance was not a factor. Poison gas, say, or a swarm of insects - the chance of dodging was zero and no amount of toying with a zero would make it any less a zero.

She released the swirl of narrative virtue that surrounded her; the arc of rainbow legends fading away into nothing. Instead the silhouette of the three hounds overlaid hers, deadening her flesh into the strange ephemeral consistency of Spirits. It wasn't much of a defence but it would give her a few seconds while she finished off the Supernal creature.

[Switching Fate Armour to Spirit Armour reflexively for 1 mana, 4/10 mana remaining. Spirit Armor downgrades lethal damage from kinetic attacks (bullets, claws, rocks, etc.) and the attacks of ephemeral entities to bashing.]

[Anarion]

There's still something off about him, something tickling your senses, but it's still outside your purview to pick apart. There's also a definite whiff of alcohol and a light feeling of intoxication in the air. It's a weary intoxication; old, a long withering death slow in coming. Coincidences, indeed, are not to be trusted around this man. You get the weird feeling like you could rub his old leather jacket for good luck, probably. If if wouldn't be obscene. This man is like an old, leathery monkey's paw preserved by alcohol and smoke ... in human form.

"Don't look at me, boy," he says, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the light, casting only a brief glance your way when you look at him. "All this mess would have happened without me. That's the whole reason I am here. I was on my way through Brussels a few hours ago, you see. On my way to London ..." He flicks the ash from his cigarette and takes a long drag of smoke, still watching the madness intently.

I keep a grip on my paintbrush and gesture with it towards Black Angel, though I keep one eye on what's happening in the crowd. I may not be able to read this angel's magic, but I can read his mind. [Mental scan with a +1 yantra to cast quickly, spending my only reach for instant cast, 3d10=3, 1, 10. 10 again is a 2. Question: what does Black Angel desire as the outcome for this ritual?]

[Elanorin]

The crowd panics and people start running for cover or looking around for friends.

Black Angel leans forward a little as Eris rushes into the crowd, a hint of smile playing across his face. His finger idly stirs the ice in his glass as he watches her, but he shows no other obvious reaction to all that he's taking in of the scene.

A man is shoved and nearly falls over the meditating man, but at the last moment his momentum is turned and he is swatted aside like a fly by an invisible hand. Instead of crashing into the meditating man, he falls away to the side, hitting a woman who drops her glasses on the ground. In her rush, she doesn't pause to pick them up.

Eris, you recognize the manipulation of momentum for what it is, though you couldn't say with certainty who was responsible (though a fair bet would be Gilgamesh) without stopping to scrutinize it, and you may have other concerns on your mind. It does prevent you from getting close to the man, but ...

The orb is glowing between the meditating man's fingers, growing in brightness and suddenly gives off a bright flash. The light catches in the glasses on the ground, and the beam of light shoots across the plaza, right through the crowd, and hits Gilgamesh right in the eye just as he's swatting aside another stumbler. For just a second, Gilgamesh is blinded, but it's long enough ... the stumbler falls, drops her shoe, which flies unhindered through the field and hits the glowing orb, which flies out of the hands of the meditating man and disappears into the crowd.

Eris, here's your chance ... roll wits+dexterity to see if you catch the orb. Or perhaps you wish to risk some magic - levitation perhaps - sleeper witnesses be damned.

You're talking my language, singing my song!

Eris had her eyes set firmly on whatever in the man's hands- a glowing orb! Now that was promising! As it left his grasp she immediately leapt for it, between rushing bodies, dropped personal effects and running legs.

[Rolling Wits+Dexterity: 6, 5, 2, 4, 3, 8, 4, 10, 10 again - 8]

With the orb in her hands, she hunched down a little, holding it tight against her body as she carried on through the crowd. Adrenaline was pumping through her blood and she felt a rush of excitement she had not felt since- and she didn't want the buzz to fade and instead leapt to the next stupid decision with a brief laugh of delight. With a grin on her lips and the wink of an eye she faded from view.

[Casting Invisibility on myself as a Rote: (Gnosis+Arcana+Larceny) 4, 9, 7, 7, 9, 8, 4, 5]

[Deadly]

Oh. Oh.

Lero skips the knife, flexes her hand, and plunges her hand through the downed maggot's flesh to rip out its heart and cram it in her mouth. The situation was already catastrophically bad but turning her back to a wounded and cunning enemy like this at this moment would be outright suicide.

[Strength 3+brawl 5+4 (Exceptional Luck, 2 charges left)-1 spell tolerance+ = 11 - defence 6 = 5 dice
2,6,6,7,8 - 1 success, +7L weapon - 1 armour = 7L damage]

In the same moment her mind is racing. Mastery of the subtle arcana of Fate was no defence at all against a swarm. Fate was a brilliant defence against a bullet or a blow where millions of probabilities and factors occurred at once and could be manipulated, but it was no shield at all against attacks where chance was not a factor. Poison gas, say, or a swarm of insects - the chance of dodging was zero and no amount of toying with a zero would make it any less a zero.

She released the swirl of narrative virtue that surrounded her; the arc of rainbow legends fading away into nothing. Instead the silhouette of the three hounds overlaid hers, deadening her flesh into the strange ephemeral consistency of Spirits. It wasn't much of a defence but it would give her a few seconds while she finished off the Supernal creature.

[Switching Fate Armour to Spirit Armour reflexively for 1 mana, 4/10 mana remaining. Spirit Armor downgrades lethal damage from kinetic attacks (bullets, claws, rocks, etc.) and the attacks of ephemeral entities to bashing.]

You punch through the scales and flesh of the beast and wrap your fingers around its beating heart. As you pull it out, the creature immediately dissolves in a burst of mana. Tell me what eating its heart is like?

However, the time spent to make sure your opponent is dead leaves you swarmed by vermin, crawling, clawing and biting at your exposed limbs.

*

Using the Zombies! environmental tilt from p150 of the CoD book. Seems to work just fine for a swarm of vermin too.
Effects: Characters moving through the swarm are slowed by the mindless, grasping claws and sheer press of decomposing bodies. Within the area affected by the Tilt, characters lose their bonus to Speed (so normal humans have a Speed equal to Strength + Dexterity). Characters who move at anything less than full speed (that is, using an Instant action to run) are subject to an attack using the swarm's best dice pool. An exceptional success on this attack inflicts the Knocked Down Tilt.

In addition, moving through the area might require characters to make a reflexive Stamina + Composure roll every minute or suffer the moderate version of the Sick Tilt.

Ending the Tilt: The whole point of the Tilt is that it represents too many vermin to fight effectively, but characters might be able to draw the swarm off (maybe by firing guns or operating loud, heavy machinery elsewhere), or drive them back (fire and other area effects might disperse them).

Since you're hanging around to finish off the beast and not moving at full speed, the swarm attacks: 7 + 3 (Willpower) - 8 (defense) = 2: 5, 10; 2 -- 2L, reduced to 2B by Spirit Armor.


I keep a grip on my paintbrush and gesture with it towards Black Angel, though I keep one eye on what's happening in the crowd. I may not be able to read this angel's magic, but I can read his mind. [Mental scan with a +1 yantra to cast quickly, spending my only reach for instant cast, 3d10=3, 1, 10. 10 again is a 2. Question: what does Black Angel desire as the outcome for this ritual?]

First, at your potency you probably wouldn't expect to get anything from Black Angel's mind. So the fact that you get anything suggests he's consciously chosen not to withstand you. Seems exceptionally trusting of a stranger.

His desire is focused on the gunman and Sabbat, not the ritual itself. He's convinced that those two are the most interesting pieces in the game, and he'd very much like to know what their game is. That's why he pointed the gunman out to you: the more scrutiny on that front, the more likely someone's going to pick up on something. The ritual may be Gilgamesh's work and ambition, but the game - whatever it is - is between Sabbat and the gunman. Of that he's convinced. Whether he's right ...? *shrug*

He'd also personally find it very amusing if Eris caught that orb, and he's curious to see what comes of that, but he's not going to risk affecting the ritual itself by steping in to ensure she gets it. Nudging it so it didn't burn up along with the man was apparently all he was willing to risk. He doesn't seem to have any particular expectation or desire regarding the outcome of the ritual. Rather, he's satisfied that he'd know it if something was going to affect it in any direction other than its predetermined course, whatever that course is.

*

Below, Eris caught the orb and vanished into the crowd. The meditating man is gone up in flames which are spreading like wildfire. Gilgamesh and his people are quickly pulling people out of there. The gunman is pushing his way through, determined yet distracted by something Sabbat is doing.

You can feel the ritual building up to something big, reacting to whatever Sabbat is doing. Any last thing you want to do before the grand finale?


You're talking my language, singing my song!

Eris had her eyes set firmly on whatever in the man's hands- a glowing orb! Now that was promising! As it left his grasp she immediately leapt for it, between rushing bodies, dropped personal effects and running legs.

[Rolling Wits+Dexterity: 6, 5, 2, 4, 3, 8, 4, 10, 10 again - 8]

With the orb in her hands, she hunched down a little, holding it tight against her body as she carried on through the crowd. Adrenaline was pumping through her blood and she felt a rush of excitement she had not felt since- and she didn't want the buzz to fade and instead leapt to the next stupid decision with a brief laugh of delight. With a grin on her lips and the wink of an eye she faded from view.

[Casting Invisibility on myself as a Rote: (Gnosis+Arcana+Larceny) 4, 9, 7, 7, 9, 8, 4, 5]

You grab the orb with ease and disappear - literally - into the crowd. Behind you, the previously meditating man is burning up. You feel the fire lick at your heels, and panic is all around you.

Sabbat and the gunman are locked in some kind of conflict of wills. He's pushing his way through the crowd towards you, determined and seemingly able to tell where you are, but clearly distracted. Still, you don't like the look of him. Probably best to avoid him.

However, something is about to happen. Something big. You can feel it. You have maybe a second or two, if you want to do anything.

[Thanqol]

You punch through the scales and flesh of the beast and wrap your fingers around its beating heart. As you pull it out, the creature immediately dissolves in a burst of mana. Tell me what eating its heart is like?

Oh, it's gross. It's gross and slimy and disgusting and chewy and it tastes like copper and insect and barf. It's also not hygienic - I can perceive every flowing current of bacteria running across its surface. It takes unbelievable force of will to put it in my mouth and the suppression of every part of my thinking mind to choke it down my throat. There isn't any nice great beautiful rush of mana and sparkling faeries and sudden moment of enlightenment when all the universe abruptly makes sense. It's just a horrible thing happening; one horrible monster eating another horrible monster, every aspect of the process unglamorous, bloody, painful, brutal. Nothing higher.

And that's what makes it the most cosmically pure thing it's possible to experience. When you're sitting in a computer chair looking at a screen you're basically dead. Your body is quiet, sleeping, only the barest flicker of light happening in your brain as it works through some problem. But when you're choking down a bloody hunk of raw insect meat while covered in rats with your system is flooding with raw, insane aggression and fury -

I'm alive.

I couldn't be more alive. Every nerve on my body is screaming. All of my instincts are activated. My blood and my brain and my stomach and my skin and my muscles and my tongue and my fists are all roaring at their maximum possible setting. Good sensation and bad sensation - the distinction becomes meaningless in quantities this overwhelming. The only word for a state this intense is ecstasy. This moment, this state, this is the Supernal - and this is why I always smirk whenever I hear someone say they want to 'go there'.



However, the time spent to make sure your opponent is dead leaves you swarmed by vermin, crawling, clawing and biting at your exposed limbs.

I am, however, not a Mastigos - I see no sense or logic in surrendering to the sensation. I fight using every tool at my disposal. And my tools are the nearby Spirits, glutted on Essence and inspired by my fight. To them I reach out - and amongst all these subterranean crypt-dweller Spirits I'm sure to find at least one with dominion over vermin. I find it, and I use it.

[Command Spirit: Spirit+gnosis+intimidation+speciality = 10. Reach for extended Duration, Potency 3. Withstood by Rank, I'm taking aim at something Rank 2 here, so the Withstand reduces Potency to 1, and taking a -2 to cast for an extra Potency in case I need it for an extra order.
3,10,6,10,3,2,5,2, - 2 successes.
Command: "Get these things away from me!"]

[Elanorin]

You grab the orb with ease and disappear - literally - into the crowd. Behind you, the previously meditating man is burning up. You feel the fire lick at your heels, and panic is all around you.

Sabbat and the gunman are locked in some kind of conflict of wills. He's pushing his way through the crowd towards you, determined and seemingly able to tell where you are, but clearly distracted. Still, you don't like the look of him. Probably best to avoid him.

However, something is about to happen. Something big. You can feel it. You have maybe a second or two, if you want to do anything.

Holding the orb tight, Eris hurried through the pandemonium back towards Sabbat, away from the man with the gun. She had no idea what Sabbat was doing here exactly but her gut instinct told her it was something that she'd approve of if she did. Her eyes glanced from Sabbat to the gunman and back to Sabbat, and a slight smile flickered on invisible lips.

She stepped up behind Sabbat. Close. Closer. Her own body moulding to the back of Sabbat's. Her free hand gently clasped a shoulder and then caressed gently the full length of the slender arm until her invisible hand lay perfectly on the back of Sabbat's. Her mouth was in Sabbat's hair, a breath away from her ear where she whispered ancient words learned from dusty books, feeling heat flow from one Mage to another. Then, Eris' eyes shifted once more, to pinpoint at exactly the same point where Sabbat's gaze was, lending the focus of her senses to augment the other.

The invisibility rippled away, but the slight smile remained.

[Lending myself as a Yantra for Sabbat's casting]

[Anarion]

First, at your potency you probably wouldn't expect to get anything from Black Angel's mind. So the fact that you get anything suggests he's consciously chosen not to withstand you. Seems exceptionally trusting of a stranger.

His desire is focused on the gunman and Sabbat, not the ritual itself. He's convinced that those two are the most interesting pieces in the game, and he'd very much like to know what their game is. That's why he pointed the gunman out to you: the more scrutiny on that front, the more likely someone's going to pick up on something. The ritual may be Gilgamesh's work and ambition, but the game - whatever it is - is between Sabbat and the gunman. Of that he's convinced. Whether he's right ...? *shrug*

He'd also personally find it very amusing if Eris caught that orb, and he's curious to see what comes of that, but he's not going to risk affecting the ritual itself by steping in to ensure she gets it. Nudging it so it didn't burn up along with the man was apparently all he was willing to risk. He doesn't seem to have any particular expectation or desire regarding the outcome of the ritual. Rather, he's satisfied that he'd know it if something was going to affect it in any direction other than its predetermined course, whatever that course is.

*

Below, Eris caught the orb and vanished into the crowd. The meditating man is gone up in flames which are spreading like wildfire. Gilgamesh and his people are quickly pulling people out of there. The gunman is pushing his way through, determined yet distracted by something Sabbat is doing.

You can feel the ritual building up to something big, reacting to whatever Sabbat is doing. Any last thing you want to do before the grand finale?


I appreciate how friendly Black Angel is being about all this. I also would really quite like to see the ritual that Sabbat is attempting. And I suspect that she doesn't need all that much time to finish. I'll do just one more thing to make the Gunman's life annoying. After all, he's focused so very much. So, a small brush stroke on the painting and it seems that the very spot where he was putting his foot is unsteady, and a bit of stone collapses and betrays his stance, tripping him in place.

[Shaping to alter the ground. Spending 2 reach to create an appropriate environmental tilt, 1 for shaping solid matter, 1 reach for the instant cast, and I dunno, a reach for advanced potency. I don't want a full-fledged earthquake, I just want to knock the man down. I'll step the spell up from its base 2 potency to 4 potency to overcome any resistance the cobblestone ground might offer. 6d10= 4, 10, 10, 1, 8, 2. Rerolls: 5, 8. 4 Successes.]

[Deadly]

Oh, it's gross. It's gross and slimy and disgusting and chewy and it tastes like copper and insect and barf. It's also not hygienic - I can perceive every flowing current of bacteria running across its surface. It takes unbelievable force of will to put it in my mouth and the suppression of every part of my thinking mind to choke it down my throat. There isn't any nice great beautiful rush of mana and sparkling faeries and sudden moment of enlightenment when all the universe abruptly makes sense. It's just a horrible thing happening; one horrible monster eating another horrible monster, every aspect of the process unglamorous, bloody, painful, brutal. Nothing higher.

And that's what makes it the most cosmically pure thing it's possible to experience. When you're sitting in a computer chair looking at a screen you're basically dead. Your body is quiet, sleeping, only the barest flicker of light happening in your brain as it works through some problem. But when you're choking down a bloody hunk of raw insect meat while covered in rats with your system is flooding with raw, insane aggression and fury -

I'm alive.

I couldn't be more alive. Every nerve on my body is screaming. All of my instincts are activated. My blood and my brain and my stomach and my skin and my muscles and my tongue and my fists are all roaring at their maximum possible setting. Good sensation and bad sensation - the distinction becomes meaningless in quantities this overwhelming. The only word for a state this intense is ecstasy. This moment, this state, this is the Supernal - and this is why I always smirk whenever I hear someone say they want to 'go there'.

Sounds like an experience worth a ... heartbeat!


I am, however, not a Mastigos - I see no sense or logic in surrendering to the sensation. I fight using every tool at my disposal. And my tools are the nearby Spirits, glutted on Essence and inspired by my fight. To them I reach out - and amongst all these subterranean crypt-dweller Spirits I'm sure to find at least one with dominion over vermin. I find it, and I use it.

[Command Spirit: Spirit+gnosis+intimidation+speciality = 10. Reach for extended Duration, Potency 3. Withstood by Rank, I'm taking aim at something Rank 2 here, so the Withstand reduces Potency to 1, and taking a -2 to cast for an extra Potency in case I need it for an extra order.
3,10,6,10,3,2,5,2, - 2 successes.
Command: "Get these things away from me!"]

You reach out to the spirits, and something answers ... and so does every ley line in the city. Something just happened, something above you, unrelated to your spell but powerful enough to be felt all through the ancient tombs and catacombs surrounding you. The supernal realm of Life before you fades, replaced by a shadowy stairway into its mirror: a supernal realm of Death. A chill breath sweeps out and around you, and every critter stops, then scatters in fright, seeking whatever safety they can among the earth and bones. Most of the spirits draw back into the shadows as well.

Except for one. A small spirit saunters out of the crowd in answer to your call. The cat-shaped black spirit snakes around your legs, broken arrows poking out of its hide but seemingly causing it no pain. Even its eyes are black and shiny, like a carrion bird's, not a cat's.

"Well, merde!" You hear Councilor Chiltepin behind you. He must have noticed the change too. "I mean, just as planned! I'm sure." He comes up beside you, once more clothed and having put his phone away. "Stellar work, let's investigate." He gestures at the stairs ahead before heading down the steps himself.


Holding the orb tight, Eris hurried through the pandemonium back towards Sabbat, away from the man with the gun. She had no idea what Sabbat was doing here exactly but her gut instinct told her it was something that she'd approve of if she did. Her eyes glanced from Sabbat to the gunman and back to Sabbat, and a slight smile flickered on invisible lips.

She stepped up behind Sabbat. Close. Closer. Her own body moulding to the back of Sabbat's. Her free hand gently clasped a shoulder and then caressed gently the full length of the slender arm until her invisible hand lay perfectly on the back of Sabbat's. Her mouth was in Sabbat's hair, a breath away from her ear where she whispered ancient words learned from dusty books, feeling heat flow from one Mage to another. Then, Eris' eyes shifted once more, to pinpoint at exactly the same point where Sabbat's gaze was, lending the focus of her senses to augment the other.

The invisibility rippled away, but the slight smile remained.

[Lending myself as a Yantra for Sabbat's casting]

It's strange, being this close to Sabbat and the magic she's working. The magic is unfamiliar to you, yet you are close enough to feel like a part of it ... and perhaps you are, in ways that are yet to become fully clear to you. You can feel her power, her nimbus flaring with the power she's pouring into her working, wrapping you like a cloak of inky night from which nocturnal eyes observe you, and strangely you feel like you can see the whole city, from bird's eye to every nook and cranny.

She's writing, her pen weaving across a high-quality notebook bound in fabric she's holding, thin lines of ink flowing like an intricate skein. You can tell that she's pouring a lot into this, and though she doesn't even react to your surprise hug - being so deep in her casting - she seamlessly weaves you right into the spell with a flick of her wrist. There's a hint of possessiveness in the gesture.

Her hand stops, the tip of the pen hovering over the sheet of paper. You feel a sudden, profound connection with the gunman that you didn't have before. You know him as Schelvisch, once of the Free Council, but it's been a long time since he's been seen, at least openly. Tell me about this connection you suddenly have; it isn't likely to last (chances are he'll want to cut the tie as soon as he has the chance, and if not, what Sabbat made she can surely unmake for you), but at least for a brief moment you are, metaphysically and for all intents and purposes, a part of him, more closely connected than even family. Like two entangled particles. What does this mean, in your case?

"Be ready for anything," Sabbat whispers over her shoulder, though strangely it doesn't feel like it's directed solely at you. You can feel eyes watching over your shoulder. "And hope the fly doesn't escape the net."


I appreciate how friendly Black Angel is being about all this. I also would really quite like to see the ritual that Sabbat is attempting. And I suspect that she doesn't need all that much time to finish. I'll do just one more thing to make the Gunman's life annoying. After all, he's focused so very much. So, a small brush stroke on the painting and it seems that the very spot where he was putting his foot is unsteady, and a bit of stone collapses and betrays his stance, tripping him in place.

[Shaping to alter the ground. Spending 2 reach to create an appropriate environmental tilt, 1 for shaping solid matter, 1 reach for the instant cast, and I dunno, a reach for advanced potency. I don't want a full-fledged earthquake, I just want to knock the man down. I'll step the spell up from its base 2 potency to 4 potency to overcome any resistance the cobblestone ground might offer. 6d10= 4, 10, 10, 1, 8, 2. Rerolls: 5, 8. 4 Successes.]

The man, distracted on multiple fronts, fails to keep his balance and briefly loses his footing, affording Eris plenty of chance to get to safety behind Sabbat. This is where he appears to decide it's time to abandon this clusterf*ck and withdraw to a more opportune place than the middle of Paris, surrounded by muggles and multiple mages who seem to have it out for him. Still kneeling, he digs his hands into the earth exposed by your spell, and you feel a sudden pall of death fall over the area as the barriers between this world and the Underworld come into contact.

At the exact same moment, Sabbat ties off her spell, and you feel a sudden, profound connection to the gunman, a connection you did not have before. You suddenly remember him as Schelvisch, once among the Free Counsil until he went to ground. He hasn't been seen for some time, at least openly. Tell me, did you ever know him, or of him, back then, now that your memory is stirred?

The human pyre flickers strangely, and Schelvisch looks up as if seeing it for the first time. Clearly something isn't right, but whatever he's set in motion is already out of his hands ...

Momentary pause: There's no time to study Sabbat before the sh*t hits the fan - perhaps you'll get the chance in a moment - although I'll tell you what you can tell at a glance and with a minimum of advanced reasoning skills. Like Black Angel's spell, this is outside your specialty ... so not Mind, meaning it's probably Space. This is more or less confirmed when she finishes: it seems she created one or more sympathetic connections, at least one between yourself and Schelvisch. Your level of connection to him is connected. This isn't likely to last long. Having such a connection - several such connections? - likely isn't in his interest, so you can expect him to cut them as soon as he gets the chance. But at least for a moment, you are for all intents and purposes a part of him, closer than family, metaphysically entangled. What does that mean for you?

Sabbat also has several active spells, including at least three Mind spells. More than that will require more time to scrutinize them ... time which you don't have just now.

Black Angel whispers some sort of expletive beside you, though the tone strikes you as amused rather than angry.

What happens next: the Underworld reaches out to touch the world of the living, briefly, but long enough for Schelvisch to slip through and disappear. The moment the two worlds touch and Schelvisch disappears, the human pyre takes on a deathly pall, and you feel the ley lines of the city - all converging here - surge with power. And then the flames... invert to become one with the gate, and the gate becomes one with the pyre, and as Schelvish disappears through, so do you, Eris, Sabbat, Gilgamesh and some uncertain number of other luminous souls that you haven't got count of.

Now, please tell us a little about the Underworld, as that's where you're going. You know a thing or two about it, undoubtedly.

[Thanqol]

You reach out to the spirits, and something answers ... and so does every ley line in the city. Something just happened, something above you, unrelated to your spell but powerful enough to be felt all through the ancient tombs and catacombs surrounding you. The supernal realm of Life before you fades, replaced by a shadowy stairway into its mirror: a supernal realm of Death. A chill breath sweeps out and around you, and every critter stops, then scatters in fright, seeking whatever safety they can among the earth and bones. Most of the spirits draw back into the shadows as well.

Except for one. A small spirit saunters out of the crowd in answer to your call. The cat-shaped black spirit snakes around your legs, broken arrows poking out of its hide but seemingly causing it no pain. Even its eyes are black and shiny, like a carrion bird's, not a cat's.

Lero reaches down to pat it, for as long as the cat chooses to be petted. If the spirit is actually damaged and the arrows aren't just part of it's form she will heal them with a spell at the same time.


"Well, merde!" You hear Councilor Chiltepin behind you. He must have noticed the change too. "I mean, just as planned! I'm sure." He comes up beside you, once more clothed and having put his phone away. "Stellar work, let's investigate." He gestures at the stairs ahead before heading down the steps himself.

"Yes, Councillor," said Lero, straightening up. The fight took a lot out of her. Her Pattern feels weak and flimsy instead of the boiling current of spiritual power that she's constantly aware of when she's truly refined and prepared. Anger still smoulders in the back of her mind, looking for a target. Part of her mind fixes on the spirit she's called out. She could snap its spine and drain it of essence before it had time to react.

But that'd take time and the Councillor was already moving. And also because it's bad luck to kill a black cat. Well - it's not - she can see the tendrils of Fate clearly. But it should be bad luck to kill a black cat.

As she follows after the Councillor she whistles, summoning Pegasus back to her.

[Spirit Summons, w/High Speech, reach for instant cast: 7,5,10,10,9,5; 3,10; 9. Exceptional:
Exceptional Success: The spell’s effect takes place better than imagined. The character regains one spent point of Willpower,
and the player may choose one of the following results:
• All Mana spent on the spell is refunded, and the mage receives one more point of Mana.]

[Anarion]

The man, distracted on multiple fronts, fails to keep his balance and briefly loses his footing, affording Eris plenty of chance to get to safety behind Sabbat. This is where he appears to decide it's time to abandon this clusterf*ck and withdraw to a more opportune place than the middle of Paris, surrounded by muggles and multiple mages who seem to have it out for him. Still kneeling, he digs his hands into the earth exposed by your spell, and you feel a sudden pall of death fall over the area as the barriers between this world and the Underworld come into contact.

At the exact same moment, Sabbat ties off her spell, and you feel a sudden, profound connection to the gunman, a connection you did not have before. You suddenly remember him as Schelvisch, once among the Free Counsil until he went to ground. He hasn't been seen for some time, at least openly. Tell me, did you ever know him, or of him, back then, now that your memory is stirred?


Yes, I had the faintest connection with him. The Free Council still knew of him, and when I first awoke, he had been active. I think I spoke to him once, at some point when I was first studying. He had an appreciation for the practice of death, a view of the world as though everything were already falling apart, like he could watch everyone and everything he saw decay before his eyes. I never knew if he had really found truth in that, but he did help me with the first steps in shaping shadows and the feel of death that he exuded was pure and powerful.



Connected...What does that mean for you?


To be honest, this isn't my specialty. It's a connection, like being feet in the earth, like touching something solid. For me it's heavy, especially as he sinks into the Underworld. Like a real, leaden chain holding us together. I feel as though I could almost pull on it, and he on me, and whatever we do will yank on that chain and draw us together.



What happens next: the Underworld reaches out to touch the world of the living, briefly, but long enough for Schelvisch to slip through and disappear. The moment the two worlds touch and Schelvisch disappears, the human pyre takes on a deathly pall, and you feel the ley lines of the city - all converging here - surge with power. And then the flames... invert to become one with the gate, and the gate becomes one with the pyre, and as Schelvish disappears through, so do you, Eris, Sabbat, Gilgamesh and some uncertain number of other luminous souls that you haven't got count of.

Now, please tell us a little about the Underworld, as that's where you're going. You know a thing or two about it, undoubtedly.

Ah, the Underworld. What an opportunity! I've always wanted to visit, I must admit. And here we are. I hope that my canvas survived the trip, whether here or back from whence we came. Regardless, I wipe off my brush and put it away, and then I adjust my ring, raise my hand sapphire pointed outwards and send out a call to the denizens of the place. You may know that Underworld ghosts can grow in power beyond the limits of ghosts in the Fallen world, although here so close to the surface (metaphorically speaking) they aren't likely to be terribly strong. And at any rate, I want to know what sort of denizens we are dealing with.

[Summon ghost. 2 Reach to be able to give the ghost a complex command to follow. 1 reach for instant cast, one for extended duration, the last for advanced potency to make the spell harder to withstand. I'll also increase the potency by 2, so it ought to affect any ghost below rank 5. 10d10=10, 3, 6, 7, 2, 7. 10 again: 7. 1 success.]

Perhaps while we see what sort of being answers me, I can tell you a little of what I know. As I mentioned, I have not been here before, but I have studied death and I know something of the Underworld. At its entrance it is usually cave-like, the metaphor of being below ground expressing the nature of the place. It can vary in size, some areas the ceiling presses down and the whole weight of the world seems to make it difficult to stand while others are rumored to be more vast caverns. The place is lightless, but even illuminated, I've been told that the stone seems to soak in light as though colored a perfect black itself rather than the typical slate gray. The denizens tend to wander, and outside of magic such as mine or Schelvish's, they are hostile to the living. As one goes deeper, supposedly the caves give way to worked passages, deep mazes like the home of the minotaur in the Greek myths, only here the denizens are far more inhuman, a mix of powerful ghosts and monstrosities, Cthonians, like ghosts but in wild and dreamlike shapes. If one goes low enough, it's rumored that there are great rivers of the dead enchanted with magic such as the forgetfulness of Lethe. And beyond even there, unique realities ruled by great lords of the underworld. But I grow beyond myself. Here, via an iris on the streets of Paris, we are simply in a network of damp caves with a distant sound of running water and twisting tunnels made of dark stone.

[Elanorin]

It's strange, being this close to Sabbat and the magic she's working. The magic is unfamiliar to you, yet you are close enough to feel like a part of it ... and perhaps you are, in ways that are yet to become fully clear to you. You can feel her power, her nimbus flaring with the power she's pouring into her working, wrapping you like a cloak of inky night from which nocturnal eyes observe you, and strangely you feel like you can see the whole city, from bird's eye to every nook and cranny.

She's writing, her pen weaving across a high-quality notebook bound in fabric she's holding, thin lines of ink flowing like an intricate skein. You can tell that she's pouring a lot into this, and though she doesn't even react to your surprise hug - being so deep in her casting - she seamlessly weaves you right into the spell with a flick of her wrist. There's a hint of possessiveness in the gesture.

Her hand stops, the tip of the pen hovering over the sheet of paper. You feel a sudden, profound connection with the gunman that you didn't have before. You know him as Schelvisch, once of the Free Council, but it's been a long time since he's been seen, at least openly. Tell me about this connection you suddenly have; it isn't likely to last (chances are he'll want to cut the tie as soon as he has the chance, and if not, what Sabbat made she can surely unmake for you), but at least for a brief moment you are, metaphysically and for all intents and purposes, a part of him, more closely connected than even family. Like two entangled particles. What does this mean, in your case?

"Be ready for anything," Sabbat whispers over her shoulder, though strangely it doesn't feel like it's directed solely at you. You can feel eyes watching over your shoulder. "And hope the fly doesn't escape the net."


It is an odd feeling, suddenly being one of two, seeing what I see but also what he sees, what he hears, smells, feels and thinks. Like an echo in my mind which bears no resemblance at all to the initial sound. It is disorienting to say the least but I'm not about to back down. I can feel the echo of cold metal to skin from the gun in my right hand though it is empty. I want to know what he wants, why the gun is in his hand and what he hopes to solve by its use.

I am not moving an inch away from Sabbat, however, nor do I speak out loud for fear of disturbing her. I'm sure she would need a much greater distraction than that to lose concentration, but I am here to help her, not be in her way. I take the situation on and I try to make good use of it to understand this Schlevisch and what he thinks is happening.

*

And then they suddenly emerge in the Underworld of all places. Now that Eris had not expected, but leaping to the obvious conclusion that this is all part of Sabbat's plan she does her damndest to take it in her stride as if she saw this coming all along. The orb, however, she now feels compelled to try to hide under her clothes as best she can.

[Deadly]

Lero reaches down to pat it, for as long as the cat chooses to be petted. If the spirit is actually damaged and the arrows aren't just part of it's form she will heal them with a spell at the same time.

The arrows are part of the form.


"Yes, Councillor," said Lero, straightening up. The fight took a lot out of her. Her Pattern feels weak and flimsy instead of the boiling current of spiritual power that she's constantly aware of when she's truly refined and prepared. Anger still smoulders in the back of her mind, looking for a target. Part of her mind fixes on the spirit she's called out. She could snap its spine and drain it of essence before it had time to react.

But that'd take time and the Councillor was already moving. And also because it's bad luck to kill a black cat. Well - it's not - she can see the tendrils of Fate clearly. But it should be bad luck to kill a black cat.

It should.

The cat makes a strange croaking sound - not a purr, but the effect is the same - and follows, tail waving like a lure.


As she follows after the Councillor she whistles, summoning Pegasus back to her.

[Spirit Summons, w/High Speech, reach for instant cast: 7,5,10,10,9,5; 3,10; 9. Exceptional:
Exceptional Success: The spell’s effect takes place better than imagined. The character regains one spent point of Willpower,
and the player may choose one of the following results:
• All Mana spent on the spell is refunded, and the mage receives one more point of Mana.]

Pegasus returns. Does it look ashamed?

You descend into the earth, following the councilor, who is lighting up the winding path ahead. Despite the best efforts of the light, the walls seem to disappear gradually into darkness around you. And then you step off the last step and through an arch, and you find yourself standing on a large plasma TV, 50 inches probably, its screen half-melted. It is embedded in a sea of broken and discarded junk, stretching into the horizon. Gargantuan pyramids of garbage rise from this desert of discarded and broken civilization.

Looking up, it goes on forever. There is no sky, just spheres inside spheres of far distant trash-scapes. It's not turtles all the way down, it's trash upon trash, the discarded products of civilizations, like constellations of dead skin cells.

Death is not your domain - if it were, perhaps you could gain more insight from this place - but you feel it suffusing everything here, seeping down all the way to the concentrated Death at the center of all: like the super-massive black hole at the center of galaxies. This is not a place for the living. Better step carefully.

Chiltepin whistles as he stares out at the endless ... wastes. "Talk about a needle in a haystack." He gives you an appraising look. "Think we can find a soul in here? We're looking for some kind of brooch or similar. Maybe looks like a scarab."


Ah, the Underworld. What an opportunity! I've always wanted to visit, I must admit. And here we are. I hope that my canvas survived the trip, whether here or back from whence we came. Regardless, I wipe off my brush and put it away, and then I adjust my ring, raise my hand sapphire pointed outwards and send out a call to the denizens of the place. You may know that Underworld ghosts can grow in power beyond the limits of ghosts in the Fallen world, although here so close to the surface (metaphorically speaking) they aren't likely to be terribly strong. And at any rate, I want to know what sort of denizens we are dealing with.

[Summon ghost. 2 Reach to be able to give the ghost a complex command to follow. 1 reach for instant cast, one for extended duration, the last for advanced potency to make the spell harder to withstand. I'll also increase the potency by 2, so it ought to affect any ghost below rank 5. 10d10=10, 3, 6, 7, 2, 7. 10 again: 7. 1 success.]


And then they suddenly emerge in the Underworld of all places. Now that Eris had not expected, but leaping to the obvious conclusion that this is all part of Sabbat's plan she does her damndest to take it in her stride as if she saw this coming all along. The orb, however, she now feels compelled to try to hide under her clothes as best she can.

For a moment, let our gaze linger back in Paris, where a man's supernal soul just burned and a gate to the Underworld just swallowed at least a handful of people, the burning man vanishing with them. Not much more than thirty seconds have passed since the sound of the gun, and armed forces now swarm in to secure the plaza. Before the day is over, the incident will be described as a gas explosion: some old pipes under the plaza broke and created a fire. All very mundane, and by the end of the week - or even by tomorrow - everyone will have moved on to talk about something else.

No one pays attention to a little old Vietnamese lady talking to an officer at the scene as the injured are carried away.

*

As you feel the heavy chain of your connection pull you into the Underworld, like a heavy steel anchor crusted with dead sea-life, whatever web Sabbat wove seems to bring you brief flashes of visions, reflections of past or maybe future events, displaced through time and space. Ghostly emanations act out scenes you don't recall as your own before dissolving like blood in water, replaced by another scene drifting by.

Most of the visions seem to be from Schelvisch's perspective, but most are unremarkable, or at least none stand out to you, although perhaps with effort you can catch something among them.

One is threatening to slip through the net before any of you can catch a glimpse of it, but suddenly it is fulled forward, as if a great attention has been focused upon it. This, it seems, is what Sabbat hoped to see.

You find yourself in a strange, circular room with no visible doors or windows. The soulless girl is there, by your side. Four other people are there as well, but there's nothing about them you can describe: their faces, their clothes, nothing identifies them in any way. Your mind insists that they're simply "people", nothing else. Perhaps they see you the same way, it strikes you.

They speak, but their voices too defy you. Even who is speaking which words and when is hard to tell. You feel Sabbat probing the depths of the vision, but what - if anything - she gets from it is not clear. Maybe if you focus carefully on the details of the scene, there's something here you can pick up, some detail that escapes a casual look, but it seems like these people went to some lengths to prevent anything useful being gleaned from it.

And then the connections vanish, like a school of fish abruptly scattering as they sense a predator, and you're left with a hole where previously you had a deep connection to someone.

*

And then you find yourselves in the Underworld. You're in a dark, damp cave, the sound of water rushing not far away. Schelvisch is fled, but likely not far away. Sabbat, Gilgamesh, and the soulless girl are there. The latter appears greatly distraught and lost. Of Black Angel there's no sign.

The ghostly reflection of a man approaches you as soon as you arrive, almost as if anticipating you call, Rothko. The ghost is still wearing the iconic white tunic emblazoned with a red cross of the Knights Templar that he no doubt wore in life. There's a strong scent of smoke about him, like a man who's been standing close to a bonfire for hours, the smoke blowing about him and suffusing his clothes ... or perhaps a man who's been standing in a fire.

He looks at each of you. "Monsieur de Molay?" His voice is faint and deeply despondent. "I have been told to await the Grand Master here."

Gilgamesh blatantly ignores the ghost and turns to Sabbat, who in turn seems more interested in the ghost, but of the two, Gilgamesh is harder to ignore. "Congratulations, you got it like you wanted, Sabbat."

Sabbat reluctantly looks away from the ghost to address Gilgamesh. "You know very well that if I'd got it my way, that ritual would have been a harmless fake, not a live fire, Withered Fern would have had whatever time she needed to study the orb, and Councilor Chiltepin would have had time to report back his findings."

"If the fool gets back," Gilgamesh mutters, almost as if he hopes against it. It's not clear if he's even talking about the Councilor, or even heard what Sabbat said. His cold blue eyes fix on Eris. "Speaking of the orb, at least it was saved. I can have that back now," he says, holding out his hand.

Sabbat is still standing in front of Eris. "Why? You saw with your own eyes that it did not work, and it seems to me that chance has landed it in neutral hands, like the some of us suggested."

"What I saw was Schelvisch interrupting the ritual!" Gilgamesh bites off each word. "Why would he do that, if it wasn't because it was working and he didn't want us to complete it? And you call this neutral hands?" he says and gestures at you both as if it's obvious what he means.

Sabbat crosses her arms. "Either way, we let you try it your way. If you'd listen to me sometimes..."

"I listen to you all the time. I hold your counsel in high regard," he says in a tone both suspicious and that of an old, very tired friend. "Yet I trust you the least of all people. Don't think I don't know your game." He says and turns around to walk away.

"Do you, now?" she asks his back.

[Anarion]

Many things. Yes, many things. The vision, I wonder if I can see what in it is soon to pass away and what in it is enduring? Or perhaps I can see what the place was made of. Does the building, its composition, its age, the rust in the walls or the peeling paint, does any of that register to matter sight? I wonder if they protected the place as well as the people?

The ghost is for me though, so I let the vision slip whatever I may have gained. "A knight templar. How fascinating, I do wonder how long you have been dead good sir, I certainly do." I approach him with a certain jovial air. "But as to the matter, I suppose I am your grandmaster for the moment, and the service I need is for you to reconnoiter the area and inform me of a few important landmarks. We shall need a place of safety that can, if possible in this dark place, support and protect the life we still hold. I should also like to know which way the man Schelvish went, he ought to be the only other living being anywhere near here and who preceded us. If you see him, do NOT approach him, merely tell me his location or which way he went. I should also like to know of any other notable landmarks in this immediate area, perhaps places that ghosts congregate, entrances to the deeper labyrinth, or flows of underworld water and to what river they are connected. Please make all haste, sir."

[Elanorin]

Eris was not about to give the orb to Gilgamesh even if every mage in here had insisted on her doing so, nope. With Sabbat insisting she should keep it, well, that was just the final nail in the coffin on the matter. Eris cradled the orb under her clothes tightly, narrowed her eyes and glared at Gilgamesh with her very best 'go on, try to get it' look. She'd been happy enough to hurl some abuse at him too for good measure but it seemed Sabbat had seen him off fast enough. Eris watched him go with satisfaction on her face.

"Is that what you think? That my hands are neutral?" Eris finally asked, directing her eyes to Sabbat who was still oh so close, her voice light and flirtatious.

[Thanqol]

Pegasus returns. Does it look ashamed?

Of course he does. Not for letting me down - he knows I know who he is - but that he did so in front of a crowd. His nature is flash as well as speed and his ego is deeply bruised.

He will be quiet for a pleasant little while, and then double down on the bombasticity in an attempt to cause me - and the world - to forget his slip.


You descend into the earth, following the councilor, who is lighting up the winding path ahead. Despite the best efforts of the light, the walls seem to disappear gradually into darkness around you. And then you step off the last step and through an arch, and you find yourself standing on a large plasma TV, 50 inches probably, its screen half-melted. It is embedded in a sea of broken and discarded junk, stretching into the horizon. Gargantuan pyramids of garbage rise from this desert of discarded and broken civilization.

Looking up, it goes on forever. There is no sky, just spheres inside spheres of far distant trash-scapes. It's not turtles all the way down, it's trash upon trash, the discarded products of civilizations, like constellations of dead skin cells.

Death is not your domain - if it were, perhaps you could gain more insight from this place - but you feel it suffusing everything here, seeping down all the way to the concentrated Death at the center of all: like the super-massive black hole at the center of galaxies. This is not a place for the living. Better step carefully.

Chiltepin whistles as he stares out at the endless ... wastes. "Talk about a needle in a haystack." He gives you an appraising look. "Think we can find a soul in here? We're looking for some kind of brooch or similar. Maybe looks like a scarab."

My composure does not mean I'm jaded. This is wondrous.

The skin of reality has been peeled back and I stand on the surface of another realm of reality. The glowing light of Eden, the song of integration, has cast this shadow and I am blessed to be in a state where I can encounter and perceive it. Other Mages might walk the barriers between realms with but a sniff but I just stand in awe and try to expand my view of the cosmos to fit this place.

I am no stranger to death. My hands and mouth are still slick with the blood of Cinqzérodeux. My Enlightenment was forged in a machine-eagle's cry of rage. The world itself reveals its face in the form of a scarlet patterned battlefield. Battles rage everywhere - every dance of molecules or demand of gravity is a conflict. The first truth of such conflict is that it will go on regardless of the subject's awareness of it. The sleeping hills do not know the war is come until they have been carved apart by shells and trenches - and even then they do not understand. It is much the same with people.

And right now my eyes are opened to the truth that battles do not end with victory and consumption. Cinqzérodeux was a consumer of the dead; a thing of life and rebirth, and I feel its nature and essence and the truths it was in my head still. A familiar set of concepts to me. But this place is desolate. There is no life here, no creeping infections and subtle fungi, nothing to bring change. The gleaming violet vortex in the sky is not consuming the garbage, not putting it to use, not even allowing it to decay. It's just letting it pile up. "Is that what death is?" I wonder aloud. Not blood and violence and transformation as part of the world's cycle. Is it instead just stillness? Everything here could be used, repaired, reforged, eaten, broken back down into dirt, soil, grass. And the only reason it's attuned to this place of death is because that's not happening?

If that is true, then every body in preserved in a coffin is a prisoner.

A sharp feeling in my head; there is pain when thinking thoughts this large. The entire world is different and the implications could take me a lifetime to grasp. Is this Rothko's truth?

But I am not alone here; I do not have the freedom to sit and meditate on this. I have a master and he commands me. It strikes many people as strange that I would put aside such important thoughts and deep desires to serve another's whims. That is their flaw, for they perceive him as separate to me. Chiltepin and I are pieces of the same cosmos, the same Supernal, the same self. He exists for my benefit - to help me obliterate my ego and alter my own context. Now I must perceive this revelation differently; not as a new truth and realm to explore, but as a puzzle to sort through. I again have purpose and so I begin adapting.

"We'd have to get very lucky," I say in response to his question, "but that's the sort of thing that can be arranged."

[Deadly]

Many things. Yes, many things. The vision, I wonder if I can see what in it is soon to pass away and what in it is enduring? Or perhaps I can see what the place was made of. Does the building, its composition, its age, the rust in the walls or the peeling paint, does any of that register to matter sight? I wonder if they protected the place as well as the people?

The overall look suggests a luxury suite in a hotel or a large, high-class manor. The building is modern, likely built within the last few decades, and there are no signs of decay. It is well kept and clean, one might even say polished, not a speck in sight. The floor is marble, polished to a sheen, with a compass-like pattern in the center. Want to roll Wits+Occult on that?

The walls are off-white, the ceiling white. There's a chandelier of gold and frosted glass right above you, and five armchairs arranged in a semi-circle around the room, one for each person present (not counting the girl) one might suppose. One or more but not all of the people are seated, but you can't point out which, except that 'you' are standing.

There are beautiful drapes covering that half of the wall behind the chairs, but they don't cover any windows or doors. They seem purely decorative. You can't even sense any seams or irregularities in the walls suggesting that there might once have been any openings. The room appears to have been built this way: with no physical entrance.

It doesn't strike you as Schelvisch's style, all polished, sleek and modern. Maybe he's changed since you knew him? You could try to get a sense of what he feels - felt - with Wits+Empathy.


The ghost is for me though, so I let the vision slip whatever I may have gained. "A knight templar. How fascinating, I do wonder how long you have been dead good sir, I certainly do." I approach him with a certain jovial air. "But as to the matter, I suppose I am your grandmaster for the moment, and the service I need is for you to reconnoiter the area and inform me of a few important landmarks. We shall need a place of safety that can, if possible in this dark place, support and protect the life we still hold. I should also like to know which way the man Schelvish went, he ought to be the only other living being anywhere near here and who preceded us. If you see him, do NOT approach him, merely tell me his location or which way he went. I should also like to know of any other notable landmarks in this immediate area, perhaps places that ghosts congregate, entrances to the deeper labyrinth, or flows of underworld water and to what river they are connected. Please make all haste, sir."

The ghost obeys and drifts off to find answers that will satisfy your questions. We'll get to that after the break.


Eris was not about to give the orb to Gilgamesh even if every mage in here had insisted on her doing so, nope. With Sabbat insisting she should keep it, well, that was just the final nail in the coffin on the matter. Eris cradled the orb under her clothes tightly, narrowed her eyes and glared at Gilgamesh with her very best 'go on, try to get it' look. She'd been happy enough to hurl some abuse at him too for good measure but it seemed Sabbat had seen him off fast enough. Eris watched him go with satisfaction on her face.

"Is that what you think? That my hands are neutral?" Eris finally asked, directing her eyes to Sabbat who was still oh so close, her voice light and flirtatious.

"I could tell you what I think," Sabbat says with a hidden smile as she starts writing notes in a small notebook, casually dotting the i's, "but then I'd have to kiss you."

There's a muted sound from your phone. Who knew there's signal even down here, in the Underworld? Turns out there is. You've got a message from Facebook: "Magali Armand is now in a relationship with you."

Now, that's bold.

You look up and while you were looking at your phone Sabbat has wandered ahead to have a look around, notebook still in hand. She throws you a subtle wink over her shoulder.


And right now my eyes are opened to the truth that battles do not end with victory and consumption. Cinqzérodeux was a consumer of the dead; a thing of life and rebirth, and I feel its nature and essence and the truths it was in my head still. A familiar set of concepts to me. But this place is desolate. There is no life here, no creeping infections and subtle fungi, nothing to bring change. The gleaming violet vortex in the sky is not consuming the garbage, not putting it to use, not even allowing it to decay. It's just letting it pile up. "Is that what death is?" I wonder aloud. Not blood and violence and transformation as part of the world's cycle. Is it instead just stillness? Everything here could be used, repaired, reforged, eaten, broken back down into dirt, soil, grass. And the only reason it's attuned to this place of death is because that's not happening?

If that is true, then every body in preserved in a coffin is a prisoner.

A sharp feeling in my head; there is pain when thinking thoughts this large. The entire world is different and the implications could take me a lifetime to grasp. Is this Rothko's truth?

But I am not alone here; I do not have the freedom to sit and meditate on this. I have a master and he commands me. It strikes many people as strange that I would put aside such important thoughts and deep desires to serve another's whims. That is their flaw, for they perceive him as separate to me. Chiltepin and I are pieces of the same cosmos, the same Supernal, the same self. He exists for my benefit - to help me obliterate my ego and alter my own context. Now I must perceive this revelation differently; not as a new truth and realm to explore, but as a puzzle to sort through. I again have purpose and so I begin adapting.

"We'd have to get very lucky," I say in response to his question, "but that's the sort of thing that can be arranged."

"Yes, I think we'll try your luck," Chiltepin says, then steps out into the wastes. "Word has it you've got more of it than some expected."

Interlude

While we pause here for a month or two, why don't you tell me the story of the first time the three of you all met? I'm sure that's a story worth telling in full, and since it's in the past, you don't much need me around to help you tell it.