Chapter VII - Healing Pains

This is what you came here for. Adventure, intrigue, murder, mystery and action - plus a healthy dose of boring everyday stuff. One continuous story-line, broken up into smaller themes for easier consumption.
Post Reply
User avatar
IamLEAM1983
Site Admin
 

Posts: 3707
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
Location: Quebec, Canada

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

The subject seemed to amuse and relieve Abigail to some degree, leading her to smile. "I like to think of the Courts as this really top-tier and rightfully prestigious circle you can be a part of, a bit like a classic boarding school with actually decent values or a renowned workplace with rock-solid work ethics," she explained, sighing. "The catch is the only really decent people are at the top and absolute bottom. Everywhere in-between, it's a smorgasbord of pretentiousness or genuine affect, a dime museum's worth of beautiful monsters and horrible-looking everyday heroes that won't ever get their just desserts. My best friends in the Sidhe were Commoners from both clans, and we grew up idolizing people who'd managed to turn what makes us what we are into something constructive," she said. "People like Lord Haskill or Lady McHale, like Adrian Snow, who only ever used their titles and never let them define-"

She stopped upon Meris' arrival, first reacting like any self-conscious small business owner responsible of some perceived flub in her customer service routine. She pursed her lips together, gave the group a contrite smile that asked for obvious patience, and then widened it for Meris.

"Apologies, Miss.; I'm, um, still a little new at this - pardon the enthusiasm. You meet all sorts of interesting people, in this town, heh. Please, feel free to browse. I'll-"

She stopped one more time, suspicion lining her features, until she did something Meris wouldn't have seen a lot of True Fae do, in her time. She channelled her Mantle reflexively, likely out of some mixture of shock and embarrassment, and covered her mouth just as faint scales gleamed into view along her cheekbones and her skin gained an almost opalescent sheen. It wasn't everyday one of the Fair Folk looked quite so bashful.

"Ohmigod," she whispered, then uncovering her mouth. "I- I'm sorry, Miss Meris, it's just that I didn't expect you to, well... And I didn't want to impose on Aspasia or Azazel and - God, if I were in front of anyone else, I probably would've already been torn to shreds on social media reviews!"

Coach glanced back at Meris, smirked and rolled his eyelights, then canting his head while keeping his focus on Abigail. "Abbie, honey; do I really look like the type of guy who cares about this sort of stuff? My wife and I serve families, starving students, some local kids and the occasional former squadmember of Asp's. The teens downvote us because the exclusion field around the WiFi router knocks the signal down a peg, we get the occasional Karen who throws a fit after forgetting to mention her allergens or who thinks that my shooting her with a curative round doesn't mean I have to do my due dilligence and call 911 - there's nothing you could do here that would tarnish your counter with us."

Turning around, Silas learned on Abigail's counter with his elbows, facing Meris. He raised a finger to push his hat back up, turning his head sideways by just a few degrees, as he usually did in order to make his permanent grin look a little less funereal and a little more friendly.

"Meris," he said, nodding, "hope you're well... I see paralyzing deceptively young folk from London's ruling supernatural class with your poise and magnificience is a new trick of yours," he teased. "Loving the extra halo, but you could maybe do without the mist and haze..."

Abigail blinked. "So, you really know each other that well," she surmised.

Azazel exchanged a grin with Miranda. "We've all fought together. Well, I didn't really fight, exactly - the Goat thought I'd, um, lose it and hurt everyone."

William rolled his head, from the other corner. "You're surrounded by war heroes, miss Weaver - present company excluded. President Jones ordered that all senior Intelligence staff go to ground before exiling himself to Walpurgis, so my power defaulted back to the Court. 
- Did you save a lot of people?" the seamstress asked.

Spector was silent for a few tense seconds, then crossed his arms in front of himself and looked away. "No, I didn't."

He didn't elaborate further.

* * *

"A little like Tommy, then," summarized Gremory. "It's refreshing, finding mortal souls with things properly dialed in. "I couldn't hurt you with any of this because this exact sense of absence doesn't echo to a lack of understanding or perspective; it just mean the clock's hands aren't in their right place, yet."

The incubus flicked a wrist. "Now, some other people..."

The door to the corridor connecting the penthouse to the tattoo studio was violently kicked in, with another pair of Aislinn and Tom all but throwing themselves into the living room as one, labored breaths and heavy petting featuring heavily. It might take a few moments for the true Aislinn to realize she was looking at truly illusory figments, and not the wisely-extracted nuggets of honest desire and effort that were still gabbing away in the kitchen, seemingly oblivious to the pandemonium now being wrought in the living room. The second pairing didn't exactly look like Aislinn and Tom, but rather like their Hollywood-crafted and airbrushed clones, with the fake Archmage sporting thighs and hips only fitting of a supermodel, and the Warlock's twin going for a toned beach bod - less Tom's actual physique and more something akin to what you would've found on Sean Connery in the sixties, with ample chest hair and just a smidge of abdominal definition.

"There isn't a flame in Hell or a demon in all of Tartarus that could keep me from you, my dark beauty," crooned Fake Tom melodramatically, in-between too-passionate liplocks. "There is no depravity I wouldn't commit for you, no heroic act I wouldn't consider!
- And I would drown our foes in my people's oceans, my love," replied Fake Aislinn. "There are none who could stand between us!"

Fake Tom added a groaning swoon of rising bliss and pushed the gymnast-worthy double towards him with the sort of energy typically found in bad soap opera love scenes, some schmaltzy modern Chamber Music-esque arrangement rising unbidden from the room's speakers. Gremory's shoulders shook quietly for a few moments, and then this second scene froze with a record-scratching sound.

"That's how it usually goes," he said, giving a smirk to the roane. "First few hundred times, you might as well think I'm an actual angel, going by the way they thank me. No holds barred, everything's on the menu, no matter how hardcore or tame, domestic or wordly... Eventually, they realize something's missing. If I'm lucky, I don't need to get involved further than in crafting that illusion. If not, well..."

Gremory's form shifted through a few others, from his own to Tom's again, and then to Neasa's and Ciaran's, their voices melding together as he spoke. "I can be anyone they think they want," he said, then settling on his own form. "It's never actually what they truly need or want, but they don't know that. They're not like you, or Tom. Or, I'd wager, like your brother. First step is to bring them out of that illusion, second one's to lead them to acceptance. The best torture is the one where you don't lift a finger, where your subject's doing all the brain-wracking for you. It's also the best way to actually hit something like a sense of payoff. Take their hand, and they miss the forest for the trees, all that nicely-crafted fake bliss for what really matters."

* * *

A grown man's voice came out of the child's throat, exactly the same as what Abraham had heard out of Paul Travers.

"I am," the operative conceded, in English. "Shadow Lord is an admittedly pedantic holdover from our days of widespread influence, back when organized coteries and fraternities were the order of the day, as opposed to mere cults assembled out of the indigent and destitute. You might prefer to think of me as a covert operative, one prepared to use the freedoms afforded to our kind by the Vienna Accords, in short order. Use the phrase I might supply the Apostate with, and you'll be beset with a bus or two's worth of entirely neurotypical mortals, otherwise suffering from retrograde amnesia stretching back to three months. They'll need counseling, to be certain. I suspect you'll want your allies to verify my claims, and you'll find them to be honest. Peel the onion too deeply and it simply can't be put back together. You'll find my cohort to be more meticulous than most, in this regard."

Simultaneously, Travers answered Zahavi in the diner. "Correct. However, the Pendragon's roots go deeper than any mere Arthurian tale. Eons ago, before my kind were so much as shaped by the Architect and before the Young God's primates walked the Earth, the world belonged to Her first creations. I'm speaking, of course, of dragons. As any cryptoanthropologist could tell you, they divined of Creation's process and tapped into it for themselves, bringing the first Fae into being. There were Titania and Oberon, true, but a third one was made from the same stock, and kept secret - as a weapon the saurians intended to brandish, in case of a rebellion. The Dragonshead, or Pendragon. Slightly more dragon than Fae, and possessed of immense power; not the least of which being that of siring a bloodline, hidden in the seams of Time... Legends state the Pendragon fought to protect the first anthros and the Summer Fae from Winter's wrath. They were reborn throughout the ages - generally left domant and mundane - but now that a Pendragon houses a Lexicon..."

Travers didn't finish. He settled with tapping on his coffee cup, eyebrows raised. Did this explain why effort enough was put in stopping the Drake boy that an entire Afghan village had all but been razed? Were Azardad's efforts to oppose the Loyalists a horrendous miscalculation waiting to happen?

Travers pointed at the other envelopes he'd set on the counter. "You'll find an SD card in Drake's invitation, loaded with a bought-and-paid-for gene-screening test with the Paradise branch of the Yamaguchi-Gumi. Former Elysium scientists, lifelong Yakuza; some of them former colleagues of the Governor's wife, even. Your over-the-counter screener couldn't have picked up anything more than the usual trace figments of Dutch, Semitic and Sub-Saharan origins; it takes a vaccuum-cooled quantum computer to decode mitochondria down to the Carboniferous Era, and then back up to the Ordovician..."
User avatar
TennyoCeres84
Site Admin
 

Posts: 2929
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by TennyoCeres84 »

The Archmage lightly shook her head at Abigail and waved her hand to dismiss any misinterpretation on her part. "It's fine, Miss Abigail. I saw you were talking with Aspasia and Miranda, and it would've been rude to interrupt your conversation."

Meris grinned wryly at Coach. "I'll switch out the mist and haze for some lightning bolts and dramatic wind next time," she chuckled.

When the Wisp gave his response about his activities during the war, she frowned. "Agent Spector, you certainly don't have to discuss the matter any further, but your answer was oddly too vague. Is it a matter of security?"

***

With the outlandish and overly dramatic copies of Tom and herself, the core of Aislinn's desires grinned incredulously and laughed boisterously at the imaginary couple.

Once they vanished, she calmed herself and nodded. "That probably happens more often than not. They get so wrapped in the illusion that they can't see anything else."

The young warlock smiled lightly and looked back at where her double had been. "I'm relieved I'm not experiencing that, not to mention it's ridiculous."
User avatar
Karl the Mad
 

Posts: 1260
Joined: Wed Jan 16, 2013 4:27 am
Location: Oregon

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by Karl the Mad »

"You seem to be sincere, sir," Abraham replied, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. As far as he could tell, Travers was being honest in his intention to leave and not bother them, and it was clear his own allies were plotting something else. "So let me get this straight. We let you walk away now, and you release these thralls into our care, for counseling and such. At the ceremony later we will refrain from attacking you or Chambers, and... what then? Do you want us to believe you are on our side?"

He glanced at the invitations, knowing Nereus could hear and see everything that happened in here. "I wonder what kind of mysteries lurk in my own bloodline, going back that far..."

Outside, Marius just shrugged. "Fine then, Mr Shadow Lord. What do you get out of this, then? Or is this just a simple hostage exchange?" He scoffed. "You're better than that, what's your real game?"

Jenkins had finished disabling most of the cars, one way or another. He had reached Travers' own vehicle, and paused for a moment, head down and out of sight of the diner. "Yo, N, I'm on the last car," he said silently, for Nereus alone to hear. His mind's voice was clearer than his mouth's voice, one would notice immediately. "What's going on inside? Are we still the good guys, or is wrecking this shit gonna wreck our karma?"
User avatar
IamLEAM1983
Site Admin
 

Posts: 3707
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
Location: Quebec, Canada

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

Travers looked down on his cup and then side-eyed Abraham. "Sides matter little to the Old Ones," he said. "In every end that matters, Time either succeeds in ripping Matter apart, or Dark matter's inexorable pull resets the scales. Either way, life ends and dies, and the Tools are passed on to another Creator. The laws are altered where they may be, and different things come into being. Some of us are foolish enough to think the reins could be handed over to one of the Others in what counts as now on the cosmic scale - and others amongst us think that Amaxi and Her ilk once knew Their place in the queue. The only strike worth landing is the one that will place the Tools in one of Their hands; but that will only occur untold billions of years from now. Until then, you and I are beings made of the same carbon molecules, beings obeying the same physical laws. Our place is at your side - logistically speaking. Ideologically..."

He sighed and looked around. "So many oversights and weaknesses, so many tiny flubs and wrinkles... I once met a gifted human, for instance, that could bond any and all ingested proteins to their own muscle mass directly. The gained physical potential was temporary and abated with digestion, but it afforded them incredible opportunities in terms of healing and combat prowess. All we needed to defeat him was some careful scrying in the Black Speech and a genetics lab for certification. We bred alpha-gal-carrying Lone Star ticks into being, and let them loose across North America. A few years later, that single thorn's advantages had melted away. Vegetarian by necessity, they could no longer reach the superhuman heights that had characterized them. 

A water-tight Creation wouldn't have allowed for schemes such as this one. Some of the oldest of Dalarath's surviving records show us that in certain previous realities, life was a much more meticulous process. This one is... messy, if you'll pardon the choice of words. Messy, but undeniably ours for the remainder of its duration. Some Shadow Lords are content with following the Speaker, others like me would rather secure our seat at the final bargaining table."

A slight smile colored his lips. "Calling us allies would be stretching things. Some of our meetings are bound to be, well, far less cordial. The Apostate, the refugees, the Rothchilds and the Gentlemen might want to partake in your world as allies and friends; whereas all we desire is to... see our way to twilight, as it were. Up-ending social order won't bring an end to this universe's intrinsic laws, nor would the utter destruction of the planet force the Young God to reconsider. We have other ways of seeing all of us through to the end of time.

The Chamberlain thinks us allied to his own forces because of the superficial elements of similitude in our plans. Where he would love nothing more than to succeed where Marius Vlastos failed, we would rather..."

Travers paused, tapped on the counter and looked about, then refocusing on Abraham. "We would rather applaud your successes for what they are, politely attend celebrations in your company once the day arrives, and then - spike your proverbial drink, with something painless and tasteless, as it were. We would lull you to sleep on the eve of the Anthropocene's end, in thousands of years or so - and then take the reins. That, however, is neither here nor there. The Shadow Lords, the Twilight Society - however you choose to call us; would speak to your Creator well after your time - and offer to speed things along."

Paul's human seeming pouted. "The last iteration's Degenerate era was fairly boring: a few thousand Brown Dwarfs harboring a few radiation-resistant civilizations clinging to rapidly-cooling pools of energy, all but rendered mute and stupid by their excessive reliance on machines and cybernetics. Add in a few supernova, the rapid propagation of black holes and the universe's inexorable descent into nothingness, and you have a fairly pithy picture. Even post-Singularity gestalts fell back to primal fear and despair, once their computing cores' own heat proved insufficient to keep their digital paradises running. This universe has a few handfuls of other civilizations sharing Earth's overall conditions and social constructs, and most of them won't survive their own technological adolescence, as it is. We'd like to spare them the indignity, as it were."

Nereus' projection disappeared from the stool, just as the diner's front doors were lightly pushed open. In walked the Apostate, looking quietly incensed that anyone would have the gall to consider this a viable alternative to the Loyalists' usual plans.

"How charitable," he quietly sneered, then taking the seat his projection had taken. "Humanitarians at the end of the universe," Nereus said, looking disgusted. "Please, Mister Travers, spare me your rhetoric. I might be Apostate now but I've been your Augur, and I've heard this discourse of yours among the wafflers and the indecisive ones Meris and I were forced to contend with. Twisting the surface-dwellers into our servitors was too much, but you had no issue whatsoever with settling the date and time of their doom on the proverbial calendar - like all the self-improvised eugenicists I had to sit with who dared to speak of genetic inferiority in front of my wife."

The older gentleman shrugged. "I can't be faulted if some of us are idiotic students of the craft - Nereus? Nereus, isn't it? You weren't Augur with her, as we know, and you certainly weren't Xenophon Thanos, either... A hypocrite landing a sermon on hypocrisy. Be that as it may, we are predisposed to waiting things out and, well, Mister Zahavi, here?"

Travers gave Abraham an almost apologetic pout. "He's little else but a mortal. A decorated one, to be sure - but just another sack of latent cancers and gene transcription errors waiting to happen, all the same."

Both out-loud and telepathically, the former Augur replied to Jenkins, his tone seething with anger. "Oh yes, we still definitely are the good guys... The priming phrase, Travers - now. Mister Vlastos, Aidan; I'd be glad if you could stick to disabling shots and strikes in the following moments. The poor kid won't appreciate being concussed, I'm sure, but he'll survive without a scratch, at least. Abraham, if you could kindly stand up and keep a pistol trained on our friend, I'd be eternally grateful. I'll cover you in case whatever phrase he offers me ends up being an activator."

Annoyed, Travers started to dig into his suit pocket. "Do you truly think so little us of, Augur?
- Brother," noted Nereus, more to the tone of casual annoyance than anything official, "I hardly know you. I haven't had to think of you until just a few minutes ago, and you'd have to pay me a fortune in gold to get me to spelunk in your construct. I imagine it's as dry and unimaginative as the man I've got in front of me."

Travers rolled his eyes. "Schoolyard japes, eh? Gods' blood, Chambers was that bad, wasn't he? It's good that he didn't succeed in robbing you of your spine, at least."

* * *

"Security and dignity, as it were," confirmed Spector. "I don't want to give you more details, but the most I'll part with is that Oberon... strategically released me of my bonds, during the worst of the incursions in Virginia. I was the White King again, for a little over a month."

Coach looked concerned. "Did you gun for Elspeth?
- I'd say it's classified," replied the agent with a snort, but I might as well say water is wet. I had nothing left except pent-up breeding and feeding instincts."

Azazel blinked. "Did you eat Pitspawn?"

Bill shook his head and chuckled sardonically. "I don't like repeating myself for things like this, kid. What do you think Oberon counted on?"

Silas flicked a glance between Meris and Spector. "So you didn't manage to cross Gates leaving Virginia, then.
- Crossed a few," sighed Spector. "The Kingsguard were waiting for me. Spent a month gorging myself on table scraps and demon flesh, then Britain's best Banshees slap a collar back on me like it's no big deal. Thank you for your service, now enjoy this heaping plate full of shame and regret. I remember..."

He sighed, his thin shoulders slumping. "I remember cursing both Courts. Again. The first time around I was a monster with no pride or self-awareness, and now I'd just been someone who'd had his markers of humanity stripped away, with full awareness and cognizance. I..."

The Wisp sighed and looked back to Meris. "I've an audience planned with Titania, after the ceremony. I want to demand reparations. It's clear to me that people like myself or the Krampus heavily depend on our standing Oaths to feel whole. As strange as it seems, there's a point where freeing someone who's indentured to the Court isn't a mark of respect. I'm nothing without the golden shackles Oberon stuck at my wrists. Without them - with no civilizing affect - I'm just another slavering Eldritch being more deserving of taking a few RPGs to the face than anything else."

Azazel looked up to Spector. "What would you do if you weren't, I mean-
- Don't go there, sport," replied Spector, his tone a bit more brusque than was perhaps necessary.

Silas raised nonexistent eyebrows and whistled, as an obvious icebreaker. "Stuff got dark quick, huh?
- It usually does with the ruling class," contended Spector, who looked apologetic, and who caught sight of the tailor's mannequin again.

"Milady, wouldn't you mind queuing up the bigger of the two suits again? There's someone I'd like to see smile...
- Of course, mister Agent," noted the tailor. "Oh, and I'd like to apologize on behalf of the ruling class, which I'm still technically still a part of. If the Realms were democratic, I'd have voted against that sort of deployment - even picketed against it."

Spector knew this was a token gesture, but he seemed to appreciate it nonetheless. "If I could've used my claws and venom without leaving Oberon's Oath, I would have without hesitation," he explained, concurring. "Lives needed saving and I'm already equipped for it."

He stopped, turning to observe Meris as a copy of Nereus' suit shimmered into being. "Ring a bell?" he asked.

* * *

"It's only ridiculous because you know that's not what you want," reminded Gremory. "Most of everyone who ends up in Lust isn't that lucky."

He stood up, his form blending back into Tom's as he did. "And now," he said, helping Aislinn to her feet, "for a safe egress..."

Without saying more, he slowly embraced Aislinn, without the caricatures' fevered motions. It was a slow hug, the kind Ais and Tom sometimes shared after a long day, his snout searching for and finding the crook of her neck, and his hands finding points of tension along the upper half of her back. Eyes closed, Gremory's own false Tom began to gently hum a melody he'd sometimes used as a lullaby of sorts, over in bed. He wasn't much for lyrics, but the construction felt obviously Middle-Eastern. Soon, gentle rocking motions from side to side were added and, as sometimes occurred, the roane would feel compelled to close her eyes and surrender.

It'd be as good, and as soothing, as the real thing.

Her true senses reasserting themselves, she'd find her siblings and her boyfriend in the same poses that had been theirs only seconds ago, Gremory's fingers leaving her temples with a look that combined impish fun and a touch of gratitude. "Tom was a little more mainstream, as far as I'm concerned," he said, "but you, dear Aislinn, were an absolute treat after thousands of years of plates of untenable guilt."

The elder incubus then sucked in a breath leaned on the counter and raised his eyebrows. "Normally, I'd say something snappy and tango-dip my next meal into Blisstown. You're grieving, however, and showing you a Ciaran McConmara-branded version of what I showed Aislinn probably wouldn't turn out so hot for me - or for you. The thing is, honest-to-God desires are painful by nature, seeing as we can't always have 'em. S'why I can't really work normal kids, for instance - they're too young to really lust for anything. Give a kid the latest PlayStation and he'll want a blinged-out gaming PC three months later, anyway."

He tapped on the countertop with a few fingers. "So - disclaimer time, mister McConmara: I'm not responsible if your own innermost core ends up digging up raw stuff you might've picked up and hidden away in the months prior. If it hurts, it's because you need it to hurt. You've got stuff to process and you maybe didn't give yourself enough time. That usually ends up as residual pain deep in there," he explained, tapping his own chest. "On the plus side, if a part of you really lusts for a chance to kick demon ass, I can make that happen in spades."

A shrug and pout was added. "Well. I can't say it's my style, but I wouldn't blame you for secretly wanting your own Rage Room. Like Ais and Tom saw, though, I like to dig a little deeper, myself. There's what you think you need, and then there's what you lust after..."
User avatar
TennyoCeres84
Site Admin
 

Posts: 2929
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by TennyoCeres84 »

Meris was about to add her thoughts to Spector's conversation with Abigail, but she was stopped from doing so by the sight a copied image of Nereus' suit.

Eyes widening, she lightly gasped and disbelievingly approached the dressmaker's dummy, a hand coming to rest against it. It was the Archmage's turn to keep her overwhelming emotions in check. Her eyes glistened momentarily before she blinked away any escaping tears. A hand came to her mouth as she gathered her composure.

"This is the suit Nereus wears while he's in the Darkhallow...The embroidered wards are a new addition, but this is definitely it," she answered, then looking back at the others. "How did you know this was here?"

"That was the bargain to have you come here. We needed to figure out who commissioned two suits. This was the easier of the two. All of its features fit what we knew of Nereus, based on your descriptions of his character and stature," Aspasia supplied with a grin.

She frowned. "There's no way he could have come here in person, so who requested it?"

The older fauness sighed and scratched the back of her head. "A proxy by the name of Dieter Van de Faals. He apparently wasn't quite all there when he gave Abigail the sizing info and the technical aspects for it."

Meris blinked rapidly as she looked back to the garments. "The actor? Nereus must've sent him when he was still recovering from his depression," she surmised.

"That's what we think. Given Nereus' demeanor, Van de Faals' amnesia was the best he could do for him," the younger woman replied.

With the revelation of the former Augur's actions, Meris smiled. "Thank you for showing me this. It gives me hope that it probably won't be long before I see him again. It's been so long..."

Not knowing all the details of their relationship, Miranda raised an eyebrow. "How long has it been since you saw each other?"

"We've been able to visit each other in the Darkhallow a few times since I came to Hope, but it's been roughly 425 years since I last saw him in person." the Heiress replied with a sigh.

The teenager gaped at her response.

***

Aislinn was gently brought out of the brief private moment with Gremory and looked to him as he spoke about his enjoyment from having a break from untenable guilt. She smiled lightly and said, "Given what I experienced, I think you'll be a good employee to have on board."

As he addressed her brother, she frowned with concern. "You don't have do this right now, Ciaran."

Her twin shook his head and replied, "I'll be okay. I want to get a feel for some of what you and Tom experienced. If my innermost desires bring up something that's difficult to work on, then that's the way it is. I'd rather work on it now than have it somehow get worse. Or even have someone use it against me, given our line of work."

Ciaran sighed and looked downwards. "Besides, I think Sophia would approve of me doing so."

The male roane looked at Gremory and did his best to relax in his seat, closing his eyes. "You can start when you're ready, Gremory."
User avatar
Karl the Mad
 

Posts: 1260
Joined: Wed Jan 16, 2013 4:27 am
Location: Oregon

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by Karl the Mad »

Instead of pulling a gun out, Abraham stood up and placed himself between Travers and Nereus. What Travers had said had not made much sense, but the gist of it was that he and his were not an immediate threat to Hope. Even if they were, what would it behoove them to act out here, with a family or two of innocents on the line?

"Nereus, stop," he insisted, his calm voice low and urgent. "We have nothing to gain from antagonizing this man now, and much to lose both now and later. Let him go. We need to attend to these innocents, then we can worry about your pursuers."

For his part, Marius settled for tapping the boy in front of him on the temple, just enough to knock him for a loop, then pulling the boy's shirt off and tying his arms back with it. He pulled a shoe and sock off, and shoved the sock into his mouth in case he woke up ahead of time. He did all this in the lightning speed he was capable of, but rarely exercised. Then he went on to the diner, wondering at the scene inside.

Charles had shrugged and disabled the last vehicle, but when he went into the diner as well he wondered if he should have left it intact. "Abe?" he questioned of his 2IC, but the swarthy man only shook his head and kept his attention on Nereus.
User avatar
IamLEAM1983
Site Admin
 

Posts: 3707
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
Location: Quebec, Canada

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

A few tense seconds passed, Travers then removing his hand from his jacket's inner pocket - with a card in hand, which he handed to Nereus. Taking the object, the former Augur understood he needed to shield Abraham and Jenkins from it, and turned slightly away to decipher it. As ever, what should've been mind-rending appeared to him as the very picture of clarity. He then looked around at the diner, calculated his odds of being able to Speak the phrase efficiently with the surrounding walls, and then pocketed the card.

"You can go," he told Travers. "I can't promise Meris and I won't rough up some of your toadies in the coming months.
- Nor would I expect you to," he replied, leaving those items he'd pointed out on the counter and retrieving his briefcase. He then stepped out, eyes squarely on Charles, and reached for his neckline as he did, ripping his Flesh Mask away. In a new development, the folds of synthetic skin seemed to slough off into a grayish ooze within seconds, with no discernible scent left behind. The Squid behind the mask had gray and mottled skin, pale eyes, faintly clawed hands, and a look that said he wasn't impressed with Jenkins' obvious capabilities. He took one look at his car and then affected a slight smirk.

"Of course you did," he said, chuckling, seemingly divining what had happened. "Well, I suspect it's the long way around for me..."

Three kept his rifle trained. "And what, you're just going to hitch-hike your way to the closest Gate?
- Something like that," airily replied Travers. "I'd advise against following me; House Frost hasn't exactly been keen on Rhode Islanders since your ungulate friend ripped this place from their hands."

Three didn't lower his aim. "Release the kid, at least.
- Why? Mister Vlastos did an impeccable job in securing him - he couldn't hurt a fly in any state..."

Aidan mulled things over for an instant and then lowered his weapon. Instead, he opted to change his tactics and drew on his power as an ally of the local Fae. Steadying his breath, he completely relaxed and drew inward, needing a few seconds to find what Changelings and True Fae tapped into effortlessly. When he spoke again, it was in plain English - but with an arresting level of power that seemed to effectively influence Travers.

"I command you to stop."

Travers did that, one foot hovering above the ground in mid-stride. He then set it down and raised a hand to adjust his necktie, coughing as he did. "Impressive," he said, "and certainly in-line with the lore. Unfortunately, you're rather new at this, it seems. I won't offer you this courtesy a second time-"

Aidan kept the same tone. "Turn around and help the boy."

Travers didn't move, but his posture stiffened. "Are you sure you haven't been practicing with Sir Percival, since the incursions ended?"

Three made as if to speak again, but the wind seemed to have been knocked out of him. He blinked instead, shaking dark spots away from his field of view. Travers chuckled again and resumed his stride. "Oh, but won't Oberon and Titania have fun with you, once they find out," he teased, turning to the narrow band on the highway's side and walking away. Aidan spent a few nervous seconds watching him and then turned to Marius and the boy, also gesturing for Jenkins to come closer. Noting the kid's age, Aidan couldn't restrain a quiet curse, only to give Vlastos an oddly familiar look that might need a few seconds to be parsed: he was only paying attention to the vampire's eyes and almost seemed to be looking through him. No curse was involved, so much as the soldier's desire to pay attention to the odd micro-motor flaws that denoted people marked with the Black Speech. He then looked down at the boy, gently prying his eyes open for comparison.

"I know," he said, keeping his tone soothing. "I know you're in there, and we'll get you out in a few minutes. Just breathe, relax, and my friend's going to come over with what we need to free you, okay? Then you'll see your parents again and, uh, Marius is going to give you your sock back. Just relax, okay? Breathe through your nose - everything's going to be fine..."

In the meantime, with Travers gone, Nereus had begun to make a round of the diner's booths, touching a new hand at every seat and leaning in to whisper the key-phrase, along with a few soothing additions. Instead of coming to directly, the patrons seemed to sink into deep sleep for a few seconds and then gently roused themselves, blinking and yawning. What would've probably been utter hell turned into befuddled realization and stunned acceptance. The anthro food blogger looked more embarrassed than actually concerned, standing up and approaching Abraham as if a part of him remembered some earlier instructions about being careful around him.

"Um, hi," he started awkwardly. "Uh, this is probably going to be weird but, um, does anyone else feel a bit weird? W-We're in June, right?"

The waitress looked at the TV and blinked. "I... guess? The last really clear memory I have is of serving coffee to this lanky old dude back in September; but the TV..."

The elderly couple's old man blinked dazedly. "Is that carbon monoxide poisoning? Is that what this is?"

Nereus, still concealed behind his trucker's Flesh Mask, kept a humble and reassuring posture. "You'll get some details back over the next few hours, if I phrased things correctly; enough to get a good sense of time, again. You're likely to hear about what happened across Hope and the rest of the country over the last few months and, well..."

The Augur went for a blow-cushioning half-lie. "You'll realize you missed a few things, unfortunately. You'll find a whole host of resources back in town to help you process things.
- Is it the Transgenics again?" asked the old woman. "Did Elysium come up with some sort of mind-wipe device?
- No, it's not the Transgenics," calmly replied the Augur. "It's still being investigated, and I'm sure the proper authorities are going to want to interview some of you, once they find out what's happened here. My friends and I were headed for Holden Hall, so we'll call ahead and make sure you're picked up and sent home."

The woman frowned lightly. "Who are you?"

That simple question struck Nereus like a hammer. He blinked dazedly for a few seconds, and emotion rose in his chest and throat. Seeing as they were all free, he took a deep breath and glanced back at Abraham, as if to look for validation.

"You... can call me Nereus," he said.

She looked at him. "You look like a trucker. Did you have a load to pick up?"

Nereus smiled. "No, I, um... I left my load in California. I'm coming home, actually."

* * *

Abigail smiled at that. "Well, considering some of the commissioned details, I imagine both of them could potentially see use over the next few days," she noted. "They're here for Azazel, and, well, Nereus asked me to box the finalized suit in a warded travel bag. Judging by the design, he's expecting to be present."

It was Azazel's time to look surprised. "So I'm going to meet him?
- I'd say so," nodded Abigail, which made Coach pout slightly.

"Makes sense," he said. "We still don't know much about Mystery Suit B, at least not until Brenner gets back to us with extra details, so we can assume its wearer won't necessarily be on our side. Squids can't hide anymore, and our Squids are gonna want the least reproachable figurehead on-site, as a counterpoint. Lucian's still got a family of Eldritch spies to lead, Whitney's an assassin - the only public face with any pull is Nereus," he noted. "That's a risky gamble. The royal family won't tolerate martial displays during an event like this, so Hubby can more or less hide behind Titania and Oberon," he said, looking back at Meris. "As soon as we're out of London, though..."

Spector nodded. "There is a risk, but I'm also counting on the circumstances of Azazel's Choosing," he explained, looking back to the former Scapegoat. "You're not just a demon anymore, and you're certainly not like the Krampus - Oberon can't afford to have you bound and shackled until your mind breaks or the Hearth's glow seeps into you. Bad optics and lack of time, obviously."

Azazel looked worried. "So what'll become of me?
- Something that's either never happened before," explained the Wisp, "or very rarely. Nimue's roots are incredibly powerful - you've seen how powerful the Centennial Tree was under Sophia's guidance, and she only was a few centuries old. Nimue is thousands of years old, and her clonal colony is still thriving."

Anjali looked a bit confused for a few seconds, then seemed to put things together. "So, London's dryad probably baffled people when she lost her tree and survived; but she never actually lost her tree. The first one put up roots that covered Caer Lundein's undergrowth, and new shoots pushed up from it every few generations," she deduced. "It's not the same object as the first Tree in London, but it's the same DNA, the same root system..."

William nodded. "Nimue is very old. She's seen the Saxons invade Britain, the Romans and the Francs. She's seen the Dark Ages, the Hundred Years' War - everything, including the Blitzkrieg and London's bombing. She's lost her trunk, her leaves, many times over - but her roots are still alive. Hope's tree wasn't prepared for the incursions; and I guarantee London's was. Nimue starting growing shoots in Faerie weeks before the incursions hit England. If Sophia was able to help Lucian reach the Architect and transcend his own limitations, I don't think anyone here can comprehend what Nimue could impart Azazel with."

Azazel blinked. "What are you saying; that she'll make me a Faun again?"

The skin of Spector's face wrinkled as he suggested a smile. "No. I'm saying that by the time Titania will have truly relinquished you to Nimue's pond in Faerie, you won't be demon nor Wyldfae. You'll probably jump species; become as true a member of the Fae as Titania herself."

The male Faun looked back to Silas' wife. "Then could she give Aspasia her legacy back?"

Spector seemed to ponder this in scrutinizing Aspasia's features. "Maybe, if her road hadn't already been so well-travelled. You're currently demonic; you're more susceptible to profound changes than she is. Exposing our friend to the pond in the same exact way could do more harm than good."

He addressed Aspasia directly. "I think this could be good for you too, Aspasia. Nimue is one of the few Englishwomen alive who remember Britain's own Faun population. She could have some insight to offer, or at least some sort of trail to follow along your search across Greece."

Something made Archie's daughter look up again. "What about Spearhead? I don't understand why he never felt inclined to go for what Rendell could've hidden from him..."

Silas shrugged. "The Raptors were Morgana's people before the Trolls, allegedly," he noted. "The Queen o' Dead Summers isn't talking, and she doesn't exactly seem to have Raptor envy, unlike Titania with the Fauns. Spearhead's ancestors are dead and buried, and it looks like that's where Morgana wants them. Woman like her, she probably thought the scaly types were too clannish - too orderly. The Wilds are a tough place to live in, so it would've discouraged open aggression. I figure things ended up like with the natives in New Zealand and Easter Island: fingerquotes wars involving a lot of chest-puffing, hissing, snarling and screaming, but not a lot of bloodshed. Killing's not a sound business strategy when you need all hands on deck for bare survival."

* * *

The would-be barman touched the male roane's temples, leaned in slightly...

Ciaran would open his eyes to a slightly different perspective, in one of the semicircular lounges around the dance floor. His sister and friends were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Gremory. Instead, Norah Jones' Don't Know Why played in the air, the lights muted, and a few couples took to the dance floor, all of them unknown to him. The barman didn't look familiar - an Afro-American gentleman with close-cropped hair and chiseled cheeks - and was currently busy serving Cosmos to a group of women seated at the bar. Up ahead and above, a figment of Tom could be seen in the mezzanine, discussing with a man of Asian descent. Aislinn wasn't anywhere in sight - 

And his clothes were different, he'd realize. Sharper, slightly more expensive than his usual fare. Date night special, perhaps, or maybe a few hundreds pushed into his hand by an incubus wanting to ensure he'd make a good impression? Who knew, honestly? In any case, some sort of theme had been put in place by the warthog, seeing as everyone wore either the house's colors - some variant on purple - or other complimentary dark shades. Up above, the LED spotlights lazily whirled about, offering brief oases of twilight to couples locked in slow dances.

He'd have time enough to worry as the lyrics floated about, full of regret and missed chances.

Out across the endless sea
I would die in ecstasy
But I'll be a bag of bones
Driving down the road alone...

There it was - the stab of pain, the echo of loss. Loneliness making the club almost lurch, gripping his guts slowly, tenderly, wickedly - like slow-onset vertigo...

My heart is drenched in wine
But you'll be on my mind forever...

Loss turns into anxiety - had this been a bad idea? What if Gremory was being honest and was actually showing him a life replete in one-night stands, no-shows, good friends but no returned affection? What if he'd really lost the only woman he'd ever love?!

Something has to make you run
I don't know why I didn't come
I feel as empty as a drum
I don't know why I didn't come...

There - a splash of white, near the entrance. Pale hair, pale skin - not Sophia's type, to be sure. Straight, short, a tad punkish - peroxide over natural blonde, a white blouse over a light top, also white as snow. Black linen power suit pants and simple slip-ons, black on almost porcelain-like skin. Recognition takes a split-second to work its magic: Claudia, the girl from Sophia's last days. She looks... different, somehow...

The dancefloor's AC takes its time to move a mass of air forward, carrying the girl's scent. A vampire, but one of a lineage he isn't quite familiar with. Lively and supple, like an Ordo Dracul stripling; but with even more life in her eyes, in the laugh lines on her face - as if she can see into him. Her smile fades and empathy registers. The brilliant sparkles of life in her eyes give way to the slow, dancing tongues of concern; like fire permeating a chilly room with its warmth.

She smiles again, showing one fang. "Not the best song for our first date, huh?"

The fledgeling vampire sits down almost right across from him, clutch purse in hand. "Thanks for the almost-save, by the way," she says. "I should probably thank Enlil first, but you're the one who went for the whole Heroically blocking the ages-old vampire's swinging arm act first. Right off the bat - no grudges held, okay? That needs to be crystal. I didn't die on you, I technically died on Enlil. You just..."

A bit flustered, Claudia loses some of her confidence, withdraws in on herself in a surprisingly mundane manner. A shrug is added.

"You just broke an arm on my behalf," she jokes, smirking. "Thank fuck for having Meris as a great-aunt, I guess - you only needed that splint for, what, twenty minutes before she got to you?"
User avatar
TennyoCeres84
Site Admin
 

Posts: 2929
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:59 am

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by TennyoCeres84 »

The mention of Nereus being a guest at the event for Azazel's joining of the Court both excited and troubled her of his vulnerability. With the mysterious owner of the second suit, the gears in the Archmage's mind turned at the prospect of other players being added to the board, likely with their own motives. She recalled Swinburne and his own connections to the Fae; he likely wasn't the only Squid who had wormed his way into the Court. The last time they had heard anything about him was just as the incursions were starting, and it had been quiet since then.

Meris eyed Spector with some frustration, her consideration of possible foes within the Fae Courts obvious. "Have you heard anything about Henry Swinburne lately, Agent Spector? I sincerely doubt he's the only Void Weaver to earn protection from the Royals. Dead, alive, further plotting? I need an idea of the pieces on the board, so that I'm aware of what we're dealing with. I can't act as I once did, so I imagine they might also have to shift gears, ideologically speaking. With Chambers weakened, I'm sure there will be more upstarts with their own plans."

Aspasia sighed and glanced at the Wisp. Despite his desire to cheer the Heiress up, she was already planning for future threats, which was characteristic of her anyway. She had raised some good points, so it seemed reasonable to tell her what he knew. Like how he had intervened a decapitated head from reaching her doorstep.

At talk of her taking a possible dip into Nimue's pond and rekindling her inner Wyldfae was dicussed, the older Fauness clicked her tongue and shook her head. "It's possible, but I personally have my doubts. Others have tried to encourage me to force the reawakening of that part of me. I don't think it's wise to do so. I was told a long time ago that battle was my anvil, so whenever it does happen, my being a soldier will have something to do with it. However, I'll speak with Nimue and see if she has some helpful advice or input for approaching that goal."

With their speculations of the Raptors and Morgana, Aspasia frowned deeply, some of it marked with distaste for Titania's direct opposite. "Between what I've seen of Morgana, the jungle trolls, and the Reds' overall personality traits, that's a match that wasn't meant to be. Like Coach said, disputes are usually done through aggressive displays, not outright bloodshed. Honor's important to them in varying degrees, unless they have a complete disregard for others. I also haven't heard of any of them pursuing arcane interests. If any Reds reconnect with their Wyldfae sides, it'll be on their own terms. I imagine that's what it'll be like for myself and the other Blues."

***

The shift in atmosphere and his clothing was slightly jarring, but he adapted to it easily. The place seemed perfectly set for a date, and he felt somewhat at ease with the idea of it. However, the soundtrack began to weigh on him...

The vertigo-like feeling of loss twisted in his heart like a dull knife, causing him to recall the woman he loved and lost. Again, the music shifted and played with his emotions. A sense of dread dwelt in his heart. Would he end becoming a pursuer of flings, unrequited love, or the victim of being ghosted?

The flash of white broke the spiral of anxiety and sorrow. He looked up to see a fashionably dressed young woman. He quickly recognized her as Claudia, having been one of the witnesses of Sophia's passing.

There was something different about her now, and it quickly dawned on him that she was now a vampire. Her fangy smile and question jolted him out of his pensiveness.

"Heh, yeah. Tom needs to have a talk with whoever's in charge of music about playing something so dreary on couples' night," he answered with a half-hearted smile, swallowing hard.

The mention of how he had broken an arm in trying to protect her further brought him out of his sadness. "Um, you're welcome. And yeah, having a cantor who doubles as a healer and a great-grandmother is rather useful," he answered with a slight scoff, trying his best to muster a wider, less nervous smile.

He scratched his cheek and looked at her. "W-well, I'm just glad you're here still. Otherwise, we wouldn't have been able to meet here, right? You look gorgeous, by the way. How are you?" he asked.
User avatar
Karl the Mad
 

Posts: 1260
Joined: Wed Jan 16, 2013 4:27 am
Location: Oregon

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by Karl the Mad »

Charles just shrugged at Travers' condescension. It wasn't like he couldn't fix the man's vehicle again, but he seemed to want the exercise. Whatever! He helped Aidan with the boy, while Abraham attended to the others as Nereus woke them up, bringing out bottles of water as needed.

Marius cocked an eyebrow at the weird look Aidan gave him, but shrugged it off as stress. "What now?" he asked of Nereus. "We seem to have what we came here for, a reunion and some new protectees. I'm sure Jenkins can arrange for their transport back into the city, right?" Charles flipped a thumbs-up over his shoulder, but otherwise kept his attention on the boy.
User avatar
IamLEAM1983
Site Admin
 

Posts: 3707
Joined: Tue Jan 08, 2013 4:54 am
Location: Quebec, Canada

Re: Chapter VII - Healing Pains

Post by IamLEAM1983 »

In the back, the diner's doors opened, the now-lucid mother giving the front parking a concerned look, before settling on Marius and Aidan with a mixture of alarm and relief. Seeing this, Nereus hurried past her and managed to reach the boy first with a few panting breaths, then bending down to whisper the release phrase in his ear. It wasn't long before the preteen's look changed, the disgust of having a sock stuffed in his mouth registering. Grinning, Three took it out. "Sorry about that, sport," he said. "Impromptu mouthguard."

Obviously, the boy preferred to push past Marius and Aidan and to reach for his mother, which made the former Augur smile warmly.

"We can head out, I think. I'd offer taking a few of them with us to the closest bus stop, but they'd be worried if they noticed our lack of cargo. We should probably call for a few tow trucks once we'll be on our way. I wouldn't feel too bad about disabling their cars, just in case there's aftershocks or leftovers from Travers' enthrallment."

As he'd spoken, he handed Aidan the SD card Travers had pointed out. Asking what that was, Aidan was told that it was "exposition"... The soldier couldn't repress a smirk. 

"Another chess player who thinks all his pieces are on the board," noted Three. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I think that once you've seen the Goat and Tom, you've seen every pawnmover and kingmaker archetype."

* * *

Sensing a bit of a lull, Azazel and Abigail rounded the corner, each from their side of the barrier, and left most of the group behind for a few minutes while the former demon's reason for soliciting Rhapso and Ariadne was being seen to. They weren't far off, but just distant enough so that Abigail could take measurements without being distracted by the very serious goings-on at her counter. The others would hear them chuckle at one another and strike small talk, the Weaver woman guiding the awkward man into the usual array of poses allowing for measurement. A pincushion came out, along with a notebook and pen - and slowly enough, things began to take shape...

In the meantime, Spector gave Meris a bit of a moue, his eyeless and mouthless mein pursing in displeasure. "Swinburne's gone quiet," he confirmed. "Too quiet. His holdings are frozen, his apartments haven't seen use in weeks, and Phineas Sharpe is barely more perceptible. Word goes around, and most of everyone in London knows that a few of your friends publicly humiliated his agenda in front of Titania and Oberon. He's lost mundane sponsorships and Fae Oath-lenders, but managed to keep his base active. Head for the south of Virginia, and you'll find local television and radio broadcasters putting the incursions on the back of every single group with a vested interest in Progressive policies. Practically nobody notices his mouthpieces soften their blows when it comes to the Fair Folk..."

He crossed his arms again. "We used to have him on satellite imagery. Now the Pitspawn cleaned up our orbital debris field for us in trying to weaponize our own tech, we're mostly stuck working with nightcrawlers and paparazzi. We'd know more if Langley were willing to consider screening your allied Void Weavers and inducting one in the program; I'm just glad nobody from Homeland figured they'd beat their chest and draft a project to round up Squids for questioning... I've already had to shoot down gung-ho analysts thinking anyone of Mab's operatives or one of the Amaxi loyalists would give two shits about Guantanamo - they'd twist their way free within a few weeks, guaranteed."

Coach shrugged. "So you have nothing on Swinburne.
- Not on him, no. Luckily for us - or unluckily, if you're my superiors in the States - the alphabet agencies have been infiltrated by the Rothchilds for years. A remote analyst who looked like a sharp wind could've broken him in two came in, gave me a look I've seen on Mentalists and empaths, and gave me a folder I hadn't requested. It was on one Paul W. Travers, of Triton Investments. If I had to break him down, I'd call him dangerously sane. All of Swinburne's ambition, none of the hangups. All of Rendell's resources, none of the ego. All of Chambers' eye for detail, none of the zealotry. He doesn't fit you, or Nereus - or even other outsiders like Harrison Arkham - who we haven't seen since the Providence blast. He's presumed MIA, as we had no record of anyone by that name reaching evacuation buses in time. If Lucian still wanted to flex his techno-spiritual muscles, we could at least discount that proverbial needle from the haystack. I tried to petition one of your colleagues from Magnus Tower - Aristide Duvivier - but his patron practically threw me out. I knew Baron Samedi had a thing against those in a position of authority, but..."

He didn't finish, which made Coach smirk. "Yeah, I can imagine. Even Maman Brigitte isn't too given to pay attention to someone who shows up, looking all official..."

Spector looked equal parts amused and a little miffed. "This is probably like saying water's wet, but I don't let my hair down quite well enough for some people... Christ, Lyman even dragged me out for one of his three-hour luncheons on the pretext that he might've had intel on Vlastos' bugbear, only to dismiss me once he realized I wasn't going to humour his ninety minutes of small talk or his six courses."

Anjali chuckled at that. "You should've known, the informal quasi-Prince of Gluttony that's in town doesn't like it when people get too serious around him. Dad says Zeke is the best informant Crystal or him could've dreamed of, but getting info means you either eat like a Roman emperor or spend hours ambling around at the Pickman Gallery - special pass for wartime buddies. All I've ever needed is something to talk about."

That seemed to knock Spector back to his more serious countenance. Fishing out his cell phone, he used NFC communication to pass a grainy picture of Travers to the Archmage's own device. Meris would find someone who didn't look like much, which ironically made him the perfect plant in a financial organization. The false man had the looks of someone extremely goal-driven, as if his being thin were the result of draconian self-control and as if being candidly caught checking the crossroads for safe passage on foot had required extensive calculations.

Meris had seen enough zealots in her time to know this one was different. Travers didn't have Arkham's ideals, that spark of misplaced goodness. He didn't have Chambers' insane dedication and looked like in another set of circumstances, he could've been a strategic ally of hers. He wasn't Swinburne, entirely beholden to his senses, or even like Sharpe or Rendell, in being beholden to his ego. Travers' Flesh Mask evoked a man who didn't smile much, and who only did so in cynical ways. This wasn't Azardad's pessimism - it was cold realism.

Not too thin, and still a far cry from Nereus' own paunch... Maybe his true silhouette could've fit that second outfit Abigail had shown them. Make the hips jut out a tad more, compress his internal organs, make his shoulders jut out slightly... It could have been a fit, quite likely.

As for the Transgenics' roots and Aspasia's more sedate approach to Nimue's potential, it left Spector shrugging. "From what little I know, that's something that hasn't changed between the original species and yourselves," he noted. "You're both fiercely independent, without necessarily reaching the Forest Trolls' savagery. The Fauns developed a sense of community out of empathy, and the Raptors created theirs out of necessity. There isn't a top-level Transgenic we don't have a record of, and those like yourself or Spearhead tend to have an innate sense of leadership."

He smiled, or at least, affected a smile. "If battle's your anvil, miss Robertson, then all you're missing is the right forge. You'll find it - I'm convinced you will."

* * *

Claudia looked down at herself, briefly made self-conscious. Blood rushed to her cheeks for an instant, then receded. She smiled, Enlil's bloodline working its magic. Such a simple gesture, and yet it was likely one of the more dazzling smiles he'd have seen in his time. Her fangs were visible, but somehow seemed entirely harmless, like a aesthetic quirk designed to give her smile more energy, more liveliness.

"Well, thanks," she said, the smile then tightening, growing more demure. "You're pretty sharp, too," she noted, eyes twinkling. Spots moved overhead, the twinkles receded and empathy settled back into her eyes and countenance. "I'm doing alright," she confirmed. "All things considered, being one of the Babylonian's progeny isn't too bad. I learned so much during the incursions that I qualified for a re-evaluation. I get to skip the 301 line of classes for Arcane Theory, so it's on to prep stuff. Six months from now, I'll have graduated and I'll be able to attend graduate-level methodology classes. Theory-wise, things haven't been better in a long time."

Her smile tempered itself. "The one drawback is that vampires aren't naturally given to magic. Doc Dickens is the one-man bloodline that confirms the rule. It's not that I don't feel via, I feel it pretty well, but..."

She paused, struggling to find the exact words. "It's like any ley line I touch is a greased-up length of yarn and I'm trying to knit it into a sweater. It's sticky, really motile, not really pliable..."

A shrug was added. "I dunno - it's like trying to hug a grumpy cat. It's doable, but the cat looks pissed-off the whole way through."
Post Reply