Illumination [IC]

[Plerumque]

Among the more lucid ravings of the occult scholars, buried though they may be in forgotten libraries and impassable tombs across the globe, one could, if one were to go looking, find this simple truth: Worlds move.

The Earth moves, of course, in its path around its Sun, and so too do other planets around their own stars; this has been known for centuries. But the scholars would tell you that there are other worlds that move differently, along orbits impossible in our mathematics. To even understand the way they move would require an apprehension that eludes all but the most courageous geometers. Suffice it to say, the scholars would urge, sometimes these world are closer to us and sometimes they are farther apart.

Of course, this peculiar dimensionality means it is difficult to track the movement of these worlds, even for those few who know enough to try. And that, in turn, means that sometimes the worlds can move at rather inconvenient times.

In the case of this most recent ratchet of the cosmic gear, it happened during a meeting of the ill-fated Order of the Silver Sickle. A product of a time when membership in a secret society was little more than a fashionable accessory, the Order nevertheless managed to get their hands on a ritual passed down more or less directly from the mystery cults of the ancient world. Normally, nothing would have happened; they could have run through the woods and had impossible, ecstatic sex and gone home with nothing more than a few thorns in unfortunate places and a good story for Lady Vandermere’s dinner party. But—

the worlds moved—

and instead something was birthed sideways into the world. Something huge and alienly familiar, with a cat's eyes and a human's appetite for carnage. It managed to raze three counties before it was eventually brought down by the combined efforts of the British government, the Territorial Force, and no less than four volunteer firemen’s brigades. Of the Order of the Silver Sickle, and of anyone else present that night, there are no known survivors.

That was the world’s re-introduction to magick, two years ago in 1917. Since then, much has changed, although perhaps less than one would expect. Efforts to employ magick in the war effort proved nigh-impossible, and reluctantly each nation turned back to the more reliable armaments of bullets and trenches. Some occult societies have retreated further into the shadows, having found whatever proof they were looking for, while others have taken the opportunity to emerge into the light. Aleister Crowley strides the streets of London in his ceremonial robes, leaving a string of furiously copulating citizens in his wake. Carl Jung’s new books on synchronicity and parapsychology are available on every newsstand, a boon to doctors and quacks alike. And hundreds of new occultic groups have been founded, the allure of unlimited power inevitably prevailing over the known dangers of magick improperly or incompletely focused.

You have largely stayed out of all this, too shaken by what you saw that night in 1917. Because it’s not exactly true that there were no survivors. You and Sutcliffe fled before the ritual was complete, backs hunched against the apocalypse dawning behind you. As the morning dragged on and the radio crackled with reports of more and more slaughter, you couldn’t meet his eyes, nor he yours. You’ve barely spoken since that day.

It is no wonder, then, that the letter he sent you is brief. No doubt it was as unpleasant for him to write as it is for you to read. It says, simply,

Adam—

Dinner tonight at the Balneum. Will have company. Bring the book.

And then, cryptically:

Worlds move.

Signed, J.S.

[thenewflesh]

https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1919359

Bleary-eyed ragged-haired I pace around around around in my apartment, clock-tick-tick-ticking towards tonight, second-hand spinning around around...

It's not possible simply impossible, how could James possibly have found me here. I've exhausted every detail. My name is unfamiliar. My city changed. My appearance slovenly - a trompe-d'oiel of course to distinguish from foppish Adam, Adam who never went anywhere unclean unfragranced unfashionable. Now all is must and old robes.

Calm down the cracked man in the mirror says to me, calm down it will all be clear soon. James must mean well: else, why would have given warning of company. Ergo, relax.

No no no, hide the Book! And off I scramble across the room scrabble through the pile of heavy books on the small table, find the Grimoire hide it in the wall, sit down crosslegged in the middle of the room with chalk and magical supplies. Floorboards thick with erased chalk I chalk them again, sigils geometric esoteric and scents of incense and wax strewn about me.

"I call upon thee, Asthur, bringer of light, to guide me in the..."

And on and on till the clock chimes six, and then I rush to clean and refop - a trompe-d'oiel to mask my trompe-d'oiel - till at eight, not Geoffrey Holgate but Adam Rayleigh is waiting at the Balneum. Adam Rayleigh, waistcoated, coiffed, swordcaned, armed with a satchel of eldritch materials, heart athump with fear and anticipation. Calm down calm down the cracked man says, but I know better. The game has caught up with Adam Rayleigh.

[Plerumque]

The valet at the Balneum recognizes you, of course, even after all these years; it is his job. His eyes betray not the slightest flicker of curiosity as he bows from the waist and says "Mr. Rayleigh, welcome back. Dr. Sutcliffe and his guest are waiting for you in the Red Room."

Your feet remember the way, even if it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the haze of dust and cigar-smoke that seems to gather around everything in the Balneum. The Red Room is at the top, all the way through the supper-club's maze of lounges and up its flourish of a staircase. When you open the door at the top, you realize it's only the name of the Red Room that's stayed the same—the armchairs you remember are gone, replaced by a row of dreaming-couches. The teachings of Jung must have gained a certain credence among the members of the Balneum.

You don't have much time to wonder about the changes in interior design, however, before your attention is drawn to Sutcliffe, five years older but no less ramrod-straight in his posture. And, next to him on the chaise, Eliza.

Sutcliffe extends his hand. "Adam. Thank you for coming. I know it's late notice, and I don't doubt you are as booked as ever." You can't tell if his words are ironic or merely oblivious. "Allow me to introduce my friend Lillian Bishop," he continues. "I don't think you've met, unless perhaps through some other mutual acquaintance. In any case, Lillian is a great friend of mine, and has agreed to help us out today."

Eliza extends her hand, eyes agleam as ever. "Charmed, I'm sure."

[thenewflesh]

"Thank you, David, it is excellent to be back." I nod and smile graciously at the valet before skittering down hallways too-familiar, too-close to memory. The haunt of foolish fops like Adam Rayleigh.

I step into the room. Eliza's face flashes white-hot above the chaise. The cracked man shakes his head calm down he says calm down but his voice is cracking with doubt. Memories of sulfur and fear clog my chest. Sutcliffe Sutcliffe - damn it damn it you have led me into this trap and here I am. The sacrificial lamb.

"How good to see you, old friend," and I shake his hand then hers. I cannot quite meet her eye. "Likewise, I'm sure."

I turn away to pour a drink or three, reach into pocket, back to the enemy, palm small lens shard from satchel, mutter the Enochian "doholor cicles od laiad, zonac i dosig" under breath. I offer her, then him, a drink, wordless, sipping drink fist around shard. Focus, Adam, and may the trap reveal itself to you.

Detect magic, and I'll hold concentration all the way through all three rounds.

[Plerumque]

Sutcliffe leans forward. "Adam—I just want to say I'm sorry. I know Milner's sudden passing was hard on us both, and I should have reached out to you more. I never meant for us to grow so far apart. It was just—well, it was difficult for all of us. And then there was Eliza, too, so young and with child... I should have done more to help her. We all should have."

"But of course that's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about, old chap," he continues. "You see, I recently had the chance to meet with her, for the first time nearly since it happened. She told me she's trying to get all Milner's old things together, either as some kind of a tribute or in order to finally get rid of them, I wasn't quite clear which. Anyway, I gave her all the books and letters I had, figured they were owed her and I'd be better off without them. I told her I was sure you'd want to do the same, but I'd have to talk to you first. I thought you'd probably gotten rid of most of all that nonsense, but that surely you'd still have that book we found in that market in Cairo, the one that you and Milner loved so. Did you bring it with you today, by chance?"

Sutcliffe reeks of enchantment (moderate aura). Eliza is clear.

[thenewflesh]

The trap revealed, my shoulders relax, and the world, for a moment, stops screaming fear and panic. I face Sutcliffe, a little more confidently. "I think I recall the one of which you speak. It was a wonderful book, very quaint, and rather insightful. No - I do not believe I have it with me. Was it not at the mansion with all the other things I left?"

[Plerumque]

Sutcliffe nods thoughtfully. "No, it wasn't. I thought it might be the case that you wouldn't remember where it ended up, though. That's why I brought Lillian today. You may have noticed that the, ah, acoutrement of this room is a little different than it was during our day? Well, Lillian is a student of Jung's, and has successfully conducted dozens of dreamings—at least, according to her." Sutcliffe claps a hand on the shoulder of Eliza, who tosses her head back and laughs; the whole motion seems peculiarly frozen, as if rehearsed.

"I mentioned the problem to Lillian, and she offered to do a session with the two of us, so we could track down any last belongings of Milner's," Sutcliffe continues. "And, depending on how it goes, it might mean a chance to speak with him one more time. I have a few things I wish I'd had the chance to say to him, and I'm sure you do too. And then it would be a simple matter to find the things Eliza's asked for, have a nice ceremony, and move on. Perhaps you and I could have a nice lunch sometime and catch up. That would be nice, surely? It would be like the last five years hardly happened." Sutcliffe reaches out and clasps your hand. "So what do you say, old chap? Dream with me?"

[thenewflesh]

Don't do it don't do it says the cracked man, and yet I feel curiously drawn. Sutcliffe my old friend here, and feelings of nostalgia and remorse. I wasn't right to flee so soon, James must have been as affected as I. He is not my enemy.

And yet - the witch. I must speak to the real Sutcliffe, Sutcliffe unenchanted.

I nod, smiling. "Of course. It would be excellent to catch up. I burn with curiosity about your life these past five years. And gladly I offer my help commemorating Milner." Here I turn to Eliza. "But first, before the ritual, I must pray you forgive this gross impertinence. I have not seen James in years, and my heart wells with old memories and unspoken regrets. I would speak to him, alone, for a little while."

[Plerumque]

Eliza nods. "Of course. I'm sure this is something of a fraught moment for both of you. Don't let me intrude." She stands and walks behind the couch, letting her hand trail over Sutcliffe's shoulders and neck as she goes. His face twitches, once, then settles.

As soon as the door clicks behind her, however, Sutcliffe leans forward again. "Sorry about that, old chap. Awfully indelicate of me—I should have known you'd want to speak in private first. Are there any questions you have I can answer, about her or I or Milner or anything?"

[thenewflesh]

The door shuts, and my gaze locks on Sutcliffe. I let out what I hope is a relaxed smile, and jam a hand into pocket. "If I didn't know any better," I laugh, "Lillian would seem the spitting image of Eliza."

Ah - the silver powder, grating coarsely against my fingers in its little pouch. Hail Astoreth. This cannot work says the cracked man, of course not. This spell has no recorded use as breaker of enchantments. Yet perhaps it may weaken them - and what other choice do I have?

I step towards Sutcliffe and lay my other hand on his shoulder. "You have been a good friend to me, Sutcliffe. I feel the need to apologize for my sudden disappearance. I blamed myself. But if you'll excuse me for a moment -" and just like that, I toss a little silver on the floor around him, and mutter some ancient syllables.

Protection from evil (http://www.d20srd.org/srd/spells/protectionFromEvil.htm). The rules don't say this breaks any enchantments as is, but maybe it'll help him on other will saves to break them himself, or, I dunno. It was worth a shot.

[Plerumque]

"Really? I don't see the resemblance mys—" is as far as Sutcliffe gets before he breaks out coughing. He covers his mouth, ineffectually—between his spread fingers, you can see a dark liquid streaking his chin. When he takes his hand away, it is black, slicked with rainbows. He turns his fingers slightly to catch the light, examining it with an expression first of confusion, then panic.

Before he has a chance to say anything more, though, you hear a murmuring outside, followed immediately by a low, continuous buzz that you feel in your teeth. When you look, the door is vibrating slightly in its frame, and from beyond comes the sound of someone clattering down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Hold Portal

[thenewflesh]

My hands are trembling again. Of course it wouldn't work of course, the cracked man says. Now I am trapped, the enemy within and the enemy without.

In one fast fearful stroke I draw sword from cane, leap to the door, and try it.

[Plerumque]

As you grip the doorknob, a reflexive shudder runs up your arm, as if your elbow had been struck by a doctor's hammer. You hold it tighter, and twist, but the knob doesn't move.

[thenewflesh]

A rat in a rat cage I turn around, wild-eyed. "Devil's work! I knew the cracked man was right." I mutter. My eyes alighting on my former friend, I draw sword from cane, point blade to throat. "Tell me, Sutcliffe, and tell me quietly, for a man in danger is dangerous man - you knew you were drawing me in a trap. Tell me what she wants. Tell me how to escape her."

My voice is calm but the blade quivers in the air before Sutcliffe's neck. No time for sentiment remorse hesitation. I'll drop him to the ground, shed him like the past.

[Plerumque]

At first, you can't get anything out of Sutcliffe—he's pressed his face into his hands and is making wet noises that suggest either sobbing or retching. Faced with your sword, though, he manages to pull himself together, and lifts an effluvia-streaked face to meet your eyes. "I'm—I'm sorry that we had to meet again like this, old chap. I don't know why I—it was like I was someplace behind my eyes, and whenever I spoke it came out wrong, and—"

Then you move your blade a hair closer to his neck, and he remembers the question. "Er, I don't know, really—she wouldn't speak much of it when she was with me. I know she wanted to have you dream—there was something she wanted out of your dream, I think? And she thought she would be able to get it, somehow, if she was the one guiding your dream." He takes a moment to swipe ineffectively at the mucous stringing his face, then continues, phlegmatic: "She knew you might refuse—she had talked about it with the yellow man—but she wasn't expecting you to do this, or be able to. I don't know what her plan is now. Please don't hurt me," he adds.

[thenewflesh]

The point remains aloft. A trompe-d'oeil to mask a trompe-d'oeil, perhaps, or perhaps he is indeed telling the truth. "The yellow man. Who is he? How did you and Eliza find me in London?"

[Plerumque]

"Adam, please," Sutcliffe pleads. "I don't want this any more than you do. I don't know who the yellow man is. He was wearing a yellow suit, so that's how I think of him when I'm able to think. They met in Paris, several weeks ago; she brought me along to ensure the enchantment stayed unbroken while she was abroad. I spoke with him once, when he gave me your address and dictated a letter for me to write. She asked what to do if you didn't come, and he said you would. They talked for longer than that, but she sent me off to fetch a package from the dressmaker, and I didn't catch the rest." His mouth curls into an angry smirk and he looks down, though he seems not to notice the black liquid on his hands trickling upwards.

You have about a minute left of un-enchanted Sutcliffe, enough time to get the answer to one more question or attempt to restrain him.

[thenewflesh]

"Quickly now, where is she staying?" I ask. My voice strengthens. The point steadies. "Here, and in Paris."

[Plerumque]

"36 Blythe Road, a few doors down from the intersection with Beaconsfield Terrace. There's a curry place on the ground level; she lives above it. Don't let her take me back there. It's not right for a man." The dark liquid is reaching for him now, stretching into drips that fall upwards, splashing onto Sutcliffe's jaw and cheek. He doesn't seem to notice. "In Paris, we were in a hotel, the Maison Souquet. I don't know who made the reservation, or where they got the money." The liquid trickles into his ears, and a shudder goes through him; his eyes fly open wide. "Adam—please. For old times' sake. Don't let her take me. Don't let her—" and then something moves in his pupils, and he straightens back up. He studies you for a moment, then turns on his heel and dashes for the far end of the room, towards an end-table stacked with instruments.

You can make an attack of opportunity if you wish; otherwise, I'll resolve Sutcliffe's action.

[Plerumque]

You lash out with your sword, but you were never much of a fighter, and instead of slitting Sutcliffe's throat as intended, you only open a long gash along his collarbone. Blood soaking through his ascot, he makes it to the end-table, seizes it in both hands, and hurls it through the window. Bleeding and now flecked with broken glass, he turns to face you—as, below, the cries of passerby begin to filter into the room.

Your turn; Sutcliffe is maybe twenty feet away from you.

[thenewflesh]

Wordless I dash towards him bladefirst, stabbing inexpertly. I have no plan of attack: if he dies, I'm locked in a room waiting to be found a murderer. But better that than to be caged with Eliza's puppet.

Charge: [roll0]
And possible damage: [roll1]

I'm at -2 AC next round.

[Plerumque]

The point of your blade sticks in Sutcliffe's side; he cries out and gropes for the wound as you tug your sword out and ready another attack. Below you, you can hear the sound of a commotion rising dimly through the ceilings of the Balneum—and cutting above it, Eliza's strident voice.

[thenewflesh]

I stab the enemy again again again, till he crumbles, crumples on the floor. I whisper some words in Enochian. My body twists, deforms into that of some man as yet unborn: now I am no one.

She is at the threshold. Her hand is at the door. I leap out the window and tear into the streets of London, twisting and writhing down the darkest alleys I can find, till breath overtakes me. Then, 36 Blithe Road.

Alter self into some perfectly average-looking guy. I have half an hour, and probably spent five minutes of it just running around.

[roll0] falling damage.

[Plerumque]

Your new body lends you a grace unknown to your old one, and you roll as you fall, suffering only minor scrapes and bruises. The crowd parts as you approach, shouting, but no one makes an attempt to follow you. You give the Balneum one last glance before you flee, though, and you can feel the hum in your teeth vanishing as the spell on the door is broken. Then the crowding of shadowy figures into the room, and Eliza silhouetted in the empty window-frame. "John!" her voice rings out as the wind picks up, and then you're gone.

Blythe Road is a street known to you; twenty years ago, it was famous as the site of Aleister Crowley's attack on the London chapter of the Order of the Hermetic Dawn, headed at the time by William Butler Yeats. Since then, both Crowley and Yeats have found more impressive lodgings, and the Blythe Road location has faded into obscurity save for the visits of the occasional devoted fan or misguided ritualist. The curry shop is right where Sutcliffe told you it would be, spilling yellow lamplight and the warm scent of turmeric out into the darkening street. There is no visible entrance to the flat above, though—it seems to be only through the back of the shop.

[thenewflesh]

Ancient rites and older evils have breathed here. I step out from cab, tightly clutching coat against me. Perhaps I am cold or perhaps simply afraid. For I have heard rumors of the things they brought to being here, long ago. The place is still scarred by Yeats' will.

Turning and turning in the widening dusk, I slouch towards the back of the curry shop.

[Plerumque]

You step inside and everything seems muted: less daylight filters through the windows than you'd expect, though the lamps compensate somewhat, and though there seems to be plenty of talk you can hardly make out any words. Most of the diners are seated at a scattering of tables, heads bent low in conversation or over their bowls; opposite them, there's a long counter stacked with jars and boxes and behind that a sharp-eyed proprietor of ambiguous ethnicity. Towards the back, there looks to be a kitchen on one side and perhaps restrooms on the other, with an unmarked door at the very back. As you walk forward, you hear the door close behind you with a gentle tintinnabulation, and the proprietor calls out with unexpected crispness, "What can I get for you?"

[thenewflesh]

I make my way through the diners, through the olfactory smog, to the owner. "I am here to visit the flat above." I say quietly and hurriedly. "Please direct me there."

[Plerumque]

"She went out a few hours ago," the proprietor says. "Should be back soon, though. Can I get you something to eat while you're waiting? On the house for a friend of 'Liza's." He winks.

[thenewflesh]

"Let the doors of his soul be opened." I mutter under breath, and flick a finger before his face. Then, with a smile: "You see, my friend, I am here on urgent business, to fetch some supplies from her flat for her. She is currently tied up in some... affairs."

Charm person.

[Plerumque]

Instead of the man's eyes clouding over as expected, you feel your own begin to water, and the sharp odor of ginger fills your nose. The proprietor ***** his head and looks at you curiously. "My apologies, sir," he says, still genial. "Her kid's up there; I can't just give people the key. If you'll just take a seat and have some coffee, she'll be here soon, and we can figure out this misunderstanding."

[thenewflesh]

Ere long, the fox returns to cave. I must be quick, and yet somehow I feel curiously mellow. Perhaps there is something in the air. I smile easily. "On any other day, I would completely understand. But the nature of her affairs necessitates haste, and discretion. Hence, my presence here instead of hers. If you let me in, I will be sure to put in a good word to Eliza about your helpfulness and flexibility."

Bluff: [roll0]
Diplomacy: [roll1]

[Plerumque]

"All right," the proprietor says with a shake of his head. "If it's so important. But I'll come with you—we're not that busy right now, and Narmad needs experience running the register anyway." He whistles through his teeth and a boy dashes out of the kitchen; they converse briefly in a language you don't recognize before the proprietor turns back to you. "Let's go," he says, stepping out from behind the counter and producing an old-fashioned key from the pocket of his yellow apron. "The stairs are right back there, over by the bathrooms. Not the most scenic route, but what can you do."

[thenewflesh]

She was a small child working the till, sweeping the floors, forever passing through the less scenic routes. As a boy I would slip away from nanny to come visit Esmie, fascinated and repulsed by the vulgar life she led. Thank God I was born better, I'd think, as I touched her greasy hair.

She never came to visit me. Sir Rayleigh would never have stood for it. I was born better.

The things Esmie taught me. How to lie, cheat, steal, slip a dagger in a man's back. How to live dirty. When I got home her influence would never quite wash out from under my nails.

"I prefer the less scenic route." I smile again, and follow him up the stairs.

[Plerumque]

"Fair," the proprietor says, flashing white teeth. He inserts the key in the lock and turns, and the bolt slides back with a thunk. Then, he opens the door, waving you through with a slight, ironic bow.

Eliza's flat is nice—there are more windows than there'd seemed to be from ground level, and the last dregs of sunlight are spilling out across the boards of the floor. It is sparsely furnished, though, save for a rickety sofa and numerous piles of books and manuscripts. From a distant room, there comes the gurgle of an infant. "Now," the man in the yellow apron says. "What was it you needed?"

[thenewflesh]

"To start with, she required one of these -" I begin, pensively walking towards one of the piles of books and glancing at the titles. Then I seem to recollect myself, turn back towards the innkeeper. With a dismissive nod perfected over a youth filled with dandyism, I say, "That will be all, thanks. I will rejoin you shortly downstairs."

[Plerumque]

"Thought you were in a hurry," the man says, walking over towards the entrance to the other room. "But take your time, it's no difference to me." You hear a small grunt of effort, and he re-emerges with a child on his shoulders, the infant laughing and clapping his hands.

Eliza's son looks like her—those big, dark eyes—and, curiously enough, like Milner, though you wouldn't have thought that guilty old Catholic would've been able to locate his animal instincts with a map. The evidence to the contrary seems to be before you, though, gently blowing a spit bubble. "I can take him downstairs if we'll be in your way," the proprietor says. "But I know 'Liza's system pretty well, and she puts things all over the place, so I thought I may as well stay."

[thenewflesh]

"That will not be necessary. Eliza and I appreciate your discretion," I smile, and stand watching him until he leaves.

Once (if?) he does, I begin to give her apartment, books and manuscripts a slightly more careful look. What was she up to here? What is Eliza playing at?

[Plerumque]

You begin stuffing papers into your bag, noting only the script and the heading—an envelope open on the table addressed to Eliza, something that looks like a journal lying on top of a stack of books, a few scraps of faded parchment crammed with more recent annotations. You haven't gotten far into your search, though, when the door swings back open and the proprietor stands there, minus child but plus an enormous kitchen knife. "Knew there was something fishy about you," he says, eyes on the journal in your hand. "Put that down, and don’t make a fuss of it—'Liza will be here soon, and the coppers with her."

[thenewflesh]

Stuff journal in bag, one ornate-looking book for good measure, as I run to window, leap through, crash through glass. The ground drives icepicks through my knees once again. I stagger to my feet and race drunkenly into the streets, hail the first cab I see, and pay him well to get me home as fast as he can.

Two at a time I race up the steps. Desdemona will have returned to our roost by now. We will pack bags, flee. Scotland, perhaps. France. China. Where Eliza lives, I cannot.

Damage: [roll0]

[Plerumque]

You crash through the window and land crumpled on the street, a cab swerving to a stop in front of you. You throw a glance back over your shoulder as you hoist yourself onto the leather seat: back in the flat, the proprietor stands looking through the broken window for a moment, then turns away. As you refocus on the interior of the cab, the driver swivels around and tips a hat that matches the yellow paint-job of the car itself. "Where to, guv?"

A journal, blank except for one entry
A scrap of faded parchment in Enochian, liberally annotated in a crabbed hand
A very old book, written in Latin and titled De mysteriis Aegyptiorum, Chaldaeorum, Assyriorum et alia opuscula
A gilt-edged edition of The Kybalion: A Study of the Hermetic Philosophy of Ancient Egypt and Greece
A heavily-underlined copy of Book 4 of Magick by Aleister Crowley
March 24, 1919

Met with H.r.h today in Paris. Told him I could bring him Thos. Jr. by September, but he refused and insisted on coming back with me. Claims Rayleigh still alive and in London, and in possession of something he needs (here a series of scribbled question marks). Unsure of how to retrieve—will have to think of something.

H.r.h. in London a frightening prospect. Must remember that he needs me (and Thos.) more than I him. Still, the next six months will be trying—and Sutcliffe acting up troubling as well. At least I got a new dress out of it. Oh, Thomas, if you could see me now!
Scroll of Dominate Person

[thenewflesh]

I scramble into cab, look wildly around for assailants, say - as if not fully present - "25 Coroner's Street."

I catch my breath.

In the backseat, I open the bag, look more carefully at the books. I will have to give these further attention once I have fled: my Latin, while by no means extinct, is at least rusty. That Eliza has carefully read Aleister Crowley's book is no surprise (although I will have to look through it to see what passages she took interest in).

I stare at the Enochian with a little confusion - the dialect is unfamiliar. Lesser Abyssal or one of its sisters, no doubt. I snap my fingers, and the rose tint of my mage's spectacles appear before my eyes. I squint at the parchment again. No luck. I snap my fingers again to disappear the spectacles, mumble a little Enochian of my own. Dominate Person. Of course.

More frightening is the letter. Milner, back from the dead? No, impossible. The thought fills me with horror; from where that beast took him, there is no return. Surely there are other Thomases. But the return of Eliza and of Sutcliffe fills me with presentiment. The past rises again to engulf me.

And there was that baby with Milner's eyes. 'Thomas Jr.' That must be it. That sexless bachelor must have spawned a child after all. What does "h.r.h." want to do with it?


By the time I open the door to my apartment, I look once again like Adam Rayleigh, soon to revert to Geoffrey Holgate.

Failed (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?588870-Crowley-chargen&p=24389928#post24389928) the spellcraft check, but cast Read Magic instead.

[Plerumque]

Desdemona is perched on the banister, preening her wings. At your bedraggled entrance, she ***** her beady-eyed head and speaks in a surprisingly hoarse voice. "My dear, where have you been? You look a sight."

[thenewflesh]

And all at once the air in my head is fresher. "Ah, Desdemona. What news of the outside world do you bring? It cannot be worse than mine." I pause, put bag down, stride to my closet to produce some meat scraps. Delicately she plucks them from my fingers. Ah, Desdemona.

"Eliza is here," I continue, after she has finished, "And Sutcliffe under her thrall. They know where we live. They may be on their way as we speak."

My pace quickens once again. I rapidly recount the events of the day as I pack the most essential of our meager possessions: some clothes, some food, my collection of tomes and grimoires and magical supplies. All in all, it makes quite a chest, very little of which is filled with actual living supplies.

And then - as Geoffrey Holgate - I am gone to the station with Desdemona flying overhead. Anywhere but here.

[Plerumque]

In its bustling anonymity, the train-station feels like a sanctuary. It's strange to look at all the faces—harried businessmen, reunited sweethearts, wittering tourists—and remember that mere hours ago you tried to kill a man. Every day, it seems, the world moves, and no one notices.

Well, perhaps someone's noticed. There seem to be more coppers than usual, loitering by the entrances and exits in their dark jackets. Still, you manage to purchase your ticket without incident—an express from London to Edinborough, departing in about half an hour. You return to your trunk to find an urchin standing next to it, dressed in patched trousers, an old yellow canvas coat, and a practiced impish grin. "Load your bags for a shilling, mister?" he asks, holding out an only slightly grimy hand.

[thenewflesh]

Gods help me I know a look of mild irritation crosses my face. Why did I leave my things unattended? But I am tired, frightened, and my back aches. I toss him a shilling. "And two more when we are safely on the train." I add, smiling at the child as old men do at audacious children, as my father did when I asked whether I could read with him.

[Plerumque]

The coin disappears so fast you have to stop yourself from checking for sorcery. "Kind of you, mister," the urchin says, doffing his hat in a parody of gentility. Then he heaves your chest up and staggers with it off towards the luggage car, quickly disappearing in a plume of smoke. Before you can cry theft, though, he reappears, dusting his hands and looking immensely satisfied with himself. "Happy travels," he says, already holding out his hand.

[thenewflesh]

Seeing the child vanish, I look up. "Why don't you go follow him and check the luggage, my dear?" I ask Desdemona. She leaves, and he returns.

I smile once more at his impudence, now more genuinely. "Once the luggage and I are safely on the train, remember?" But I start to walk towards the train, a new lightness in my step. Perhaps I did pack rather heavily. Then, suddenly, seized by a sudden thought, I turn back to the boy, fishing in my pocket for a scrap of paper. "Say, little man, once I get on that train, would you deliver a message for me? To Walter Boult; 24 Bury street, or you can find him often at the Athenaeum."

Scribbling a note on my leg, I sign it, and hand it to the boy. "Doves return to roost," it says.

Walter Boult is a banker and old friend from my younger years. He takes a faddish interest in the occult, and sometimes asks me for my learned opinion on various tomes and scripts, and in return, manages the remainder of my fortune so that I may maintain the illusion of Geoffery Holgate. In case of emergencies, this message was agreed to mean that I had fled town.

[Plerumque]

As you reach into your pocket for the paper, Desdemona comes arrowing back out of the smoke. She snatches the paper out of your hand before you can give it to the boy, and with a flutter of wings perches up in the eaves of the station. There, she catches your eye and ***** her head to one side, though it's difficult to tell whether it's meant as a significant gesture or merely an concession to her avian nature.

[thenewflesh]

My voice catches with surprise - my eyes dart from bird to boy to bird to boy. Then I laugh suddenly. "How odd!" I exclaim, for the benefit of the boy or other passersby. "Nevermind, then. Would you kindly guide me to my luggage on the train?"

[Plerumque]

The boy nods slowly, eyes darting between the bird in the rafters and the coin in your hand. Then, he seems to make up his mind and leads you down the platform, where a step up leads to a luggage compartment filled with various valises and carpetbags. Your chest is there, wedged up against the wall. "There you go, mister—and didja have a note to send, or is that all?"

The chest isn't closed quite all the way—it looks like someone opened it and closed it hastily, without taking the time to refasten the buckle.

[thenewflesh]

"Ah - er - no." I say, absent-mindedly, walking over to my luggage and running a hand over it. I toss the coins to the boy without really looking. When he runs off, I frown at Desdemona. "What in Belphegor's name was that about?"

[Plerumque]

Desdemona settles on the handle of a nearby suitcase and spits out the scrap of paper. "Pah! The things I do for you, Adam. And don't look at me like that. I just thought you might want to avoid giving that boy anything too important to do, given that he was rifling around in your things." She gestures with a wing, and you notice that the clasp of your chest is unfastened. "He was moving strangely, too. A little stiff. But I can hardly blame him for that—I often feel the same after spending any time in your presence." She chortles.

[thenewflesh]

The chest! Her lovely voice turns to rattling in my ears - I fling open the chest, dig rapidly through it. Eventually, I sigh with relief and close the chest. "Nothing was taken. Let's seat ourselves."

And I walk to the passengers' cabins. Too bad about Boult. I will send him a letter from Edinborough.

[Plerumque]

After returning to your seat, the next few hours pass in meditative silence. There's a point where you emerge from London's perpetual nimbus of rain and all of a sudden the English countryside looks like it does in paintings, all hazy and golden. Even Desdemona seems to appreciate it—over in the luggage compartment, you can feel the jangle of her thoughts slow and soften.

You'd guess you're somewhere near Leeds when the conductor approaches you. He's a florid man with an apologetic air and an impressively ugly yellow tie. "Excuse me"—Mr. Holgate, is it? I just wanted to inform you about a slight change to policy and offer our sincere regret for any inconvenience. Due to the recent unrest to the north, they've instituted a new customs check before crossing the border. So we'll be stopping at Berwick-upon-Tweed in about—" he consults a pocketwatch—"three hours. It should be a relatively brief stop, provided they don't find any illicit or irregular materials, so we're not anticipating an overall delay of more than forty minutes. If you have any armaments, explosives, or supplies of a magickal nature, you can declare them now or once we stop—as long as you have the appropriate paperwork, there shouldn't be a problem." He straightens up and moves down along the carriage; you can hear him repeating the same message, word for word, to several other passengers.

[thenewflesh]

I smile affable and calm. "Ah yes, just a collection of texts and supplies and so forth."


Soggy night in London; a wrinkled ex-fop in once-fashionable clothes holds a door open for me. Almost as damp inside as it is out. The years have been hard for Charlie, Walter warned me. Thank the gods for Walter Boult longfingered, the man who of society high and low.

By gas lantern I watch Charlie hunch over a sheet of paper in the dark, fill the last invented details I provide into my passport, documentation, licenses. He hands it over to me. I smell the alcohol on his breath. I sign my name: Geoffrey Holgate, out-of-luck eldritch scientist.

A real man walked in; a fiction walks out.


I check for identification in my coat pocket, fish out a piece of scrap paper and roughly list the contents of the chest.